CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—FAMILY POLITICS, SEN. McCARTHY, AND PAUL ROBESON RIOTS

    

Paul Robeson, 1942. Image credit, Wikipedia.

      In the Palmer family political discussions were usually conducted and reserved for adults. Children were not excluded due to age or immaturity; rather they were excluded by lack of interest. But children usually listened to these discussions.

     During the presidential debates of 1947 my parents were vocal in support of Gov. Thomas Dewey who was challenging incumbent President Harry Truman. I don't remember why. I suppose it had something to do with Dewey's platform. My parents were registered working-class Democrats. Truman was a Democrat and Dewey was a Republican. However, during the final days of the election campaign, my parents changed their minds about Dewey and placed their support and votes with Truman. "Harry is a fighter," I heard my step-father say. "I don’t think Dewey can deliver on his promises," my mother said.

     Truman won the election largely because of similar last minute voting decisions by many voters. There was a famous photo of Harry Truman holding a morning newspaper which showed headlines of Dewey beating Truman. Everyone had a good laugh, including disillusioned Republicans.

     My parents often discussed the real and fearful threats of communism. They were both practicing Catholics after my step-father's conversion from the Lutheran faith. The underlying concern of Catholics was that communism was a godless creed which intended to wipe out organized religion. Neither my mother nor my step-father had read the Communist Manifesto but they had heard all about it at church sermons. They had heard or read about state control of production and redistribution of wealth, and although they were of working class stock they wanted no part of it. "Not my cup of tea," I heard my mother say.

     When the Paul Robeson riots occurred near Peekskill, my parents thought that the liberal supporters of Paul Robeson were all communist sympathizers. They did not think that the Robeson concerts were about civil rights and justice for African-Americans. I remember seeing pickup trucks on Oregon Road loaded with rocks and bottles, many of these trucks with young white drivers under 20 years old, on their way to the Paul Robeson concert at Lakeland Acres. Also I saw ¾ ton trucks, similar to the one Mr. Zeliph drove to pick up garbage in Continental Village. These larger trucks had the name of a construction company marked on the cab doors and they were carrying young white men to the concert. 

     Heard on the streets of Peekskill: "The niggers and communists are starting trouble." Many years later I read Howard Fast's description of the riots and I wondered how so many white people could be misled and deluded, and easily persuaded to break the law. Even the police looked the other way. Some people said it was a blot on the history of Peekskill.

     The McCarthy era brought anti-communist politics to a head. My parents supported and believed Wisconsin's Sen. McCarthy when he said that the Pentagon and State Department had been infiltrated by communists and communist sympathizers. My aunt Katheryn argued with my parents about this. I listened attentively and I remembered the gist of the discussions and arguments.

     Katheryn was my mother's youngest sister. Although she was a Catholic, she had an open and independent mind. In the late 40's and early 50's her husband, Col. Harmon Reardon, was stationed at the Pentagon. He was a career army officer. With a sweet smile she often referred to him as a "Pentagon office boy to generals and other top brass."

    Katheryn and Harmon were childless at the time. With permission from my mother Katheryn frequently took my brother John and me on tours of New York City while her husband was stationed in Germany in 1946. We visited the Empire State building, Rockefeller Center, Statute of Liberty, Central Park, Staten Island by ferry, Museum of Natural History, and other places of interest. Subway, bus and ferry fares were five cents. Later, when her husband was transferred to the Pentagon, she flew John and I to Alexandria, Virginia, for short summer vacations. She took us to museums, monuments, battlefields, parks, zoos, and historic public buildings. We visited all of the Washington, D. C., monuments, the Smithsonian, the Treasury building, George Washington's home at Mount Vernon, Manassas battlefield, etc.

     Katheryn Melville Reardon insisted that Sen. McCarthy was crazy or just grandstanding for political advantage. It turned out she was correct on both points. But my parents never changed their minds about Sen. McCarthy and after he died, when the facts about him were published to the world, my parents would still insist that "McCarthy was right about communism." In retrospect I conjecture that the Catholic Church, Stalin, Mao, and the trial of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg had a major influence on my parents' thinking.

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—MY FRIEND PAUL KUTY

Chapter 17—My Friend Paul Kuty

     I met Paul Kuty on the school bus shortly after his family moved to Continental Village. He was tall, thin and he had red hair. He lived at or near No. 137 (Google maps) Putnam Road. He was my age and we instantly became friends. He had an active mind and an adventuresome spirit. He had several hobbies and each hobby was seriously pursued in season.

     Paul collected stamps and mailed for "approvals" from stamp companies. I did the same. He started a butterfly collection. He caught Rhopalocera in long-handle butterfly nets and used chloroform to kill them. He carefully placed them in a book and labeled them with the Latin and English names. He also used chloroform to kill chipmonks which we caught in live traps. Together we skinned the chipmonks—the skin was thin and our razors often cut through. We cured the skins with salt, and hung them on the walls of the Kuty hut which was located near Paul's house. We had possum and skunk skins hanging on the walls too. Paul's mother refused to enter the hut because of the stink associated with it.

