Dignity at the lumber yard
That Saturday my cousins were waiting for me and after we collected our 20 cents apiece we walked with a heavy heart, away from the square and its ice cream parlor, two blocks north to the lumber yard.
I’d been here before with my dad, so I was familiar with the place. The grayhaired man took our measurements very solemnly and nodded understanding when we explained to him that we would pay 60 cents today and every week until our bill was paid. He wrote a ticket in my name and didn’t even have to ask what it was.
Now that man is still alive today so the nearest I can figure he was about 35 at the time; ten years younger than our dads but grayhaired so he was old to us.
Another thing about that day, no one had phones then but now I know that somehow my father had had communications withhim for surely we were treated with such dignity, and I at 10 years old and an 8-year-old were given credit while cash customers were coming. Surely he had been forewarned about us. He told us it would be ready to pick up next Saturday, only I withheld my Wednesday night 10 cents so again we paid 60 cents over the $2.07 bill for 17 pieces of glass. I rode home in the back seat with the cream cans, holding the precious cardboard box on my lap. Each pane had a thin sheet of paper between it. I was thrilled with them. I couldn’t wait to get started. When I started on one that evening after chores fear hit me as I realized that we hadn’t marked which precisely measured panewent in which hole and they were all different sizes, but dad left his chores when I hollered at him and spent a lot of time helping me and then marked them so we would know. Then I was ready to start.
I finished one that evening with Dad looking in every once in awhile to show me again and suggesting easier ways. I did one more the next morning before Sunday School.
Lyle and Lyla came after Sunday dinner and between us all we finished up one window -- five panes and the one dad had done. Dad mounted it back in the wash house.
We ware proud but sad.
We also had 12 more to go.
Our putty was smeared and uneven compared to his but he didn’t seem to notice. In fact I think he said something like, “Not Bad!” - a real compliment from my dad. I wished many times we could use just one of the little brads around each edge but he’dused two so we must use two also. I couldn’t do any more the next week.
My fingers became so swollen and sore from tapping them with the hammer and handling the rough edged glass and I think also I was maybe a little allergic to the putty.
I had trouble holding my silverware at the table and picking up my water glass was sheer misery.
The blood throbbed in the ends of my fingers and I bumped them on absolutely everything, even in my sleep. I tried to not have to use a pencil at school.
The following Saturday we made our third payment and knew the next week we would pay it off and have some left for an ice cream cone.
To be continued.
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Editor’s note: Edith Lammey has been a resident of the area for nearly 40 years. The article was originally published April 15,1987, by editor Cal Beisner.
Opinion, Pages 4 on 04/10/2013