The Rev. Virgil Anderson, pastor of First United Methodist church, has been helping with the organizational work of the money raising project of his church.
To do this job (it's a two-year budget) he's served as sort of a secretary and general manager to the several committees. In other words, he does most of the work.
Rex Snodderly is general chairman and he cracks the whip, and the other day he just about did in the committee.
Pastor Anderson took "letters" from Rex around to committees for signatures . . . about 400 sheets of paper.
I looked at the penmanship of Mrs. Paul Rowe, Mrs. Jack Brawner, Mrs. Richard Jacobson and Rex. Very good. Now . . . watch the master.
The first few sheets were no problem. I was graceful . . . after all I won the penmanship contest when I was in the eighth grade . . . but after 20 or 30 or 40 sheets, I returned to my old sluffin' on the job and bowed my head when I handed the finished job to the next signer, Bill Brockley.
"Pshaw," he said with a great deal of tact. "So I can't read your name? So what? You say that's your name and I believe you."
"I apologize, Bill," I said. "I should have been the last to sign and then the rest of the committee wouldn't have seen my poor penmanship."
Bill dropped the jesting and assured me that it would be difficult for him to match the grace of the general chairman and ladies.
I thanked him for his kindness and waited for the opportunity to bring up another subject . . . rocks.
"My, that's an attractive rock lawn and fence you have along the drive and next to your home," I complimented.
Mrs. Brockley (Carroll) smiled politely and listened as Bill said, "why, thank you. We have quite a collection and it has taken a lot of work."
(I noticed that Carroll's smile was broadening.)
"Hey . . . ya Bill," I said, "what's this about you loading a lebenty-leben pound rock in a canoe and sinking same?"
(This time Carroll couldn't hold it back. Paul J. "Dick" Niemann was at the house and he also wanted to know the story.)
"Oh that," Bill said. "Well, that was a petrified rock."
"All I know about the story came from Whoopie Landis," I confessed and "and he has been known . . . on occasion to insert a bit of untruth in a yarn."
"Shucks," Bill said, "twarn't nuthin' like you were probably told. I just saw a big rock and wanted to bring it home."
We're lacking for space in this column to describe and - or repeat the explanation of Whoopie, but the truth is . . . Bill found the rock while canoeing in the Valentine area, loaded it in his canoe and brought it home. (Whoopie can fill you in on the details.)
The huge petrified rock — for you rock lovers — is truly a beautiful thing . . . and completely different than the Polynesian Love Stones displayed and explained by Bill.
Back to Kansas
We spent an interesting weekend in Kansas visiting relatives while my parents vacationed here for a week. I tried to keep track. The youngest man we visited was 71 years old. "I'll be 72 in a couple more months," the ex-farmer said.
We stopped in Washington, Kans., my old hometown and made a special stop at the place where I worked — Lewis Hadachek's Produce Station.
"Lewie" bubbled out of the back room where he had been moving cases (that's 30 dozen eggs) and getting them ready for shipment.
I admired his quick wit and plentiful energy. "The Missus and I don't do much any more," Lewie said. "There's no cream business and no 100 pound sacks of laying mash. We just work three days a week."
Lewie is 82 years young.
Then there was the aunt and uncle who wanted one of those new kind of carpet sweepers . . . one that will last for a long time. He is 82 and she's right behind him. Millie got the sweeper for them, assembled it and made two people very happy.
Then there was the man who many years ago operated a clothing store (the wife works every day, too) and now has a variety-type store and fabric center.
"Once you hit 70," I heard him tell my dad, "you ain't worth a damn."
"How old are you, Mr. Barley?" I asked politely.
"Too old to work. 76," he said.
"He tried retiring once," Mrs. Barley interrupted. "He just sat in the living room all winter waiting for spring. I said that was enough! We opened this store."
Everyplace we went I admired the good health, appetities and energies of the "senior citizens" in our family of friends and the family itself.
I learned a lot . . . everyone waits for the third of the month . . . Social Security payday. They expect the checks. They depend on that supplemental income.
Everyone travels. They have homes or trailers or apartments in Texas, Florida, and California for winter retreats.
Most have a new or late model cars. "I told Mom this will be the last new car we'll ever have so I got a comfortable one." Some have relatives or hired drivers for long distance trips.
All are independent. If they want help on a step or crossing a street, they ask for it . . . otherwise keep your cotton picking hands off. Pride and dignity are paramount in the Golden Years.
A favorite retired school teacher said she "bums" rides around the country to "see some old people." Miss Ilah Sackett played the piano and sang some of Red Foley's spiritual songs. (The memory wheels started clicking . . . she was always peppy.)
The long visits were wearing me out and I suggested to some of the "senior citizens" that maybe they would like to take a drive.
"Where could you take us that we haven't already been?" they asked.
"Oh I dunno. I just thought maybe you'd enjoy a drive in the nice weather, perhaps a trip to the river or maybe a "Decoration Day" visit to the cemetery."
"The cemetery!" they exploded.
"We'll get there soon enough without your help," they snapped.
I headed for the door.
"Where are you going, Ivan?" Millie called.
"To the grocery store for some ice cream."
"I don't believe anyone is hungry," she suggested.
"I know. I know. I just want to cool them down a bit."