Right off the bat, I want to apologize for yesterday when I missed writing. There are millions out there that are hanging on my every word, I know, but I had to take a day away from the ‘puter (that’s young kid talk for computer) because I had an attack of Gout. Gout, that rich man’s disease, got ahold of me and made my big left toe swell. It was painful, so I took some drugs and slept all day with a heating pad on my foot.
Gout is caused by my kidneys not processing proteins, especially animal proteins. It is also caused by extremely rich pastries. That leaves pretty high amounts of uric acid in my blood, which decides to go on vacation and visit my big toe. At the time of its discovery and naming, it seemed as though only rich people got gout, hence the idea that it is a rich people’s disease. Often called the disease of Kings, Gout has become more prominent in the middle class today. As a form of Arthritis, it is extremely painful and could be disfiguring and debilitating.
I feel, though, that it shows my good social standing, although when I have it, I can rarely stand. King Henry the VIII had it, Sir Isaac Newton, even Ben Franklin had it. Now, I don’t have the compulsion to chop off my wife’s head, discover gravity or even fly a kite, but it seems that I do have the predetermined destiny to drink beer, eat bologna, and have rich fried foods, like doughnuts. All these give me a leg up on getting my feet swollen. The “purines” (whatever they are) in the food decide to pass through my kidneys and set up housekeeping in my ankles, knees, and big toes as a crystalline powder that just sits there and grinds away at the tips of the joints causing the swelling.
Gout got its name from the Latin term Gutta. Which meant drops of blood. The condition was originally thought to be caused by ill humors of the body which could be resolved by blood letting. Those wonderful French called it "goute". Personally, I find little humorous about it; unless the visual image of me lying on the couch with my foot straight up in the air a humorous one.
Ben Franklin went to the Continental Congress to debate the Declaration of Independence with a severe case of gout. Pictures of him depict Dr. Franklin with a cane and his foot wrapped up. I imagine that he was in deep pain and wanted the whole thing over so he could go get some wine, maybe a sprig of broccoli, both of which are now known to cause gout. President Bush I hated broccoli, now we know why.
I’m pretty sure that most of the legislators have gout. If not, they should have. They live high on the hog, eat rich foods, and seem to be at the top of the chain, much like King Henry VIII. And, like Sir Isaac Newton, they all need to have something hit them on the heads to have a sudden epiphany about reality.
Men are more likely to have gout than women. I guess it is because we drink more, exercise less and overall have this genetic predisposition for the ague. Tomorrow,while the Bears are pummeling the Packers on national TV, I will be having a refreshing iced tea, and maybe a finger sandwich made of peanut butter and grape jelly.
GO Bears...Gout Pack.
Doughnut
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Doughnut Machine
Mail call is always interesting. Sometimes there are lots of junk mails, Facebook updates, and the like, but today there was a really exciting email about the doughnut machine (on the left) that my parents used in their doughnut shop.
If you have been following the blog, you know that my parents had a little restaurant in Hoopeston, IL called simply,
The Donut Shop.
It was a small mom and pop place which was opened from 5:30 in the morning to 2:30 or 3:00 in the afternoon. They served donuts and coffee at breakfast, sandwiches at lunch, then closed in mid afternoon. Sometimes they would stay open for the guys that got off around four, so they could grab a snack before heading home.
The doughnut machine they used was a stainless steel, 900 pound monster that stood in the corner near the window so people could watch it work. It was a Lincoln Model "D" machine made sometime in the late 1930s to early 1940s by the Doughnut Corporation of America. It had been used by the Red Cross to make doughnuts for soldiers who were coming back from the front and needed something to tide them over until they got back to base.
Dad had bought the machine for Mom in about 1948 when her asthma got the best of her and they had to close down their feed mill grinding business because the dust was making her sick. She had always wanted to own a sandwich shop, and they turned their front store into a restaurant. Dad bought the machine to augment the idea of breakfast. During the 30 odd years that the machine was in use in the shop, it made approximately one million doughnuts. Mom sat at the machine as the "doorknobs" as she called them, came out. She took each one and dropped it into either a bowl of homemade vanilla icing, or chocolate icing. She also made stacks of plain doughnuts which were later turned into sugared ones.
After Dad died in 1968, Mom kept the shop open for a little over 10 more years, doing the work herself of mixing the dough and running the machine. She had to hire others to watch the counter for her. When she retired in 1978 at the age of 67, I took the machine and put it into my garage.
During the next few years, the Paxton High School FFA used it for making doughnuts for fundraisers, but eventually the machine found its way back into the corner of my garage.
Luckily, I found a man by the name of Walt Pittack who works for Moline Manufacturing in Duluth, MN. He had worked for DCA and continued on with Moline once the DCA had been sold to them. He had the original plans and some spare parts. My brother and I decided to give the machine back to its original manufacturer who refurbished the machine into working order.
That was a long way to tell you this... The machine now looks new and is part of the diplay at the trade shows Moline Manufacturing goes to. It still makes those delicious globulars of dough. The picture above was taken just recently as they prepared it for crating and shipment.
And, in spirit, my parents get to see the world and have a vacation. Something they never did get to have when they were alive.
Keep your eye upon the doughnut, and not upon the hole.
