Feature Stories

1.  Mercer County residents remain optimistic about their health, with nine out of ten residents saying they have good, very good or excellent health.

2.  Fewer Mercer County residents are reporting days with poor mental health when compared to the State and Nation.

3.  Fewer Mercer County residents indicate that they have no health care coverage than the State and the Nation.

4. Very few Mercer County respondents report having no physical activity in the past month.

5. Mercer County residents were more apt than respondents in the State and Nation to report always wearing their seatbelt, and subsequently are less likely to report infrequent seatbelt use.

6. Many Mercer County residents are aware of services provided in the county for women and children, as well as those with special needs.

7. While Mercer County residents report higher rates of binge drinking (5 or more drinks on one occasion), residents are not drinking excessively on a recurring basis (60 or more drinks in a month) at the same level as the State and Nation.

8. Almost all respondents report using age appropriate child safety restraints for their children when riding in a car.

1. More Mercer County residents report having high blood pressure than the State and Nation.

2.  While fewer Mercer County residents report no physical activity, more than three-quarters still qualify under the CDC’s definition of a sedentary lifestyle.

3.  Mercer County residents self-report binge drinking at a rate higher than the State and Nation.

4.  While more Mercer County women have received a Pap smear, the percentage receiving regular exams is substantially lower than the State and Nation averages.

5. Similarly, Mercer County women are receiving breast exams at a rate below the State and Nation.

6. Fewer Mercer County seniors are receiving sigmoidoscopy and colonoscopy exams.

7. Fewer Mercer County residents are aware of food, literacy and aging services provided in the County.

8. Almost a quarter of Mercer County residents have postponed receiving health care that they thought they needed-many because of cost.

9. More than one-third of Mercer County residents have a weight that classifies them as over weight, while another one-quarter are classified as obese.

The Bully and the Bully Bridge

The Bully Bridge

      Some memories from childhood never leave us.  Places that we remember are usually associated with something that happened there.  And when we close our eyes, we can see and even smell and hear and feel what happened there so long ago.

            Some are pleasant memories--like the times we went fishing in the canal.  And some are funny--like the time when we came home from school and Sis threw a bucket over the head of a skunk.

            And some memories are not-so-pleasant, but still are a vivid part of our childhood memories.  Such was the Bully Bridge.  I was in grade school and we had gone to town to go shopping.  Although never alone long as a small child, this time I was alone--forever it seemed at the time and still does as I look back at it.

            I don't remember why I was in the parking lot behind what was Murphy's Store (Spring Street) in St. Marys, but I do remember I had to cross the swinging bridge across the St. Marys River and just south of Spring Street. 

            I never cared, even as an adult, to have the "ground" beneath me swing as I walked on it, so I didn't care for the swinging bridge, but it was the closest way to Spring Street and Mom said it would be okay.  "Just one foot at a time, look ahead, and don't look down."

            I remember I was okay until I was about a third of the way across and then I saw him.  He stood over six feet tall and must have weighed about 200 pounds.  I had seen him on the playground, so I had an idea what to expect.  He was tough, he was rough, and everybody was scared to death of him.  He was the bully.  And I always tried to stay away from him.

            Now here he stood on the swinging bridge coming toward me.  I had gone too far across to turn back.  The bridge was too narrow for us to pass without at least acknowledging each other.

            And I knew from the playground and the locker room in gym class, he would not let pass an opportunity to put me in my place. So here we were--the bully, the victim, and the bridge.

            Since that time, I know there is still a swinging bridge near the Bluffton College campus just out of town, a romantic place they say--but I will never remember the bridge in my home town that way.  It will always be the "Bully Bridge."

            I got close enough to him to see the look in his eyes and I knew he was not going to let this moment pass.  So he began to jump up and down, and swing the bridge from side to side.  I reached out my arms to grab the railings. 

            And he jumped up and down harder and swung the bridge even more. And he laughed and he laughed and he laughed.  I was petrified, afraid that I would loose my balance and fall, only to then be pushed or shoved off the bridge.

            It was an eternity--for a little kid and the bully on a bridge.  But then, suddenly, almost as sudden as it began, he stopped, turned around, and walked back the way he came. I'm not sure whether something had gotten his attention, if he spotted my parents coming, or what.  Anyway, he left the way I came.

            I finally pulled myself to my feet, shaking from my confrontation with the bully on the swinging bridge.  I knew I would never forget it, even though I knew the outcome could have been much worse.

            It's been nearly 50 years ago since that childhood incident on the Bully Bridge.  But I have long since learned that there are lots of bully bridges in life that we have to cross and that there are lots of bullies.

            We all meet our share of bullies and have to cross our share of bully bridges.  Bullies are everywhere--there on the playground and in the locker room.  And in the factory and the office; and in the home, in the workplace, and the school, and even somehow sometimes in the church.  There are bullies who are classmates, and fellow workers, and bosses.  Bullies are everywhere.

            I remember the first question former Marion Local Superintendent Bob Huelsman asked me before he hired me--"What are you going to do about bullies and about kids who are kicked out of groups?  How are you going to handle the bully?"

            Over the last 16 years I have thought alot about his questions?  And I've seen my share of bullies, and so have you.  And they're not all kids and they're not all male.

            Even here in "God's Country," made famous by the article in Ohio magazine, the land of church steeples and silos, there are still bullies.  There are kids who have been picked on from the time they entered kindergarten till the day they graduated, if they lasted that long.  Anyone who has worked as a teacher very long, knows about these kids.

            In a Psychology Today article, "Bullies--They're Everywhere," (October, 1995), bullies set out to cause pain to others.  Author Hara Estroff Marano says that researchers have determined that "bullies are a special breed of children (people); that their aggression begins at an early age; that bullying causes a great deal of misery to others and its effects on victims last for decades, perhaps even a lifetime.  That the person hurt most by bullying is the bully himself, though that's not obvious, and the negative effects increase over time.  Most bullies have a downward spiraling course through life.  Bullies turn into antisocial adults.  And that girls, can be bullies, too."

            Historically, we have vastly underestimated the importance and the effect the social interactions that kids have in schools has on their lives as adults.  Everyone has social needs, including kids.  And for those who do not understand the healthy way to interact, being a bully at least provides some form of interaction.

            It's like the soggy potato chip--some interaction with others is better than none at all.  And, according to Marana, "bullying is one of the most stable of human behavior styles."

            Dr. Dan Olweues, who has done extensive research on bullying says that bullying involves three elements--"a pattern of repeated aggressive behavior with negative intent directed from one child to another where there is a power difference."

            Bullies, from childhood, see life differently than you or me.  They have a "hostile attributional bias, a kind of paranoia....They see provocation where it does not exist; they process social information inaccurately."  They believe that aggression is the best way to solve problems.  They are not able to relate to others in a prosocial way.  "They do not understand the feelings of others and thus come to deny other's suffering."

