Category: Niles, Ohio

My grandmother Moransky’s farm was in Mineral Ridge, Ohio. The land was located on both sides of “Murtha Rode,” running parallel to Main Street about a mile away, toward the east. The house and its vegetable gardens were on one side, the barn and hay fields on the other. The house was torn down more than a decade ago; the former tarmac road became the “Niles-Carver Road.” The Farm remains vividly alive in my memory as the place where I spent happy days in 1948-49, at the outset of my teenage transition. Many of my hours drifted by in my bedroom, overlooking the back fields with their ancient apple trees. My alternative location was on a squeaky, pillow-covered glider on the front porch, hidden from the close-by, dusty road by a tall pine, which may have started life as a Christmas tree long before I was born in this very house. This porch is where I relaxed on many summer days.

The porch opened into the front parlor and its adjoining side-parlor, with their overstuffed chairs and sofas. This furniture was, of course, used only when company came, company that was more than the relatives who gathered around the table in the real dining room beyond the front parlor. This dining room was the home’s true “living-room.” The formal dining room, off of the side-parlor, was seldom, if ever, used for a meal. The front parlor was dominated by a typical, stuffed stag’s head, which may or may not have been a family trophy; its origin was never confirmed.

A large kitchen with a gas-stove and an adjoining pantry with its hand-pump, completed the first floor of the farmhouse. This kitchen was actually used for cooking, except during the summer months when an auxiliary kitchen in the “summerhouse” was made available. The pantry was large enough to accommodate a movable wash tub used for sequential baths. As the youngest, I always went first on bath nights.

A spindled staircase led from the front parlor to the second floor and four bedrooms. My parents had the large one at the top of the stairs. My grandmother had one of the two back bedrooms; I had the other one. Along the hallways were a fourth, spare bedrooms. Behind one of its doors was an enclosed staircase to the attic, my favorite hideout during the right time of the year.

There was also the summerhouse, but I seldom entered it, except when it rained too hard for me to remain “outside” when I wanted to escape the main house. This one-room building was modest in size and furnishings. It held a wood-burning stove along with picnic tables and chairs for use during the summer when cooking in the real kitchen made the main-house much too hot in a time without ceiling-fans and air-conditioning. The summerhouse was located between the detached garage and the grape arbor, near the backdoor into the main kitchen.

The arbor was a pleasant, shady place to sit during the summer. In fall, the grapes were too sour for me to eat. The nearby cherry tree had summer fruit which I thought was equally sour, although adults found it to be acceptable. With enough added sugar, they made delicious cherry pies. Another good, shady place was the back-porch off the main kitchen. Nearby was an outdoor pump that demanded extreme priming before any water would flow from it. Actually, all of the pumps needed priming, the one in the basement as well as the pantry pump. None of the water was drinkable. Too much iron residue. We filled water bottles for consumption whenever we went “up-the-hill” or visited other relatives.

I found the lack of indoor plumbing to be tolerable, except for one recurring event. I hated the outhouse and everything about it, including the long walk from the back-porch, down the brick path, past the grape arbor to that smelly Center of Hell guarded by obnoxious, orange tiger lilies. At least during the coldest winter mornings, I could use the chamber pot discreetly located in the basement. A mysterious house-elf took care of the transfer of its contents to the Center of Hell. Her work made my life more bearable.

The days spent on the Farm are the most nostalgic ones I have. I can readily recall them whenever I sit in the warm sunshine beaming down on the flower gardens of Eagle’s Trace. I continue to hate orange tiger lilies!

Every home needs an attic, just as every human needs a site in which to store one’s personal memories. From time to time, each storage bin should be re-arranged, tidied up with the expectation that one or two ancient items might be discarded, perhaps to make room for a few new ones. However, it’s very difficult to throw anything away; you never know when something will be useful, once again.

The first real attic in my life was the one in my grandmother’s farmhouse. A narrow staircase led from a spare bedroom on the second floor to that large, open-ceiling space. Being uninsulated from the elements of northern Ohio, it was overly hot and humid during the summer and unbearably cold in December and the beginning months of the year. In spring and autumn, the opened window facing the front road, the only window in this magical hall, provided a welcomed breeze. The hazy glass, further obscured by spider-webs, made it difficult to see any lonesome truck or car rumbling along the dusty road. Given its isolation, this sanctuary made a magnificent hideout in any season.

