Just in case you missed last week's column I'm taking some time off from penning originals this month in order to provide you with some blasts from the past.
The reason for my lazy behavior is that it's my own special way to celebrate being with the paper for 12 years. I started my column in September actually but began my other official duties in mid August.
HOWEVER, this week I will not be reaching my beet-juice-stained hand (we've been canning) into the cobweb-ridden-vault in order to seize an older piece; I will instead be providing you with original material—it's just not mine. (Stop with the sighs of relief, I'm crushed.)
I guess I should explain a bit more. I received some mail from George Rutherford of Conneaut Lake several days ago which consisted of a story from the olden days. I thought it might be fun to share that with you this time.
I think it's nice to have things like this “on file” and this is my way of getting his story on the record, so to speak.
This short piece is a story that he recalled from his youth in the 1930s and he utilizes the language of that day throughout.
George's father was Reverend Rutherford. When this unfolded they lived at what I call the parsonage, which would be the large white house next to the Presbyterian Church on Fifth Street.
They changed the name of said church and I should really determine what the actual name is now before proceeding. Since Mother has been a member for 120 years, I think telephoning her might be a good option. Hold on for just one moment please...
OK, I'm back. The name of the church is: “Presbyterian Church of Conneaut Lake.” Now that we've settled that pressing issue, I shall type what was given to me via hand-written letter. That in and of itself is a rare thing these days—I love getting letters of that nature in the mail.
The Fire
- By George Rutherford
It was a hot and stormy night sometime in the 1930s. It was reported that balls of fire had rolled down the streets. My parents had a couple in for supper and they were unable to leave for awhile to go to their automobile that was parked in the street in front of our house, due to the storm.
We had a 1930s radio that had an aerial on the roof outside which frequently attracted lightning and that evening was no exception. (Oddly enough, the radio always worked better after a lightning strike.)
My sister had gone to bed early and slept through the following events. For some reason (perhaps the radio incident) I was upset by the storm and didn't want to go to bed. Consequently, I was lying on the davenport.
Suddenly there was an explosive noise—I swear it was the loudest sound I have ever heard. Dad ran to the front door to see if our house had been struck by lightning and then reentered the house and ran to the back door shouting, “It's the Shontz's (house)!”
Dad, Dick Seiple, who lived across the street, and a tramp, who was walking up the street, rushed into the burning house and brought a lady into our house and lay her on the couch. She was delirious and kept calling for her husband who was standing beside her.
The fire company arrived with their hose cart (they had no fire truck at that time) and were able to extinguish the fire. The tramp continued his trip and was never thanked for his services.
I'm back—It's me—Lisa. There was a bit of confusion in terms of what happened afterward. George thought that the house may have been restored but after talking to his sister, Edith, about it, they concluded that it had not been restored.
If any reader out there can add to this story or clarify it further, please let me know. You may email me at the address located in the box with my picture atop this column.
THE END. (Interstate Crosscheck, “War is a Racket” by General Smedley Butler, “Erasing the Liberty” by Phil Tourney, AIPAC)