            Because they are not understood by others nor by themselves, they inflict pain on others with no thought of the consequences.  They are unaware of other's feelings toward themselves nor is it relevant to them.          

            At some time in your life, everyone has worked with a bully or had a bully for a boss.  They "over-control, micromanage, display contempt for others, repeating verbal abuse and intimidating others, constantly putting others down with snide remarks or harsh, repetitive, unfair criticism....they question your adequacy and your commitment....they humiliate you in front of others.  Bullies not only say mean things to you; they also say mean things about you to others."

            Bullies are a dangerous cancer who negatively effect everyone around them.  Although bullies initiate their efforts on those most docile, no one is protected from the damage they inflect.

            They create, unbeknownst even to them, a toxic environment that once was nourishing.  Although often attractive on initial appearance, others soon discover that something is "not quite cricket."  The truth is not quite the truth--what you see is not quite what you get.

            Something is amass and very few understand what it is that is being amassed; only that something is wrong; something has become a mess.

            Homes are destroyed; marriages ruined.  Communities divided; friendships destroyed.  And no on knows why. Nourishing relationships become toxic.  And friends no longer trust each other.

            Where to go?  What to do?  And the best advice from those in the know (psychologists and psychiatrists who have spent a lifetime studying bullies and those who create toxic environments) is to stay away from the bully, stay away from toxic persons who destroy everything in their path.

            Marana says that while bullies "inhabit the middle ranks of large concerns, they are positively thriving at small companies" and that companies "often do not learn about bullying experiences until an exit interview."

      An organization and community, like an individual can never become what it is capable of becoming as long as anyone works in a toxic environment where intimidation and put-downs are common; and genuine concern and respect of others is not.

The Fence Row

           Thank you for your call last week.  I am planning to protect my side of the fence row for wildlife.  This fall/winter I am going to remove a couple of dead trees and remove any noxious weeds.  I am going to keep the trees and other undergrowth as part of the wildlife habitat.      

            I am a member of Mercer County Pheasants Forever and attended two different programs on conservation and wildlife habitat this summer.  My plans are to add a food plot to the fence row and additional trees.           

            I had made tentative plans to sign up for the Northern Bobwhite Quail Conservation Reserve Program which President Bush announced in August, 2004.  The plan calls for grass buffers along field borders which is ideal for fencerows.         

            As described in the Farm Service Agency Fact Sheet, August, 2004, Conservation Reserve Program Northern Bobwhite Quail Habitat Initiative, “The initiative introduces a conservation practice intended to create 250,000 acres of early successful grass buffers along agricultural field borders.  The initiative partners FSA with landowners, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 32 state fish and wildlife agencies, Quail Unlimited, Pheasants Forever, Ducks Unlimited,  the National Wild Turkey Federation, and other conservation groups, including local conservation districts.”             

            This initiative sets aside 14,200 acres in Ohio. Unfortunately, Chris Gibbs, FSA Director explained at the meeting this summer that the state directors currently have put a hold on Mercer County.          

            It is our intention to go ahead with these guidelines, even though it apparently will not be funded this year.        

            The fence row, which is an important part of this wildlife habitat and conservation effort also serves as a windbreak and provides benefits for both the neighbor and us.  Research shows that such a row of trees and cover results in better crops in nearby fields despite any initial loss nearby.         

            The fencerow “reduces wind erosion, protects growing plants, helps manage snow and snow drifting, provides wildlife habitat, provides living screens of both odors and sounds, improves water retention and drainage, improves the aesthetics of the area, and increases the tree canopy of the world.”

            The previous landowner and I have worked to keep this fence row as well as other areas of the farm for pheasants, rabbits, deer, squirrels, quail, doves, and many songbirds that use it both for shelter and as a food source.  The fence row trees provide a variety of nuts, including hickory and acorn for the wildlife. Each fall hundreds of Monarch butterflies stop in this fence row on their way south from Canada to Mexico.            

            My family and I walk the nearby lane, which the neighbor also walks, to enjoy being with nature and observing wildlife and birds who use this fence row.  Because this fence row and the farm have been preserved for wildlife, we often see deer and rabbits and are now seeing a few pheasants.           

            In addition to the Conservation Reserve Program, we are working on becoming involved with the Wildlife Habitat Incentives Program (WHIP). The creation, restoration, and enhancement of habitat for all wildlife species is the objective of this program.         

            As included in the conservation and wildlife habitat presentation “Creating Wildlife Habitat Through Conservation” September 2, 2004, at the Central Services Building, “tree planting is an important practice beneficial both to conserving the land and providing beneficial wildlife cover and food.”          

            Protecting this fence row is part of the overall conservation efforts on this farm which we plan to continue.  We have researched and studied this important aspect of wildlife habitat conservation practices.  Your support of these conservation/wildlife habitat efforts is appreciated.

A Tribute to Alga A. Bruey

(Note:  A few days ago I was pleasantly surprised to look up and see Alga Bruey at Senior Day at the Fair.  He was recognized as the senior of the senior men at the fair, over 100 years old.  It brought back memories of the time I had a chance to meet him—the story of which follows.)

          "I'll never forget you.  I was working at Frigidaire in Dayton.  I didn't have any money.  I was just out of the Navy.  I didn't have a car and didn't have a way to get back and forth to work.  But you helped me out.  Man, you really helped me out."

            This is one of the many fond memories Alga A. Bruey has when he thinks back of his 67 years in the banking business. It has been said that "history is biography" and that is surely true in regards to the Osgood State Bank.

             Incorporated on August 19, 1915, and now approaching its 77th anniversary, Alga A. Bruey has been associated with the Osgood State Bank in some capacity from when he started working there fresh out of high school in September, 1925, until his retirement from the Board of Directors February 25, 1992.  Alga has been a part of that institution all of its history except for the first ten years.

            Like the person referred to above, Alga A. Bruey has met and helped a lot of people.  And a lot of people owe a debt of gratitude to him.  This is his story and because he has been such an important person in our lives, it is our story, too.

            An inspiration to all of us, Alga worked his way up in the bank from bookkeeper to teller to assistant cashier to cashier to president.  He retired from that position March 31, 1973, but stayed on the board until February, 1992.

But Alga Bruey is an inspiration to all of us for another reason.  Alga Bruey is a remarkable man, not just because he dedicated 67 years of his life to one institution, but because he made a remarkable physical and personal recovery, one which many felt was not possible.

            Alga's parents, lived one-half mile west of Osgood.  Alga is the sole remaining child of a family of nine who were: Josephine, Ellen, Mary, Leo, Leonard, John, Agnes, Marcel, and Alga.

            Alga's wife, Bernadine, whose parents were Fred and Francis Poeppelman, grew up on a farm one-half mile east of Osgood.  Her brothers and sisters were Elizabeth, Theckla, Linus, Mildred, Urban, and Dorothy.

