Bisonalities, Again

                                    

Welcome to the Bisonalities, again, a newsletter dedicated to the alumni (students, teachers, and administrators) of Waterford and Fort LeBoeuf High Schools. This newsletter will be issued quarterly. New issues will be posted for viewing on the Web site on, or about January 1, April 1, July 1, and October 1.

The Bisonalities, Again Web site may be viewed by going to:

www.bisonalitiesagain.com

The success of this newsletter will depend on you. I need contributors. Do you have an interesting article, a nostalgia item, a real life story, or a picture you would like to share with other alumni? Do you have a snail-mail or an e-mail address of one of your former classmates? If you do, please send it to me at the following e-mail address:

candoercat@gmail.com

or at my snail-mail address:

Robert J. Catlin, Sr.
2670 Dakota Street
Bryans Road, MD 20616-3062
Tel: (301) 283-6549
Fax: (301) 375-9250

Please, NO handwritten submissions.

The Bisonalities, Again Newsletter is available to any and all alumni, teachers, and administrators of Waterford High School or FLBHS on the Web site, free.

If you know an alumnus, teacher, or administrator who would be interested, tell them about the Web site. None of the material in this newsletter has a copyright unless otherwise noted. If you wish to make copies of this newsletter and distribute it to other Alumni or friends, please feel free to do so.

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Spring has sprung! The grass has riz! I wonder where the birdies is?

This is my favorite time of year. The temperatures are on the rise, the trees are putting on their spring clothes, the flowering trees and plants are in full bloom, there is more sunlight than darkness, and all the birds have returned from their winter homes back to their summer homes here in Southern Maryland.

Winter arrived late here. We did not see the first sub-32 degree day until the 12th of January and then we had a lot of days where the temperature went into single digits. In February we had three snow storms. Of course, nothing like those of you who live in the north have received, but bad enough for us.

The one-lines used in this issue were received from my oldest brother, Ernie, Class of 1947.

The following letter was received from Wes Nicklas (Class of 1954):

Bob Cat

Déjà vu! It all started when our youngest daughter married and moved to Minneapolis. To visit her we had to travel through Wisconsin.

About the second trip to visit her I noticed a familiar situation in the southern part of this state. It was just north of the Illinois state line, where we started seeing the earmarks of what was probably glacial country.

There were scattered small lakes, lots of swamps and numerous little hills. Also, a few longish ridges. Does any of this sound familiar? You got it --- Erie County all over again, including dairy farms.

It was then that one of those strange feelings came over me --- like I belonged in that region and felt very much at home.

Granted, we didn't know all that much about our history of glacial geology fifty years ago, but the glacial thing explains a lot about Waterford. Did we know about "Lake Effect" snow? I suspect Wisconsin sees a lot of snow, too.

Looking forward to next summer and another trip through Wisconsin. There is a small chain of country cooking restaurants up that way, called "The machine shed" --- almost worth the trip. Wisconsin also has cheese curds if anyone remembers those.

Wes

On the last page of this issue you will find a 6th grade commencement program for the future class of 1955. The program was received from Nancy Prososki Austin. Thanks Nancy!

I consider myself quite an authority on horses. It's all first-hand knowledge, too. None of that book stuff. (Oh, I did read a book about a boy and a horse when I was 11, but I don't remember a thing about it, so it doesn't count!)

My first experience with horses occurred when I was about seven --- nearly 30 years ago.

I was in the process of growing up in Waterford, and there were quite a few horses around town then. I never had anything to do with them, until one spring afternoon near the end of the school year. My mother had come up to school at dismissal time to pick me up. I was always happy when she did that because it meant we'd go for a little ride out through the country.

They were short rides, but they were just what I needed to help unwind from a tough day of coloring, pasting, and those Palmer-method handwriting exercises.

On this particular day, Mom paused to visit a bit with my teacher, Mrs. Brooks. All the other kids had disappeared instantly upon dismissal. So while Mom and Mrs. Brooks talked in front of the school, I played on the swings. It was the only time I ever had all four of them all to myself. I was going from one to the other, trying to decide which was best.

