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Editor's Notebook

(by Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor - February 01, 2012)

Exploring the dead end (Feb. 1, 2012)

All streets lead somewhere, which is the adventure and attraction of them.

Even "dead ends" lead some place and such an ill named destination could have a fascination all its own if one wants to explore it.

Up until I was 5-years-old, my family lived in a post World War II era house on the end of a "court." (Courts are often referred to as cul-de-sacs nowadays.) The only traffic on the street was generated by the people who lived there, so cars moving about were few and far between.

The court had a short, straight right-of-way that lead to a semi-circular turnaround "court" at the top. From the air the street must look like a keyhole.

When I was five, our small yard, a short sidewalk on a hill beside the house and the court in front of our home were the world as I knew it.

I would wheel out my green tricycle, my prized possession at the time, and whip up and down the sidewalk, all the time narrowly avoiding crashing into the utility pole at the bottom of the hill.

When the the sidewalk, along with its every crack and pockmark, lost its allure, I would turn the tricycle to the court and circle its crumbly pavement along the curb.

Pedaling into the territory of the court it seemed I was miles from home, though the court was probably no more than 30 yards wide.

From my vantage point of the court I could see the neighbors' houses and front yards up close and realize they weren't much different than mine. In 1960 this was a relatively new neighborhood, so most of the yards had silver maple trees, a fast growing tree that could provide shade in the summer and color in the fall in a short number of years. The houses all had big picture windows in the living rooms that were like a big eye looking back at you.

I had only ever been in one of these houses and remember that the people who lived there had small, green turtles as pets. We kids were admonished not to touch the turtles because their shells had salmonella on them and it would make us ill. It sounded dangerous and exotic and made that house seem special. To this day when I see this house I think of the killer turtles.

During the day, most people were at work and the older kids were at school, so the court had a bit of a ghost town feel to it.  Signs of people, but no one around. Just their things - a garden rake here, a trash can there, a colorful swing set out back.

There were dogs, though, in the backyards frantically jumping and barking from behind fences or straining at chains by their dog houses as I rode by,  no doubt wishing they were as free as me.

Circling around, I would eventually come to the point where the court met the straight right-of-way leading up to it. This seemed like a vast expanse without a curb for the tricycle to hug. I would pedal across as fast as I could, the tricycle's hard rubber solid tires bouncing over cracks and bits of gravel.

Once on the other side, I had a feeling of satisfaction at conquering the space of the court.

I had gone full circle and my reward for the small adventure was in sight - home.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 1, 2012

The garden of eatin' (Jan. 26, 2012)

Walking around in my backyard this drab, damp January I found myself standing where we once tended a large garden.

The now grass covered spot is slightly lower than the rest of the yard from years of tilling and digging.

It was a bountiful garden in its heyday producing sweet corn, pumpkins, green peppers, carrots, radishes, tomatoes and mint.

We once had two pumpkins that weighed in at more than 100 pounds. We gave up on the radishes because the soil did not suit them and the little devils were not a bit tasty. The fresh sweet corn was always an August treat. I can recall one year the green pepper plants kept producing wonderful peppers deep into November in defiance of the coming winter.

The garden was a lot of work, but the great vegetables it produced was worth it.

But, after a few years, the manner and pace of life changed. The decision was made to abandon the garden. I gave away the roto-tiller, stashed the bunny fences in the basement and sowed grass seed in the garden plot.

Now my memories of the colorful garden brighten this gray winter's day.

Perhaps your thoughts are drifting to seed and soil at this time of year, too. But, maybe your yard isn't suited to having a vegetable garden, or maybe you feel you do not know enough to get started. If so, I recommend you look into participating in the community garden the city of Groveport hopes to have in place for planting in this spring.

Additionally, Joe Stewart, vice chair of the Community Garden Committee, will teach participants the ins and outs of gardening. Topics include: All you need to know about the new Groveport Community Garden, soil preparation, planting orientation, concepts of square foot gardening vs. traditional row planting, buying or starting from seed, early crops, tools, organic fertilization, pest management, weed/composting perennial and annual weeds and more. This class is open to anyone interested in gardening. Groveport residents and non-residents are welcome. Classes will be from 7-8 p.m. on Feb. 23 and March 15 at the Groveport Recreation Center, 7370 Groveport Road. Register at the recreation center. Cost is $5. For information call (614) 836-1000.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 26, 2012

Fifty years ago (Jan. 17, 2012)

For those of us over age 50, 1962 does not seem like that long ago.

But, then I think back to when I was 20-years-old in 1975. At that age, if I looked back 50 years to 1925, and it would have seemed like ancient history. It's all perspective.

We have a tendency in our daily lives to go along and think things don't change all that much through the years. But they do. It sneaks up on us and when we start remembering we see nothing but changes.

Here's some things I can recall about the area as it was in 1962 and how it's changed in the past 50 years:

•The large North Grain Company building once towered along the railroad tracks in Groveport.

•The high school in Canal Winchester was on Washington Street and they played basketball on the stage in what is now the Oley Speaks Auditorium. It had a great atmosphere.

•Groveport Madison High School was on Main Street in Groveport. (Now the junior high).

•A Madison Township fire station stood on College Street in Groveport. Every day at noon the siren would sound.

•There were gas stations in downtown Canal Winchester and Groveport. From the Groveport Elementary school playground across the street we could hear the "ding-ding" of cars rolling over the hose at the Sunoco station that let the employees there know they had a customer.

•A farm implement business sold Allis-Chalmer tractors at a store at Main Street and Brook Alley in Groveport. I liked to stop and look at the bright orange, brawny tractors as I went to and from school.

•Traffic used to be able to drive over the covered bridge spanning Walnut Creek in Canal Winchester.

•The then brand new Groveport swimming pool was on Hendron Road.

•There were once big trees that formed a leafy canopy over Groveport's Main Street.

•Older folks back then used to refer to Winchester Pike as "Old 33."

•The Canal Winchester Town Hall building was a bank.

•Gender Road was a two lane country road.

•State Route 317 did not exist.

•Freight trains frequently rumbled through Groveport, Canal Winchester and the Madison Township countryside.

•The bridges over the area's creeks were  made of steel (or iron) girders. The muscular looking bridges seemed to gracefully leap over the streams.

People and businesses have come and gone. Fields have been developed into neighborhoods and industrial parks. These are just a few of the changes.

What can you recall?

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 17, 2012

Comment from Kay: I came here with a husband stationed at Lockbourne (now Rickenbacker)to a house on Main St.(Owned by Rohrs) and there was a big two story house near the railroad tracks (made into two apts), bought my groceries at the IGA on Main St., the post office was on College/Cherry, St. Marys church was on Front/Blacklick, Methodist Parsonage was on Front St.,Fire and Police on College. My first invitation to church was the Baptist church on Groveport Rd. but a neighbor later invited me to the Methodist church which I soon joined (having always been a Methodist!) and I'm still there!  Great stories Rick.  

Madison Township's history (Jan. 12, 2012)

Esau Decker walked to southeastern Franklin County from the Shenandoah Valley in 1805.

Legend has it Decker cut a willow cane in Virginia to use as a walking stick and, that when he arrived on his new Ohio land in what would become Madison Township, he stuck the cane in the ground to mark his property. Decker then returned to Virginia to retrieve his family. The next year the Deckers discovered that the willow cane had taken root and was growing!

For much of its history, Madison Township was known as the "garden spot of Franklin County" because of its fertile agricultural lands. The township is named for James Madison, one of the country's "Founding Fathers" who owned land in the area. Madison Township, when it was first established, was also the largest township in Franklin County by square mileage.

Now more than 200-years-old, the township has not only been a place where crops have grown in abundance, but also where the towns of Canal Winchester and Groveport flourished and where schools and industries blossomed.

You can see photos and artifacts documenting Madison Township's history in an exhibit through Jan. 30 at Groveport Town Hall/Groveport Heritage Museum, 648 Main St. Admission is free. Hours are Monday through Saturday from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. and Sunday noon to 6 p.m.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 12, 2012

Going to London in the days of the old Mid-Eight (Jan. 4, 2012)

News that London and Madison-Plains high schools might soon join the Mid-State League brought back memories for me of when London was a member of the Mid-Eight League from the late 1950s until the league's demise in the early 1970s.

Groveport was a member of the Mid-Eight League during that time. As a former basketball player and a 1974 graduate of Groveport Madison High School, I can remember the trips we made to London for basketball and football games.

The schools in the Mid-Eight were primarily farming communities scattered across Franklin, Madison and Union counties (and even Champaign County in the league's last years). This made for lots of long road trips. It was a good, competitive league, and it seemed like every team match-up was a rivalry.

The long trips from Groveport to London and Marysville were an adventure for me as a kid growing up in the 1960s. To get to London, we piled into the car and wheeled down London-Groveport Road (State Route 665). I can remember thinking that, though the towns were far apart, it was kind of cool they were linked by this old country road in both name and asphalt.

The old London football field, Von Kanel Field, was unlike any other high school football stadium we visited in those years. I can recall walking through an area of silos to reach the field. There was also the railroad tracks that went right by the stadium, and more than once a train would clatter by as a game was being played. During one game, in the late 1960s, I can remember an extra point being kicked through the goal posts, with the football flying over the fence and landing in an open boxcar of a passing train! I'm hoping someone else can remember seeing this.

The coldest I've ever felt in my life was at a football game late in the season at London. (That's saying something because I once worked on a masonry crew outside during the blizzard of 1977.) It was bitterly cold with a pelting rain that night in London. It felt as though my blood was about to freeze solid. On the long ride home I wedged my numb toes into the car heater vent to warm them up. They didn't start to get warm until we got home.

I loved going to the old London High School gym, both as a spectator as an elementary school kid and as a player in my high school years. It had that wonderful feel and energy that old gyms have with the fans in the bleachers seemingly right on top of you. That old gym could get loud as the cheers of the fans reverberated off the nearby walls.

I'm relying on memories that are over 38 years old, so forgive me if my recollections of this great old gym are a little foggy. I can recall an elegant, auditorium stage at one end of the gym and a small section of tiered, theater-like seating surrounded by railings at the opposite end of the gym. I thought this was so classy. I seem to remember windows high on the walls that let in natural light. Best of all, the basketball floor was made of rich, old wood that felt good under my feet and gave a true bounce to the ball.

Today the schools, stadiums and gyms are bigger with all the modern amenities. I'm sure today's students will have their own fond memories of these places once they hit middle age.

The old gyms and football fields may have been small, but they had a majesty and intimacy all their own.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 4, 2012

Two wheeled freedom (Dec. 27, 2011)

A bicycle meant freedom to a 10-year-old  growing up in Groveport in the 1960s.

Once you had those two wheels under you, every street, alley, dirt path and open lot was yours to explore.

Nearly every kid had some kind of bike back then, but it was rare anyone ever had a new bicycle because bikes were an expensive luxury. Most of the kids had old hand-me-down bikes or bikes built out of a conglomeration of the spare parts of several other bikes. No one complained because all that mattered was that you had a bike.

I had a hand-me-down. It was my aunt's old 1950s blue Schwinn. It had a big, heavy frame and fat wheels. It had a seat that would  often flip out of place when you hit a bump.

I, and the neighborhood kids, called my bike "The Camel" because of the way the seat stuck up like a hump. I didn't care that it was a "girl's bike" because it was better than no bike at all. It also had a lot of pluses. Another kid could easily ride as a passenger on the broad, thick handlebars. I could wedge my basketball into the dip in the frame in front of the seat so I didn't have to carry the ball when I rode to the basketball courts. The fat wheels shrugged off broken glass and could take a pounding going over curbs and splashing through muddy potholes.

Many of the town kids rode their bikes to elementary school no matter the weather - hot or cold; dry or wet. When it snowed you could see the meandering bike tracks left in the snow where the pedalers slipped and plowed through the mush.

We'd park our bikes in the metal racks behind Groveport Elementary (unlocked because no one even thought about someone stealing a bike from the racks, it just was not done). What a hodgepodge of bikes they were, too: banana bikes, ancient bikes, piecemeal bikes, rusty bikes, bikes with wobbly wheels, bikes with out of line handlebars, bikes with bald tires, bikes with no fenders and the occasional shiny new bike.

After school the Safety Patrol and teachers made you walk your bike off the school grounds. Once you were an inch off the school property you hopped on the bike and took off as fast as you could to put the rules of school behind you for the day. Sometimes a kid would break away from the sidewalk  leading from the school and barrel down across the playground to Wirt Road on his bike to escape the rule enforcing authorities.

Two wheels and the road. Freedom.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 27, 2011

How our farming ancestors put meat on the table (Dec. 14, 2011)

When winter arrived for Ohio farm families in the 1880s, they knew it was time to lay in their store of meat for the coming year. However, they did not go to the supermarket like we do today.

On Dec. 10-11, the staff and volunteers at Metro Parks' Slate Run Living Historical Farm, located at 1375 State Route 674 N. near Canal Winchester, gave a demonstration of how 19th century farm families obtained their meat by using their butchering skills on their raised livestock.

Because they did not have refrigerators or freezers, pioneer farm families did their meat butchering during the cold of winter to help reduce the risk of spoilage.

Slate Run Living Historical Farm workers and volunteers carefully prepared a Poland China hog raised on the farm for butchering. Poland China hogs are a breed that was developed in southwestern Ohio in the 1800s. The breed is known for its fast growth and its extra fat, which could be used for lard, according to information provided by Slate Run Living Historical Farm.

After the hog was killed in a quick and humane manner out of public view, the carcass was scalded with hot water and scraped to remove the hair. The carcass was allowed to cool overnight in the chilled air of winter and then hung in a shed near the farmhouse to be gutted.

As a crowd of visitors looked upon this scene of the cycle of life on this cold, but sunny, December day, the workers methodically sliced open the carcass and removed the organs.

According to information provided by Slate Run Living Historical Farm, the highly perishable parts, such as the liver and kidneys would be cooked and eaten while fresh.

"We'll use this in sausage," said Slate Run Living Historical Farm worker Mike Huels as he cleaned the hog heart.

Huels said the organs are examined for a rich color and texture to make sure they would be good for eating.

"Livers from older animals often aren't as good," said Huels.

The workers next cut the carcass into hams, chops, bacon, jowls, hocks and shoulders.

"When you're eating meat, you're primarily eating muscle," one of the workers told the crowd.

Once removed, the meat is then salted in brine for two months to cure and preserve it and then smoked in the smokehouse for one week. The smoke - generated from hardwoods like hickory, oak, maple and apple trees - dries, flavors and preserves the meat. Meat prepared properly in this manner would then be wrapped and could be stored for months without refrigeration.

Additionally, pork chops and sausage were packed in crocks and covered with lard to help preserve them.

Nothing was wasted as the lard from the hog was collected to be used as cooking oil, in soap making and for lubrication. Other parts of the hog were salvaged to make pickled pig's feet and head cheese.

The demonstration showed how the cycle of life plays out on the farm and how families and farm communities combined their efforts to ensure their survival.

For information about Slate Run Living Historical Farm, call (614) 833-1880 or visit www.metroparks.net.

Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 14, 2011

 Comment from Kay: This blog sure brought back some memories!  A few months after I married at age 19 - my husband's family butchered a hog. I grew up in the country but had never witnessed such an event. It went exactly as you described and my wonderful mother-in-law (now aged 99!!)canned sausage and bacon (seems like something else that I can't remember). Thanks for the memories. 

The Groveport home front during World War II (Dec. 7, 2011)

Today is the 70th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, which led to America's entry in to World War II.

The anniversary of Pearl Harbor prompted me to take a look back at some of the ways the residents of Groveport helped out on the home front during the war.

Residents willingly followed the war time rules regarding the rationing of sugar, gasoline and rubber to support the war effort.

Early in 1942, Groveport Village Council enacted rules for periodic blackout and air raid drills.

Women who completed a Red Cross training course in first aid formed an "emergency unit" in town and established a station in the basement of the Methodist Church.

In 1942, the Groveport Lions Club served 43 soldiers, who were stationed at nearby Lockbourne Air Base, a chicken dinner at Groveport Town Hall.

A sale of war bonds at a Groveport Madison High School football game in 1943 raised $3,050 for the war effort.

These are just a few of the efforts that took place in town throughout the long years of the war. They are actions that show a community pulling together for the common good during a time of sacrifice.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 7, 2011

The people's building (Nov. 30, 2011)

By the mid-to-late 19th century, small towns in Ohio were blossoming and eager to show the rest of the world that they were vibrant, successful, growing places.

One way for these towns to accomplish this in a big way was to build a large public hall downtown that included an auditorium, offices, meeting rooms and often some rented retail space to help pay for the building.

These public halls embodied several facets of community life all in one structure by creating a venue for cultural activities like concerts, lectures, and plays; public meeting rooms for political debates; business space; and government offices. Prior to the existence of these public halls, only the town's churches, which tended to be small, provided a gathering space for people. The public halls provided a place where everyone could meet and share in the community experience.

The structures can be considered the first modern public buildings most towns built as the builders used the state of the art construction ideas and materials of the late 19th century. The buildings were designed with the forward thinking mindset that the halls would be used for their intended purposes for decades to come.

Drive around Ohio today and you'll see many of these buildings still standing and in full use. The brick halls often look similar because they incorporated the most popular architectural design of the era - High Victorian Italianate. It's a design that is elegant, yet simple in its look.

Groveport Town Hall is an example of such a hall. Built for a little less than $11,000 in 1876, the building is still being used today in much the same manner as it was more than a century ago as it provides a home for concerts, plays, an art gallery and museum, government offices, and public meeting rooms for both social and civic gatherings.

Take some time to wander through Groveport Town Hall and enjoy its architecture and its offerings.

Remember, it's the people's building.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 30, 2011

Ligntning flash (Nov. 23, 2011)

It was a lightning flash and thunderclap unlike any I'd ever seen and heard before.

Early Tuesday morning, while driving to work along I-270 on the south end during a downpour, a ball of white light flashed quickly in the murky northwestern sky. It was so bright that it made the morning darkness seem bathed in daylight for an instant.

Unlike the crooked, elongated lightning bolts that stretch across the sky that I've seen all my life, this one was shaped like a ball. It seemed like a bomb exploded when it unleashed its power.

The sharp thunderclap that followed, and it came swiftly after the flash, was so loud  and forceful that it shook the car and made the radio temporarily fuzz out.

It was one of those take your breath away moments when one realizes all our words and deeds mean nothing when compared to the forces of nature.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 23, 2011

Groveport's first election (Nov. 16, 2011)

The recent election got me to thinking about the first official election in the town of Groveport.

That election took place April 17, 1847 with 62 men (only adult men could vote in those days) casting votes.

Groveport officially incorporated as a village in March, 1847. Prior to that it existed as two smaller towns - Wert's Grove and Rarey's Port - situated side-by-side separated only by what is now College Street. Those two unincorporated towns were loosely organized and did not hold elections.

Once the two towns combined under the name of Groveport in 1847, it was time to hold official elections.

It's interesting that William Rarey and Jacob Wert - the founders of Rarey's Port and Wert's Grove - were not candidates for elected office in the new town. Speculation is that the citizenry of the time had tired of the ongoing conflict between the two men   over who had established the most prominent town. Citizens put a stop to the conflict and confusion when they combined the town under one name and selected different people to run things.

Abraham Shoemaker was elected the first mayor of Groveport. Dr. Abel Clark, who came up with the name "Groveport," was elected town clerk. The first village council members were J. P. Bywaters, E. M. Dutton, William Mitchell, Samuel Sharpe and C. J. Stevenson. The first council meeting was held April 29, 1847 in Shoemaker's fine brick home on Cherry Street as the town did not yet have a municipal building  and Groveport Town Hall would not be built until 1876.

The ordinances approved at that first council meeting included: making it illegal to block or obstruct any street or alley; requiring people owning property on Main Street to build gravel sidewalks along the street; making it illegal to race horses, fight, brawl, quarrel, shoot guns or pistols, or otherwise disturb the peace within village limits; and appointing a marshal.

The structure of the town government was different in those days. Elected officials served two year terms. Today they serve for four years. Council was made up of only five members back then while nowadays council has six members.

The council meeting minutes from those early days were handwritten in flowing script in large books, which are still on file in the municipal building. These old books are portals in time that provide insight into the decision making of the town's past leaders.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 16, 2011

The old time economy (Nov. 9, 2011)

Upon looking at a listing of occupations of people living in the 19th century in Groveport and Canal Winchester, I was struck by the variety of jobs as well as how  each of these towns, made up of a few hundred people, provided enough customers for folks to make a living.

There were cigar makers, cobblers, grocers, dry goods clerks, blacksmiths, canal boat builders, grain elevator operators, millers, warehouses, slaughterhouse workers, saloonkeepers, school teachers, tailors, restaurant operators, druggists, stable hands, hardware and farm implement dealers, newspaper publishers, bakers, bricklayers, undertakers, bankers, barbers and many more working in the two towns.

The customer base consisted of people living in Groveport and Canal Winchester and the farmers in the surrounding Madison Township area. The population steadily grew in the 19th century, but still, it was not a lot of people.

So how did this relatively small group of people support such a varied local economy?

People most likely lived more simply and purchased and used what they needed with only an occasional extravagance. The businesses filled this practical need.

Also, people did not often travel to distant places. Going to Columbus was a long journey at the time by horse and wagon over rough roads. They stuck closer to home and were more likely to buy things from their local businesses.

Another thing to consider is that the community was small enough that most everyone knew each other. They were comfortable doing business with their friends and neighbors.

I think in these modern times we can learn from our ancestors' example. Instead of driving miles and miles away to shop or purchase services, consider stopping by the local store or using the local tradesman. Even if it costs a little more at times, such an approach would serve to further strengthen community bonds and bolster the local economy.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 9, 2011

The last days of the canal (Nov. 3, 2011)

The opening of the Ohio and Erie Canal in Rarey's Port and Wert's Grove in 1831 was greeted with great fanfare and the knowledge the manmade waterway would make the area prosper.

The canal did its job as the two little side-by-side towns eventually grew and merged into Groveport in 1847. Business thrived along the canal and the population steadily increased. The canal was the town's lifeline.

However, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the railroad and improved roads siphoned commerce away from the canal. As boat traffic diminished, the old waterway slipped into disrepair and became an afterthought.

By the 1890s only the brickyard on the south edge of town regularly shipped products on the canal freight boats. By that time, canal boatmen had to contend with channels clogged with sand bars and towpaths overgrown with weeds and brush.

Not only the canal channel suffered from a lack of maintenance. The iron turn bridge on Main Street spanning the canal became unbalanced, due to years of wear and tear, making it necessary for five or six men (normally it was a one man job) to turn the bridge to allow boats to pass.

Nearly 100 years ago, the now defunct "Ohio State Journal" newspaper reported this account of one of the last canal boat trips out of Groveport: Boat Captain Cal "Red Oak" Claffey, with crew members Ed "Canary" Andrews and Charles Lytle, embarked with a shipment of bricks from the brickyard in Groveport and headed south to Yellow Bud. Sand bars plagued the crew and they had to frequently break out the block-and-tackle to move the boat along with the aid of their straining tow horses. The round trip took five and a half days, nearly twice as long as it took  when the canal was in good repair in its heyday. When they returned to Groveport, Claffey tied the boat to the dock and never took it out again.

The canal boat trade in town ceased in the early 1900s and by then people primarily used its waters for fishing and ice skating. A makeshift foot bridge was built  between Walnut and Oak streets. In the years prior to World War I the canal was drained and parts of its channel became a dumping ground for trash.

You can still see parts of the canal in Groveport, particularly in the city's Blacklick Park and at the preserved canal lock #22, where the channel is in good shape and well defined on the landscape. Stop by and look into the past.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 3, 2011

Shadow train (a Halloween story) (Oct. 26, 2011)

He  began to hear the forlorn sound once autumn gathered and early dusk draped the landscape.

It was the distant rumbling of a train coming through the small midwest town, a sound familiar, yet different. Along with it came the notes of a train whistle, not the modern tone of a diesel train horn, but the warm, wet sound of a steam locomotive.

These sounds were faint at first, but as October grew old and the jack-o'-lanterns grimaced in the night, the train's music became clearer and distinct.

He wanted to see this train. One night when he heard the sound of the train approaching he walked through the quiet neighborhoods to the railroad tracks at the north edge of town. No one else was about. No one seemed curious about the train.

At the tracks, he scuffed the rocks with his feet near where the now demolished railroad depot once stood and looked to the east for the train. Soon the soft glow of the locomotive's headlamp formed through the darkness and the whistle gave a short burst. He could see the train begin to take a billowy shape in the shadows. Steam released from the locomotive and as the train slowed - with its coal car, passenger car, and caboose in tow - it became fully formed before him.

As the train stopped, the rocks beneath his feet became the paved bricks of a railroad platform. He turned around to see the long gone depot now standing behind him. A lone coal oil lamp flickered in the depot window, lit by an unseen hand.

He looked around in the night. The grain elevators and mills that had been torn down stood tall again. The old brick warehouse across the tracks loomed with its windows intact and its signage freshly painted. He looked at his hands and saw they were the hands he knew as a young man, without scars and with fingers straight and unbroken by accidents yet to come. All that was old seemed new again.

He breathed deeply and the air filling his lungs was fresh and cool. He looked back to the train. The locomotive puffed. A bell clanged. Faintly came the call from an unseen mouth of, "All aboard!" A door creaked open on the passenger car.

He walked to the car, paused to look at the beckoning rails, and stepped in. The train began to roll slowly to the west, becoming a wispy shadow before it disappeared in the darkness.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 26, 2011

Remembering the Elmont Hotel (Oct. 19, 2011)

A grand structure once graced Groveport's Main Street for nearly 90 years where Groveport Madison Junior High now stands.

Known for most of its life as the Elmont Hotel, the 25 room Renaissance Revival mansion was originally called Cedarlawn because of the large cedar trees in its yard. Built in 1862 by renowned horse trainer John S. Rarey at a cost of $23,000, it was home to Rarey and his famous horse Cruiser.

In the early 20th century Cedarlawn became the Elmont Hotel. The elegant building featured black marble mantel pieces, a handsome dining room and a large ballroom with a cherry wood floor that was kept smooth by sanding it with finely ground glass.

The Elmont was a social showplace as it hosted weddings, formal dinners and dances. Fraternities and sororities from The Ohio State University and Capital University often held dances there with students arriving in Groveport on special interurban traction line charters.

Situated on the grounds around the Elmont were several small cottages visitors from Columbus rented in the hot Ohio summers to escape the heat of the city. When the Elmont was torn down, many of these cottages were moved to other parts of town and still stand today as private residences.

By the late 1940s the grand old hotel began to deteriorate. Its owner found it more and more costly to maintain.

Around that time the Groveport Madison school district's student population was growing and school officials were looking for a site to build a new school. The Elmont sat beside Groveport School (now Groveport Elementary), on a site that was a convenient and logical spot for a new school. By building the school there, the elementary and high school students could share a common cafeteria and gymnasium as well as outdoor athletic and playground facilities. The new building also alleviated the crowding at Groveport School, which housed all 12 grades at the time.

The school district bought the 8.33 acre Elmont property for $21,000, tore it down and erected what was then Groveport Madison High School.

No organized effort arose to save the building. Prior to its demolition in 1950, Groveport Madison students toured the historic building to get a last look at the once fabulous mansion that was home to John S. Rarey.

The building, which was rich in Groveport history and had been the site of much social and community activity in town, is now just a memory.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 19, 2011

Autumn almanac (Oct. 12, 2011)

Thoughts of autumn:

•As I drove to work on a recent morning, a yellow full moon hung low in the western sky. Wispy clouds and a silhouette of bare tree branches crossed its face. As I crossed the bridge over Big Walnut Creek, I thought of the "Headless Horseman" and glanced in the rear view mirror to make sure the literary phantom was not riding up from behind about to hurl his head at me.

•My favorite type of pumpkin is the kind that is the shape and size of a basketball.

•I used to grow pumpkins and one year, out of the blue, my patch produced a massive pumpkin that weighed in at well over 100 pounds. I made a monstrous jack-o-lantern out of it. When cutting the face I found that the pumpkin's hull was several inches thick. I carved an appropriate scowl (I believe jack-o-lanterns should have frightening faces) into its hull and rolled it onto the front porch. It was a mighty pumpkin. It took weeks and weeks for it to decompose.

•I don't like how baseball has playoffs that go on and on into November. It makes no sense for a warm weather sport to pretend it is suited to the cold and gray. I prefer the days when the World Series was played in the golden warmth of early October afternoons.

•All Halloween costumes should be scary. I mean, we're trying to scare off demons here people!

•I like how the goldenrod in the fields is the same yellow color as the pages in the old writing tablets I used in elementary school.

•I miss burning the piles of fallen leaves. I don't have much of a sense of smell, so it's not the aroma of burning leaves I miss. What I liked was the communal aspect of neighbors leaning on their rakes and talking while standing around a slowly burning pile of leaves, watching as the embers of leaves illuminated a cool evening as the sun set.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 12, 2011

Wet or dry in Groveport (Oct. 5, 2011)

The PBS television documentary, "Prohibition," by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick, explores how and why America instituted the prohibition of alcohol for a time in the early 20th century. It also chronicles why the effort failed.

The battle between the "wet" (pro-alcohol) and "dry" (anti-alcohol) forces was a national societal confrontation, but it also played out locally in Groveport in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

Alcohol was a strong presence on the Ohio frontier.  Early in the 19th century excess grain that could not be shipped to markets due to poor transportation systems was converted to whiskey and sold locally. Liquor was thought by some to have medicinal properties that fended off chills and eased aches.