Doughnut
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Be Lazy
I am back at work again after a weekend away from the blog. Batteries recharged, brain cleared, and carpal tunnel slowed down. Ready to hit it again and get after that writing process and renew motivation towards getting the book done. Yeah, right…
I have become increasingly lazy. Retirement does that, I understand. If that is the case, then I retired about 40 years ago! When I was sixteen, I was full of vip, vim, and vinegar. Quite a go getter who held down a couple jobs at time. Now, I’m lucky to remember to do one thing a day. I’m slipping, and I am looking for someone to blame.
First, I think I can blame my up bringing. My parents were lazy people. They worked 12-14 hours a day at their restaurant, five to six days a week, 50-51 weeks a year. Their idea of a vacation was cleaning the place on their days off. They never went on “vacation” where they drove to a Disneyland or even a Six Flags. Heck, a weekend at Steely’s Creek or a trip to Chicago to visit Aunt Helen was about as far as they got from Hoopeston. I never saw my parents in anything but work clothes. Dad always was in a v-necked t-shirt and khaki pants; Mom wore a white uniform-type dress that buttoned up the front, and white hosiery and white shoes. Seldom did they wear anything else. A big change for them might have been putting on a sweater. But they just seemed to never do anything…
My brother was the same way. He never worked very hard, it seemed. After all, coaching and teaching and raising a family is no work at all. He worked during the summer and in the spring at a farm, and in different stores, and for the city shoveling poo, but I did not really see him “do” anything. He must have been lazy.
But the real person I blame for my laziness is the President. I have never seen him do anything. I saw Ron Reagan chop wood, LBJ herd cattle, Even JFK steered a boat. But Obama is rarely seen doing anything, he must be lazy. His example of sitting around, talking about things and trying to get things done really sets a bad example for everyone. I mean, really, running the military, setting goals and trying to convince others to make changes they do not like, raising kids, and all the time having to sit and listen to the naysayers and people who had so much time to make change, but did not, call you names… that is enough to make anyone lazy and want to give up. He needs to do something. Work his brawn, not his brain so much.
That must be the problem with me...I think too much.
I do nothing. I have recently observed that my life is one big situation comedy. And if you look at comedy, you often find there are people who seem to do nothing and appear lazy. They sit and observe, then make one line comments that provoke a laugh track. That is what my life is like. I love comedies because they make me laugh, and they prove their point by making me look inside myself and find that little sliver that enlightens me and trips the trigger that shows me life as it is.
And it makes me laugh at myself and others.
I need to do something. I don't mow anymore, my lawn is now rocks. I don't wash my cars, we have a car wash on every corner here in AZ. No need to do windows, it never rains. So I am now officially lazy.
Do yourself a favor…BE LAZY each day. Take some time to sit back, and laugh.
Doughnut
I have become increasingly lazy. Retirement does that, I understand. If that is the case, then I retired about 40 years ago! When I was sixteen, I was full of vip, vim, and vinegar. Quite a go getter who held down a couple jobs at time. Now, I’m lucky to remember to do one thing a day. I’m slipping, and I am looking for someone to blame.
First, I think I can blame my up bringing. My parents were lazy people. They worked 12-14 hours a day at their restaurant, five to six days a week, 50-51 weeks a year. Their idea of a vacation was cleaning the place on their days off. They never went on “vacation” where they drove to a Disneyland or even a Six Flags. Heck, a weekend at Steely’s Creek or a trip to Chicago to visit Aunt Helen was about as far as they got from Hoopeston. I never saw my parents in anything but work clothes. Dad always was in a v-necked t-shirt and khaki pants; Mom wore a white uniform-type dress that buttoned up the front, and white hosiery and white shoes. Seldom did they wear anything else. A big change for them might have been putting on a sweater. But they just seemed to never do anything…
My brother was the same way. He never worked very hard, it seemed. After all, coaching and teaching and raising a family is no work at all. He worked during the summer and in the spring at a farm, and in different stores, and for the city shoveling poo, but I did not really see him “do” anything. He must have been lazy.
But the real person I blame for my laziness is the President. I have never seen him do anything. I saw Ron Reagan chop wood, LBJ herd cattle, Even JFK steered a boat. But Obama is rarely seen doing anything, he must be lazy. His example of sitting around, talking about things and trying to get things done really sets a bad example for everyone. I mean, really, running the military, setting goals and trying to convince others to make changes they do not like, raising kids, and all the time having to sit and listen to the naysayers and people who had so much time to make change, but did not, call you names… that is enough to make anyone lazy and want to give up. He needs to do something. Work his brawn, not his brain so much.
That must be the problem with me...I think too much.
I do nothing. I have recently observed that my life is one big situation comedy. And if you look at comedy, you often find there are people who seem to do nothing and appear lazy. They sit and observe, then make one line comments that provoke a laugh track. That is what my life is like. I love comedies because they make me laugh, and they prove their point by making me look inside myself and find that little sliver that enlightens me and trips the trigger that shows me life as it is.
And it makes me laugh at myself and others.
I need to do something. I don't mow anymore, my lawn is now rocks. I don't wash my cars, we have a car wash on every corner here in AZ. No need to do windows, it never rains. So I am now officially lazy.
Do yourself a favor…BE LAZY each day. Take some time to sit back, and laugh.
Doughnut
Friday, September 4, 2009
I Am Not A Threat
I hope you all enjoyed the chapter of the book yesterday. I am trying to get it finished and find a lpubisher by Christmas. It will make good presents for people.
