Stories of Jefferson
Dad was in a very good mood today, fairly alert and together compared to last Friday's visit. He told me stories today of his boyhood in Jefferson, WI.
His parents' house on the corner of North and Park streets in Jefferson was next door to his grandparents. One house farther down was his Uncle John. In the other direction, a couple houses away, was the back parking lot of St. John the Baptist Catholic Church, his family's parish.
The pastor at one time was Father Singer (or Zinger), whom Dad describes as being quite an athlete. Dad said Father Singer would regularly come out and play football with the boys in the parking lot.
When winter came, Dad said he convinced Father Singer to let him build an ice rink in the parking lot. They flooded part of the lot so the parish kids could spend their winter days joyfully skating.
Dad also said that, at another time, there was a stern pastor named Father Krick whom the children feared. Speaking from what appeared to be personal experience, Dad said any child who misbehaved in school would be sent to the rectory, where Father Krick would twist and pull the errant child's ear. (In those days, too, the kids usually got a double-whammy: When they'd get home from school and tell their parents about the punishment, the parents often would punish the kids again!)
Nickles was the name of the dog Dad had when he was a boy, something I had heard frequently in my own youth. Today he mentioned something new, though. Apparently the neighbors' dog was named Penny, which Dad found very amusing.
When his own father was a boy, Dad said, he played with local Indian boys. They called my grandfather "Yo" and rode ponies together. Dad said the Indians lived on a hill north of Jefferson.
My grandafather was born in July 1881, just three weeks after President James Garfield had been shot (but before Garfield died). It's hard to imagine that so few generations separate my grandfather--riding ponies with Indian boys in pioneer Wisconsin--and my own son, who has already traveled a good part of the world.
Anyway, it was good to see Dad in such good spirits today. Even though he was apologizing constantly for not being able to remember who had visited him recently, it's nice that he still has strong memories of his childhood, which I'm inspired to capture while he's still with us.
His parents' house on the corner of North and Park streets in Jefferson was next door to his grandparents. One house farther down was his Uncle John. In the other direction, a couple houses away, was the back parking lot of St. John the Baptist Catholic Church, his family's parish.
The pastor at one time was Father Singer (or Zinger), whom Dad describes as being quite an athlete. Dad said Father Singer would regularly come out and play football with the boys in the parking lot.
When winter came, Dad said he convinced Father Singer to let him build an ice rink in the parking lot. They flooded part of the lot so the parish kids could spend their winter days joyfully skating.
Dad also said that, at another time, there was a stern pastor named Father Krick whom the children feared. Speaking from what appeared to be personal experience, Dad said any child who misbehaved in school would be sent to the rectory, where Father Krick would twist and pull the errant child's ear. (In those days, too, the kids usually got a double-whammy: When they'd get home from school and tell their parents about the punishment, the parents often would punish the kids again!)
Nickles was the name of the dog Dad had when he was a boy, something I had heard frequently in my own youth. Today he mentioned something new, though. Apparently the neighbors' dog was named Penny, which Dad found very amusing.
When his own father was a boy, Dad said, he played with local Indian boys. They called my grandfather "Yo" and rode ponies together. Dad said the Indians lived on a hill north of Jefferson.
My grandafather was born in July 1881, just three weeks after President James Garfield had been shot (but before Garfield died). It's hard to imagine that so few generations separate my grandfather--riding ponies with Indian boys in pioneer Wisconsin--and my own son, who has already traveled a good part of the world.
Anyway, it was good to see Dad in such good spirits today. Even though he was apologizing constantly for not being able to remember who had visited him recently, it's nice that he still has strong memories of his childhood, which I'm inspired to capture while he's still with us.
posted by Joe Wollet at 5:07 PM
1 Comments:
Have you considered taping any of your conversations with Grandpa? Historical preservation you know.
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