Charlotte and the Back Steps

circa 1936

The child was in the yard with her dog, Spotty, when she saw the man approach the front gate. She knew that was her cue to hurry into the house. "C'mon Spotty - hurry up." As the back door closed behind her, she called out to Charlotte – “Mommie, Mommie - there's a Hungry Man coming."

"Thank you sugar - now you be sure to stay inside ' "

The little girl assumed her usual position at the side window to witness the familiar routine. The stranger would walk around the house to the back door and knock, hat or cap in hand (in this instance a well-worn' weather-stained dark brown fedora). Charlotte would open the door a crack "Yes?”

“Do you have any work I can do in exchange for a meal?" (The child wondered again why the men always looked at their feet when asking this question – what connection was there between shoes and food, do you suppose?)

In response, Charlotte would fully open the door and, pointing to the ever- present broom leaning beside it, “As a matter of fact, I was just about to sweep the steps. If you’ll be good enough to do that for me, I’ll fix a tray for you.” The dialogue was always pretty much the same – a courteous and graceful pas de deux of words.

There was always a tray for the food , spread with a white linen tea towel and napkin. Sometimes Charlotte would prepare a sandwich' sometimes scrambled eggs and bacon - whatever simple but adequate food there was enough of to share. And always, always she would wrap up something in a paper napkin "for later" - an apple, some cheese and crackers, always a jam sandwich.

For as 'long as the child could remember (which at age five. is not a very long time) these men had come, singly, knocking on the door. They were a fact of life to her. When she first asked “Why do they ask you for food?”

Charlotte said simply, “Because they’re hungry"

“Why?”

"Because they have no food."

"Why don’t they buy some at the grocery? "

“Because they have no money."

“Why?”

"Because they can't find work'"

”Why?”

With a sigh, Charlotte replied, “It's complicated"' Charlotte had discovered by chance a while back that the phrase “It’s complicated" was enough to, for a while at least, stem the child's constant stream of "whys" which, once started, were as hard to stop as a persistent case of hiccups.

After a short silence the child asked “Well, why do you always give them a For Later?"

“Because they might have someone at home who is hungry too.''

“Oh.” She thought of asking who might be at home, and where home might be, but decided against it. Her experience had been that a second "It's complicated" was usually promptly followed by "It's time for you to go upstairs and take a nap.” Best not to risk it!

As the man left the emptied tray on the porch bench and exited the yard, the little girl pondered why she always felt so sad when the Hungry Men came and why her mother wanted the back steps so clean all the time, and what exactly “It's complicated" meant anyway.

But as usual, when faced with deep imponderables, she decided to forget about all of that and go back outside and play with Spotty instead.

Jeannie Peck
Southbury, CT 2011

The Holes in the Pool Room Wall

Ca late 1920’s

It was a beautiful early summer morning. The sun was already promising a hot day – and there was a gentle breeze. “A perfect laundry day”, Jenny thought as she hung the wash on the clothesline. She was humming her favorite hymn, Rock of Ages, and reaching into the cloth bag for another four clothespins when the sight and sound of the automobile coming up the drive prompted the thought that if that car came any closer and threw dust all over her clean wet laundry, she would throttle those boys good.

Fortunately for her two youngest sons, whose car she had recognized, they stopped well short of the danger zone surrounding the clothesline. They were no fools. Once you had gotten dust all over Mom’s clean laundry you never forgot the ensuing tongue-lashing. Her kids always said “That woman could talk you to death without even stopping for a breath.”

The four young men exited the car as only young men in their late teens can – all of a sudden and noisily.

“Hi Mom. We brought Ed and Jim up for the weekend. We’re hungry, so we’ll go on in and fix something. Then we’ll go down to the lake for a swim.” With casual waves and “Hi’s” tossed in Jenny’s general direction, they went off to the house.

Jenny didn’t even bother with the usual “Don’t go into the water for an hour after you eat”. She knew that they would pay her no never mind. She marveled again that all five of her children had managed to grow up so strong and healthy despite ignoring her sage advice all these years.

She was glad she was getting the wash on the line early. It would be dry by afternoon, giving her sufficient time to take it in and perhaps do a little weeding before starting dinner. She already had two extra for the evening meal and no telling how many more there would be. It was not an unusual occurrence to have unannounced guests. Jenny and Charlie had five children and they were free to bring guests home at any time, and without warning. It was that kind of a family.

