FACE TO FACE PART I

I have more pictures in the camera. The Scrapplers in the photos had no problem being published, others folks who objected were cropped.

This is the town square in Ligonier where others shopped till they dropped. Not me, to weary. The above Ligonier VFW looked more like a movie theater. The very top was a wooded scene by the camp site

A lazy river near Falling Waters, Frank Lloyd Wright's design for the Kaufman family who, by the way owned Kaufman's Department store. Thanks Onlineanalyst for the correction





















Corner of Frank Lloyd Wrights home--hard to get a good shot













The Falling Waters home. Best I could do





That is what it said. We should have spent a day here at the white water river.


Ohiopyle and the Youghiogheny river




More of the river. Bad deal for me because I ran out of film and the fresh roll was at the cabin








The path to our cabin. The cabin picture is on the unfinished roll which, when finished will be published













The top is Mr and Mrs Beerme (Mike and Alice)and
Hawkeye peaking from the corner







The second photo is Hawkeye and Camojack (rear). Hawkeye has his towel handy because he is about to tour the Galaxy






This is our face to face tree for those who doubt there is a God who loves Scrappleface



An early morning shot before others arose. Oh, those weak bladders.

THE SKUNK LAKE LABOR DAY CHURCH PICNIC

Across the Northern Plains, Labor Day signifies the end of summer. Winter looms beyond the colorful hues of autumn and when you live in the Northland, every waking moment is spent concerning oneself with winter's onslaught.

A well worn Minnesota proverb states the Indians always know how bad the winter will be by observing the size of white-man's wood pile. Though the story is overused, but oft repeated in Minnesota bars, there is a grain of truth in it--folks spend an inordinate amount of time worrying if their wood supply is as big as their neighbors. Indians don't.

Truthfully though, Labor Day does send a panic across the wooded fields, farms and lakes regions. Summer vanishes immediately after September 1st. Every God-fearing man knows the crops have to be brought in and the wood pile tended too. Soon the great white male hormones will kick in and the deer, and a few Holsteins, from that point on is in danger of being consumed. It is a fact Labor Day sets off the seasonal clock of which no man can stop.

Olaf Sundine ,who ran the local Deep Rock filling station decided several years ago to break tradition. He declared a week long Labor Day celebration, totally wiping out seven whole productive days of harvesting and chopping wood.

The shocking proclamation angered the local clergy. Sloth is not part of the fabric of Minnesota heritage. The sermons about town reminded the faithful of the horrid consequences of the grasshopper who fiddled away his resourceful days. His woodpile needed tended to and the freezer remained empty as others about busied themselves as the green leaves became golden with nature's first frost. To make matters worse there was not a even single potato put into his empty bin.

The sermons worked and Olaf's banners came down the very next morning. Things were even slow at the Three Bean Cafe as the guilt had most folks going about there business instead of arguing nonsense over a cup of coffee. Years slipped by since the failed week long festival fell to defeat but now this upcoming Sunday was the 17th Annual Skunk Lake Church Picnic, that glorious once a year festival where Catholics, Lutherans, and all the lesser religions were allowed to mix amongst each other without seeking forgiveness.

The Skunk Lake pavilion always promised a 24 foot festive smorgasbord filled with scrumptious casseroles, sandwiches crafted from white bread, fried chicken and desserts beyond one's imagination. To any normal Northlander this event would be an offering from heaven, but a great fog of guilt hung in the midst of Lake City because the local pastors felt among themselves that a repeat of the "Grasshopper Sermon," was in need. Not for any reason in particular, they just wanted to keep their faithfuls on alert. Just the slightest mention in a church sermon about cutting firewood made it sound like a commandment from God. "Go ye into the woods and cut oak, birch and a little poplar and stack it neatly," so saith the Lord. Now, visions of half frozen grasshoppers gripped the imagination of every man in town.

Jim Sweeny was besides himself. He bought a new Husqvarna chainsaw the previous week but was unable to get out in the woods until a defective replacement part arrived from the distributor, who by the way, took a week off for a long Labor Day vacation. Jim overhauled the engine on the Farmall three times trying to fight off his nervous energy. After that dreaded sermon last Sunday there wasn't a chainsaw to be rented in a twenty mile area.

His wife Irma, the chairwoman of the Prairie Women's Quilting Circle, wanted to run him out of the house during Friday's quilting circle, with no luck. Jim stayed on the kitchen phone all afternoon frantically searching every dealer in the state for the lost chainsaw part. Since he was within earshot of the ladies nobody had the freedom to discuss "personal matters of community importance."

After Jim downed three pots of coffee from the stained "I Love Trees," coffee mug, which in turn caused him to make just enough bathroom trips to set Irma on edge, she threw down her quilt pieces, called The Blue Ox Mower and Saw Service and told them to send the damned part airmail from Sweden, Norway or where ever in the name of Samuel H. they made the blasted thing or they would have a murder on their hands.