            Married on October 18, 1941, Alga and Bernadine are the parents of Barbara (Mrs. Roger) Kremer of Coldwater; Beverly (Mrs. Dennis) Balster of Vandalia; Paul (who is wife is Marjorie) of Osgood; Beatrice (Mrs. Dilbert) Balster of Dayton; and Bridget (Mrs. John) Anthony of Cincinnati.

            Alga got into the people business while still a student in school. He attended junior high at Holy Angels in Sidney, spent his first year of high school in the Versailles school system; spent his sophomore year at Minster; and then transferred back to Holy Angels for his junior and senior year because there was no school bus run to Minster.  Bernadine went the first two years of high school and then dropped out to help on the farm.

            Alga had only been at the bank four years when the Great Depression hit in 1929.  He and Bernadine remember how hogs were sold for $2.75 to $3.00 a hundred weight and it still cost $10 extra to get the hogs hauled to Piqua.

            In March, 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt closed all the banks and declared a "Bank Holiday" because there had been such a run on the banks.  But Alga Bruey was not at the bank.  He has flat on his back where he had been for over three years and where he would remain until September of that same year.

            That's right, Alga Bruey spent 3 years and seven months flat on his back and many people said he would never walk again.  He had suffered a serious back injury the year before.

            "I had a Model T Ford and since it didn't have a starter, I was cranking it one day when he kicked back. I guess I had the spark set too far.  I twisted my back.  One year later my back started to really hurt."

            Alga went to see a doctor who said he would have to be put in a body cast.  A second doctor at Lima St. Ritas confirmed that and told Alga "it will be for about six months."  So at age 26 years old in 1930, Alga was put in a body cast and spent the next three years and most of the fourth in an unmoveable position in a specially designed Bradford frame.  "I went right off the dance floor to a body cast and could only move my feet and hands."

            Alga had no idea the six months would stretch on to years.  Some people who saw him in the cast said, "He'll never get off of that frame."

            What would you do if you were bedfast for the next four years?  Alga had lots of visitors, lots of friends, and kept busy.  He spent hours listening to an old battery radio, became an avid fan of both the Chicago Cubs and the Amos'n Andy Show.  Dr. Gilette from Versailles checked on him regularly.

            Friends and family carried him out into the yard, where on one of the first times, "I got a terrible sunburn." Wilbert Bohman brought him some old watches to tinker with.

An avid musician, Alga would play his saxophone for visitors when they came.  One day some one suggested he learned to play the clarinet, since it would be easier to play in bed.

            So there he was, flat on his back, playing the clarinet pointed straight up in the air.

   The years past and Alga kept his mind active and his spirits up.  Finally, in September, 1933, the doctor took the full cast off (which had been replaced over time with another cast because Alga had lost so much weight).  He told Alga, "You can call me anything you want now.  I had to lie to you.  If I had told you that you were going to be in a cast for years, you might have given up."

            Alga vividly recalls the day the full cast was removed and replace with a brace and crutches.  "It took over an hour for them to set me up. I blacked out and they had to take it all off and put it on again.  On my first few steps it felt like the bones were going through the flesh. When I finally did take a few steps, I knew I had forgotten how to walk. I had to relearn how to move my feet."

            Alga and the Osgood State Bank have seen their share of action, too.  Maybe because of its location in a rural area, the bank has been held up numerous times.  Official records indicate the following dates for sure: November 4, 1921; March 21, 1927; February 16, 1932; July, 1969 (night break-in); August 7, 1970.

            During the 1927 bank robbery, Alga had gone to the basement to check on the coal oil furnace.  The basement was flooded because of a heavy rain and Alga had borrowed Herman Winner's boots, which were too big even when Alga wore his shoes inside them. 

            Suddenly, while in the basement, someone shut the basement stairway door and locked it.  Alga thought someone was playing a trick on him.  A few minutes later when August Reichart opened the door, and hollered down, "Come on up, Alga, we've been robbed," Alga still thought they were playing a joke on him and wanted to poke fun at him in his big boots.

            The 1970 robbery is another one Alga recalls.  The Osgood Bank had moved to their new facility in 1962.  According to Alga, Brownie Thobe was on duty that morning when a robber wearing a red ski mask followed him into the bank the first thing in the morning.  He ordered the cashier to open the vault and told the teller to put the money into a bag he was carrrying.

            The robber squealed away in his car, just as Alga was arriving.  Fortunately, Brownie had gotten the license number and the robber was apprehended the same day in Greenville.

            In 67 years, Alga has seen all there is to see in the banking business.  The biggest change has of course been due to technology.  "We went from pen and pencil to calculators to computers."

            What's it like not to go to work everyday?  "I always had so many things on my mind, so it's a big letdown in that regards.”

            "From the time I spent at the bank, I must have liked my job," Alga said.  Like many of his customers, we all agree, "Alga, we'll never forget you.  Thanks for all you did for us."

A large Bertke carrot

Now Is the Time to Enjoy the Garden

                  A lot of folks have a garden and this time of year, it's looking real good.  I know even before school was out, one of my friends who loves to garden told me they were already eating peas from their garden.

            And Betty Bertke brought me a garden picture to share.  Maybe you know about the Bertke carrots--they sure know how to grow 'em big--both kids and carrots. 

            Here in that photo were five of the Bertke children--Gary, Nick, Mark, Donna, and Allen holding some of area’s biggest carrots.  Betty said she also took a picture of these kids almost 20 years ago--in the same arrangement and holding big carrots from their garden in 1976.

            That just goes to show you--big carrots are no accident in the Bertke garden.  And though my Dad had a green thumb and loved to truck patch, I haven't ever seen any carrots that big.

            "How do you grow big carrots?"  I asked Betty.  She told me it was the same way you grow big kids--lots of hard work, lots of pullin out the weeds, lots of daily nurturing, and lots of love--that's how.

            I get real nervous when I think about the analogy Betty makes between raising carrots and kids--because, about now my gardening is petering out.  The hoeing is less and less; and the weeds are more and more.  With our children grown and own their own, I’m glad they don't look like our garden--all full of weeds. And I hope God has given them enough strength to clean up their own gardens.

            Some time ago I listened to Jake McDermitt, tell me the secret of having a good garden.  I figured Jake knew what he was talking about.  He comes from a family of gardeners, including his father Fredus McDermitt.  I know the folks at the Paper Mill remember him.

            Anyhow, Jake told me to first select a spot that has good topsoil.  "A lot of people try to have a garden where they shouldn't," explained Jake. 

            Secondly, Jake advises to make sure that the soil is prepared properly to provide a good seed bed.  Finally Jake said the secret of keeping the weeds down is "to hoe the weeds before they get too big.  You should hoe almost before you can see the weeds."  This keeps the weeds down before they get a good start and also makes it possible to hoe shallow and not stir up more weed seeds further down.

            Jake told me that he doesn't think much of the advice he read sometime ago about letting weeds grow to share the melons.  On the contrary Jake said melons need to sun to ripen.

