genealogy

Grandpa Tom Story, Dogs

In the summer of 1935, my Uncle Bill Richardson and his maiden sister Jessie were robbed at their farm -- twice, by the same guys, and both times they took his 1934 Hudson.  Once it was found in Kansas City and the other time in Springfield.  Aunt Jessie died between the two robberies, but I'm not sure if the stress was considered a factor.

After the second robbery, Bill moved into town with his other sister, Aunt Ida, and her daughter. Long about then he had a heart attack and was paralyzed on the left side.  But after a few weeks, he was well enough to realize he was a farmer and hated living in town. He wanted to go back to the farm and asked the local folks to find a person who'd live with him on the farm to supply his physical needs and be a bodyguard.  Lots of folks said, "My lands, I wouldn't go in that house at night for all the money in the bank!"  After letting it lie a while with no volunteers, Pop finally said "Ok, let's go." So Mom and I packed up and moved to the country.  Before we moved, Pop bought Red from Uncle Roy Phears.

Red, being an Irish setter, was supposed to be a hunting dog. He had his own mind about how to best catch quail,however, and he was a disgrace in the field. But boy, he was a watch dog and a great retriever.

The first night in the country, Red was tied to the porch on a long rope.  A 12-gauge was leaned against the front door frame, a 32-20 Smith and Wesson on the kitchen table. Uncle Bill was ensconced in the front bedroom with his night nurse, a man. Mom and Pop had the middle bedroom and I was in the rear. We woke up a lot that first night, at every little noise. Mom had to get two more nurses to cover the day shifts with Uncle Bill, and a housekeeper had to come in a couple times a week -- Bill was religious about there being no dust; he couldn't breathe well.

Red was a heck of a good watchdog - if a car even slowed down on the highway that ran past the house, Red let out a couple barks. If they turned in or stopped within a quarter mile of the driveway, he really put on a show. Of course, any bark was the signal to man the defenses and chamber a round in the gun of choice. Even during the day Mom met salesmen at the door with the 32 in her hand.

One night Mom, Pop and I went to get a new car (Pop sold Plymouth/Chrysler and had to get them from  Springfield or Chicago.) Carl Coultas was the night nurse at the time. Carl told us when we got back that around midnight Red started barking and running out toward the barn and back to the porch. Carl finally got out the 32 and a flashlight and followed the dog. Carl said when he turned the corner into the first barn corridor, he stuck the 32 in some guy's ribs.  The guy said "Don't shoot! I was oinly going to take a nap, but I'll be moving along right now!" And he did. 

After a year or so, the guns retreated to the closet and drawers, and Red was my buddy. His forte was finding baseballs. I woud stand up by the garage and hit them toward the road. Usually I came up short, but occasionally I'd homer aross the highway and the balls would bounce into the ditch or field beyond. After I hit 2 or 3, depending on how many balls I had, I'd go pick them up and start over. If I couldn't find one, I'd go get Red, lead him across the road and tell him, "Dead bird! Fetch!" If I got him within a few yards of the ball, he'd find it immediately.

I remember one particular time -- I hope it didn't happen too often beyond that one time -- that Red couldn't find the ball where I told him to look. After a few minutes of sniffing up and down the ditch, the road shoulder and the field, he got bored and wandered up the ditch, still sniffing. I yelled at him to come back and look for the ball. After several excursions without my permission, I went after him, yelled at him, cussing him for not looking for the ball, and kicked him good. He cowered away, walked up the ditch a few more feet and returned with the ball.  Oh, I was so ashamed. I grabbed and hugged him, begging his forgiveness and promising never to kick him again.  He just wagged his tail. 

He was so good at this baseball business that his reputation grew. Even the big kids who played semi-pro baseball on Sundays heard about him, and several times they called on Monday and asked me to bring Red to the field to find a couple balls they had lost. My friends in grade shcool, of course, asked for him often.