By early afternoon the laundry was indeed dry. Rather than put the clean clothes away immediately, she deposited the basket against the wall in the Pool Room when she entered the house – and then went out to the garden. (The Pool Room was so designated because it was dominated by a magnificent regulation size pool table sitting front and center.)

Jenny was out in the garden when the boys returned from the lake. As young men are wont to do, they ate another meal. Then they decided on a game of pool, which was going well enough, when John shouted,

“Holy Good God – Look at that!”

The others followed the direction of his extended forefinger. There, crawling out of the laundry basket and up the wall was a copperhead. The two visitors went pale. They were city folk and not used to seeing a snake crawling up a wall – especially in a house in which they were to spend the next several days.

John turned to his older brother Joe, “We better get it out of here.”

“Just how do you propose we do that?”

“I dunno. We could catch it in a pillowcase or a bag, maybe. Can’t you think of something?”

Meanwhile, the snake was making progress on its upward journey, and the city boys were looking like they were ready to bolt.

“Can’t you do something Joe?”

“I guess I could shoot the damn thing. I’ll get a gun.”

He headed toward the gun cabinet on the far wall and promptly returned depositing a large red, brass capped shell in the barrel of a 12-guage shotgun. He took aim and shot the snake right on that wall.

Relieved that the immediate problem had been solved, they all began talking at once.

“Hol-lee Joe – what a mess you made!”

“Look at all those holes in the wall.”

“Do you guys shoot snakes a lot?” – (And more to the point, since they were to be overnight guests in the house -) Do snakes come into the house all the time?”

“Wait till Mom sees that wall. Hey – where’s the rest of the snake?”

Their attention had been focused on the nine holes, to which clung messy bits and pieces of snake – but now traveled downward. A good part of the rest of that unfortunate creature had collapsed back into the laundry basket – resulting in some quite gooey and no-longer clean laundry.

Jenny arrived – breathless. She had heard the shot and had run all the way back from the garden, anticipating a calamity of the gravest kind (as most any mother would). She stood, gasping for air, and took in the scene. All four boys seemed to be alive enough. She followed their gaze to the wall.

“What in the world happened?”

“Joe killed a snake. It was crawling up the wall and we wanted to get it out of the house, so he shot it.”

Now that she realized that her worst fears were unfounded and unrealized, she was beginning to think that she just might, herself, inflict a little bodily harm on her sons.

“Oh, you shot it did you. With a shotgun, Joe? Couldn’t you at least have used a 22, so as not to splat that snake all over hell’s half-acre?”

“Gee, Mom (running his hand through his curly red hair) do you realize how hard it would be to hit a moving snake on a wall with a 22?”

“And do you realize, you nincompoop, how hard it’s going to be to clean that snake splat from out of that whole basket of laundry? Now I’m going to have to wash it all over again.”

The visitors were surprised that no one had yet mentioned the nine holes in the wall – never mind the snake goo surrounding them. But even more surprising to them was the nature of Jenny’s most pressing concern – the laundry.

What the young men failed to grasp, and what must be understood, is that this was not Jenny’s city home in which washday was relatively easy. Back there, all she had to do was go up to the second floor to get the laundry in a large wicker basket and carry it down two flights of stairs to the basement, where the miracle of hot water was accomplished with only the turn of a knob on the wall behind the cumbersome machine. After the clothes had been through a noisy wash, and then an equally noisy rinse, they were carried across the room to the deep, large double wash tubs, to one of which was attached a rollered, handled wringer. Then each piece of wet laundry was placed between the rollers, and the handle turned enough times to extrude the excess water. The washed items were placed into the wicker basket once again and carried back up the two flights of stairs to be hung on the clotheslines. A very simple feat which was accomplished by hanging out of the bedroom window from the waist up and praying you didn’t topple over.

So you see, it was a simple process. It might have been said of Jenny’s washdays in the city that they were a piece of cake.

