Are You a One Percenter?

 

At least two commercial news organizations have run a story about the current generation of seniors in the United States. They report that those of us born during a 16-year period have survived a time period that saw remarkable changes across the nation. Both* of these organizations have called seniors from this generation “the one percenters.” Here’s why. They have agreed that those who are older than 77 but younger than 94 deserve special notice. They have put end points on this generation as beginning in 1930, the beginning of the Great Depression, (although it really began in 1929) and the end point of fighting in 1946 (although World War II ended in 1945). T the two end points constitute a 16-year span of life in the U.S. They note that 99 percent of those born during this 16-year span are now dead. If you are reading this, you are one of those lucky one percenters who have survived and are willing to spend your time reading about others who are still moving.

Us one percenters share an extraordinary number of firsts that Americans can brag about if we survive the current crop of political leaders in Washington D. C. Here is a list of some noteworthy facts and firsts for American one percenters.

·       You are the smallest group of children born in America since the early 1900s.

·       You are likely the last survivors of the Great Depression and/or World War II and you share a number of life changes as a consequence of those two tumultuous events.

·       You are the last to remember ration books for gasoline, sugar and shoes plus other things that were in limited supply due to the War.

·       You were the last to have a milk box on your front steps.

·       You were the last generation to have a radio but not a television. You imagined what you heard on the radio. With no TV, you spent your time playing outdoors.

·       You may have had a single telephone in your house, and it was attached to a wall where most of the family had access to it with no privacy. You had a party line, meaning that the neighbors could listen in if they wanted.

·       There were no computers. They were called calculators or slide rules.

·       Most highways were primitive by today’s standards as there were no Interstate highways or lane divides on roads passing through your town.

·       You walked to school and shopped downtown.

·       Polio was a feared disease that seemed to prey on children.

·       You were the last generation to experience a time when and most people expected the future to be better than the past.

You grew up in the best of times. More than 99 percent of you are now retired and enjoying the benefits of changes that began with the Presidency of Franklin Roosevelt: think Social Security, FEMA, and other national plans that help common folks. Those improvements for seniors, like Social Security, are now under assault and may not be available to the next generation if the current President and his minions achieve what they want.

If you have already reached the age of 77, you have outlived 99% of all the other people in the world who were born in this 16-year period. You are a 1 percenter. Enjoy yourselves.

*The two resources I used for this blog were the Pendelton Times newspaper published in West Virginia and WRNI, a consortium of four radio stations in New Jersey. The Pendleton Times deserves special notice.

Special Group: One Percent Born Between 1930 – 1946

 

William Luther and Myra Alice Simmons were married Nov. 6, 1920. William Luther (Nov. 23, 1895 – Jan. 26, 1982) was the son of James Harvey and Polly Margaret Bowers Simmons. Myra Alice (July 13, 1897 – Jan. 26, 1956) was the daughter of Emanuel and Jemima Frances Simmons Mitchell. Their children were Leota M., Frances Margaret, Stelman Carlon, Norman Luther, Doris May, Herman Strobel and Sheldon Ona. (This piece was written by Paula Mitchell, Franklin,A W. Virginia)

History of the Pendleton News

The newspaper was founded in 1913 as an independent newspaper by West Virginia resident William McCoy. By 1921 it had a circulation of 1,715, no doubt including William and Myra Luther.

On April 17, 1924, the gasoline engine of the press at the Pendleton Times ran out of fuel. The operator, rather than waiting for the engine to cool, put gasoline into the hot tank, causing it to burst into flames. The townspeople went to their nearby reservoir for water to contain the fire, only to find the supply of water was not enough to provide the needed water pressure. Unchecked, the flames quickly spread across the downtown of Franklin, West Virginia. The rapid spread of the conflagration combined with the inadequate water supply resulted in a blaze fierce enough to provoke town officials to use dynamite to check the advance of the fire. Alas, the dynamite made things worse. By the morning, as the Associated Press put it, the town was "all but eliminated from the map".

Bill McCoy died in 2008, at 87, after a long tenure as the paper's publisher. The paper was operated by Bill's son, John McCoy, until 2022, when it was sold to Mountain Media. So far, the Pendleton Times/Mountain Media firm has avoided any other fires like the 1924 blaze.

 

 

 

Things My Mother Never Told Me

 

While I was wrapping Christmas presents this year an odd recollection came to me as I was fumbling around--it was a message from my mother offering advice, almost as clear as if she were standing beside me. “If you fold the paper this way,” she said, “you won’t use so much wrapping paper, "My oh my” she went on, "wherever did you get so much ribbon? Do you really need ribbon for every gift box? It seems to me that once you see one ribbon, you won’t even look at more when it is on every package.”

Of course, I knew what she was concerned about. Two things drove her: cost, and, in her mind at least, wasteful practices. If a foot of ribbon were used, she would question why a six-inch piece wouldn’t do just as well. Those attitudes had been driven into her psyche since she was a child.

Both my mother and father lived through the Great Depression starting in 1929. Each was born in 1917, both watched their parents struggle financially during the period when they were impressionable children, both saw and felt the effects of the financial hardship that was universal among their families and neighbors. It must have seemed to them that no one could escape what they called hard times. The solution to the problem of hard times was the same then as now: use less, reuse everything, and make do with what you have instead of buying new. One instance of that was wrapping paper for Christmas presents. In her mind, making do without new packaging and ribbons meant doing things like carefully unwrapping the decorative wrapping paper on gifts so it could be reused the following Christmas.