     Paul also had a subscription to "Fur Fish and Game" magazine. In one issue he found a recipe for a raccoon bait to be placed near a trap. I remember wading in knee deep water of Sprout Brook, north of the junction of Winston and Sprout Brook Roads, and collecting fresh water mussels to incorporate as part of the recipe. The place where we waded was also the place, many years ago, smallpox-inoculated Joseph Plumb Martin waded with other Continental soldiers when spearing suckers in the summer of 1777. I don't recall the other ingredients of the recipe but I remember the awful stink of it, and how we threw it away after failing to attract animals to our traps. Too stinky for them too.

     An incident I can't forget occurred while attempting to catch butterflies. I saw a robin on an old horse path near Paul's house and pointed to it. Paul saw it too. The robin saw us approaching but was listening to an earthworm and did not fly away. I dropped my butterfly net, picked up a stone and threw it at the robin, instantly killing it. Paul was amazed. The robin was about 100 feet away when I threw the stone. At the time neither of us had any remorse or second thoughts about it.

     Paul had a temper. So did I. To make matters worse, when we first met we both wanted to lead the other boys and make decisions. This often made us competitive rather than collaborative. It resulted in a long drawn out fight during a pickup baseball game in an open lot near my house. I don't remember what caused the fight. Cliff Holmes, Wayne Matthews and Ray Kuty, Paul's younger brother, and others were witnesses.

     I thought I was stronger and quicker than Paul. I don't think either of us threw punches during the fight. We wrestled in the grass and dirt of the field for what seemed like an hour. He had me pinned several times but I managed to free myself. I would get him in a headlock and apply so much pressure that he had difficulty breathing. Then I would ask him to "give up." At first he replied "never," and later when I asked the same question he didn't reply at all. He was determined not to give up. He never did.

     We were both exhausted when we separated. He went home with his younger brother. Later his mother called my mother—as Mrs. Holmes did when I fought with Cliff at an earlier time. My mother told me that I was as bad as my brother John and that I must learn to get along with my friends and stop fighting.

     The fighting did stop but it wasn't due to advice. Rather, the pecking order had been established among the boys of my age. Cliff, Paul and I were almost evenly matched, and we avoided another fight by our learned experiences. Later we learned to take turns with decision-making, leading and following in sports, hobbies and other activities.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN—WHO FARTED AT THE SUPPER TABLE?

     My mother wanted a dog. So my step-father purchased a female English Setter. "Last dog in the litter," he said. My mother wasn't the only person in the family who wanted that dog. All the children wanted it, and my step-father wanted it too.

     My mother named the dog "Lady." She was about six months old when we got her, black and white, and very cute. She had a friendly, inquisitive  temperament and loved us as much as we loved her.

     When she was not romping through nearby vacant fields, or playing with the children, Lady used to sleep under the kitchen table at various times of day and night. She was always there at supper time when we sat down to eat. One evening at supper, while the whole family was seated at the table, we all heard a loud fart and quickly smelled it.

     My mother thought that my step-father had farted. She said, "Art, did you have to do that here?" He was embarrassed and quickly denied it.

     The dog, meanwhile, got up and slowly walked away from the table with her head down. Perhaps the raised voices disturbed her. My brother John and I knew the dog farted. We heard the sound of a fart under the table and knew the dog was there. We couldn't suppress our laughter, which made my mother suspicious.

     "Did either of you do it?" she asked.

     We burst out laughing. Judging from our response, she now believed that we did it.

     "Leave the table immediately!"

     We laughed again as we got up and left the table.

     I guess my step-father thought we did it too. He scowled and said, "It isn't funny!"

     He was wrong. It was very funny. We carried our plates into the living room and finished supper. The guilty party was curled up on the sofa, sound asleep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN—CLIFF HOLMES AND WINIFRED ZELIPH

Chapter 14—Cliff Holmes and Winifred Zeliph

     Cliff Holmes was my closest friend in Continental Village.  

     Soon after my family moved into our new house, Cliff Holmes and Winifred Zeliph, both eight years old, showed up in a field near our house. It was early September, 1947, after the start of the school year.

     My mother saw them through the kitchen window and announced that there were “curious” young children outside. “I’ve seen them before,” she said. “They are the neighbors’ children who live on the other side of the apple orchard.”

     My brother and sister and I went outside to meet them, while my parents and the two youngest children stayed inside the house.

     We were city kids meeting country kids. We had seen Cliff and Winifred on the school bus but there were no introductions. Cliff was holding a long stem of timothy grass which projected from his mouth. He was chewing on the broken end of it. Winifred stood near him with large curious eyes. They smiled at us but said nothing.

     The silence on their part was momentary but it seemed like five minutes. When we spoke to them, we discovered their names: Cliff Holmes and Winifred Zeliph. We were amazed to discover that they were aunt and nephew, that there were twelve children in the Zeliph family and that Winifred was the youngest. Her sister, Beatrice, was Cliff’s mother.