Reformers were quick to point out the ill effects of alcohol on health and the public order. By the mid-19th century these reformers organized into social and political groups, such as the Women's Christian Temperance Union, the Sons of Temperance and the Anti-Saloon League. These groups aggressively sought to outlaw the sale of alcohol.

From 1850 to 1910 temperance advocates petitioned Groveport village council to ban or regulate alcohol sales in town nearly a dozen times. Not an easy task in a rough and ready canal town like Groveport, a place where you could dock your canal boat and walk up a plank to the nearest saloon without even touching the ground.

The dry coalition succeeded often in banning alcohol, but then the wet faction fought back and within a short period of time the alcohol prohibition ordinance would be repealed.

The most notable wet/dry conflict occurred in 1895. In February of that year, Reverend Prior presented a petition signed  by 92 male citizens to council requesting the prohibition of alcohol. A friendly council unanimously placed the liquor option on the April ballot. Temperance workers campaigned heavily for dry council candidates and the liquor prohibition. The week before the election they held five meetings in Groveport Town Hall inviting ministers from throughout Franklin County to speak in their favor.

The liquor option prohibiting alcohol passed 178-84 and a dry council was elected. It was said the village had gone "dry with a vengeance."

A week later closing notices were posted on Bornstine's Saloon and Miller's Saloon. However, saloonkeeper Milton Miller defied the ordinance and continued operating. The village fined Miller three times, a total of $360. A hefty sum in those days.

By the fall of 1895 the wet forces regrouped and presented a petition signed by 100 male citizens requesting a repeal of the alcohol prohibition. The dry council rejected it.

Miller then sued the village. Franklin County Common Pleas Judge Badger found the village's alcohol prohibition law illegal on technicalities and overturned it. It was reported Badger smiled when delivering his decision.

The village government vowed to fight all the way to the Supreme Court, but its passion for prohibition waned as legal fees mounted.

Miller won his case and the alcohol continued to flow. Groveport citizens elected a wet council at the next election.

Temperance forces seemingly had the last word when national prohibition arrived in the 1920s, but that, too, would not last.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 5, 2011

Apple Butter Day is different  (Sept. 28, 2011)

The people of small towns love their local festivals. They bring a sense of identity and sense of place to a community.

Apple Butter Day (to be held Oct. 8 in Groveport) does this, but I think it is also different from other small town festivals because:

•It has the feel of an informal backyard party. In essence, it really is a celebration that takes place in the "backyard" in and around the 1815 era log house in Heritage Park. Backyard parties are gatherings of friends who freely wander in and out of the house and around the grounds while hanging out together. It's comfortable. That's what happens on Apple Butter Day.

•It's ageless. All age groups like Apple Butter Day, from kids to senior citizens. There's something there for everyone.

•It appreciates history and links the present to the past. The festival's setting in Heritage Park physically makes a historical connection with the log house and the neighboring Groveport Cemetery. Our ancestors are in the cemetery and it feels like their spirits are there with us during Apple Butter Day. Also, the historical demonstrations and re-enactors help to make the past tangible to us.

•It's not overly commercial. Sure, people sell things at the festival, but there is no overt advertising. The items and food sold there tend to fit the historical theme and spirit of the event.

•Apple Butter Day lasts for only 8 hours, from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. This small window of time makes us appreciate what the festival has to offer. Less is always more in life.

•It's not garish and loud. Instead, Apple Butter Day is peaceful and plain. It's humble. It's ours.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 28, 2011

Pedal to the past (Sept. 21, 2011)

Three Creeks Metro Park's new 878-foot long, 20-foot high Blacklick Trail bridge spanning U.S. Route 33 not only connects the trail to Pickerington Ponds Metro Park, it also is a connection for my family's past.

I want to explore the trail north of U.S. 33 for a couple of reasons. First, it's a trail I've not been on before so all the natural views and perspectives from its route along Blacklick Creek will be a fresh sight. But mainly I'm excited to ride the trail because part of it winds through an area that was once my family's ancestral farm lands along Shannon Road.

In the 19th century, my great-great grandfather, Tillman Palsgrove, married Sarah Whims, whose family had farmed the land a long while. The land was  passed down to Sarah and her family and Palsgroves lived on and farmed the property for many years.

I have not been able to wander around back in the old farm fields since I was a kid. I'm eager to look at those fields again and see what memories are triggered. Plus, there's an old rural graveyard with some family connections tucked away back in those fields along the creek and it would be nice to see it if it is accessible from the trail. It may not be, but it would be a pleasant personal connection for me even if I could only see the cemetery from a distance.

Granted, much of the area nearby is developed with apartments, condos and homes. But large parts are still open and reflect what the area was like when it was mostly farm land.

So, once the bridge is opened later this month, I'm hopping on my bike to pedal to the past.

(Side note: Metro Parks' "First Over the Bridge" bike, jog or walk event begins at 6 a.m. on Oct. 1 at the Confluence Area at Three Creeks Metro Park, 3860 Bixby Road, Groveport. Participants will walk or ride the three miles to the bridge beginning at 6:30 a.m. and are welcome to continue on an additional 6 miles to Pickerington Ponds Metro Park.)

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 21, 2011

The "grandpa box" (Sept. 14, 2011)

A friend of mine and I do not play video games. Never have. Nothing against the games, and I'm glad other people can enjoy them, but there just was never a desire on our parts to fiddle with them.

We also both still have big old desktop computers, which were described in a recent "Dilbert" comic strip as "grandpa boxes" because these once ever present electronic wonders are being quickly replaced by smaller, sleeker and faster computer devices.

With all this in mind, my friend shared the following story with me (via email of course because who talks on the telephone much these days?):

"Hey Rick, I'm a gamer! Yes, it's true. When I turned on the 'grandpa box' this morning, there was a small spider on the screen. I moved my pointer (cursor) near it and the spider responded to the movement. I found the spider would follow the pointer at a safe distance. It also went faster up the screen than down. So now I've played a computer game!"

Only he and I would find this interplay with a spider on a computer screen more interesting than a fast moving colorful computer game.

His email got me to thinking about my several years old, close to technologically prehistoric Apple eMac desktop computer. When I bought it, the machine was top of the line with its power and abilities, cutting edge in its visual design and ready to take on the cyberworld. Now it's a grandpa box that cannot keep up with the pace of change. Once sleek, it is now thought of as clunky, somewhat like its brethren the old boxy television that is now being pushed aside by flat screen televisions.

The progression of computer technological innovation will only grow faster. The swiftness of my eMac's obsolescence is staggering.

It's odd to think of this 21st century machine as already nearing antique status. What's stranger is that, unlike other old devices from the past that we might hold onto for sentimental reasons or because they can still usefully function, these old grandpa boxes are neither cherished nor of any use once they've been passed by.

So they are easily cast aside. Though we are often in contact with them via the keyboard, there is still an emotional detachment from these computers. The desktop computer's cold and robotic presence is difficult for one to warm up to, unlike the newer hand held computer devices that appear more personal.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 14, 2011

Find the connecting sound (Sept. 7, 2011)

It was a quiet Sunday morning, like most such mornings are in my hometown of Groveport.

I sat on my front steps, listened to the relative stillness and began to wonder if there are any sounds that can be heard in town today that are the same exact sounds heard by people who lived in Groveport more than a century ago.

This became a much more difficult exercise than I expected. Our modern sounds of cars, power lawn mowers, weed whackers, other power tools and the like did not exist back then. The old sounds of horses' hooves clip-clopping down the street, the blacksmith hammering away, and the thud of bricks from the brickyard being loaded onto wooden canal boats are no longer heard. The creaking of the old buggy is gone, replaced by the slamming of a car door.

Trains still roll through town, but the sound of an old steam locomotive and its whistle is different than the sound of today's diesel trains and their horns. People's voices are distinctly unique and those of the long past are now silent. Dogs still bark, but they are not the same dogs who once roved the town and each dog has its own bark, so each "arf" is different.  Even the sound of the wind and rain is special to each day, each storm, so they are not the exact sound that I could share in hearing with Groveport residents of so long ago.

By using most of our senses, we have many links to the past through old structures we can see and touch, in the written record, in photos and drawings, and, most poignantly, in the cemetery. I wondered, could it be is there no audible connection to the people who lived here so long ago? Is there no sound that they once heard that we can still hear today?

Then I heard it. The same exact sound our ancestors heard those many years past. A sound we can still share with them today. A rich, clear, distinct sound floating through the air and through time with its own simple music - the church bells, the ringing sound of the old church bells from down the street.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 7, 2011

Comment from Kay: What a special ending to this story.  Though I've only been here in town for fifty years - its nice to think about my church (the Methodist on Main St.) ringing its bells way back then. Nice story.

Narcissism is not new  (Aug. 31, 2011)

The older generation complaining about the youth of today isn't anything new. Such complaints have been around since the ancient time of the Greek philosopher Socrates, who is purported to have said the youth of his day thought only of themselves, were disrespectful, lazy and tyrannical.

Sound familiar?

That's what parents would often say about Baby Boomers and that's what the Boomers in turn say about their kids.

The accusing term of "narcissist" is frequently hurled at the young, maybe because it is rooted in youth. Narcissus, according to Greek mythology, was a youth who, having spurned the love of Echo, pined away in love for his own image reflected in a pool of water and was eventually transformed into the flower of the same name.

I think both the Baby Boomer generation and the younger generation of today are capable of an immense amount of navel gazing, they just go about it in different ways.

Boomers, by their sheer massive population numbers, have a collective narcissism expressed potently in mass marketing geared to their wants, mass politics reflecting their issues and mass consumerism driving the economy.

What the Boomers wanted, they got as they moved along in the world like a population form of "The Blob" absorbing everything in their path.  Most visibly, mass culture both defined and reflected the Boomers who have the shared experiences of television programs shown on a limited number of stations, record albums, books, movies and fashion.

Boomers were raised in a post World War II era of prosperity, hope and with the thought they could do and be anything they wanted. All this was eased along by the Boomers' Great Depression era parents who wanted their kids to avoid the hardships they had faced.

The youth of today have more of an individual narcissism. Instead of a bulge in the population, their numbers are more spread out so they do not have the mass to pound away at  the culture.

Their individual narcissism is expressed in social media like Facebook, texting and other computer technology. They are prone to openly sharing more private details of their lives in an attempt to be heard as an independent person among the din of the modern world. They seek a culture tailored to them specifically, not to a mass. They achieve this by downloading specific songs rather than albums, having seemingly unlimited television options, not settling for allowing long term jobs define them and demanding that consumer marketing be tailored more to individual needs.

Their individual narcissism is then fed further by Boomer parents imparting an expanded self-esteem to the youth in hopes of making the young feel special in a sea of people.

While the Boomers coalesce around their collective narcissism, the young scatter in their individual narcissism. But both have the same aim that the different forms of narcissism help them to achieve. They all want to be heard and seen in a world where the culture, technology and business move so swiftly that a person can become invisible in the wake of it all.

All anyone really wants is for someone to hear them say, "Here I am. I matter. Don't forget me. Don't discount me."

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 31 2011

The speed of time (Aug. 24, 2011)

Recently on a fine August morning my dad and I sat on my front porch and we both noted that, "Summer seems to go by more quickly every year."

Time exists, but it is a fluid existence  we artificially try to bind with man made imposed measurements to help us wrap our minds around the concept.

Even with these rigidly defined boundaries, the essence of time eludes us. Our exacting measurements are defied by time's relentless ever moving continuity coupled with our varying perceptions of traveling through life at the speed of time.

The accepted notion is that, the older one gets, the faster time seems to flow by. The older we are, the more aware we become of the proportion of the years to the overall perspective of time.

That holds true in most cases. But, as kids, a week can seem like a year to us because, in proportion to the relatively brief time we have been on earth, it seems like a long time. But it's all perception. Even as kids, time can seem to go fast or slow depending on the situation. The weeks prior to Christmas can seem to take forever to a kid, yet the three months of summer vacation from school fly swiftly by.

I would guess high school graduation is when we really began to grasp the rapid passing of time in relation to our lives. The perspective jumps on you as that formal moment, that rite of passage, officially declares you an adult whether you are ready or not. You wonder, where did those first 18 years of life go? You stand there holding your diploma and suddenly feel like an old timer in your still young body. You simultaneously must process the  excitement of a promising future with the melancholy recognition that your youth has melded with the past.

The past is fleeting, but it exists in memory. The future is unknown and may never come. The present is the time that matters most. It need not be measured, only lived.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 24, 2011

A store not just for sick people (Aug. 17, 2011)

"The drug store is no longer merely a sick person's store..."

So read a century old ad I came across for the drug store operated by W. R. Smith in downtown Groveport in the early 20th century.

While boasting the establishment carried a "complete line of drugs and medicines," the ad also mentions the store's soda fountain that stocked "...the purest fruit juices and crushed fruits obtainable. You may find fountains offering greater variety but none that serve better sodas or sundaes."

This being August, as back-to-school time is fast approaching with its many and varied modern supply demands on today's kids, it was interesting to note that Smith's store stocked "tablets, pencils, inks, pens, slates, and erasers" for students in those days.

Additionally the store offered domestic and imported cigars; post cards with "local views, comics, etc." ranging from 1 to 50 cents in price; popular periodicals; toiletries; and "the finest assortment of candy ever offered in Groveport," a box of which could cost from 5 cents to $1.50.

If one had a telephone and wished to call Smith with a question or a special order, the drug store's phone number was "89."

A drug store was first established on Main Street in downtown Groveport in 1876 by John and Frank Rarey. Through the years the ownership passed to Lew Eyman, W.R. Smith, Bob Terry, J.R. Moore, K.H. Ackerman, and finally in 1967 to John Hougland. Hougland would eventually move the store to west Main Street in 1978 where it remained until he retired a few years ago.

One of the nice historical touches Hougland retained during his time of owning the drug store was the old scale where you could weigh yourself for a penny. Each time I went to the store I would step on the scale and drop a penny in its slot. I could hear the coin clink and clank as it tumbled through the machine, it's movement ratcheting the arrow pointer across the numbers on the machine's face so I could get my weight. I liked the scale's simple, mechanical, low tech nature and that, spending a mere penny, connected me to those who had stood on the scale, too, all those many years ago.

Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 17, 2011

Door-to-door (Aug. 10, 2011)

I, like many of you, use the modern wonder of "Caller ID" to screen unwanted telephone solicitation calls.

This works well to avoid hearing rehearsed sales pitches from an unfortunate soul who is working in a call center. I can sympathize with these workers because it's not a job I'd want to do. But sympathy is one thing and maintaining my peace is another so their calls go unanswered.

However, a wrinkle to my avoidance method has arisen. Lately I've noticed an increase in people coming to my door peddling products and services that are normally pushed by phone solicitations. Apparently, since I've denied them access by phone, they are taking a direct personal approach.

The salesmen and saleswomen who appear on my doorstep are usually clean cut, earnest and smiling young people dressed in colorful company shirts and sporting official looking ID cards.

I've noticed that when these sales folk  talk to you in person they make more of an attempt to connect personally. They may remark about the flowers in the yard or talk about how the neighborhood is a nice place.

Though I've always turned down their offers as they stood on my front porch, I kind of admire them for undertaking the old fashioned, in person, door-to-door sales approach. It's one thing to get turned down by an anonymous person over the phone and quite another to be rejected in person. To handle that takes some fortitude.

But I would guess they have more success in these door-to-door visits than over the phone because people generally respond better to a smiling face than to a telephone receiver.

In these mechanized times, a personal connection can mean a lot - be it in business or in making friends.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 10, 2011

Pelotonia is back (Aug. 3, 2011)

On the morning of Aug. 20, thousands of bicyclists will wheel through downtown Groveport as part of the Pelotonia cycling tour.

Pelotonia is a grassroots bicycle tour that raises money to help fight cancer. Cyclists choose one of four rides: 23 miles from Columbus to Groveport; 43 miles from Columbus to Amanda; 102 miles from Columbus to Athens; or 180 miles from Columbus to Athens to Canal Winchester.

Last year people lined Groveport's Main Street in the historic downtown holding banners and shouting words of encouragement to the cyclists as they rode through town. The support is appreciated by the cyclists who ride for long stretches of open countryside along the Pelotonia route where they see no spectators for moral support.

Last year, I heard one cyclist call out to the Groveport crowd, "This is the best town on the whole route." Another rider told the Groveport spectators, "I love your town! It's so pretty!"

The mass of cyclists whirring through town is a sight to see. Some riders wear brightly colored shirts. Some ride as a team. Others ride alone but often tend to bunch up with those pedaling at the same speed. Some have the names of loved ones written on their arms. There's a variety of bicycles to see ranging from racing bicycles to touring bikes to recumbents to tandems. The riders include both men and women of all ages and even a few youths.

They ride for fun. They ride for health. But, most of all, they ride to fight cancer so others may live full lives.

So, if you have a few minutes on the morning of Saturday, Aug. 20, wander over to Groveport's Main Street, or elsewhere along the route, and share a few words of encouragement to the cyclists as they pass by.

For information on Pelotonia, visit pelotonia.org.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 3, 2011

A visit to Walnut Woods (July 27, 2011)

Recently, on a sunny summer day, I got my first look at the newly opened Tall Pines Area of Walnut Woods Metro Park.

The Tall Pines Area, located at 6833  Richardson Road (west side of the road),  Groveport, is the first section of the new park to open. (Official opening dates for the remaining two sections of Walnut Woods - a 90 acre area east of Lithopolis Road and a 478 acre central portion located between Lithopolis and Richardson roads - have not yet been announced.)

I was the lone visitor in the new park at that time of day and the first sensation I noticed was how quiet it was with only the sounds of the birds and a breeze ruffling the trees.

The park is a mixture of woodlands, meadows and small marshy areas. Some of the meadow areas have the feel and look of an old farm pasture that has gone back to the wild.

The conversion of former farm pastures is not the only reclamation taking place in the land of park.

Walking along the path I came upon a tree that was enveloping an old, abandoned utility pole. The pole at one time brought either electricity or a phone line to a now long gone farm house. The trunk of the tree has grown around the utility pole so only the upper portion of the pole is visible, sticking out like a vertical branch from the tree.

A little farther along the path I came upon the gray/white ghost of an old silo rising from the greenery. Though the farm is gone, the silo did not look out of place.

In some of the wooded areas of the park, the tall trees are growing in rows, a result of the days when this land was once a nursery for growing trees.

I like that this new park embraces the various aspects of what the land has been before. It is an example of land that was once wild, then tamed for farming, then further domesticated as a tree nursery, and now returning to its old wild glory. The park displays this by retaining vestiges of the land's past.

Take some time to walk or bike through this new park. It is well worth the visit.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 27, 2011

Old films provide a window in time (July 13, 2011)
Old documentary films enable us to be time travelers.

Last Sunday on television's "60 Minutes" there was a report on a black-and-white film made in 1906 of Market Street in San Francisco. Someone mounted a camera on the front of a trolley car and, as the trolley rolled along Market Street, the camera lens took in the busy streetscape with its cars, wagons, carts, bicycles, newsboys, pedestrians, and store fronts.

The film is a poignant look through the window of time of that city because it was made just days before the massive earthquake in 1906 that devastated San Francisco. The "60 Minutes" report observed that many of the people going about their day in the film were most likely among the thousands disrupted, injured or killed by the earthquake. When the film was made they had no idea what awaited them.

Seeing the film made me think about a black-and-white home movie that is in the Groveport Heritage Museum archives. The nearly 17 minute, 16 mm film, made in 1937, gives a view of what appears to be an early spring day in Groveport as an uncredited camera person wandered around town randomly filming people and places.

Though the Groveport film was made 74 years ago, many of the streets and buildings are familiar to the modern eye. Familiar, but different, as some buildings were remodeled and streets reconstructed. However, watching the film it is unmistakably Groveport unfolding before one's eyes.

The joy of watching the film is the people who appear in its frames. There are happy elderly folks walking down the street, a man joking around with a broom, people patiently smiling for the camera when the lens finds them, business people proudly posed before their stores, children on the school playground,  kids playing baseball and running track, and a long sequence of students pouring out of the main door of Groveport Elementary School. In a very human moment, a happy romantic couple is walking on a sidewalk toward the camera and the girl gives a shy smile as she hugs her boyfriend. These are scenes of people living in the normalcy of their time and place.

The older folks have an air of the 19th century about them in their clothing and demeanor. The younger people are dressed in a more modern, yet plain, style and they appear far more expressive and comfortable with the idea of being filmed.

Plus, nearly everyone wore a hat of some kind.

Like the San Francisco trolley film, this 1937 Groveport film also captured a kind of calm before the storm as, in just four years, the pleasant day to day activities of small town life would be disrupted by World War II.

I know that most of those in the 1937 film are no longer with us. But, by watching the people smile and laugh as they walk down the same sidewalks that we trod upon today, they still seem alive. It's like time from then and now is simultaneous as the film unspools. The film enables the viewer to enter their old world and be part of it for a moment, to put oneself in surroundings that are of a familiar place, but of another time. It's a view that shows a town that belongs to both those of the past and those of today.

(Parts of the 1937 film were incorporated into the Groveport Heritage Society's documentary film, "Groveport: A Town and Its People.")
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 13, 2011

Radio radio (June 29, 2011)
Some people have a television in most of the rooms of their houses. I have radios.

There are four radios in my home, plus one in my car. I tend to have a radio turned on more often than the television, which stares at me blankly with its cycloptic eye wondering why I'm not staring back.

In my youth I was a devoted fan of the Columbus Jet minor league baseball team and would listen to their games over the radio. Baseball seems more suited to radio than television. On television the sport can appear slow and dull. On radio the announcer's call of the game triggers one's own imagination to take over, enabling us to create the scene taking place on the playing field in our own minds.

But mainly I got hooked on radios as a kid as a way to hear rock and roll music. Radio was where the new sounds from exciting bands entered one's ears.

Kids back then carried small transistor radios around with them to hear music the way people now use today's high tech digital devices. The radio would be strapped to a bicycle handlebar, nestled in the grass by the basketball hoop while we played, and anchoring a beach towel at the swimming pool.

To this day I love it when a song I like unexpectedly pours out of the radio speaker. It's a nice surprise to get that we lose out on today with our more modern pre-programmed devices where we know what song is coming and when.

I like the versatility and mobility of radio. These days I can turn on the radio and hear news, weather, nearly every style of music imaginable, talk shows, sports, documentaries, specialty essay style programs like "Moth Radio Hour" and "To the Best of Our Knowledge," and more.

 Plus we're not anchored to the radio like one is with television. Television demands that we sit there and watch what it offers. Radio allows us to move about and do other things while still actively listening to what is coming over the airwaves.

In the car, the radio is a companion reaching out and engaging us during commutes, traffic jams, and long trips.

Radio is an old friend that is always there, be it the happiest of days or the loneliest of nights.

I wonder what's on right now...
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 29, 2011

The gift (June 15, 2011)
One fine day a VW Beetle pulled into my grassy gravel driveway and out popped an old friend of mine carrying a box.

I first got to know her years ago when we were both mired in the cubicle corporate world in a downtown skyscraper. We were both riding in an elevator in that business hive one afternoon when somehow the book, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," came up in conversation. From then on, give or take a few bumps in the road, we were kindred spirits.

Smiling as she walked up my front steps, she handed me the box.

It was heavy and in my unwitty way I asked, "What's in it? A rock?"

"No, why would I hand you a box with a rock in it?" she asked slightly rolling her eyes.

We went in the house and I opened the box to find two volumes of the classic Ohio history by Henry Howe entitled, "Howe's Historical Collections of Ohio."

I gently lifted the old books, which had been handsomely rebound, and thumbed through the yellowed, more than century old pages. This historical work is one of the touchstones for any Ohio historian and I was elated to receive it. I'd been searching for it for years with no success and now it had been handed to me gift wrapped by a thoughtful friend.

A book was the source of our first conversation years ago, books continued to be a source of connection between us in the intervening years when we both attended Antioch University, and now she had graced me with a treasured classic text cementing our bond even further.

The Howe books are a wonderful thing to receive, but the true gift is my old friend.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 15, 2011

The ant battle (June 8, 2011)
In the early morning light, I saw them massing on the sidewalk at the edge of the grass. I knew the signs - an ant battle would soon erupt.

Why had the ants chosen this desolate piece of concrete sidewalk by the grass/gravel driveway to attack one another? It did not seem like valuable ground for ants because no ready food source was nearby to defend or take. Plus, it was a place where giant human footsteps and massive car wheels roamed. Why fight on this ground?

The ants appeared to be of the same type, so it was an ant civil war, so to speak. Why had they turned on each other?

The swarm of ants quickly grew and the battle was on. Ants frantically ripped at one another. In places, three, four, and five ants ganged up and attacked one ant, tearing it to pieces.

To view the swirl of ants was to see ferocity. They spun and bit, crawled and tore, chased and beheaded one another.

I watched for a while. Then left.

The next day, to my surprise, the battle was still on and even bigger than the day before. It covered nearly all of the slab of  desert that was the sidewalk and spilled over into the jungle of the grass. The ants didn't appear to tire and were as aggressive as ever.

A friend of mine once told me if you breathe on an ant battle, it disorients them and they temporarily stop. So I gave it a try in the name of peace. It did seem to distract them, but only for a moment, and then they lunged at each other as fiercely as before.

I saw one ant leaving the scene carrying  the half of a body of a dead ant. Was he carrying it away to eat? Was it a trophy? Was it an ant friend of his he tried to save?

The most intense fighting was in the center of the fray with ant on top of ant. It was a monstrous biting brawl. At the edges of the battle one on one combat was the norm.

Again I walked away marveling at the ants' determination and stamina.

The following morning I found the ant battle had entered day three! The swarm as large as ever and not abating. Now many dead ant bodies could be seen lying about the battle scene. The ants weren't carrying away the carcasses like the day before. The fight was foremost.

What caused this battle? Why was it not waning?

Day four. I visited the scene of the bug carnage. The battle was over. Dead ants everywhere. A few other ants skittered about the site as if they were looking for something, or someone.

Who won? What did they win? Where did they all go?

Day five. The scene of the ant battle was cleared and empty. The dead ant bodies gone. It was as though the ant battle never took place.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 8, 2011

The "Sweet Spot of Irrelevancy" (June 1, 2011)
There are several moments of transition in life.

The first is from baby to toddler when mobility and speech take hold. Then comes changing from being kid to becoming teenager with all of its accompanying angst. Next is the growth from teen to adult with its taste of new found possibilities. Then middle age with its responsibilities and goals. At the end come the senior years of retirement.

But there's an age that comes between middle age and senior life. It's a brief period of time a friend of mine labeled, "The Sweet Spot of Irrelevancy." It's a time period my friend and I inhabit these days.

This is a time when teenagers think you are ancient, middle agers think you are invisible, and senior citizens think you are still a whippersnapper.

During the "Sweet Spot of Irrelevancy:" merchants don't cater to you; marketers don't target you; politicians no longer beg for your vote; television programmers haven't spotted your trends for years; and music producers scoff at your tastes even as they borrow freely from the sounds pioneered by your contemporaries.

But, you know what? All that does not matter because the "Sweet Spot of Irrelevancy" is a time of great freedom. Freedom that comes from: being functionally healthy; having beneficial experience and knowledge; having no desire to being tied to the latest cultural trends and trappings; and being able to recognize unrealistic expectations.

The "Sweet Spot of Irrelevancy" is when we can try new things and do something we like because we realize a lot of stuff we once let restrict us just does not matter.

Just let go and be in the present.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 1, 2011

Me, my Mom, and Bob Dylan (May 24, 2011)
"Listen to this. I think you'll like it. It's different," my Mom said one day in 1965 as she dropped the record player needle onto a new record she brought home.

The pop of the needle on vinyl was quickly followed by the snap of a drum and a swirl of music surrounding a sneering snarl, "Once upon a time you dressed so fine, threw the bums a dime, in your prime, didn't you..."

She was right, but it was more than different. Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" was exciting and I liked it.

Dylan is 70 years old today and his birthday reminds me of those days in the 1960s when my mom and I were on a similar musical plane.

Mom introduced my young ears to all kinds of folk music, then folk rock and the world of rock n' roll beyond.

Music was a bond for us then. We stood together in line at the store to buy the first Beatles album. On summer afternoons we would often watch the garage rock band Paul Revere and the Raiders on the pop music show "Where the Action Is."

She brought home a variety of folk and rock records, 45 rpm singles mostly, that we would stack up on the phonograph and play. But introducing me to Dylan's music had the most impact.

Hearing "Like a Rolling Stone" for the first time - with its nearly six minute length, heavy lyrics, and relentless roll of the music - immediately made much of the other pop music at the time seem sugary and incomplete.

As the years went on I discovered more Dylan music, as well as other musicians who followed in his wake, while my Mom became more of a country and Gospel music fan. Our musical tastes drifted over time.

But we did have one more Dylan moment together in the early 1970s. We were driving in the car one day when we heard what we thought was a new Dylan song on the radio that we both immediately liked. Our old music connection was still there.

It turns out the song, "Stuck in the Middle With You," was not by Dylan, but by a Dylan sound alike band called Stealer's Wheel. We both laughed at getting fooled.

Then, after a moment, my Mom said, "Every band wants to be Dylan."
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 24, 2011

Collected memory (May 18, 2011)
History is collected memory. As a historian and journalist my job is to record memory in the context of time.

Time and memory have elusive qualities. Memories captured in time's web sometimes fade and disappear. Other remembrances remain vivid or can be found again, triggered by an outside force.