I didn’t realize the scope of the hardships my mother experienced until I dove into the genealogy of our family a few years ago. Her father seemed to be a proud man, concerned with appearance. This became apparent to me when he came to live with us after the death of his wife and his gradual decline in health. My mother seemed the only one of his children who had both the means and the inclination to take care of him. He was given his own bedroom in our house, and he laid claim to a comfortable chair in the living where he sat with an ashtray at his fingertips for his ever-present cigarette. He wore a dark blue wool suit every day that I can recall, including the time that he spent working in his large vegetable garden before his health prevented it.

His name was Jesse Hiester, and I learned more about him when I worked on a book about the family. Jesse was one of several Heisters that were involved in a furniture business in our small town. Jesse’s involvement in that business came to an end during the Great Depression when his boss decided to reduce Jesse’s wages from $9 dollars per week to $7. The blow was too great for Jesse and his ego and he decided to quit his job rather than suffer the ignominy of such a salary decline.

It must have been during this time that my mother recalled walking along the railroad tracks with a sack in hand to pick up and carry home whatever stray lumps of coal jostled from the coal car that bumped along behind the steam engine. Apparently, the family used the coal to advantage during the colder winter months in northeast Indiana. Another surprising find during my genealogy search was that Jesse never owned a house. He and his family lived in a single modest home for many years that was rented rather than owned. At the back of the house was an outdoor pump where all household water came from (as long as you were willing to work the handle) and further back, next to the alley, was the privy that was used by everyone who lived there. No one wasted time there during the winter months.

Living was harder during these times. 

 

 

 

Boots and Broccoli

 

 

These are my winter boots. I have been wearing them most days as I battle the snow invading my driveway and the sidewalk around my house. The boots are warm, water and snow proof, and comfortable. I have been wearing them most days because of the unrelenting snow. Another feature the boots contain is embedded in the soles of the boots. As you can see in the second picture, the soles are replete with small cleats that are intended to make the boots stable despite use in snow, mud, and whatever other miseries that Mother Nature throws at us.

Sometimes the cleats throw an unexpected curve ball at me and that’s the subject of this blog. To understand my surprise with the boots, I have to take you indoors where you can sneak a look at my dinner habits. Although my roommate doesn’t approve, I often wear my boots indoors and they often show up on my feet when I sit down for dinner. Another of my dinner habits involve my carelessness with food. For some unknown reason, an inordinate amount of my dinner escapes my fork and spoon and ends up on the floor surrounding my regular spot at the dinner table. It only seems to happen to me.

My lovely bride and occasional dinner guests don’t seem to have the problem of loose food. My after- dinner clean-up reveals that the only spot at the table with bits of food on the floor, is mine. I don’t know why it happens, but various dribbles of food, mostly vegetables, seem unusually determined to escape being eaten. It appears I am unable to shovel food into my mouth without a few pieces escaping the confines on my fork or spoon while making the trip from plate to mouth. Often, it occurs without me knowing.

Last night it happened again, only this time I saw the uncooperative chunk of broccoli come loose from my over-burdened spoon while my spoon was about half-way to my mouth. It missed the plate, landed on the edge of table, and then dropped to my lap before bouncing one final time to the floor. I saw the whole thing as if it were in slow motion. Naturally, I lifted my gaze to see if my ever-vigilant wife witnessed the faux pau. Thankfully, she was concentrating on her dinner and failed to notice the errant broccoli. I quickly decided there was no reason to announce my mistake with the broccoli. I kept my eyes averted and plunged my spoon into another bite of food. The next spoon excursion was successful, giving me the chance make a subtle glance at the floor without revealing the reason. Sure enough, there was the piece of broccoli on the floor, midway between my boots and the sturdy oak table leg. I decided that the remedy for my mistake was to wait until dinner was finished allowing me the opportunity to pick up the soft green chunk of broccoli, deposit it on my plate while I helped clear the table, or, as my Indiana mother used to say, I would help “red (clear) up the table.”

My plan failed. As I stood and pushed my chair back, I made a quick glance at the floor. There was no broccoli there. It was missing. Of course, I couldn’t announce the mystery as I casually took a second look while I retrieved my dinner plate and utensils then crept toward the kitchen sink while surreptitiously glancing at the floor for a third time. Again, no broccoli or anything else was there except for the small green stain that was not worth mentioning.

The rest of my evening was uneventful. Even the TV had nothing of importance other than our new President revealing his inability to govern. Oh, I forgot to mention I saw another one of those green stains near the wood stove that I was monitoring that evening.

I kept my boots on until I got sleepy and it was time to get ready for bed. The boots came off easily enough and I went barefooted to the bench below which I store my boots. Then something strange became apparent: the green stain on the floor was following me. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but the green stain was following my footprints from the kitchen to my easy chair. I turned over the right-hand boot that was in my hand. The terribly smeared and nearly indistinguishable broccoli was wedged between the topmost cleats on the bottom of the boot. My estimation of the formerly beloved boots dropped several points, and I vowed not to eat broccoli while wearing boots.