But – not so in the country house. She had to collect water in buckets from the rain barrel – or, if there had been no rain for a while and the water in the barrel was brackish, from the spring down the road (this story predates the well being dug and the hand-pump being installed on the kitchen sink). Then there would be a trip to the woodpile so a fire could be started in the stove. Once the water in the heavy cauldron was hot enough, it was transferred into the large washtub. While the clothes were being swished, scrubbed with the aid of a washboard, and swirled with the aid of a wooden paddle – the water for the rinse was being readied. The washed items were wrung by hand. Women of that era developed very strong (although not especially attractive) hands and arms. Then the clothes were placed in one of those ubiquitous wicker baskets and carried out to the clothesline. As you may have guessed, washday was dependent upon the weather – as well as the determined belief that cleanliness is next to Godliness!

In any event, it should have been easy to understand Jenny’s consternation at having to repeat the process. Particularly with night coming on and the necessity of either hanging the wet wash on the line overnight to be soggy with dew in the morning, or being left wet and wadded in the basket all night – which would have helped neither the wash not the basket. The alternative of leaving the basket as it was until morning, with snake splat all over the clothes, was never a consideration.

By the time Charlie arrived home, the boys (fearing retribution) had hustled and gathered the wood and the water for Jenny, and then washed down the wall. The wash was once again clean and on the clothesline. Jenny, happily, had calmed down and was involved with preparing a very simple supper. (“And”, she thought to herself, “they’re lucky to be getting anything at all.”)

John greeted his father first and pointed to the wall.

“Hi, Pop. Look. There was a snake crawling up the wall and Joe shot it.”

Charlie surveyed the buckshot pattern on the wall in disbelief. Oh, this was too good, even for his kids. He started to laugh.

“Holy Good God – with a shotgun, Joe? Why didn’t you just take a run over to West Point and borrow a cannon?”

Charlie had a large bellow of a laugh which was remarkably contagious, and, once started seemed as if it would never end (this seemed to be a frequent response in the family when things went wrong). And now everybody was laughing. Including Jenny – who felt all was right with the world since the laundry was clean, dinner was almost ready, and no harm had been done. (Except to the snake, of course, but that was his own fault. He had no business coming into the house in the first place.)

It might have been expected that Joe would be embarrassed by the overkill in his choice of weapons, but not so. Whenever he and the boys would go down to Brewer’s Tavern for a beer, or to the lake for a swim, they would be happily greeted with loud hoots and hello’s.

“Hey, here comes Joe, the big game hunter.”

“Joe – I hear they’re rounding up all the snakes in Brewster so you don’t go in and shoot up the town like Jesse James.”

“Hey Joe, my wife has a pesky mouse in the kitchen – anything you can do to get rid of it?”

“Hey Joe, didn’t your Daddy ever teach you the difference between a rifle and a shotgun?”

“Occasionally John would chime in. “Sure he did. He told Joe that the shotguns were on the right in the gun cabinet and the rifles on the left. Only trouble is – Joe can never remember which is his left and which is his right.”

Joe laughed louder than anyone. Truth be told, he really enjoyed the good-natured and affectionate teasing. He found his boisterous (and sometimes bawdy) country friends far more interesting companions than the more stuffy and colorless city friends in New York. He welcomed this attention and the celebrity it afforded him.

The holes remained in the wall for quite a few years. Probably because all of the family members loved retelling the story to whatever captive audience happened to enter the house.

But there eventually came the time when all of her offspring were married (or about to be) and there were grandchildren born (or about to be) that Jenny felt it was time, for the sake of those grandchildren, that perhaps the free-wheeling and fun-loving reputation of the family should be replaced with a more sedate and dignified image.

And so, reluctantly, the decision was made to replace the Pool Room wall. And the nine tell-tale holes disappeared forever.

Funny thing, though… The wall was replaced – the grandchildren grew to maturity – but the story of the snake, the shotgun and the nine holes in the Pool Room wall lingered on. And does to this very day.

And – as for the family image becoming more dignified and sedate… Forget about it. It was never gonna happen. Not in that family.

Jeannie Peck
Southbury, CT 2012

They Don’t Make Marshmallows Like They Used To

The marshmallows one can find in the stores today bear no resemblance to those of yesteryear. Oh —- I know what you’re thinking. “The older mind plays tricks when it comes to childhood memories.” Ordinarily, about most things, I might be inclined to agree. But not when it comes to marshmallows. I know marshmallows.

You see, back in the 1930’s, my cousins and I – by the time we had reached the ripe old age of seven or so – could have been considered experts on the subject of marshmallows.

Summers were spent with our grandparents at the country house. And many summer evenings, after dinner and until bedtime, we could be found engaged in that most delightful all-American pastime – toasting marshmallows.

