Will send you a picture of Cousin Virge on our soral mare. She is a light soral with 4 white stockings. We are all well. I am better than I have been since I was a girl. Tell mamma I will write her a long letter one of these days. Momma is here and she is making her plans to come and see you this fall.
With Love from Gene. Write soon.”
The above message was on an early 1920s picture postcard sent from Abbyville, Kansas, to Mrs. Owen Botkin in Batavia, Arkansas. A photograph on the front is evidently Cousin Virge on Gene’s soral mare.
That’s what a cowboy looked like back then, although Virge doesn’t have a six-gun hanging from his waist. Abbyville was a very mellow place at this point, with no real need for one other than shooting coyotes, snakes, and skunks (four-legged and two-legged).
Abbyville, Kansas, is a small town located in Reno County in the south-central part of the state. Founded in the early 1880s, the town was named after the wife of a railroad official, reflecting the importance of railroads to its development.
Abbyville quickly became a local hub for farming and ranching families, serving as a center of community life with its school, post office, and churches. Though its population has remained modest over the years, Abbyville’s history captures the spirit of rural Kansas and the close-knit communities that defined the American Midwest in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Currently, 83 people live in the town.
Finding out who Mrs. Owen Botkin was required extensive research. Born in 1845, Owen Botkin was a successful sheep rancher in Kansas, along with raising horses and pigs. His family was a large one spread out from Kansas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas.
Owen Botkin died in 1900, leaving behind his widow, Julia Lieb-Botkin. She lived in Arkansas for a short time before moving to Osage County, Oklahoma, where Julia passed away on December 11, 1922, from serious burns and shock after her housecoat caught on fire. Born on August 31, 1846, she was 77 at the time of her death.
Frances Eugene “Gene” Botkin was Hazel M. McCully-Botkin’s husband. When Hazel sent the postcard, it was signed “Gene” for her husband. That threw me off and took plenty of digging to finally figure things out. Sherlock Holmes would be proud.
Gene Botkin was born April 16, 1897, and died December 15, 1972, at age 75. Hazel, Gene’s spouse, was born November 19, 1905, passing away October 9, 1974. She was only 68. The couple had one son, Dale.
“This card was one of the most difficult for me to decipher due to the poor handwriting.”
Sacks of grain – Girard, Kansas
Pittsburg, Kansas, located in the southeastern corner of the state, was founded in 1876 as a direct result of the booming coal mining industry in the region.
The city was named after Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, reflecting its founders’ hopes that it would become a similarly prosperous industrial center. The arrival of the railroad in the late nineteenth century accelerated growth by making it easier to transport coal and attract settlers.
Coal mining quickly became the economic backbone of Pittsburg. The area’s rich coal seams drew waves of immigrants from Europe, particularly from Italy, the Balkans, and Eastern Europe, seeking work in the mines. These diverse populations contributed to the city’s unique cultural heritage, and mining continued to drive the local economy well into the twentieth century.
In 1903, Pittsburg State University was established as the Kansas State Manual Training Normal School, which played a significant role in the city’s development. The university is now a major educational institution in the region, offering a broad range of programs and contributing to the city’s growth and vitality.
A picture postcard sent to Pittsburg, Kansas, in 1910, to Mrs. Charley Redlon contained nothing more than an “all is well” message. This card was one of the most difficult for me to decipher due to the poor handwriting.
“Dear mothe & datty I gather I will try and writ you a few lines to let you that we are all well and hope this will find you all the same.”
The signature was unreadable, yet I was finally able to figure things out based upon the fact that only one of the Redlon’s older children lived in Girard, this being the post office where the card was mailed.
Myrtle Belle Redlon-Williams was the sender. She was born April 25, 1871, one of six children to Charles and Emma Redlon. Myrtle married Wesley Hagen Williams sometime around 1888. Wesley died in 1912, and four years later she wed John Henry Crawford. Myrtle died on October 7, 1953, at the age of 82.
The card recipient, Myrtle’s mother, Mrs. Charley Redlon, was Emma O. Sprees-Redlon. Emma was born in 1850 and passed away on November 14, 1925. Emma’s husband, and Myrtle’s father, was Charles Benjamin Redlon. “Charlie” was born in 1854 and died on January 19, 1921.