I suppose Red was my favorite dog of all time, but I was only 10 when  we got him though he lived a long time.  During the latter part of the war we moved to California and I went to USC; I think I only went home once during my schooling and Red was so glad to see me even though I had been away for more than a year. Butch Hoots was our hired man, a dedicated and loyal employee of which there are no more no more; he kept Red when my family moved. He sent a letter that Red was sick and went to the vet. Red was so sick Butch had to hold him up to eat or drink, and Red died in his arms.

After college, I lived in big towns and small houses. Mom and Pop moved back to the farm after the war, though, and Pop found an ad from Ardee Kennels in Canada. Being a real Anglophile himself, he sent for a catalog, called them up and ordered a dog. They sent Lady Windsor of Ardee (Windsor is the registered name of our farms.) I didn't interact much with Lady but she was reported to be a sensational dog. She was not a great hunter, but adequate. One story said Pop and a friend went hunting and got quite a few quail. Coming home, the quail and Lady were in the back of the pickup. The friend said Lady counted and divided the quail into two piles on the ride.

She went everywhere with Pop in that pickup, eventually graduating to the front seat. The locals said that was because Pop taught her to drive and it was too hard to do that from the truck bed. Sometimes Pop would go to the Riggston store to play some rummy. It is said that often, after he'd been playing for an hour or so, Lady would blow the truck horn to get him to come out and go home. Some said Pop taught her to do that so he could quit when he was ahead.

Lady had had 13 pups in 1950 and saved them all. Pop sold all but two, Blooper and Dee. Joyce said the first time she came to visit the farm, before we were married, she was sitting apprehensively on the living room couch, nervous around her potential in-laws. Pop went out doors and let the dogs in. Both took one step into the room and bounded on to the couch with her. She had been used to fox terriers, so you can imagine her reaction.

In 1954 we moved to the farm. Pop and Mom had to move to Jacksonville so we could have the house, and of course we got the dogs. In 1955 we were still on the farm and taking care of the dogs whenever Pop didn't come down. One day Nancy, who was 3 at the time, was walking down to the gate and the "dirty gray spotted cat" -- a huge, semi-wild barn cat -- was inside the yard.  Nancy said "Nice kitty," and moved in to pet it. Instead of running away, the cat flew at her and knocked her down.  Lady was lying nearby, and she leaped up, grabbed the cat by the neck, jumped over the fence with it and let it go a few yards away.

Blooper and Dee were great escape artists. First, they could jump. After putting four layers of woven wire on the dog pen, 12 feet tall, and still having them jump or climb out, I roofed the pen. Then they dug out under. Dee was a gorgeous dog; dark mahogany red with a wide nose and head and a wide body, not awfully tall. He didn't hunt very well, but he was a great retriever.  Blooper, on the other hand, was a sensational hunter when the spirit moved him. He got so good that Pop took him to a field trial once. It was very embarrassing because he caught 3 quail and handed them to Pop -- because the "planted" quail were very tame and didn't run like Bloop expected. But Pop tells of a time he was out hunting for real. Blooper pointed a covey, Pop flushed it and shot three times and missed. Blooper was incensed and gave Pop a very dirty look but went on and found another point. Pop missed again. An even dirtier look, but went on. Bloop pointed again, but this time he put his foot on the bird and brought it back to Pop alive, as if to day, "Look, if you're going to keep missing I might as well help you."

Grandpa Tom Story, Burgoo

When I was a boy, every church hereabouts had burgoos. They were always late in the fall so that there was a lot of garden produce to put in the soup. In 1935 or so I remember Mom spending the previous day and night peeling potatoes, tomatoes and carrots and hulling beans. She and perhaps 10 or 15 other Riggston women also prepared beef chunks and especially chickens.  I remember they thought they had all the stuff in about 6 or 7 at night and Old Cliff Allen -- his grandson is about 60 now and they call him Cliff too -- was getting the fires started under his five or six cast-iron kettles.

Well, about that time Pop and Uncle Roy and the Turneys and maybe a few others show up with about 100 pigeons to dress and add to the soup. Mom was exasperated, but the women got it done. Pigeons are beginning to come back again after being almost extinct in the 50s, but in the 30s there were literally hundreds of pigeons roosting in the barns. Our big (then-)yellow barn and Uncle Roy's big white barn were prime candidates. Pop put shooters out at both barns and as the birds would come in to roost, they'd get shot. There were too many for any amount of hunters to annihilate at once, so most would simply turn and go to the other barn, where more would get shot.  This went on until the 100 or so were dead.  The pigeons never had enough sense to go to some other barn, or perch halfway.

