Truthful Lies of my Childhood

I cannot recall Fireside Chats, news and encouragement that would compete with the loud noisy static, blaring out together from that 10” speaker in our nearly new Gibson radio.  It was definitely one of my mother’s most prized earthly possessions, a floor model she called “The Console.”  She kept the mahogany highly polished with a lemony ointment that she ordered from Mr. Eddy Killenspiel, an elderly gentleman that made monthly rounds selling Watkins products.  He was missing his left leg from the knee downwards, blown off by a grenade while serving his country in the trenches of France in 1917.  He was proud that he had served and prouder still of the long list of products that he represented to “better the community.”  He owned an elderly horse, a chestnut gelding given to him by the widow of a Major Duncan.  Eddy had served in the US Cavalry under the Major, who was now long deceased.  The Last Will and Testament had explicitly listed Private Killenspiel, who had heroically served under his command and who, according to the letter that accompanied the Purple Heart, which described  “his unselfish actions that did indeed save the Major from injury or even possible death,” as the recipient of 1500 pounds of horseflesh named Candy.  The will also listed an elderly four wheeled farm wagon as an afterthought gift, one that was greatly appreciated.  You could always tell when it was “Watkins Day,” for you could hear all three of them squeaking, creaking, and a-groaning from a mile off.  A canvas tarp covered his wares.

Our family would gather in the living room along with several of the neighbors at 8PM Central Standard Time at least once a month, usually on a Sunday, to hear our president, Mr. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, give us hope and assurance.  Things were recovering slowly but surely, foreign trade was up, the US dollar had stabilized, the job market and the overall outlook was gradually looking brighter.  He was indeed thankful for God’s help and direction the past six years, and thought that it would be appropriate this year of our Lord, 1939, to have not just one Thanksgiving observance, but two.  He was so enthused  and enraptured that he was proclaiming the fourth Thursday of that month, November 28th,  as an additional  “Thank God Holiday.”

Killenspiel had a nephew that played professional football for the Green Bay Packers, a linebacker, I believe, by the name of George “Nails” Nielson.  The Packer’s coach and general manager, upon hearing our president’s broadcast, called the spokesman for the Detroit Lions and asked the feasibility of having their match-up changed from the first Sunday in December to the new Holiday – same time, 1:30 PM kickoff; same place, East City Stadium in Green Bay.  An affirmative reply was received that evening, and the tradition of Thanksgiving Football was created.  When Eddy heard the sports news the next morning, he stopped at the Fairchild Grey-hound Bus Station and bought roundtrip tickets for his entire family, destination Green Bay and the BIG GAME!

Nails had three young boys and a pretty wife named Nellie whose maiden name was Thames, a fourth cousin to my mother.  She just happened to be nearly nine months pregnant and so Eddy thought it would be best if she were to stay at home near the family physician, Doctor W.W. Wilson, and he told her so. But she remained her usual self, headstrong and determined.  Woe be it to those who opposed her “wants to,” because she had her mind made up and come hell or high water or anything else, she was going to the game and that was the bottom line.  NO DISCUSSION!  When do we leave?  He went back to the bus station the next day and bought another ticket.

It was just 11 days until game day when Nails received a letter from his uncle, requesting him to purchase nine of the best seats in the stadium.  Also enclosed in the business-sized envelope were a couple of crisp new $20 bills, with pictures on them of our seventh president, Andrew Jackson.   Nails was surprised  –  pleasantly surprised, indeed!  Many times he had asked and pleaded for his family to come to a game and watch him play, and now, finally, it was about to happen.

He and 14 of his teammates were staying in a rundown three story for which a contract had been negotiated between the Packers’ liaison and Whalen Bridges, a sleazy landlord whose only scruples was the word itself found on page 986 of his Webster’s Dictionary.  While Nails walked the seven blocks to the ticket office at the stadium later that day, he practiced his begging voice.  The basement of the three story was mostly unused, and it was imperative that he be allowed squatters rights for his family there.  He was certain their funds would be completely exhausted if they would be forced to check into a hotel, even if a suite there was still available at this late hour.  Nails smiled as he suited up for the practice, his begging had been successful.  The tickets were on the 50 yard line, seventh row, a great bargain if he must say so himself.  And one couldn’t beat that price of $22.50, a paltry sum of $2.50 each.  And the kinfolk would have free lodging.  How he missed them…..

The Killenspiel Clan boarded the bus on Wednesday morning and arrived in what now is called “TitleTown, USA” some eight hours later.  According to the nameplate just under his portrait, the driver’s name was Llewyln Moltrin, safe, reliable, courteous.  It was quite a lengthy journey both in miles and duration, traveling mostly eastward on US 10, then turning north on Wisconsin 32.  This, as were most others in the Dairy State, was labeled a “milk run,” pun intended, and rightly so, for the Greyhound stopped at every tiny burg, hamlet, and even an occasional intersection with a state or county highway between here and there.  The driver had been instructed to pull over whenever he would spot a frantic wave where- ever it might be, as it could possibly mean additional revenue to the bus line, either in freight shipping or passenger fares.

The bottom line is that the trip was much too long for Nellie and her three young boys, all of whom became more and more restless with each passing mile.  Maybe her uncle by marriage was right.  Maybe she should have stayed at home and rested, but she grew more determined than ever to blot out that possibility and to disregard that sometimes stabbing pain in her lower back.  They started out by playing “I Spy” games, looking for horses and cows and sheep and whatever.  When that novelty wore off, the two oldest boys, six year old identical twins Harry and Larry, started counting telephone poles, competing with each other, trying to impress all the passengers with their mastery of numbers.  When at long last, they grew weary of looking out the windows, the sound and vibration of the diesel engine soon lulled almost everyone into “Sleepy Land.”

