metal
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Pilar To Post...
by hig
They swamped the counters at the Dallas Post, small
gourds, big gourds, middle-sized gourds, gourds with
crooked necks, gourds with warts, gourds with stripes,
gourds big enough to make a nest for a wren, gourds
small enough to wear as a thimble when hollowed out.
The door opened again, and more gourds appeared,
stacked high on a large tray.
Rain sluiced down outside, and another tray of gourds
edged its cautious way through the door.
“We’ve got some more gourds in the car, but these are a
good sample,” announced Lois London and her mother,
Mrs. Heitsman, in chorus. -
“What makes them so shiny?’ somebody inquired.
Lois explained. The crop had been phenomenal, 450
bushels of gourds, harvested and delivered to the house in
baskets, in addition to gourds of lesser quality left in the
fields.
To preserve the gourds, a coating of shellac or varnish’
is essential, to seal the pores. There must be at least a
million sealed pores resisting moisture around the house in
Center Moreland.
Those ornamental gourds bear no resemblance whatever
to the nondescript specimens offered for sale in the town
stores. =
They’re the most fascinating little objects you ever saw,
each one different from every other gourd, each one shining
like a new-minted coin.
The staff gathered round and selected gourds. It was
impossible to decide upon six or seven, or even a dozen.
Each time the contents of the trays was stirred up, another
superior specimen of gourds appeared, and the process of
elimination started all over again.
Goodness knows what you do with a gourd. You can’t
eat it. Maybe a bird would have the ultimate answer, com-
bining food with housing, pecking its way into the interior
and gorging itself as it excavated.
A gourd dipper, they say, gives a pioneer atmosphere to
a water bucket.
But other than that, why is a gourd?
A wooden bowl filled with gourds would make a pretty
colorful centerpiece for a holiday table. Maybe they should
be combined with polished apples, accented with bitter-
sweet and milkweed pods. The possibilities are unlimited.
Mrs. Wilbur Davis sorted out two dozen gourds. Leighton
bought a dozen, and started to decorate the mantelpiece. Hix,
in a daze, bought a dozen.
“Sandy, how about you? Want to buy some gourds?”
Sandy shook her head.
*“Uh-uh,” Sandy, said, “last year we had some gourds
and we threw them out after awhile, and all the seeds
sprouted. We’ve gout gourds to burn.”
That’s the classic way of insuring a crop of hubbard
squash, they tell me. Just heave out the seeds and let them
freeze on the ground all winter. In the spring, presto, the
seeds sprout, and come September you are pressing Hubbard
squash upon your neighbors. 2
The demand for Hubbard squash is not what it used to
be. But take it from one who knows, it makes a pumpkin
pie that is completely unequalled.
How on earth did we get away from the gourds?
Here they are, in a box on the chair alongside my desk,
green and yellow, one almost black, one crookneck the
color of a white ironstone pitcher, one squatty little job
striped like a miniature watermelon, one modelling cream
colored splashes on a forest-green ground, one green as
far up as the waterline and a blazing yellow on the super-
structure. with a tiny green cap to top it off.
The Londons and the Heitsmans arein shellacup to their
elbows, readying the crop for market, 450 bushels of it,
minus the gourds which found purchasers atthe Dallas Post.
Safety Valve...
USE OF CHARCOAL WHY NOT SAVE
OLD SCHOOL HOUSE?
Dear Editor:
! Dear Editor:
Only yesterday I read the follow-
ing article, which may be worth
putting in your paper, since read-
ing in today’s Post about Drake’s
fire.
— Ruth, Dungey
Warning on use and storage of
charcoal, the writer says. (from
Modern Maturity magazine)
I must warn you that using char-
coal to draw moisture and reduce
mustiness and mold renders the
charcoal itself dangerous in that it
becomes subject to spontaneous
combustion when damp. This has
“been confirmed by my county fire
marshal and firemen, by Con-
sumer’s Guide, by the University
of Washington, and by warning
bulletins published in various
localities. Charcoal should be kept
in a fireproof container or ina dry,
cool, well ventilated place. This fact
about charcoal may seem strange,
but it’s true, and I feel it important
that people know it.