Sunday finally crept in with everyone miraculously avoiding homicide induced by insanity. All in all the day proved to be rather quiet and, unlike the week leading up to this day, free of guilt. It was, after all a holiday weekend, the Sabbath and a day of feasting and merriment, though the only downside came after the men discovered the firewood for the weenie roast had disappeared. No further comment needed.

As the afternoon sun started to set and the cooler air of sudden-autumn set in, the Mayor, Clyde Overstart, hit the genuine Skunk Lake hollow log with a gavel signaling the days end and the awarding of the much coveted prizes.

To nobody's surprise Clara Ivarson took home the blue ribbon for best edible sculpture. This marked her 7th-first-place award and this year it was a Jell-O likeness of Walter Mondale. Clara felt it expressed her deep hearted condolence for his humiliating defeat four years earlier. She appropriately named it "The Fritz Jello".

After a long list of awards for children, dogs and ugly farm implements, the evening concluded with Skunk Lake's most coveted award–the most offensive pair of men's bib overalls, followed by the "ceremonial burial of the OshKoshes." The men folk took this seriously and seized every effort possible to make their bibs worthy of being buried with the "legends."

My Uncle Ernie for instance left his bibs hanging in Tom Henderson's mink shed all year. The pungent smell of mink musk saturated the overalls so bad he had to bring them in a sealed container pulled in a manure spreader behind his tractor to keep them away from his picknicin' bibs.

To keep everything above reproach a different family took the honors of judging and handing out the awards each year. Still, rumors quickly spread that Irma slipped $50 in the offering plate since Pastor Yungfest's family was in charge of the judging. She, if the rumors were true, had hopes of Jim taking home the award of King Stinker, therefore taking his mind off that dreadful chainsaw.

Well, fear of reproach being such as it was back then may have caused Jim to loose, but he took a close second with his nasty fish bucket bibs. The honors instead went to Uncle Ernie's musky mink bibs.

Uncle Ernie felt bad about being King Stinker two years in a row, or so he said. He falsely admitted to cheating, then fabricated a story about digging up last years bibs that hung in the back house for months on end then used as a farrowing blanket in the pig shed. With a wink to Irma, he handed the bronzed Copenhagen box over to Jim.

Though by default, winning the King Stinker award was a good omen for Jim. Tuesday morning his lost chainsaw part arrived first class by airmail. By October Jim had the largest woodpile in the county due to his prized Husqvarna.

The Indians predicted a cold winter based on Jim's huge stack of firewood–or so Uncle Ernie told me and you know what, it turned out to be the fiercest winter in 20 years. You know, ol' Uncle Ernie wasn't so goofy after all.

AMAZING GRACE HOW LOST I WAS

This story, first published in July of 1997 in a California newspaper, is a promise made to our Scrapple friend Mary Pearce whose son just received his pastorate at this very same church. Small world, eh, I don't know. I think there is a purpose in all things. [Ecclesiastes 3:1] It is important to remember I wrote it from my 1972 religious prospective, so anything that sounds anti-church is not the view held today.


The first killing frost of the season fell upon the birch covered Minnesota lakes region and it seemed I had no more than settled into my peaceful life as Miss One With Nature when some deity tried to rattle my existence.

With the city limits sign of Cleveland still a toxic memory, I, along with a hoard of land-hungry hippies clutching issues of Mother Earth News, settled into a small rural area of Minnesota, raised chickens, goats and eyebrows. Most of us were looking for anything but religion. As a fallen Lutheran who saw God as a cosmic magnet that tugged humanity into oozy blobs of one-religion-fits all, I despised doctrinal chaos. Moving to the country made sense to me and Frank, my once addicted, now clean, but a little paranoid friend, where we could be content to be nothing

That warm fuzzy God theory met a challenge one day in what I seem to remember as being somewhere in the early '70's, as we read a flier taped to the window of a coffee shop. It said Evangelist Milford T. Harrington (name not real to protect my poor memory), guest speaker from Kentucky, would share a testimony on his frightening encounter with Satan. The way I understood the filer, Beelzebub and this Baptist preacher met face to face with each other. I knew Lutherans never talked with the devil so I said to Frank as we sipped on the coffee that cold afternoon, "I'm a little curious on what kind of dialogue took place between this dark sinister figure–and a back home country preacher."

Normally, in our little town we did not stick out much since there were more than a few back-to-nature freaks mixed in with local farmers, jack pine savages and tourists who often smelled of fish. But poor Frank didn't fit in with the church crowd very well. He had a cosmic twin brother named Frank Zappa. The previous winter we traveled to Martha's Vineyard, home of James Taylor, and the buzz about town said Zappa showed up to cut a record with Taylor.