     I got to know Cliff and Winifred better as we sat and talked on the school bus during the school year. Winifred had brown hair. I don’t remember the color of her eyes. I do remember that her young face was pretty. She was as tall as her nephew. Cliff had long black hair, and at that time he was an inch shorter than I. He weighed as much as I did. He had a compact build and when he got older he played football in high school. He was a determined and successful competitor and a reliable friend.

     My sister Eustelle and I would visit Winifred and Cliff after school. That is how I met Al and Maude Zeliph, Winifred’s parents, and Cliff’s parents too. Eventually I met the other relatives who lived in the compound near the Zeliph’s house and barn.

     It turned out that Cliff and I had varied and similar interests. We played baseball, football, basketball and hockey. We hunted and trapped. We fished together at the lake. When I was not with my brother John, Cliff and I explored the many trails and dirt roads in every direction within a ten mile radius of our homes in Continental Village.

     Once Cliff and I fought each other to a draw after an argument on the old tractor road which connected Sprout Brook Road and Putnam Road, and I took the blame for starting the fight. We never fought again. We respected each other’s strength and tenacity. His mother phoned my mother and complained about it. For several weeks after the fight Mrs. Holmes reminded me of my bad behavior when I showed my face at her door. I don’t recall what she said but it was something on the order of “Here’s the city boy!” and there was a bit of mockery in her voice as she said it. Whenever Mrs. Holmes did this, I felt like crawling out of sight or eating humble pie.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN—COLLECTING CREEPING CEDAR FOR CHIRSTMAS WREATHS

 

     I always enjoyed walking through the pines after a heavy wet snowfall. I wore a winter coat, gloves and boots, and imagined myself a pioneer adventurer. I would enter the pines on the east side of Cortlandt Lake near the junction of Putnam Road and Tryon Circle. I was never alone on these walks. Chickadees flew from tree to tree and followed me as I walked along an old horse trail to the lake dam. These tiny birds were as curious about me as I was of them. Did they wonder about the empty burlap bag which I carried over my shoulder or the special task I was requested to perform before Christmas, 1947?

     I looked down at the snow-covered path ahead of me and saw rabbit, raccoon and deer tracks, and my eyes searched the surrounding pines for these wild animals. I stopped and listened, but heard only the short chirps of the chickadees.

     Sometimes snow slid off the tree branches and landed on me or near me. It wasn’t the fault of the chickadees. The temperature was ten degrees above freezing, so the snow on the pine boughs just slid off at the slightest rustling of wind. When I got snow in my face, I just smiled and brushed it off. My hair and face got wet and cold because I did not wear a hat.

     I stood at the edge of the dam and looked north. A thin layer of ice covered the lake from the dam to beyond the island. I suspected there was open water near the old wood bridge at the inlet. As December progressed to January, that area would be covered with ice too. For a boy looking for adventure, one inch of ice was sufficient to stand on, two inches or more were sufficient to skate on.

     Following the old rocky path down to the pool at the bottom of the dam, I stood and gazed at the water pouring through the center outlet. I wondered about how fish survived in such cold water, or under ice. Did they live or die? I watched two crows circle high over the lake. Then I turned and walked along the old horse path to the bridge at Highland Drive, where I stood and watched the water speed under the bridge south toward Annsville Creek. There were small pieces of ice floating in Sprout Brook, and I would set my eyes on one and follow it until the ice went out of sight.

     The sun usually came out after a heavy snowfall but this day was grey with unbroken clouds. I walked along Highland Drive to the intersection of Heath Terrace, and I entered the pines near the outlet from Spy Pond on the lake side of the road. It was a very quiet place. Houses had not been built here yet.

     My mother had sent me on a mission to collect creeping (running) cedar, which grew in this location in abundance. I placed the burlap bag on the snow-covered ground, and started to clear a wide area with my gloved hands. I gathered enough for three or four hand-crafted Christmas wreaths, sometimes breaking the small vines as they held firmly in the ground.  As I finished stuffing the burlap bag, I realized that ice, snow, dirt, and vines of creeping cedar were mixed inside the bag. Perhaps my sense of smell was extra sensitive caused by allergies to mold, but I could smell the wild fragrance of this concoction and I would always remember it.

     Returning home by the same route, I exited the pines and said goodbye to the chickadees, crossed Putnam Road, followed the old tractor road half the distance to Sprout Brook Road, and crossed a snowy field and entered the breezeway to my house. I dropped the burlap bag in the breezeway, and entered the house to the gratifying smell of fresh bread baking in the oven. My mother was in the kitchen.

     "I got the creeping cedar, Ma!"

     "Thank you," she replied.

     When I expressed a hungry boy's interest in the bread, my mother proposed a trade: a slice of fresh baked bread with butter in exchange for the burlap bag filled with creeping cedar.

     I got the first cut of freshly baked bread, which riled my brother John but pleased me immensely.