The attic, taking up the entire third floor, was filled with ancient boxes and trunks stuffed with seldom used but valued treasures, as well as with broken furniture and things to be hauled off to the dump when their presence, once again, became recognized. Old clothes in varying sizes and styles were carefully stored in containers, awaiting the day when some relative might be able to use them once again. Contents of the older trunks could have stocked a costume shop or a backstage prop room.

Tucked between open timbers along the four sides of the attic, were shelves with semi-disintegrating books and magazines. Many had cowboy and adventure stories suitable for a young teenage boy like me. One of my favorites, with a title I can no longer recall, was about a young cowhand who encountered aliens from another planet! It is, indeed, strange what my memory retains from more than seventy-five years ago. I fondly remember how exciting it was to read those books as I sat on the floor near the window with its dead spiders.

Our rental houses in Niles did not have attics, but they did have cellars, which served the same purpose below ground as did a storage space at the top. This was also true for the first homes we had built for us in Maryland and Massachusetts. In fact, basements afforded better storage for out-of-season equipment, such as lawnmowers or sleds, providing the doors leading into them were wide-enough.

We were greatly surprised when we discovered cellars do not exist in flood-prone Houston and were reluctant to have the water heater in the attic. In the houses we owned here, we required space be made in the garage for this equipment. With great hesitation, we conceded the furnace could be located above us, instead of below us. Most of our storage was consigned to a metal shed in the backyard. For items needing to be preserved from southern humidity, we rented an off-site location and had to plan ahead in order to retrieve anything we might need.

A backyard shed or off-site rental unit became mandatory. I learned it is really not possible to use a southern attic for the storage of large things. Furthermore, it’s almost impossible to stand up in one of them. A few boards around the trap door in the ceiling allow for the placement of boxes to be reached while balancing on the retractable ladder leading into the attic, which is often constructed above the garage instead of on top of the house, itself.

Now, in our retirement years in an apartment without either an attic or a cellar, we must rent personal storage locations within our building at Eagle’s Trace. We maintain two of them, one for Christmas decorations and currently unused items such as an aluminum crutch, and a second unit for suitcases and old wall-hangings. We could probably get rid of the suitcases, since we no longer plan to undertake travel that would require their use. An autographed poster of Dr. Michel E. DeBakey, which once hung in my office, along with other pictures we no long have room to exhibit, should probably be given away or sold. I often wonder what an abstract painting of a native American riding a horse might bring on Antique Road Show, since it was created by a young indigenous American who died in a barroom brawl. Given a superstitious nature, I hesitate to get rid of the aluminum crutch. Whenever I’ve given up anything because I no longer needed it, I have had a requirement for it within the next few days after its disposal.

In addition to the superstitious consideration regarding the disposal of unused items, there is the problem of deciding whether the attic possession is an antique which should be retained or mere junk which should be eliminated. Does that old whachamacallit have any monetary or sentimental value? Will I regret not having access to something that becomes essential even though it has been unseen and unused for several decades? Can the space it now occupies be more appropriately utilized by another doodad I now find is on longer mandatory for my pleasure?

Perhaps the same questions can be raised about those images I currently retain in my memory. On the other hand, I may have more control regarding the physical retention or removal of possessions in my storage attic than I do in my intellectual and emotional baggage. It may be easier to control the location of boxes in my basement than it is of synapses in my brain. It remains difficult to determine the monetary or emotional value of items in either storage location.

What is the difference between a precious antique to be preserved with honor and a bit of junk to be discarded? In addition to this evaluation, there is a determination which matters even more: is the choice either voluntary or involuntary. I must be content, for the moment, that my choosing is still possible. There may well be a time when the antiques found in my attics will no longer belong to me but will become trifles to be discarded by others or by my own forgetful mind.

Across the road from my grandmother’s farmhouse, stood a weathered barn. It was used for storage of broken farm equipment and all large items that had to be saved for reasons only God and Depression survivors knew. When I was young, hay was stored on the upper floor. I’m not sure why this mowed grass was kept, but I do recall joyfully riding, with my cousins, on a tractor-pulled, hay wagon during cutting season. We were strictly forbidden to climb the rickety ladder and hide in the collected hay. We usually obeyed. Only our heads would poke above the loft’s floor, with a hope of seeing some hidden surprise.

A farm is supposed to have farm animals. My grandmother’s farm probably had them once-upon-a-time. My memories of them may very well be false or ones based upon old photos. There is a snapshot of my father riding a cow. I’m sure his mother-in-law objected to that action. I also vaguely recall a pig and piglets in a pen behind the barn, a site at the bottom of a mound upon which the barn had been built to make it level with the road in front of it. There was also a chicken coop, although it may have been the home for what would later be called “free-range” birds. No cows, pigs or chickens lived on the farm when I resided there for a year. Only the dogs remained.