One of the difficulties I have had in writing the book is what and who to put in. I am always afraid of painting someone in a bad light. In reality, there were few bad times growing up. I mean, I only got beat up once, and that was for calling another guy’s girlfriend. Did not understand that one. I mean, she and I had been friends long before he came into the picture. But I am not worse for wear, and I escaped Hoopeston with all my appendages, and my teeth.
Recalling people is something I am not good at. I used to be, but time and copious amounts of titrates of non-neutral elixirs during my college days has left holes in my grey matter. That is why the book is sometimes fiction. I have to fill in the blanks, and unfortunately, my friends memories are not much better than mine. And, strangely enough, they remember things a bit differently than I remember them. So whose got truth and who doesn’t? Doesn’t really matter when you write fiction. That is why it is called that. If it were real, it would be called fact, or non-fiction.
So, some of my characters might be themselves, some might be mixtures of people. One thing I have discovered, though, going through my yearbooks as “research”… I had a lot of female friends. I only had one really good girl friend in high school. All the rest were my friends, and I am still acquainted with most of them. We have not gone out for coffee lately, but, then again, I live a few miles away now. We keep up on Facebook, though.
I often wondered why I was able to have so many girl friends, but no GIRLFRIEND. I have come to the realization that I am easy to talk to, but not especially good looking. I can listen well, and I validate women, but when came to doing the horixontal rumba, or being someone they took home to mom and dad, I did not quite fill the bill. But their mom’s did love me, because I did not threaten their daughters with an overwhelming sex drive. I was a “brother” ; not husband material.
But somehow, when I went to college, I changed. Like my best buddy Bill. When we parted for the summer, he was barely my height, when we went to room together at Eureka College, he was well over six feet tall. Me? I must have gotten better looking, especially towards the end of the keg.
But the writing goes on. And thanks to my friends who send me ideas I keep coming up with ideas and avenues. So, keep those emails coming.
Doughnut
One of the difficulties I have had in writing the book is what and who to put in. I am always afraid of painting someone in a bad light. In reality, there were few bad times growing up. I mean, I only got beat up once, and that was for calling another guy’s girlfriend. Did not understand that one. I mean, she and I had been friends long before he came into the picture. But I am not worse for wear, and I escaped Hoopeston with all my appendages, and my teeth.
Recalling people is something I am not good at. I used to be, but time and copious amounts of titrates of non-neutral elixirs during my college days has left holes in my grey matter. That is why the book is sometimes fiction. I have to fill in the blanks, and unfortunately, my friends memories are not much better than mine. And, strangely enough, they remember things a bit differently than I remember them. So whose got truth and who doesn’t? Doesn’t really matter when you write fiction. That is why it is called that. If it were real, it would be called fact, or non-fiction.
So, some of my characters might be themselves, some might be mixtures of people. One thing I have discovered, though, going through my yearbooks as “research”… I had a lot of female friends. I only had one really good girl friend in high school. All the rest were my friends, and I am still acquainted with most of them. We have not gone out for coffee lately, but, then again, I live a few miles away now. We keep up on Facebook, though.
I often wondered why I was able to have so many girl friends, but no GIRLFRIEND. I have come to the realization that I am easy to talk to, but not especially good looking. I can listen well, and I validate women, but when came to doing the horixontal rumba, or being someone they took home to mom and dad, I did not quite fill the bill. But their mom’s did love me, because I did not threaten their daughters with an overwhelming sex drive. I was a “brother” ; not husband material.
But somehow, when I went to college, I changed. Like my best buddy Bill. When we parted for the summer, he was barely my height, when we went to room together at Eureka College, he was well over six feet tall. Me? I must have gotten better looking, especially towards the end of the keg.
But the writing goes on. And thanks to my friends who send me ideas I keep coming up with ideas and avenues. So, keep those emails coming.
Doughnut
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Memories of National Sweetcorn Festivals
Hoopeston billed itself as “The Sweetcorn Capital of the World” back in the 60s, and no one challenged that claim. The town had three food packing plants, a company that made cans, and one that designed and produced machinery to pick and package the corn. Stokely Van Camp, and two Joan of Arc food processing plants ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week during the corn season; the rest of the time they packed tomatoes, peas, kidney beans, and asparagus. American Can Company on Main Street provided enough cans for the two companies to can thousands of cans of corn. Food Machinery Corporation designed pickers, packers and box machines to help them get their product out to market. Mom and Dad’s Donut Shop was situated on First Avenue right in the middle of all the commotion. Along with these companies, there was a little known bottling company that sat about half a block from the shop at the corner of Penn Street and First Avenue and during packing season, it, too, ran all the time pumping out beverages like grape Nehi and some kind of orange-flavored beverage that rivaled Orange Crush, as well as this drink that was called Howdy Cola, which tasted like Coca Cola, that was served in the shop.
Cornpack seemed to awaken the city and every body in it for the time that it was running. Corn was brought to the factory by wagons pulled by tractors. Farmers would bring their loads into the city and stop first at the “migrant camp” on the south of town to get weighed, then they would come in to town, park along First Avenue and down Washington Street and wait again to dump their loads before going back out. The kids on the block were fascinated by the constant parade of wagons; the smell of freshly cut corn mesmerized us. We would often go down to the plant where they were pushing the corn into a hopper and ask for ears of corn. The workers would give us a few ears each and we would take them home for dinner. Once cooked, nothing was as juicy as the corn that that we got from those folks.