Even though each second, each minute, each hour moves relentlessly forward in a steady march toward an unending, unreachable point, within in our minds we can experience our past, present, and future at will.

In his book, "Slaughterhouse Five," Kurt Vonnegut explored this concept in his own fanciful, existential way by endowing the book's hero, Billy Pilgrim, with the ability to experience all the moments in his life - be they happy, tragic, or absurd - simultaneously. In this bit of fiction, Pilgrim was able to physically move about in time, or become "unstuck in time" as Vonnegut put it. However, the hapless Billy had no control over where he was, is, or would be.

Unlike Billy, we can freely float about in our memories as we please to experience the past. We can immerse ourselves in the present. We can wonder of what will be.

There are signposts in memory. Remembrances that seem vivid as if to be experienced for the first time, yet known well and are deeply embedded within. Certain things trigger memory - a sound, a sight, a touch, a place, a time of year, a feeling. Most often it is the little things of life that resonate the most, that create an echo in the well of time.

A late summer Sunday afternoon in Groveport seems to be a trigger for me. One of those late August Sundays when it is still warm, but the sun is angling lower, creeping slowly towards its winter home on the horizon. The angle of the rays creates a slight golden hue amongst the lengthening shadows. Though the air is warm, there is a hint of autumn easing in to make itself comfortable on the landscape. The streets and sidewalks are empty for the most part. Little League baseball teams have finished for the year and the dusty diamonds at the old elementary school sit empty; the weeds already growing in their attempt to repopulate the skinned dirt infields. The shops are closed for the day. Most people are settling in their homes for the evening resting up for the work week ahead. Life takes a collective breath and gears down for a moment.

It's on walks on such a day that memory flows. I can remember sitting, many years ago, probably somewhere between 1959 and 1961, in the backyard grass on the hill of my early boyhood home on Clark Court in Groveport on such a late afternoon August Sunday. The grass is dry, but cool, the blades a bit coarse and dark as their once spring freshness has faded. My brother tosses a balsa wood airplane glider in the yard. My parents sit and relax on the back stoop as the sun sets. My sister pets Lady, our old cocker spaniel. In the distance I can hear a church bell in the village begin to ring for the evening services.

Not a momentous memory of a life changing event. But a memory, one of a countless number from other points along time's way, that is so ingrained that it is a part of one's being. A memory that helps make us who we are. The small moments, brief, but deep, are what make up the foundation of what we become. It is this base that gives us the strength to weather the big problems of life and to better embrace the big joys.

The present connects the past to the future and in doing so is the gateway to grace. Though we put artificial measures on time - with our seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years - to function in our busy world, it is uncalibrated time that is a conduit for our lives. We move about within its planes and touch upon those who went before us and those who will follow us. We live on as long as we remember and as long as our memories, and those of others, float in the sea of time.

(Note: This was a speech I made at a Groveport Madison High School Alumni banquet a few years ago.)
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 18, 2011

Belle Vernon (May 11, 2011)
The rhythmic hum of tires on pavement rolling along I-70 East had put me in a trance of almost hypnotic automatic pilot behind the wheel.

In this lulled state, it took me a moment to notice the smoke starting to seep out from under the hood of the old Ford. Then came a tearing/grinding sound and the dashboard warning lights lit up. The engine ceased.

Adrenalin flowing through me even as the fuel stopped pumping through the engine, I managed to coast the car to the narrow berm near a bridge spanning the Monongahela River in Pennsylvania.

It was the late 1970s and I had been on my way to Maryland to pick up my brother from the Army. I emerged from the lifeless car and popped the hood. Smoke rolled out and, as it cleared, I saw the mechanical carnage. A fan belt had snapped and, apparently not wanting to die alone, took other belts with it and they were now a smoldering tangle amongst the engine parts.

I looked around and saw a small river town across the bridge on the opposite bank. A nearby highway sign proclaimed the town's name - Belle Vernon.

I would later find out the town's name is French for "beautiful green," but as I walked across the bridge to seek mechanical help, the only green I noticed was the frothy greenish yellow of the Monongahela River flowing below. This was the 1970s, environmentalism was in its infancy, and many of the rivers in the Rust Belt had this other worldly, unnatural looking quality.

It was a Sunday and traffic was light on I-70 and what vehicles that did pass by paid me little notice. I trudged into Belle Vernon hoping to find an open service station or car repair garage. However, this was an era when many businesses in small towns still closed on Sunday and the streets of the little town were quiet.

I walked along seeing one "closed" sign after another until I came upon a service station and, though its sign said "closed," I could see a man in overalls tinkering under the hood of a pick up truck. He was a rough and tumble looking man, the kind of fellow where it's hard to pinpoint his age because of the toll of years of hard work on his body.

I called out "hello" and he looked at me and squinted. He appeared immediately suspicious of this young, long haired guy walking toward him.

"Are you open?" I asked. "My car's broke down up on I-70."

"Closed," he said.

"I'm not from around here and could use some help," I said. "Is there anyone else around that could help me out?"

"Everything's closed," he said with some annoyance. "Where are you from?"

"Ohio," I said.

"Why are you out here?" he asked.

"I was on my way to Maryland to pick up my brother from the Army," I replied.

"The Army," he said.

Then, after a moment he asked, "What's wrong with your car?"

I told him about the shredded belts.

He didn't say anything else, just motioned me to get in the nearby tow truck.

We drove to the car, he looked it over, and then towed it back to his garage without saying a word.

In a short time he had the new belts in place and the car was up and running.

I thanked him and asked him what I owed him.

"Nothin,'" he said.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 11, 2011

The mirror image (May 4, 2011)
So does how you part your hair make a difference in your life?

It seems superficial and shallow, but our initial physical perceptions of people seem to impact how we react to each other.

I'm one of those people who like to listen to the Sunday afternoon radio magazine style radio programs on National Public Radio and Public Radio International -shows like "To the Best of Our Knowledge," "This American Life," and "RadioLab." This past Sunday, RadioLab had discussions about how perceptions of physical symmetry and asymmetry affect us. Topics ranged from the left handed shapes of molecules, to how some people's brain waves can match up even though their personalities are quite different, to the chaos of mirror images.

Amidst all this the subject of where one parts one's hair and its social effects popped up. They talked with people who said when they changed the part in their hair they were treated better, they looked better, and life was better for them. Then the show's hosts pointed out the image we see in the mirror is not the image other people see when they look at us.

So what we think we look like is not what we really look like. Nothing is as it seems. It's blows my mind, man!

Online at RadioLab.org you can see photos of images of Abraham Lincoln - one as we see him and one as he would see himself in the mirror.

Take a look at them and see what you think. Does Honest Abe look different, better, or the same?
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 4, 2011

Fill 'er up (April 27, 2011)
Gas stations were once a common sight along Groveport's Main Street.

At Main Street and Wirt Road there was Rich's Sunoco with its bright blue and yellow sign and markings. Right beside it was the Sohio station. Both buildings are now gone. At Brook Alley and Main Street was the Shell station and its now vacant building still is there. A Texaco station stood at the west end of town in what is now a vacant lot on the northeast corner of Main Street and State Route 317.

In addition there was once a gas pump in front of a pizza place that used to occupy the the southeast corner of Main and Madison streets. Also, there was a gas pump in front of a roofing/gutter business on Main Street near Frank Alley.

Lots of gasoline outlets for our automobile culture to fill up and hit the road.

There are more cars on the road now than 40 years ago, but currently there are only two gas stations on Main Street - Certified and at Kroger. Gas stations these days are combined with retail outlets.

When I first learned to drive, I gassed up my white and black 1968 Ford LTD (390 cubic inch engine, hideaway headlights - sweet!) at Rich's Sunoco, primarily because that's where my dad always went.

At Rich's Sunoco, just like at other gas stations of that era, drivers got full service. I'd pull in by the pumps and the wheels rolled over a rubber air hose that made a "ding ding" sound to alert the station attendant there was a customer. The attendant asked me what I wanted and I'd say, "Fill 'er up with regular." He'd pump the gas, clean the windshield, and check the oil.

The old gas stations were geared to vehicles and also did oil changes, maintenance, and repairs on cars. They weren't convenience stores like today.

Plus, the guys working in these places knew cars. All kinds of cars.

I remember I had a 1976 Ford Granada (not exactly a classic car) that tended to stall frequently. I took it to Rich's Sunoco and the mechanic there told me he used to work at a Ford plant where they made Granadas. He said some Granadas had an odd quirk where they wouldn't run correctly unless a particular vent hole in a small pipe coming out of the engine was covered. I don't remember what he said the original purpose of this pipe was, only that he said it was a pain in the, well, you know. But, he had a simple solution for me. He cut a small rubber plug out of some spare material and stuck it in the hole.

He laughed and said, "There ya go. No charge."

Maybe he was pulling my leg, but the temperamental Granada never stalled again.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 27, 2011

Five routes (April 20, 2011)
Standing at the remains of Ohio and Erie Canal lock #22 in Groveport Park, one has the unique chance to view five different historical transportation routes that helped shape both Groveport and Ohio.

It's not unusual that progressing forms of transportation tended to follow established routes. Native Americans and pioneers followed streams and rivers. Those paths became roads eventually leading to the establishment of towns. Ohio's canal systems followed natural waterways and helped fledgling towns grow. From there the railroad connected these places and later the electric interurban railway followed suit.

At lock #22 in Groveport these five transportation systems are close together and can all be seen from this one spot. Standing at the lock and looking south, one can see the tree line for Walnut Creek. Just north of the creek is busy Groveport Road. At the lock, the remnants of the now dry Ohio and Erie Canal channel are easily seen. A few steps north of lock #22 is a well worn path that is the now abandoned right of way for the Scioto Valley Traction Line's interurban railway. A few more steps to the north and one can see the still in use railroad tracks.

This is a distinctive historical spot where one can envision images of the past such as canoes being paddled down Walnut Creek, horse drawn wagons rumbling along a dusty Groveport Road, boats gliding along the waters of the canal, the interurban speedily whooshing its way through the countryside, and steam locomotives chugging their way to faraway locales.

Plus, these days, a sixth transportation system can be seen overhead if a roaring jet airplane happens to fly over on its way to Rickenbacker Airport while one is standing at lock #22.

We're always on the move.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 20, 2011

The marker (April 13, 2011)
Recently an old friend and I were wandering around Columbus' Franklin Park when we came upon a rock bearing a metal historical marker that is now weathered green with age.

I like unexpectedly coming upon historical markers like this because it helps one's perspective of what a place was once like. Plus it's a chance to learn historical tidbits.

The marker, erected in 1949, commemorates a famous speech by General William T. Sherman, noted, among other things, for his success in leading a Union army in its "March to the Sea" across the South during the Civil War.

Sherman made the speech on Aug. 11, 1880 at reunion of Civil War veterans. In 1880, Franklin Park was the state fairgrounds and Sherman told the crowd gathered there that day, "There is many a boy here today who looks at war as all glory, but boys, it is all hell."

(Through the years Sherman's famous quote has been shortened to, "War is hell.")

My friend and I stood there in modern Franklin Park - with its rolling green lawns and trees and bushes ready to burst forth in spring blooms - and tried to picture what the place looked like in 1880 when it was the state fairgrounds.

We imagined the site was more open with less ornamental greenery about. Definitely no winding asphalt paths like are there now. Since it was a fairgrounds, the place was no doubt scruffier looking than the finely trimmed park it is now. The historical marker denoting the site of Sherman's speech was on a little hill. Was this a bit of high ground where Sherman could stand and speak to those gathered around the base of the hill?

Places change over time. Sometimes there are remnants of what went before, but each generation tends to put its own mark on a place. Even preserved places are not exactly like they once were.

We can rely on old photographs to help us envision the past, but even those black and white images at times are just shadows of a place. But, with knowledge and our brain power, we can picture a place in our minds and make it live again as it once did.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 13, 2011

Laws were simpler once (April 6, 2011)
These days it is common for the federal and state governments to churn out new laws that have to be outlined and spelled out in cumbersome legal language in hundreds, sometimes thousands of pages.

Though many local government ordinances are still relatively short in comparison at a few pages, these entities sometimes have laws, particularly contractual legislation, that can run into a dozen pages or more.

It wasn't always this way. I did a little research in the Groveport Heritage Museum to look back at what the first laws enacted by the town entailed when it first officially incorporated in 1847. Elected officials in Groveport, like most small towns of that era, were primarily concerned with bringing some order to rough and tumble pioneer towns. The laws they enacted were direct, simply phrased, and often consisted of just a sentence or two.

Here are some of the early laws enacted in Groveport from 1847 to 1858:

•It was illegal to block any street or alley.

•Those owning property on Main Street had to construct gravel sidewalks.

•It was illegal to race horses, fight, brawl, quarrel, shoot guns, or otherwise disturb the peace within village limits. (Though mayor's court records of that era show a lot of this went on despite the law!)

•A tax was imposed on dogs in an attempt to reduce the number of roving rovers in town.

•It was illegal to slaughter livestock within village limits except for family use. (This was a departure from the 1820s and 1830s when Jacob Wert operated a large livestock slaughterhouse and meat packing business near the Ohio and Erie Canal in town. By the time this was enacted Wert had passed away.)

•Residents were required to dispose of dead animal carcasses and not leave them laying around to rot.
•Boxing or fisticuffs was banned as well as gambling and general rowdiness.

•A person had to obtain a license to stage a play, circus, menagerie of animals, or to display an exhibition of wax figures.

•Hogs were no longer allowed to run loose and forage around town. The town marshal had the authority to confiscate any free roaming hog and sell it.

Simpler times.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 6, 2011

Finding Easter (March 30, 2011)
Easter is a movable holiday, which I think adds to its special nature.

Unlike other holidays, it is not rigidly fixed to a date. Nor is it bureaucratically relegated to a "Monday holiday" status that has turned some holidays into mere excuses for three day weekend status.

Easter can fall on a Sunday anywhere from March 22 to April 25, which means the holiday could be covered in either snow or bright spring flowers depending on the year.

Originally the date for Easter was determined to be the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox (spring). But somewhere back in antiquity knowledgeable folks discovered the spinning earth and cosmos affected the calculation of the date because it's night on one side of the earth and day on the other at the same time. When you add in the later institution of the international date line, using the original calculation method would result in Easter possibly being celebrated on different days in different parts of the world.

So these ancient knowledgeable church scholars and astronomists created a astronomical ecclesiastical historical table/formula to determine Easter's date each year. Under this, Easter falls on the first Sunday following the first ecclesiastical full moon after the vernal equinox. This ecclesiastical full moon can vary up to two days from the astronomical full moon.

Mankind's method for determining Easter's date brings a kind of order to the ever spinning universe for earthly and spiritual purposes.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 30, 2011

Moon up (March 23, 2011)
In my early life as a student, most science classes, like biology and chemistry where we dissected frogs and mixed frothy potions, did not intrigue me.

But astronomy, that was different. It piqued my interest not because of the zillions of stars and exotic planets, which are cool, but mainly because of the silvery white moon of the earth, our familiar neighbor in the sky.

From a young age I checked calendars for the drawings and dates of the moon phases. (The best calendars included a face on the moon in these drawings.) I liked to track the moon's waxing and waning phases and watch how its appearance and location in the sky changed from day to day and season to season.

I enjoy how the moon plays a role not only scientifically in the life of the earth as a sort of sky clock and with its gravitational pull on the water, but also its part in our culture where it inhabits pictures, stories, and songs. In these human artworks the moon can range from illuminating the love among romantics to tormenting a person into becoming a howling werewolf. That's one versatile satellite in the sky.

This past weekend was a special one for the moon and for us on earth who watch it. The moon glowing above was at its closest point to earth, a moment that comes about every 18 years. The moon's orbit above earth is oval shaped and when it's at its farthest point away it is at its apogee to earth. Then, when it wheels around to its closest point to earth, it is at perigee. At perigee, the moon appears 10 to 15 percent larger than normal and 25 to 30 percent brighter than usual. It is still the same sized moon with the same glow, but being thousands of miles closer than usual makes it seem bigger and brighter.

I hope you got to see this grand natural sight in the night and could bask in the light of the moon at its perigee peak.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 23, 2011

The time before (March 16, 2011)
The release of the 2010 U.S. Census, which reflects the growing populations of Canal Winchester and Groveport (both reaching city status) as well as Madison Township, prompted me to look back to what the area was like in the early 19th century before the communities took root and blossomed into what they are today.

Southeastern Franklin County opened to settlement following the Treaty of Greenville in 1795, which established a boundary line between Native American lands and those of Ohio. Located in what was known as the Congressional Lands of Ohio, the land in this area was open to anyone who could afford the sale price. The federal government sold the land at $2 per acre before 1820 and $1.25 per acre after that year. The land was rich for farming and affordable so it attracted settlers.

When the first pioneers reached what would become Canal Winchester, Groveport, and Madison Township, they found a dense forest of giant oak trees towering above the earth. Ash, walnut, hickory, elm, maple, and beech trees formed a leafy canopy. The area teemed with wildlife. The many creeks abounded with fish. Game such as elk, deer, turkey, squirrel, and rabbit filled the woods. Wolves and bears prowled about.

Think about how quiet it must have been with the only sounds being that of the forest and the weather.

Things would soon change as the coming of the Ohio and Erie Canal in the 1820s and 1830s - and later the railroad in 1868 and the interurban in 1904 - spurred the commercial and residential growth of the villages of Canal Winchester and Groveport that has lead these many years later to the towns evolving from pastoral communities to becoming busy small cities.

Though the two towns, as well as the township, have grown, one thing the people of these communities have done well is balance the growth with the preservation of nearby open green space and woodlands.

Because of this, it is still possible for us today to stand in a local meadow or woods to fill our senses and experience a little of the natural splendor our pioneer ancestors did when they first arrived here.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 16, 2011

City life for Groveport? (March 10, 2011)
City of Groveport?

It sounds strange after all these years of referring to the town as the Village of Groveport...and I kind of like the sentimentality of referring to a place as a "village." It sounds cozier than "city," which brings to mind a place that has the "big shoulders" poet Carl Sandburg once wrote about.

Preliminary numbers from the 2010 U.S. Census show Groveport's population at 5,363, up from 3,865 in 2000, which means the town has crossed the 5,000 limit to city status.

Right now I'm a bit skeptical about the accuracy of the 2010 population number because I haven't seen evidence of explosive residential growth in the town in the past 10 years.

Groveport is surrounded by flood plains and a designated airplane noise corridor for Rickenbacker Airport and those two factors alone discourage residential development.

So, while the powers that be sort through these new numbers for accuracy, I thought it would be interesting to share with you past Census numbers to illustrate how Groveport's population has grown over time:

1830: 100*
1840: 250*
1850: 480
1860: 541
1870: 627
1880: 650
1890: 578
1900: 519
1910: 643
1920: 671
1930: 946
1940: 1,052
1950: 1,165
1960: 2,043
1970: 2,490
1980: 3,286
1990: 2,948
2000: 3,865
2010: 5,363

(* Estimates of combined population of Wert's Grove and Rarey's Port. The two towns combined to form Groveport in 1847.)
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 10, 2011

Pundit patter experiment (March 7, 2011)
A friend of mine conducted an experiment where he turned his television on alternately to the evening-talking-head-pundit-shows on the left leaning MSNBC and the right leaning Fox News, but instead of watching the shows, he listened to them from a couple of rooms away.

What he discovered by just using his ears was the programs sounded like shrill noise. He encouraged me to try the experiment, so I did.

My experience was similar to his. Without the visual screen image, one's sense of hearing is heightened. I noticed the voices rising from the television had a hard, high pitched edge. The sentences came in rapid, machine gun bursts and it was common for the various speakers to talk over one another. I perceived that there were no thoughtful pauses in the break neck pacing of the talking. There was little of evidence of real listening taking place nor measured responses.

All was attack mode and had the feeling of the rabid banter of pro wrestlers when they square off nose to nose spouting at each other before their orchestrated pummeling.

Nowhere present was the wit, intelligence and reasoned depth of thought political thinkers of years gone by, such as William F. Buckley and Noam Chomsky, displayed.

We are poorer for it.

But I will not condemn the talking heads on these programs because their shouting is free speech. It's our responsiblity as citizens and voters to sort it all out.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 7, 2011

The dare (March 2, 2011)
Deep into the evening on a sweltering summer night in the mid-1960s, a handful of neighborhood kids milled around outside, not yet wanting to go home for the night.

After exhausting the various after dark games of hide n' seek, bloody murder, and the like, we sought other ways to prolong the fun of the night. When you're a kid few things beat being out late in the grassy yards of summer knowing school is a distant threat in far off September.

Back then, Groveport was a much smaller place with fewer people and little traffic on Main Street after dark. The old joke was the last one in was supposed "to roll up the sidewalks for the night."

The neighborhood was quiet except for the chirping of summer bugs and the muffled sounds of televisions slipping out of the screened windows of the nearby houses.

It was time for the daring to begin. The age old, young male version of testing one another. We stood along Main Street under the added darkness of the big shade trees when one of us looked at the empty asphalt street, turned, and said to the group, "I dare somebody to lie down in the middle of Main Street."

This produced laughs and taunts at first, but then came under consideration.

"I'll do it if everyone does it," said one.

"No way, that's stupid," said another.

"Chicken!" was the reply.

"Let's do it!" was called out.

We looked up and down the street. Nary a headlight in sight either direction.

We loped out into the street and lay down horizontal to the yellow line.

Though the air was hot, the asphalt felt cool to the touch. It was gritty and seemed a bit oily, too. Looking straight up past the dim streetlight, the stars danced about in the sky. No one spoke.

We all lay there feeling foolishly brave, no one wanting to be the first to get up and run to the curb.

Then, in the distance, blocks away, two headlights, so far away that they looked more like a small flashlight, appeared.

Hearts jumped and all valor disappeared.

"Car!" someone yelled.

We all scrambled to our feet and sprinted to the curb, past the sidewalk and up the small hill laughing all the way. After a while the car we saw, which while we were laying in the street seemed like it was fast enough to break the sound barrier, slowly wheeled past.

Nevertheless, we all congratulated ourselves on our collective bravery.

We never laid down in the street again.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 2, 2011

Isolated together (Feb. 22, 2011)
As we fret over how the Internet and other assorted digitized gizmos cordon us off electronically these days, we are prone to forget that personal social isolation is a constant in human existence.

Two recent events reinforced this thought in me - looking at a painting and going to a movie.

The painting is Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks." Created in 1942, the familiar painting depicts a handful of people seated separately in a city diner late at night. They appear to be silent and there is no evidence of interaction. Each is contained in their own personal bubble and alone in a public space. Alone, surrounded by a city full of people.

I rarely go to movie theaters any more, but I went to a matinee one recent Sunday. There were five of us seated in the theater, scattered individually about. No one made eye contact or spoke to one another. We watched the film and when it was over we walked out without acknowledging each other.

Even when a theater is packed with people sitting side by side in the dark intimacy of the movie theater, a place of a shared experience of emotion ranging from sadness to laughter, the same social script plays out, just with more of us avoiding each other as we inhabit our contained personal world in the public realm.

It's not just the new electronic devices that separate us from human contact. We do it to ourselves, too.

We're all isolated together.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 22, 2011

The scarcity of snowmen (Feb. 14, 2011)
Where have all the snowmen gone?

We've had a fair amount of snow this winter season, more than 23 inches, which provided plenty of frosty material for making snowmen.

But I've noticed very little snow sculpting in the area this year. Is it because it's been too cold, causing the snow to be an improper texture for packing; or, is it because there's not a cellphone app or Wii game for snowman making?

Making a snowman is a creative act of defiance to Old Man Winter. With the rolling the three classic snowballs (big for the bottom, medium for the middle, and small for the head) to make the traditional snowman; or the fashioning of fanciful snowman designs by the more artistic among us - the snowman rises up from the bleak gray of winter as a symbol that the cold can't stop us from living and having fun.

I like how a snowman lingers, too. As temperatures warm and the snow melts, a snowman is the last remnant to melt away, holding its form as long as it can until it's a mere shrinking snow pile in the sun amongst the brown grass. This slow farewell of the snowman makes one appreciate both the effort it took to create him and the warmth that takes him away.

This year though, there just aren't many snowmen around to herald the transformation of winter to spring.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 14, 2011

Civil discourse need not be bland (Feb. 9, 2011)
We're hearing a lot these days from the punditry about the need for a more civil brand of political discourse in America. There's lots of hand wringing about how mean and low we've become in our political debates and how it's the so called "worse than it's ever been."

Really? Worse than when politicians fought duels in the early 19th century? Worse than when a Southern politician took a cane to the head of a Massachusetts politician in the antebellum Congress? Worse than when the bile spewed so much we actually fought a War Between the States from 1861-65?

No, today's sound bite jabs are quite weak compare to those past levels of incivility. Today's political discourse seems more like petty sniping than anything else.

So, what can be done to improve our modern brand of political discourse to make it both civil and meaty at the same time?

First, the different sides of the political spectrum need to be more open minded and ready to hear diverse views. A mix of ideas can temper the extremes.

Second, people should question themselves. Ask yourself, when were you willing to consider a change in point of view? When were you open to change of any kind in your life?

Next, do not be civil for the sake of being civil just to make it look like everyone is playing well together. That accomplishes nothing. This isn't a game. It's our world and existence we're talking about.There's nothing wrong with strong, impassioned debate as long as there is intellect behind it.

Don't plaster on a phony smile when debating. Plastic smiles are grating. It's okay to have a serious look when discussing weighty topics. You don't have to be friends, you just have to be fellow citizens.

Finally, share what you really think about an issue. Don't dance around trying to please your political buddies at the expense of what is actually on your mind. Things get done when people are straight with one another. One side may not like it at the time, but there's always another potential future debate to change the course.

Seek real ideas and passion, not pseudo events and pandering.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 9, 2011

Champions existed before the Super Bowl (Feb. 7, 2011)
The Super Bowl, despite its hyperbolic name, is merely the National Football League (NFL) championship game.

I point this out because my sense of history is disturbed to hear sportscasters and fans talk as if there were no NFL championship games prior to the first Super Bowl in 1967. To do so ignores history.

History is more than military battles and presidential elections. Everything has a history, including fun stuff like music, sports, and the like.

For the record the 1967 title game was not called the Super Bowl, it was labeled the NFL/AFL Championship Game as it pitted the two champs from those two leagues against one another. It was labeled the Super Bowl later. Only the first four Super Bowls were unique in that they pitted the champions of the NFL and the AFL against one another.

In those days the perception was that of the staid, established NFL versus the upstart, rambunctious AFL. It was like a clash of cultures. But after the leagues merged in 1970, that element disappeared.

The NFL has held a championship game each season since 1933 (prior to that from 1920-32 the league was not split in divisions and had a regular season champion). Each of the champions from the pre-Super Bowl era is on the same plane as modern Super Bowl winners - they are all the NFL champions. To only seemingly acknowledge teams' Super Bowl wins blatantly ignores the championships accumulated by teams prior to 1967. Some teams may not have won a Super Bowl, but they have won NFL titles.

The Green Bay Packers have now won 13 NFL titles overall, followed by the Chicago Bears with 8, New York Giants with 7, Pittsburgh Steelers with 6, Dallas Cowboys with 5, San Francisco 49ers with 5, Washington Redskins with 5, Cleveland Browns with 4, Baltimore/Indianapolis Colts with 4, Oakland Raiders with 4, Detroit Lions with 4, New England Patriots with 3, Canton/Cleveland Bulldogs with 3, Los Angeles/Cleveland Rams with 3, Philadelphia Eagles with 3, Chicago Cardinals with 2, Miami Dolphins with 2, Denver Broncos with 2, and the Akron Pros, Chicago Staleys, Providence Steam Rollers, Frankford Yellow Jackets, New Orleans Saints, and Tampa Bay Buccaneers with 1 each.

(As a side note, the Browns also won 4 All-America Conference titles before joining the NFL in 1950. Also, from 1960-69 before merging with the NFL, the AFL champions included the Houston Oilers with 2, Buffalo Bills with 2, Kansas City Chiefs with 2, and the Dallas Texans, San Diego Chargers, New York Jets, and Oakland Raiders with 1 each.)

Just because many of the old champions played their games in the days before television spotlighted the title game and before commercials became one of the highlights of the Super Bowl extravaganza, doesn't detract from their achievement.

So, let's stop categorizing teams by Super Bowl wins and deservedly recognize them by actual NFL championships won.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 7, 2011

In the dark (Feb. 1, 2011)
I awoke early on a recent winter, pre-dawn, morning and decided to get a little exercise to start the day by taking a walk.

As I walked down Main Street in that closed winter way of hands thrust in coat pockets and shoulders hunched to block the wind, I noticed how the glowing streetlights brightly chased away the dark, making it slice away as a shadow slivers from the street.

Besides the streetlights, lights began to pop on here and there among the houses as people groggily started their day. Security lights in driveways and yards stood sentinel.

The modern brightness of the night prompted me to think of how the street would have been illuminated in the 1890s. The darkness was more prevalent then as the light thrown from old coal oil street lamps was dimmer than their electric 21st century counterparts. Due to the expense of fuel, many small towns had their lamplighters extinguish the coal oil street lamps before midnight, or earlier, plunging the streets into darkness. When there was a full moon, some town officials instructed their lamplighters not to light the coal oil street lamps at all, letting the moon's soft glow illuminate the streets instead.

The lights flickering on in the homes back then were candles or oil lamps emitting a small circle of intimate light as opposed to the incandescent electric bulb's ability to brawnily fill a room with white light.