            I also remember what Ron Gilberg of New Bremen, another top-notch gardener, told me about gardening.  According to his wife, if they see a weed in their garden, they will go out and pull it out.  "We hate weeds."  He told me they hoe their garden at least once a week and because they have kept the weeds down for several years, they don't have a weed control problem.

            There was a time a lot of us used to take Sunday afternoon drives.  Now a lot of us are too busy to enjoy this pleasant pastime.  Sunday drivers are a nuisance for the rest of the World-on-the-run, but it's still a nice way

to see this beautiful area we call home, to see how the crops are doing, and to appreciate our neighbors' gardens.

            When I see how clean and weed-free they are, I am reminded of my father whose favorite pastime was gardening.

He like the Gilberg's didn't like weeds and if he thought there was a weed in his garden, he'd be likely to get up out of bed to pull it out. 

            As a matter of fact, I reckon true gardeners when they die are keeping the weeds out of heaven, if in fact there's any weeds trying to grow there.

            Like a lot of you readers, my parents and grandparents grew up during the depression.  Probably no economical situation had more sociological consequences for those of that generation and the following generation than the depression.

            I listened to a lot of people talk about the depression and I haven't met a farm person yet who went hungry during the depression--it was because of their gardens.

            And gardens carried this country through World War II, too.  They were called "Victory Gardens."  I think one of the nicest things Goodyear ever did for their employees was to provide those little garden spots along SR 66 at the edge of St. Marys.  Whenever I see those gardens I think about

a period of time, not so distant, when a little piece of ground called a garden held this country together.

            Finally I think about my father who was born with a hoe in his hand.  He had this melon patch--it was something. On a sandy hill at the edge of the field far from our living place, Pa planted melons. And they did well, real well; of course he hoed and hoed, from dawn to the sun was gone in the west.

            Then, when he came to the house, he'd push a big wheelbarrow up the hill, full of melons. How we did love melons!  All you could eat, and then some. And memory's tastes of melons lingers on years later; and I see Pa hoeing there on the sandy hill at the edge of the field, far from our living place.

A delicious Stetler melon straight from the garden

How to Pick a Good Melon 

          A few days ago neighbor friends asked me if I knew how to pick a good melon.  I guess they had heard me bragging about my father, who was “born with a hoe in his hand” and wheeling in “melons by the wheelbarrow.”  Now it’s natural enough to boost about some things, but on the other hand, it doesn’t necessarily mean you automatically inherit talents and hard works of your parents.

            Anyway I wasn’t going to let our friends down, and I wasn’t going to let the memory of my father down either, so we went to see what wisdom we could impart.  But when we went out to the neighbor’s garden—well cared for with huge melons everywhere, I thought better about giving advice where it’s not needed.

            So the following information is not for them, but for novices who really don’t know how to pick a good melon FROM THE GARDEN. The best thing about this advice is that what my father knew is verified by good words of melon picking from several internet sources.  Here then, for those who are interested is “How to Pick a Good Melon.”

            Watermelons—consider the following—color, shape, firmness. sound.  Ripe watermelons are evenly colored.  Good melons are symmetrical, either round, oblong, or oval.  They are firm, heavy in size, and yield slightly to pressure.  One test is to scratch the surface with your thumbnail.  “If the outer layer slips back with little resistance, showing a green-white color, the melon is ripe. 

            A true test is to thump the melon with your knuckles—a ripe melon will sound hollow. The underside of the melon should have a pale yellow color.

Finally, one of my father’s ultimate tests for picking a good melon was to lay a straight broom straw across the melon.  On a ripe melon, the broom straw will begin moving until almost parallel with the melon.  And a good melon, ready to eat, will jump apart when the knife enters.

            Honeydew melons—smell, color, stem.  In some ways, it’s a lot easier to pick a good honeydew melon. First of all, “if it smells good, it will probably taste good.”  This time of year, it doesn’t take long for these melons to be too far gone before you know it.  A ripe melon will have a creamy white color with yellow accents.  The blossom end yields to slight pressure and the stem slips easily off a ripe melon. Like the watermelon, a good ripe Honeydew melon will be heavy for its size. Like the original rules for baseball pitchers—“not to high, not to low—but just right”—good Honeydew melons are neither “too firm nor too soft.”

            Experience in the end is the best way to pick a good melon from the garden (or from the grocery store).

Donnie and Mrs. Dudgeon enjoying Senior Day at the fair

Senior Day at the Fair

            Fair Board Directors Barb Pierce and Diana Grile and several assisting volunteers presented an excellent Seniors Day program at the Mercer County Fair on August 12.  Over 350 seniors were on hand to enjoy good food, good entertainment, and good fellowship.

            “Connie and Flack” (Connie Vangelakos and Jerry Flack), the “Odd Couple,” introduced Director Barb Pierce, who welcome the crowd of seniors who filled every available seat.  Ms. Pierce then introduced local speaker, Cathy Schreima, who gave a speech on what it was like for her family when they went to the fair years ago.  She shared several artifacts from that period of time and told the seniors of the time she beat a relative in a baking contest.  She told the seniors that it is important “to share your personal stories” with your children and with others—everybody has a story.”

            The Sound Effects Barbershop Quartet of Jim Coons, Bud Preston, Lee Olding, and Dave Selhorst then sang a medley of popular tunes that was well received by the seniors.

Briarwood Manor Activity Director Cindy Koester, Catherine Schwieterman

Myrna Niekamp, Erma Dirksen, Bill Fisher, Maintenance

            Following the entertainment, lunch was served and each person in attendance also received a carnation.  Following the naming of the Queen and King and other honoraries, door prizes were awarded.  One of the first prizes was a walker which was won by Briarwood Manor in Coldwater,  On hand to receive the prize were Cindy Koester, Activity Director; Catherine Schwieterman, Myrna Niekamp, Erma Dirksen, and Bill Fisher, maintenance.

            The cool weather helped make this year’s Senior Day at the Mercer County Fair the best yet.

Jeremy Siegrist, Lee Mescher, Mary Will, Paul Hamberg, Adam Koesters

Rosie Tebbe, Douglas Wuebker, Chad Sapp, Andy Hirt, Kevin Nieport, Tony Knapke,Corrie Albers

FFA Fair Awards

            On Friday evening, August 13,  the following FFA Fair Awards were presented.  Jeremy Siegrist, Ft. Recovery, best forage crop; Douglas Wuebker, St. Henry, best corn crop; David Powell, Parkway, best soybean crop; Lee Mescher and Kyle Dues, Coldwater, best educational display.

            Katie King, Parkway, best garden crop; Corrie Abels, Coldwater, best horticulture project; John Donavon, Parkway, best small grain crop; Andy Hurt, Coldwater, best large mechanics project.

            Adam Koesters, Coldwater, best medium mechanics project; Dusty Tobe, Ft. Recovery, best small mechanics project; A.J. Knapke, Coldwater, best large welding project; Paul Hamberg, Coldwater, best small welding project.