Hoopeston welcomed many families from Texas and Mexico during the planting and harvesting season. The families stayed in the camps south of town and the one north of town on the properties owned by two canning companies. Joan of Arc owned the southern one which they had acquired after World War II from the government when it shut down what was a Prisoner of War camp. Dad had served during the war in a detachment that ferried German prisoners from Morocco to the United States and had brought some of the men to Hoopeston. They were kept in a camp surrounded by armed guard towers. The men were marched into the city during the day to rebuild the brick streets of the city, or signed out to farms. They worked for long hours taking up the paving bricks and putting them back down so the streets were smooth. The prisoners also worked in the fields and the factories. They would work tirelessly on the farms in the area and were fed well and treated well. Once canning season was over in October, the prisoners would be moved to another location to help with that area. After the war, most of them returned to their home country, some returned and settled in the Midwest. The migrant workers then came every spring and summer to help out in the fields and fill the gap that was left by the departure of the prisoners of war. The northern camp, built by Stokely Van Camp inside its compound, was constructed specifically for the families that came from near and south of the Mexican border. Worker’s families stayed in these small apartments and the old prisoner barracks on the south end of town during their time in Hoopeston.
This constant stream of outside help and the help of many working people from Hoopeston and the surrounding communities, helped it earn its title. When all was said and the done, the companies would release the amount of cans that had been packed with the delicous Illini Supersweet. The number of cans was usually equal to at least the number of people on the planet (excluding the Chinese), thereby giving every man, woman, and child of the world a can of corn. At the end of the season, to celebrate Labor Day and the coming end to cornpack, the Hoopeston Junior Chamber of Commerce, or Jaycee’s for short, put on this weeklong celebration out at McFerren Park on the western edge of the city, right off Route One. The people of this organization worked tirelessly all year planning to make sure that the event was one of which the community could be proud. It was a kid’s dream, and everyone looked forward to the weekend, even though they knew that on Tuesday following Labor Day they started school.
The kids of the community were always thrilled because there would be carnival rides to thrill and amaze them. There were no amusement parks outside of Riverview in Chicago, so having a real carnival come through town was a yearlong build up. The Tilt-a-Whirl, Ferris Wheel, Merri-Mixer, and Loop the Loop as well as the Rocket Ride brought high blood pressure and stimulation to kids of all ages. Screams of delight often echoed from mid-day to late evening. The JC’s provided plenty of security, and parents were able to drop their children off with a few dollars for rides and corndogs and leave them alone for an hour or so. People from all over the state and in some cases, the naton, came to the park. As the years went on, more and more attractions were added. In addition to the midway, there were horse shows, car shows, a demolition derby, teen dances, and tents filled with food stands. Of course, the center piece of the festival was corn.
The factories that canned the corn provided the Jaycees with tons of their product, and the group gave the delicious ears away with abandon. The Illini Supersweet which was grown in the fields surrounding the community was unceremoniously dumped into piles on the ground near a giant steam engine. Volunteers then shucked each ear by hand and made sure that it was clean of all “hair” that covered the delicious golden kernels. The ears were then thrown into a large horse tank where they were cooked using steam that was pumped into the water from the steam engine. After boiling for about ten minutes, the ears were taken out in baskets, dumped onto a draining tray and slathered in butter, then coated with salt. Everyone who brought a pail or bucket, or maybe a roaster or just held out their hands, received enough corn to fill whatever they brought as they stood in line. This went on from around to early evening for three days during the festival. I am sure that it put a strain on the sewer system of the community.
The Hoopeston Sweetcorn Festival took on added significance when the Jaycees added a beauty competition. They decided that having a Miss Hoopeston to represent them was not enough. They had to choose someone to be “The National Sweetcorn Sweetheart.” This girl would then carry the banner and represent the community and the Festival around the country. The organizers of the pageant had grandiose plans for it. They did not want just anyone for their competitions, they wanted the first runners up from states Miss America Pageants to come to their small town and vie for the title of National Sweetcorn Sweetheart. And it worked! Beautiful women of model stature from all over the country agreed to come to Hoopeston and compete in a pageant that was a rigorous as the Miss America Pageant itself. These young ladies were put up in homes in the community and given the keys to the city. Beauties visited canneries, factories, civic functions and parties all week leading up to the three days of choreographed competition for the title. And if they were lucky, they might get called away to compete in the Miss America Pageant. By the end of the week, the contestants knew that Hoopeston was truly serious about its corn and its title as Sweetcorn Capital of the World.
Along with the queen competition, the end of summer affair always had a parade. The procession was open to anyone that wanted to display something or just be seen. Companies and civic organizations built floats, scout packs walked, politicians rode in cars, horse drawn carriages rolled down the street, cowboys strutted their stuff with their horses, the queens were on display in convertibles, and high school bands from all over the state came to march in the two mile long event that was viewed by hundreds of folks in lawn chairs and those on top of buildings lining the route. Our family and those of the neighborhood always walked down to the end of the block at Main Street to the north of the shop and set up our lawn chairs early so we could get a glimpse of the festivities. As the parade went by, we would yell at people we knew and applaud the celebrities that might be in the parade. Of course, politicians would often get either booed, or wooed depending on their popularity during election years. Everyone stood and men removed their hats when each flag of a color guard would pass by. The American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars would always lead the parade, but other bands and organizations would show their patriotism by having the American Flag at the front of their organization. Old people got a lot of exercise going up and down.