Nellie, too, started to drift just as the driver yelled out that they would have 20 minutes for lunch at the next scheduled stop, Stevens Point.  The clan had brought a dozen and a half peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches, and two quart jars filled with grape flavored Kool-Aid stowed away in an ancient picnic basket, made long ago by the Thunder Clan of the Chippewa Indians.  They dwelt in a hogan a mile north of Happy River Falls on County Road EE.

The bus station was indeed crowded.  This was a terminal where north-south passengers could transfer to go east or west, or vice versa.  Three other buses with their motors running were sitting along in front of the station/diner.  Llewyln eased in behind the building, and every passenger started a rapid exit as soon as the door of the bus swung open.  Mother nature was calling.  Almost everyone was trying to either get in or get out of the station at the same time.  Chaos ensued.  Only a US Marine sergeant could have restored order.  Lines were formed for the little boys’ and little girls’ rooms.  Many were waiting to sit down on the red leather swiveled bar stools that lined the counter.  Three waitresses with pink uniforms shouted additional requests at the pass-through window on whose well-worn shelf lay a dozen or so orders, mostly for shakes, burgers and fries.

When the announcement came to once again board the bus, most of the Nielsens and Killenspiels were still in line for the relief stations.  The second and last call for boarding came two minutes later, sending their group as well as several others scurrying for their seats on the bus.  Nellie was cranky and cantankerous, griping at the elderly driver.  Said that they didn’t have time for the comfort stop, let alone to consume their lunch.  Seeing they occupied the three rear seats, he reluctantly agreed to allow them to dine on their poor man’s caviar and French wine if they promised “to bus the bus before they leave the bus.”  His eyes twinkled after he said that – I truly believe he had used that one before.   Maybe to the slogan “safe, reliable, courteous” they should add “bad jokester?”
Back in Fairchild, my mother was pondering what she should fix for “The Second Turkey Day.”  Maybe she could get by with something simple, as last week she really outdid herself, preparing the biggest spread the family had enjoyed since before the Depression.  My  mother’s mother had been alerted that this could be the day as the same pains were developing that had developed those six times previously.  (I was child number seven).  Maybe we could have the get-together over at Gram’s house, it would sure make things easier.

Mother had heard the gossip concerning her cousin Nellie, how she had insisted on traveling when her time was so close, and worse yet, she was going to sit outside for three hours on a cold bleacher seat during inclement weather.  Those ball players were crazy, and her husband the worst of all.  He needed a brain implant as it was indeed obvious that he didn’t have one of his own.  How could he allow such a thing to happen?

Thanksgiving II dawned cold, spooky gray, dismal, and dreary.  The overcast was so low and thick that the only way even the old self-made weathermen could tell when dawn actually occurred was by consulting their watches and the Farmer’s Almanac.  WGB Radio in downtown Green Bay was predicting nasty conditions for game time, snow and plenty of it, driven by winds of 25 MPH and upward.  A true blizzard with accumulation of 20 inches or more.  Would the fans show up?  Would the game go on as scheduled?

Game time came and no sign of any wind or snow.  Optimism swept over the half filled stadium.  The Lions won the toss and on the opening kickoff return, their star right halfback Edmundson was nailed by Nails, causing a fumble.  Bedlam broke loose on the Packer side of the field; they had the ball on the Detroit 12 yard line.  At the same instant Nellie had a pain that said it won’t be long now and she announced it to all present by a blood curdling scream, soon to be swallowed up by the riotous mayhem all around her.  Midway into the first quarter the labor pains were five minutes apart and closing on zero, fast.  The Pack was ahead seven to zip.  The snow began falling, a token of large flakes began cascading down upon the bleachers and the playing field.  Nail’s kids started catching the lazier of the flakes on their tongues.  Eddy’s wife, Cora, while watching them remembered an incident from many, many years past when she and her ten year old brother were doing the same.  He had poked her jokingly in the ribs and giggling like a girl, said something like “I hope all the birds have migrated south!”

Lion’s ball, pass play.  Just as quarterback Jed Harlowe released the bomb, it was intercepted by a gust of wind that was so strong that the pigskin ended up in the bleachers one row behind Eddy Killenspiel.  Immediately it became a whiteout as the horizontal winds swirled and whirled the white stuff with abandon, chilling cheeks, numbing fingers and toes.  The storm grew relentless.  The labor pains grew stronger and more frequent.  Droves of people plunged off of the bleachers and en masse headed for the exits and the shelter of their automobiles.  Luckily, the kids were bundled with their winter’s best.  Nellie started to cry, which was a terrible mistake.  Her family crowded around her, trying to help shield her from the storm.  Mercifully, Nails appeared and led her and the rest of his tribe, slipping and stumbling, mostly forward.   He used the bottom row of bleachers as a guide, heading for Green Bay’s locker room now a hundred feet away.  The wind ceased for a short minute, enabling Nails to get the outer door open and his freezing herd inside.

The team’s physician, Dr. Oglesbee, was inside his office.  Nails and Nellie soon would be, too.  She clung to him, sobbing, the new tears running down her frozen face, almost forming icicles.  The good Doctor wagged his head in disbelief.  With the family outside his door, still shivering and praying, Nails Junior was born 10 minutes later.  He was the first baby to be born there at East City Stadium, and as far as I know, the only one.  Nails’ jersey, with the number 34 on it, was his first blanket.

I was born the next day, in Fairchild, at 2PM, in Grandma’s house.  My arrival had delayed and disrupted the festivities, postponing the consumption of the yesterday’s leftovers until after 6PM on that “We are so thankful Friday.”  Junior and I, what a team!  Never did hear if the Packers and the Lions ever finished that game