Charlie Redlon was a constable in Pittsburg, and his name is mentioned quite frequently in early newspaper records. Constable Redlon was always arresting people, which suggests that Pittsburgh was a high-crime town back then. Young coal miners on payday evidently drank their share of liquor. Chicopee, Kansas, located only seven miles away, had an even worse reputation.
The area, part of a region known as the “Little Balkans” due to its immigrant population, was notorious for its rough, lawless atmosphere and significant number of unsolved murders. In 2025, crime is still high based on population, but is slowly getting better.
“Gateway Motel went through a smorgasbord of owners during its 30 years of business.”
This is the 100th anniversary of Route 66. Plenty of celebrations are planned with my wife and me, hoping to attend several events. Car shows galore are scheduled.
As a small boy, I rode with my parents and brother to California from Alabama, taking Route 66 for a good many miles. Several years ago, I wrote a short story that described a small portion of that trip, which almost killed my brother and me.
“The year was 1956. Dad was in the Air Force and had been notified that his next assignment was George A.F.B. in California. Loading up a black 1949 Mercury along with a small trailer home, our family departed Vernon, Alabama, headed west to Victorville, CA.
My brother Jim and I rode in the back seat. I would’ve been two at the time, so my recollection of events is extremely limited. Dad, Mom, and Jim provided me with the following details:
Entering Arizona via Route 66, a blazing July sun made things unbearably hot inside our car. The vehicle had no air conditioner. Being painted a dark color clearly amplified the intense, sweltering heat.
Jim and I quickly became drowsy and unresponsive. Pulling into a gas station on the outskirts of Holbrook, an employee told Mom she’d best cool her kids down, or they wouldn’t survive the trip.
The man sold my folks a block of ice, including a tin pan to hold things. Placing this crude cooling device on the floorboard, Jim and I made the remainder of our journey hovered over it.
That pump attendant probably saved our lives by advising us. For many years now, I’ve often wondered if this gas station still exists.”
Another place that I still wonder about is the motel we stayed at in Williams, Arizona. There were several to choose from back then, and without Dad or Mom here to try and remember, I don’t know.
A March 28, 1960, picture postcard I came across shows the Gateway Motel on the front. It only had eight rooms, and this would’ve been the type of place my folks sought out because of price. Motel 6 didn’t exist back then.
The card was sent from “Mom & Pop” to Mr. & Mrs. Ernest Kenaga in Elkhart, Indiana. I decided to research this card in its entirety.
Although I’ll never know if this is the same motel, Gateway was there in 1956, having been built by Ralph A. Southworth in 1950. Being located directly on Route 66, we would’ve driven right by the place.
The message on the postcard, transcribed as written, reads as follows:
“Sun eve here,
Will let the motel furnish the card this time, saw big hole today, what a place to Las Vegas tomorrow they don’t sleep there then Death Valley in Cal again Tues. I suppose.
Love Mom and pop”
The best way for me to tell about Ernest and Margaret Kenaga is to print their obituaries. I know that Ernest’s mother wrote the postcard and not Margaret’s, because her mom had passed away in 1952. That big hole mentioned is undoubtedly Meteor Crater National Park.
“Ernest Leroy Kenaga, 95, Elkhart, died 8 p.m. Tuesday, Jan. 31, 2017, at Hubbard Hill Estates. He was born Dec. 23, 1921, in Crandon, Wisconsin, to Noble & Hazel (Loney) Kenaga. He married Margaret (Hunsberger) Kenaga on Aug. 28, 1943.
Surviving are his wife, Margaret, Elkhart, son, Mike (Helen) Kenaga, Elkhart, daughter, Candy (John) Sewell, Winter Park, Florida, granddaughters, Stacy Kenaga, Houston, Texas, and Molly (Adam) Sewell Schott, Winter Park, Florida, and a brother, Robert (Lucy) Kenaga, Elkhart. He was preceded in death by his parents, Noble and Hazel.
Ernest was a veteran of the U.S. Army, serving in WWII and discharged in 1946. He played the trumpet with the 12th Armor Division for General Patton’s funeral service. Ernest was a Manager of the Customer Service Department at Selmer, retiring after 40 years. He was a member of the First Brethren Church of Elkhart. Ernest was a 1939 graduate of Concord High School. Mr. Kenaga was a member of the American Legion and was an avid Notre Dame and Yankees fan.”