At the end of the parade would come the old steam engine that would cook the corn followed by a police car or a fire engine to mark the end of procession. Kids near the end would often fall in line and walk along waving mightily to the crowd trying to get into the park free. Sometimes it worked, depending who was manning the entry. Later, they changed the parade route at the end so it would go in a side gate which was always guarded by the auxiliary police.
All in all, the week of the National Sweetcorn Festival brought recognition to the town and those involved. But nothing topped the excitement kids got on the rides. The personal favorite of mine was the Ferris Wheel. I loved the exhilaration of flying into the air and momentarily seeing the surrounding area. If I was lucky, I would get stopped on the top for a while, suspended from the earth in a small car that was gently swinging back and forth. The suspension was so death-defying and the closest I would come to anything remotely like jumping out of an airplane. After all, I was not a bright young man, but who would want to jump out of and airplane with a handkerchief tied to his back and hope that he came gently down from the sky? I remember seeing the types of landings that my army action figures made, and there was no way that was going to happen to me! But the Ferris Wheel offered the opportunity to go about 50 feet up safely and I took the opportunity often. The other rides like the Merri Mixer and the Tilt-a-Whirl tossed me around and made me dizzy; I settled for the mundane and romantic view of the city and the festival. Summer would often end on Monday afternoon with me taking my last ride on the Wheel and thinking of how things might be during the year. Rarely was I disappointed.
(This entry is taken from "As You Ramble On Through Life, Brother" an upcoming creative non-fiction novel due out next year.)
Doughnut
Cornpack seemed to awaken the city and every body in it for the time that it was running. Corn was brought to the factory by wagons pulled by tractors. Farmers would bring their loads into the city and stop first at the “migrant camp” on the south of town to get weighed, then they would come in to town, park along First Avenue and down Washington Street and wait again to dump their loads before going back out. The kids on the block were fascinated by the constant parade of wagons; the smell of freshly cut corn mesmerized us. We would often go down to the plant where they were pushing the corn into a hopper and ask for ears of corn. The workers would give us a few ears each and we would take them home for dinner. Once cooked, nothing was as juicy as the corn that that we got from those folks.
Hoopeston welcomed many families from Texas and Mexico during the planting and harvesting season. The families stayed in the camps south of town and the one north of town on the properties owned by two canning companies. Joan of Arc owned the southern one which they had acquired after World War II from the government when it shut down what was a Prisoner of War camp. Dad had served during the war in a detachment that ferried German prisoners from Morocco to the United States and had brought some of the men to Hoopeston. They were kept in a camp surrounded by armed guard towers. The men were marched into the city during the day to rebuild the brick streets of the city, or signed out to farms. They worked for long hours taking up the paving bricks and putting them back down so the streets were smooth. The prisoners also worked in the fields and the factories. They would work tirelessly on the farms in the area and were fed well and treated well. Once canning season was over in October, the prisoners would be moved to another location to help with that area. After the war, most of them returned to their home country, some returned and settled in the Midwest. The migrant workers then came every spring and summer to help out in the fields and fill the gap that was left by the departure of the prisoners of war. The northern camp, built by Stokely Van Camp inside its compound, was constructed specifically for the families that came from near and south of the Mexican border. Worker’s families stayed in these small apartments and the old prisoner barracks on the south end of town during their time in Hoopeston.
This constant stream of outside help and the help of many working people from Hoopeston and the surrounding communities, helped it earn its title. When all was said and the done, the companies would release the amount of cans that had been packed with the delicous Illini Supersweet. The number of cans was usually equal to at least the number of people on the planet (excluding the Chinese), thereby giving every man, woman, and child of the world a can of corn. At the end of the season, to celebrate Labor Day and the coming end to cornpack, the Hoopeston Junior Chamber of Commerce, or Jaycee’s for short, put on this weeklong celebration out at McFerren Park on the western edge of the city, right off Route One. The people of this organization worked tirelessly all year planning to make sure that the event was one of which the community could be proud. It was a kid’s dream, and everyone looked forward to the weekend, even though they knew that on Tuesday following Labor Day they started school.
The kids of the community were always thrilled because there would be carnival rides to thrill and amaze them. There were no amusement parks outside of Riverview in Chicago, so having a real carnival come through town was a yearlong build up. The Tilt-a-Whirl, Ferris Wheel, Merri-Mixer, and Loop the Loop as well as the Rocket Ride brought high blood pressure and stimulation to kids of all ages. Screams of delight often echoed from mid-day to late evening. The JC’s provided plenty of security, and parents were able to drop their children off with a few dollars for rides and corndogs and leave them alone for an hour or so. People from all over the state and in some cases, the naton, came to the park. As the years went on, more and more attractions were added. In addition to the midway, there were horse shows, car shows, a demolition derby, teen dances, and tents filled with food stands. Of course, the center piece of the festival was corn.
The factories that canned the corn provided the Jaycees with tons of their product, and the group gave the delicious ears away with abandon. The Illini Supersweet which was grown in the fields surrounding the community was unceremoniously dumped into piles on the ground near a giant steam engine. Volunteers then shucked each ear by hand and made sure that it was clean of all “hair” that covered the delicious golden kernels. The ears were then thrown into a large horse tank where they were cooked using steam that was pumped into the water from the steam engine. After boiling for about ten minutes, the ears were taken out in baskets, dumped onto a draining tray and slathered in butter, then coated with salt. Everyone who brought a pail or bucket, or maybe a roaster or just held out their hands, received enough corn to fill whatever they brought as they stood in line. This went on from around to early evening for three days during the festival. I am sure that it put a strain on the sewer system of the community.