Beyond that, a familiar darkness shrouded the pre-dawn in those old days. The people living then knew this darkness well, it was natural and expected to envelope the world after sundown, save for the nights when the full moon put on its monthly show. The darkness was there and the lifecycle adapted to it.

Above all, the dark was to be respected for things did, and still do, go bump in the night.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 1, 2011

Kay commented: Enjoyed this one very much as it brought back memories of my childhood when we moved into a big home that had no electricity. We were using kerosene lamps for more then a year before the electricity was installed plus two fireplaces and one pot-bellied stove. I remember we had an "icebox" with the ice delivered twice a week - but then we bought our first refrigerator a few months after my father put the electric in. Back in those days you didn't have to be a licensed electrician to install it yourself! How about that!

Air base and Groveport have long history together (Jan. 26, 2011)
On June 15 ,1942, Lockbourne Air Force Base (now Rickenbacker Airport) opened just two miles southwest of Groveport on land that previously was fields of corn and wheat.

At first the base housed an Army Air Force glider school, but by 1943 it was the busy home of a B-17 bomber combat pilot training program that by the end of World War II had trained 3,808 B-17 pilots.
During the war, the Groveport Lions Club once served 43 servicemen from the base a chicken dinner at Groveport Town Hall to make them feel more at home.

From its war time beginnings, the base has had both economic and social ties to the village of Groveport. Servicemen purchased items from Groveport stores, ate in village restaurants, and joined area churches. In the post war years a popular air show was held each year at the base for many years.

The base is now primarily a commercial airport that has spawned a vast industrial park that has helped support the village's revenues.

If you would like to learn more about the history of Lockbourne Army Air Force Base, later known as Rickenbacker Air National Guard Base, there is a historical exhibit about the base on display at Groveport Town Hall, 648 Main St., through February. Admission is free. The exhibit features photos and other memorabilia dating from the base's inception in 1942 through the present. Additionally there is information on the Civil War, World War I, airplane models, Eddie Rickenbacker, and the Tuskegee Airmen. Hours are Monday-Saturday from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. and Sunday noon to 6 p.m. A smaller companion exhibit is on display at the Groveport Municipal Building, 655 Blacklick St. Hours there are Monday-Friday from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 26, 2011

More than one way to meditate (Jan. 18, 2011)
I've never been able to meditate in the stereotypical way of sitting cross legged on the floor, eyes closed, deeply breathing, and clearing one's mind with a mantra.

Maybe it's because that method seems like such a formal way of relaxing, which then makes it non-relaxing in a "you have to do it this way" sort of way; or it's because my pragmatic small town Ohio, midwestern mind thinks it just seems odd to sit in that manner when there's a cushy couch nearby.

The dictionary defines the word meditate as "to reflect upon, ponder, contemplate; and meditation as "a devotional exercise of contemplation."

Taking these pure definitions in mind made me realize we all meditate in our own ways by doing a wide variety of things that naturally make us relax and ponder.

The two things I do that help me reflect, think, and relax are riding my bicycle and taking walks. Both can be peaceful, meditative activities that allow me to look around and absorb my surroundings. Biking or walking through the woods and meadows give me perspective. It allows me to see that, though time seems to be fleeting and rapidly spinning by, it is actually a slow process measured by the subtle seasonal changes I can see in the trees and fields.

I think this form of active meditation of interacting with one's surroundings engages both the mind and body.

Also, being in the present can be a meditative state by creating a heightened awareness of oneself in one's place, no matter where one is at the time, that renders the foggy past and the swirling future meaningless for a brief moment when all that matters is that one is in the here and now.

Noticing the present can be done at any time and any place by using all your senses to go beyond what is superficially dominating one's attention to see, hear, and feel what's beyond. It only takes a moment to reset the mind and body by briefly stopping to be in the present.

So don't let structured, mysterious methods of meditating block you. Find your own way to peace and mindfulness by doing what comes naturally for yourself.

It's freeing.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 18, 2011

Comment from Matt: The "sitting on a pillow with thumb and middle finger touching" stereotype is just one way to meditate. Its value, however, is in demonstrating that quieting one's mind takes practice. I need more than the woods or a familiar bike path to focus only on the scene in front of me. Someone once told me that "om" has three syllables: o; m; and the pause. At first glance, this seems silly. But I have found it a useful tool that, along with a walk or ride, slows the flow of distracting thoughts in order for me to quiet my mind. Simply blocking out distractions wherever I am is sometimes like holding my breath and thinking I can live without air. If you are capable of it, I salute you. It's a good, thought-provoking blog topic.

The crooners and me (Jan. 12, 2011)
In many music circles I'm considered uncouth and unsophisticated, even a musical blasphemer, because...take a deep breath...I'm not a fan of Frank Sinatra.

It's not that I don't acknowledge his singing talent and skill, Sinatra was the best of his style of sound.

Music is a subjective art and what resonates pleasantly in one person's ear sounds grating in another or, probably worse yet, registers no reaction at all. Good music and singing is something we know when we hear it individually.

In my formative years I can recall watching the old television variety shows where what I called the "tuxedo guys" were regularly trotted out to croon away. These were the sharp dressed, smooth operators who sang ballads and peppy uptempo songs they called "numbers." They usually had a big band performing with them, or sometimes just a piano player. Polished and clean, their singing and appearance was just lost on me. It bounced right off my young ears, not registering. They were just there.

Sinatra was the king of these tuxedo guys - snapping his fingers, smiling, holding the notes, extending the arms for the big finish. A kind of manufactured passion in my view.

It just didn't move me. I gravitated toward the earnest folk singers and then the rock and rollers where the passion was aflame in raw voices and raucous sounds. These scruffy types looked more like me, like they were my people.

There's nothing wrong with Sinatra and the other crooners and I admire their abilities and how they help fill the musical spectrum that ranges from them to classical music to show tunes to folk to country to rock to blues to pop to rap to hip hop and beyond.

They just weren't for me.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 12, 2011

War's end (Jan. 5, 2011)
Recently I visited Groveport's World War II Memorial, which is a large Ohio boulder, located in the northwest corner of the Groveport Elementary courtyard. It was dedicated there on Memorial Day in 1946 by the Groveport Lions Club.

Emblazoned on a plaque on the simple, brawny rock are the words: "Erected in honor of those men and women of this community who served in the armed forces during the Second World War and the following emergency occupation."

Idling by the rock, I thought about how the community celebrated when World War II finally ended.

When victory in Europe was announced in May, 1945, the church bells all over town rang out and the fire siren was sounded. The celebration was said to have been a bit muted though, because the war still raged in the Pacific.

Fully realized jubilation came to town when Japan surrendered in August, 1945. People celebrated by grabbing anything that made noise - church bells, cow bells, horns, sirens, firecrackers, and other noisemakers. Businesses closed for the day. An informal parade of cars formed in Canal Winchester, wheeled down Groveport Road and gathered up Groveport residents in their cars and headed to Lockbourne Air Force Base (now Rickenbacker Airport) to celebrate with and congratulate the soldiers and airmen stationed there.

Standing by the memorial rock on a quiet day 65 years later, I imagined I could still hear the celebratory sounds reverberating through the community.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 5, 2011

Counting us (Dec. 29, 2010)
"The numbering of people itself seemed to symbolize the equality at which a democratic society aimed."
- From "The Americans: The Democratic Experience," by Daniel Boorstin, writing about the U.S. Census.

The statistics for the 2010 United States Census have been gathered and are being tabulated.

Though the larger purpose of the census is to determine population for the apportionment for the U.S. House of Representatives, I'm particularly interested in what the numbers will show for the villages of Groveport and Canal Winchester, Madison Township, and Southeast Columbus. Will Canal Winchester and Groveport achieve city status? Is Madison Township growing or decreasing in population? How does Southeast Columbus compare to the neighboring communities? What are the demographics for all of these areas? In essence, what can the numbers tell us about who we are?

I contacted census officials to try and find the local numbers, but, I was told that, while the big national numbers of the census have been released, the local numbers are still a few weeks away from being available for viewing.

So, we'll have to wait a little longer for a statistical snapshot of our local communities.

Until then, a little census history...

The census, which is conducted every 10 years, was deemed important enough by the founding fathers that they outlined its purpose near the top of the U.S. Constitution in Article I, section 2. According to the historian Daniel Boorstin, the first census in 1790 "counted only total population divided into white (male and female) and colored (free and slave); white males were divided into those above and below age 16." The 1800 census expanded to include five age categories. The figures were obtained by federal marshals according to judicial districts. For the next 50 years this was the information and method used for gathering census data.

The census of 1850 is considered the first modern enumeration, according to Boorstin. This census was the first to use official "census takers" to gather the social and economic information, which included data on agriculture, industry, schools, colleges, churches, libraries, newspapers, periodicals, poverty, crime, and wages in addition to merely counting people.

"The census had become a national inventory," wrote Boorstin.

The census has since taken on variations of this form and has supporters who believe the information obtained gives a clear view of who and what America is at a given point in time; and detractors who believe the census should stick to counting heads and dispense with the gathering of additional information, which they see as an invasion of privacy.

I'm still eager to see what the numbers can tell us regarding the present and future of our local communities.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 29, 2010

The old church (Dec. 28, 2010)
When I was a kid, there was a big willow tree that once grew at the corner of Center Street and the alley, shading the parsonage, behind the former Groveport Zion Lutheran Church. We kids would ride our assortment of odd looking, beat up bicycles through the tree's stringy, droopy branches sending them whipping in our wake.

Both the tree and parsonage house are now long gone, removed to make room for the parking lot behind the church. But the solid, big shouldered, red brick church still stands.

The Lutherans first formed a congregation in Groveport in 1911 and built this church on the northwest corner of Main and Center streets in 1918. The Lutherans worshiped there for 50 years before moving to their current building on west Groveport Road in 1968. The congregation's former home in the imposing Germanic style brick structure has served many other church denominations since, including the current Assembly of God congregation.

I grew up a couple blocks away from the church and I and my family were members there for many years. I spent much time as a kid going to Sunday School classes and church services in that fine old building.

The structure's formidable architectural presence then, as it is now, in the neighborhood is strong. Its large stained glass windows still colorfully illuminate the night when evening services are held there. Its bell tower rises high above nearby homes. Its sturdy structure, free of overly ornate flourishes, symbolizes strength, security, and permanence.

The old church was a wonderland of staircases and platforms in kids' eyes when I was growing up. I can recall us boys back then rumbling up and down the steps in chase mode and leaping from the flat concrete cap bordering the outdoor front staircase, imagining our leaps as actual flight before we crashed down in happy heaps in the grass below. I don't know how or why we didn't break any bones doing this.

It's been a long time since I was in the sanctuary of the church. I remember it as beautiful in its plain simplicity with its rows of wooden pews flowing down to the altar. My memory of the sanctuary is that it is magical, mysterious, and magnificent.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 28, 2010

Community rallies around fire victims (Dec. 20, 2010)
On Dec. 14, a terrible fire roared through a more than 100-year-old home at College and Cherry streets in Groveport, destroying the home and creating hardship for the two families who resided there.

No one was injured during the fire, but the families' lives are now severely disrupted. Now the community has stepped up to help the families.

"The fire's such a tragedy," said Jeff Baker, who owns the burned property and rented it to the displaced families. "I'm glad no one was hurt. It's great to see the community respond. Everyone has been so helpful."

Baker said Metro High School has adopted the families and is helping them out with boxes of donations and gift cards. Baker added Huntington Bank and his own attorney have also pledged support and other groups are holding benefits for the families.

Additionally, Groveport Presbyterian Church, located at 275 College St. across the street from the burned home, is collecting donations for the families on Dec. 20 and 21 from 6-9 p.m.

The house was once the home of the late Mary Moody, a well known and respected lady of the community. Also, Groveport Village Councilman Ed Rarey lived there as a boy.

"It was a real nice, solid home on a beautiful lot," said Baker, who added the structure will be torn down within the next two weeks.

It's wonderful to see the community respond so warmly and helpfully to this tragedy in helping these two families. It's the kind of response one sees in a close knit small town where the Christmas spirit exists year round.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 20, 2010

RikiLeaks (Dec. 14, 2010)
A friend jokingly suggested I come up with my own form of WikiLeaks, except it should be tailored to small town politics.

"You could call it 'RikiLeaks'," he said with a laugh.

Though an entertaining idea, the most prevalent leaks in small towns come from frozen, broken water lines in the streets. Plus, the only person who ever called me "Ricky" is my mom, and she hasn't done that in decades.

Small town politics tends to be an open book anyway. Everyone seems to know each other and, therefore, everyone already knows what everyone else is up to. It's kind of a sport. There are no real secrets in small town America.

Even if a "RikiLeaks" phenomena went racing through cyberspace with dispatches of small town intrigue, there's no way I could hide like WikiLeaks' head, Julian Assange, because most everyone in town knows who I am and where I live as well as that my family has lived in the area since before the Civil War. How could I be an exotic, shadowy figure when people can see me ambling down the street to the post office?
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 14, 2010

Other Christmas songs (Dec. 7, 2010)
We hear lots of wonderful traditional Christmas carols and standards this time of year, but, if you would like a change of pace in your holiday tunes, I offer these suggestions of pop songs with a Christmas theme (though some adhere to that theme more loosely than others):

•"River" by Joni Mitchell - The song opens with the melancholy notes of a piano playing "Jingle Bells" and then smoothly moves on to a memorable emotional lyric and tune highlighting Mitchell's range as a singer, writer, and musician.

•"Christmas Song" by Jethro Tull - The song's instrumentation has the feel of an old British folk tune creating a somber, serious atmosphere. Singer Ian Anderson admonishes the listener to remember that "Christmas spirit is not what you drink."

•"2,000 Miles" by the Pretenders - A pure Christmas ballad.

•"Father Christmas" by the Kinks - Okay, enough with the moody songs. Here's a crackling rocker from those English lads that is loud, cynical and funny. I have this on an old 45 rpm record and I always like to dust it off and give it a spin or two on the turntable at Christmas time.

•"Fairy Tale of New York" by the Pogues - This is a bit of raucous Irish folk rock by the Pogues and featuring Kristy MacColl. The song opens up on Christmas Eve in the drunk tank in New York and goes on to unroll a tale of two battling lovers who, I think under it all, still love each other in spite of their failings. The song has touches of vulgarity, but seems so very human.

•"Christmas" by The Who - This song, from the album "Tommy," isn't so much about Christmas as it is about the character Tommy coping with the holiday and life in general. The song propels along in The Who's great jet engine power style.

So, give these half dozen songs a listen, and, if you like, let me know if you have other such tunes you could add for me to check out, too.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 7, 2010

Edwards School gym (Dec. 2, 2010)
In November and December 1970, the gym at the then new Groveport Madison High School was still under construction when basketball season started.

I was a member of the freshman basketball team that year and, being freshmen, we were the lowest rung on the ladder among the reserve and varsity teams so we had to scrape and scrap for a place to practice. We were basketball nomads bouncing from gym to gym at Edwards Elementary to Madison Elementary and to the junior high.

Of those three gyms, the one at Edwards (located on Alum Creek Drive and now no longer a Groveport Madison school) was by far the smallest and quirkiest.

Built in 1923, the gym was on the second floor at Edwards and featured a small stage at one end. It had one basket and backboard permanently affixed to a brick wall, but the hoop at the stage end of the floor was an ancient portable. The ceiling was low, but not so low as to inhibit a nice arching jumpshot. In 1970, this old gym doubled as classroom space, with its basketball markings still clearly present on the shiny wood floor.

We would dress for practice on the stage behind the curtain, then push the students' desks to the sides of the narrow gym.

As we went through our drills at practice, misplaced passes, dribbles, and shots caromed off the too-close-to-the-playing-surface desks, brick walls, and caged windows sending papers scattering and creating loud bangs and thumps.

Though the small bandbox gym from a past era was not suited to the faster paced style of the modern game, I loved the experience of playing on a floor where my uncles and aunts on the Woods side of my family, as well as my mom, played basketball in their youth. It was both a physical and spiritual connection to the past.

We practiced at Edwards a few times in November and then moved on to the slightly larger gym at Madison Elementary and the massive, classic gym at the junior high in December. By January 1971 the new high school gym was ready to use and we and the other Cruiser teams moved into our bright new home.

I was glad to be part of the last Cruiser basketball team to play in the old Edwards gym and to have contributed to its historic echoes of squeaky sneakers, thumping dribbles, and the swishing "thwip" of the nets.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 2, 2010

Challenging the rain (Nov. 29, 2010)
My first thought as I pulled in the Canal Winchester High School parking lot on Thanksgiving morning was, "These people are so alive!"

Thanksgiving Day dawned bleakly with steel gray skies, whipping winds, cold temperatures, and sheets of rain. However, Mother Nature did not dampen the spirits of a group of hardy runners as they participated in the Thanksgiving Day 5K run in Canal Winchester on the morning of Nov. 25. (The proceeds of which benefitted the Canal Winchester Food Bank and Human Services.)

While I sat cozy in my car waiting for the race to start so I could snap a few photos for the Messenger, the runners huddled together for warmth and shelter under the awning of a motor home, which was serving as the registration point for the race. Some were dressed in parkas and others in sweats. Everyone wore a hat. Some brave athletes wore shorts in pure defiance of the pelting cold rain.

As the race's start time neared, I got out of my car and headed for the starting line. The runners ventured out from the awning and warmed up as best as they could, instantly getting soggy from head to toe. But I heard no one complain and I saw many, many smiles. The only one staying dry was the race's costumed turkey mascot who smartly carried a colorful umbrella.

At the sound of the horn, the race began and the runners set off at a strong pace. They appeared happy to be moving, to actively challenge the rain rather than to stand in it passively.

The runners could just as easily been in their warm, dry homes curled up on a couch awaiting their Thanksgiving meal. But, instead, they were out in the elements to help raise money for the food bank and CW Human Services.

These are people who embody the spark of life. These are people who get out and do things no matter what tries to stop them. These are people to be admired.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 29, 2010

A death 47 years ago (Nov. 22, 2010)
Today is the anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

Whether one liked Kennedy or not, it's a day when most people over the age of 50 will pause and think about that tragic day.

In 1963, it had been 62 years since the unsettling flurry and fury of the presidential assassinations of Abraham Lincoln in 1865, James Garfield in 1881, and William McKinley in 1901. Maybe, by 1963, people thought our society was beyond such an act and that's why Kennedy's death hit folks in such an emotional way.

Kennedy's assassination created a swirl of memories and debate among people from remembrances of where one was at the time of the killing, to the conspiracy theories, to the turmoil of the 1960s.
I was seven-years-old, going on eight, in November 1963 and one of the overriding impacts of the Kennedy assassination is that it led to the first funeral I experienced.

At such a young age I knew nothing of death and I took note of the serious demeanor the adults around me exhibited following the assassination. The weight of it all was palpable and I was drawn to the images of the funeral on the television.

My family didn't have a color tv at the time, so the deathly gray of the black and white images on the television screen added to the sad nature of what was transpiring.

For all of television's failings and criticisms for being a "vast wasteland," the medium's power to present images enabled a nation of millions to become a small community as they watched the somber proceedings.

The images stick in the soul from that viewing: the riderless horse, the stark sound of drums, the flag draped casket in the caisson...and the people, the gray pall of people lining the streets as the procession passed. I knew it was significant and I couldn't take my young eyes off of it.

Now age 54 going on 55, I've been to many funerals over the years. Though not as elaborate as Kennedy's, each one was important in its own right in honoring an individual who had passed on.

Nov. 22, 1963 taught me death comes to all and that everyone deserves respect when their time comes.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 22, 2010

Notes in books (Nov. 17, 2010)
I am not averse to making pencil notations in the books I read and own.

Some readers like to keep their books pristine, but I like to interact with what I'm reading and, when I'm in a particularly studious mood, I'll note passages in the text that resonate with me so I can find them again in the future.

Recently I decided to go back and look at some of the novels and short stories I read long ago to see what I notated. I wanted to share with you a few of the passages I thought were worth remembering at the time I read the books:

• "I wonder why progress looks so much like destruction." - John Steinbeck from "Travels with Charley."

• "There are men everywhere who talk and talk and say nothing." - Sherwood Anderson from the short story collection, "The Teller's Tales."

• "The bright hopes of youth have to be paid for at the bitter price of disillusionment." - W. Somerset Maugham from "Of Human Bondage." (I noted more passages in this book than in any other of my books.)

• "Matter is beautiful only in its imperfections. Only blockheads seek perfection, which is death. Let perfection seek you. You needn't seek it." - William Saroyan from the short story collection, "The New Saroyan Reader."

• "Go, seeker, if you will, throughout the land and you will find us burning in the night." - Thomas Wolfe from "You Can't Go Home Again."

• "And at night the river flows, it bears pale stars in the holy water, some sink like veils, some show like fish, the great moon that once was rose now high like a blazing milk flails its white reflection vertical and deep in the dark surgey mass wall river's guiding bed push." - Jack Kerouac from "Maggie Cassidy."
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 17, 2010

Photo triggers (Nov. 15, 2010)
I sat down recently with my mom and looked at some old photos of when I and my brother and sister were kids, as well as photos from the old Page farm on Alum Creek Drive where my mom grew up.

I was struck by the immediacy of time travel the photos triggered. Looking at the photo of my grandmother Mae Woods sitting in her kitchen made me hear her laugh and feel the warmth of her kitchen that was brought on by Mae's baked goods and good humor.

Pictures of my siblings and me, in our home on Clark Court in Groveport when we were quite young and scrawny, awakened memories in me of the interior of that house I thought were long forgotten - the big picture window where we would tape homemade paper Halloween and Christmas decorations, the coolness of the 1950s era linoleum kitchen floor, and the scraggly Christmas trees from Norm's Market propped up in the living room. It was as though I could step through the photo and be there again.

The dogs of our lives had a knack for finding the camera lense. There was happy Pepper, who I never knew because I was not yet born when that grand dog pawed the earth. Lady, the beautiful blonde cocker spaniel with big round eyes, who if she liked you, you were her friend for life, but if she didn't, well, she would come after you in an unpleasant manner of bared teeth and flailing spaniel ears. Then there was Scrapper, the Norwegian Elkhound, who loved to wrestle and would eat anything except White Castle hamburgers.

More photos of us in our house on Main Street, which we moved to from Clark Court, reawakened my memories of the wonderful built in wooden book cases and, more especially, the fanciful fire place with its red glazed brick and maple frame. There, in a corner of the living room, was the warm air register of the furnace where I would sit on cold, dark December mornings contemplating the oncoming school day in the glow of Christmas tree lights.

Go to that box in your closet or basement and look at your old photos and do some time traveling. The photos are more than a collection of black and white and color images spanning an era. The preserved images visually speak volumes about grand times and small moments. They are reminders. They are storytellers.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 15, 2010

Turn left at the light (Nov. 10, 2010)
I enjoy it when I'm walking down the street and someone stops their car to ask me for directions. I like playing the role of small town expert and local yokel. I like that when they see me they think I'm trustworthy.

It can get a little tricky at times, such as when someone is looking for Groveport Madison Junior High, which is known in the area by the many different names it has been referred to over the years including, "the old high school" (not to be confused with "the older high school" next door, or the not-so-new 40-year-old "new" high school on Hamilton Road). They may also be looking for Middle School South. So one has to be able to winnow it down from the lost driver just what school they are really searching for.

Over the years I've had lost drivers stop me on Main Street to ask me how to get to: Canal Winchester, Port Columbus, Lancaster, Lithopolis, Greencastle, Columbus, Ashville, Shadeville, Columbus Motor Speedway, Obetz, various cemeteries, and Eastland Mall, among other places.

More specifically they ask me how to find a particular street in town. I pride myself on knowing all the streets and alleys in town, but must confess once in a while I'm asked about a street in one of the newer subdivisions and I have to think about it a bit before sending them on to their destination.

I try to give specific directions so I don't get tthe travelers hopelessly lost. In his book, "Travels with Charley," John Steinbeck made note of how usually a local person gives unusable, unreliable directions containing odd reference points to travelers. He wrote many locals express a disdainful disbelief that the outsiders, who have never been in the area before, can be so lost in a place so familiar to the local person. He wrote about one area in New England where the locals entertained themselves by giving people intentionally wrong directions. That just seems like interpersonal vandalism to me.

I keep it simple with easy terms like: left turn, right turn, go straight; and also give them route numbers or street names they can follow on signs instead of "turn left at the big bushy tree by Aunt Marla's place."

Giving directions feeds my ego and makes me seem smarter than I am. It's also a good feeling to see a lost person's relief as they realize they're not as lost as they thought.

None of us are as lost as we think we are.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 10, 2010

The confrontation (Nov. 8, 2010)
The confrontation occurred on a bright, fall day in 1965.

I was a fourth grader and was late getting out to noon recess because I had dawdled over my lunch. I hurried down the school steps to join in on the chicken fights out in the far field of the playground. (Chicken fights, for the uninitiated, are when a big group of kids get together to do battle with each other on piggy back...the goal is for each piggy back pair to knock over other piggy back pairs, the last pair standing wins. Kind of like a combination of jousting and wrestling.).

I blasted out of the back door of the school and was about to turn the corner when I came face to face with - him. He (let's call him "X") was a big kid for his age who liked to use his size to intimidate, or more accurately, bully other kids.

I never had any problems with X previously. It's like he never noticed me before. But that day he apparently was trolling the playground looking for stragglers when he came across me.

Now, X had a method. He never struck anyone first. He would loom over a person, belittle them, and command and incite them to hit him. That way he could tell the teachers or principal he was defending himself. Somehow it made it okay in his mind.

I stopped short of bumping into X and tried to move around him, but he blocked me and backed me up against the brick school building.

"You ran into me," he said with cold anger.

"No, I didn't," I replied.

"You stupid #*&!," he answered.

I said nothing, didn't move, but kept looking at him.

"You wanna hit me? Go ahead you little #*&!, hit me," he taunted.

I stood there motionless and silent. In my mind I ran through all the things one of my uncles told me once about fighting - how there are no rules, it's you or him, don't hold back, and go for the weak spots.

But I sized up my position and realized I was stuck with my back to the wall and X glowering and towering over me only inches away. So I did nothing.

Surprisingly, that worked. After a minute or so (though it seemed longer) X tired of my lack of any kind of response. He swore at me and walked away.

He didn't come after me any more after that. Once we got into junior high and high school, X channeled his aggression into football and became a good player. At school he remained an intimidating presence and developed a menacing smile. He got into a fight once in a while, but it was always against someone of his own physical stature and he always won. He didn't seem to be as much of a predator towards those weaker than him as when he was younger, but his formidable reputation remained intact.

I didn't cross paths with X again until we were seniors in high school. We had a class together and he sat behind me. Throughout the school year he would often mutter somewhat amusing insults about the teacher or the class' subject matter to me under his breath. It's like he transformed his old taunts into a sandpaper style sarcasm. He seemed to like that at times he could get stifled laughs out of me during class.

I don't know why he never bothered me any more after that confrontation in elementary school. As we sat in that class as seniors, I wondered at times if he remembered our confrontation. Did he respect me for not knuckling under or did he just never give it another thought?

One day, during our last week of high school in 1974 as the class we shared ended, he gave my chair a strong little push while I sat in it.

"See you around," he said.

I never spoke to him again.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 8, 2010

At the polls (Nov. 2, 2010)
I like to vote. I've never missed an election since I achieved voting age back in the early 1970s.

I enjoy the sensation of being mad with individual power as I make my selections.

"Take that and that and that!" I think as I express my liberty by touching buttons on the voting machine screen - though these new glowing, plastic encased, electronic voting machines don't provide the satisfaction of the ratchety loud "click" of the old lever driven, heavy metal mechanical machines. I also liked how the old machines had the big musty curtain that cloaked you as you voted.

Those sturdy old machines made the vote seem weighty and serious while the new electronic gizmos make you feel like you're ordering something at a fast food place.

My sensation of power madness passes when I leave the polling place and the old song lyric from The Who comes to mind: "Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss."

A single vote is but a pin prick to the political system behemoth. But, we all must remember that enough such pin pricks can maybe bleed the brute.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Nov. 2, 2010

Comment from Kim: Rick, I feel exactly the same way as you do about voting (At the Polls, Nov. 2). �And I absolutely refuse to vote by Absentee ballot which seems to be the popular thing to do these days (at�least while I am still healthy and able enough to get to the polls). �Now I love new technology and usually embrace it with open arms and mind �But I have to admit I really don't care much for the electronic voting machines �I know we can't stop progress but, at the sake of sounding like an old fuddy-duddy, give me back the old massive voting machines--let me pull the large handle that closes the curtain around me where I truly feel I am surrounded by privacy (and not feel rushed by the peering eyes of others in a hurry to cast their vote); let me hear the clanking sound as I pull each lever, assuring me I have cast each and every vote I am entitled to make. �Let me reopen the curtain and exit, walking past my fellow citizens smiling and proud that I once again exercised my right and civic duty as an American...a right that so many before me fought to ensure that freedom. �A right I will continue to exercise until the day I die....on whatever new-fangled contraption exists at the time. � � � � � ��

Random thoughts (Oct. 28, 2010)
A clearing of the head of random thoughts:

•When members of the Rolling Stones fight with each other it seems cooler than when the Beatles used to snipe at one another.

•I like that, in this incessently high tech age, people still place old fashioned election campaign yard signs on their lawns. It's interesting to see who puts whose sign in their yards and that people still have faith the signs could have an impact on an election.