So here we are, celebrity twin of the lanky, long haired Zappa, and me, wire rimmed, tied-dyed blouse, blue jeans and Red Wing boots, sitting like an out-of-place band of gypsies in a Baptist Church in the small town of Park Rapids. The evangelist walked to the podium and after a few hymns, passes the plate and commenced to preaching. Well, we blew it.

Seems like the Reverend Milford T. Harrington started with the dark tales of his demonic conversations on Tuesday, continued through the week with frightening accounts of heathens and idolaters toasting in the great abyss. Friday night climaxed to great crescendo of fire and brimstone to drag in reckless souls, inebriates and other wayward types whom the devil himself would surely make mincemeat out of some day.

In a grand Kentucky Baptist style, Milford T. Harrington wasted no time moving into the grand finale of alter calls. He jumped, yelled, sweated and cried. With a white handkerchief in one hand and the Bible in the other, he orchestrated a wonderful show of good old fashioned Bible thumping. He continued this plea for souls until the veins popped from his forehead. Soon his cold steely eyes locked on to Frank's, then he glanced over to me. To drown out the fear my mind started singing, "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz."

The clock on the wall ticked slowly while he brought down the gates of Hell. An hour later half the county was pleading for mercy. Poor Frank was blind sided and never blinked an eye. Truthfully I must admit he never looked so pale.

If a confession is needed here I almost went forward and probably should have, but my knees were so weak I never would have made it and the act of falling to the floor may not have been seen as a Baptist tradition like some churches I have visited over my many years. There was no doubt that I had danced about the devils playground and needed to set things right with the Almighty, but not right then. I never move when fear is present.

Meanwhile, poor Harrington was turning hoarse, he quoted 16 more passages, wiped the sweat from his brow, gave one more alter call for good measure and finally gave up on the hippie couple from Pequot Lakes. It was nearly midnight and most of the old women had fallen off to sleep in the nursery.

After the last hymn and closing prayer (one more chance to get in the kill) we politely shook hands with the pastor and traveling evangelist. Two lost souls never to be notched into his gospel gun walked out into the cool Minnesota night air.

So what happened on that cold night in 1972? The drive home to our farm was rather quiet. I felt cheated I didn't get to hear his tales of devilish conversations. The Northern lights seem to flicker a solemn good-by to an evening nobody anticipated. Many would ask if God gave up on us. I can't answer for Frank since our ways parted not long after but for myself the answer would no.

There would be many arguments over my soul from that day onand finally on another cold Minnesota night three years later a decision was made by myself as I drove home in my old ‘48 Dodge pickup. The moon was full and no headlights were needed as I stared into the night where the northern sky held the majesty of His artwork. How could I say no to such a God.

LIFE, CAMPING AND OTHER STUPID THINGS

With thoughts of The Scrapplefest running through my mind I am reminded of this story composed not long after a disastrous weekend back in '98. Ihope this isn't an omen of things to come. Nah, those days are gone--I pray.

I am a hopeless romantic. Not in the area of creating tender relationships or imagining endless evenings of drifting thoughts folding into a fantasy world of senseless love built around heroes that look a bit overly effeminate with their locks of golden tresses. Perhaps some would just call me overly optimistic. While I may see a glass of water and say it is half full, not half empty, if I stare long enough, it becomes a glass of rare champagne bubbling away in a crystal glass.

If you haven't caught my drift perhaps this may clarify my statement. When I plan an event, contemplate a trip, or as far as that goes, just about anything that has a chance to rattle about in my brain soon goes out of control. Thought patterns soon turn mental anthills into something more gargantuan than the Wall of China.

It is easy to recall numerous instances of this destructive mental condition which resides in my psyche. Stories of misshapen grandeur can rattle off my memory bank leaving me with a repertoire of nightmares incubated from simple dreams, most leaving me downcast and humiliated. Now you ask, "can a lesson be learned from all this higgeldy piggeldy." Never. Remember I am hopeless.

This is an example. After I arrived back in Ohio in 1998, I decided two take up two hobbies, Bluegrass music and camping. After falling in with a group of roving musicians I decided to book a weekend at a ritzy resort where the musicians were playing. Well, really it was a campground. (You see how easy I build things up). Now mind you the last time I went tent camping gas was 29 cents a gallon. Later in life, when I wore a band about my finger, we invested in a real camper with all the luxuries of home, mostly, somewhat. But now times were different and without said camper I opted for a tent purchased at K-Mart plus numerous accessories to enhance this upcoming wilderness experience.

