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    HOME ON THE RANGE
    HOME ON THE RANGE
    HOME ON THE RANGE
    Ebook134 pages1 hour

    HOME ON THE RANGE

    By Jerome Mark Antil

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The true stories are consistently engaging and entertaining. The two

    short ones-Richard Leaves the Chair Breathless, and Postwar Shortages and Shortfalls,

    are hilarious anecdotes. The two longer ones, Remembering the Echoes, and Return to

    Tiffany's, are much more ambitious tales, and both are quite heartening and heartwarmin

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLittle York Books
    Release dateSep 15, 2021
    ISBN9781737857297
    HOME ON THE RANGE
    Author

    Jerome Mark Antil

    Born in 1941-- in upstate Central New York - Antil grew up living just miles from where Mark Twain typed Huckleberry Finn on the world's first typewriter - - a Remington. Inspired by Twain's gift for storytelling and hi ingenuity - Antil dreamed of becoming a writer.

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      Book preview

      HOME ON THE RANGE - Jerome Mark Antil

      Copyright © 2021 Jerome Mark Antil

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN: 978-1-7353076-4-0

      ISBN: 978-17378572-9-7 (e-book)

      Library of Congress Control Number:

      2016918667

      TO

      THE BELLS OF ST. MARY'S

      THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

      REMEMBERING THE ECHOES

      RICHARD LEAVES THE CHOIR, BREATHLESS

      POSTWAR SHORTAGES AND SHORTFALLS

      RETURN TO TIFFANY’S

      1.

      REMEMBERING THE ECHOES

      I remember asking my mother at ninety-four how she was getting along. She rested her salad fork in a moment of thought. Lifting it, she said, I’m finding my memory much kinder than the mirror.

      Be it my mother’s wisdom or my father’s sense of adventure, I remember their influences on me with clarity. I’ve lived a memory-rich life and few things have influenced roads I’ve taken more than listening to stories he told me and to my mother’s recollections of my father’s youth. I often quip, "life ain’t the road, it’s the ride." After his passing, his loving wife would pen thoughts, poems and prose about him as a husband, father, and provider. They were honest and warm words about her Mike, carefully chosen to document dated diaries and photo albums for us to appreciate decades after her passing—the decades I now find myself in.

      Memories were my parent’s gifts to me.

      He was a tall and gentle man. He was a spiritual man, French Acadian born in northern Minnesota in 1902, the seventh son of a seventh son. My father grew up a self-professed dreamer and he would tell me of the times he would lay in fields at night by a campfire and study the stars as if they were roadmaps for his great adventures ahead. As a young boy cooking came natural to him and on his mother’s woodstove, he would make gumbo with blood sausages and fish he’d catch, and he would make shrimp etouffee with everything but the shrimp. He had the patience for baking, and he could bake cakes, pies, and whip fluffy egg white frostings in a double boiler before he was twelve. He would bake until surfaces were covered with baking sheets of cookies and satisfied every sweet tooth in the farm house, including six older brothers.

      He would speak of one day going to the Normandy his mother would tell him stories of while he’d watch her prepare acorn squash and baked ham. He never missed Sunday services, and I can remember long drives with him in upstate New York when I was young. He would tell me stories of his youth and he would treat me with an occasional Sunday morning jaunt across the Ogdensburg Prescott bridge into Canada so I could hear Mass in French. He didn’t like talking about his father falling from the barn roof when he was twelve but told me that when his father died, he quit school (ninth grade) and reasoned to his mother and his older brothers that it was time he made his father’s memory proud by living the examples the man had set in him. When asked of his plans, he simply said he wanted to contribute to the household and that his father taught him that if he ever needed work to think of food—everybody has to eat. He knew Mondays were particularly busy at the train station.

      I’ll ride the trains, Mom. Monday is the day the traveling salesmen boarded passenger trains in nearby Buffalo, Minnesota to start their selling week, he would say.

      He’d rationalized that salesmen had to always look nice so he’d fill a large basket with sundries the more forgetful of them might need. He called these sundry items his loss leaders. Items that made a better impression than they would a profit. Items that didn’t take much room in his basket, like headache and tooth powders, pipe tobacco, rolling papers, and bags of Golden Grain cigarette tobacco, sewing needles and thread, ten-cent combs, playing cards, and an assortment of hard candies. Most of the basket would be his homemade oatmeal and walnut cookies, tied with ribbon in stacks of three for fifty cents. Growing up the youngest of seven boys he learned his brother’s habits and hankerings by keeping a close watch on them. His instincts told him that sewing needles for torn buttons and other sundries would make a nice first impression and be appreciated, and he priced them reasonably.