•I know what the stodgy old, corporate driven NFL (aka "No Fun League") needs...it needs the wild and woolly, colorful AFL! Before the merger between the two pro football leagues in 1970, the AFL had a reputation for a freewheeling spirit and high scoring games. The NFL today seems more like one of those dull seminars one has to attend at work or school.

•My foremost driving pet peeve: people in front of me who are turning right... ever...so...sloooowwwwllly!

•Over the years, the ground underneath the shed in my backyard has been the home of several families of rabbits, possums, and now a fat groundhog. I wonder if, in the animal world, the underground den there is seen as a palatial mansion, comfortably middle class, or a low rent apartment?
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 28, 2010

Up on the roof (Oct. 25, 2010)
A few days ago I was riding my bike down the street just as evening was setting in when I looked up and saw two friends of mine sitting atop their front porch roof.

When I asked them why they were up there they replied they wanted to see what it was like, which I thought was a good answer.

I have a similar front porch roof to theirs and in the many years I've lived in my house I've never gone out and sat on my front porch roof. That's because I don't like heights and being on a roof is not something I seek out. A stepladder is plenty high for me.

But I thought about it and figured I might be able to try this front porch sitting thing. When I got home I went out the window and gingerly crawled out onto the porch roof. Though I was no where near the edge, the roof's pitch made me feel a bit unsteady so I stuck close to peak and the house wall and didn't venture far out on the roof.

I sat down (moving as little as possible because I was certain one false move would send me careening off the roof) and then looked around at my squirrel's eye view of the world. I saw the high locust tree limbs in more detail than one gets from a ground view. The beautiful bark is rugged and one can see the limbs have more color to them (rich reddish browns) than is visible from below.

There are leaves and sticks on the porch roof that will linger there until winter's winds whip them away. The roof shingles are gritty, but I thought that, if they were edible, their texture might be chewy.

As darkness enveloped my roof perch, I looked to the east and saw a big, bright, round full moon easing up into the sky. I thought about how many times I've watched the moon do its dance across the sky. I thought about how that moon shined its light down upon everyone I've ever known and how, though miles and time separates me from them, we can still share the moonlight from our own points on this earth just by looking up into the sky in the night.

So quiet.

The air grew chilly, so I slowly made my way off the roof back into the house, but I noticed my movements were steadier than when I first clambored out.

Like the old song, it was peaceful out there, up on the roof.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 25, 2010

Jack o' lanterns (Oct. 20, 2010)
The best jack o' lanterns are the scary looking ones.

Pumpkins with snarling, jagged teeth and menacing eyes, preferably with tortured looking pumpkins guts dangling visible on the inside, scream Halloween to me.

I know nowadays there are lots of pretty patterns and arty designs people can carve into their pumpkins, but remember folks, it's Halloween! Things are supposed to look scary.

Jack o' lanterns, which at one time were made from turnips of all things, are based on the old folk tale of a man named Jack who offended both Heaven and Hell and was denied entry to both upon his passing. Instead he was condemned to walk the earth for all time with only a burning coal in a pumpkin to light his way. So Jack O' the Lantern was this creepy guy bathed in an eerie glow that you really wouldn't want to see while trying to find your way home at night.

I recall as a kid one of my favorite things about trick or treating was seeing a glowing jack o' lantern perched on a porch. The flickering light of the fiery candle in the orange pumpkin, casting dancing shadows and illuminating a frightful face, made the night seem wonderfully other worldly. The fire inside the pumpkin and the ghastly visage on the gourd tingles our inner senses in a way that links us to our ancestors with the knowledge there is danger in the dark.

So make your jack o' lanterns scary looking and do old Jack proud.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 20, 2010

Permanence (Oct. 14, 2010)
Two large, mighty sycamore trees tower near the intersection of College and Cherry streets in Groveport. They are massive trees and I've often wondered how old they are.

I do know that, during my 54 years of life on this planet, these two trees have always been huge, so, I laugh to myself, if I'm old, they've got to be old, too.

I wonder who planted the sycamores? Were they planted in memory of someone or some thing? There once was a Baptist church at this intersection in the 19th century, was there a connection to that? The Presbyterian Church, built in 1853, still stands nearby - do the trees have root there? Could some homeowner long ago have just liked sycamores and planted the trees on a fine day long ago? Maybe the trees, in nature's random way, took root on their own.

I think about what these trees have shaded over the years: Memorial Day parades that solemnly march down College Street to the Groveport Cemetery; somber funeral processions to that same sacred ground; kids scuffing their feet as they walk to school; people strolling to church; and the daily hubbub of traffic that rolls up and down the street.

Were these trees here in the 19th century when College Street was known as East Street on Jacob Wert's original plat for Wert's Grove? Did they border the street when it was a just a dusty path? The homes in this historic neighborhood are older residences - were these houses here before the trees took root?

It's a leafy mystery.

The trees have felt the four seasons roll through each of their many years, absorbing the fresh rains of spring, the steamy heat of summer, the bright days of fall, and the winds of winter.

People and buildings have come and gone, but the two trees remain, keeping each other company through the years.

These sycamores are monumental, but they are even better than that because, unlike stone statues, the trees are alive, their growth is their permanence.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 14, 2010

Apple Butter Day observations (Oct. 12, 2010)
The 37th annual Apple Butter Day in Groveport has come and gone. I spent most of the day Oct. 9 at the festival and jotted down these observations:

•It was most likely the hottest Apple Butter Day ever with temperatures in the high to mid 80s with brilliant sunshine in a cloudless sky. It was a harvest festival taking place on what seemed like a summer day.

•No yellow jackets! I didn't see a single one of the pesky stingers, who like apple butter as much as we do. Usually one has to be vigilant before chomping into a slice of warm bread and apple butter to make sure a yellow jacket hasn't perched there helping itself to the tasty treat. Not this year though.

•I always have the bean soup and cornbread every year for lunch at the festival. This year's batch of bean soup was the best yet, peppery and thick. Add in a chunk of golden cornbread and that's a hearty meal. I took mine outside and sat under a shade tree to watch the crowd mill about.

•The crowd was huge. Bigger than I can ever remember seeing. People arrived early and stayed longer it seemed and more people joined in throughout the day.

•Usually the festival crowd thins when the Ohio State football game starts on TV. That didn't seem to happen this year. Maybe it's because the Buckeyes were playing hapless Indiana. I did note a pick up truck was pulled up to Wirt Road with a big TV in the back tuned to the Buckeye game and people would wander over to check out the score, but they didn't linger at the TV screen.

•The Civil War re-enactors of the 76th Ohio are a nice addition to the festival. They put on a good show and are knowledgeable historians.

•I liked the acoustic music performances by all the musicians, but I especially enjoyed the tunes played by "Delightful Sounds," made up of Priscilla Hewetson on violin and Ellen Ford on the hammer dulcimer. Melodic and precise, their playing swirled the listener back in time.

•Egad! I forgot to enter the quilt raffle this year! I always entered in the past (though I have never won), but somehow got distracted this year.

•Didn't see many politicians campaigning on the grounds this year.

•I saw many old friends, newer friends, and family.

•Everyone seems to smile on Apple Butter Day.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 12, 2010

The tracks (Oct. 6, 2010)
On an early October afternoon that was doing its best imitation of a gray day in mid-November, I went for a walk around town.

I was headed no place in particular, but ended up at the railroad tracks on the north edge of town. I reached the tracks at College Street and remembered a groaner of an old joke an old friend once told me when we were flying over these tracks in my car on the way to basketball practice in 1973:

"Train's been here," he said.
"How can you tell?" I asked as the duped straight man.
"There's its tracks!" he replied.

I noted the silvery shine of the tracks was not dimmed by the cloudy day. I took the shine as a good sign because that meant the tracks still had steady train traffic, the steel wheels burnishing the rails to keep the relentless rust from engulfing them.

Steady train traffic may be stretching it though, as I think only one train comes through town in the morning, heading southeast, and quite possibly the same train comes back later in the day heading back to Columbus.

When I was a kid, trains rolled through town regularly throughout the day. When not otherwise occupied with what back then seemed like some vitally important kid things - playing ball, bug watching, hammock tossing - we neighborhood kids would hop on our bikes and head for the tracks when we heard a train coming. We'd watch the train with its long line of freight cars rumble, wobble, groan, and creak along the tracks. We'd count the cars and watch for the caboose. Now there are no cabooses and the train that comes through town is short, pulling just a few cars. These days I still like to watch it go by if I am lucky enough to see it.

I turned my walk east and walked along the tracks to the old railyard, which once bustled with a depot and grain elevators - now all gone.

I sat in the grass where the depot once stood and listened to the quiet. Just the wind rustling the grass and whipping around the old three story brick warehouse on the other side of the tracks. In faded paint on the warehouse is still printed, "Groveport, O.," which tells the railroaders, as it has for decades, what town they are passing through.

Where I sat was once a hub of activity in town. Farmers bringing grain to the elevators for shipping by rail. Passengers milling about the depot waiting for a ride to Columbus, or to Canal Winchester, or to Lancaster, or beyond to the wider world.

Few things are as ingrained in the American psyche than the railroad. I walked up to the tracks and looked both directions. The rails reaching off into the distance. Still calling to us.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Oct. 6, 2010

Comment from Kay: Loved your track story. I grew up in Southern Ohio where a train passed several times a day within sight of the house and just down the road was a depot where they tossed out the mail bag for many years - for the grocery stores nearby that had a post office within. I wish they would take better care of the tracks on Front St. When I lived on Front St. in the 1960's and 1970's I broke a windshield on them and a driver must still be really careful when crossing them. At the time I was told that the village was in no way responsible for them - only the railroad people. Oh well. :o)

See Canal Winchester as it once was (Sept. 29, 2010)
A good way to get to know one's community is to learn more about its past.

With that in mind, I highly recommend you attend the Canal Winchester Area Historical Society's annual Historic Ghost Tour on Oct. 1 & 2 at 6:30 p.m.

Walking along the town's historic streets as twilight settles in feels like you're stepping through a shadowy portal in time, a feeling that is accentuated by the costumed actors portraying figures from Canal Winchester's past during the event.

Tour stops this year include a variety of locations and stories including: the Madison Grange Hall #194, built in 1874; Prentiss School, where costumed schoolchildren will partake of lessons in a one room schoolhouse built in the 1850s; the Leonard House, built in 1879 as a hotel; the Miller Furniture Store built in the 1850s as a furniture store and undertaking business; Gayman's Store built circa 1851; the site of the original Heffley House, now the location of a Tudor Revival home; two homes on West Mound Street, one an example of the small brick A-frame homes built by families of German heritage in the 1870's and the other a house built in 1877 as a parsonage for the United Brethren Church.

The tour begins at the Canal Winchester Area Historical Society's history complex, located at the corner of North High and Oak streets. This complex itself features the wonderfully restored "Queen of the Line' railroad depot and the restored O.P. Chaney grain elevator, built in 1887.

The 90 minute tours are conducted by volunteers. The first group begins the tour at 7 p.m. and the last group departs no later than 7:30 p.m. For anyone needing help getting from site to site, Canal Winchester Human Services will provide a van both evenings.

Tickets are $10 for adults; $5 per student age 6-18; and children under age 5 admitted free. For tickets, call (614) 833-1846 or (614) 837-8400. Tickets will also be available the nights of the tours at the railroad depot at the Historical Society Complex on North High Street.

Come on out and see Canal Winchester as it once was.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 29, 2010

Spider town (Sept. 27, 2010)
My basement looks like a cheap haunted house with silvery/gray cobwebs draping from the corners and windows.

The presence of elaborate spider webs is not intentional on my part, but instead is nature taking its course as my eight legged friends seek refuge from the coming winter in my dank, dark, old basement. Looking at the the webs closely reveals they are architectural masterpieces of intricate design and beauty. The fibers are both strong and delicate at the same time.

I've made it a practice in my life not to kill spiders because I think of them as my bug ally since they eat other insects who may try to invade my home via the basement. The spiders tend not to inhabit parts of the basement that I frequent, instead keeping to the dingy corners and the old coal bin. I leave the spiders alone and they leave me alone. A detente of sorts.

If a spider ventures upstairs, I scold him, remind him of our pact, and take him outside.

This year the usual array of arachnid is taking up residence in the underground lair. There are big, bulbous spiders, little scurrying spiders, and medium sized, seemingly pragmatic spiders who string their webs in the best spots to catch bugs.

By spring most of them will crawl back to great outdoors and their vacated, weary webs will be swept away with the broom of spring cleaning.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 27, 2010

Farm field (Sept. 22, 2010)
The beans are being harvested and the corn soon will be.

One of the things I enjoy about my frequent bicycle rides as I head out to Three Creeks Metro Park is watching the farm field along the the Groveport bike path change with the season.

As winter waned last February and March, the field was brown and stubbly with the remnants of the previous fall's harvest. Blackbirds picked at what they could still find to eat on the ground. Looking to the east on a morning ride, I could easily watch the sun creep up on the new day over the open vista of the field.

Spring brought warmth and shoots of corn and beans, transforming the field from mud brown to a soft green. As spring rolled into the heat of summer, I saw the occasional deer tip toeing among the growing plants in the field as it headed for the tree line. Groundhogs wobbled along the fence row.

With the summer sun, the corn grew fast and tall, replacing the vista with a deep natural green wall along the bike path. The beans grew bushy and full. The bike path became a shady tunnel of corn and beans on one side and the fence row tree line on the other.

By August, a couple of small "dents" appeared in the tall wall of corn where deer gracefully leaped the fence to munch on some ears of corn. Some morning glories flowered along the fence and on some cornstalks. Volunteer corn could be seen sprouting in the bean field.

The green of the beans and corn swiftly turned brown as September rolled in. The once fresh, flexible leaves taking on the texture of old paper.

The plants have done their task and brought forth a bounty of ears of corn and bushels of beans. On a golden, late September afternoon, the farmer's combine cut swaths through the field gathering in the harvest and restoring the vista for another view of the coming winter sunrises.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 22, 2010

The old track and gridiron (Sept. 15, 2010)
It sprang up in the midst of the Great Depression of the 1930s as a gift from the Groveport Madison High School classes of 1929-33 and for many years was considered one of the finest high school track and field facilities in Central Ohio.

The track complex was built around the Cruiser varsity football field (that gridiron itself moved to behind what is now the junior high and replaced by baseball fields around 50 years ago). Located just west of what is now the Groveport Elementary School (formerly the high school) playground, the track and field complex boasted a fine quarter mile cinder track; high jump, broad jump, and pole vault pits; and areas for shot put and discus. It was home to Cruiser track teams until the mid-1970s.

However, through the natural progression of life and time, and the creation of new facilities at the current high school, all that remains of the track and field complex are the concrete discus circle; the shadows below the grass of the asphalt high jump, broad jump, and pole vault runways; and the grass choked cinder track and a few of its embedded wooden borders.

From aerial views the outline of the old quarter mile cinder track can still be seen.

On a recent bright September day, I walked the grounds with Groveport resident Ed Rarey, who played football and ran track for the Cruisers in the 1940s at these former athletic facilities.

"It was one of the best tracks around at the time," remembered Rarey. "A lot of the schools back then either had smaller, fifth of a mile tracks or none at all."

He said the old football field inside the track stood out locally because it had lights, which later were moved to become the lights at the large baseball diamond nearby and have since been removed altogether for safety reasons due to their age. Rarey said the football games drew good sized crowds who stood to watch the games from the sidelines, from the higher perch of the sidewalk leading to the school, or along Wirt Road.

"We wore leather helmets then and not much other padding," recalled Rarey.

Walking through the complex with Rarey it felt like it could have been 1945 as he easily pinpointed where the field events were held for track meets. At another point he gently kicked at the grassy ground with his foot and said, "There's part of the wooden board that was the track's border."

Digging a little deeper with the toe of his shoe he uncovered the cinders of the track.

These days, it's nice to see the grounds are alive with the energy of today's youth with baseball games and other activities, but it's also good to know that, just below the surface, the spirit of the youths of the past linger in bright memory.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 15, 2010

The Piano (Sept. 13, 2010)
When Todd Boggs gently pressed the keys of the baby grand piano, the rich, fullness of its notes filled the air of the Groveport Elementary Auditorium with a warm sound.

The fine, old piano, made by the renowned Henry F. Miller Company of Boston and valued between $3,000 to $4,000, was donated to the school in June by the Lancaster Fraternal Order of Elks.

"It's a perfect fit for our historic, restored auditorium," said Boggs, who is principal of Groveport Elementary.

Boggs said the school will use the piano for programs, music classes, student talent shows, and other performances. The piano will be situated on the floor below the front of the stage.

"We're really appreciative to the Elks for donating the piano to us," said Boggs, who added the school district's public relations coordinator Chris Bowser was "instrumental" in helping the school obtain the piano.

The finely tuned piano, with its polished wood and bright keys, is both a visual and aural work of art.

"It's a beauty," said Groveport Madison Superintendent Scott McKenzie.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 13, 2010

The gatherings (Sept. 8, 2010)
Being a small town guy I attend a lot of small town festivals - from Groveport's Apple Butter Day to the Lithopolis Honeyfest to Canal Winchester's Labor Day, as well as other smaller scale events throughout the year.

Each of these festivals has its own charm, special foods, and unique events. But, as I was wandering around the Canal Winchester Labor Day Festival this past weekend, I noticed the primary activity people were engaged in was sitting (or standing) around talking, smiling, and laughing with each other.

That's a great thing all these festivals have in common - they bring people together. That is a testament to the power of community. The festivals provide a relaxed atmosphere and welcoming open space to gather. They are places where one can see friends and neighbors, as well as meet new people, face to face. In our overwhelming technological world, personal contact is dwindling. These festivals help shore up fading personal ties and reinforce our humanity.

At these events, people take over the streets from cars and trucks. At these events, you don't need your computer or cell phone to talk to someone, they are right there in front of you. At these events, you can hug someone, pat them on the back, and say, "Good to see you."

Few things are more valuable than that.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 8, 2010

The bat (Sept. 1, 2010)
Last evening I thought I'd go sit on the front porch and watch the twilight blend into the night. But an unexpected visitor stopped me as, when I opened my front door, I came eyeball to eyeball with a furry brown bat clinging to my outer screen storm door.

At first glance the bat seemed like a furry blob stuck on the door. So I stepped back, tilted my head as those of us geezers with bifocals do when we want to see up close, and focused.

Yep, it's a bat.

Now, I'm a fan of my fellow mammals - particularly ill tempered little mammals like badgers, wolverines, skunks and and the like - so the bat didn't scare me. I like bats. They are an animal ally because they eat fiendish mosquitoes that plague us all.

I did not disturb the bat, but instead watched him as he clung to the screen. He did not move much as he probably thought of me as some monstrous giant and wondered what I was going to do.

Over a few minutes it seemed the bat got used to me relaxed. He flicked his wings a bit. Then he'd cock his head slightly, looking around. He was a beautiful creature. His fur looked clean, almost like it had been brushed. His wings were a marvel of nature's engineering, looking both powerful and delicate. His claws appeared dainty, yet menacing, poking through the mesh screen.

As I watched the bat, the darkness deepened outside. I thought to myself that maybe the bat was waiting for the light to fade to its liking before making its nightly rounds.

Suddenly, the bat popped off the screen with incredible quickness and, with its wings rapidly flapping, swiftly looped through the air around the porch post, and darted upward through the locust tree branches. I briefly saw the bat silhouetted against the fading sunlight in the western sky, like a Halloween image, before it disappeared into the night.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Sept. 1, 2010

Intentional memory (Aug. 25, 2010)
It was a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a paper cup that came with a small, flat, thin disposable wooden spoon that looked like a mini-canoe paddle.

I carved away at the ice cream, carefully balancing the cool treat on the wooden spoon as I ate so it wouldn't go "splat" on the smooth asphalt walkway in front of what was Groveport Madison High School (now the junior high) on a day in late May of 1967. The ice cream had that dual personality of still being solid at its core but creamily melting at its edges.

I was a kid attending an ice cream social with my family being put on by the Cruiser Marching Band, of which my sister was a member. ("Ice cream social," so quaint sounding, like something out of the straw hatted 1890s.)

In my mind I can clearly see that May day with the cafeteria tables set up outside in front of the school to hold the tubs of ice cream to be dished out. The shiny steel legged tables seemed out of place removed from the tile and brick of the cafeteria. The band members milled about in their "summer" uniform of white shirts and black shorts. The crowd wasn't large, but it was relaxed. People seemed happy, but not boisterous.

Memory is such a compartmentalized thing. I can recall I leaned against one of the white painted, well spaced, short wooden posts that outlined the boundary of the school's courtyard. As I looked over the scene, I thought I should remember the moment of eating that ice cream because, one day, maybe there wouldn't be any more ice cream socials on the broad, grassy front lawn of the school. If I remembered the moment, it could stay alive. I made an intentional memory and it stuck.

There are a few moments from my young life where I made note of something so I would remember it. Often they aren't grand moments, but significant in their simplicity. These are always vivid in my head while other things from the past float around waiting to be plucked from the sea of time when the moment calls for it.

In this case I'm glad I filed this intentional memory because, as it turns out, that building was only a high school for three more years and I don't think there were ever any more ice cream socials on that school lawn since that day.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 25, 2010

What did the canal look like? (Aug. 18, 2010)
What did the Ohio and Erie Canal look like in Groveport and Canal Winchester?
All we have to go on are old black and white photos from the late 19th and early 20th centuries and a few written accounts.

The banks of the canal were, for the most part, scruffy looking - a mix of mud, grass, weeds, and brush. Here and there were wooden planks used to get on and off the canal boats and maybe a wooden staging platform for loading sat on the bank. Dirt paths lead to the water's edge from town.

In both Canal Winchester and Groveport wooden warehouses, sheds, and other assorted buildings hugged the banks in places. A photo taken of the canal near Groveport's Walnut Street (which appears as a meandering dirt path) shows fenced in areas for hogs and other livestock.

The towpath on the south side of the canal was hardpacked dirt from years of mule and horse hooves pounding it. Tough weeds hugged the towpath's edges
After the canal boat traffic ceased in the 20th century, someone built a makeshift, rickety looking wooden footbridge over the canal at Groveport's Walnut Street.

Formidable iron bridges with stone foundations leaped over the canal - one in downtown Canal Winchester and two in Groveport, at Main Street and at College Street near the cemetery.

The canal water did not flow and tended to be murky and rather foul, especially on a hot, sticky summer day. Toward the canal's last days, folks were known to toss trash into its waters. Hard to believe, but in spite of the condition of the canal's water, people actually were baptized in it.

But I paint too harsh a picture of the canal. On a bright day, the canal water could be a ribbon of blue reflecting the high sky. Wildflowers would bloom along the banks. In the spring and fall, the trees along its route would burst into color. In the winter, the snow would frame the old ditch and give the water a silvery hue.

I imagine riding on a canal boat, as it silently, slowly slipped through the water in the countryside to its destination could have been a peaceful experience.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 18, 2010

Main Street's changing face (Aug. 11, 2010)
When folks think of history, they often think of people, places, events, and things that happened long, long ago rather than the recent history of our own lifetimes.

In our daily life we're busy and we think the streetscape and people around us don't change much, when in fact they are always changing.

I thought about this and decided to take a walk down Groveport's Main Street and compare it to what it was like in the mid-1960s, following the route I used to take when I came home from Groveport Elementary School each school day - traveling east to west - to see what is different.

Certainly the street itself is wider with fancy streetlights and bricked curbing. But what is most noticeable is the change in the businesses that once lined the street.

Directly across from the school is the rubbled lot of the former Groveport Cleaners (which later was Skip's Ceramics). Beside it is a grassy expanse that once was home to Kermit Alspaugh's "Ken Realty" offices, whose parking lot featured huge boulders that Alspaugh put there to give people something to talk about.

Along that same open grassy lot were previously two gas stations - Rich's Sunoco and Parker's Sohio. I can still hear the "ding ding" sound the cars made pulling into the stations when they rolled over the black rubber trigger cord that announced their arrival to the station attendants.

What is now the Groveport Heritage Museum in Groveport Town Hall was the home of the Groveport Hardware.

The old commercial row of businesses on the south side of Main Street included the Lunch Box restaurant, a furniture store, Ackerman's Drugs (featuring a great turntable of golden cashews, peanuts, and other nuts), an IGA grocery store, and the Birch Tavern. Of these, only the Birch Tavern is still there and it moved next door when its original building burned down in the late 1980s.

On warm days, the front door of the old Birch tavern was left open for air and, as a kid, there was this wonderful forbidden delight of peeking in the darkened bar to get a glimpse of an aspect of adulthood.

At Crooked Alley and Main there was a battered, glass and metal telephone booth with a thick, black pay phone inside. Don't see any of those any more!

Next came Smith's Market, which is now Little Italy. Across the street was the B&J Carry-out - a kid's dreamland with its vast supply of soda pop, candy and Hostess cakes and pies - and Harden's Barbershop.

Near Smith's Market was the well known Bierberg Furniture Store, which is now Go Groveport. Kids would walk along its indented front display windows and look at the various and odd figurines along the inner windowsill. Right next door came Drake's Restaurant, which later became Taylor's Restaurant and is now the Village Hair Shoppe.

Crossing Oak Street, thedignified Darfus Funeral Home, now Myers Funeral Home, came into view.
The red brick Cruiser Inn, a great little homestyle restaurant sat at the corner of Walnut and Main.

One of my favorite places to linger as a kid was the farm implement store at Brook Alley and Main beside the Shell gas station. The farm implement store always had bright, shiny orange Allis-Chalmers tractors on display outside. I favored red Farmall tractors, but the Allis-Chalmers tractors looked great sitting there in the sun tempting you to hop on them and take a ride.

The People's Bank used to inhabit what is now the Huntington National Bank. The exterior of the structure hasn't changed much. I seem to remember there was a small pizza place in what is now the Huntington's side parking lot, but my memory is foggy about that.

Doc Trythall's office, now a pizza outlet, was in the white block building at Brook Alley and Main. I can recall his examination room had shelves of dark brown bottles that I thought were mysterious looking.

A small grocery was next to Trythall's.

At College and Main was Painter's Motor Sales, which is now Tri-Us-Trophies.

From there the trip home from school took me past houses one can still see in place. What's missing are the big shade trees that once canopied Main Street, victims when the street was reconstructed.

Crossing Center Street, then West Street, home was in sight.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 11, 2010

Comment from Mary: It is sad that there are not businesses down Main Street to bring people downtown to mill around and visit. When people come out of there homes and meet their neighbors, a town becomes more of a community. People get together, help each other, support the community and enjoy where they live. Without businesses to gather around a community can fizzle.

The wonderful language of slang (Aug. 4, 2010)
We use the informal language of slang words everyday. They're colorful, sometimes fun, sometimes crude, words we're comfortable with and understand.

According to wordsmith Stuart Flexner, American slang originates from a wide variety of sources: musicians, the military, the criminal underworld, immigrants, railroad workers, sports, show business, teenagers, college students, financial people, hobos, technical workers, and no doubt many other places.

Slang words can come and go while others have staying power and remain popular. With other slang words, we can see their meanings change.

One of the most common slang words still in use is "cool," whose form the culture adopted from jazz musicians to be a positive description of something or someone we like, as in "That's so cool!" But, according to "The Dictionary of American Slang," at one time "cool" meant "to wait for" and until 1920 also meant "to kill someone."

Leafing through "The Dictionary of American Slang," I found these interesting entries:

• "Gangster" arose in the 19th century and originally referred to politicians. It became more associated with criminals by 1925.

• "Chick" originally referred to "prison food" but by the 1930s was transformed by jazz musicians to refer to attractive women.

• "Dude" used to mean "an overdressed man" or a "man from the city," but now refers to men in general.

• "Wimpy" once meant "a hamburger," based on the character Wimpy from the old cartoon "Popeye." But it now means weakling.

It's the old, no longer in use slang that seems the most colorful and creative to me. Things like:

• "Strawberry patch" - the red caboose at the end of a train. You don't see cabooses any more.

• "Nickel nurser" - a miser.

• "Hoosegow" - a jail, but could also mean an outhouse.

• "Collision mat" - a waffle! (An old navy term.)

The list seems happily endless. I'm glad we cultivate and adopt slang words for everyday use. It's our way of making the language our own.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Aug. 4, 2010

One day in 1840 (July 30, 2010)
She was known for her singing and her father would always recall how he could hear her clear, melodic voice - singing songs she came up with on her own - flowing across the fields from the farmhouse.

At age 18, she was the eldest of the farm family's five children - three sons and two daughters. Of the five children, her parents said she had the strongest spirit and was the most resilient. But one day, a summer fever gripped her. Her body and mind tried to fight it off, but the fever that would not break, broke her. She was gone.

Working farms are places where the natural rhythms must be followed no matter what happens. On the day of her burial, her brothers got up early to do the milking, her sister fed the chickens and pigs. Her mother sat quietly with her body, while her father finished making her wooden coffin.

At noon her father and brothers carried her to the old grain wagon and gingerly placed the coffin on the freshly swept wagon bed. The family, with her father leading the horse that pulled the wagon, walked slowly down the rutted, sunken farm lane to the rolling hills of the north pasture to the small family graveyard.

No one spoke as the wagon creaked its way along the pasture ground to the hilltop graveyard that held the remains of the father's parents, a cousin, and a son who died in infancy, whose graves were marked by stones, nicely carved by her father. Her father had already made plans for her to have a nice, white, carved headstone.

A young couple from the neighboring farm far across the creek came walking over the sun splashed hill to join them at the grave. The father spoke a few, solemn words. Tears gently flowed, but there was no sobbing as the isolated pioneer family was well practiced at taking hardship stoicly.