The Hoopeston Sweetcorn Festival took on added significance when the Jaycees added a beauty competition. They decided that having a Miss Hoopeston to represent them was not enough. They had to choose someone to be “The National Sweetcorn Sweetheart.” This girl would then carry the banner and represent the community and the Festival around the country. The organizers of the pageant had grandiose plans for it. They did not want just anyone for their competitions, they wanted the first runners up from states Miss America Pageants to come to their small town and vie for the title of National Sweetcorn Sweetheart. And it worked! Beautiful women of model stature from all over the country agreed to come to Hoopeston and compete in a pageant that was a rigorous as the Miss America Pageant itself. These young ladies were put up in homes in the community and given the keys to the city. Beauties visited canneries, factories, civic functions and parties all week leading up to the three days of choreographed competition for the title. And if they were lucky, they might get called away to compete in the Miss America Pageant. By the end of the week, the contestants knew that Hoopeston was truly serious about its corn and its title as Sweetcorn Capital of the World.
Along with the queen competition, the end of summer affair always had a parade. The procession was open to anyone that wanted to display something or just be seen. Companies and civic organizations built floats, scout packs walked, politicians rode in cars, horse drawn carriages rolled down the street, cowboys strutted their stuff with their horses, the queens were on display in convertibles, and high school bands from all over the state came to march in the two mile long event that was viewed by hundreds of folks in lawn chairs and those on top of buildings lining the route. Our family and those of the neighborhood always walked down to the end of the block at Main Street to the north of the shop and set up our lawn chairs early so we could get a glimpse of the festivities. As the parade went by, we would yell at people we knew and applaud the celebrities that might be in the parade. Of course, politicians would often get either booed, or wooed depending on their popularity during election years. Everyone stood and men removed their hats when each flag of a color guard would pass by. The American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars would always lead the parade, but other bands and organizations would show their patriotism by having the American Flag at the front of their organization. Old people got a lot of exercise going up and down.
At the end of the parade would come the old steam engine that would cook the corn followed by a police car or a fire engine to mark the end of procession. Kids near the end would often fall in line and walk along waving mightily to the crowd trying to get into the park free. Sometimes it worked, depending who was manning the entry. Later, they changed the parade route at the end so it would go in a side gate which was always guarded by the auxiliary police.
All in all, the week of the National Sweetcorn Festival brought recognition to the town and those involved. But nothing topped the excitement kids got on the rides. The personal favorite of mine was the Ferris Wheel. I loved the exhilaration of flying into the air and momentarily seeing the surrounding area. If I was lucky, I would get stopped on the top for a while, suspended from the earth in a small car that was gently swinging back and forth. The suspension was so death-defying and the closest I would come to anything remotely like jumping out of an airplane. After all, I was not a bright young man, but who would want to jump out of and airplane with a handkerchief tied to his back and hope that he came gently down from the sky? I remember seeing the types of landings that my army action figures made, and there was no way that was going to happen to me! But the Ferris Wheel offered the opportunity to go about 50 feet up safely and I took the opportunity often. The other rides like the Merri Mixer and the Tilt-a-Whirl tossed me around and made me dizzy; I settled for the mundane and romantic view of the city and the festival. Summer would often end on Monday afternoon with me taking my last ride on the Wheel and thinking of how things might be during the year. Rarely was I disappointed.
(This entry is taken from "As You Ramble On Through Life, Brother" an upcoming creative non-fiction novel due out next year.)
Doughnut
National Sweetcorn Festival
The last hurrah of summer is finally here. When Labor Day rolls around, students and parents are sure the school year has begun, and they begin to settle in for the long grind. It also marks one of the great celebrations of the year anywhere.
This weekend is the 66th annual National Sweetcorn Festival in Hoopeston, Illinois. The celebration brings together an entire community of Cornjerkers, plus some of the most beautiful women in America, to raise the roof commemorating the end to the growing season and culmination of a summer of work in the fields.
I grew up across the street from McFerrin Park where the festivities will be held. I always enjoyed watching the carnival rides being brought in and set up, and the display tents rising out of the tennis courts. Being the enterprising youth I was, once my parents closed their restaurant, I sold the parking spaces to merrymakers who wanted to leave their cars outside the park. Once it was full, I parked them in my yard. Good money for a weekend for a kid.
The weekend marks the end of summer. Not so much now, since schools start a lot earlier now, but it used to be the one thing that kids looked forward to with anticipation and dread. The parade, the rides, food, and especially the corn that starts on Thursday evening and goes through Monday always brought smiles to people from around the area.
The Festival has consistently grown over the years. First runner-ups from states Miss America contest come to this little hamlet and spend a week strutting their stuff on the stage in the Pavilion to become the National Sweetcorn Sweetheart. Believe it or not, this is a very competitive beauty title and every once in a while, one of the girls has to leave to fill a role as her state’s representative to the Miss America Pageant.
The smell of cooking sweet corn slathered in butter and deftly sprinkled with salt takes center stage during the weekend. Sadly, the corn is no longer grown in the area like it used to be, but rather is trucked in from farms in other areas of the Midwest. The Hoopeston Jaycees will cook over 20 tons of corn this weekend and give it away to folks who will stand in line for hours to get their share.