The city churches (Winchester, Alsey, Manchester, etc.,) didn't have the wild doves, rabbits, squirrels and stuff that Riggson, Merritt and Lynville did. Nowadays they buy the stuff at the grocery store and throw it in. Great big cans of beans and tomatoes, because the Winchester burgoo is held before there's much fresh stuff avaiable.  Of coruse, there is no game, and it would be out of season anyhow.  There are recipes for burgoo if you scout around.  I couldn't taste the difference and didn't eat much of it anyhow.  They also served fried chicken, and that was my thing. It isn't as good today, but I don't know why.  It is probably less greasy, though I don't remember it being very greasy then.  It is definitely deep-fried instaed of skillet fried like they did in the 30s. Your grandma says one of her first memories of my mom was her frying chicken in a big cast-iron skillet and continuously turning and poking at it so it would be evenly browned. That's the way it was fired at the burgoos, too.

It can't have been that greasy, come to think of it.  There was a time in 1941 or so when Donald Dean and I each ate 18 chicken wings at the Glasgow picnic at 2 for a nickel. but we were in the band and there wasn't anywehre to wash your hands. So it couldn't have been that bad if we were eating that much and had to play every hour. I remember borrowing a hanky from someone to wipe my hands, but just the one. Wonder if it really was that dry or my sax finger pads were greased pearl.

Kathryn Camille Higbie

Born: October 28, 1980
Mother: Anna Marie Bicknell
Father: Matt Higbie
Younger half-brother: Edward Crowder
Two sons: Thunder Alexander Carroll and Jude ??

KC lives in Terre Haute. She recently bought a house and is fixing it up a bit at a time.

Anna Marie Bicknell Higbie

Born: Aug. 2, 1958
Mother: Bertha Katherine Crockett Bicknell
Father: Phillip Allen Bicknell
Older brothers: Dale, Gary
Younger brothers: John, David
Married: Matt Higbie (divorced)
Children: Kathryn Camile Higbie, Edward Crowder

Annie lives in Montezuma and pretty much has been there or Terre Haute for her whole life.  She works for the Air National Guard and did a stint in Kuwait during the Iraq War.  

John "Jack" Bohn

Born: Nov. 16, 1919
Died: July 24, 2005
Siblings: Esther Bohn Adams
Father: Harry L. Bohn
Mother: Pearl M. Love
Married: Bernice Bochman
Offspring: stepdaughter Deborah Westman

Chicago Tribune Obit:

John Albert Bohn "Jack", 85, formerly of Park Forest, IL, passed away on Sunday, July 24, 2005 at Winchester House in Libertyville, IL. He was the beloved husband of Bernice, nee Bochman (House); loving and wonderful stepfather to Deborah (John) Westman; devoted and proud grandpa to Peter and Amy; dear brother-in-law to Beverly Bochman. He was preceded in death by his parents, Harry and Pearl, nee Love, Bohn; and sister, Esther Adams. John was a WWII Army Air Corps Veteran (China, Burma, India) and a lifelong member of the Masonic Lodge. He was a retired Safety Inspector for Hartford Insurance. Prior to his ill health, he had been the President of the Park Forest Senior Citizen Commission. His love of airplanes, Nascar racing, bowling and his family were his passions. Arrangements by the Cremation Society of Illinois, 847-577-6505. Interment at the Abraham Lincoln National Cemetary in Elwood (Joliet), IL in August. Memorials may be made to either The American Heart Association or Winchester House in Libertyville, Illinois.

Buried at  Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery , which is located in Elwood, Il.