Still in possession of at least half my brain I asked my younger neighbor to help me set up this blazing orange prefab-nylon housing unit in my backyard, so when presented with a pile of aluminum tubing, yellow spikes and assorted hardware there would not be a sudden brain collapse at the campsite.

Now perched comfortably in my backyard with an adult beverage in hand, a perfect mental scenario was set in place for my wilderness experience, ala Bluegrass concert. Thoughts of experiencing a Euell Gibbons moment stalking a wild Rosemary plant, then later immersing myself in the rustic surroundings wearing expensive yuppie Eddie Bauer slacks, sitting by the fire with a frosty glass of micro-brewed ginseng tea and nibbling on a high-bush cranberry filled croissant. Above, the distant mournful cry of a loon flying off into the night sky and below, in my tent, lie unfinished manuscripts of neglected writings and unfinished plays under my Smith Corona. Then, sadly, the phone rang and the Lady Walter Middy had to run home.

The next day rains of Biblical proportions fell upon my backyard cabana. After bailing out nearly three gallons of water, I stood disgusted with the whole idea of tent camping. I'm sure Euell could have handled the situation well, so therefore go I. Soon my kitchen held the aroma of homemade granola and chocolate chip cookies, which along with everything imaginable found a place in the back of my creamy white F-150. (Sorry, it was an Eddie Bauer edition Ford).

Upon arrival late that afternoon the campground owner drew me a map to my campsite, a deserted remote spot on the hill. Nobody else was within sight. Could this be, me alone to brave the wilds. A million what-if's soared through my mind, but with brave determination I threw the orange multi-pieced monster to the ground and broke camp. Sort of. I knew I could lick the problem of tent erection because I had a brand new roll of duct tape. Darkness started to creep in, first through the woods then across the meadow.

I was still spread eagle across the tent attempting to shove the aluminum tubes into the hidden loops when a senior citizen out for a stroll happened by. He rescued me by actually following the directions. Exhausted, I ran the power cord from the pole and plugged in all my electrical appliances. Don't laugh, even Euell would have enjoyed freshly ground coffee to go with his whole wheat, alfalfa bagel.

About midnight Beulah, my basset hound, retired to her comfortable cage. My sleeping accommodations left a little to be desired. Every bump on the ground dug deep into my back, even though I was on my cot. About 2 a.m. a horrid smell penetrated my nostrils. The undomesticated surroundings caused my dog to forget the fundamentals of being housebroke. A quick clean-up took place and soon, cold and damp, I found the little emergency space heater and sought out sleep.

The next morning the sun burned through the fog. Everything was soaked by the heavy dew left by the cool night air. I no longer felt like the lady in the Eddy Bauer magazine. Instead I felt humiliated that my first night in the "wild" turned out so creepy. Disgustedly I walked to the campground cafe for breakfast. When I returned I discovered new neighbors had moved in. Of the 50 some empty campsites spread all over the hill, an elderly Old Church Mennonite couple decided to settle in right next to me.

By noon the dew dried off and the campsite started to fall in place once again. My old Coleman propane stove had not seen service since the ‘95 Northridge earthquake, so after a search in the junk box I managed to find all the parts to fire it up. A can of beans was opened and quietly set on the burner--three minutes later the stove exploded, sending flames of perdition all about my body. Fortunately the worse part of the experience was singed hair. My new neighbors just sat and shook their heads and although they spoke low German, it was obvious to me what they were saying.

The spot I wanted to set up camp soon opened to new campers, though I was told that area would remain closed for the weekend. Everyone who came to enjoy the festival all settled into the new campsite leaving me alone with the Mennonites, who hurried to the phone booth in order to call their friends to come watch the crazy lady. The sounds of laughter and merriment of the other campground did little to cover the low German tongue wagging.

Later that afternoon I walked down to the Bluegrass festival. A grand time was had by all but myself. At last count I had one wet sleeping area, one blown up Coleman stove, one dog who forgot she was housebroke, one empty rumbling stomach and of course one nosy set of neighbors complete with German talking friends. After the festival I walked back to my campsite, built a bonfire, then it rained.

The next morning arrived with the promised sunshine. The solar warmth felt like such a blessing since jungle rot started to set in on my soaked feet. A look about my campsite was depressing. The clothes were wet and dirty and looked like they belonged to a vagrant who slept under a bridge. Uncooked food sat about for the flies to feast on and for myself, well the smell of burnt hair still followed me around. My dignity fell to an all time low so I headed into the nearest large town and found a Wal Mart to replace my stove and to pick up a hot pizza.

Eternally optimistic, my spirit continued onward now that hot food had been reintroduced into my weekend diet. Another day of camping had yet to unfold before me. Things will change I promised myself. The rest of the day became painfully insufferable as I found ants had moved into the tent looking for crumbs of potato chips. I had it up to here (can you see my hand) so like any calm camper I gleefully went to the pay phone to call about a camper I saw for sale. The owners came down to the campground but a price offered was not a price accepted so I returned to my much hated tent, cooked supper and returned to the festival and hob-nobbed till late into the night.