On Saturday, the annual parade through downtown Hoopeston will take place. This used to be one of the premier events of Central Illinois. High School bands used to march through the streets and there was a band competition that took place. Politicians, TV stars, and local dignitaries dotted the lineup. I remember when the governor used to make an annual appearance, as well as state senators and the occasional US Representative. Floats, Boy and Girls scouts and civic organizations all had something in the parade that stretched from the Lorraine Theater, down Main Street, to Ninth Avenue and then into the back gate at McFerren Park.
Kids love the midway that has several rides guaranteed to make their stomachs turn. The Tilt-a-Whirl, the Merri-Mixer, the Rocket all made me dizzy and thrilled me. But the greatest ride of all was the Ferris Wheel. I remember hoping to get stalled at the top so I could look out over the town. I always had to end the weekend with a trip above the town on the Ferris Wheel.
Tomorrow, an excerpt from my upcoming novel that captures more of the weekend and pride that the community feels.
Doughnut.
This weekend is the 66th annual National Sweetcorn Festival in Hoopeston, Illinois. The celebration brings together an entire community of Cornjerkers, plus some of the most beautiful women in America, to raise the roof commemorating the end to the growing season and culmination of a summer of work in the fields.
I grew up across the street from McFerrin Park where the festivities will be held. I always enjoyed watching the carnival rides being brought in and set up, and the display tents rising out of the tennis courts. Being the enterprising youth I was, once my parents closed their restaurant, I sold the parking spaces to merrymakers who wanted to leave their cars outside the park. Once it was full, I parked them in my yard. Good money for a weekend for a kid.
The weekend marks the end of summer. Not so much now, since schools start a lot earlier now, but it used to be the one thing that kids looked forward to with anticipation and dread. The parade, the rides, food, and especially the corn that starts on Thursday evening and goes through Monday always brought smiles to people from around the area.
The Festival has consistently grown over the years. First runner-ups from states Miss America contest come to this little hamlet and spend a week strutting their stuff on the stage in the Pavilion to become the National Sweetcorn Sweetheart. Believe it or not, this is a very competitive beauty title and every once in a while, one of the girls has to leave to fill a role as her state’s representative to the Miss America Pageant.
The smell of cooking sweet corn slathered in butter and deftly sprinkled with salt takes center stage during the weekend. Sadly, the corn is no longer grown in the area like it used to be, but rather is trucked in from farms in other areas of the Midwest. The Hoopeston Jaycees will cook over 20 tons of corn this weekend and give it away to folks who will stand in line for hours to get their share.
On Saturday, the annual parade through downtown Hoopeston will take place. This used to be one of the premier events of Central Illinois. High School bands used to march through the streets and there was a band competition that took place. Politicians, TV stars, and local dignitaries dotted the lineup. I remember when the governor used to make an annual appearance, as well as state senators and the occasional US Representative. Floats, Boy and Girls scouts and civic organizations all had something in the parade that stretched from the Lorraine Theater, down Main Street, to Ninth Avenue and then into the back gate at McFerren Park.
Kids love the midway that has several rides guaranteed to make their stomachs turn. The Tilt-a-Whirl, the Merri-Mixer, the Rocket all made me dizzy and thrilled me. But the greatest ride of all was the Ferris Wheel. I remember hoping to get stalled at the top so I could look out over the town. I always had to end the weekend with a trip above the town on the Ferris Wheel.
Tomorrow, an excerpt from my upcoming novel that captures more of the weekend and pride that the community feels.
Doughnut.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Lesson Learned
People steal for different reasons. They get a thrill, they need the money or object, or they just plain have a problem. With the help of my mother’s loving hand on my bare bottom, I learned at an early age not to steal. And it was done publicly.
“Back in the day” we all used to go to the local grocery or neighborhood store and “help” with shopping. We lovingly gave our input on what mom should buy. The advice was often ignored and the experience more than likely ended with a good smack on the bottom, or an unceremonious banishment to the backseat of the car for the duration of the exploration. This was because our loving suggestions often turned to whining and then to yelling.
The Grab-It-Here was the store of choice of our family in Hoopeston, Illinois back in the 1960s. It sat in the middle of the block along Market Street, on the west side of the street, just south of Penn Street, not far from the police station. The store has given way to the Save-a-Lot now, but it is still the same neighborhood grocery.
Mom always let me go along, I suppose, because Dad needed the break from my incessant talking. At one time, I fit in the basket in the cart. Grocery carts haven’t changed much in 53 years, but I would no longer fit. On this particular day, Mom decided to let me walk with her as long as I held on to the cart and kept my mouth shut. I knew I could do one of those things; I was not sure about the other.
As we walked down the aisles, I was content to try and get various items into the cart. I never said anything; I just dropped them in. After all, I was not saying anything, how had I broken the rules? Bologna, Vienna Sausages, and a can of beans all made their way surreptitiously into the basket as I walked along dutifully.
As we got to the end of the aisle near the cash registers, I spied the toy section. Until now, I had been the perfect son, helping in any way to get the shopping done. (As perfect as any three year old could be, that is.) The toy section called my name, but I knew that if I tried to leave Mom’s side, it would be the car for me. So I did something bold… I asked if I could go look. “Yes, but you are not getting anything, hear me?” Mom said sternly.
As I walked towards the toys, one in particular caught my eye. It was a balsa wood plane that could be fit together and then flown. According to the pictures on the package, it did all sorts of tricks once assembled! I knew I had to have it at all costs. I removed it from the shelf and took it to my mother, who promptly took it from me and returned it to the rack with an admonishment about asking for something. “But, it is only a quarter!” I began to whine. The look she gave me immediately told me I should be quiet.
