MY ONE AND ONLY BB GUN

I was nine years old when I got my BB Gun, a Daisy short-barreled carbine with a wooden stock. That gift will always be remembered as a highlight in my life. I sometimes get a tear in my eye when I pick it up and shoot it. It is the most accurate shooting BB gun ever made. You have to see me shoot it to believe how great a shot I still am and I am not bent to exaggerate a truth, or am I? It was hard to cock and took all my strength. I practiced and practiced; day-by-day it got easy. God gave me the ability to see the BB, leave the gun, and hit the target. I got so good I could hit a BB on the sidewalk at 10'. I could hit flies, bees, ants, locust, (they were best), mice, and any thing that moved or stood still. I could-and still can-shoot a leaf out of a tree. You pick the leaf and I cut the stem right at the leaf. Brother Bud never wanted a BB gun. I cannot remember him ever shooting mine, but then he was a pusher (see note) and the best I ever met. During the war BB's were not steel copper-coated but lead shot. When the lead BB hit concrete or a rock it would whine like a real bullet one heard in the Western movies on Friday nights at the Ashton Theater in Clarendon.

I remember one time I turned on the kitchen light and all the rest off while I sat in the dark dining room and waited for the mice to show under the refrigerator. I never missed a mouse. I did not keep score, but when you are around ten what better hunting was there? I did get into trouble in the beginning, but, as I got better at evasion and repair, my problems were few.

We had a telephone pole behind our garage and our neighbor, Mr. Hohein, had his radio antenna from his house attached to the pole. There was a glass insulator attached to the wire to keep lightning strikes on the pole from running the wire to his radio. Sparrows liked to sit on that insulator. I got very good at replacing that insulator. I even put a quick disconnect on the pole to shorten the time needed. The problem with lead shot was that some were not perfect and would cause a very strange trajectory, which usually resulted in trouble. The reason that the glass insulators met their demise was due to those lead BB’s. (I still have two of those insulators in my tool drawer. One must be prepared.)

It was fun to be a boy in the 1930's and 40’s. No one expected a boy to be anything but a boy. There were no organized sports. No Little League baseball or football. Soccer had not been invented, no swim teams. We kids had our own games without interference from adults. If someone had a baseball, we played baseball. We made up the rules to all the games we played as we went along. Kick-the-can was one we spent hours playing. Most of our games required a good imagination and what was available.

Ken Simmons made a slingshot out of a heavy-duty coat hanger with a wood inlayed handle, and the leather pouch was made from the tongue of an old shoe. I was hooked. The problem was rubber bands. During the war they were hard to find, but we had Woolworth's 5 and 10 Cents store in Clarendon and every now and then they got a shipment, and we bought as many as we could. It is important to remember to match the bands so that both sides have the same power. New bands have to be stretched gradually to full draw in order for them to have longer life. I hate to brag, but I was and still am a really fine marksman. BB lead shot were the best in a slingshot due to the heavier weight. The slingshot was something a kid could stick in his pocket and go anywhere-picnics, vacations, visit relatives, or any other place where it might be dull. I cannot recall dull times unless it was school.

Note: Boys come in two kinds, pushers and bangers. Wheels or guns. Brother Bud was a pusher and I am a banger to the end.

Uncle Webb

A faimly event

I received an email about a featured speaker arriving at a banquet without his false teeth. The speaker turned to the man next to him to tell of his error. The man said not to worry and reached into his pocket handed the speaker three pair of teeth to try. One pair fit well enough to eat his dinner and give his speech. After his speech concluded, the speaker found out the man and thanked him for the use of his teeth and asked for the address of his dental office? The man then told him that he wasn’t a dentist but was a funeral director. That story reminded me of a family event.

My great Uncle Webb was toothless but managed to chew meat without missing a beat. His son Bob tried to get him to get some teeth from the dentist and even offered to pay for them. But Uncle Webb refused. Said they would just bother him having all that stuff in his mouth.

I still think Bob was the smartest kid of the bunch. He was the seventh child of nine kids. Bob was his mother’s helper on the farm. He worked in the kitchen and house and was a good cook, canner, garden helper, and house cleaner. Later in life, he told me housework was a lot better work than the plowing and milking on the farm. He said it was cooler in summer and warmer in the winter than being out in the fields walking behind a team of horses. Most of the older boys enlisted in the military during World War 2 to get off the farm. Eventually Bob did too.

After his service, Bob returned and got a job with Chambers Funeral Service to learn to be a Funeral Director. He was a kind, sensitive type man and would have been a good Director had he continued in that field. During his years at Chambers he pickup the dead bodies from their homes, hospitals and or side of the road. Learned to embalm and decorate the dead for viewing and to console family members.

They always removed false teeth from the corps, filled the mouth cavity with cotton, and sewed the mouth shut to make a better presentation. The false teeth went into a cardboard box.