Along about dusk Grandpa would start a small fire and light the punk. “Punk” is what we called the kerosene-soaked cattails which were supposed to keep mosquitoes at bay. As far as any of us could ever tell, the only thing punk kept away was the sweet smell of flowers or freshly-mown grass. But in those days before bug-bombs, Deet and zappers, anything “anti-mosquito” was worth a try. Once in a while the punk was augmented with some citronella, but that was deemed a waste of money since citronella didn’t seem to bother the mosquitoes any, and it sure did bother all of us. Mostly what we did about mosquitoes was scratch. We spent our summers scratching.

You know, now that I think of it, it occurs to me that in the 1930’s we never heard about the dangerous diseases and fevers that are transmitted by today’s mosquitoes. I wonder whether the mosquitoes back then were healthier – or whether we were. No matter. Perhaps I should Google it sometime.

Back to the marshmallows.

Grandpa would cut some appropriate “toasting sticks” form the surrounding trees, and Grandma would bring out the much-anticipated cellophane-wrapped red, white and blue cardboard box of Campfire Marshmallows. Those marshmallows were a treat worth putting up with the scratching for.

As I told you, the confections called marshmallows just aren’t the same today. They’re smaller, squishier and gooier. Thy have no character. Campfire Marshmallows were firm on the powder-covered outer surface. The insides were soft, yet firm enough to be easily pierced and properly positioned on the end of the toasting stick.

As with most art forms, there is a “Right Way” – a time proven protocol to be adhered to when toasting a marshmallow. The trick in the toasting is to hold the marshmallow in the flames long enough to get a crispy light black crust on the outside, but before it catches fire and starts to burn. Then you blow on the marshmallow for a couple of seconds, and ever so carefully pull off the crispy outer shell with your fingers and pop it into your mouth at just the right moment – after it has cooled enough so it won’t burn your tongue and will still taste sweet, but before it is cold and all you can taste is acrid burned sugar. Then of course, the remainder of the marshmallow goes right back over the fire to repeat the process. On the second go-round the entire remainder of the marshmallow is eaten all at once.

Once in a while one or another of the mothers would protest to the grandmother that eating burned sugar could not be all that good for the children. Grandma’s usual response was, “Don’t be such a ninny. That’s charcoal. Everybody knows that charcoal is good for you.” It was difficult for anyone – especially a daughter or daughter-in-law – to disagree with such an expert on everything as Grandma was.

(Years later when I learned that charcoal is, indeed, considered the “universal antidote” I marveled again, at how much my Grandmother rally did know – about so many things. I’ll just bet that the same is true of most Grandmothers.)

Along about the time we started toasting our second marshmallows, the fireflies would start to flit about winking at us in the rapidly fading light. We sometimes called them “lightning bugs” as many of our playmates did, but Grandma preferred “fireflies”. She said that “fireflies was a prettier and more fitting name for such magical airborne creatures who “Just – might-really-be-fairies”. The last observation, delivered slowly and deliberately, was further emphasized with raised eyebrows, a knowing look, and a sideways tilt of the head. And so, as you might have guessed, we would never, ever, have thought to capture those ethereal creatures and imprison them in a jar. Just in case they might-really-be- you know…

Increasing darkness and the third marshmallow signaled the approaching end of our evening. (We were never allowed more than three marshmallows each on any given night. Whether the enforced limit was determined by budgetary or healthful dietary reasons, I never knew.)

The punk was sputtering and smoldering; the mosquitoes growing less aggressive now that they had feasted sufficiently; the fireflies were lighting up the darkness in a syncopated tap-dance busier and more intricate than any Busby-Berkeley routine ever seen on stage or film; the crickets, katydids, and tree frogs provided background music, punctuated occasionally by the sound of a distant train whistle or barking dog. By this time it would be so dark that we could barely distinguish the crispy exterior of the marshmallows by the light from the fire and the kerosene lanterns.

(Sometimes when I was a very little girl, I used to think that the gradual transition from dusk to dark was the day going to sleep in the same way that I did: eyelids starting to close little by little; head growing heavy and nodding lower; finally eyes closed completely and everything was dark. And the day was asleep.)