“Margaret Kenaga, 101, Wakarusa, formerly of Elkhart, died 10:35 a.m. Tuesday, April 26, 2022, at Miller’s Merry Manor. She was born May 3, 1920, in Wakarusa, to Clem & Maude (Schalliol) Hunsberger. On August 28, 1943, in Hopkinsville, Kentucky, she married Ernest Leroy Kenaga, who died on January 31, 2017.
Surviving are a son, Mike (Helen) Kenaga, Elkhart, a daughter, Candy (John) Sewell, Winter Park, Florida, two granddaughters, Stacy Kenaga, Houston, Texas, Molly Sewell, Wellington, Florida, and a sister, Starley Morrison, Waldorf, Maryland.
Preceding her in death are her parents, husband, Ernest, siblings, Winfred Hunsberger, Robert Hunsberger, Nancy Ummel, and Lois Turnock.
Margaret worked and retired from Miles Lab and Bayer. She was a member of the First Brethren Church of Elkhart. Margaret, who was very energetic, enjoyed keeping a clean house, yard work, being outside, and hummingbirds.
The family would like to thank a very special neighbor and friend, Tom Johnson, for all the help he gave Margaret over the years.”
Gateway Motel went through a smorgasbord of owners during its 30 years of business. Ralph Southworth built the place before selling it to Roy and Grace Gamble. One year later, the Gambles sold it to Harry Smith. Mr. Smith sold it just a few years later to Mr. and Mrs. A.C. Hollan.
In 1967, the Hollans unloaded it on Mr. and Mrs. George Motson. The Motsons peddled it to Mrs. Gamester, who, after a couple of years, successfully offloaded it to Dave Moslers. It appears that this man is the person turning it into retail shops, changing the name to Gateway Plaza. They even modified the old sign.
For whatever reason, business after business has come and gone at this address, with the latest being JD’s Espresso. It appears 66 Nails is still there. Kudos to them.
Part of my Route 66 celebration will be to take a drive to Williams and visit 219 E. Williams, this being the official address of the now-defunct Gateway Motel. There are plenty of things to see in this town to keep busy.
We’ll spend the night somewhere besides Motel 6, so that Joleen can get her nails done, and I can drink a toast to the memory of Gateway Motel with hopefully a steaming hot mocha in my hand, courtesy of Anna’s Grand Canyon Coffee and Café. Route 66 travelers claim that Anna’s breakfast burritos and mochas are to die for!
A simple New Year’s postcard sent from someone named Flora to Miss Rose Duff was postmarked on December 30, 1907, and mailed from Cochrane, Wisconsin, to Fountain City, Wisconsin. That is exactly 118 years ago. On the front of the card are two German children selling cards on a cold winter day. Written in pencil is, “Love from Flora.”
Cochrane is a small village in Buffalo County, with approximately 452 people living there. Photos show it to be a clean and well-laid-out community. The town was started in 1895 when the railroad was built nearby.
Fountain City is the largest town in Buffalo County, with approximately 806 residents. It started as a landing point on the Mississippi River for steamboats to pick up firewood for their boilers, including fresh water. Cochrane and Fountain City are only nine miles apart.
Rose Margaret Duff was the postcard recipient. She was born on July 5, 1885, to parents Jacob and Katharina. They were both from Ireland, while Rose Margaret was born in Buffalo City. Jacob Duff was a lawyer.
On May 20, 1919, Rose married Clarence Fred Kohlhepp. In the 1940 census, Clarence lists his occupation as a car salesman. The couple had two children, with one dying at birth. Rose passed away on January 31, 1974, in Winona, Minnesota. She was 88. A picture shows the Irish in her face.
Flora Rasale Bohrer was the friend sending Rose that card. Flora’s parents, Joseph and Louisa, came from Germany. That’s where the Victorian-style postcard was printed. Flora was born in Cochrane on January 15, 1890.
Miss Bohrer married Emil Josias “Joe” Florin on July 16, 1913. A man of different trades, the 1940 census lists him as being a hardware store salesman as well as an undertaker. They had one son and a daughter. Flora Rasale Florin died on May 8, 1965, after a long illness.