The area from behind the school to Fifth Street was an open field. Paul Bartholme, who lived a couple of houses up the alley from us, had a team of horses. Occasionally he would hitch his team to a mowing machine and mow the field. This day was one of those occasions.

So, there I was happily swinging away when all at once I heard a terrible commotion in the back of the school. Someone was yelling! Horses were making horse noises! Suddenly, from behind the school came the horses at full-gallop!

Runaways!

Now for those of you unfamiliar with “runaways,” horses will sometimes spook when they catch a glimpse of something they perceive to be life-threatening --- like a leaf or a butterfly. Then they run! Away! Very fast! And in no particular direction!

On came the horses with the mowing machine and Mr. Bartholme still attached! Mr. Bartholme was yelling at the top of his lungs. He was saying things like, “Whoa!” and “Gee!” and “Haw!” and other things that I, as a second grader, had never heard before.

The horses paid no attention whatsoever. They were on their way somewhere at about 85 miles per hour! How Mr. Bartholme stayed aboard that sulky-like mowing machine is beyond me. It was chattering like a machine gun. It's a wonder they didn't cut down all the trees in the schoolyard!

I had stopped swinging and just sat there in shock and astonishment. The horses turned and came directly toward me! They were very large horses! Elephant-sized I'd say.

Mom came on a run for me.

Still, I sat their, bug-eyed and immobilized! I would have run, but I had momentarily forgotten how!

When the horses got within a few feet of me, they suddenly turned and headed for the street! When they reached the road, they stopped almost as suddenly as they started.

Funny how little incidents like that stuck with you.

Most of all, I remember the crazed look of the horses' eyes --- bulging, rolling, staring, white. Mom had a similar expression as I recall. I can still see her running out there to fight off those two brontosauruses. Talk about family values!

I don't think we went for our ride that day.

My next experience with horses came when I was about 13 --- nearly 30 years ago.

The Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales were visiting and stayed overnight at the old bus terminal. We went to see them. Unfortunately, they were facing north in their stalls, so all I got to see were their southern ends. (I've not seen such a sight since!) The part I was looking at is a substantial portion of a horse's anatomy in any case. But these were enormous! Huge! Just plain big.

Even so, I was somewhat disappointed. But then I realized that I was getting approximately the same view of the Clydesdales as the driver of that fancy Budweiser wagon. That made me feel better.

I finally got some real hands on experience with horses when I was 20-something --- nearly 30 years ago.

We were living just outside Albion then, and our neighbor, Roscoe, had a rather large riding horse that he kept in our barn for awhile. He rode the horse quite a bit. Having long been a Gene Autry/Roy Rogers fan, I wanted to ride, too. Roscoe was more than willing and showed me how to mount, dismount, neck-rein, check the oil, test the battery --- no, wait --- that was something else.

He said any time I wanted to ride was okay with him. Go right ahead. Just make sure the horse knows who is boss. This was unnecessary advice. The horse knew who was boss long before I showed up.

One afternoon, I decided it was time for a ride, so Dad and I went up to the barn. Dad knew all about horses, but he wasn't able to do anything because of a heart condition. So with Dad giving directions, I somehow managed to get the blanket and saddle on the old horse, along with the bridle, reins, suspenders, cummerbund --- no, wait --- that was something else.

We led her outside, and I mounted up (just like Gene and Roy). I said something horsy, like “giddy-up.” The horse turned and marched back into the barn. Fortunately, I'm a quick ducker or I probably would have fractured my skull on the beam over the door.

I dismounted (just like Gene and Roy). We led her outside again. I mounted up once more and, like an instant replay, she clomped back inside the barn again with me lying on her neck to miss the barn door.

Dad said for me to stay aboard while he led the horse back out. I did, but when he handed me the reins, we went right back inside again. I was getting very proficient at ducking the door.