As soon as the third marshmallow was consumed, Grandma hustled us inside for a quick application of Calamine Lotion (not that it ever did all that much good). And so we cousins got into our beds to join the day in sleep – lulled by the night chorus drifting in through open windows – and with the sweet and sticky taste of Campfire Marshmallows lingering in young mouths and young memories. Memories to be recalled and cherished more than 75 years later. But never to be recaptured nor repeated.

It’s like I told you. They just don’t make marshmallows like they used to.

Jeanne Peck
Southbury, CT 2012

Charlie DeMar Stories - Part 1

When you come right down to it, sometimes a most ordinary man can be at the same time, a most remarkable man. The following stories, as best as I can remember them, are about such a man.

His name was Charlie DeMar. He was fond of telling folks that his name was Charles, Augustus, Rickabaw, Hicks DeMar, and that he was named after every Doctor in the County. But everyone knew better (after the age of seven anyway).

Charlie, was, as most people are, multi-faceted. So I shall try to arrange my thoughts and stories into categories – the first of which will be about Charlie the “Collector”.

Charlie collected friends (some quite respectable and upstanding – and some not so much). Charlie just enjoyed people and loved to laugh – and everyone he met seemed to want to be around him.

He collected animals of all kinds – some because he wanted them, and some because other people did not want them and needed to unload them.

He collected stray people. Most were all alone, and with no place to live. So he brought them home.

You see, Charlie was what used to be called a “Patsy”. An old-fashioned word, which is described in Webster’s as “a person easily manipulated; a sucker”. I prefer a kinder and softer definition: a person with a gentle and sweet nature, who can be easily taken advantage of, recognizes that it’s happening, but doesn’t really mind.

Lest you get the wrong idea… For all his good Quaker upbringing and inclination, Charlie was no wimp. (At some point much later along in this narrative a tale will be recounted involving a hoe and a split-open scalp. But not now.)

A word or two at the outset regarding Jenny, Charlie’s wife. Charlie indeed brought home all manner of creatures, human and not. But that was where his Good Samaritanism ended. It was up to Jenny to take care of them and attend to their general well-being. That was, after all, what the “woman of the house” did back then.

--Time out for an aside or two ---——

1) These stories are being recounted – with love – for Charlie’s descendants. To those of you with no familial connection, and who therefore might lose interest and tune out at some point along the way – I assure you I will take no offense!

2) The laughing, teasing, mock-combative relationship between Jenny and Charlie has been documented in previous stories. So hold that thought – it’s an integral part in the last scene of this story.
Which now resumes……….

One of the unfortunate creatures whom no one wanted and so was, of course, adopted by Charlie, was a mean Rhesus monkey named “Jocko”. He was about two feet tall, with a tail about one foot long, and weighted about 20 pounds (all give or take a little). He was covered in short, medium-brown hair, which was rather flat on top of his head. His eyes were large and seldom still - constantly darting about, hoping to find a little trouble. Just looking at him, one would think him to be a rather cute little fellow.

Jocko was handed over to Charlie along with a heavy brown leash, a strong wire cage (large enough to house three German Shepherds), and the admonition “The only way you’ll ever be able to handle this little SOB is to beat him as hard as you can until he cries”.

But that was not Charlie’s way. For many months Charlie patiently tried good thoughts, a gentle tone of voice, and, after having been bitten a number of times, heavy leather gloves. One can safely assume that a lot of prayer was involved in the mix.

Jocko managed to escape from his cage more times than the family was willing to put up with. They were fast losing patience with Charlie and his newest pet, and insisted he “do something about that miserable monkey”.

Charlie finally, in desperation, took Jocko over his knee and spanked him. Jocko cried. Charlie cried. Jocko turned over and clung to Charlie, like a small child hugging a parent – and climbed onto his shoulder (which ever after was his favorite perch). Following that traumatic event, Jocko was sweet and loving to Charlie – and a mean little son-of-a-gun to everyone else. And everyone else hated “that damn monkey”. Which was most unusual for a family of animal lovers.

But not surprising. He had bitten Jenny’s finger with such ferocity that it was broken, and forever remained a bent reminder of the old adage about biting the hand that feeds you. Lord only knows that the cousins had no great fondness for him. What good does it do to have a monkey in the house if you can’t play with him or show him of to your friends? No good at all to seven or eight- year olds. And one day, as Jeannie walked past his cage, Jocko reached his devilish brown arm through the bars, snatched her gold bracelet from her wrist – and ate it.