Cemetery Section ID	C3-45
Cemetery Row Number	B
Cemetery Site Number	10

Harry Bohn

Born: Jan. 15, 1883
Died: Nov. 1977
Siblings: Older brother, Jack, who married a woman named Bernice (?) who had a daughter named Debbie.
Married: Pearl M. Love
Offspring: Esther Bohn Adams, John "Jack" Bohn

Harry Bohn was the eldest son of a farmer, and he took over the farm at the age of 12 when his parents died. He ran the farm til his siblings were of age, then he lit out and bought a motorcycle and traveled the U.S., apparently very impressed by Pike's Peak. I have notes he was a tough old bugger and on one occasion pulled out an aching tooth with a pair of pliers.

He married Pearl in Chicago and had a business renting tuxedoes. There's a story that Capone's guys approached him to use the store as a front, but he refused and required police protection for a while.

Also big in the Masons. 

And that's all I know about that.

Grandpa Tom Story, The Banker

When I was a little boy there were three banks in town: the First State, the Farmers and the Neat Condit and Grout. The first and last survived into the 2000s.  When we moved to California one of the many times, Joyce and I had an account at the last named bank. When we wrote checks on that bank in California, the people who reluctantly took them almost certainly figured that was a phony name if ever there was one. It is now called something dull like First Bank or Last Fed -- really imaginative, which as my friend the banker says, is something bankers have a paucity of.

In the early Thirties, all three of those guys -- Neat, Condit and Grout -- had kicked the bucket, so the bank was operated by the husband of a daughter of Condit. His name was Sam Smith, and as common as his name was, he was a most uncommon banker. He liked to hunt quail and was a pretty good shot. I understand that duck hunting was also something he enjoyed, but Pop went out on one of those excursions once and reported that he was the only one sober enough to row the boat in out of the river. But Sam could shoot as well as drink, I guess.

One day after the Depression had become a little less depressive, the state cop came into Pop's garage with a new gun they had issued to them. It was bootlegging time and the leggers were as well armed as those Davidians in Waco once upon a time. This little toy was an improved machine gun -- not the old Thompsons you see in Elliot Ness films. Pop had placed a steel plate int the wall of his garage to shoot into. It was about a foot wide and two feet tall. Behind the plate -- and the wall -- was a nice little shop where Mr. Rhorig sold china, knick-knacks and anything else one could want to buy with no money.

So the cop -- Capt. Leitze, maybe? -- and Pop were shooting bursts of machine gun fire into the target in front of the steel plate. Of course the target was obliterated with 5 or 10 shots, so they were continually replacing the paper target to see if they could get all 5 or 10 shots in the 1-inch circle -- but from only 15 or so feet away. Business was slow at the bank, so Sam, hearing the noise, dropped in to see what was up. Nowadays he would have rushed the door in a panic assuming an emergency.

So he watched a while and said, "Hey, that looks fun, let me try!" Leitze handed him the gun and showed him the safety, the trigger, proper handling, and stepped back. Unfortunately, he didn't tell Sam that because of the recoil, the gun barrel tended to rise abruptly with each shot.  So Sam took careful aim and let a burst go. The first shot was in the bulls eye. The next was about four inches higher, the next another four inches, until the last was about chest high. Only the first four or five bullets hit the steel plate. The others whacked right through the genuine lath and plaster, Rhorig's cabinet, dishes, glass cabinet doors and into the next wall.  Fortunately, Rhorig was in the back of the store and was missed by the barrage. Sam didn't shoot any more after that one turn.

This is Pop's version of the story.  But Hal Montgomery tells it a little differently. His father ran a barber shop on the opposite side of the square and next to Roosa's, which was probably the best restaurant in town. Hal claims he was shining shoes that day and Pop called and said to bring over a bunch of malted milks because Pop and George Price, a local mechanical genius, planned to have a shoot off and the winner would pay for the malts. Hal says he rushed next door, got two double chocolate malts and ran through the park to the garage. Hal said George had bought a new semi-automatic rifle and had realized that a little filing on the mechanism made it fully automatic.  (I guess gang members do this routinely nowadays.) Hal says he got there with the malts and had just received his dime tip when Sam walked in -- but from there, the story is the same.