Midnight found me back at the campsite. The Mennonite couple and their crowd of onlookers had pulled sometime during the evening. I sat there feeling down and alone. What a weekend. This lady never took out her mandolin, never wrote a story, never cracked a book and certainly never foraged for high-bush cranberries. With no regrets I broke camp a day early. Still God had mercy on me. On my way out the owner booked a fall show and plans were laid for a storytelling festival for the next summer.

The leaky tent and camping gear were once again packed in the back of my Eddie Bauer Edition Ford. My basset dog and I took a leisurely ride home following back roads, the only compass was the sun. It gave me time to think about the next storytelling festival and the book deal that would likely come about if I could just...see there I go again. Sigh, a legend in my own mind.

DEATH, RESURRECTION & OH DEAR GOD PLEASE HELP ME

For an adult, understanding death can be a difficult subject to comprehend. Death is a mystery. After all we don't travel between life and the great hereafter on a regular basis. To complicate matters--what we read in the Bible may be more frightful than a hair-raising novel, especially when you are of tender age.

By tender age I am not referring to an six-year-old with an over-taxed imagination, but a 12 year old with a heart that desired to know and understand God, especially why in the world He allowed death to become so confusing.

Funerals were always number one on my list of mind messers. To understand you must walk back to an age when what you heard oft' times did not correspond to what was being spoken.

The pain of death became reality one chilly autumn morning when my parents received a call stating Grandpa Johanson died in his sleep. Although both grandparents on my mother's side passed on, it didn't rip into the very inner being of my heart like Grandpa Nels death. He taught me how to catch a fish with a cane pole while his stories of the "old country" kept me riveted to his side for hours

My parents had the car packed long before supper and off to Iowa we drove, not with the great excitement of summer vacation. This was a solemn journey back home. Soon after arriving we were ushered into funeral home, heavy with the scent of flowers, along with a blend of other unusual and unidentifiable odors.

The organist played a long itinerary of solemn and depressing songs as if we needed to have our sad hearts primed for even more pain. I gazed upon the bronze colored casket where Grandpa lay. Behind me the sounds of women softly weeping could be heard along with men clearing their throats as they attempted to ease their uncomfortable feelings.

After a melody of Rock of Ages and Nearer My God To Thee, Pastor Erickson stepped to the pulpit, and there sat myself, so much in need of answers--but the next thirty-five minutes brought bombardments of fear and horrid visions as the word of God turned on me. I could hardly catch my breath.

The pastor started out by reading The 23rd Psalm. "The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want.." There it was, that horrible verse! "I shall not want the Lord, my shepherd." Over and over the verse reverberated in my mind, "I shall not want." As it struck home a loud gasp came from my mouth, which was returned by a jab in the side from my brother.

"Didn't you hear what that man just said?" I asked. A shhh! from dad resulted in another jab in the side.

Reality unraveled from that point on as I sunk further into fear. The 23rd Psalm went on to say, "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures." Now I ask you, have you ever tried to make a 12 year-old do anything? Besides, we didn't want a shepherd any more so why lay around in some pasture when we had to find our own way to heaven?

No wonder everyone looked so somber and ashen around me. So here we are, passed away from one life to what the Bible claimed was another. "From dust we came and to dust we go," started making sense. Obviously we were destined to get dusted in the great by and by.

In reality the 23rd Psalm did contain a few particles of comfort, but what about this Valley of the Shadow and Death? Oh my, dying just can not be any blessing whatsoever. Besides you didn't dare get hungry because you table was prepared right in front of your enemies.

Pastor Erickson finished the Psalm with a grisly illustration of my head being dipped in oil and the way things sounded when you ran to get a drink of water, the spigot wouldn't shut off and the cup ran over. Who, pray tell, would wallop me for that one.

The pastor closed his Bible, proceeded to tell the story of my grandparent's journey to the new country, his years owning a Standard Oil station and his successful farming ventures. Then he asked us to repeat with him the Apostle's Creed.

Things went fine until we got to the part about judging the quick from the dead. So tell me, just how fast must you run to keep ahead of death. I looked over my shoulder, knowing for certain death was stalking me, only to see cousin sticking his tongue out. Now, this was a good time for the quick to judge him.

I was not sure whether I wanted to release Grandpa to Jesus. He was better off down here working the farm. And what did I have to look forward to? After all, angelic behavior did not become me. So many promises in the Bible, so many great illustrations, why did this pastor blow the whole illusion?