A picture I found shows Flora in the lap of her mother. I’m sure she turned out just as beautiful. Once again, the keeper of this postcard must’ve considered it something worth holding onto all of these years.
Sadly, sending cards has all but stopped, like so many other old-time traditions. It’s good that some of the old postcards have survived, as this one tells an unknown story, until now, of two dear friends
“I’ve ruffled the feathers of more than one of these thinkers, on history forums, by saying that I was the first person in McDonald’s…”
A pastor once told our congregation, speaking mostly to those younger people in attendance. “Life isn’t fair, get used to it!” That statement has a lot to do with what I’m about to say.
On occasion, I’ve pondered who was the first white person to live in the Lake Havasu City area. Someone must have been here long before Robert McCulloch Sr. purchased the property. My second question is: Who did McCulloch buy the land from?
Eventually deciding to find out, I discovered that Robert McCulloch Sr. purchased 26 square miles of desert from the State of Arizona. I know that state land came from the federal government who took it from American Indians.
McCulloch bought additional acreage as it became available, including Site 6 from the military, which included an Army Air Corps runway. This land was combined and turned into our city.
Early on, miners worked the surrounding hills, but their presence was seasonal due to the extreme heat, and they only passed through this section of the desert on their way to the Colorado River. Steamboats awaited them.
Of course, we know that the Chemehuevi Indians and other tribes roamed this ground long before European settlers trickled in, although they stayed close to the Colorado River for obvious reasons. Parker Dam and Lake Havasu weren’t here at that point.
My wife’s GGG-Grandfather, George Freeman, is recognized as the first white settler in Dickinson County, Kansas. That has some historical significance, but it doesn’t mean that he owned the whole county.
According to several sources, William B. Maxwell is the first white settler in Mohave County, having a ranch near Short Creek. His arrival dates back to the early or mid-1800s.
Mohave County must’ve encompassed quite a bit of real estate back then, because Short Creek is 350 miles from Lake Havasu City. Colorado City is also located there. It’s highly unlikely Maxwell journeyed that distance for ranching purposes.
Oatman didn’t come along until the 1860s, with Lake Havasu City not even a dream in anyone’s mind at that period. Where the city is now located was a barren desert, complete with mesquite trees, paloverde, sagebrush, and smoketree. Snakes, lizards, and scorpions also call it home.
The reason I write this is that it really doesn’t matter who the first person or people were at a location, other than for historical purposes. It seems to me the point of arguing ownership is moot based solely on time of arrival.
I’ve ruffled the feathers of more than one of these thinkers, on history forums, by saying that I was the first person in McDonald’s the other morning, thus, I should lay claim to the establishment. Stating this is a sure way of starting a literary firestorm of gigantic proportions. It does prime the pump of opinion, which is my intent.
One of the first things I learned in geology class is that all land on planet Earth is connected. Some of it is merely covered by water, ice, and snow. When someone uses the term “this land,” they are in error unless they’re talking about the whole planet.
It’s a different story when the reference is for continents, countries, provinces, states, cities, towns, villages, etc.
“We were the first people on this land!” is often heard in error during conversations. I have a rebuttal to that, and it goes something like this: “Your people might’ve been the first here, but on the other side of the planet, my people were the first ones there. What’s your point?”
Singer/songwriter Woody Guthrie wrote a song titled “ThisLand Is Your Land.” The beginning lyrics go like this,
“This land is your land, and this land is my land
From California to the New York Island
From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream Waters
This land was made for you and me.”
After becoming a hit, Indigenous North American Indians had a problem with the tune because Guthrie didn’t exactly explain who ‘you and me’ were. With land that they lived on for centuries taken away, some of them viewed the lyrics as selective, and rightly so.
I tend to believe Arlo was thinking of them in the song because of his upbringing. He came from a family full of hardship. President Obama allowed it to be played during his inauguration, which makes me think he felt the same.
Unfortunately, where ‘this land’ is concerned, wars and battles have been fought over it, walls and fences erected, and disagreements aplenty. Not just a United States dilemma, land ownership has been a problem throughout the world since the beginning of time.