Her father and brothers, and the young neighbor man, carefully lowered her into her grave, the cool air of the opened earth mingling with the July heat. As her mother, brothers, and sister walked away, her father thanked the neighbors and kindly sent them away. His calloused hands picked up the shovel and he alone began to fill the grave.

When he finished he sat beside the grave and listened. The only sound was the soft wind rustling the pasture grass. He closed his eyes and leaned back, listening to her last song.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 30, 2010

Pete Quaife is gone (July 27, 2010)
Pete Quaife passed away recently from kidney failure at age 66.

Who is Pete Quaife you ask?

Quaife was the bass player for the Kinks during their 1960s heyday of hit records ranging from "You Really Got Me," that raucous bit of biting rock that exploded out of radios in 1964 (a song with an almost heavy metal feel...just listen to Quaife's rumbling, roaring bass throb and push that song along); to that both celebratory and melancholy ode to small town and pastoral life, "Village Green Preservation Society," in 1969. He left the band when he tired of the infighting, a curse many bands fall prey to.

The Kinks were part of a wave of bands that hit America during the Beatles led, so called "British Invasion" of the 1960s. Of these mass of bands, it was The Who and the Kinks who stood out to me because they weren't pretty boys, they sounded raw, and they exuded energy.

When people think of the Kinks, it's the talented brothers Ray Davies (singer, songwriter, guitarist) and Dave Davies (lead guitar) who spring to mind while drummer Mick Avory and Quaife linger to the side. It's telling that I'm a fan, yet I still don't know how to correctly pronounce Quaife's last name. But his creative skill is evident whenever you hear a Kinks song from those days.

One of my best memories is hearing "You Really Got Me" blaring out of the tinny loudspeaker at the old Groveport swimming pool on a hot summer day in 1965. It was one of those fleeting moments of heaven for a 10-year-old kid - splashing in the cool water with beautiful girls everywhere and the Kinks roaring out over the airwaves pulsating the scene.

Thanks for the music, Pete. Here's a quaff to Quaife.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 27, 2010

Cornfields (July 21, 2010)
Did you ever notice cornstalks have toes?

Some people call the thin projections reaching to the ground at the base of a cornstalk "feet," but I think it looks more like the cornstalk is standing on its tiptoes, ready to go skittering across the field if the urge struck.

I know it's the Ohioan in me, but I enjoy looking at cornfields. I like how, in these steamy hot July days ("good corn growing weather," as my farm relatives always said) the towering, deep green cornstalks reach high toward the sky. The height of the cornstalks and the densely planted cornrows form a deep green wall along the roads and bike paths. It's almost like passing through a tasseled tunnel.

Every so often one can see a space in the cornfield of bent stalks where a deer or some other critter has bulled its way in for a meal of corn. It reminds me of what my dad, who grew up on a Madison Township farm, once said when I asked him how they handled animals eating their crops. He told me that when you planted a field, you just figured in that a certain percentage of what grew there was the animals' share since it was their land, too.

When I used to have a backyard garden I always planted more than half of it in sweet corn. Primarily for the wonderful fresh ears of yellow sweet corn to be devoured after being freshly picked, cooked, buttered and salted. But secondly because it meant I could have my own mini-cornfield in the yard to enjoy.

One year, to be exotic, I planted sweet corn seeds that were descendants of seeds developed by Thomas Jefferson at his Monticello estate long ago. (Okay, to this midwesterner, corn seeds from Virginia seem exotic.)

The Jeffersonian corn seeds took to the Ohio weather and soil and by harvest time the cornstalks were nearly 12 feet high! A formidable sight. I thought this was going to be some mighty sweet corn!

It could be chalked up to my midwestern provincialism, but the corn these towering Jeffersonian cornstalks produced, while tasty, didn't measure up to me to the full, rich taste of Ohio sweet corn.

Crunching into a cob of Ohio yellow sweet corn brings to mind every county fair you've ever been to, every breath of fresh country summer air you've ever taken, and every bountiful farm field you've ever seen.

I don't garden any more, but I always enjoy watching the cornfields as they grow from spring's shoots to summer's green towers to fall's fading stalks. I revel in August's welcome corn.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 21, 2010

The pencil (July 14, 2010)
I think people secretly love pencils.

Ballpoint pens, felt tip pens, and electronic keyboards are great and we use them happily and effectively. But check any desk and there's always a wooden pencil or two handy.

After crayons, wooden pencils are probably the first thing we learn to write with, so we form a bond with them at an early age, especially the traditional yellow painted ones.

Think how often wooden pencils are successfully given away as attractive promotional items or for advertising. Recently, as part of Madison Township's bicentennial, I was given a box of 144 wooden pencils, emblazoned with wording recognizing the township's 200th birthday, to give away. In less than a week people quickly snatched up most of the pencils.

Pencils are a forgiving writing instrument. If you make a writing mistake, you just flip the pencil over and erase the offending marks and start over.

Most pencils are made of wood and graphite - natural substances that feel good to the touch and rest easily in the hand, making for easy gliding over paper as you write.

Pencils were originally little, fine brushes. By 1564 graphite pencils encased in wood appeared, I think in Bavaria at first. By the late 1700s the wood pencil was refined into a smooth writing instrument.

Images of people writing from those olden days invariably show the writer using a quill pen and ink. Quill pens seem like a hassle. Dip the pen in ink, scritch and scratch for a bit, then dip again. With pencils you write until the lead needs sharpening, which would seem to last longer than dealing with a quill pen running on empty.

I wonder if our ancestors used pencils more often than is depicted? Were quill pens more for show and permanent documents? Was it economics - a pencil being cheaper than pen and ink?

I know that many of the old letters I have on file in the Groveport Heritage Museum are almost all written in pencil.

Pencils are primarily made of red cedar because it is easy to sharpen. At first people used knives and such to sharpen their pencils. It took until 1847 for someone to invent the traditional manual pencil sharpener. The modern style eraser tip appeared by 1858.

A writer who goes by the name "Sparrow," noted in a recent article in "The Sun" magazine that, while pens and such get used up until they're empty, many people give up on pencils before they are sharpened down to a stub of their former selves. He said these poor pencils get tossed away while they are still useful, essentially getting buried alive in a landfill somewhere.

My pencils don't meet that fate. They live long, full lives as I write with them until there is nothing left to sharpen. By then the eraser is worn away and the wood and graphite written and ground away. The pencil is then a ghost whose spirit lives on in the words and marks it left behind.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 14, 2010

Frank Ryan (July 12, 2010)
Today is Frank Ryan's birthday. Who is Frank Ryan you ask?

He's the last Cleveland Browns quarterback to lead the team to a NFL championship waaaayyy back in 1964 in the pre-Super Bowl days. Yes, plain old NFL championships existed before there were excessively hyped Super Bowls.

I was nine-years-old in 1964 and thought the Browns were so good back then that they'd never lose again! Ah, to be young and stupid!

Ryan is now 74. He wore number 13, which I thought was so cool because it meant he didn't care about any of the superstitious junk surrounding the number. I wasn't a football player, but I was a basketball player and I wore number 13, like Ryan, because I thought it made a nice statement about thumbing one's nose at the myth of the number being unlucky.

When people remember the Browns of that 1960s golden era they rightfully recall that they were Hall of Fame running back Jim Brown's team. Brown propelled the team to wins with his powerful and fast running style.

But I also think Ryan deserves more credit. After graduating from Rice University in Texas, Ryan played in the NFL from 1958 to 1970 (with the Browns from 1962-68). It was with the Browns he had his best years having seasons where he threw 25 (twice) and 29 touchdown passes. Ryan was also known as a cerebral quarterback, backed up by the fact he earned a Ph.D. in mathematics from Rice. When's the last time an NFL quarterback could claim those kind of academic credentials?

Ryan's finest hour was in the Browns' 27-0 shellacking of the Baltimore Colts (who were thought by many to be unbeatable at the time) in the 1964 title game where he threw three touchdown passes to Gary Collins.

Happy birthday Frank Ryan. May the Browns somehow stop their bumbling and one day again reach the heights you achieved.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 12, 2010

Hometown (July 8, 2010)
A recent conversation I had with a member of the Groveport Heritage and Preservation Society (GHPS) prompted me to think about what makes up a community.

This GHPS member helps conduct history programs for Groveport Madison school children at the log house in Heritage Park during the school year. These programs present Groveport history as well as give the students a taste of what it was like to live in a log house in the 19th century.

She told me a teacher from one of the schools located outside the village limits told her the programs were wonderful in many ways, but also one way in particular in that the students from her school "have no town of their own" and learning about Groveport history gives the kids a sense of identity and a sense of community.

Groveport, Madison Township, and Groveport Madison Schools have been intertwined from their inception in the early 19th century. For both economic and social support, the township farms relied on the village of Groveport and the village relied on the farmers...and everyone went to Groveport Madison Schools. The schools were, and remain, the shared common experience for many who live in the area.

The natural tendency for many people in the area when asked where they are from has always been to answer, "I'm from Groveport." That's still true today no matter what other governmental jurisdiction in the school district or subdivision they reside in.

I think this is a good thing. People need a hometown to identify with. It gives one a sense of place. It establishes roots, permanence, and geographical reference. Having a hometown provides a shared history and common future.

One can remain proud of living in Madison Township, be proud of being a part of the Groveport Madison school district, be proud of one's neighborhood, and still call Groveport your hometown.

Welcome home.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 8, 2010

Dumbfounded (July 6, 2010)
"Dumfound" or "dumbfound?"

My fellow editors and I were debating how to spell the word recently and we couldn't reach a consensus. So we decided to look it up.

Whitney reached for her magical cell phone, which probably has more computing power than the first spacecraft that landed on the moon, and promptly called up a digital dictionary.

My reflexive, old school response, was to immediately discount as inferior any dictionary that would pop up on a cell phone screen instead of a printed page.

"I'm getting a real dictionary," I said as a reached for my thickly bound, 1,500 page traditional dictionary.

"This IS a real dictionary," Whitney replied about her cell phone reference, with a tone reflecting her usual youthful amusement at my 20th century ways.

We both looked up the word quickly and found that "dumbfound" could also be spelled "dumfound."

It was then I realized I was dumbfounded. Whitney was right. She did have a real dictionary, just in a new technologically modern and compact form. The information, the knowledge, is the same, just presented digitally. In my older brain when I thought "dictionary," I saw a big book my fingers would leaf through. In her younger mind, Whitney saw a digital image on a screen that could appear with a few taps of the finger.

Both her cell phone reference source and my big bound dictionary have their place and are tools we can use. They are both to be embraced I think.

Whitney is a lover of both traditional books and the new technology. I will never give up books, but this experience shows me I need to become better friends with the 21st century.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 6, 2010

Summer day 1966 (July 1, 2010)
A mid-July morning in 1966.

The echoes of Fourth of July firecrackers long gone. Autumn and school still a distant threat as the wide open hot days of summer seemed wonderfully endless.

Three neighborhood kids, sitting around on metal garbage cans propped against the house, talking about nothing, talking about everything.

Would we play "war" today? Would we play baseball? Did you see the Riddler on "Batman" last night?

"Let's get on the hammock," one of us said.

The free standing canvas hammock stood in the yard of a neighbor couple with no kids our age. For some happy reason, the older couple never seemed to care that we neighborhood kids often ran wild through their yard.

"Yeah, let's mess with the hammock," said another.

We walked across the yard to the neighbor's, the dew, still thick on the grass, soaked our canvas sneakers clear through. Being kids, we didn't care.

The hammock was supported by a curved metal frame. Its structure allowed it to become a makeshift carnival ride. One of us would climb into the hammock while the other two would pull down on one end making the other end rise perpendicular to the ground, so it looked sort of like a ship about to sink into the sea.

Once at full height, with the rider grasping the edges of the canvas hammock to stay in it, the two would let go of the frame causing the hammock to swiftly fall backward and then rock jarringly back and forth to a halt, creaking and jangling the whole time. All the while, whoever was in the hammock bounced with each jolt and hung on while their internal organs jostled.

We did this several times, with each of us getting a ride. How we never broke this hammock is a mystery to me. How we never broke each other is a bigger mystery.

All we knew was the day was off to a great start.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, July 1, 2010

Lock walk (June 30, 2010)
Groveport is rich in Ohio and Erie Canal history.

On July 6 at 6:30 p.m., Tina Dillman of the Groveport Parks and Recreation Department, will lead a "Walk to the Lock," a short nature walk to Ohio and Erie Canal Lock 22 in Groveport. Those interested in taking the tour should meet in Groveport's Blacklick Park.

If you take the tour, or just want to take a quiet walk through the area on your own sometime, here are some things you can watch for:

•The canal channel in Blacklick Park looks as though it could still hold water. The ditch is still well formed.

•Blacklick Park itself was once the site of a canal boatyard and dry dock that was considered one of the best south of the Licking Summit. The boatyard built and repaired canal boats.

•The canal towpath was on the south side of the canal and is now overgrown. The path one walks to Lock 22 is actually the former Scioto Valley Traction Line interurban electric trolley right of way.

•As you walk the trolley right of way, you'll notice to your right two ditches - the one furthest away is the canal, the one closest to the path is where dirt was dug to build the interuban path foundation.

•Once at Lock 22 take note in the distance that you can see where several modes of transportation pass through one area: the railroad, the interurban, the canal, Groveport Road, and Little Walnut Creek. This is a common thing as transportaton routes tend to follow old waterways.

•On top of Lock 22 you can see the groove marks from the hinges that once held the oaken doors that controlled the water flow into the lock.

•Canal locks raised and lowered canal boats to meet the changing terrain. The Groveport lock is the last one before a series of locks in Lockbourne.

•Lock 22 is about 90 feet long and its canal channel about 15 feet wide. Just barely wide enough for a canal boat to fit through.

This is just a shorthand version of what you will see on the walk. As you stroll through the woods along the canal, try to imagine what the land was like 100 years ago: a canal filled with water that looked smooth as glass, farm fields opening up beyond the canal, water gushing through the lock spillover, the clomping of the hooves of the canal mules as they towed a canal boat, workers busy in the boatyard, and the canal itself, a silvery thread passing through the village.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 30, 2010

Street art (June 24, 2010)
We pass by, and miss seeing, great examples of urban industrial art every day as we whoosh along in our cars.

But, if we're out walking or biking and take the time to look around, we can find art in unlikely places. I found it on old metal storm sewer and manhole covers.

I particularly like one storm sewer cover from the 1930s along College Street in Groveport that is covered with galaxy of small stars. Stars!

Other manhole cover designs I found while walking through Groveport and Canal Winchester include: the dots, the sunburst, the spokes, the squares/diamonds, and the waffle. (There are several variations of the raised dot pattern.) I like how the designs give such heavy objects a light flair.

The designs don't serve any functional purpose (except for "the waffle" and "the spokes," which allow openings for drainage). The decorations are there to be appreciated and to prettify a lid that is concealing what's gurgling in the murky waters below.

You don't often see elaborate artistic decorations such as these on more modern utility coverings. Just like how older buildings are more ornate than newer buildings, the older a manhole cover is, the more elaborate its artwork. I like that in the past people thought it was worthwhile to do this. In our modern world, changing tastes and budget constraints dictate that such flourishes are not necessary nor practical.

I tend to favor the abstract and geometric images that appear on the covers. I'm not a fan of the covers, usually modern ones, that are simply stamped with a municipality's seal. Seal imprinted covers are not as interesting or as fun. They're like boring state flags emblazoned with state seals or crests that aren't as pleasing to the eye as those with big, bold colorful symbols. Seals and crests, while fine for official documents, are too bureaucratic for street art.

I'm not alone in appreciating manhole cover art. A quick search on the Internet uncovered a variety of Web sites from all over the world dedicated to manhole cover art. (Just "Google" "manhole cover art" and see what you find!) Some of the metal covers from the big cities are amazing to see. The bigger the city, the more elaborate the art on the manhole covers appears to be.

Next time you're out and about for a walk around your neighborhood, look down and see the art beneath your feet.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 24, 2010

Summer sights (June 22, 2010)
Part two of my summer reverie (I wrote about summer sounds on June 21) involves some summer sights I annually associate with the long, hot days.

The first thing I watch for are lightning bugs in the early evening. This year I saw the fireflies on June 10, which is the same day I spotted them last year. I like to watch the lightning bugs float about blinking their yellow light in the night. They remind me of one of the first books I read as a little kid called, "Sam and the Firefly," about an owl and a mischievious lightning bug.

Other summer sights I've noted:

•Beaten up, grass stained shoes on the back porch that still have flicks of cut grass clinging to them. Don't we all have an old pair of shoes that get relegated to the task of being worn while we cut the grass? It beats throwing them away.

•The fully leafed trees silhouetted against the sky at sundown that reach up in the sky shadowed inky black against the glow.

•Fireworks are a summer staple. What I like to watch for are the spidery puffs of smoke that linger and float in the sky after the skyrocket has exploded and burned its powder.

•Come August, when summer starts to wane, I look for the tall, sturdy purple ironweed wildflower to rise up in the meadows. Last year I saw my first ironweed bloom on Aug. 1. I like how the bright purple bloom of the ironweed stands out among the yellow and gold of the other late season wildflowers, defying the frost ahead to just try and dim it.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 22, 2010

Comment from Jo: A page from your "notebook" acts as an anecdote to hectic, cluttered days and always brings a reminiscent smile...

Summer sounds (June 21, 2010)
It's the first day of summer and with it comes the sounds I associate with the season.

These are some of the sounds I can readily hear at my home with the windows gladly opened to the summer air:

•On still Saturday evenings in the summer I can hear, from several miles away, the muffled revving and roaring of the stock cars at Columbus Motor Speedway.

•The mournful sound of the horn of the freight trains as they approach railroad crossings rambling down the tracks that extend from Columbus to Southeast Ohio. On a really quiet evening I can hear the faint horn at the Alum Creek Drive crossing. Then, minutes later and a bit louder each time, I hear the horn as the train approaches Bixby Road, Hendron Road, College Street, and Front Street as the train rumbles east to Canal Winchester. As the train enters Groveport the clickety clack of the steel wheels on the tracks rhythmically fills the air. There aren't many trains that come through town these days. But the sound of the train's horn at night seems like poetry.

•In the heat of the summer come the buzzing of the cicadas. Last year I heard my first cicada buzz on June 27. Their songs can be heard from quite a distance. The buzz seems like a summer anthem. Just thinking of the cicada's buzz in dark, cold January can make one feel the sizzle of July's air on one's skin.

•Lying in bed on a summer's night sometimes there is heard a low rumbling hum to the south of planes as they taxi on the runways at Rickenbacker Airport. It sounds like the bass line to an old blues song.

•Sirens from emergency vehicles wailing in the distance are more audible in summer. Sure, sirens are a year round thing, but they just seem clearer, more piercing, and unexplainably more urgent in the summer.

•In the warmth of summer people emerge from their homes and reclaim the streets and yards from winter. Their voices - some conversational, some the squealing laughter of kids playing, some calls for pets to come - add to the life of the season.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 21, 2010

Rut (June 16, 2010)
It's so easy to fall into a rut.

Fall is even too active a word for life in rutdom. It's more like easing into a rut. It's so effortless to do. It just involves letting routine take over, putting one's brain on automatic pilot, and making little effort to do much more than one has to do.

Being in the rut is deceptively comfortable. Conflicts are reduced, lethargy lingers, and stagnation sets in.

In other words, being entrenched in the rut causes one to stop living and creates a state of merely existing.

That's where I found myself lately and I didn't like it. I wondered how becoming enveloped in the rut happened and I could not pinpoint when my existence in the rut began.

I began to perceive little things which triggered the recognition of my rut. I hadn't had a haircut in months and noticed one morning that I looked like a wiry weed gone to seed. I was doing mundane household chores like a machine. I'd go long stretches where I didn't talk to another human being. The TV was on a lot more. My writing seemed to be going a bit flat.

There's no reason for a healthy, normally engaged in life person like myself to be in such a listless place.

So last night I got a haircut. This morning before I went to work I spent some time appreciating my freshly bloomed sea of bright black eyed susans in my yard.

I aim to claw my way out of the rut and try to reignite the spark of life.

Don't let a rut lure you in. Watch for signs of rut in your life and fend them off by feeding your own fire.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 16, 2010

Name game (June 10, 2010)
Word has gotten out that General Motors wants its employees, and probably everyone else, to stop using the word, "Chevy," and instead use its product's proper name "Chevrolet."

Is it any wonder the American car industry is suffering with directives like this being issued? Imagine calling the classic '57 Chevy the clumsier sounding '57 Chevrolet. Sacrilege.

It's a great American tradition to shorten formal names into nicknames. It makes both the name and the person using it seem cooler.

Some examples: "Coke" for "Coca-Cola," "CCR" for "Creedence Clearwater Revival," the "Knicks" for the NBA's New York Knickerbockers, the "Stones" for the Rolling Stones, the "Schott" for Ohio State's Schottenstein Arena, "Mac" for MacIntosh's Apple computers, even "GM" for General Motors...the list is endless.

Americans like the personal and the familiar and nicknames serve as a great defroster of icy formality. We will continue to chip away at all frozen facades regardless of directives from on high.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 10, 2010

The Cruisers and Broncos (June 8, 2010)
The late Dick Willison, a great guy and good neighbor, often attended Groveport Village Council meetings that I covered for the newspaper. Before the meetings, and during down times in the proceedings, he and I, both former Cruiser basketball players, would talk old time basketball.

Dick played on the great championship Groveport Madison High School varsity basketball teams - along with my uncle Harry Woods, Ken Zarbaugh, and other notable athletes - of the mid-1940s that played in the historic gym in what is now Groveport Elementary.

He told me about how loud the fans could get in that gym, about how players had to be wary of the brick walls that were close to the playing boundaries, and how visiting players were stunned when their corner shots would hit the bottom of the balcony that extended slightly over the court. Fans of the classic basketball movie, "Hoosiers," will understand the atmosphere of old time gyms like this.

A couple of years ago Dick and I, along with some other Groveport folks, were contacted by author Larry Fullen, who was working on a book about the successful Ashville High School basketball teams of the 1940s and was looking for local historical information.

Fullen's book, "The Broncos of 1945," is now published and includes a couple of chapters that highlight five games played between rivals Ashville and Groveport in 1944 and 1945. The book is a good read for both basketball fans as well as those who are interested in small town history and how communities and their citizens interrelate.

The book tells the story of the pursuit of the State of Ohio Class B high school basketball championship by the Ashville Broncos of Pickaway County (now Teays Valley High School). It also describes the experiences of boys growing up in neighboring communities who enjoyed the camaraderie of small town life and basketball.

Quotes from former Cruiser players Zarbaugh and Willison are included. Also highlighted are Groveport history and the source of the Groveport team mascot, Cruiser.

The book is available in paperback (17.95) or hardcover (26.95) through Authorhouse.com; and in paperback (19.95) and hardcover ($29.95) from Amazon.com, and Barnes and Noble.com. For information go to www.LarryFullen.com.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 8, 2010

Graduation (June 3, 2010)
On June 9, 1974, I sat between my cousins, Dave and Scott, in a sea of alphabitized, black and red mortarboarded, robe wearing teenagers participating in our final task as Groveport Madison High School students. One last gathering of the tribe in funny outfits. We were graduating.

The ceremony was held on the high school football field, which in my youth was a farm field. The high school on South Hamilton Road was still new then. When we first entered the beige bricked school, the grounds were treeless, the grass was scruffy, and there was chain link fencing. The place looked like a desolate prison farm in a "B" movie. But nowadays the school has that nice weathered look old brick buildings have and the grounds have matured with big, leafy trees and thick grass. It looks downright collegial.

It took decades for me to warm up to that school building. Growing up in the village I had always envisioned myself attending the now former high school on Main Street. This new high school seemed foreign to me in the early 1970s.

Recently I walked around the outside of the high school on South Hamilton Road and kind of re-acquainted myself to it. What came back to me was graduation day.

It was a hot day in 1974 with the ceremony taking place in the late afternoon. As I sat there awaiting my diploma, I remember thinking how graduation seemed anti-climactic. There was much grand talk being made to us by adults about moving on to bigger things and making the world a better place. But graduating didn't seem momentous. What it did feel like, to paraphrase/revise an old U2 song lyric, was like running while sitting still. So much had happened, so much to happen, but nothing much happening.

After the ceremony ended I went home as though nothing had changed, but everything had changed. The following day I would start a summer job at Palsgrove Manufacturing and in September start college. More steps on the ladder.

Since my high school graduation day I have thought that nothing new can be said to pending grads as they sit there in their robes waiting for their last assemblage to end. Nothing can fully express what awaits young people as they venture forth because each person's path is different. We can only encourage them, and ourselves, to be seekers.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 3, 2010

Memorial Day 2010 (June 1, 2010)
Memorial Day this year dawned gray and damp. I looked in my backyard and saw my once magnificent pink and white peony blooms now sagging to the ground and beginning to fade. Usually they are in their full glory on Memorial Day, but this year they blossomed early and their work is now nearly done.

Groveport has observed Memorial Day for many, many years with a somber procession down Main Street to College Street and then to Groveport Cemetery where brief services are held.

I'm 54-years-old now and have probably been to more than 40 of the Groveport services. I've always been drawn to the small town simplicity and sincerity of the observance in my home town.

By 1 p.m. the sun had scattered the grayness and the air became steamy. I saw my fellow townsfolk begin to gather along Main and College streets to watch the traditional procession that includes the Groveport Madison High School Marching Band and their gleaming instruments, veterans, Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts.

The solemn procession hasn't changed much over the years and I like that stability. The band still wears its summer uniform of white shirts and black shorts. As I stood along the street I remembered watching my sister perform in this outfit in the band in the 1960s in this procession.

As the procession passed, people followed behind and filtered into the cemetery's grand gate on Wirt Road and then formed a semi-circle around the memorial area in the cemetery while the band continued to play.

Then came the momentary quiet before the ceremony began. A temporary stillness broken only by the breeze fluttering the trees. I looked around at the flag adorned graves of the veterans in the cemetery. So many of them from so many wars - the War of 1812, Mexican War, the Civil War, Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam...

The ceremony began with a prayer and a few introductions. The guest speaker Lt. Col. Mark Steven Bean spoke of the solemnity and importance of the day, noting that it is "a testament to our patriotism and love of country."

Scouts laid a memorial floral wreath, then the sharp crack and popping of the 21 gun salute, followed by the mournful sound of taps.

As the ceremony ended, the crowd spontaneously broke out into song, singing a verse from "God Bless America."

Many people lingered in the cemetery, looking at gravestones or quietly standing. I heard parents give short history lessons to their kids as they passed grave markers.

Another Memorial Day had passed.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, June 1, 2010

Bird's eye view (May 24, 2010)
Things definitely look different from above, particularly when one is also looking back in time.

Franklin County Engineer Dean Ringle brought two aerial photos of Madison Township to the township's bicentennial celebration this past weekend for people to view. One photo was from 1938, the other from 2008, and the differences over time in the township's landscape is striking.

In the 1938 photo, neat, rectangular farm fields dominate the land. Interrupting the open fields are the clusters of trees of the farmsteads shading the farmhouses and barns. The meandering creeks seem to pop off the photo. The roads are all either one or two lanes. There's no four lane U.S. 33 and no I-270 slicing through the area.

Many of those fields were filled with homes, businesses, warehouses, schools, and government institutions by the time the 2008 photo was taken. The structures dwarf the creeks. It all looks so orderly from the sky.

Two different eras, both successful in their own way, frozen in time on film - one a pastoral setting; the other an urbanized community.

It happens gradually over time. At ground level, we see the growth absorb space, alter our lives, and the lay the foundation for future changes. Seen from the ground, the changes seem more incremental to our limited view; but from the sky, the new features on the landscape seem sweeping.

If you would like to see the photos, they will be on display at the Madison Township administrative offices, 4575 Madison Lane, Groveport. Call 836-5308.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 24, 2010

The scoreboard (May 19, 2010)
The only reminder of the old electric scoreboard that once stood at the west end of the football field behind Groveport Madison Junior High School are the circular concrete pads with square holes for the long gone wooden support poles.

In the 1950s and 1960s, the field, which in the 19th century was the formidable stallion Cruiser's pasture, was the varsity football field for Groveport Madison High School. When I was a kid, my family would walk down Main Street to the games and take up our usual spot standing on the home side near the 10 yard line. There wasn't much seating at the field, except for some weathered portable wooden bleachers on the home side that in the spring and summer were moved to the nearby baseball fields and track before returning back in the fall. So we tended to stand and watch the game.

From our spot, we were close to the big scoreboard. It was rectangular, but nearly a square in shape and stood tall upon wooden posts. Painted mostly black with white lettering for "home," "visitor," "down," "quarter," and "yds. to go," the board's upper right was adorned with a rectangular bright red bar. Unlike modern scoreboards, it did not have a digital clock, but instead had a clock face with a minute and second hand that counted down the time in a whirling motion. Sometimes it seemed the second hand had a mind of its own, as when a time out was called and its momentum would carry it a few extra seconds before stopping.

I liked to watch the scoreboard with its sweeping clock hands, and bright electric light numerals that illuminated the numbers in a curvy style that reminded one of handwritten numbers. I also liked to hear the ratchety clicking of the numbers as they changed.

Being nearsighted, sometimes I would take my glasses off and look up at the field lights (now also gone) and then at the scoreboard. With my blurred vision the field lights atop the poles looked bright as moons and the electric bulbs of the scoreboard like a constellation of stars.

