MudFlaps

Lori Beth · Posted: Mon Sep 02, 2013 9:49 am Post subject: HENRY & the Great Society

DEDICATION - by H. L. Roush, Sr.

There is, among men, a universal longing to go back to the earth from whence they came. Man will never forget his native place in Paradise lost, nor will he ever cease to yearn for a life of perfect contentment. The hope that occupies every heart is the secret dream of a Shangri-La discovered where there is an escape from the pressures of this present society. Each of us, in this insane world in which we live, knows something of the restlessness and the dissatisfaction that create a relentless obsession to escape the treadmill of existence this society has forced upon us --- an existence that has crushed us with pressures and demands that far exceed our resources; a life that often shatters our peace and leaves us like trapped animals, pacing the cage of our circumstances, plotting how to break the iron bands of involvement. We have all known the frustrations of our self-imposed timetables and commitments that cause us to feel like wheat in the grist mill of an evil system; a system that crushes our hopes, dreams, desires and blows away, like chaff, the highest aspirations of our souls.

As has been said before: "I write with no higher hopes than motivate the rooster at daybreak --- I do not expect to be appreciated or even tolerated, but I hope to awaken some to a new day." And so, to those who are homesick and do not realize that the "home" for which they are longing is not a geographical location, but a way of life, I sincerely dedicate this small effort. Especially do I dedicate this book to those whose homesickness will never be cured on this earth. May we all know the truth and by the knowledge of that truth be set FREE.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Wed Sep 04, 2013 5:56 pm Post subject:

INTRODUCTION ... As I sit at my typewriter about to begin this book, I am searching for some justification for its existence. One of history's wisest men once wrote at the conclusion of his book, ". . . of making of books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh" (Ecclesiastes 12:12b). These words convince me of his unquestionable wisdom. I have no idea how many millions of books there are now on record in the libraries of the wold nor how many thousands more are being prepared for publication at this time. Every subject that ever entered the mind of man has been recorded by someone for future minds to pursue. Most books cover the same themes and say the same things that have been said a thousand times before by much wiser men, yet men continue to flood the earth with millions of books. Mine will be no different from theirs.

It has been well said that paper will lie still and one can write anything on it. I am wondering why I should impose upon this perfectly good paper the words I am about to write. There are two reasons, I have decided. First, that is what paper is for, to write words on; and the purpose of writing words is that others might read them. Second, and far more important, when a man has a fire burning in his bones, he has to put it out. When he is possessed of a woe upon his heart, he can do nothing but preach it. When he is filled up inside to the bursting point, he must purge his system of it all or it will crush him. He cares not whether it is read or heeded, but he must hear himself say the things he has been made to believe. This is why my dog arouses at night to bark at a passing train. He does not hope that it will stop, or even slow as it crosses the path of his life at a distance; nor does he imagine that all on that train have heard his voice and are meditation on his message; he only does what he knows he must do. I am about to do what I know I must do with the story of "Henry and the Great Society" --- tell it to you, my readers. It will be for you to decide if I have told in any way a part of your own story or if Henry is really the story of my own poor life. Whatever the case, I beg your indulgence in my desire to bark at the train of your life; and afterward, you may go back to your sleep, if you can. - H.L. ROUSH, SR. (copied)
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Fri Sep 13, 2013 9:15 am Post subject:

Chapter I

HENRY'S WORLD

Somehow when the county commissioners improved the main roads of Mindoah County, they must have forgotten about the old Salem Pike; for it still looked much like it did when Union troops rode by on their way to meet General Early in the Shenondoah. Oh, it had changed some, as all things do. It wasn't as wide, for the spreading brush and shrubbery on the right-of-way had nibbled away at the road for the past 100 years. The ruts didn't get as deep as they did then, for many wagonloads of stone from nearby Sycamore Creek had made their presence felt over the years. And then, there wasn't as much traffic as in the old days. I always supposed that this was why the good commissioners, in their freshly starched wash pants and wide police suspenders, decided to abandon old Salem Pike. After all, in all the ten miles of its meandering through hollows, seeking the course of least resistance, there were only seven farms; and the sudden end there was Willoughby.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 11:27 am Post subject:

Willoughby was at best only a settlement and it lay at the end of the freshly gravelled road that came from the county seat 30 miles away. The little community boasted only ten houses in all clustered around its single business, a large weathered general store. There wasn't much excitement in Willoughby, but there was at least a daily routine. Four passenger trains a day came through and one even slowed enough to catch the single mail pouch a day that left the town and to throw off in its place the incoming mail as the train thundered east. The day was more or less regulated by those four trains, known affectionately as "Old 31," "Number 12," "Decatur Express," and the town favourite, "The Cannonball," because of the determined way it hurtled through Willoughby ignoring even the town dogs who ran alongside barking at its intrusion. Religiously the folks gathered daily at P. T. Wigal's General Store to do their trading and then hang around to drift to the door of the porch to watch "Number 12" come through, and to wave vigorously at the engineer whose name no one ever knew.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Mon Aug 04, 2014 10:02 am Post subject:

Every day was pretty much the same in Willoughby, but there was time . . . Time for Mr. Wigal to plant and tend a a luxurious garden next to his store and a time in the midst of a sale to " . . . step outside and take a look at my beans and 'taters' . . . " There was also time after waiting on Widow Abbot to inquire about her health and time to listen to her detailed description of her latest bout with arthritis and time to think about it later and to wonder if there was anything he could do to make her life a little more bearable. There was time to sit around the old cherry-red Burnside stove on a winter evening at Wilgal's to trade knives and pocket watches and small talk about the day's events.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Tue Aug 05, 2014 10:44 am Post subject:

It was just like old Mr. Wigal said many times, "What's your hurry? There ain't no place to go." He was right. He hadn't found any place to go for 60 years, mainly because he wasn't looking for any place to go. His father had gone in the store business back in '91 in that same building, and Mr. Wigal was born and reared in Willoughby, and never supposed that he would do anything else than take over the store when his father died. Oh, he'd like to retire someday, but he never could figure out what to do about the store business. Nobody else wanted to take it over, and what would Willoughby be without P. T. Wigal's General Store? --- with its straight-board benches on the porch, hand carved by a thousand pocket knives in the hands of old friends; some now lay silent in the little town cemetery behind the M. E. Church on the hill overlooking Willoughby. And if there was no store, where would the town meetings be held, instead of around the old Burnside in winter? So life was free, and time was plentiful; and most everyone who lived there liked it.

{to be cont.}
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Wed Aug 06, 2014 7:58 am Post subject:

The big American flag that hung wound by the wind around its staff atop the general store was the only silent reminder of the presence of the Federal Government in all the area and marked the location of the post office. I guess you would call it an "office" --- it was actually only a screened corner of the feed room, and the bags of sweet smelling horse and mule feed, chicken mash, and Red Dog gave a distinctive odor of their own. Clayton Peters had carried the mail out of this "office" on the Salem Pike for 27 years and owned the only good saddle horse in the community. He never let anyone forget it either; always challenging everyone in general, and no one in particular, to a horse race, knowing all the while that the only horses around were work horses. Clayton was a welcome sight as he rode the pike each day on his big bay horse, who knew every one of the stops better than Clayton did, which allowed him to take a little nap between stops. This was only necessary if the domino game lasted longer than usual the night before at Wigal's; or if his big bay, named Ted, had ridden the fence down and Clayton was forced out of bed in the middle of the night to fetch him from Howard's corn patch next door. Clayton often brought to someone on the route a bag of flour, a box of salt, or some other small item needed before Saturday, and they always remembered Ted with a bite of sugar or apple; and sometimes, if the weather was nasty, they would even ask Clayton in for a cup of coffee.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Thu Aug 07, 2014 2:26 pm Post subject:

Most of the patrons on the route were old folks whose children had grown and moved away. The farms themselves told the story: a piece of loose tin flapping on the barn roof, a weathered fence around the yard, the grass grown high in the summer and the ball field in the pasture below the barn grown over in weeds. Most of the young folks had migrated the 30 miles or more to the county seat, Chamberstown, where the pottery had once been the main industry. I say once, for Chamberstown was growing for the first time in its 130 years of existence. General Electronics had recently chosen it for the site of a new plant said to cost 150 million dollars which was more money than was on the tax books in Mindoah County. With the new industry had come its improved highways, schools and a reformed city government. The large plywood sign at the corporation limits proudly displayed these facts and informed motorists passing through that this was the fastest growing city in the Seminole Valley. The Chamber of Commerce and the Kiwanis, Rotary and Lion's clubs were happily organizing the civic-minded folk and performing face-lifting miracles that would attract more industry and bring with them more jobs, money and progress---a thing they said was badly needed in the Valley. Chamberstown would soon boast its own swimming pool, golf course, city park and Big Burger Drive-In. The old stone courthouse at the foot of Main Street looked on all the flurry of this thing called progress with a somber countenance; but its four-faced tower clock faithfully tolled the hour with a gruff voice, as it had done for the Union Army on its way to the Shenandoah. But this was another world and was miles away from Wiloughby, Salem Pike and Henry Morgan.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Fri Aug 08, 2014 1:52 pm Post subject:

HENRY'S HOME

I said that most of the patrons along the dirt pike from Willoughby were old folks, and they were, but Henry wasn't. He looked younger than his 40 years and his wife Esther had the blush of youth upon her round face. Their three children, Brent, Jeff and Hilda, were barefoot and suntanned in the summertime, rosy-cheeked in the wintertime and shy, polite and happy all the time. They had reason to be. Henry was a thoughtful, quiet man who had never felt the panic that had driven his friends to abandon the farm for the glories of Chamberstown and its progress. It wasn't Henry was opposed to progress as much as it was that he sincerely questioned the value of its fruit. But, well, maybe it will be better understood if I tell it to you like Henry told it to me.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Sat Aug 09, 2014 9:52 am Post subject:

The way he felt about it was this: his father and his grandfather before him had lived well off the 160 acres which Henry now owned by inheritance, and he felt the land would be just as good for him. When he married Esther Jenkins from the adjoining farm, she felt as strongly about it as Henry did and both looked forward to raising their children on Salem Pike as they had been raised. They lived pretty much as their parents had and saw no reason to change much of anything. Oh, they whitewashed the tree trunks in the front yard and replaced the pickets in the yard fence (some of which Henry himself had broken as a growing boy chasing Old Tippy, who was chasing the Old White Leghorn rooster through the fence). They painted the weather boarding of the large double-porch, two-story house, and its tin roof shone bright red in the morning sun as though it was shouting to the world that a new family lived here now. It seemed like just a few months ago, instead of years, that Henry and Esther had sat at the kitchen table doodling on a sheet of tablet paper trying to come up with a name for the place. They finally did, and the sign hung proudly on the large pine tree just inside the front gate with its hand-lettered message, "Whispering Pines."
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Mon Aug 11, 2014 4:12 pm Post subject:

They had deep roots there----as deep as the old pine Henry's grandfather had planted by the gate the day he brought his bride to Salem Pike and a new house. Life was complete, and they seldom had call to go anywhere; when they did it was usually only as far as Willoughby.

{to be cont.}
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Tue Aug 12, 2014 12:02 pm Post subject:

The electric line had never come out the pike and, having never known its convenience, Henry had never felt its loss. The kerosene lamps seemed to be sufficient for all the evening activities and the Aladdin lamps stood by, like sentries awaiting the call to special duty, to light every corner of the large living room. Of course, the wicks of the regular lamps had to be trimmed occasionally, and once in a while the chimneys had to be washed and wiped dry with old newspaper. A few candles were kept handy in the buffet drawer for special occasions like Christmas, or birthdays, or to light the ugly face of a Jack-o-lantern carved with Henry's Barlow knife. The barn lanterns hung ready on the back porch for emergencies, such as a cow about to be fresh, a skunk in the chicken house, a mare about to foal, or the excitement of some woods creature challenged at the edge of the yard by Old brown, a descendent of Old Tippy. Nobody knew who Old Brown's daddy was, and nobody cared. Henry's gum boots, along with three small pairs, stood proudly at attention in their place by the screen door; and his denim jacket and sweat-stained straw hat hung on a wooden peg carved by his grandfather and worn smooth by 75 years of jackets and sweaty hats.