As my pastor told us some 50 years ago, “Life isn’t fair, get used to it!” Sadly, that statement applies to not only young people, but folks from all walks of life, including our Indigenous Indian and Native groups. I believe that when Jesus Christ returns, equality will finally apply to all of his followers: black, white, yellow, brown, and red. Amen
“Sometimes, we just don’t know the circumstances of not hearing from people.”
Another year has passed us by. As I’ve gotten older, I try to take a few minutes out of my busy schedule and seriously ponder what happened during the last 365 days. This reminiscing must be done away from any television, radio, phones, computers, and other interference. The garage works best for me.
On my wife’s side of the family, she lost five members in 2025. That’s the most we can ever remember. Several friends are no longer with us, with perhaps a few who are now unable to communicate. Sometimes, we just don’t know the circumstances of not hearing from people.
On Facebook, a friend wrote that they were going to start omitting the names of those who were no longer active. I had to grimace, because oftentimes folks pass away with nary a whisper. I seriously doubt they’d care if Wanda cuts them loose.
Our country has a new president, and I’m thankful for that. Some folks aren’t, but knock on wood, the sky hasn’t fallen yet. I’ll be the first to let you know if I spot any pieces coming down. I complained a lot when Joe Biden was in charge, so it’s only fair…
I was able to see my sixth book published. The price for books is skyrocketing, so my sales are more of the Kindle online version than anything. In 100 years, “Alaska Kemosabe” will be a rare bird, much like “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (First Edition)” of which only 22 copies survive.
The city was blessed with new lane dividers. Thanks to them, once again, automobile curb feelers are undoubtedly a big seller in local automotive parts stores, along with tires. I’ve yet to hit one, but judging by all of the black marks, many people have.
Speaking of Highway 95, nothing says “Welcome to Havasu” any better than miscellaneous debris for visitors to see. Landscaper and construction trailers seem to be the biggest culprits, but golly gee, there are service club members in town that’ll pick it up for free.
Several new restaurants opened this past year, which is good. A few also closed. Saddest of all was Scotty’s Broasted Chicken. That’s one eatery that can never be replaced. Joleen and I ate there on many occasions with friends. The time I remember most was with a builder who was going over construction costs with us.
New to Havasu at that time, I noticed the coolest guys in town wore neon colored sunglass straps around their necks. When they weren’t wearing their sunglasses, they let them dangle on their chest, always in reach. I did the same in Scotty’s, and when we went to leave, the cashier pointed to my glasses before saying,
“I’m going to have to charge you extra for takeout!” Chicken crust, coleslaw, and bread crumbs sat proudly on both lenses. She said it happens all the time. Her suggestion was that I flip my sunglasses to the backside while eating, or totally remove them. I’ve never forgotten that free advice.
I’m not sure what the road holds for 2026. Hopefully, it’s all good. Something tells me nothing will be done about those ugly curbs, but I can live with that. It gives residents and snowbirds something to complain about, other than dogs doing their business in the Rotary Park ball fields. Hey, don’t blame the dogs, they can’t read the signs.
My New Year’s wish for everyone is to be happy and healthy. Having just those two alone, consider yourself blessed!
“I doubt Jeff has set any more bones, but he has successfully cleansed numerous wounds and bandaged them up, even stitching a couple with thread.”
Fifty years ago, or perhaps longer, a good friend of mine broke his arm. Not having any medical insurance at this time, Jeff made a cast out of plaster of Paris.
Several weeks later, bumping into a physician at his church, the medical doctor asked my pal which doctor he had seen. Telling him, “Doctor Yourself,” it took only a few seconds for the wise man to figure things out. They both got a good laugh out of it.
With Jeff telling him the whole story, this doctor asked Jeff to come by his office, and he’d take a look at things. Removing the makeshift cast, an X-ray was taken, which showed that the bone was healing quite nicely.
“You did a good job for an intern!” this medical professional told my friend. “Next time, though, go to the emergency room. Had that bone not already been in place, it would’ve needed to be broken and reset. You don’t want to go through that painful experience!”
I doubt Jeff has set any more bones, but he has successfully cleansed numerous wounds and bandaged them up, even stitching a couple with thread. I’ve done the same, and have a few scars on my head from cuts that should’ve been stitched but weren’t.