I stewed about that plane for a while, and then came up with a plan. I would stick the plane down my pants leg and take it! No one would ever know. I told Mom that I would behave and she let me go back to the rack. I looked around and made sure that no one was watching and put the plane down my pants. I did not anticipate, however, that I was only about three feet tall, and the plane was longer in the package than I anticipated. I could not bend my leg without risking being discovered. So, I pretended to be Chester from the TV series Gunsmoke! A clever plan, indeed.
I told Mom that I would wait in the car since she was almost finished shopping, and went to the 1953 Chevy Impala just outside the front door. I had trouble climbing in the car because I could not bend my leg! I struggled into the backseat and sat across it.
When Mom came out, she told me to get into the front seat so she could put groceries in the back seat. Panic set in as I tried to scramble over the back of the front seat and into the passenger side. My leg would not bend. “Don, what is the problem with you?” she said with a wry smile on her face. “Is Chester having a little problem?” I knew she knew. Her MOMDAR had caught me. “Let’s go back into the store, son.”
We entered the store and stopped by the registers which were filled with customers waiting to check out. Mom called over the manager of the store, and told him that there was a problem. When he asked what, she said, “Pull down your pants, Don.” He began to protest, until he saw the plane halfway up my chest and down to my ankles. She turned to me, “Got anything to say to Max?”
I pulled the plane out, and apologized to Max, the store manager. Mom then bent over, grabbed me, pulled down the back of my underwear and proceeded to beat my bare butt red right there in the store in front of the customers!
I never stole again; for fear that my mom would come down out of heaven, pull down my pants, and beat me.
Lesson learned.
Doughnut
“Back in the day” we all used to go to the local grocery or neighborhood store and “help” with shopping. We lovingly gave our input on what mom should buy. The advice was often ignored and the experience more than likely ended with a good smack on the bottom, or an unceremonious banishment to the backseat of the car for the duration of the exploration. This was because our loving suggestions often turned to whining and then to yelling.
The Grab-It-Here was the store of choice of our family in Hoopeston, Illinois back in the 1960s. It sat in the middle of the block along Market Street, on the west side of the street, just south of Penn Street, not far from the police station. The store has given way to the Save-a-Lot now, but it is still the same neighborhood grocery.
Mom always let me go along, I suppose, because Dad needed the break from my incessant talking. At one time, I fit in the basket in the cart. Grocery carts haven’t changed much in 53 years, but I would no longer fit. On this particular day, Mom decided to let me walk with her as long as I held on to the cart and kept my mouth shut. I knew I could do one of those things; I was not sure about the other.
As we walked down the aisles, I was content to try and get various items into the cart. I never said anything; I just dropped them in. After all, I was not saying anything, how had I broken the rules? Bologna, Vienna Sausages, and a can of beans all made their way surreptitiously into the basket as I walked along dutifully.
As we got to the end of the aisle near the cash registers, I spied the toy section. Until now, I had been the perfect son, helping in any way to get the shopping done. (As perfect as any three year old could be, that is.) The toy section called my name, but I knew that if I tried to leave Mom’s side, it would be the car for me. So I did something bold… I asked if I could go look. “Yes, but you are not getting anything, hear me?” Mom said sternly.
As I walked towards the toys, one in particular caught my eye. It was a balsa wood plane that could be fit together and then flown. According to the pictures on the package, it did all sorts of tricks once assembled! I knew I had to have it at all costs. I removed it from the shelf and took it to my mother, who promptly took it from me and returned it to the rack with an admonishment about asking for something. “But, it is only a quarter!” I began to whine. The look she gave me immediately told me I should be quiet.
I stewed about that plane for a while, and then came up with a plan. I would stick the plane down my pants leg and take it! No one would ever know. I told Mom that I would behave and she let me go back to the rack. I looked around and made sure that no one was watching and put the plane down my pants. I did not anticipate, however, that I was only about three feet tall, and the plane was longer in the package than I anticipated. I could not bend my leg without risking being discovered. So, I pretended to be Chester from the TV series Gunsmoke! A clever plan, indeed.
I told Mom that I would wait in the car since she was almost finished shopping, and went to the 1953 Chevy Impala just outside the front door. I had trouble climbing in the car because I could not bend my leg! I struggled into the backseat and sat across it.
When Mom came out, she told me to get into the front seat so she could put groceries in the back seat. Panic set in as I tried to scramble over the back of the front seat and into the passenger side. My leg would not bend. “Don, what is the problem with you?” she said with a wry smile on her face. “Is Chester having a little problem?” I knew she knew. Her MOMDAR had caught me. “Let’s go back into the store, son.”
We entered the store and stopped by the registers which were filled with customers waiting to check out. Mom called over the manager of the store, and told him that there was a problem. When he asked what, she said, “Pull down your pants, Don.” He began to protest, until he saw the plane halfway up my chest and down to my ankles. She turned to me, “Got anything to say to Max?”
I pulled the plane out, and apologized to Max, the store manager. Mom then bent over, grabbed me, pulled down the back of my underwear and proceeded to beat my bare butt red right there in the store in front of the customers!
I never stole again; for fear that my mom would come down out of heaven, pull down my pants, and beat me.
Lesson learned.
Doughnut
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