            Tony Knapke, Coldwater, best welding panel; Mary Will, Ft. Recovery, best FFA woodworking project; Chad Sapp, Parkway, best indoor furniture; Kevin Nieport, St. Henry, best outdoor furniture; Rosie Teboe, Parkway, best woodworking project.

            On hand for the award presentations were Vo Ag Instructors/FFA advisors: Dennis Riethman, Coldwater; Joe Hawk and Michael Gower, Ft. Recovery; Alan Post, Parkway; Matt Pleiman, St. Henry.

The Sounds of Fall are Upon Us

            You know fall is on the way when you hear the insects buzzing away through the August nights.  If you didn’t know any better, if you close your eyes, you hear again the sounds so prevalent along the Outer Banks.

            A lot has been written this summer about the return of the 17-year cicadas, but when we were kids we didn’t know about the time frame, we only knew it would sound be time for school to start.  We called them locusts, but found out their real name is cicadas.

            A friend reminded me that he and another farmer have been talking about the return of the locusts.  "Fella said he's heard them for sometime now.  They're a sure warning that frost is just six weeks away."

            What he said reminded me that my mother always said that once the locusts started ree-a, ree-ahing, "School was in the wind and would be up and going again in six weeks or less."

            Some time ago I did some checking on these omen-insects and found out that though they are from the locust family, what we have in this area that makes that ree-a, ree-ah sound about mid summer are called cicadas.

            The Columbia Encyclopedia has this to say about these noisy creatures. "Cicada (sika'du) name for homopterous insect with wide, blunt head, prominent eyes, two pairs of membranous wings.  Periodical or 17-year (13 year in southern U.S.) cicada is miscalled locust. Shrill song of males caused by vibrating membranes near abdomen.  Different broods mature nearly every year."

            Well, now we know that ree-a, ree-ah is a "song" of sorts, anyways.  Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I reckon music is in the hear of the listener.  I know from experience that sounds reminding kids (of all ages) that school will soon start are not necessarily the most pleasant music kids hear during the summer.

            I was thinking about what Carl Sandburg said about paying close attention to the sounds around you because "they can help clarify what otherwise isn't clear,” and in the process the following just sort of wrote itself.

          Sandburg says pay close attention to sounds;

          To all that's near,

          They tell much that otherwise ain't clear.

            Cicadas, every year in the fall,

            I hear them---ree-a, ree-a, ree-ah.

            And they bring back ten thousand memories

            Of yesterday.

           "Six weeks to frost,"

           and "School's about to start;"

          Now summer's over, and the sound

          Will break my heart.

          We called them locusts,

          And made a hobby of collecting shells

          They left,

          On trunks and branches and wooden tops of wells.

          Those shells, so exquisitely designed,

          We kept in a jar that we carried

          Under our arm, near and far.

         Ten thousand ages later

        When youth is far behind,

        The ree-a, ree-a, ree-ah

        Brings back memories to the mind.

        Of those summers of our youth

        When time was not so dear,

        For everything was one,

       And we had nothing then to fear.

       Those moments of our youth

       Are gone now,

       Except for the memories

       Of the shells on boughs

       And the sound of the locusts

       That brought time into focus

       With their ree-a, ree-a, ree-ah.

Recalling One More Time Going to the Lake

    (Note to reader. This evening, September 3, 2006, my wife and I drove out along the East Bank of Grand Lake St. Marys.  The crowd was gone, but we knew with a break in the weather, just cool enough and some sun, they would return tomorrow for their own "Once More to the Lake."                 

     I thought about all the previous "problems" I had walked off here along the lake; and thought of others who have done the same, too.  It always amazed me that it took so long to build the walking/biking path as for years the road along the East Bank was used instead.  Who knows how much healing nature does in our lives when it is given a chance.  President Kennedy talked often about the importance of the sea in our lives, so much so that his son John, his wife and sister-in-law were buried there after that terrible plane wreck a few years ago. 

    We all need to take another walk along the lake, or in the woods, or somewhere where nature can work its magic on us and the realities of life that we create and sustain.  Here is a story I wrote a few years ago.)

Once More to the Lake

             I stopped along the street the other day to talk to an octogenarian.  Old people have a lot to say, if you take the time to listen.  After a nod and a hello, and time to build a bit of mutual respect, he told me about the beautiful fall we have been having.

            "Nope, in better than 80 years, I don't remember a nicer fall.  A pity it will come and go and some will never know; some'll never notice the loveliest fall of the century."

            I went away and back into the treadmill of life, thinking on what he said.  From as far back as I can remember, he is right.  Oh, there are a lot of nice days every fall, but usually they are interspersed with days not so nice.

            I knew he was also right about how many of us never will have noticed what a really nice fall we had; didn't even take time to enjoy it.  "Too busy," we say.  Tell that to the Good Lord when life is over.  "We meant to slow down, to take a walk to the park, along the lake, along the bike path, along the canal, or across town." 

            The other evening my wife and I drove out along the East Bank of Grand Lake St. Marys and watched the world walk by.  It had been a nice day, warm temperatures, and it was just after suppertime.

            For a weekday, the "walkway" was filled with older couples, leaning on each other for support; young couples jogging, the husband in front, followed not far behind by an equally, if not more so, energetic wife.  And sometimes they led a dog or two. 

            Two young mothers pushed strollers with kids too sleepy to care where they were.  Ahead and behind, came roller bladders--two teenagers, a boy and a girl staying neck 'n neck followed somewhere behind by a middle-aged man, hands locked behind his back, body bent forward, dipping in and out as he skated along. 

            Here, like the barber shop and the beauty shop, and the grocery store, comes, at some point, all the community to enjoy the last warm days of summer, to share the fall with each other; to take a break from the stress of everyday life and to leave refreshed from this brush with nature.

            As I watched the people stroll and jog and skate by, and thought about our own visits here, I wondered about the daily stress of all those who passed by; I wondered how much weight of the world was carried on those who passed; how much was left here with nature, the lake and the trees, and the wind. 

            Those of us who walk with nature have learned the exercise is good for the body; but so also is the walk good for the soul.

            I was thinking about a short story I read in college--the place we go to read the books we should have read in high school, and recalled the following story.

            It was about a young man who each summer, took his family to the lake for vacation, a pattern started in his own childhood when his parents did the same.

            One summer led to another summer, as summers do, and then one summer, he realized that time was indeed passing. That he was no longer a young man.  And as he looked at his son finishing one last swim, he sensed that momentarily he was again young. He was his son.  And his dad at the same time, watching all of this from two worlds simultaneously.

           That fall his son went off to college.  And there were no more trips to the lake.  But there were memories that he recalled from a rocker.  All those times walking along the lake.  Especially, he often recalled that last trip when he and the family went "Once More to the Lake."

            The passage of time is an awesome, eerie thing that most of the time we are too busy to notice--only at the funeral home or the reunion when we marvel how the rest of the world has grown up and grown old, all the while we remained the same.