A couple of friends in Lake Havasu City and Prescott claim the title of Dr. Yourself. For the longest time, they received good medical help, but something happened along the way. I hear story after story of people not being able to get into their primary doctor for weeks when they’re ill. They’re advised to go to a walk-in clinic or the ER.
I’ve had to do this a few times, often wondering if I’d come out with something worse than the illness I walked in with. There was one occasion where a young girl was heaving her guts out in the lobby restroom.
I sat right across from the restroom door listening to such. Everyone in the waiting room, including the receptionist sitting behind a sliding glass window, could hear her moans. When this poor gal exited, I held my breath and walked out. Thankfully, a friend had a full bottle of amoxicillin at home to take care of my ailment. I knew the correct dosage from having used it many times.
Mom was a Dr. Yourself. She worked as a nurse and knew what to do when my brother and I were sick. Don’t ask me how many enemas she gave us from eating too much Wonder Bread dough. Jim and I would take the white center and roll it into little balls. That’s how it finally came out seven days later.
Mother had a stethoscope and would listen to our lungs for pneumonia, thankfully, never finding any until I was around 30. She immediately sent me to the ER that day, where her diagnosis was verified. That pneumonia was a horrible experience even for a healthy guy!
Several friends go to Mexico for their dental work and to pick up Azithromycin and penicillin pills. No prescription is needed for these. Those are the two meds I’ve been using for my bronchitis episodes, going on 50 years. A few people have told me that my body will eventually develop a resistance, and these drugs will stop working. They’ve only been saying that for 40 years.
It’s become increasingly difficult over the last few years to get prompt assistance, especially during weekends or holidays. I’ve begun to rely on my mechanic friends for their medical help. One of them I call Dr. Kildare. Only a few oldtimers will recognize that name.
When I hear someone is driving to the Mexican border near Yuma, I hand them a list of what I need picked up. Having the right medicine on hand has saved me at least three times. The last thing I want at this age is another bout of pneumonia. It could be a life-changer and not in a good way.
Sadly, if medical care keeps getting worse in this country, state, and city, there may be a convoy of Americans heading to the border, with me in that group. The risk of never returning from cartel members is worth it, in my opinion.
I hear it’s quite easy to legally cross as long as you have proper identification and a passport. I have both—just in case they’re needed!
“It would be impossible to drive a dog sled team from Ketchikan to Seward, across ocean water.”
A black and white picture postcard mailed from Ketchikan, Alaska, on March 8, 1927, to Mrs. W.S. Booth in Chickasha, Oklahoma, has a photo of a dog sled team on the front. The faded caption says: Joy Riding in Alaska. I’m not sure if the person sending it is the musher standing on this sled or not, yet it could have been, judging by the message inside.
“Dear Mother and Father,
Will drop you a line from Seward or some place near there.
Love – John”
It would be impossible to drive a dog sled team from Ketchikan to Seward, across ocean water. The sender, John W. Booth, was evidently going to Seward via steamer. Once there, dogsleds were common transportation throughout this area during the winter months.
John’s parents lived in Chickasha, Oklahoma, a big contrast from the place where their son lived. Chickasha was founded in 1892 with the arrival of the Rock Island Railroad in that area. It was a former Indian village, as this was Chickasha Indian land.
William S. Booth had worked for the Rock Island Railroad for 25 years before he was seriously hurt. After that injury, he was unable to work at all, with him and his wife living off a meager railroad pension. Ella, his wife, was also physically handicapped and unable to hold down a job.
Born on October 30, 1860, William died on November 1, 1951, at the age of 91. Ella passed away five years earlier, on March 12, 1945. She was 76. It’s most likely that the two sons and a daughter helped their parents out financially.
John W. Booth was born in 1890. He was working in Alaska on a fishing boat until moving back to the western states. Like his father, John worked for the railroad for many years. John W. Booth was married and then divorced, staying single until passing away in 1977 at the age of 86.
“Today’s spools are made of plastic, which is much cheaper to produce.”
I recently came across an 1890s Victorian trading card for Kerr & Company. This outfit manufactured thread starting in the 1860s. I’m familiar with the Clark & Company thread and J&P Coats, but I had never heard of Kerr. It turns out they’re all interrelated.