Bob got the idea of filling a box with teeth and Christmas wrap the box for his gift to Uncle Web. That Christmas was monumental. The family still talks about the year Webb got all the teeth he would need for the rest of his life.

WHY I LIKE GIRLS BETTER THAN BOYS

Girls weren’t made from dirt like boys. Girls were made from a bloody bone from a dirt-made boy’s rib over his heart, not his foot or arm. Girls are God’s greatest creation, saved for last. Their plumbing is internal, a real improvement when running unashamed, naked through the garden in Eden.

1951 was a good year, mostly. I graduated from Rochester Institute of Technology on June 2 and married Miss Shirley Ann on June 16 at 2 PM at the Kane Baptist Church in Kane, Pennsylvania, with reception in the basement. It was a first class location because the exposed plumbing and cinder block walls had been painted white.

My wedding was the real beginning of my love for girls and their dedication and devotion toward us dirt men in their lives. God had to create that love for us dirt men as an instinct much like birds fly south and monarch butterflies go to Mexico. I do know for a fact that baby girls while still in the delivery room, take one look at their fathers through blurred vision eyes and as soon as they fix those film covered eyes on his face think, “I’ve got you figured out Daddy O. I won’t have any trouble guiding you through life with me my way.”

I started my profession as a baby photographer in Washington DC and vicinity during the baby boom of the 50’s. We gave a free 5X7 black and white portrait of baby to customers of diaper services. We figured the customers would buy babies first pictures. For 35 years I specialized in child and family photography in studio and homes. The free give away lasted until the invention of paper diapers put the diaper service home delivery out of business.

A photographer has to quickly determine how to gain trust enough in each person to break down the natural façade they arrive with. I know when they say, “I never take a good picture,” that I will have great success getting a good result. (Unless they are ugly as sin inside and out.) What the photographer is trying to capture is the beautiful person inside each of us. We tend to hide that person from public view for reasons unknown to me.

Babies come into this world a person different from anyone ever born. They grow up into people who just age and don’t change very much to the end. Like finger prints. Girl and boy babies are as different as a new BMW is from an old garbage truck. At three months of age babies have clear vision. Boys hold stuff in their hands and examine it closely. Girls look you in the eye and talk the talk. This is where the difference is first noticed. Girls like push over men. Boys like mother and stuff, in that order.

It takes a lot of sweet talk to get little girls to respond and do what you want. So what else is new? Coos, small talk and smiles bring smiles. Girls will keep their eyes on your eyes at all times. They are not interested in the camera or lights as long as you keep your face in their face and give your undivided attention to them. They are not interested in my things, only me. Light touch on the hands, pat on the back and a tickle under the chin is all that is needed to bring out those smiles. Everything gentle and quiet.
Girls are built neat. They have great proportions. Their head size fit their frame. Hands and feet are just the right size. Small noses and ears. Girls have round corners; nothing is ever square. Little girls are Gods greatest creation, no doubt.

Boys are totally opposite. They could care less about me. Boys like to watch the equipment being assembled and anything that makes a noise is favored. They fix their eyes on the pen in a shirt pocket. I learned early to remove all pens, watches and ties. And if that doesn’t work, get a soft stuffed animal. I found a Raggedy Ann doll works best because it has a big painted grin smile for a face and a skirt. (Remember, we boys like girls better than boys.) To get the little rug hugger to pay attention, I pop him in the nose and say, “Boo.” Bang on his hands and be loud and physical. Sweet talk a boy and he’d look away to the lights and camera.

Boys are not neat. They are oversized with big heads; noses, ears, hands, feet and stomach. Lets face it they are square and lumpy. Some boys can’t hold their heads up at four months. It takes four to six months for some to develop enough strength to lift the weight of their heads. When I photographed boys, I often had mothers ask me if I thought that their child might be retarded? They probably were comparing their kid to the girl next door. Almost always they had one of those bigheaded boys. I told them no and followed with a first-hand true story from my distant past.

We had a neighbor who gave birth to a big boy about a week before we had our first perfect girl child. We went to visit them and saw a head in the crib with arms and legs flat out on his back. After our perfect girl was born we had an occasion to visit them and laid our perfect girl in the crib with the head with arms and legs. When the four of us saw them together foot to foot we had to laugh at the difference. His head was the size of a dinner plate and Miss Prefect’s the size of a fine porcelain saucer. It took a full year for him to begin standing while Miss Perfect was running into trouble at nine months. By the time he walked at 15 months, he had so much strength and size you had better not get in his way for fear of being harmed. Our very best wishes --Pam and

Dirt-boys are physical; girls are emotional.

Take that Woman Libber. Boys and girls are born different. The only thing similar is that they are both human beings. I think some of the boys and men I have met didn’t live up to even that similarity. Science has recently shown that the male child’s brain goes through a massive shot of testosterone that separates the dirt-boy’s brains left side from the right side. We men tend to be a little brain dead from then on.

(The bad part of 1951 started when I got drafted into the Army in September. I didn't like it one bit. Must be a story there?)