There was “Blackie,” a vicious Doberman-pincher controlled only by my grandmother, and, if there was an emergency, by my father. Blackie was chained outside the door to the barn. No one would dare get too close. However, if you timed it well, you could run into the barn while he stood barking and snarling at the full limit of his chain. It broke only a few times when we lived there.

My grandmother’s dog was “Mickey.” His breed was indeterminate. He was less than half the size of Blackie. He had semi-curly hair with a color ranging from dirty-white to yellow or grey. He had an upturned tail constantly in motion. Mickey could be petted, but he was always my grandmother’s dog.

Then there was “Duke.” He was my dog. He came to the farm as a cuddly brown and white collie, who grew up to look like “Lassie,” really a “Laddie,” as had been the original movie star. Duke and I explored the land around the farm. We took long walks through the back fields and undergrowth in the surrounding woods that led to an old stone-quarry. We sat and played near a stream separating the trees and the quarry. In midsummer the water might disappear, but even when it was gurgling past, the width was only a few feet at best, sufficient to keep Duke busy and happy chasing floating leaves and sticks.

Occasionally, we entered the nearby mine that once supplied coal for my grandfather’s use. A small railroad cart still remained, rusted onto its original rails from which it could not be budged. The larger coal and iron mines of Mineral Ridge had long ago been played out. Only symbolic sites in danger of collapse remained. We could not venture far into the mine which had been closed by an earlier cave-in. It was pleasant to daydream outside, on a warm, summer afternoon. We always returned home in time for dinner.

Sometimes we were joined by “Boots.” She was my kitten, who grew into a non-curious cat. Her body and head were deep black, except for a white face. She had four white paws that gave her the classical feline name. She preferred to ride on my shoulder or, when she was a small kitten, on the top of my head. Usually, she did not come on adventures with Duke and me, but if she were in the right mood, she might tag along looking for field mice.

Duke and Boots, as well as Mickey, were outdoors inhabitants. Duke and Mickey had their own doghouses. Boots would find a comfortable spot in the summerhouse and sometimes would be joined by her canine friends. They all knew that Blackie had his own, limited territory all to himself.

I’m not sure what happened to Duke or to Boots. She did not show up for dinner one evening toward the end of my year on the farm. When I moved back to the old neighborhood in Niles, Duke remained on the farm. Not too long after the move, I was told he had run away. Like the origin of the stag’s head in my grandmother’s front parlor, the story was never confirmed. He still roams through my memory where he frolics in a stream we once shared on warm, summer afternoons.

Riding a bike down picturesque, country roads may now be a vacation luxury, but seventy years ago it was the only way to get to school. It was that or walking the mile from the Farm to Mineral Ridge High School as I had to do, when it rained or snowed. There was no school bus; we did not own a car. The method of self-transportation depended upon the weather. Most of the year I was able to peddle along. There were no hills. There were no houses. There were only a few farms and narrow driveways leading to others such as the Seaborn Farm where the school superintendent lived. I saw it only from a distance, even though Don Seaborn was a friend from school.

Most of what I saw was from a distance. Red and yellow trees in fall, bare boned in winter, hazy green in midsummer. Halfway between the Farm and school was a lover’s spot for parking. It was years later I learned why it had so many rubber rings lying about. Back then it was merely a place for a comfortable rest on the way home, letting the breeze take care of the sweat I’d worked up.

Often Bill Pennel, my best friend during my time in Mineral Ridge, would peddle with me a quarter of the way, along Main Street on our way from school. It was not uncommon to spend a half-hour talking at the spot where the road I would take to the Farm split off from Main Street, where he lived, in a low, white-shingled house which I saw only from a distance. Strangely, perhaps, during my entire life as a teenager, I never visited any friend in his own home

Our crossroad conversations covered all of the worldly topics attractive to teenage boys in the late 1940’s. It is said that girls are the ones who gossip. Teenage boys, as well, have a lot to share about everyone around them. The two of us met infrequently once I left Mineral Ridge; we lost contact over the years that followed. I did know that Bill had earned a law degree from Harvard and ultimately practiced in New York.