Peter Kerr was born in Scotland in 1818. He moved to the United States in 1866, opening a thread factory in New York. He soon partnered with his brother-in-law, George A. Clark. Clark and Company was a competing thread-making firm before the merger.
Peter Kerr died in 1869, and in 1897, Clark & Company merged with J. & P. Coats. Today, the Coats Group is a conglomerate of companies, with thread still one of their main products. They also make fasteners, zippers, buttons, and shoes.
Until the 1970s, thread came on wooden spools. Today’s spools are made of plastic, which is much cheaper to produce. I don’t believe plastic spools will do what I need them to. My late Papa Haynes would take a wood spool, cut some notches in each side with a knife, and make a toy steam roller out of it. I doubt he could do the same using plastic.
The other components in his miniature steam tractor consisted of a pencil, a rubber band, a washer, and a stick match. Two matches could be used if no pencil was available. Papa made them for his grandchildren, and we’d play with these simple toys for hours. I’d love to describe how to build one, but YouTube videos do a much better job than my words can.
Years ago, I constructed a steamroller for our two youngsters, but they didn’t show the same enthusiasm as we did. Jim and I were more content back then, using creativity to get us through a day, finding that if we had two tractors, we could race them. I generally wound my rubber band too tight and it broke.
Deciding to make a steamroller just for grins, I found some wooden thread spools in my mom’s old sewing basket, all of them still having thread. I couldn’t go through with carving one up for sentimental reasons. There are some listed on eBay for a few bucks, which I’ll order.
Researching these ancient Kerr & Company Victorian cards, along with those of Clark & Company, I came across several interesting ones on eBay. A couple of them might be considered racist these days.
A steamroller using two matches instead of a pencil
“I would’ve never thought that routine day-to-day accomplishments would someday reach an accolade level.
A sense of accomplishment is the feeling of pride, satisfaction, or fulfillment that arises when you achieve a goal, complete a challenging task, or reach a significant milestone.
This emotional response results from recognizing personal effort, persistence, and success, often motivating further growth and engagement in future endeavors.
The first time I felt a sense of accomplishment, that I can remember, was finally riding a bicycle without the need of training wheels. I was 13 at the time. That’s the bogus number I tell strangers just to see the shock on their faces. Actually, I was around five years old.
As time rolls on, a sense of accomplishment, or SOA, means much more to me than ever before. I was never one to come out tops in my school classes, other than perhaps in reading scholastics.
I was a fast reader, and my reading comprehension skills were excellent, so much so that I aced the SRA programs our elementary school used, way before the other students finished theirs.
There was one classmate almost as good as me. We somewhat competed, if you could even call it that. That speed came in handy, especially when writing school and college research papers.
A sense of accomplishment was felt on graduation from high school, passing my driver’s test after two attempts, and becoming I.M. Certified in Automotive Emissions Testing. This was a tough test to pass, and I had to do so every few years.
My bicycling days still continue, and at 71, I’m happy to be able to climb onboard and peddle without falling. One crash could result in disaster, so I’m more than careful, especially after tumbling off a ladder. The days of going fast stopped years ago.
Any running is also long gone, with simple walking much more enjoyable anyway. “Slow down and smell the roses” comes to mind here, although there are no roses where I walk. Sagebrush, cactus, mesquite, sand, and rocks align the desert trails I follow. More cool stuff is found just by walking like a turtle.
A sense of accomplishment can now be obtained with simple things. The ability to bend over and still tie my shoes is one of the biggest. I would’ve never thought that routine day-to-day accomplishments would eventually reach an accolade level.
The other afternoon, I watched a man and his wife park in front of a local Lake Havasu City restaurant in a handicap spot. The aged woman was helped from the front car seat to a collapsible wheelchair. I held the door open for them and was thanked by each.
The wife wanted to sit at the table next to her husband, while he was quietly insistent that she remain in the wheelchair. Finally able to convince him that she’d be just fine, the thin and frail woman slowly rose with his help and was gently assisted into a booth.
I’m sure the sense of accomplishment she felt that evening far surpassed any I’ve had. Sadly, there probably aren’t many more days left when the two can romantically sit together.
A sense of accomplishment is necessary to remain positive. The day this ceases will be one of the saddest days of my life. For now, I’ll continue counting my blessings one by one!
I like to write junk... 