Grandpa Tom Story, Poor at Christmas

This story happened before I remember, but it was one of Pop's favorite stories of how to cope with being poor. One of my favorite quotes of Pop's occurred after a long diatribe by a poor man at the Riggston store. The man went on and on with how sick he was, how old he was, how weak he was, how poor he was, how underprivileged he was and how discriminated against he was. After a few minutes, Pop, who was taking a Coke break in the middle of an 18-hour day, said to the man, "Gee, that sounds terrible, but you know, I just never had time to be poor."

But I guess in the early 30s, he found time. One of Pop's best friends in the 1930s was Fred Buckley. His wife, Catherine, was a good friend of Mom, but his kids Loraine and Judith were no friends of mine. It seems the Buckleys and my folks were playing bridge one winter night before Christmas. The talk centered on how the little kiddies were not going to get much for Christmas. Worse, it looked like no one could afford a Christmas tree. I was too little to know, but  I would guess that a tree probably cost 75 cents in those days.  (Of course, 75 cents would also buy six big cinnamon coffee cakes and one huge iced coffee cake at Chris Munzes' bakery. Chris was a German immigrant whose greatest claim to fame as a sign he once displayed in his store: "Penny oranges, 1 cent each." I remember the coffee cakes as absolutely wonderful.)

I suppose Catherine and Mom decided they would live without a tree and passed on to other conversations about Prohibition (that worried Fred but not Pop,) and how wonderfully Hoover had handled the election. When it was time to go home, the full moon was rising in the east. It happened that Fred and Catherine lived just about a half-block west of the cemetery. Pop looked out at the full moon and said, "Eureka!"  There silhouetted against the moon was a 40-foot pine tree.

A few minutes later, Pop and Fred were in the cemetery with one of Fred's saws. Pop climbed the tree and cut off the top 8 feet or so. Then he climbed another and did it again. The Buckleys and we each had a lovely tree that year. The story goes that some of the city officials later commented that two of the trees in the cemetery looked "funny."

Grandpa Tom Story, Garage Door

Over the years, my grandfather has regaled me with tales of his childhood, his family, the things he holds dear. Some were in letters, some were oral and I took copious notes. Here's one about his dad's auto business.

Pop (my great-grandpa, Glenn Coultas,) operated a Chrysler dealership on the east side of the square in Winchester from about 1926 until 1942, when there were no cars to sell. The building was built, like all the others around the square, about 1880. They were all two-story and the second floor by the 30s was generally abandoned -- but that's another story. The fronts of the buildings had large plate glass windows and a standard door. For a garage, this caused some problems since it was impossible to get a car through the little door. In Pop's case, automobiles came through a large folding door in the back of the building. This door was 10 feet tall, folded into four-four feet sections, and amazingly the hinges even worked most of the time.

Usually a new car sat on the north side of the garage in the "showroom." The office was east of the showroom and cars in work lined up three deep on th south side of the building. Behind the building was a large lot that contained a grease rack (the cars were run up on rails about 3 feet high) a large driveway and some junk buildings. Grade-school kids often played touch football on that driveway. Because of the essentially single lane, the logistics of moving cars in and out of the garage was abominable. So Pop decided on a way out -- a front door.

In 1932 or so, this new door was really an amazing thing. It got written up in all the local papers; no one had ever seen such a thing. I don't know who designed it, but it was probably Fred Buckley, a local mason/carpenter who was a close friend of Pop. The door was about 14 feet wide and 10 feet tall. It was hinged at the top but otherwise a solid door, not with several slats like today's garage doors. The frame was made of 2x8s, filled with shiplap and with several windows at eye level, about 1x2 feet. The thing must have weighed about 400 lbs. There were bolts on each side at the bottom to lock it down, then there was another latch in the center of the door that caught in a hole in the floor when it was down, or on a flange slung from the ceiling to hold the door up.

The really groovy thing about the door was the method of opening and closing it. A 3/4 inch rope was attached to the center of the door near the bottom. This rope went up over a pulley on the ceiling, to another pulley near the ceiling and then disappeared through a hole in the floor. In the basement, the rope was attached to a big block of concrete. There was a pit dug in the basement to accept the concrete block. In equilibrium, the door hung at an angle of about 30 degrees from vertical.