Bus Drivers, Moms, and School

      School bus drivers sure deserve our praise.  They're the first ones to see the kids on their way to school and the last ones to see them when they get off the bus in the evenings.  Of course, the older kids once they get their driver's license, you don't see on the bus anymore, but nobody ever forgets the school bus driver, especially around Christmas time.  I don't know if they still do it, but our bus drivers always had a treat for us, yep, everybody on the bus got a sack of candy at Christmas.  Must have broken them up, what with 70 kids, and all aboard the day Christmas break began.

            I remember we had this school bus driver at Spencerville.  He used to take Deep Cut (when it was a closed curve) on two wheels.  Once the superintendent went along.  He told the driver, who used to drive a fire truck, "You're taking that curve too fast. Slow down!"

            Bob (that's what I'll call him), gritted his teeth, nodded his head, and stared straight ahead.  Under his breath and between cuss words, he was mumbling, "Heck, I've been taking that curve like that for five years and never had a kid fall out of his seat.  They know how to ride a school bus.  Just swing and roll, swing and roll. That's all there is to it."

            We had another bus driver who had the patience of Job. I suppose all school bus drivers have to have a lot of patience; either that or a vocabulary that most of the time

no one hears but their spouses.  This driver's name was Ralph Jarvis.  In 1947 Ralph won the corn husking bee for Allen County.  Years later his son Loren, who was a very talented singer, bought a small business school in Lima that he successfully turned into Northwestern College (recently renamed the University of Northwestern).  Home town boy makes good. 

            Anyways, what I was about to say when truth broke in, Ralph was as fine a bus driver as I've ever ridden with. And did he have patience.  One day there was a couple of girls fightin on the bus.  They were really at it.  Scratchin and a kickin and a bitin.  One took a big bite out of the other's apple.  The owner was so upset with this turn of events that she heaved the apple as hard as she could. Her opponent ducked and the apple slammed against the windshield, just missing the driver's head.  He quietly pulled the bus to a stop and the two girls walked home from there.

            I think one of the best meetings in this area (and maybe, the state) is the bus drivers' meeting.  Now I never been to one of them, but I have a lot of friends who are bus drivers and they always come back from these meetings with lots of good stories. 

            I'm not sure if the emcee is a good story teller or there are a lot of good stories about his story telling. I know more than one school bus driver who's picked up a permanent nickname from these meetings. 

             The following article from Reader's Digest reflects on what is going on in some homes as the school bus pulls up.  Probably no one is more glad to see the school bus come than moms as school begins again in the fall.

            " See Mother. Mother is sleeping.

            "Jump up, Mother," says Father. Jump up! Today is the first day of school."

            Oh, see Mother get out of bed. Her eyes are not open. Her slippers are on the wrong feet. She cannot find the bedroom door. Funny Mother.

            "Hurry, children Today is the first day of school."

            See the children go down to the kitchen. They hurry slowly on the first day of school, don't they?  Mother hurries to the kitchen, too. Mother has one eye open now.

            "I will give you a good breakfast," says Mother. "I will give you juice, porridge, toast, bacon, eggs and milk from the friendly cow."

            "Yuck," says Laurie.

            "Yuck," says Bobby.

            "Yuck," says Chris.

            Laurie wants cottage cheese and pop. Bobby wants Cocoa Crunch Corn Crisps that come with marshmallows. Chris wants three bananas.

            "Yuck," says Mother.

            Here comes Father. Father is wearing his clean white shirt and good brown suit. Father is an executive.

            "I am going to work, Mother." says Father. "May I please have a dollar to put in my pocket?"

            "I don't have a dollar, Father," says Mother. "Ask the children. The children have many dollars."

            The children give Father a dollar. How good they are! "Goodbye! Goodbye Father!" call Laurie, Bobby, Chris and Mother. Father waves goodbye. Father is glad he is an executive and not a mother.      

            "Children, children, " says Mother.  Hurry up and put on your clothes. Hurry, Hurry! Soon the school bus will be here."

            See Laurie. Laurie is combing her hair. See Bobby. Bobby is reading about Ken Griffey, Jr.  See Chris. Chris is marking her lunch bag with a ballpoint pen.

            See Mother's hair stand up! What is Mother saying? These words are not in our book, are they?  Run, children, run!

            "Mother, Mother!" says Laurie. "I have lost a shoe."

            "Mother, Mother!" says Bobby. "I think I am sick. I think I may throw up on the yellow school bus."

            "Mother, Mother!" says Chris. " My zipper is stuck and I have a jelly bean in my ear."

             Oh, see Mother run!

            "I am going mad," says Mother. "Here is Laurie's shoe on the stove. Here are other pants for Chris. Here is a thermometer for Bobby, who doesn't look sick to me." What are the children doing?

            Laurie is combing her hair. Bobby is playing on the computer.  Chris is under the bed feeding jelly beans to the cat.

            "Oh," says Mother. "Hurry! Hurry! It is time for the yellow school bus."

            Mother is right. (Mother is always right.) Here comes the yellow school bus. See all the children on the bus jump up and down. Jump! Jump! Jump! See the pencils fly out the windows! Listen to the driver of the yellow school bus. He cannot yell as loud as the children can yell. Run, Laurie! Run, Bobby! Run, Chris!

            See Mother throw kisses! Why do Laurie, Bobby, and Chris pretend they do not know Mother?

            "Goodbye! Goodbye!" yells Mother.

            "Vrooommm" goes the yellow bus.

            How quiet it is!

            Here is Chris's sweater in the boot box.

            Here are Bobby's glasses under the desk.

            Here is Laurie's comb in the fruit bowl.

            Here is crunchy cereal all over the kitchen floor.

            Here is Mother. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Mother is pouring a big cup of coffee. Mother is sitting down.

            Mother does not say anything.

            Mother does not do anything.

            Mother just sits and smiles.

            Why is Mother smiling?

Frog Huntin'

          Out here in the country there's one thing's that sure about the summer nights--it's the "sounds of silence."  That's one of the reasons you move to the country in the first place--silence.  That and fresh air. 

          Sometimes, though, when you listen, really go outside and listen, even out here in the country, you realize it isn't quiet at all.  Instead of the sounds of people buzzing from place to place in cars and trucks and vans with the sound of tires squealing on pavement and motors riving up between traffic lights, and now and then the whaling sound of a police or fire siren, it is quiet, real quiet.

            Except for the sounds of crickets and katydids and frogs--lots of frogs, cricket frogs and tree frogs, chorus frogs and bull frogs.  Frogs, frogs, frogs--the sound of frogs, rhythmically calling away the summer nights as leaves give way to shorter days of less light until they begin to loose their hold and fall, fall to the ground and water below.  Still the sound of the frogs--and the long low bellowing sound of the Frog of frogs--the bull frog.