      If his older brothers were testimony, his cookies would be his irresistible impulse item and his easiest sale and they would bring him the most profit. At a time when a hearty sandwich could be bought for as little as fifteen cents, he’d jump on a train, certain to remind prospects examining his wares of the nutritional values in steel-ground oatmeal and hand-shelled walnuts.

      When his cookies were near gone, he’d get off the train, catch the first train back and make more sales on his way home. He would sell his cookies out and walk home eating left over hard candy he hadn’t given to children on the train while their parents inspected his basket.

      At the age of sixteen my father filled two pockets with hardtack biscuits and two with beef jerky and bound books together by strapping them tightly with his father’s leather belt slung over a shoulder the morning he started his five-hundred-mile walk-hitch to South Dakota to work the wheatfields.

      Once there he let his height speak for itself, and he convinced farmers he could work from dawn to dusk, and he’d sleep under the stars by a campfire. He gave sugar cubes to horses and they would stop grazing and run to him like puppy dogs to be bridled and harnessed. He’d wrap the leather harness straps around his wrists and grip them in callused hands and could shout articulate commands at his team of four horses pulling thrashing machines eventually through the fields of every wheatbelt state, resting and watering them frequently.

      At day’s end he would climb a badland hill, hang his lanky legs over the edge of the cliff, watch the stars and sing a song his father taught him—Home on the Range. He would smile at the echoes, imagining his father listening. On paydays he’d take a dollar and any loose change from his pay envelope, stuff them into a pocket and hand a postage stamp to his foreman to mail the rest of the money to his mother.

      In 1919, at the age of seventeen, he borrowed a brother’s suit and took a job as bellhop, babysitter, actor/performer, and swimming instructor at the deluxe Hotel Del Otero resort on Lake Minnetonka. He would greet steamer boats bringing guests to shore and offer his babysitting services should vacationing couples wish time alone in the hotel casino or at the scheduled dances. He was a popular babysitter, not only for his towering height, but for the tall stories he would spin and for the magic tricks and sleight-of-hand he would rehearse on his young, captive audiences.

      He was a thoughtful teen. His mother once held him, tears streaming down her cheeks, not for money he sent her, (she put that in a canning jar for him), but for a postcard he took the time to write. Until his first postcard his mother had never received mail from any of her seven sons. He dreamed of going to California and becoming an entertainer, perhaps a magician or singer with a traveling show. He also wondered if he could become a prize fighter with his height. A boxer.

      He felt he would be an entertaining interlocuter in the steamboat minstrels, but he was adamant about never doing blackface. He remembered his mother’s stories of Normandy and he read of the pathos in Evangeline, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, of the British expulsion of the Acadians from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick into Quebec and New Orleans, and he felt blackface was a tasteless caricature of another abused culture and not a proper way to get laughs. He would add that it was demeaning and wrong, and one didn’t need masks of ridicule to entertain or make people laugh. He promised himself that he would step on each of the forty-eight states before he was thirty.

      He kept the promise, but despite all of his dreams, his sense of adventure, the grounding passed to him by his father is why my father never once lost his sense of responsibility for putting food on the table every day. He never failed the task, regardless of his age, of the economic times or the number of mouths to feed around the table.

      From his reading, he favored stories of true-life adventures, and he would exaggerate and retell them. In front of his audience he would present himself as a lanky, self-effacing Abe Lincoln-like teller of tall tales. He would sometimes blacken a front tooth or two with road tar and boast in a put-on dialect an Aw shucks, it warn’t nuttin’ about his tale of being so tall as a ‘pup,’ "…why I was so tall at lebbin’ (eleven) I could step me one leg over the mighty Mississippi River without ever getting my Sunday going-to-church shoes wet. Just one step was all she took."

      After the mouths in his audience dropped in total belief because of his height, every eye in the room appropriately riveted, gazing up in wonder that he was the tallest boy they had ever seen—he was a giant—he would turn his back to them, remove the tar from his front teeth, turn back around and let the truth come out with a snicker that he was just joshing and that the Mississippi River began as a trickling little spring at Lake

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