To open the door, the bolts were slid back on the side and the latch pulled by a string that also went over pulleys to near where the rope disappeared into the floor, and the door popped up, swinging inward about 3 feet. Then one grabbed the rope and pulled down until the door was raised enough to engage the latch at the top.

This was not particularly entertaining, though it was fun when I was allowed to hold the rope near the door and ride up a few feet when the latch was pulled. If you didn't hold the rope, it would knock you off your feet as it went by.  But the real show was in closing the door.

The door was closed by releasing the latch at the top. The door would fall, then someone would run at the door, jump on it before it stopped falling, and cause it to fall some more. Then the man jumped off the door and shouldered it until it latched. If the timing was off, it took two or more men to muscle the door closed. I was only 7 or 8 and when I ran at the door it barely budged from equilibrium -- especially if my timing was off. But by the time I was 10 or 12, I could close it by myself. On a good day, anyway.

Now that I think of it, it would have been more fun to ride the rope up along with the block when the door was being closed, but I never though of that. An operations glitch occured when we had a gosling drowner (that's a big rain.) The pit in the basement filled with water and then it took real muscle to raise the door since the block lost about half its weight.

This door today would be a serious liability problem. I never saw anyone get hit by the falling door, but several cars were dented when they didn't quite clear the falling door.

This door really eased traffic through the garage. In the summer, it was opened in the morning and stayed open until night. I always tried to be around at 6 or 6:30 when it was closed, to practice the jump and push technique. In winter, it stayed closed except to admit and emit cars. All of th garage occupants got in the act of closing it then, because when it was open it got very cold and everyone rushed to slam the thing as soon as the car cleared. It made such a nice noise when it closed in the winter. The other doors were closed and there was a big Whoosh as the door pushed the air out in front of it and other air rushed around it. If there was snow or ice on the floor, you'd also hear that being crushed and swept as the door went by.

Anson

Meet Anson:

He was my great-great grandfather. Apparently he had a soft spot for kittens.

This is him at a younger age. He was, indeed, a goddamn good looking man. And you can see a lot of resemblance in my uncle, which is nice for him. A bio can be found here, but in case that goes away someday, here is the transcript:

Standard Atlas, dated 1903: The poultry business at Riggston is represented by Anson M. Coultas, a gentleman of energy and push. Mr. Coultas was born on a farm three-quarters of a mile south of Riggston, in Scott county, June 10, 1864, and has been a resident of the county his entire life. He is the son of a farmer, was reared upon the farm and received his education at the Point Pleasant school. In 1885 he began work for himself, renting land from his father, Thomas Coultas, which he sowed in wheat; the crop averaged him forty bushels per acre and was sold at threshing time at sixty-six cents per bushel. He afterwards bought property. In 1889, February 28, he was married to Miss Ella May Richardson, and in the fall following built a neat little house and a good barn upon his property. He resided there for nearly ten years, when he sold out, moved to Riggston and purchased a comfortable home in that village. In 1899 he embarked in the poultry business at Riggston, which calling now claims his attention. Everybody in that section of the country is acquainted with Anson Coultas. They know that he is a friend to those who are worthy; that he has all the attributes of a manly man, and that his labors, his efforts and his endeavors have ever been on the side of right.

There are many anecdotes about this man, who was born in 1864 and died in 1941. (Maybe he was a war buff. I don't know.) For one thing, he adopted my Aunt Mettie, whom I remember as being the most amazing woman alive (with the exception of my grandmother.) This is a woman who lived to be 105 or so and still went "jogging" in her back yard when she was over 100. I remember one time she tripped and fell, and was far more irritated that she'd ripped her stocking than  concerned she might have broken a hip.  There are lots of stories about her, too, but that's another post.

Once Anson was able to eke out a luxurious living from his property, he retired. He had been a dealer in farm produce, chickens, other poultry, eggs and cream in a town with a population of about 30 in 1900. After he retired, he often went to San Antonio for the winters. He probably started going around 1928. Each spring he would come home and tell one and all that Texas was not fit for man nor beast and he would certainly never go there again. It was too cold, it rained incessantly, the people were dumb, lousy checker players, and the food was too hot. Yet each fall, he would be on his way back to San Antonio.