We decided that we should get the horse a little further from the barn door, so we led her all the way around the barn. I climbed “back in the saddle again,” clucked at the horse, neck-reined and all that, and the horse ignored me completely. She stomped rather rapidly all the way back into the barn. I ducked the door successfully again.

I said I guessed I'd had enough riding for one day. Besides I'd seen about all the inside of the barn that I needed to see. I think the horse was tired, too. So we said goodbye.

A few weeks later, Roscoe was riding around and stopped in the yard to talk with Dad. The horse was parked nearby, and when I came along Roscoe invited me to take a ride.

Dimwittedly, I said okay and climbed on board. To my overwhelming surprise, the horse responded to my urging and away we went off through the field.

We went a couple hundred yards or so. Then the horse stopped. No amount of pleading would make her go further. So, having always been quick to compromise, I decided this was far enough anyhow. I turned her, and as soon as she caught sight of Roscoe back in the yard, she took off for him at full-gallop.

Well, I was hardly prepared for this. I hung on to everything I could find to hang on to. Horses do not have handles, you know.

Luckily, I managed to see where we were going. The horse was taking a shortcut. Under the apple tree. The one with the big, low limb.

The barn door experience proved immeasurably valuable. I hugged the horse around the neck and skimmed under the limb, missing it by several --- uh --- millimeters.

The horse skidded to a stop in front of Roscoe.

He laughed and said, “See, I knew you could do it!”

I went immediately to the house, took a handful of aspirin and smoked a pack of cigarettes.

I have not been on a horse since.

My opening sentence may have been misleading. Maybe I'm not exactly an authority on horses as I suggested.

What I meant was I know everything about horses that I ever want to know!

The below poem was received from Walley Mahle, Class of 1961, a 1996 inductee to the Fort LeBoeuf Wall of Fame, a stand-out quarterback at Syracuse University, former Green Bay Packer, and retired Fort LeBoeuf teacher and coach.

When I was a child I went to Bagdad School, and then to Strong School, such an improvement, we got to ride a school bus! After the walk from the school or the bus stop, we changed our "School Clothes" and one of the chores we faced was picking up fallen apples from our wonderful orchard! We had so many different varieties! Some green with a cheek of red . . . some huge green cooking apples that my Mother made millions of pies with . . . tiny dark red ones with centers of the most brilliant white . . . rough ones that we called Russets . . . fantastic Northern Spies, all very old types of apples!

Anyway, back to that picking up chore. It seemed those apples multiplied each day! There always seemed to be numerous wasps and bees taking more than their share of the juices that flowed after hitting the ground!

But the very best part of the entire season was when we finally gathered enough to make a barrel of cider. My Father loaded burlap bag after bag, baskets, boxes, anything that would hold the fruit, and away we would go to the Union City Cider Mill. Such a buzz of excitement there! Men would stand around chatting, kids running around, and folks waiting to pick up their freshly made cider. I was always in awe of that huge press squeezing all the nice fruit, some bruised beyond recognition . . . all colors of apples . . . and that brown juice would flow!

Dad always had a barrel on the porch, it was wonderful for such a short time, never seemed to get it all drank or given as gifts before it got 'Hard.' We would listen to stories about how some would much rather drink it after it 'Aged' a while!

I remember so well, my Dad laughing when the town drunk visited one early springtime day, the cider had been frozen, thawed and frozen again, God only knows how many times. The bung had fallen into the barrel but this man was delighted to consume several glasses of that nectar, it had dead wasps and leaves in it, but he was oblivious to the contents! He just needed a bit of alcohol in any fashion! Had some sort of a container and just kept opening that spigot, filling his cup!

In later years, after moving to Fairview, PA., I still enjoyed taking my family to the Sterritannia Cider Mill for a gallon of fresh apple juice. Nothing quite like it for a wonderful autumn refreshment! Add a few doughnuts, and it is sheer Heaven on a cool afternoon! I wonder if any Cider Mills still exist. Ah! Fond Autumn Memories . . .

It's frustrating when you know all the answers, but nobody bothers to ask you the questions.