On an unmarked road running
from Memorial Shrine northeast
towards the Sutton Creek road
stands forlornly in dejected loneli-
ness a school house that is historic,
ancient in years and probably rich
in memories.
If it were painted and renovated
and its surrounding ground beauti-
fied Franklin Township would
have a sort of shrine. But Franklin
is a poor township, and we are more
concerned with building roads than
in sentimental remembrance.
Here is an opportunity for those
really interested in local history to
do something constructive. It is
easy to go to Williamsburg and see
the reconstruction of dubious col-
onial society houses there; it would
indicate better evaluation if we
cared for our own relics of brave
pioneerw, remembering their efforts
to establish civilization here and
there hardships endured with cour-
age and vision.
<
Better Leighton Never
by Leighton Scott
Leaf-Watchers
This may be the last good week-
end for leaf-watchers. I will recom-
mend some routes upon which the
watching will be the best.
Over the Poconos by Routes 115
or 611 should be good, if you
happen to be going south.
Route 118 to Williamsport is
always a favorite, and there is a
terrific view from the mountain
about three miles east of Hughes-
ville.
The Williamsport route is the
favorite of Howard Risley, a fa-
mous Back Mountain leaf-watcher.
But he drives faster’n I do. I like
a slow, windy route.
To insure ourselves against miss-
ing any of the best colors in the
flaming foliage, me ’'n a friend
picked out a circuit close to home
last weekend, grabbed some bino-
culars, and toured it by motor-
cycle.
Bundled against the cold we chug-
ged” off toward Centermoreland
from Orange, pursued by every cy-
cle-hating collie in Franklin Town-
ship. After we hit Route 292 to
Vernon, we slowed down so we
could see. The rambling hills along
both sides of the highway were
aflame with red and yellow. Most
of the trees had turned, and now
and again there was one striking
scarlet picture which would bring
us to a halt.
Across from Eggleston’s cider
mill, we stopped and tried out the
" binoculars on the valleys around
us. I took off my glasses, and the
colors looked brighter, but with no
definition, like an impressionist’s
painting. The apple trees were still
green by the mill.
Bowman’s Creek was swollen
from several days of steady rain,
and lines of leaves sailed end toend
down the quiet flood under the
bridge on 292.
The next section of the trip was
following Bowman’s upstream to
Noxen, where I knew the stream
would be jumping. It really looked
like October up there, with the paint-
ed boughs hanging over some fine
stretches of choppy Alpine water.
The water was in a real hurry to
get to the river too, because all that
rain had left quite a supply back up
in the mountain.
The sun came up for about five
minutes and set the leaves aflame
behind the white water. When it
went down, it got plenty cold, and
we moved ontoward Harveys Lake
by way of the regular road. An
alternate route would be up over
Sorber Mountain; recommended.
The next good scene in ourcircu-
lar jaunt was the Kunkle-Demunds
Road, especially where the branch-
es arch over it by Lake Catalpa.
Beautiful as they arenow, they’llbe
a real threat when iced up during
the winter.
We were cold and tired when we
finished, but we had done as fine
a leaf-watching trip as can be pick-
ed out of the Back Mountain.
And those colors don’t last for-
ever, so get with it.
“Those who do notremember the
past deserve no future”, says an
inscription on Cape Cod. Families
whose ancestors attended this
school and neighbors should honor
themselves in restoring this house,
now an advertisement of our neglect
and carelessness.
I attended such a school four
months a year in the South, carry-
ing lunch in a tin pail, walking a
mile-and-half,
books; and learning the facts and
events of life in discomfort. Two ex-
cellent teachers opened new worlds
to me: I owe them gratitude and
love; and I am proud to have gone
to a one-room country school with
fine neighbors.
Also a thought on naming coun-
try roads: travellers in-the country
are presumed by country people to
know where they are and where
they want to go. But signs help
guide. Why not name our Back
Mountain roads distinctly, picture-
squely maybe, but definitely. Our
road might be called “Mountain
Grange Boulevard”. “School
House Lane’ would designate the
road on which our old school
stands. I like “42nd Street”. There
are other terms besides lovers’lane.