This is Memorial Day. Remember to keep this wonderful Nation in your payers every day. Even if some have asked Him to get out of our government and take His commandments with Him!

The Birthday of Jack the SMLaker

Jack the SMLaker caused the Great Depression. Blame me for it all. I can take it and come out with a smile. I’m proud to be the cause and not many can have such and accomplishment by just being born on February 25, 1929, in Washington DC.

My memory is poor on the events of that day. My aunts told some of the traumatic experience. I must admit the story differs depending on which side of the family the aunts resided. Dad’s sisters were probably more correct because they always said I was a beautiful, alert, and a very fine fellow. Mother’s sisters said I was ugly as sin and had a cry like a pig, no chin and a total throw back. I always thought mother was the black sheep of the family and got no respect from her siblings. Now I know they were jealous of her since brother Bud and I were the best kids from both sides and unmatched by the cousins to this very day. But then, there aren’t many of us left above ground.

Mother’s talk about their children’s birth, but boys don’t listen to anything so disgusting as childbirth-especially their own. Two things I am sure: One, I was a mistake and not a planned child. Two, I came anyway.

There was fourteen months between Bud and me, so for sure I was not planned. I give my parents credit for how they dealt with their mistake. I never knew about child mistakes until we had a few of our own and I could do the math, and had knowledge of the facts of life. At the age of forty or forty-five, one thinks about such things.

Headline: Garfield Woman’s Hospital. Washington DC. On Monday, February 25, 1929 at 2:15 AM. The vital signs were: “7#-14 and 1’-8 9/16” according to Dad’s measurements. (He was Arlington Counties first Land Surveyor.) Let me stop here and say my birth did not cause the stock market crash and the Great Depression, which started that month and year. History has shown that the crash was longer in coming than me, we just happened to arrive together. I could say that there was a great blizzard and the temperature four below zero, Dad driving the old Huppmobile just made it in time, but I really do not have the slightest idea of the weather or the trip to the hospital and do not remember the trip home one week later to “106 Maple Street, Lyon Village, VA., Clarendon.” That is the address on a “hope to see you soon” letter sent by my Uncle Bill Leemaster from Ft. Sam Houston, Texas. Arlington had not been invented as yet as a post office.

In those years they kept new mothers and babies for one week in the hospital. Dr. DeWitt C. Cradwick was the first to get his hands on me and then Nurse Miss E. Ridgdy was the one to clean me up. I wish someone would tell me why all the nurses who help deliver babies are women, unmarried and never had a pregnancy. They always are the ones to say, “It doesn’t hurt that much mother” and then give advice on how to care for babies.

My name Jack was not a name but a nickname for John, everyone said. Mother was asked three times by the doctor if she was sure about Jack for a legal name. Dad’s sister Aunt Maude was married to Jack Weidlich and my parents both liked him very much, so my name was Jack. Dad’s note on my name read, “Uncle Jack was all worried. Grandmother (Burns) does not like it, but boy I hope you do!.” I have liked it just fine. Thanks, Mom and Dad. That name helped make me a fighter and a “Radical Right Winged Conservative.”

The aunts on both family sides, when visiting mother in the hospital, told her about a baby in the nursery who squealed like a pig at dinner time and joked with mother about that poor mother who took that kid home. Little did they know, I was it. Mother discovered the truth soon after our triumphant entry home. It was reported that mother cried tears and said, “We got him. We got the pig.” I was one ugly baby according to mother’s sister, Aunt Margaret, who was fond of telling the story year upon year. Dad was not pleased with Margaret when she first heard me cry and said to mother, “You got him. You got the pig.” Mother cried one more time.

As an expectant father I remember wishing each of our babies would be ugly as me since I developed into a very handsome young man and seem to be getting better each year.

“Ugly can only get better with time, whereas beautiful babies peak at birth.” (Wisdom from Jack the SMLaker.

I have a quirk, I like to be kissed on the back of the neck to this day and I could not explain until I read my “Infant Chart and Health Guide Compliments of The Evening Star--The Sunday Star Washington, D.C.” sent home with babies. I found it under “General Instructions” with one entry in the “DO” column. “Let there be regularity in all things.” What ever that means?

In the “Don’ts” column. “Don’t rock, jiggle, or walk the floor with the baby. Don’t lift by the arms. Don’t use a pacifier. Don’t fatten your baby--a fat baby is as sickly as an undernourished one. Don’t give drugs or medicine (except milk of magnesia) unless ordered to do so by your physician. Don’t expose baby’s eyes to bright lights. Don’t permit loud or harsh noises. Don’t give castor oil. Don’t allow anyone to kiss the baby except on the back of the neck.”

Now I know I must have been ugly but I did and still do have a beautiful back of the neck that likes to be girl kissed.

My first shoes cost two dollars. They cost us $25.00 to bronze in 1968. Wonder how much bronzing baby shoes would cost today?