Lack of electricity was no real problem to Henry and Esther; especially in the summer when after a full day's work in the sun they welcomed the cool and the darkness of the evening. They never thought of lighting a lamp for the porch; for the light would only have drawn the mosquitos and millers to torment them, and the heat would have been an unwelcome visitor. They loved to sit on the porch in the summer evenings and feel the darkness fall around them like a welcome rain as it tucked all nature to bed.

{to be cont.}
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2014 9:35 am Post subject:

Who can describe the sights and sounds of such an evening? . . . the shimmering quicksilver of a full moon, the spattering of stars across a black sky, the clouds slipping across the face of the moon like a bashful lady covering her face with a fan. In the distance, the plaintive cry of a lonesome whippoorwill, the endless chorus of the tree frogs (or toads such as the case may be and a common topic of conversation between Brent and Hilda). Occasionally, as though he were diligently watching the score of this nocturnal symphony, a giant bull frog would explode in a massive "Whomp!!" and somewhere from the banks of Sycamore Creek behind the house, from his hidden place in one of the many trees that lined its bank, a screech owl would render his weird solo. If he was especially haunting in his cry, Hilda would run to the lap of Esther and snuggle close complaining that she is chilly, although the boys said she was afraid, like all girls. Henry liked to say that the night was God's tranquilizer.

{to be cont.}
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Tue Sep 04, 2018 3:13 pm Post subject:

~ THE FARMERS
The Tillers of the Soil
The devil started enticing people to look down on the farmers...
He started getting people to laugh at them and make fun of them as being
low-class and unlearned.
He had people downgrade farm life and glorify the life of "Sodom", because the devil just delights to belittle that which is of God.
The devil got Christians to join in on it, too.
I mean, it's easy to look around in church and see that it is the farmers who wear the not-so-nice clothes and drive the oldest car or pick up truck.
And Christians thank God that they were not like that anymore, and began to do all they could to ensure that their children would not have to live such a life either.
They became determined to give their children the best which is in reality, the WORST.
So more and more farmers started going to town for employment.
But more than that, they pushed their children much higher.
Parents slaved away to finance their children's college education, and prodded them to study hard and get as "high up the LADDER" as possible. - SJ Herrero.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Fri Jul 23, 2021 10:15 am Post subject:

And there was talk, or as they say nowadays, communication. Winter was filled with it, for everything had slowed to a walk; and the evenings were long before the fireplace and rich in special talk . . . open and intimate discussions on the questions of life and death, right and wrong, moral and immoral. There were the frivolous interruptions of the children, when the talk was serious, that betrayed a searching mind and a longing heart. There was light fun-filled talk that invented new riddles, or composed new poems, or solved hard puzzles. Then there was that special time when Henry would give in to the pressure of the children to tell one of his now-famous stories. Sometimes they were modified stories of his own life that always had a moral; but as often as not they were the product of a fertile imagination that could invent pirates and Indians, wild animals and heroes with equal ease. The children would sit spellbound and open-mouthed; and always, Henry became in those stories the bravest, strongest, smartest man in the world.

~ Fireplace Jazz ❤️ Mellow Smooth Jazz Saxophone for Chilling out with a Fireplace ~ https://youtu.be/Dn1bkH2EvDA
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Sat Jul 24, 2021 10:51 am Post subject:

When bedtime came, there was often the gathering at the kitchen table for a cold cup of milk; and then around the lighted lamp, a few verses from the Book of Books, more questions and a bedtime prayer. After lingering kisses that reflected a pleasant evening ended too soon, the children followed Esther with her lamp up the open stairs to their beds to settle deep in the straw and feather ticks. Henry and Esther would retire to the porch, if in summer, for a last few moments together . . . sort of time when they said things that need to be said over and over again, and thought about the things that need to be thought about often; and there was a closeness between them that was good and right. There wasn't always talk at that time. Sometimes there was just a contented silence, and Henry used to say, "Listen to it. It has a soothing sound of its own," and it was broken only by the sounds of nature's night noises quieting their hearts and minds. The only sound of man that could be heard was the regular squeak of the swing chains grating on its rusty and worn hook and the steady rhythm of Esther's hickory rocker. {bottom of page 8}