Anson never feared work. He could watch his son, Glenn, work on cars all day. Anson did enjoy playing roque (an American version of croquet, played on a hard, smooth surface,) and checkers. He was very good at both, and was reputed to have been Texas state champ of both at various times. His grandson, Tom, remembers playing checkers with him and tells how Anson would slaughter him, usually with a grand coup -- Anson would give up all his men but one, then wipe up the board and win.

Anson, among other things, was apparently an incredibly strong man. Even into his 80s, he could take an ax and cut down a 4” diameter tree in one hack. One story tells of him taking the train to San Antonio one winter and leaving his watch on the bed in his sleeping car while he went to breakfast. When he came back, the watch was gone. Anson went to the conductor and reported his watch stolen, and the conductor, while sympathetic, was not particularly helpful. According to the story, when the porter came by again, Anson lifted him off the floor by his neck with his left hand and cocked his right fist. Then he quietly told the porter that he wanted his watch back.  He got it. 

Tom Coultas in California has that watch now.

Later, Anson would drive to Texas instead of taking the train. (Hey, the man liked to winter where it was warm -- clearly proving he is related to me.) In the 1930s, it was a lot harder to get to and fro; there were no cell phones or convenience stores or rest stops -- or interstates, for that matter. So one time, whiling away the hours at 10 mph on a lousy state road, he saw some poor bedraggled motorist and took pity on him. Anson pulled over and asked the guy what the trouble was. Whatever the problem, it distracted Anson and in a flash he found a .38 in his back. The motorist took Anson's watch and billfold. Well, we already know how Anson felt about getting his watch swiped.  When the opportunity arose, he looked up the road and exclaimed, ‘Hey! Look!’ and when the idiot with the gun actually looked, Anson coldcocked him. (With the right hook that didn't hit the train porter.) He took back his stuff along with the guy's gun, and left the guy lying there by the side of the road. But that wasn't the end of it; Anson was a good citizen. He stopped in the next town and found the sheriff’s office, turned in the gun and said, “You know, there's a stickup artist out there about 5 miles back. If you hurry, he'll probably still be there."

Anson was very fond of his son and daughter-in-law (my great-grandpa Glenn and grandma Eileen.) When G&E were newlyweds, they went to live in Chicago. (Glenn wasn't big on farming; and instead got into cars. He started out working with a cab company, went on to own a Packard dealership in southern Illinois, always had big fast power machines.) So every Friday night, to help out the crazy kids, Anson would wrap a chicken and put it on the train to be delivered. But while his heart was in the right place, his wrapping skills were apparently not the greatest, and my poor great-grandmother reportedly spent every Saturday morning mortified because when she would go to pick the thing up, the string had routinely come undone and the bird's head or feet would hanging out of the package, garnering all kinds of odd looks from the Big-City folks she'd pass by while carrying the thing.

I'm not sure when it happened, but eventually Anson went deaf. (I think he went deaf. I don't think he was born deaf, but I'm not sure.) And at some point he moved in with my great-grandfather and his family after they left Chicago. My grandfather used to recount how it was a matter of course that he and Glenn would converse with Anson by writing stuff down on a notepad, and then Anson would answer aloud.  But eventually it always devolved into them writing questions and Anson responding in kind by writing his responses, until my great-grandfather would rip the pencil from his hand sputtering, "Stop that writing! WE aren't deaf!!!"

When Anson was 76, he got up one weekend morning before everybody else, and as was his routine, went out to water the livestock. He got up on the well platform to pump the water, when the platform collapsed and he fell several feet into the well. Of course, everyone else was still asleep, so nobody heard him splashing around and yelling for a rope. Eventually he got fed up with waiting and climbed up the pump pipe. When the rest of the family got up, he was exasperatedly wringing out his clothes and hanging them on clothesline. Sorta like Aunt Mettie and her stockings.