-Another aside -

Jocko had pouches on either side of his neck, under his jaws, where he would store food to be pushed up and eaten at a later time. e.g. He would stuff a whole banana in his mouth and swallow it into the pouches somehow. He would then push it back up at a later time, to be eaten at his leisure. This may have been an evolutionary response developed in this species, who live in large communal groups, to ensure their share of the food supply. I hadn’t thought about this phenomenon for all these years until I began writing this story. I tried to research this anatomical feature on Google – but hey, I’m old – I ran out of time and patience. Perhaps on to the younger family members will do that and report back to us.

Back to the bracelet. Jenny volunteered that she would “watch for it”. And although Jenny was a most responsible and accommodating woman, it is not likely that she would have been willing to spend a whole heck of a lot of time monitoring a monkey’s output – even for her granddaughter’s bracelet. Life was more complicated than that. The bracelet never showed up. Perhaps Jocko went to Heaven with a gold bracelet as a special offering – or bribe – to St. Peter.

In any event, Jocko’s life improved after the spanking. He was taken outside for excursions with Charlie – and basked in the companionship.

Now, another of the non-human members of the household was a parrot named Billy, the surviving member of a pair. There was a time when Billy was a friendly, talkative bird. But after the death of his mate, he could at times be churlish, and was no longer what one could consider a pleasant pet. Although he was still noisy, it was not the cheerful jabber-conversation as in the past. The sounds emanating from his colorful body were cranky, crotchety, grumbling and harsh.

Although their cages were in separate rooms, it was obvious that Jocko did not like Billy one bit. Whenever Billy started one of his raucous rants Jocko would shake and rattle the door of his case and chatter angrily at Billy.

Now is the time for a reminder about what I told you to keep in mind – remember?

Jenny, as a good God-fearing woman did not hold with cursing in any form. “There will be no cursing in this house” (although a sotto voce “damn” could be heard to escape her lips when the occasion demanded). Charlie seldom cursed – and never at or about someone. But – when something went wrong, say a tire went flat, or this thumb got in the way of his hammer, his surprised and irritated favorite expletive was “son-of-a-bitch!”

One day Charlie took Jocko out of his cage for a little excursion, and Jocko managed to slip out of his collar. He took off straight for Billy’s cage in the adjacent room, picked it up (with Billy in it) and hurled it through the doorway. During the whole trip through the air, as the cage sailed over the table and chairs and hit the wall in the next room, Billy was screeching in his most abrasive voice, “Son-of-a-bitch … son-of-a-bitch…” Jocko apparently thought the whole thing was a hoot because he was jumping up and down in front of Billy’s cage, chattering in what appeared to be a great glee.

Jenny ran into the room wagging her finger and admonishing Billy to “Stop that cursing this very minute” (as if Billy cared). When she saw Jocko running free, she picked up a broom and started chasing him. Picture a somewhat plump older woman, bun coming apart and her salt-and-pepper hair falling in wisps down to her shoulders, brandishing a straw broom, trying to outrun and outsmart a very shrewd and nimble simian with a highly maneuverable tail – who, at this point, suddenly realized that he was running for his life. Chattering and screaming, he picked up the pace. Finally, after leaving a path of destruction worthy of a Category 3 hurricane, he lunged back into the safety of the farthest corner of his cage and sat, scrunched down, as quiet as a mouse.

Not so Billy, who had been raucously screeching his objectionable phrase, like a stuck phonograph record, throughout the entire chase, as if to urge Jenny on. Still waving the broom, and by now red-faced (whether from anger, exertion or both) Jenny started toward Billy, who did not have the advantage of an escape route, but did have the good sense to shut up.

Whereupon Jenny turned her attention to her husband. “Mr. DeMar, you taught that parrot to curse just to aggravate me.” Charlie, who a while back in the middle of the melee, had stopped chasing and was doubled over holding his sides in uncontrollable laughter at the improbability of the scene, realized that he was next on the broom list, and wisely decided to retreat from the house for a while.

And that’s all there is to that story. Except —— Charlie forever maintained (raising his right hand, as if taking and oath) that he had not taught Billy to repeat that phrase – that he would never do such a thing – and never before that incident had he ever once heard the parrot use it. Yeah, right!

(ca 1937)

To be continued………

Jeanne Peck
Southbury, CT 2012