~ "This hickory rocker is a new addition to the nest. It's a great place to relax when taking a break from making soap! I found this rocker at Merchant Village ...one of my favorite places to shop in Somerset, PA." *Snowbird* ~ The Robin's Nest Soaps October 7, 2019 Monday 10:23 a.m.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Mon Jul 26, 2021 12:04 pm Post subject:

Chapter III

HENRY'S LIFE

Morning at Whispering Pines usually began with the arrogant voice of "Big Red" the rooster, named by Jeff and respected since he last flogged Brent for entering his domain unannounced. Big Red would croak out his message with no concern as to whether he was heard or not, and his hens would answer with contented clucking; and they were answered by the busy peeps of the chicks. In the distance, the early morning caws of crows flying patrol over the edge of the woods nearby could be heard, and, if in the spring, the shrill excited nicker of a colt only 30 feet away from its disinterested mother, but sure it was lost forever. The patient and never discouraged bobwhite and the soft cooing of the mourning doves would call all to a brand new day, and this faithful alarm clock never had to be wound or set. Often, as Henry would lie there in the early morning, thinking over the day's work ahead, he would hear the steady and subdued sound of Sycamore Creek tumbling over the rocky riffles behind the house, and it was sometimes hard to tell its sound from a steady spring rain on the old tin roof. When it did rain, Henry would lie in contented satisfaction that everything would grow and the whole earth would be better for its freshly washed face. And the smell --- Oh, what a scent came from the rain upon freshly plowed fields! . . . like nature daubing herself with perfume more exciting than Paris ever hoped to know.

~ Rhode Island Red Rooster Crowing ~ https://youtu.be/iC1jyQEyhWw
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Tue Aug 03, 2021 11:32 am Post subject:

~ Soon Henry and his family would gather at the breakfast table and sit down to Esther's famous breakfast: buckwheat cakes and sorghum molasses, fried eggs and sausage, brown bread toast or fresh baked biscuits, home-made jelly or jam, cold milk and steaming hot coffee perked until its aroma saturated everything in the house. When the lunch buckets were packed and the children were on their way to the little one-room school a mile from home, Henry would kiss Esther good-bye, and stopping at the porch to slip into his gum boots and grab his jacket and hat, he was off to the barn and the day's work.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Thu Aug 05, 2021 9:55 am Post subject:

~ "Look beyond your brokenness and find the grace of God always." - Artist: Abraham Hunter.

~ One nice thing about Henry's day --- he went to work when he wanted to; where he wanted to; when he felt like it; and when he had to. His days were determined by the sun; so having the hours pretty much certain, his days were well planned and were seldom interrupted, for there was no telephone line on Salem Pike. The nearest phone was at P. T. Wigal's General Store at Willoughby and that was seven miles of dirt road away. Mr. Wigal had a phone because he had to call Chamberstown for merchandise, or to summon the doctor for someone on the pike, which never really did much good because the doctor always told him to tell the family to bring them to the hospital at Chamberstown and he would "check 'em over." At Whispering Pines, if Henry felt like talking to someone, he just had to talk to whoever was there; and, if he really had something to communicate to his neighbours, he just had to walk over the ridge and drop off at the head of the hollow and tell them face to face. If he had to tell someone something at Willoughby, Henry would hitch up the pair of grey mares to his road wagon and make the trip on Saturday which was his regular trading day anyway.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.

Lori Beth · Posted: Thu Aug 05, 2021 1:13 pm Post subject:

~ Esther was never lonely. Old Brown usually lay on the back porch, and Inky the cat was constantly at the screen door, more often than not hanging on the door like a giant bat, sometimes with her claws stuck in the neat patches of wire that Esther had carefully sewn there with string. She could hear, in summer, the clicking of Henry's mowing machine in the front meadow and the buzzing of a multitude of summer insects. She often spent the morning hours tending to her roses or garden or, if in the winter, sewing on quilt patches she had promised to Hilda for her hope chest. Sometimes she just mended before the open fire, reflecting on the owner of each mended garment, and sometimes laughing over the appearance of socks without heels and pants without knees.
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We don't have much, what we have, we share.