Obviously many changes occurred in my theology as I have grown older. A little semicolon in the first verse readjusted my thinking. "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want." The green pastures and still waters are now a welcome oasis in a busy confused world. Death is no longer an enemy, but a reward for weary earth bound pilgrims.

I learned the oil is the spirit of my Lord being poured on weary bodies to soften the callous places where this dry and dusty world have worked us over. The table prepared before my enemies? How glorious to fellowship with the Great Master while your enemies look on and find themselves powerless to break that tender moment when you sup with the Lord Jesus.

Most of I all I realized, yes, I did miss Grandpa. He was a giant of as man. His hands were big enough to pick me up and toss me into the hay or grab a plow and hitch it to a tractor. But his hands were only human and soon became old and frail, as will ours someday.

Yet there is one whose hands are truly big enough to pick me up when I fall and gentle enough to protect as a father should. His heart, so big, it burst on the cross 2,000 years ago. Not the cross of death, but the cross of eternal life of which we all can share. That's pretty big.

That is the "Lord who is my shepherd: and because of Him I shall not want."

The Day Finneous Fell From The Sky

IN THE BEGINNING

During the early years of the previous century some relatives on my dear mothers side, God rest her soul, migrated west from Kentucky into Illinois only to get rather confused and and mistakenly head back east to the lower regions of Ohio. There, mind you, the Kentucky pilgrims experienced some of man’s extraordinary achievements not generally seen back home, such as the new mode of transportation for the everyday human being--the automobile which replaced the horse, the mule and to some degree the railroad. More stupendous yet, aviation was just beginning to, excuse the expression, sprout wings.

In larger cities around Ohio an occasional bi-wing or dirigible could be observed creating headways into the heavens, but one must remember only a few years earlier from the time my family settled in the untamed Ohio wilderness, the Wright Brothers accomplished what man only once dreamed of. Since that inspiring day only modest improvements had been made to the design of the aereoplane. The stratosphere was still an open frontier for both the brave and the foolish.

According to unsubstantiated stories handed down to me, my great Uncle Finneous, a short, fiery red haired, Irishman whose only wardrobe consisted of Osh Kosh coveralls, considered himself an inventor of sorts. For reasons unknown he settled away from the remaining "confused" Kentuckians and settled into a mixed Irish, German community known as Plumwood, slightly west of Columbus, where he felt a man such as himself could find the respect due him for his mechanical wizardry.

One notion in particular drove Finneous and that was to revamp the aereoplane and bring to it the dignity of the common automobile. In the study of physics, early pioneers of flight realized gravity still had the upper hand over man. Finneous understood just one thing-- an aircraft had to have both propulsion for a successful takeoff and enormous horsepower to keep said object from crashing back to earth. Physics occupied no part in his reasoning. He felt gliding through the sky on currents of warm air, hoping with all ones might that the gasoline engine had the stamina to keep running, kept daredevils electrified.

All that aviation tomfoolery was fine enough for the common thinker and wayward inventors. Lodged deep in the imaginative sector of Finneous’s brain, was an idea that kept him awake many a night. Why not, he thought, build an aerosedan complete with the comforts of side curtains and luxurious upholstery. It just so happened my great uncle had just the vehicle to start with–a late model 1923 Packard he acquired after the beautiful coach met an unfortunate encounter with a steam locomotive. Most of the body survived but the front wheels and engine ended up sinking into a large stone quarry.

THE MIND CAN BE A DANGEROUS PLACE TO LIVE

Systematically he stripped the once luxurious coupe of all unnecessary road equipment that had no business flying over the heads of local citizens. My great uncle then began to fabricate wings, struts, propellers and other aeronautical equipment from parts strewn about the farm and local junkyards.

Although he tried to keep his project a secret, fear soon spread about the area by yet another recent addition to the community–radio station KUR, which made a point to broadcast the ongoing progress of what the announcers dubbed "Finneous’s Packarplane." Even the best oral rendition of his ornate flying machine left the locals conjuring up mental images of huge winged monstrosities created only to scare both delicate women and uppity livestock by crashing mercilessly into houses with blazing fires. Several poorly designed dirigibles found similar fate and were little trusted by Ohio residents. It didn’t take long before signs started cropping up along the gravel road leading to Finneous’s farm stating, "God is in the heavens and He has not invited us there,"or "Save our cows from falling cars."

On blustery days Finneous would tow his aereocar to the highest elevation of his farm to see how the craft would react in the wind. During one particular mid-summer thunderstorm, the tail section lifted suddenly and heaved the test vehicle down the hill. When station KUR reported the unfortunate accident on the Gleaming White Laundry Noon News, the calamity only increased the towns paranoia.