            You don't hear much about frogs, I guess, maybe because sometimes that's all you hear.  Just as there's a very distinctive feel and sound of hissing insects as you travel along the route 12 of the Outer Banks of North Carolina, there is a very distinctive nightlong buzzing of insects and relentless calling and bellowing of frogs interrupted only as fall approaches by the who-o-oing of a nearby owl or the eerie screech of a bird of prey crossing a nearby meadow hoping to scare up a field mouse or first-year rabbit, yet unaware of all that nature has in store for her.

            Childhood is marked for all of us by certain distinct memories.  For me, one of those was the hill beyond the old lumber year on Columbia Street.  Now I haven't been there for years, but during the summer we used to go there with our cousins to swing out on this high rope.  Hainlines and Brickers and Wessels and Holdrens.  All the kids who lived along North Chestnut and Columbia.

            Everybody, that is all the kids in the neighborhood knew about this hill and the rope and what a thrill it was to grab a hold of that swinging rope and swing out from that hill--five, ten, fifteen, twenty feet--with nothing below

            We all knew, but never discussed what our parents would do if they ever knew we were not in the backyard playing hopscotch or jump rope, but down on that forbidden hill swinging out on that old rope, swinging out as far as we could.  And then pulling ourselves up hand over hand until, if we were lucky, we could sit on the big knot tied as high up as one of the oldest boys could reach.

            Looking back, I reckon we could have broken our necks if we had fallen, at least those of us who were not yet old enough to go to school, but old enough to grab hold of the rope, even if an older boy had to hold us out where we could reach the rope.

            Oh, those were good times, those are good memories.  It was carefree, no thought of tomorrow, of school and homework, of growing up and growing old--just us kids from the neighborhood, a few visiting cousins (like we were), the hill, the rope, and freedom--lots of freedom as we swung out into nothingness.

            Oh, I've been on a couple of roller coasters, including the last old wooden, rattle-trap at Russell's Point, but nothing ever equaled in my mind, that forbidden rope on the hill beyond the Lumber Yard where Chestnut and Columbia Streets meet each other on the curve.

            The sounds of summer nights fading into fall remind me of other times, my brother and I would go frog huntin with our cousin.  Jim was Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer all rolled up into one.  We knew whenever we went with him, wherever we went with him, we were going to have a good time.   Some people are just like that;  some people are a good time. We look for people like that.  Saves us a lot of time working at having fun; cuts down on the odds of something going wrong.

            Now I was never big on frog huntin, but my brother Paul was really into it.  Maybe, because right after college he got married and moved to Michigan.  He'd come home every weekend in the summer and we'd clean out the old canoe, load her into the old pickup, and go get Jim.  We knew if Jim was going, we were all set.  Shucks, he had been frog huntin longer than either of us had been alive.

            He knew all the ins and outs, whys and wherefores, the places to go, the places to avoid; how to make a gig, hold a gig, throw a gig, retrieve a gig, and clean the frog off a gig without getting your hands all messy.

            We'd take the canoe over to Kossuth, such north of the church, or over along Kills' to slide her into the water.  It would be pitch black on a moonless night and you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.  Usually before we all got situated, one of us had stepped into the canal, and got a foot or two full of water and mud.

            We knew then that the evening had been christened as it was the sign it was going to be a good night--whatever a pitch black night of frog huntin can be.  Now I used to come home all bittin up by skeeters, but I never once in all those years, heard my brother say anything except, "Man, frog-huntin was the greatest thing in the world."

            Here's what I remember of those times we went frog huntin in the Miami-Erie Canal between St. Marys and Spencerville.

     Ever been frog-huntin?

     All you need is a gig, a boat, and a sack,

     And a friend or two.

     Nature'll  provide all the rest.

     Includin' skeeters to bite ya,

     spiders to swab ya,

     bats to fight ya,

     owls to site ya,

     Way down there on the old towpath.

     Years now my brother's been gone

     from home;

     We all miss him, it's true, but ya can't stay blue

     that long.

     And besides,

     He comes home nearly every summer to go

     Frog huntin".

     "Heck," he says,

     "Frog huntin's the best darn thing."

      We's a fightin them skeeters, and he's hollerin'--

      "There ain't no place better on the face of the

      earth."

      Now, I don't rightly know what it is he's sayin'

      Since we ain't never been gone more than ten miles

      from home, and never overnight.

      It's just plain puzzlin how sittin in an ole canoe,

      Fighting skeeters can be so near to heaven?

      And all night long,

      Up and down them old canal banks,

      We's a searchin for one of them

      Bullfrogs.

      Thar!  Along the bank, hold the light steady,

      So's he don't move none.

      Closer, closer, closer we maneuver,

      Then whack! the gig is through-beyond to the bank,

      "Oh, heck! We missed this 'un."

      And in the shadows of the night

      A bat flies down around the light,

      And shrivers run up my spine--

      Of vampires, and ghosts,

      As along the bank a twig snaps--

      "We're not alone."

     "Shu-u--u--quiet now!" 

     No sound, only the quiet dipping of the oars

     Into the muddy blackness of the water.

     Ahead, the flutter of wings, and the light outlines

     A giant bird of prey,

     Searching at night instead of day

     For us, we hope not.

     There's quiet night--but not so here.

     On every side a twig snaps, wings flutter by,

     And the light outlines a creature of the night,

     Lurking away or behind us;

     Waitin for the kill.

     We're miles now from the road

     and help;

     It's scary as _______

     Unless you think about

     Frog huntin'.

Recalling the Tornado of 1947

    (Note to readers: when I stopped out to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Fred Rose, Fort Recovery-Minster Road where the tornado hit on August 28, 2006, I was reminded of another tornado that struck within a mile of the same location on Labor Day, 1947.  Here is the story I wrote about other tornadoes, including the 1947 tornado that hit in almost the same location, but with a much more devastating effect.  Mr. Heckman's mother was killed.)

Loretta and Leander Heckman

The Tornado Season

          Last month we had a tornado drill in area schools.  As the kids kneeled down along the lockers with their hands over their heads, it was almost as if they were paying homage to a force greater than ourselves--Mother Nature, and perhaps they were.

            Hopefully, every time we hear the tornado siren, what will follow will just be a drill.  But such has not always been the case.

           The tornado that struck Van Wert a couple of years ago reminds us all of the devastation such a storm can cause.  Seeing the pictures of the Van Wert afterwards, including the threatre from which the roof was ripped and a car piled up in the front rows, reminds us of the seriousness with which we must face sudden changes in weather.

            Fifty-nine years ago, Mercer County was hit by a devastating tornado.  It was Labor Day, 1947.  A few years ago I had a chance to talk to Leander Heckman whose home was destroyed by that tornado.  He shared his first hand experience with that tornado.

            About fourteen years ago, another tornado touched down at the northern edge of Mercer County, just across the line into Van Wert County and not far from Ohio City.

