The Ladies Page

‘Six,’ I insist, thinking I had better let his
grammatical error go. THIS isn’t the time for it. Idly I
shuffle the coins around in the same old Christmas Card box we use
every time we pray our way through here.

I remember fondly the days when people talked glibly of
‘taking to the open road. Again I count my dimes, nickles, and
quarters, and the pennies which total the score. Yep! It’s all
there! The thought crosses my horticultural mind that I could
almost buy a cactus with a little red head for that amount. And
then suddenly I cringe as a yellow sports car with an eager-beaver
driver cuts in ahead of us. I have thoughts of grabbing him by his
long, straggly hair. Is he as quick on the draw as he thinks he is?
Be it guns or wheels he’s a dangerous man!

We sigh with relief as we do take to a less hectic highway. Now,
presumably, we can observe and talk a bit more freely. But THAT has
frequently been our undoing. We miss a turn when we get involved in
sight seeing. It is then I lean forward intently watching for the
next necessary road identification.

I have never forgotten one sizzling drag-down battle we had
while Mr. B was driving and I was looking around when I should have
been watching and directing. We were both weary of the road,
exceedingly edgy with four youngsters riding along that time.
Enough ire built up within that unfortunate car to shake the spark
plugs clear out of their holdings. NO! THAT WAS NEVER GOING TO
HAPPEN AGAIN!

Nevertheless I soon commented on some unusual farm buildings we
were passing. There stood a yellow silo and a yellow house a pink
silo and a pink shedall on one farm. Bargain paint, or strange art?
I wondered. It was also in upper Indiana that we concurred that
someone is really pushing Mail Pouch Tobacco. Barns have huge
advertisements on them. They didn’t convince us in the
least.

Just west of Ruggles, Ohio, on Hwy. 224, we spied a magnificent
house set upon an imposing hill. The two made an impressive sight.
The dwelling was large, lacy snow white. It seemed to be bragging a
bit about its ornate trim, and it had something to brag about. Then
just east of Ruggles our eyes were caught by another house, not
quite as large, but with equally elaborate trim. This one
hadn’t been cared for through the years. My thoughts
immediately transferred themselves to the steam engines one sees
some rusting away shamefully amongst jungles of trees and weeds,
and others oiled and painted in justifiable pride.

Total cost, including shipping, amounted to more than $4000.
according to Humann. Part of the expense will be recovered next
fall by displaying it during his biennial Steam Threshing Bee.

Steam power has always fascinated Humann, who built, runs and
shows the South Shasta Lines model railroad in the basement of his
farm home. He explains that it all came about because he wanted to
be a railroad man as a boy. Courtesy of Colin Davies, Red Bluff
Daily News, 1341 Washington St., Red Bluff, California 96080.
(Associated Newspapers, Ltd. London, England).

Isn’t it also something like happens to people during life?
Now and again one sees a young woman who has early run to fat and
flabbiness. She is frequently trailed by a thin,
discouraged-looking husband and several untidy children. To
contrast this what about these trim, energetic 70-80 year olds one
also runs across? It would appear it is largely a case of how we
look after ourselves and our possessions. Little did we realize
what awaited us a few miles farther along.

It was at Hartville, Ohio that we met Mr. and Mrs. Henry Newton,
and this eventually led me to the Encyclopedia Brittanica and seven
generations back into early American history. It was an exciting
run through a family book of genealogy which took us back to around
1586 or thereabouts.

It was in the year 1586 that a child was born in England who was
later to be given the title ‘the father of American
democracy.’ He was also the leader of the emigrants who in 1636
founded the city of Hartford, Connecticut. A-long with a man named
Samuel Stone our man from history established the first church in
Hartford, The First Church of Christ. The present building is near
the sight of that early meeting house and adjoins the graveyard
where our pioneer is buried.

In the earlier years of his life, Thomas Hooker, our child grown
to man, sorely displeased one honorable Archbishop in England, by
delivering his strong, evangelistic and moral lectures on Sundays
and market days. When Thomas Hooker learned that the religious
leaders were on his trail (and with no kindly intentions) he fled
to Holland (to save his head, as Mr. Newton put it) and
consequently came to America.

So it was that Rector Hooker eventually became a teacher at
Harvard, which was then newly founded. The family line running down
to Mr. Newton came through the marriage of Rev. Roger Newton to
Hooker’s eldest daughter, Mary. And I find some most
illustrious Newtons in the Enc. Br. as well. That name certainly
entered into our early history as well. We had fallen upon rich
historical territory.

Here we had been remarking shortly before about what our
fathers, both born about 100 years ago, would think if they were
suddenly to come upon the Tri-State Hwy. around Chicago. And we had
shivered just a bit at the prospect, and now we were in a home so
steeped in much earlier history.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Newton made our visit a memorable occasion.
The mementos they shared with us were beautiful and interesting. We
hadn’t even gotten warmed up in our conversation by noon so
Mrs. Newton prepared a delicious meal. Dear people, we thank you
for sharing! Isn’t this what is so great about our country? My
parents came here from Holland, Alfred’s from Germany, Mr.
Hooker’s from England, via Holland, and we are all one people.
And under God. May we all pray that it stays that way.