This flaw caused Finneous to make a major correction in the tail section but another problem arose in the wing supports. He discovered strong updrafts had a tendency of yanking off the doors which held the flexible struts that connected the wings to the body. The disgruntled scientist feared moving the wings closer to the front would add an unbalancing amount of weight to the front, since an engine, if he ever found one, would likely cause a terrible nosedive once in the air.

As the flaws were somehow discovered and revealed by drug-store-detective and radio announcer Virgil McGiffle on his, "Afternoon Livestock and Community Interest Report," the anger amongst the towns folks increased to the point Finneous deceivingly reported to Virgil his project had been abandoned and he was going to put his energy into building a lightning driven power plant that would store enough electricity to run a farm for nearly a year. A collective sigh could be heard across Plumwood.

Finneous pulled the dismantled plane into the barn and behind locked doors studied the wing layout. It suddenly struck him as he puffed away on his Prince Albert filled pipe to relocate the wings under the car body, a design not yet attempted by other aviators. He quickly disassembled the flawed setup and crafted new wings which attached to the underbelly of the pillaged Packard.

Not to be foolhardy enough to bring the "Packarplane," back to the test hill, Finneous had to rely on the luck of the Irish to see if his design would work. If the lower wing design leaked out to aviation companies, the hopes of a patent would be destroyed. Now the craft sat camouflaged behind the horse stalls while the enormous task of finding an engine powerful enough to lift his six passenger plane into the sky was underway.

MEANWHILE BACK AT THE RANCH

A year now passed away since Plumwood’s Packarplane frenzy. Virgil’s radio program found new problems to address as local citizens suddenly had to deal with the sobering headaches of prohibition. Added to the misery of no beer, the womenfolk were running about in near panic with the news of Rudy Valentino’s death that August. The Columbus Dispatch reported numerous suicides across the nation, forcing the local officials to close down the only picture show establishment in a twenty mile radius in order to protect the faint and foolish damsels of the region.

Back at his barn, Finneous took note about the rumors of retired racing legend Barney Oldfield having several souped up racing engines sitting about his garage in Wauseon, so he jumped in the car and after a long grueling day of traversing muddy roads he arrived at the shop of ol’ Barney himself. Finneous made it plain to Barney that money was tight and investors nonexistent so the ability to pay top dollar for one of his supercharged engines was impossible–but if the Aereo Coach, as my great uncle so named it, flew, he promised to cut the racing legend in on the ground floor. Well anyone crazy enough to race around a brick oval at speeds exceeding 80 miles-per-hour was crazy enough to listen to Finneous. And so, with a handshake an undisclosed amount of money, an engine was procured.

It didn’t take long for my great uncle to fit the supercharged Mercedes engine into the frame of the old Packard and somehow retool the power plant to accommodate a huge wooden propeller. Now you readers are going to have to trust me on this for I know absolutely nothing about aircraft design. All I can do is best describe what came rolling out of the barn that early October. I do though remember my grandmother’s description

The Aereo Coach had a length of 45 feet. The tail section, riveted from the back seat on, was a wood frame wrapped in canvas with corrugated tin roofing for a tail. The rudders were connected to the cockpit with clothesline rope and bailing wire. The cab, as mentioned earlier, was a chopped down Packard complete with leather seats, glass windshield and front and rear doors. The wood and canvas wings, each about 15 feet long, were secured below the running board with angle iron and numerous bolts. The front cowl, consisted of several revamped Model T Ford hoods with slotted openings on both sides for extra cooling. A large manifold pipe protruded through the lower part of the fame and across the running board. To top it off the Aero Coach sported a red, white and blue paint job.

Finneous planned to dub his Aero Coach, "The Calvin Coolidge," after the current president but his birthplace in Plymouth Vermont made him to much of a Yankee for my great uncles liking, so he christened it "The Warren G. Harding," named after the former president who was of Ohio decent, a Yankee by most standards, but he felt this name might help him find favor with local investors.

After tethering down the plane with a logging chain and firing up the engine several times at full throttle, he felt the Aereo Coach had the wherewithal to lift himself and five passengers off the ground and fly to Columbus, located about 30 miles due east of Plumwood. His only problem now was securing four passengers for the maiden flight without raising the suspicions of the local townsfolk.

LIFTOFF PERHAPS

Finneous sat down with a lead pencil and scratched out some figures on the back of a cereal box. An average man, he reasoned, weighed about 145 pounds each so he tossed a few bags on concrete and an old engine block wrapped in burlap in to the back seat. Most importantly he needed a navigator to occupy the seat next to him. Recalling the confused family members who forgot east from west, Finneous decided the directional mistake could not be made on the maiden voyage.

My great uncle took time that chilly autumn day to chase down his old friend Ramon Kringhoffer who was a WWI aviator with little to no navigational experience but he once bragged he could find his way through a darkened mine shaft with his eyes closed. After an afternoon of arm twisting and, like Oldfield, Kringhoffer was given a chance to get in on the ground floor, the flight was scheduled for Saturday morning.