— Ralph Weatherly
THE DALLAS POST — J URSDAY, OCT(ER ]1,1962
Barnyard Notes
Tender hearted persons who cringe when they toss a live
lobster in a pot of boiling water will be interested in a bit of
information which Winifred Baird of Harveys Lake R. D. 1
requests me to publish in this column. :
Kind to Lobsters
“The human is the most compassionate animal on
earth with the possible exception of some tame, lovable
pet. . . The rest of the earth’s creatures kill or maim,
eat each other without a qualm . . .
“As New Englanders, we love to dine on lobsters,
crabs and clams. Our common habit is to bring a pot
to a rolling boil and toss them in... We excuse
ourselves by the thought that they are among the
lower forms of life— but, they do feel pain, obviously.
“This pain is crustaceans . . . is all needless, accord-
ing to authorities!
“They point out that the large crustaceans, who in-
habit our cooler sea waters, die quietly, peacefully and
automatically if the temperature of the water should
rise slowly to about 100 degrees «a temperature that
is only warm to human hands . . .
“So, the recommended method is to putthese creatures
into cool, fresh water and let them stay there for a
while. This, itself has an anesthetic effort, since the
fresh water dissolves the native salt from their bodies.
Then turn the heat on and bring the water to a slow
boil and then cook to the recommended time.
“According to authorities, there won’t be a quivering
sound come from the pot. As an added touch, they
recommend that a metal mesh be put at the bottom of
the pot, so that the feet of the lobsters or crabs cannot
touch the sudden, quick heatonthebottomof the pot . .
‘“Here’s to more, humanely home-cooked crustaceans.
_Arlington [ Mass. | Advocate.”
xx»
Frank X. Tolbert, columnist of the Dallas Morning News
of Dallas, Texas, recently had this to say of a “visit to
Yankees’ Version of Dallas” in his column Tolbert’s Texas:
WHILE IN PENNSYLVANIA last week, I visited
in Dallas. This would be a borough (also a township),
mostly residential, inhabited by about 2,600 Dallasites
on a cool hill top in northeastern Pennsylvania and 9
or 10 miles from Wilkes-Barre. The Yankee version of
Dallas was named in honor of the U. S. Secretary of
the Treasury in 1814-16, Alexander James Dallas, a
tight-fisted type who took over when the treasury was
rather empty and left a $20,000,000 surplus. Alexander
James Dallas was the papa of George Mifflin Dallas,
who was elected Vice-President in 1844 and may or
may not be the fellow for whom Dallas, Texas, was
christened. (John Neely Bryan, the founder of the
Dallas between Forney and Grand Prairie, left a haunt-
ing mystery here by commenting only: “I named this
town for my friend, Dallas.’>)
THOMAS MORGAN, THE MAYOR of Dallas, Pa.,
was off on vacation in Boston when I wheeled through
Little D. However, I spoke with the borough engineer,
John Jeter, who said that the Pennsylvania Dallasites
were under the impression that Dallas, Texas, was
titled for Alexander James Dallas. “My daughter, Deb-
orah, is an American Airlines stewardess and some-
times stops off in your Dallas.” mentioned Mr. Jeter.
The clipping was sent to Barnyard Notes by Mrs. George
F. Swartwood of Qverbrook Avenue. Her daughter, Priscilla,
now Mrs. Dalton Drake, was born in Wilkes-Barre, gradu-
ated from Meyers High School and Wilkes College, and now
lives with her husband and daughter, Susan Louise, in Bay-
town, Texas.
Recently they toured Arizona, New Mexico and Texas and
made their first overnight stop in the Lone Star State’s Dallas.
“Imagine our surprise,” she wrote her mother, “when we
opened the paper at breakfast and found this article. I am
sure you will enjoy it as much as we did.”
— Pris, Dal and Susie
Autumn
Now when the time of fruit and grain has come,
using make-shift *
When apples hang above the orchard wall,
And from a tangle by the roadside stream
A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air,
Comes Autumn with her sunburst caravan,
Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay
And tattered colors of the Orient,
‘Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills,
The woods of Wilton, and her coming, wear
Tints of Bokahra and of Samarkand:
The maples glow with their Pompeian red,
The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold;
And while the crickets fife along her march,
Behind her banners burns the crimson sun.