Bob Read
docbob@jayco.net

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Kind persons are often those who have suffered. Those for whom the kindness of others is a personal blessing know its meaning. Homer VanWinkle treasured kindness. I knew Homer as a boy knows a friendly, kindly old man. His limbs were nearly useless; he could walk, but with difficulty. His hands could grip his cane or newspaper; his speech was slurred and slow. He drooled and tended to shower close conversants.

In years gone by, Homer worked for Heck Tulpin in the harness shop, a major business establishment in downtown Franklin. He showed me pictures of the harness shop crew taken at a time when every farmer or traveler needed harness for their horses. When I knew Homer, he had retired to a single room in a house just across the railroad tracks from the cemetery. I delivered his newspaper each morning. Homer was starved for company, so delivering his newspaper required ten or fifteen minutes. The paper could not be tossed on the porch nor stuck behind the screen. No indeed. It was necessary to knock, wait patiently while Homer dragged himself to the door, and then enter for a visit. The newspaper seemed incidental. But he did read it, and he wanted to talk about what he read, or what school was like, and what people in Franklin were doing. Conversation was painful. I learned to wait for Homer to express simple thoughts and questions. Almost every morning I would edge toward the door saying that I had to finish my route, and as I was about to leave, Homer would painfully turn toward the back wall of his room. There hung the blue uniform of an army officer. Looking at the well preserved costume, Homer would say as I left, "That was my father’s you know. He was in the Civil War."

I think everyone liked Homer and cared about him. I know I did, but I learned something about how others thought of him from my Grandmother Read.

It is necessary to establish that she was extremely fussy about personal matters. When she hung her washing on the line to dry, she always hid her "under things", her "flimsies", under a sheet so no stranger could see them.

When weather permitted, Homer drug his crippled body down town and back, usually to call at the post office and to visit with friends. The trip home was slow and tedious; sometimes the call of nature caught up with him before he reached home, and he could not hurry. Grandma Read’s out-house was near the alley which was Homer’s route. One summer day, Homer knew he could not get home before nature overcame his resistance, so he limped to Grandma Read’s outhouse, seated himself, and no doubt sighed with relief.

Homer must have lingered several minutes, because Grandma, answering a similar call, quietly and without warning opened the out house door. There sat Homer in spectacular disarray. With some loss of color and heroic control, Grandma closed the door and returned to the house to await Homer’s departure. Significant to me, she had no unkind words for or about Homer with respect to the incident. However, upon his return home, Granddad Read received firm and explicit instructions to install an inside lock on the out house door so that Homer would not be embarrassed again.

Billie Cline lived in "Pullman". South of Franklin across the CB&Q tracks, past the cemetery, right on the edge of the new Route 104. I couldn’t guess exactly how old he was, he was a young, adult man when I was a boy. Billie resided with his parents, but his mind spent most of his days in another world. As Grandmother Hart often said, "Billie’s a good person, but he’s not quite right in the head. He was big and round, occasionally clean shaved, more often not, but always in denim overalls and denim shirt. He wore little more, and I can recall Billie walking in snow with no coat or sweater.

When Billie walked he sort of rolled along at a slow pace, eyes fixed on the ground ahead, and he talked. He talked constantly. Some said Billie talked to himself, but I believe he talked to people who were more real to him than any of us kids who occasionally teased him. He often walked in that slow; rolling gait along the railroad tracks talking as though he were auctioning the track. He sang out the wanted price in a high voice and made bids in other voices. We all knew that Billie sold and bought the CB&Q several times each week. Other times some of us boys would chance upon Billie lying on the cold ground in the village park. "Sing us a song, Billie," we would tease. And, if he were, at the moment, in communication with the real world, he would sing his only song. He sang, "My wife and I live all alone in a little brown hut we call our own. She loves gin and I love rum, tell you what it is don’t we have fun. Ho ho ho, hee hee hee, little brown jug don’t I love thee." I don’t know to this day if those are the correct words to the song "Little Brown Jug", but I am sure that’s what Billie sang.

I don’t believe our juvenile teasing bothered Billie, he never appeared angry. But it still bothers me some, and I have a twinge of guilt. I don’t know what happened to him in later years, but I hope he’s warm and has an endless track to sell and buy as he pleases.

Few members of my generation knew her name was Florence; we called her Deafy or Deefy Woods. She was completely deaf. She could talk, though she was not easily understood. Miss Woods, as my parents admonished me to call her, communicated with Franklin folks with paper and pencil. She must have lost her ability to hear after some schooling; she was literate and could speak; though her voice was soft and strained.

Miss Woods lived on Rail Road Street; her back door nestled up close to Mr. and Mrs. Henry’s house. She made a meager living baking and delivering bread and cakes to Franklin customers. Baking in a "cook stove" heated with wood and scraps of soft coal, which she managed to garner. Miss Woods built her fire in the dark hours of morning and busied herself with

Baking ingredients while the fire matured. Delivering her newspaper was a pleasure, the aroma in her kitchen alone was worth the stop, and the occasional sample a valued reward.

There was a special procedure for delivering Miss Woods’ paper. If I stood by the back door and stomped on the porch floor, stomped hard, Miss Woods would feel the vibration and come to the door. This only worked if she were in the kitchen, but she made plenty of noise, it was easy to tell. An important source of kitchen noise was her oven door, which she opened and closed frequently as she baked. The slamming and squeaking could be heard clear out on Railroad Street, a sure indication Miss Woods was hard at work.

But that slamming and squeaking annoyed Mrs. Henry. It woke her up much too early, and it seemed continuous. One spring morning she decided she could abide the terrible squeaking no longer. She instructed Mr. Henry to stop that noise. Perhaps if he would go next door and oil Miss Woods’ oven door hinges, the noise could be stopped.

Mr. Henry was not eager to tackle this task, but he located an oilcan and trudged the short distance to Miss Woods’ back porch. He had not been instructed about the porch stomping method of arousing Miss Woods’ attention. He knocked. He yelled. Other neighbors heard and peaked through curtains to see what was happening. Mr. Henry finally turned to go home only to meet the stern visage of Mrs. Henry. "Just go on in and oil the door", she said. "She ‘ll. thank you for it."

In the door went Mr. Henry. He spied Miss Woods, her back to him, busy kneading dough. "Just want to oil your oven door." He shouted, but she heard nothing. Well, Mr. Henry went straight to his work. He bent over the hot stove, opened the oven door, and proceeded to oil the hinges.

He was almost finished when Miss Woods turned and saw a strange man bent over her stove; perhaps stealing bread from her oven. I have mentioned that her voice was soft. It usually was, but on that occasion she let loose a whoop heard all over the neighborhood. She dropped a crock of dough and stepped in the resulting mess. That brought on another whoop. Mr. Henry was heading for the back door when she caught up with him, broom in hand. Miss Woods chased Mr. Henry off her porch and almost to his door before she realized whom she was chasing. She stopped swiping at him with the broom and stood dumbfounded. He soft voice returned, she repeated over and over, what in the world did he want? What was he doing in my house?

For many days Mr. Henry suffered jibes from friends and customers at Schaaf’s General Store where he clerked. Miss Woods continued about her business, occasionally asking, "What was he doing in my kitchen?"

On that rare occasion when I get a whiff of baking bread, it conjures an image of "Deafy" Woods, tall, gray, neatly dressed, a heavy covered basket on her arm as she walks the streets of Franklin trailing an heavenly aroma.

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