My now, aviator industrialist, great uncle spent Saturday morning, checking and rechecking cables, ropes, bolts and any other part that may fail him in flight. In the last minute he decided to chuck the cement bags and engine block and throw two sows in the backseat instead. As he checked the air pressure in the tires he noticed the clock ticking away on the barn wall. He made it clear to Kringhoffer that takeoff had to take place at 9:30 and already the clock read half-past-ten and soon the residents of Plumwood would be moving about. This spelled disaster. One neighbor about a mile from the farm swore he would ground the flying monster with a 12 gauge to protect the fine city and all the peace loving people living there.

Finneous had given up on Kringhoffer and started to drain the fuel when the newly commissioned navigator stumbled into the barn, unshaven and a bit disoriented from a secluded Oktoberfest he attended the previous evening. My great-uncle’s urgency to take flight overruled common sense and after forcing a freshly brewed pot of Chase and Sanborn down Kringhoffer’s throat, he fired up the Warren G. Harding Aero Coach, and taxied down the gravel road, hoping to get the late morning breeze behind his patriotic painted flying machine.
With dust and gravel flying and the ear-splitting thunder from the super-charged Mercedes engine, the Aero Coupe accelerated down the road and after a several bumps that unfortunately caused great fear amongst the sows, so much that they bolted out the back doors and headed back to the farm, which in turn caused a sudden reduction of the weight of the load, which then generated a sharp and sudden uplifting of the Aero Coach and off the two men soared into the cloudy wild blue yonder.

Kringhoffer, who was still a bit blue in the gills from a night of drinking bathtub beer yelled to Finneous to abort the flight but to no avail, the Aero Coach was up and hopefully heading east. Finneous had his hands full with the rudders, watching the fuel gauge and grabbing on to parts which worked lose on takeoff, let alone watch for landmarks. Kringhoffer felt assured they were going the right direction but could not attest to that because of low clouds and the hangover caused him to drop his compass under the seat.

WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN

According to his flight charts they should know in 15 minutes but Finneous only had enough fuel for 25 minutes . He regained control of the unpredictable flying machine and lowered the plane to about 100 feet, just high enough to fly safely over the tallest trees and newly erected radio towers. After 10 minutes into the flight fear stabbed Finneous in the heart as he passed over the Buckeye Lake Reservoir on the far east side of Columbus, After several minutes of arguing over the location of the reservoir versus the Delaware River, Finneous decided to loop back around and head northwest to determine the location of the Columbus Airstrip. The pitch of the Aero Coach’s turn caused the fuel to run to the side of the tank and the engine began to sputter.

The new aviators had two choices--attempt a three point landing on the National Highway and wipe out the Saturday traffic heading in and out of Columbus or head for Buckeye Lake and pray their lives be spared. Finneous wiped the sweat from his brow and chose the lake. As the Aero Coach continued to sputter he attempted to steer the awkward flying machine to the lake where the Columbus Christian Temperance Union was about to set up a picnic lunch.

The picnic shelter had colorful, patriotic banners spread all about the building along with the pies, chicken dinners and of course, German potato salad assembled along the benches and tables. After a rousing sermon from Mrs Spunkbaiter, the ladies all headed for their baskets of delectable goods when a screaming Warren G. Harding Aero Coach, descended from the heavens.

The Columbus Dispatch so eloquently described it as such in the Sunday paper, "All that was left on the picnic grounds was shredded chicken, pulverized pies and busted assortment of wheels, canvas wings and Packard parts. Fortunately the fine ladies of the Temperance Union, as well as the crazed aviators, escaped serious injuries, but less could be said for the airplane which got another burst of fuel and thrust its decrepit frame into the chilly waters of Buckeye Lake. Onlookers said it bobbed in the water several times then sunk into the murky grave of Buckeye Lake."

Now to this day history has recorded the beginning of the airlines starting in the glorious year of 1926 with a company called Aeromaritime which flew passengers between Miami and Havana to escape prohibition. Soon came the big corporations such a Trans World Airlines, United Airlines and Pan American. Ford entered its own plane into history with the legendary Ford Tri-motor that raced passengers between Ohio and New York at unheard of speeds up to 113 miles-per-hour.

FINIS

Great Uncle Finneous had no idea how fast they flew that nerve-wracking day but he still claimed to his death that he, and he alone, created the first airline between Plumwood and the resort spot known as Buckeye Lake. In fact great old Finneous also maintained he developed the first seaplane. I am not so sure history has been so kind to him and to this day there is no statue of Finneous nor a plaque honoring his flight into the heavens over Central Ohio.