There were other journeys besides the one to and from school. If I left the Farm and biked toward Niles, I immediately went down and up the gully bordering the Farm. Coming home I could gain enough speed to coast up the dip and arrive at the Farm without being out of breath. On the other side of the gully was the Smutz Farm. Mr. Smutz raised chickens that laid brown eggs. He is the farmer who taught me how to shake hands! He said I must always have a firm grip, absolutely required for a manly handshake.

An alternative of a bike-ride into Niles, was one to Lake Meander, the local reservoir for the Niles area, that was on the other side of Mineral Ridge. However, every road that could be coasted down would, ultimately, need to be peddled up. Even then, I was averse to anything that was too physically demanding.

Especially grass cutting. But that was a requirement. The field across the road from the farmhouse had to be mowed, along with the side yards, with or without fruit trees. At the time, the only available machine was a reel-mower. I had to push it for the reel to turn over-and-over and trim the grass. Sometimes a bag was attached to the back of the mower to capture the trimmings for composting. It was a lot heavier and harder to push during composting season. Bike riding was the exercise I preferred. Fortunately, there were no other physical chores to be done on the farm.

My only chore, if the term is applied to a routine household task, was recipe reading! My grandmother Moransky worked as the cook, hardly a chef, for a local steel-mill. She readily spoke English but could not read it. To prepare for cooking the next day’s meals in the factory, she needed to be reminded of the ingredients and process for the upcoming menu. Every evening, I was assigned the responsibility of reading recipes to her from three-by-five index cards someone had made for her. She would have preferred cooking her Polish dishes from memory, but the steel-mill managers, if not the workers, themselves, wanted American meals.

Country roads and bike riding, brown eggs and handshakes, old-fashioned lawn mowing, and recipe reading may have little in common, but they are among my favorite recollections of a year living on my grandmother’s farm, even if, at the time, mowing its large fields was hardly a favorite event.

It’s not the quantity but the quality that flavors memories. We moved from Niles to the Farm in June 1948 and returned to the old neighborhood in October 1949. This short interval has granted me my fondest teenage memories. It was a time of acceptance, of being part of a peer group that has existed for more than a half century. It was the launching of a journey to the stars and my future.

For many, the eighth grade is merely the beginning of junior high school, a time of disconnection. For me, it was a time for self-integration, for learning I could become who I am rather than who others thought I was or should be.

It was my first exposure to arithmetic, grammar, science and history for eighth grade and English, algebra, ancient history and Latin for the ninth. I remember standing in line one day with classmates from my homeroom, under the charge of Miss Boncila, and, while waiting for something to begin, spoke with her about my future. I told her I liked languages, history and science and didn’t know what I should pursue. Back then, thoughts of future careers were implanted at an early age. She offered several possibilities for subjects I’d never really heard of, subjects such as “linguistics” or “history of science” or a combination of biology and chemistry which was being started in a few universities, something called “biological chemistry” or “biochemistry.” We weren’t sure how I could make a living doing any of them.

I was also exposed to activities far from what I would have considered the year before. It was agreed I could not sing, and piano playing really wasn’t my calling, either. But it would be good to be part of the band, perhaps the marching band. How about a “baritone?” This brass instrument was lighter to carry than a tuba and easier to learn how to play than either a trumpet or trombone. The school, recognizing beginners could be put-off by the cost of buying instruments, made it inexpensive to rent a baritone and take free lessons during music class. Practicing outside on the front porch of the farmhouse was beneficial for the entire family during the months I tried to become a member of the band. Fortunately, I had other talents that were less out of tune.

I could draw, and I liked to draw. I never took an art lesson, but I was asked to do the covers for the bi-weekly “Echo,” which was put out by the students as the mimeographed school bulletin. Mineral Ridge High School could never afford to produce a student newspaper. The curriculum did not offer courses in journalism. However, I had great fun drawing covers depicting a high-school quarterback, or a baseball pitcher. Mr. Yoakim coached the Rams, the football team. One Echo cover I drew had “Pappy Yokum,” Li’l Abner’s parent, leading a ram on a rope.

But the most important “event” during my junior-high days was merely being accepted, to have fun with others, to learn that a happy future would be possible.

I still have a deep interest in languages and the history of science and of ideas. My doctorate is in biochemistry. I am also invited to class reunions for those who actually graduated from Mineral Ridge High School in 1953, although I am an alumnus from Niles McKinley and not MRHS. I have the choice of being either a Ram or a Red Dragon. I can be Aries, a zodiac sign, or Draco, a constellation. Either way, I can continue my journey to the stars and beyond.