   A few days after, I drove north along SR 127 to take a look for myself and as I drove I thought about Leander and Loretta Heckman of rural St. Henry, who had described their own experience of a tornado that destroyed their home and killed his mother on Labor Day, 1947. 

          I thought about the Palm Sunday Tornadoes, a series of 12 tornadoes which struck their way across northern Ohio on April 11, 1965.  They were only a part of a group of tornadoes that touched down over three dozen times in five neighboring states. And about the tornadoes that destroyed much of Xenia, Ohio, just 30 years ago in April, 1974.

Mr. Heckman had told me that "It's like being in a war." That the tornado came shrieking "like a locomotive."

        Approaching the intersection of SR 127 and SR 81 I saw the first signs of an angry Mother Nature.  A front yard filled with trees pulled out by their roots, lying in tact like tinker toys of some unhappy child of Paul Bunyan.  Beyond the trees lay a pile of broken blocks, all that was left of a two-story farm home.

        I turned east on SR 81 and at the intersection with Greenville Road where I saw more devastation.  What had once been a mobile home now was only a base piled with crumbled walls, a kitchen range twisted on its side, and high in a nearby tree, the remains of what had once been the awning.

        I parked the car along the road at the intersection and walked across the yard.  Everywhere were debris and splinters of wood, some still driven at weird angles into the ground.  A couple of pine trees had been ripped off about eight feet from the ground.  Tree branches were toilet-papered with strips of metal roofing.  To the northeast across the field litter lay everywhere.

       As I stood in the path the storm had taken, I felt sick.  I felt like I was in a funeral home to pay my last respects to the dead. A steady line of cars passed by slowly to take a look at what an angry Mother Nature can do to any of us. Next to the once-mobile home was a room which had been built on.  Somehow it had weathered the storm and provided the shelter of the family when the tornado hit.  Across the road, a young man was piling broken limbs and litter into what we would soon be a burning pile. 

       He told me the storm hit at 6:25.  "I remember the Palm Sunday tornado, too. Dad and I were in a car when it hit.  That tornado killed three of my friends."  He took me over to a boat that lay wrapped around a tree.  As I took his picture he said, "I bet I'm on 150 videos just today alone." At the corner of the yard I found a bent over sign that read, "Welcome to York Township. Zoned for your protection," At the other end of the yard, among all the debris, another sign read, "Country Collectibles."

       It was a quiet ride back  as I thought about what I had seen.  So much damage done in a few minutes.  Preparing for the tornado season is something none of us can take too seriously.  According to climatologists, "Ohio is at the eastern edge of the world's maximum frequency tornado belt." I had read that not only do we live at the eastern edge of "tornado alley, but that tornadoes occur more often in the U.S. than any where else in the world.

       Although most tornadoes in Ohio occur in April, May, June, we have had tornadoes in every month.  Although most strike between 2 p.m. and 10 p.m., they may occur at any time of the day or night.  Although most tornadoes come from the southwest and west, they may come from any direction.

      Most tornadoes are 300 to 400 yards wide, although they may vary from 9 feet to over a mile wide. Most tornadoes touchdown is 2 miles long, they may extend for over 300 miles. (Reports say the Ohio City tornado was about 50 yards wide and touchdown over a length of 3 and 1/2 miles.)

      Average forward speed of a tornado is 25 to 40 miles an hour, although tornadoes have been clocked from 5 to 68 miles an hour.  Estimated speed within the funnel is up to 400 miles an hour. (Estimates of that  tornado were in excess of 200 miles per hour.)

   The Ohio Committee on Tornado Safety gives us this advice:

            1. Know the difference between a "tornado watch" and a "tornado warning."

   A TORNADO WATCH  means that atmospheric conditions are favorable for a tornado to develop.  A watch usually lasts several hours.

   A TORNADO WARNING  means that a tornado has been sighted and you need to take cover immediately.

   2.  Stay away from windows, doors, and outside walls.  Protect your head.

   3.  In homes and small buildings, go to the basement or to an interior part of the lowest level--closet, bathroom, or interior hall.  Get under something sturdy.

   4.  In schools, nursing homes, hospitals, factories, and shopping centers, go to the pre-designated areas.  Interior hallways on the lowest floor are best.

   5.  In mobile homes, leave them and go to a substantial shelter.

   6.  If there is no shelter nearby, lie flat in the nearest ditch, ravine, or culvert with your hands shielding your head.

   The National Weather Service recommends "Know severe weather safety precautions; have a prepared place to go to; listen to the forecasts and watches to get set; and when the warning is issued, go to a safe place."(the late Leander Heckman couple told me about the tornado that hit near St. Henry in 1947)

What's Age Got to Do With It?

          This story is for "seniors" you and I know, but many who remain so active that they often ask me, no matter what the subject, "What's age got to do with it?"  And the older I become, the more I realize how right they are.

            It is alleged that as he was growing up Mark Train concluded that his dad didn't know anything.  But when he reached 25 years, Twain said, "I am amazed at how much my dad has learned over the last 10 years."           

            One thing's for sure the closer you get to being old, whatever the age you once selected for that category, the age you then define as old keeps getting older.  As one reader told me some time ago, there is a whole lot of difference in the answer to the question, "what is your age?" and "how old are you?"

            As Satchel Paige, the eternal baseball pitcher of yesterday, who had no idea what is age was said, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you was?"

            Interesting question.  It was Paige, who was a senior citizen when he said it, "Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you."

            Now I've tried to take Satchel’s advise and I feel about 25.  On the other hand, even though I also don't look back, I know a lot of things are gaining on me. All I have to do is look down at the middle, which has spread or the gray-haired man in the mirror looking back at me.

            I think the biggest tragedies of becoming a Senior Citizen is that the number of years left are a lot less (for most of us) than the number of years gone by.  I always remember A.E. Housman's lines-- "about the woodlands I will go, to see the woods fill up with snow...of my three score years and ten, 20 will not come again."

            Twenty will not come again?  Like other senior citizens, I wonder where the time went. I not only missed the snow, I missed the trees. I missed the whole woods.

            Just about the time we figure out what's going on in the world, it's time to check out.  Reckon it would be better if we started out as senior citizens, having figured out what was going on so we could avoid so many stupid mistakes and then die as we unlearned it all.

            I know a lot of senior citizens; a lot of senior citizens know me.  And more and more people everyday know me as a senior citizen.  It's a real tragedy that a lot of these folks whom I interviewed at some time have now passed on.  The all had a positive influence on other lives.  They're gone now, but I still remember what they told me about living life to the fullest, and how they were able to become senior citizens and not die in the process.

            I haven't really figured out when you become a senior citizen.  To tell you the truth I met a fellow the other day, who was 90 years old who said the term "senior citizen" was for people half his age.

            I do know that they all confirmed what Hugh Downs once said in his book, "Thirty Dirty Lies About Old," that is there is an awful lot of untruths about being old, i.e. senior citizen.

            Here's a list of some of these dirty lies. 

     1.  Old