At times during the games kids, bored with watching the varsity play, would start up their own makeshift football game in the grass in the shadowy area behind the scoreboard. They used wadded up concession stand Coca-Cola cups as a ball with the scoreboard serving as a wall between the present and future gridiron stars.

When we used to play basketball on the old asphalt courts beside the football field, we had a rear view of the scoreboard. In the light of day, the back of the scoreboard, with its chunky rusting electric power boxes and twisting cables extending off the metal board, looked like a work of post-modern industrial art.

Big and heavy, the scoreboard seemed like it would always be there. But one day years ago after a potent thunderstorm, I was driving by the field and found that the strong winds of the storm had blown the scoreboard over, twisting its metal and shearing its wooden poles. It was down, never to tally and time again.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 19, 2010

History short changed (May 17, 2010)
I've had cable television for nearly a year now. Being a historian as well as a journalist, one of the things I looked forward to viewing via my magical cable was the History Channel.

After a year of shows about pawn shops ice road truckers, and trash pickers, and a seemingly never ending stream of bizarre Nostradamus programs, I must say I am underwhelmed by the History Channel's offerings.

Even when the History Channel programmers try to do a history documentary they can't get it done effectively. For example, just recently I decided to give the History Channel's recent series, "America: The Story of Us" a try and was amazed that their hour long installment on the Civil War didn't even bother to mention the slavery issue until nearly a half hour into the program. Really? You're going to ignore the biggest issue behind the cause of the war?

The History Channel also seems to heavily rely on glitzy computer graphic imagery, undoubtedly to try to add flash and pizzazz at the expense of meaty content. (The recent Civil War program I mentioned earlier had lots of this electronic showboating ranging from slow motion bullets flying through the air to telegraph poles magically popping up in the landscape.) Message to the producers: not everything has to look like a video game.

Nothing on the History Channel can compare to PBS' well researched and pleasingly presented "American Experience" weekly history documentary program. "American Experience" provides context, meaning, and interesting subject matter in a splendid narrative form with well edited visual imagery that blends superbly with the words being spoken. It's serious historical work that is accessible and enriching.

The History Channel should take a lesson.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 17, 2010

Cursive on the wane (May 11, 2010)
I never did master writing a capital letter "Q" in cursive (script) handwriting. I gave up on that effort early on in my school days and instead just wrote a capital cursive "O" and stuck a diagonal line in the lower right to make the "Q".

Learning cursive was a rite of passage as a kid. To forego the blocky printing of letters and learn the smooth flowing, stylish "grown up" style of handwriting meant one was moving forward in life and becoming capable of serious thought.

Lately though, cursive handwriting is on the wane as schools have immersed themselves in standardized testing and moved away from teaching penmanship in favor of having kids learn the finger movements of the ever present computer keyboards in our lives.

This saddens me. One's cursive handwriting is like your fingerprint. No one else's handwriting looks exactly like your own. We (those of us who still do handwrite in cursive) all have our own little flourishes and shortcuts we take as we push the pen along the paper.

This bit of individualism is being lost as students these days will spend little, if any time, on learning how to write in cursive.

Granted, there's advantages to the clear and quickly written typed page. It serves us well in the practical world of business, journalism, academics, and other endeavors. The printed word can convey weighty thoughts and enhance communication. I like being able to express myself and share ideas with others through the magic computer keyboard. I like the neat type of books and newspapers.

However, the keyboard can tempt us to spew words, too. The writer Russell Baker once observed that there are 800 page books these days that would have been much better reading if they were 400 page books. He noted it's just too easy to endlessly type away on a computer without even an old typewriter carriage return to make one pause to realize what one is doing.

I also wonder if future students will be unable to read old letters written in cursive when they do historical research in archives; or will the curvy letters on the fragile paper seem like some indecipherable language to them? Will they be able to sign their name?

On a personal level, when communicating to those who are close to us or to those we want to become close to us, words written by hand seem to mean more. Typing on a keyboard is swift and ideas tumble out rapidly, but the appearance is machine like. With handwriting, someone has taken the time to pull out pen and paper and write in a slow and thoughtful manner, in curving letters that evoke warmth, nature and emotion. The slow pace of writing by hand requires one to ponder thoughts. The loss of people's ability to handwrite and read cursive chips away at our identity and humanity.

When I used to be a mailman, it made be happy when I pulled an actual letter with a handwritten address on it out of my mailbag to deliver. I always hoped it contained a handwritten letter because I knew such a thing was a special gift between people.

With the loss of cursive handwriting, that gift, a rare thing in itself, will fade away.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 11, 2010

The screens (May 5, 2010)
I've never lived in a house that had air conditioning.

Because of this, an anticipated rite of spring is the installing of the screens in the windows.
There's no set day each spring for the task. One can't be fooled by the early warm days of April because nature always saves a few last smacks of cold to remind us that winter doesn't give up the ghost easily.

There's an intangible tipping point in the weather, when the air is fresh and green abounds, where one can just feel that the warm days have won the climate battle till fall.

Putting in the screens in my boyhood home was a big job (it had a lot of windows), but it was also tinged with some excitement because, if the screens were going in, that meant the school days were dwindling and summer vacation beckoned.

My parents would pull out the heavy wood framed screens from their winter hiding place under the basement steps, brush the spiders away, and lug the screens upstairs to the windows. The heavy glass storm windows were removed, wiped down, and taken to the basement. The screen frames were then popped in.

With the screens in place, the gentle spring breezes flowed through the house chasing away winter's staleness. The screens reconnected us to the outside world as outdoor sounds became clearer.

I still look forward to the spring ritual of putting in the screens now in my current home. It's much easier than in the old days because the screens and storm windows just slide up and down in place, but the meaning and sensations remain the same.

It's early May and usually I have my screens in place by now, but I haven't put them in yet. Partially because our past winter hung on for a long time and I still, deep down, don't trust it won't rear its cold, gray head for one last blast of freezing air.

But I realized another reason I haven't put the screens in yet is, that in years past my old cat, Chessie, would become insistent that it was time to let the spring air in. She would paw the window glass and "rowr" impatiently and that would tell me it was time for the screens. Once the screens were in place, Chessie would spend the summer lolling in the windows, her bushy tail lazily flicking, as she eyed the birds and squirrels outside and caught the breeze.

Chessie died at the grand old age of 19 last summer and so I haven't felt an urgency to put the screens in. I know I'll miss seeing her relaxing at her favorite windows.

But the warm days of light are here and maybe it's time now to open up the house.

I think Chessie would approve.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, May 5, 2010

Cookin' (April 29, 2010)
I'm not much of a cook. It's a wonder I'm still alive.

It's not that I can't cook. Anyone who can read a cookbook (what a great sounding word, "cookbook") or possesses a basic knowledge of how to turn on the stove can make a halfway decent meal.

I'm just too lazy to cook. I don't want to drag out an array of pots and pans and spend time piecing foodstuffs together. I know cooking is a creative act, but I'm not much of an artist either. I want to eat when I want to eat.

I sometimes feel bad for my reasonably well stocked supply of cooking gadgets and gizmos as they languish in cupboards and drawers wishing to get saucy.

But one kitchen appliance gets steady use - the magic black box with the invisible rays - the microwave. It's quick. It's hot. It's radioactive. How more modern can I get?

Granted, my insides probably glow from eating radioactive food, but I'm a child of the 20th century and we of that era learned that radioactivity gives one super powers.

However, I've achieved a balance in my eating by combining modern radioactive blasted frozen entrees with a more primitive hunter/gatherer approach. I supplement my microwaved nutrients with simple caveman foods like nuts, bananas, apples, carrots, blueberries, natural peanut butter, grape juice, almond milk, and bread. So maybe my natural food warriors have enough power to subdue my radioactive food forces once they all enter my stomach and have at it.

Since I don't cook, I don't have supplies of ingredients around. My refrigerator is like an arctic wasteland of open white spaces interrupted in spots with odd containers. Friends have gaped in amazement when they open my refrigerator and see its racks of barren tundra.

So, no chef's hat for me.

I wonder what's in the kitchen to eat?
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 29, 2010

Joni & Bob (April 27, 2010)
Last week, seemingly out of the blue, folk/rock icon Joni Mitchell blasted the ultimate folk/rock icon Bob Dylan with criticisms that, when distilled down, indicate she thinks Dylan is a phony.

Phoniness or putting on a facade is not anything unusual in the music or entertainment business. Especially in rock music. Think of the rock circus acts like Kiss, Alice Cooper, and Marilyn Manson. Shoot, even that most earnest of bands U2 has a lead singer with a clown name, "Bono."

In the folk music world where the perception of sincerity and being real is paramount, to be labeled a phony is a major sin.

It's not the first time Dylan has faced barbs from the folk music world, the most famous of which was when he went electric at the Newport festival in 1965. This one just seems more personal.

I'm not sure what prompted Mitchell's displeasure. She and Dylan have toured together in the past so one would assume they had a measure of friendship and respect for one another.

Mitchell's criticisms of her fellow singer surprised me and, since I'm a big fan of both the artists, unsettled me a bit. Kind of like seeing one's parents fight or getting into a bit of bickering with a friend.

Maybe that's it though. Maybe it takes a friend to toughly point out when one goes astray. Maybe it's only when someone close to you, or that you respect, hammers you that you really listen and examine what you are doing.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 27, 2010

Comment from Mike: Your unsettling feeling is understood. Among the handful of CD's sitting upon my shelf in my office as I type this are Dylan's Blood on the Tracks and Time Out of Mind along with Mitchell's Blue and Court and Spark. I recall quite a few years ago a friend, that also was a Bob Dylan fan, related a book he read that seemed to insinuate that much of Dylan's character was manufactored during his development in the 1960's. I remember finding that hard to accept or believe. Perhaps he was correct...
Regardless, seeing him at Polaris sometime in the late 90's or early 2000's, holding court on stage dressed in an all white 3 peice suite (white cowboy hat included) standing behind an organ at the front of the stage is one of my best live music memories. Some things you just can't fake.

Emma rules the diamond (April 22, 2010)
Batters just don't stand a chance when Emma Johnson takes the mound.

If you are a fan of high school athletics, particularly of softball, I recommend you go to a Groveport Madison Cruiser varsity softball game this spring and watch hard throwing pitcher Emma Johnson mow down opposing batters.

Johnson, a junior, already has pitched 8 wins this season. She is among the leaders in the county with a 0.38 earned run average. More impressively, she leads the county in pitching strikeouts with 167, which is 47 more than her closest competitor.

A right hander, Johnson has a large arsenal of pitches including a screaming fast ball, change up, curve, rise ball, drop curve, and a rise curve. Last spring she told me her favorite is the rise ball, which looks like it will come in over the plate but then rises causing the batter to swing under the ball.

So head on out to the softball field at the high school, 4475 S. Hamilton Road and watch this talented pitching phenom in action. For the game schedule, visit www.gocruisers.org or call the athletic department at 836-4968.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 22, 2010

The meaning of Oz (April 20, 2010)
The old stories and fairy tales of our youth, such as those of the Brothers Grimm and others, often are filled with symbolism and meanings that were vivid when the stories first arose in Europe in those long ago days, but are now lost to us.

But what of our own classic American fairy tale, Frank Baum's book, "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz"? Most of us know the story from the famed 1939 movie starring Judy Garland as Dorothy, but the movie took liberties with the story, most notably giving Dorothy ruby red slippers instead of the silver slippers in the book.

Why silver? Because the story Baum wrote in 1900 is an allegory about the hard economic times of the late 1880s and early 1890s and the battle over whether the United States' monetary system should be on the gold or silver standard.

In those days, rural and small town America backed the "free coinage of silver," which meant a more free flowing of money resulting in better prices for crops. The gold standard, a more controlled money supply, was supported by wealthy industrialists.

Baum's story is filled with symbolism and characters in this political battle of silver vs. gold. In their book, "America: Past and Present," historians Robert Divine, T.H. Breen, George Frederickson, and R. Hal Williams, outline some of these symbols as:

•Dorothy: represents every person.
•The tornado: a potential victory of pro-silver voters at the polls delivering one from the drought stricken Midwest to a beautiful land.
•Wicked Witch of the East: eastern money powers.
•Munchkins: the common people.
•Emerald City: the greenback colored national capital.
•Silver slippers and the yellow brick road: silver and gold monetary systems.
•Good Witch of the North: northern voters.
•Scarecrow: the farmer.
•Tin Woodsman: the industrial worker.
•Cowardly Lion: reformers who appear weak at first but in reality are courageous.
•Wicked Witch of the West: mortgage companies.
•Good Witch of the South: the South supported silver.
•Oz: abbreviation for ounces, the measurement of silver and gold.

In the end of Baum's story, all ends well for the silver forces as the Wicked Witch of the West is vanquished.

However, political reality in 1896 went the other way as the pro-gold standard William McKinley of Ohio won the presidency over William Jennings Bryan and the pro-silver faction.

McKinley campaigned from his front porch on a wide political platform that appealed to many facets of the electorate - labor, immigrants, wealthy farmers, business, and the middle class; while Bryan, a noted orator who campaigned exhaustively, criss crossing the country by train, was viewed as possibly taking too narrow of an approach by depending heavily on the silver issue for support.

So, the next time you settle back to view the 1939 film and you hear the refrain, "Follow the yellow brick road," think back more than 100 years to a time when that road lead one down a path away from a cloud with a silver lining.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 20, 2010

One April (April 13, 2010)
When I was a kid my brother, sister, and I walked or rode our bikes unerringly straight down the Main Street sidewalks to Groveport Elementary School during our school days.

But, when I was 10, with my brother in junior high and my sister in high school, I became the lone sojourner each morning to school. All through that school year I followed the same familiar route to school alone without thinking about it. Then, one April morning I changed the route.

It was one of those April mornings that hints of summer. The air was warm and dewey. The tree blossoms were turning from pink and white to green. As I started to pedal my bike, metal lunchbox rattling in the handlebar basket as I went, I thought, "No." Instead of proceeding straight down Main Street I whipped left at West Street. I decided to prolong my trip to school and soak in this one April morning.

I wheeled down West Street to Elm and cut right. Adults walking to their cars to go to work and other kids heading to school paid no notice as I went by. Couldn't they see I've changed? Couldn't they see I'm somewhere different on this April morning?

I began to weave in and out of the alleys in a slow progression to the school. I wanted to make as many turns as possible before I reached the schoolyard.

Would I be late for school? That had never happened before. It was exciting to think this could be the day.

I cut across Main Street down Walnut Street to the cemetery. Right or left? Right, away from the school.

Now up College Street back across Main Street to Church Street to Blacklick Street. The sun warmed my skin at the same time the wind generated by biking cooled me. I whirred along the brick street and looped back to the grain elevator at the railroad tracks. Men milled about the elevator but paid me no mind. Bike tires crunched in the cinder gravel.

Front Street. End of the road.

I turned the bike up the Front Street sidewalk to the Main Street traffic light. The big brick school rose in my view. Lots of straggling kids scurrying to the building. Yellow buses pulling away. I was in no hurry.

I coasted into the schoolyard and circled around back to the bike racks. With a bump and a "thunk" the bike plopped into the rack. No one else around, all the kids were already inside.

I walked up the steps to my classroom and ambled into the room. I eased into my seat a minute before the bell rang.

I felt new. I felt free.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 13, 2010

Comment from Jo: I could see every house, tree, garden, sidewalk and alley on your route. Know them well!

The ocean (April 8, 2010)
I can't remember the first time I saw the ocean. I'm not sure what it says about me that my first sighting of such an awesome and beautiful thing just didn't register.

I've been to the Atlantic Ocean a few times over the years at beaches in South Carolina, Virginia, New Jersey, and Cape Cod in Massachusetts.

I remember my feet sinking into the soft, rolling sand dunes at Cape Cod that lead down to the cold, foamy, gray sea in early fall.

My memories of Virginia and New Jersey are that the beaches seemed like ash trays and made me think of the ocean as nature's massive toilet.

In South Carolina the beach seemed as clean as a freshly vacuumed carpet and was hard as concrete. The view of the sea there was breathtaking. It's on the South Carolina beach where I remember walking in the night below a velvet, starry sky with the Dylan lyric, "To dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free..." tripping through my head.

I'm not a swimmer so my connection with the ocean is not one of immersion but of observation. I'd sit and watch the waves roll in, salty water either caressing a sandy beach or smacking the rocks. If one sits on the beach long enough, it feels as though your heartbeat and the waves become in sync and one gains a sensation of floating when not even in the water.

I may not remember my first view of the ocean, but, through the sum of my time at its edge, the waters of the sea remain with me.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 8, 2010

Random flowers (April 5, 2010)
The neighborhood squirrels have taken up gardening.

The bushy tailed little mammals transplanted a couple of tulips to the wide open spaces of the middle of my backyard. Why the squirrels decided to delve into the the green arts I don't know, but I like the randomness of their choice of location for the tulips and have decided to follow their lead.

My favorite flower in the yard are black-eyed susans. (By the way, listen to Cheri Knight's rocker "Black-eyed Susie" if you want to hear a great, menacing sounding song about planting flowers.)

Last year's black-eyed susans in my yard have re-seeded themselves where they saw fit and I have decided to let them grow where they may. Most of them are haphazardly pushing through the dirt in their original flower bed, but others have taken root in more hostile spots in my half gravel/half grassy driveway, aside fence post gates, in sidewalk cracks, and among some bricks. I admire their leafy fortitude and ambition.

I'm going to let the scattered black-eyed susans and the squirrel planted tulips grow where they may and see what happens.

Flower power!
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, April 5, 2010

The flatness (March 30, 2010)
I've stepped in the rolling Atlantic Ocean. I've rolled through the round shouldered Appalachian Mountains. I've wandered towering forests. I've watched mighty rivers - the beautiful Ohio and the broad Mississippi - relentlessly roll on.

I've not seen the vast flatness.

I know that's an odd thing for an Ohioan to say, considering much of the land here is like a table top. I've travelled through Indiana and Illinois, too, and saw the level ground there. The land is indeed flat in these three states, but there is a sense in each of them that there is an end to the flatness - a hill there, a valley round the bend, a nearby town.

The furthest west I've been is St. Louis, which is at the edge of the vast flatness I have yet to enter - The Great Plains - a land, in my mind's eye, where the flatness has an endless quality.

I once saw a film of a freight train clickety-clacking through the Great Plains. The train was so long one could not see the beginning or end of it in either direction, its tail and head disappearing into the flatness. Another time I saw a photo of a lone tree rising from the Great Plains flatness. It seemed like a leafy skyscraper, the tallest thing around until one would come across a small town's water tower. A train and a tree - one an example of mankind's mechanical power, the other a symbol of nature's strength and beauty - both framed and embraced by the vast flatness of the ground and its sister, the big sky above, in a way that one observes every rivet of the train, every bend in the bark.

Like that sky above, the flatness is not the empty place it seems. Its prairie grasses, wheat fields, corn fields, and people fulfill it. No, it's not an empty place, it's more like the pages of a book, spread out for miles for the reading.

Will I ever go there? Will I stand in a forever field of prairie grass and look into the endless flatness in all directions and feel it swirl around me? Will I stand in such a field where I am the tallest thing for miles, where I am a giant?
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 30, 2010

Sara and the Shawnee (March 25, 2010)
(A tale once told to me by my late grandmother Edna Palsgrove.)

In the early 19th century the small, young family of Charles and Sara and their infant daughter settled on a farm along Blacklick Creek in Madison Township (near what are now Shannon and Ebright roads today).

One autumn day, while her husband was off hunting, Sara was doing chores about the farm, carrying her daughter along with her, when she noticed, off in the distance along the wooded creek line, a Shawnee hunting party of three coming her way.

The Shawnee did not have a village nearby, but were known to sometimes hunt along the creeks in the newly formed township. Though things could be tense when settlers in the area came in contact with the Shawnee, there had not been any known violence locally.

Just the same, Sara did not like the prospect of she and her daughter being alone on the farm with a Shawnee hunting party within sight.

She hurried into the cabin and grabbed a black shawl, which she wrapped around herself and her daughter, and then quickly headed into the woods to hide. She found a damp hollow log and crawled inside with her baby. The log was mushy inside and smelled of rot. Once inside the log she kicked up some dead leaves to conceal the opening. Then they lay there, silent.

Soon she heard leaves crunching under footsteps. The sound got closer. She held her breath as the rustling came near her log hiding place. Then it stopped. She could hear birds and the creek flowing, but nothing else.

Then one slight tap on the log. She froze and her heart raced. Then came the crunching of leaves stepping off into the distance.

Had they left?

She wasn't sure, so she waited. Her daughter began to fuss in the tight quarters. Sara took a deep breath and inched out of the log. Peering out, she saw they were alone. Sara wriggled out of the log, carefully holding her daughter. She stood up and brushed the moldy, woody debris of her hiding place from her shawl.

As she did this, she saw a small pouch perched atop the log. She carefully opened it.

Inside were a handful of shelled walnuts.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 25, 2010

In the Pennsylvania night (March 23, 2010)
The red lights bobbed and weaved in the darkness ahead.

There were round ones, rectangular ones, oblong ones, square ones...They appeared, sped by us framed by the lines in the asphalt, and slowly disappeared into the murk only to be replaced by others.

I sat in the back seat of the small car that hurtled through the Pennsylvania night. My head hurt from hours of riding in the car from Ohio. The interstate piercing the Pennsylvania countryside seemed endless. I rested my throbbing skull against the window to absorb relief through the deep night air coolness of the plexiglass.

The car hummed the highway. My traveling companions were quiet. One sound asleep to my left. Two others in the front seat talking in the hushed tones of night in the personal code only a couple in love can speak.

The soft silence a departure from hours earlier when we all sang out one of our traveling songs in full throat at the eager start of the trip.

"There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun..."

We were heading east. East to the ocean. East to the sand dunes. Beyond that there was no reason, just the journey.

In my mouth was the soured taste of too many oatmeal creme pies. Traveling food. I rolled my head against the window searching for a new cool spot. I looked up. Stars awash in the sky. Light coming to us from long ago.

"and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy..."

Scenes of shadows rise and fall as I peer out the window, forehead resting against the cool. Houses with flecks of light in the distance...people already at home and me far from mine.

"and God, I know I'm one..."
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 23, 2010

Wheelin' (March 22, 2010)
It's good to be back out on my bicycle again.

Since March emerged from one of the grayest, snowiest, and downright frostiest winters of recent memory, I've been out on my trusty bicycle about three or four times a week.

I didn't ride at all in January and February and only a couple of times in December. It's amazing that, after cycling regularly from last spring till November, that in just three months of bleak winter it felt like I lost all the endurance and leg strength I had gained. Why can't we store up physical fitness?

My first couple of rides this spring out on the Three Creeks bike path were a little rough. My legs, used to a life of lazy leisure on the couch, protested with soreness. But then my leg muscles remembered what they were needed for and responded quickly. I'm nearly back in condition to where I was before winter pushed me indoors.

I love the Three Creeks bike path. It's a beautiful blend of meadows, creeks, and thick woods. Winter beat up the lands of the park just like it knocked us around. But the trees, grasses, flowers, and animals are resilient and are bouncing back.

Just like my legs.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 22, 2010

The shot (March 16, 2010)
Brown bottles containing various pills, liquids, and unknown solids burdened the shelves in the old doctor's office that once operated out of the block building at Brook Alley and Main Street in Groveport.

To this day when I think of medicine it is the image of these murky brown bottles that emerges.

I first saw them when I went for my childhood vaccinations, or as we kids called it, getting "the shot."

I had heard about the shot. Other kids who had already had their trial by needle spoke of it in hushed, dreaded tones.

"Did you get a shot?" a kid would ask.

"Yes."

"Ohhhhh," would be the response coupled with a grimace. "Did it hurt?"

"Yes," would be the truthful answer a few kids would give, but others, attempting to be tough, would say, "No, it didn't hurt," but you knew they were lying by the faraway look in their eyes.

There were kids who would inflate the fear by telling others that doctors used a extra hurtful square needle instead of a pointed one. The mythical square needle was a monstrous phantom to consider.

Adults never really explained the shot to us. Just said we had to have it done. Being kids we were in no place to bargain.

One day I was taken to the doctor's office that was home to the brown bottles. They sat me on a vinyl covered exam table, the kind of vinyl that sticks to you. Sunlight filtered into the office from a streaked window. The light glanced off the brown bottles giving them an amber hue.

The old doctor was all business. Didn't say much. Rolled up my sleeve and swabbed my upper left arm with something from a brown bottle.

"Is that a square needle?" I asked.

"What? Square needle?" the doctor replied and he stuck my arm with the shot.

I wasn't ready for it and it surprised me so much that at first I didn't feel it. Then I did. A piercing feeling, sort of like a bee sting that kept going.

It was over quickly.

"You're done," the doctor said.

I climbed off the table.

"Don't rub it," the doctor said. "It'll scab up so don't pick the scab either."

I looked up at the brown bottles.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 16, 2010

The fence (March 11, 2010)
The fence went up encircling my backyard 13 years ago.

Erecting the fence was my ex-wife’s idea because we had just gotten a dog and she wanted it to be free to roam the yard. Less than a year later both dog and wife left and moved on to other lives...and I had a fence.

I was never much for fences in yards. Growing up, our neighborhood yards were nearly fenceless so the properties just blended together in a mesh of grass, bushes, and tree lines. We kids freely bounded from one yard to the other.

Now I have a fence. A wooden picket fence. Kind of makes the backyard look like fort.

As fences go though, it doesn’t really keep anything or anyone in or out so it doesn’t really have a purpose. Rabbits, squirrels, feral cats, raccoons, possums, and birds maneuver through its slats and gaps or over it with ease. Two gates allow humans to come and go.

For its first few years, the fence was just bare wood. I knew I would have to stain or paint it, but it would be a large, time consuming task and the one household chore I despise the most is painting. I can always find other things to do.

All the while the fence patiently stood there bare. It knew it could outlast me and that I would eventually have to take up the brush. Some things just have to be done.

So one spring about 10 years ago I bought some redwood stain and began the task of coating the fence in deep red. My heart wasn’t in the task and I worked on it sporadically completing small sections at a time. I sat in a lawn chair, a chair that’s still specked and flecked with red stain, and inched my way around slathering the fence as the seasons turned.

When I began the task the lilacs burst forth and soon the dandelions were in full yellow face. Next came the boisterous peonies. Then the dainty white clover flowers appeared.

Summer wore on and the Rose of Sharon bloomed. The grass went from fresh to dull green in the heat.

The fence transformed from weathered wood to hearty red, the unpainted sections looking stark in comparison to the red warmth.

My neighbor to the west would jokingly comment from time to time about my slow progress with the fence staining.

“By winter I think the fence will be still be ahead,” he laughed.

I nodded knowing he may be right.

September came and the energy its clear air and high blue skies bring propelled me into a frenzy of staining and I completed big chunks of slats.

The days were getting shorter and the fading daylight and chillier air of October slowed the pace.

One day I looked up and realized I was nearly finished. Only a few sections to go. I worked for a little while on the fence each night after work.

On a late October evening when jack o’ lanterns glowed and goblins scampered on the streets, I dabbed the last bit of stain on the last slat just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. By Halloween the fence no longer haunted me.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 11, 2010

The movies (March 8, 2010)
The past few years I've been losing interest in movies, blaming my waning film viewing on Hollywood's reliance on computer special effects rather than developing interesting and well presented story lines.

The idea of special effects is not new. Hollywood movie makers have used special effects of different sorts ever since the movie industry began.

Early efforts at special effects - like sped up motion, quick cuts, animations, explosions, models of monsters, etc. - may seem crude compared to the cold computer calculated effects that seem ever present in today's films, but they were there.

Movies are meant to transport the viewer and special effects are one way to provide an alternate universe. Done well and they can enhance a story. Done clumsily, overbearingly, or simply inserted because they physically can be, and the splashy special effects will make a story line and human actors disappear under a gauntlet of glitz.

It's not the ever advancing innovations in special effects that are the problem, it's how they are used.
I still think the movies that linger in our hearts and minds are the ones where the humanity portrayed and the story being told are at the forefront.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 8, 2010

The coffee grinder (March 3, 2010)
Back in the early to mid 1960s, the massive grocery chain stores that seem to be everywhere these days were few and far between.

Often my family made small grocery purchases at the old Norm's Market in Groveport, but for the big weekly grocery shopping trip we headed to the nearest Albers grocery store at either Great Eastern Shopping Center in Whitehall or Great Southern Shopping Center on the south side of Columbus.

The Friday night trip to the grocery store was kind of an event. All five of us, my parents, brother and sister, and myself went. I can never remember having a baby sitter as a small kid, my parents just generally took us kids wherever they went.

The Albers store offered a lot of sensory delights to a kid - all the food, the bright lighting, and the toy aisle among them.

My brother and I often would stand on the runners on either side of the metal grocery cart and hitch a ride through the store as my parents pushed us along. Not exactly a thrill ride, but it beat walking.

If my parents had a little money to spare they would buy us "Jack and Jill," a monthly magazine for kids that I mostly remember for the illustrated calendar it featured spotlighting the current month with bits of information about the month, moon cycles, and pictures depicting the important days.

A personal fascination for me when I was quite young was the electric coffee grinder machine in the coffee aisle at Albers where people could grind beans for their own coffee blend. The big, boxy machine was a deep, rich brown color, and made a roaring, rumbling sound as it ground the coffee beans. Every time we rolled past it I wanted to flip the switch on the machine to make it bellow its wonderfully loud, raucous noise. I vowed one day to do it.

So, one week I slipped off the runner on the grocery cart and lagged back a bit from the family as we entered the coffee aisle. I pretended to look around as my parents were occupied with putting things in the cart.

