Although it’s been over fifty years since the Advertiser days, I still hate Thursday. That was going to press day to finish up the weekly paper and I had to fold, fold, fold, etc. No matter what else there was to do in the world like going roller skating with the GAA, I had to fold. Except in the summertime when it could be fun, the neighborhood kids would come in to help, thinking it was a lark. There’d be an ever-changing crew in numbers ... That impish Richard Adams and a couple of his cronies (he wore knickers so couldn’t get too high and mighty wearing those! Some of the Davenport boys and maybe a Martin or two, sometimes Marilee Ebersole from Sterling who visited her grandparents, the Koomes, in the summer, and that sweetheart Alice Jean Garner (Jeanie Rogers, Savanna now) with whom I had a pact to take in abandoned cats and dogs when “we grew up.”

The boys had made a clubhouse in the Adams’ chicken house and wouldn’t let us girls go in, a fact that needled us for years. But we kind of forgot the days it was time to FOLD. We had lots of laughs and sang old-timey songs (new then) and generally forgot we were actually working. Reward was a double dip ice cream cone.

Next door, west across the alley, was a big old house where the Horner’s lived and sometimes took in roomers. I think it was Fred Horner who was the official “thistle commissioner.” He rode a Vespa-like motor scooter wearing a felt fedora and smoking a cigar or pipe and listing who had to cut their obnoxious thistles. His grandson, John Maurice Horner, stayed with them periodically. He was younger than the rest of us so we didn’t want him around but he pestered us all the time especially on Thursdays. He’d yell in the door and tap a stick on the windows until my mother would holler, “If you don’t stop that John Maurice, I’m going to cut off your mother’s subscription.” He disappeared and we all sighed a sigh of relief.

About fifteen minutes later, however, he returned and yelled through the screen door, “Ya can’t cut off Ma’s subscription. I’ve locked the door.”

The Advertiser was free subscription but John Maurice didn’t know that. It was delivered every Friday morning by Dad and Mom (sometimes me) but always with our dog, Skippy, a pretty terrier who had feline characteristics in the genes. He gave up nine lives during his adventurous years ... He ate poison or bad food a few times from a lot where Mr. Pierce dumped trashed; got hit by a car 2-3 times while chasing rabbit, was hit by a railroad engine and thrown high into the air, coming down on the gravel with a thud according to Butch Gaul who saw it happen from the lumberyard. Skip dragged himself home and was paralyzed for several weeks. But we massaged his hind quarters and he got better as we picked out the ground and gravel. He’d growl at the hoboes that’d stop for a hand out but his was death on four legs in the fights he had with Merkel’s dog. They hated each other and invariably would bit and yank and carry on something terrible. Their fights would draw an audience who’d place bets on one or the other.

One day Merkel’s dog had gotten loose from his chain and had come downtown where Skippy lay in the Advertiser office. Merkel’s dog went right through the screen door and the two launched into the worst fight ever. Reverend Kay, a local minister, who had a deep, booming voice that he used effectively to spout Biblical messages usually, waded in to break it up, yelling curse and expletive unending as he wielded a broomstick to pry them apart. They bit him in their rampage, the noise drawing a crowd from Broad St. Dog fights were plentiful back then and were reason to bet on which dog would win. The office was a mess with blood dripped all over the floor and the next time Reverend Kay came in, his hands were thickly bandaged. After that both dogs were closely watched.

Skippy, however, went on the Friday paper route and one day discovered Mrs. Puterbaugh’s large fish pond on Pearl Street while chasing a rabbit. After that when it was very hot he’d wander down south, wade into the pond and lower himself into the water until only his nose showed. The koi calmly swam around him. Mrs. Puterbaugh would call on the telephone and yell for us to come get that darned dog so dad would have to take the clunker Plymouth, if we had a car at the time, to go pick him up. Who says nothing happens in a small town.

It was graduation time, for sure when we could hire kids to deliver the Advertiser, Gordon Appel being the longest time carrier and most reliable.

Those long hours and nose-to-the-grindstone days were at the time boring, tedious, challenging but certainly a foundation for how to keep at a job ‘til it’s done. Discipline.

We moved to 128 W. Locust in about 1949 and within a couple years mother had the cement block building for the Advertiser, tearing down a nice old barn. It’s 111 S. Boyd and the police department now. Norm & Flossie Hoffman bought the entire kit and caboodle in 1957.

Would falling asleep on a high stack of newsprint be considered “abuse” today? Or eating only bruised peaches and baloney for supper be dysfunctional? No, it’s meant meeting, getting to know lots of interesting people who burrowed a soft spot in the heart. “Characters.”

Writing for the successor to the Advertiser, the Prairie Advocate, has continued that benefit. New acquaintances have been made, many becoming friends, as we “research” for PDQ Me. Due to a couple eyesight issues, my reading days are dwindling and I’ve had to give up driving. It’s irksome but the gasoline bill has gone down and the repair bill isn’t so hard on the budget. Incidents include three mufflers lost due to driving on MUD roads (not on the map), and a big dent in the fender from a rampaging cow attacking, hitting me! Oh, we could go on about the 2:00 a.m. calls from a ghost finder, a voodoo enthusiast and several other confrontations. But it’s made life interesting and I’ve learned a lot, you can bet. Thanks to Conrad for taxiing. Thanks Editor/Boss Kocal, Lynn and auxiliary daughter, Liz, Craig, and TFATPA. There’s still stories out there, some additions and corrections because, after all, the black and white of the paper that’s read all over will still be coming!!! Ugh! History to me is the people who made it. C.