I slowly approached the coffee grinder machine and looked up at the magical black switch. There it was. I savored the moment. Now or never! I quickly reached up and flicked the switch...ROAR NEERUM NEERUM NEERUM went the machine! I was overjoyed.

Hearing the sound, my mother turned around and, in true time honored tired mom fashion, calmy switched off the machine and said to me, "What's wrong with you?"
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 3, 2010

Under the snow (March 1, 2010)
Now that some of our month's worth of high piled snow is starting to melt, I took a look around to see what it had wrought.

Grass that has been entombed in snow for weeks is brown and flattened with its blades twisted and mashed together. A little warmth will make the grass spring back, but right now it looks like Jack Frost, the original "Nature Boy," just beat it up in a Texas cage wrestling death match.

Litter of all sorts has reappeared from beneath the white cloak. It, too, is browned and twisted.

Broken twigs, gravel, and half frozen black muck are emerging from the now graying piles where they ended up after they were caught up in the tumult when snow plows pushed and shoved the white stuff out of the way.

Potholes, cracks, and canyons have appeared in some crumbling streets.

Streets are stained and streaked grayish/white from the remnants of road salt making the roadways look old before their time.

Flower beds have mud that looks like dark chocolate fudge.

Wet gloves, hats, and branches litter the ground around lumpy piles of snow that were once snowmen.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, March 1, 2010

Awakening (Feb. 25, 2010)
Another gray, cold February morning. The furnace pops on and begins to warm the creaky bones of the old wooden house.

Though frost still clings to the windows, there's a clear spot on the glass and I look outside and see a thin, fluffy layer of new fallen snow coating the remains of the partially melted, crusty old snow that's been on the ground the whole month.

Winter has seemed longer than usual this year; no doubt brought on by the nearly four feet of snow that has fallen since November and cold temperatures that have rarely reached the upper 30's. Adding to the perception of unending winter are the dominating gray skies which have allowed only occasional views of the winter's sun. The first day of spring is still more than three weeks away and, even with its arrival, warm weather in Ohio isn't really here to stay until May.

I eat a simple breakfast, gather myself up and head for work. As I walk to my car something colorful on the ground amidst the white and gray catches my eye. What I see is a proclamation that winter's time is waning no matter how hard it tries to hold on. Because, there, defiantly poking up through the cold, hard mud and the persistent snow cover, are several fresh green shoots of daffodils.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 25, 2010

The paths (Feb. 24, 2010)
Years ago, before the village of Groveport began its long process of reconstructing streets and putting in new sidewalks with handicap ramps, there used to be dirt paths that were created over the years by kids on their bicycles, worn into the earth as they maneuvered around to avoid the bump of the curb where the sidewalk met the street.

Most of these bypass dirt paths were connected to Main Street sidewalks and some were elaborate. A long one at Center and Main streets on the north sidewalk sliced around a massive tree and jogged around the tree's above ground roots.

Another one at Raver Alley and Main Street on the north sidewalk passed through a narrow opening in a wrought iron fence and a concrete post. There was just enough room for a bicycle's handlebars to fit through without scraping your hand on the wrought iron or pinching it against the concrete post. But you had to hold the handlebars steady so you wouldn't crash. To pedal through this opening fast was an act of childhood bravery.

Other paths were short and direct. Some were wide, some were narrow, but they all fit the space as needed.

One long skinny path, now long gone, extended from the end of a dead end sidewalk southeast of Clark Court. The path was about a bicycle tire wide and cut straight through a once vacant lot as it linked to the Main Street sidewalks.

Besides these sidewalk paths there were also little paths that were cut throughs between yards created by kids as short cuts to their friends' houses.

The interesting thing about all these paths is that the property owners of decades ago didn't seem to mind them being there. No one blocked the paths or tried to seed them with grass. No one came out and yelled at the kids to stop using them. The kids used the paths, but didn't stray from them into private yards. The existence and use of the paths was understood in an unspoken way. The paths were just accepted as part of small town life.

The paths are gone now, replaced by structural improvements and a culture that no longer needs or wants them.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 24, 2010

Comment from Jo: When I am in need of a quiet moment, I read the Blogs by Rick Palsgrove. We share the
same yen for simple and uncomplicated moments, memories and nostalgia.

Signs of the times (Feb. 22, 2010)
It's a sure sign of getting older when one starts to notice things that are no longer around or have changed dramatically over time. Here's a few things I thought of from my own lifetime that were once here and are now gone or have changed:

•The massive steel/iron girder bridges that once spanned Blacklick, Little Walnut, and Big Walnut creeks in the area are long gone. These were formidable, artistic looking structures whose brawny bulk proudly announced, "You're crossing the creek!" Their replacements, though more efficient, are far more subdued.

•The old high school football fields behind the former Canal Winchester High School and Groveport Madison High School. The fields are still there and the Groveport one is used for the junior high team, but it looks different - there's a new scoreboard (the old scoreboard was blown down by a storm years ago) and the towering lights are gone. The CW field still had its bleachers last time I looked, but it looks ghostly. Fans were close to the field at both places giving the stadiums an energetic feel.

•The old gym on the auditorium stage in the former Canal Winchester High School. It was such a bandbox of a gym floor, but I loved its quirkiness. The room is now the elegant Oley Speaks Auditorium.

•I can remember when the only schools in the Groveport Madison School District were the high school/junior high on Main Street, Groveport Elementary, Brice Elementary and Edwards Elementary. Now the district has 10 school buildings.
•I miss being able to drive over the covered bridge in Canal Winchester. I always felt like a time traveler when I did.

•The big trees on Groveport's Main Street that once formed a shady canopy over the street and sidewalks. I miss them.

•The Super Duper in Canal Winchester on West Waterloo Street. Both its name and design were so 1960s.

•There used to be a lot more gas stations around. Groveport once had a Sunoco, Sohio, Shell, and Texaco along its Main Street. Canal Winchester used to have one right downtown on Waterloo Street.

•I can remember Groveport once having a lot of sit down restaurants - the Cruiser Inn, Miller's, Taylor's, the Lunch Box...

•The old swimming pools in Groveport and Canal Winchester. Both have been replaced by new, modern style facilities, but there was something charming about the concrete simplicity of the old pools.

•Does anyone else remember the old fellow who in the early to mid 1960s still used a wagon and a team of horses to take his grain to the grain elevator in Groveport? As I recall, we kids used to always run to Main Street to watch him go by. I can still hear the horses' hooves clopping on the street and their harnesses straining as they pulled the heavy wagon with its load.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 22, 2010

Icicles (Feb. 18, 2010)
My house has grown icy teeth.

Long, spiked, silvery, frozen teeth that hang from the roof's edge.

From a distance it looks like my house is getting ready to chomp on the nearby trees.

Both fragile and solid, the frozen incisors could inflict real pain if they were to fall from their dangling perch and hit you in the head, yet you could easily snap some of them between two fingers.

I've never seen icicles this big on my house. They resemble massive stalactities. There's a couple that are as tall as I am. I'm hoping my roof and gutters are sturdy enough to handle the weight of all this ice.

When the little bit of winter sun flickers through the gray February sky of Ohio, the icicles sparkle. On a humid, breezeless 90 degree day this coming July, I'll think back on this sight for a bit of cool mental relief from the heat.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 18, 2010

News reporting 1890s style (Feb. 15, 2010)
News reporting sure has changed since 1890.

In the 19th century Groveport had two newspapers - "The Rose Bud" in the 1850s and "The Groveport Observer" in the 1890s. This weekend I took a look at "The Groveport Observer" from July 5, 1890 and came across this news item written in the colorful manner of the time by Charles Rarey that described a drinking spree by a couple of men in Groveport and their ensuing arrest:

"A couple of fellows came with the vowed intention of doing the burg and painting the town red. After getting pretty well lubricated they proceeded on their mission and had the first coat partly on when they were called to a halt by Marshal Kile. They immediately took leg bail and an exciting race was the result. The marshal was joined by Constable Conklin and others and the race became general. They were finally captured near the train depot and locked up until evening when they were brought before Mayor Shaw and salted to the tune of $4.65, each which they paid and, smilingly, left."

I particularly like how Rarey referred to the men running away as taking "leg bail." I bet the chase was a sight to see.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 15, 2010

The Banana Man (Feb. 11, 2010)
When I was a little kid in the late 1950s and early 1960s the powers that be were still trying to figure out what to put on television as children's programming.

They usually opted for puppets and cartoons mixed in with some humans to interact with them. Content wise, it was all a mystery to everyone.

In the mornings back then I'd sit in front of the television with my burr haircut (is it any wonder so many of us grew our hair long later) and a bowl of cereal and watch "Captain Kangaroo."

The show was entertaining with a little bit of educational quality (I learned how to spell "Massachusetts" because of a song they played on the show), but mostly it bordered on the bizarre. I loved it.

First off, there were two ratty looking psychopathic puppets - Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit - who delighted in tormenting Captain Kangaroo by dropping ping pong balls on him and stealing his carrots. They were great.

There was a talking grandfather clock, odd cartoons like "Tom Terrific" where the drawings consisted of squiggly lines vaguely shaped like characters, and other assorted madness. Superbly odd stuff.

But all of it paled in comparison to the "Banana Man." Even as a kid I knew the Banana Man was weird and incomprehensible. The Captain would announce the Banana Man's arrival with great anticipation and then there he would be.

The Banana Man's entire act consisted of pulling odds and ends out of the pockets of his big, baggy coat. Mostly bananas. Lots of bananas, but also watermelons, ties, a violin, and on and on. He then placed these things in boxes that later turned into a train that he rolled away. All the while he did this he would sing a non-sensical, high pitched song.

Seriously.

This was his act.

But I, and millions of other little kids were mezmerized by it.

To this day I can't figure out what the Banana Man was all about.

If you want to see for yourself you can see a clip of the Banana Man on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfJqLKM3dtw

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 11, 2010

Shadow of The Who (Feb. 8, 2010)
First, let me say that I am a huge fan of The Who.

The Who were always "my band" dating back to when my youthful American ears first heard their musical mayhem back in the 1960s. They were loud, caustic, angry, and cynical - which I loved. I was ecstatic back in 1967 (or was it 1968?) when I saw them perform on the Smother Brothers television show.

"Who's Next" remains my favorite record album and I'm such a fan that I even like their "Who By Numbers" album, which critics once termed the band's songwriter Pete Townshend's "suicide note." I still listen to all my Who records frequently.

That being said, what I saw on television Sunday night at the halftime of the Super Bowl was not The Who. It was the Shadow of The Who. Only Townshend and singer Roger Daltrey remain out of the original quartet as manic, magnificent drummer Keith Moon and skilled bassist John Entwistle passed away a while ago. The four of them together made up The Who's formidable sound. Without Moon and Entwistle much of the spark is gone. While Townshend can still hold his own on guitar, Daltrey's once powerful voice is fading.

The Super Bowl halftime show was painful to watch and hear. All the pyrotechnics and overly done light show just dwarfed the band. The sound also seemed muffled. It was all hyperbole, but I guess that's what the Super Bowl is - too much of anything.

I cringed as Townshend, Daltrey and their new band members played short, choppy versions of great Who songs, cheapening the original artistry of the music.

We all get old and I can't blame Townshend and Daltrey for wanting to keep on performing. It's what they do.

But I'll stick with my old Who records.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 8, 2010

States' shapes (Feb. 4, 2010)
Those who know me know I like maps. All kinds of maps - road maps, historic maps, political maps, graphic relief maps, globes, and so on. A former girlfriend many years ago joked that I suffered from a form of "mapness."

So, imagine my happiness in finding the recently published book, "How the States Got Their Shapes," by Mark Stein. The book - which is part geography, part history, part humor - endeavors to explain how America's 50 states obtained their sometimes quirky, sometimes orderly shapes.

Stein delves into how Ohio and Michigan almost got into an actual shooting war over Toledo and whether its valuable port on Lake Erie would be on Buckeye turf or Wolverine. The book also talks about how, though Kansas' boundaries look dull and rectangular, they were formed from the fire of the days of conflict known as "Bleeding Kansas" prior to the Civil War. It digs into why we have a mixture of huge states, medium sized states, and tiny states. It's all detailed in 50 separate chapters, one for each state.

The tales of how each state it got its shape are a blend of politics, natural topography, human nature, and rivalry.

Plus, did I tell you it's loaded with maps! Tailor made for anyone who is also inclined to "mapness."

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 4, 2010

Moondance (Feb. 2, 2010)
On a recent night I looked up to see the full moon shining brightly through the bony bare branches of my tall locust tree.

I thought, "What a cold looking moon!"

But then, I realized that, if I were to see the same sight in late October just after the leaves had fallen, I would've thought, "What a spooky looking moon!" If I were to have seen the same scene in December I would've imagined a silhouette of Santa's sleigh passing through the moonlight or thought of it as a moon of seasonal good tidings.

But it is merely the moon and nothing more. It is always the moon. It is us who give the moon its personality.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 2, 2010

Salinger and Zinn (Feb. 1, 2010)
Last week two writers of note passed away - the novelist J.D. Salinger, 91, and the historian Howard Zinn, 87.

Salinger's reclusive ways are now legendary, but we shouldn't let that aspect of his life overshadow the fine work he produced while he still chose to publish when he was a younger man.

Most have heard of, and maybe read, his classic, "Catcher in the Rye," but his other works are worth a read, too. They are a collection of short stories entitled "Nine Stories," and three shorter novels: "Franny and Zooey," Raise High the Roofbeams," and "Seymour: An Introduction." I read them all when I was in my late teens and early twenties and each work resonated with me. I recommend them all.

But it was the passing of Zinn that struck me deeper. Zinn was my favorite historian and I gobbled up as many of his books as I could find. His most well known and notable book is his "A People's History of the United States," a fearless and in depth view of history from the viewpoint of the downtrodden rather than from the perspective of those in power.

Years ago I was happy to be in attendance when Zinn gave a talk at The Ohio State University in some dark meeting hall on campus. He mixed intellect, passion, and humanity into his speech reflecting on the themes he wrote about in a "A People's History of the United States." After his lecture, he lingered and patiently and earnestly talked individually with each of the many of us from the audience, including myself, who wanted to meet him and ask questions. He was a true teacher.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Feb. 1, 2010

Bare spots (Jan. 27, 2010)
The backyard was a combination of clover, grass, and, most noticeably, big bare spots of dirt.

The well worn, dusty patches were the result of countless games of football, baseball, and basketball (and some spirited badminton, too) that we neighborhood kids played in our backyard when I was growing up.

This was an all purpose, rectangular backyard that easily accommodated our games. The bare spots of dirt outlined the baseball field where the bases, home plate, and pitcher's mound were (even though there was no actual "mound"). Down the middle of the yard was a long, narrow dirt patch worn down from our football games. In the far corner of the yard was a grassless area underneath the basketball backboard and pole.

While playing the games, the players had to be aware of the many obstacles in the field of play. Obstructions that made the yard quirkier than any of the famous old time or fancy retro stadiums. Obstacles such as: the World War I wagon tonques that supported a clothesline that ran the length of the yard off to one side; the barrel for burning trash in left field; various looming bushes and trees that leaned out into the yard; and the biggest obstacle of all - our house. The house sat at the end of the yard and the football end zone at that end actually had to wrap around the side of the house.

My brother had a great knack for enhancing our ballfield yard. He made wooden bases for baseball as well as a temporary "home run" fence, which was a string strung around the outfield. He also put together a scoreboard for us to use.
My father made the basketball backboard and mounted it on a pole he got from my uncle's farm. That old backboard lasted a good while before it finally wore out and was replaced by a manufactured one.

The games on those dirt bare spots served many purposes for us. First off, they were fun. But the games also taught us how to resolve conflicts and work as a team without adult supervision. We settled everything amongst ourselves. Sure, we'd get mad at times, but the fun was more important and any anger was short lived.

When I think back it seems like we played those ball games forever in that yard. But in reality it was only a very short period of time. A span of just a few childhood years before we all grew too big for the backyard.

I asked my Dad in later years about what he thought about those big bare spots in his backyard back then. He said it never bothered him that he didn't have a lush, green lawn in those days, that it was better that we kids were able to play ball. "Besides," Dad said, "kids grow up and grass grows back." He had that rich perspective of time that being an adult gives you. The knowledge that childhood is fleeting and once it is gone it is gone forever and should be enjoyed while it lasts.

One doesn't see bare patches in backyards like that much any more. I suppose kids are engaged elsewhere with other interests these days.

It seems a shame. They should remember the grass will always grow back.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 27, 2010

The public, the private, & the personal (Jan. 25, 2010)
This past weekend I was talking with an old friend about a theory of the self that categorizes our individual human being as divided into three parts:

•the public, which is how a person presents oneself to the world;

•the private, which are the aspects of a person that only one's closest family members and friends know; and

•the personal (or the secret), which are the mysterious inner elements of oneself that only an individual alone knows and no one else.

I don't know the originator of the theory, but it really resonates with me. Somehow all three of these personas make up an individual and allow a person to function in society, relate to one's loved ones, and to understand, (or try to understand) one's own inner workings.

Which of these three personas is the true self? Probably none of them alone as they are only parts. I think it takes all three to be a fully realized person.

But it raises questions:

•Does a breakdown in any of three personas weaken the other two?

•If one of the three elements is much stronger, does it overshadow the other two?

•Is our "secret" self the originator of our inner strength because, in spite of any support we receive, we are essentially alone in the world even when we are surrounded by throngs of other people and must summon our own internal willpower when needed?

•Because of these three personas, do we ever truly "know" another person and can they ever really "know" us?

It's a lot to think about.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 25, 2010

Finding Wert (Jan. 19, 2010)
I spent a lot of time over the years in the massive Obetz Cemetery looking for Jacob Wert's grave.

As the volunteer director of the Groveport Heritage Museum, I knew Wert was a pivotal figure - along with his rival William Rarey - in founding and establishing the town of Groveport in the 19th century. Rarey's gravesite is well known in the Groveport Cemetery and Wert was buried in the Obetz Cemetery, but where?

Many times I walked the rows of weathered tombstones in the old parts of the Obetz Cemetery looking for Wert's final resting place. I'd read the faded names carved in the stones, but none were his. He seemed lost in the field of tombstones.

One cold December day in 2008 I was walking around there and once again could not find Wert. After a long while I took a deep breath and stood staring out over the vast cemetery ready to give up. Just then I felt an urge to turn around and look...and right there directly behind me was Jacob Wert's grave! It's like Jacob tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Here I am!"

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 19, 2010

The howl (Jan. 18, 2010)
On recent early January morning (really early as I was battling insomnia again) I stepped out on my front porch to get some air.

It was still and silent. No breeze. No cars. No people around. Not even a feral cat stirring about. Then I distinctly heard it way off in the distance in the direction of Little Walnut Creek - howling.

It did not sound like someone's dog serenading the neighborhood. No, these howls sounded wild, forlorn, and musical whirling in the cold darkness. I can't be sure, but I think it was the howls of coyotes.

Though coyotes have returned to Ohio, they are furtive creatures that are seldom seen. But one can hear them when they sing.

According to wildlife experts, coyotes have two "howling seasons" - one is in January and February when they are seeking a mate; the other is in September and October when the mother coyote calls to her offspring. These experts also note a coyote's howl can be deceptive in that it may sound like it is coming from one place, but may really be somewhere else because of the way the sound of the howl carries.

I stood on the porch and listened to the howls in the distance. The long notes of the coyotes' song seemed timeless and I felt fortunate to be able to hear this concert of the wild on that frosty morning.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 18, 2010

On 54 (Jan. 15, 2010)
Last month I turned 54. I know that's not what's thought of as a traditionally milestone year like turning 18, 21, 30, 40, 50, 65 etc., but it did prompt me to weigh some things like:

•The older I get the dumber football seems. People complain about all the standing around players do at baseball games, but there seems to be just as much idle time on the gridiron what with huddles, time outs, walking around after plays, as well as time dancing and showing off. Plus, football, along with boxing and other such fighting sports, are the only ones that seem to be specifically designed to injure your opponent. How sporting is that?

•Political parties and the hot shot politicians and handlers who run them don't really care about the rest of us except at election time, and even then they just tolerate us. My dad long ago told me something very true about politicians of all political stripe - "They all belong to the same country club."

•So many mainstream movies these days are so crammed full of computer enhancements and effects that they are just flash, crash, and dash that total up to trash. Where's the human element? Where's the story?

•All of our new fangled technological gadgetry is useful, but at the same time irritating.

•The comic strip "Prince Valiant" is bizarre in its story lines and has quite possibly the slowest moving narrative of any comic strip ever. The strip can take months to advance its story just a few steps.

•I still like LP records better than CDs, but I like CDs better than all this other download mayhem.

•Even though it's 2010, saying the years in the 21st century still seems unnatural when one is used to calling the years "Nineteen sixty-four" and the like. I wonder if people who lived much of their life in the 1800s felt weird saying the years in the 1900s when the century turned?

•Being 54 feels like being in a time limbo. One is definitely not young, but not yet elderly. It feels more than "middle age." It's a transitional cusp where one can see the waning years coming, yet still feel the vitality of the younger years coursing through the mind, body, and spirit.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 15, 2010

Depot, 1910 - a story (Jan. 13, 2010)
It was cold inside the Scioto Valley Traction Line depot in Groveport. The small coal stove struggled to warm the little brick depot, but it couldn't even melt the morning January frost that painted the windows.

She stood near the stove seeking its feeble warmth, along with a couple of other waiting passengers, and watched out the window for the electric interurban train to ease down Blacklick Street.

She was 19 and heading off to work at her first paying job in Columbus. In reality, she had worked all her life helping her mother and family tend to their small Groveport home and yard. Since she was a little girl she had worked the family vegetable garden, helped clean house, baby sat her younger siblings, and fed the chickens. She also had to clean the chicken coop once in a while, a chore she hated because of the thick dust and floating feathers that choked the air.

But now she was heading for her first day of work in Columbus as a clerk in an insurance firm. She felt very modern having a job in downtown Columbus, 15 miles from home. To her mother's generation, that 15 miles was a long, timely trek by horse and buggy. The speedy interurban had changed that as she could now hop aboard and be in Columbus, including stops, in about 45 minutes.

She was excited, and a little scared, to be going to the city to work, to make her own money, to help her family, to explore a world outside of her small town, and to discover more about herself.

The stirring of the other waiting passengers let her know the interurban was coasting to the depot. She stepped outside and the chilling wind gave her a start and she pulled her wool coat tight. She crossed a wooden plank that was placed over the slushy, unpaved street and stepped up into the interurban.

She nestled down into a seat and wistfully smiled.

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 13, 2010

The stoop (Jan. 11, 2010)
The narrow concrete stoop was once a spot where we kids gathered to eat chips, drink pop, and while away the time talking about things we once thought were vitally important, but are now lost to the haze of time.

It was a gathering place for me and the Wyatt boys in the mid 1960s. The concrete stoop runs along the length of the front of the former B&J Carryout on Main Street in Groveport (now a lawyer's office) where we would buy our junk food with money earned on paper routes and mowing grass. Once we made our salty and sweet purchases we'd settle in like old men on the stoop that was just the right size for us kids.

I recently reminisced about the stoop with Matt Wyatt, one of the stoop sitters, and he compared our stoop times to an innocent version of adulthood. He noted grown ups would go to dark bars to drink, talk, and idle away the hours while we kids would go to our sunny stoop to gulp down pop and greasy chips while laughing and nattering about all kinds of things. (Sometimes, if we were really flush with coins, we could spring for the 25 cents for a Hostess fruit pie.)

There we would sit on our stoop (it seemed like "our" stoop anyway), our bicycles haphazardly parked or piled up in front of us. We'd watch the cars go by, watch who would go in and out of the carryout, and watch who would stroll past.

We'd talk of the latest records, firecrackers, the Columbus Jets, the old canal, reptiles, Rocky Trails, our siblings, our schools, swimming, eating, television shows, other kids, and about adults - because we were always trying to figure them out.

I can't remember exactly when our stoop days ended. Maybe it was when we grew too big to comfortably sit on the narrow stoop. Most likely the stoop days passed when we became teenagers and we moved on to other places, people, and things.

But the stoop is still there, a reminder of those fine days of youth.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 11, 2010

Comment from Shawn: Wow! That brings back memories. I'll have you know that the stoop days at B&J's actually continued for me up until 1980. In 1980, I played freshman basketball (There were 2 Freshman teams at that time). Practice did not start until about 90 minutes after school got out because the coaches were Elementary school teachers and they got done later. All the players used to go to the carry-out and gorge ourselves on pop and junk food. Let me tell you - wind sprints did not mix well with a large bag of Doritos just eaten. In my earlier days I remember hanging on the stoop on a hot summer day after having just bought a pop from Mrs. Wyatt - I'm pretty sure she worked there.

Comment from Mark: Ah, the stoop. I remember favoring Faygo cream soda (can't remember if it was the yellow or blue kind, though). And I can't think of the carryout without thinking of Deacon, the nicest guy ever. Thanks for that blast from the past.

Comment from Whitney: I knew exactly what stoop you were talking about by the end of the first sentence!

The sled (Jan. 6, 2010)
Hanging on my living room wall is an ancient snow sled with rusted metal runners and nary a trace of paint left on its gray weathered wood.

The sled, though now retired as an art piece of sorts on my wall, was the sled my brother, sister, and I used as kids. I remember it was old and weathered when we got it over 40 years ago. No doubt it was passed down to us from some branch of the family. The thing could be more than 100 years old by now.

As kids we put that sled to good use on hills such as the one behind my Uncle Bob Palsgrove's farm house which once sat out on Williams Road, the hill at Groveport Elementary, and the little hill in front of our house on Main Street. The sled had a tattered rope we used to pull the sled along or to steer it as we hurtled downhill, but I never got the sense it ever responded to our attempts to guide it down the slope.

We also used to pull each other around in the snow taking turns riding on the sled.
The sled also did good work for us as, on more than one occasion, I can remember us getting our Christmas tree at the old Norm's Market, plopping it on the sled, and pulling it home. (Anyone else remember how Norm Zitske used to tie the biggest Christmas tree he had for sale out on the signpost in front of his market?)

I'm not sure how I gained possession of the sled in these later years. It probably has something to do with my nostalgic penchant historical type objects. Plus, that sturdy sled earned its right to rest in a warm place in its elder years and I'm glad to provide it.

I never want it to end up like "Rosebud."

- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 6, 2010

On the run (Jan. 4, 2010)
In my younger days I was a runner.

I picked it up naturally. My dad was a track man in high school and my older brother was a good long distance runner.

I ran the half mile in junior high and cross country one year in high school, but mostly I ran to get in shape for basketball season. But I even ran some 5K road races after high school. But creaky knees brought on by years of basketball playing convinced me to give up running for the bicycle.

Running (as well as its cousin, walking) is a pure, simple way to fitness. It's just you and the great outdoors. The human body craves exercise and running and walking are natural movements.

Being tired from exercising is a good kind of tired. You feel like the gunk of the world is flushed out of your system.

If you're thinking of getting yourself moving in 2010, consider signing up for the Groveport Recreation Center's annual, "Resolution Run," a 5K run on the paved trail in Groveport Park on Groveport Road. The run, for ages 12 and up, is Jan. 9 and starts at 9:15 a.m. Registration deadline is Jan. 8. Cost is $15 ($20 if you registration the day of the run).

I've covered the run in past years for the Southeast Messenger and can tell you it is quite a community experience as the runners encourage each other to battle the winter cold and let the human body triumph.

Think it over. Running or walking, like everything else, begins with that first step.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Jan. 4, 2010

Doldrums (Dec. 31, 2009)
It's the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. It's a listless time for many people as schools are closed, lots of people use up what's left of their vacation time for the year, and businesses often go on auto pilot. Television is mostly reruns and oddly named football bowl games.

It's also when the month long Christmas festivity frenzy fizzles out, capped by the punctuation mark that is New Year's Eve, one more celebration of sorts where folks pat their bellies in recognition of the five pounds of Christmas cookies that have taken up residence there.

When 2010 dawns we look about and see the Christmas trees, even the artificial ones, look tired - their trimmings, once seemingly bright, dulled by the gray light of New Year's Day. Many of the outdoor holiday decorations - battered about for the past month by winter winds, snow, rain, and cold - look like they have been in a brawl. (Especially the big inflatables in the yards.) The decorations have done their work and appear ready to retreat to their storage boxes to rest.

Though August is often considered the big vacation time where people recharge, I think it is actually the sluggish last week of December when people catch their breath, reflect, and then look ahead.

Happy New Year everyone.
- Rick Palsgrove, Southeast Editor, Dec. 31, 2009

Measuring time (Dec. 29, 2009)
Because time is such an elusive thing, we humans compartmentalize it into boxes consisting of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, and centuries. These are all artificial creations to help us make sense of how our time flees on this the whirling earth as it spins around the sun.

It all seems so tidy until you take into account that every four years we have to tack an extra day onto the year to keep these artificial time gears in sync...and that's just for the Gregorian calendar (named for Pope Gregory XIII of the 16th century) much of the world now uses.

Humans being humans, we cannot even settle on one universal calendar as there also exists a Chinese calendar, Hebrew calendar, Hindu calendar, and a Moslem calendar. In the past, but now gone, there was the Julian calendar of Rome's Julius Caesar as well as an ancient Roman calendar; and don't forget the Mayan calendar which claims we're all doomed in 2012. For a brief time there was the Revolutionary calendar of France that marked time from the French Revolution; but this time measuring system only lasted from 1793 to