Good Living In
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois
Good Living In
West Frankfort
No. 22 Summer 2014 Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois
Good Living In
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014
Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois
Good Living In
West Frankfort No. 24 Winter 2014
Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois
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Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
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Publisher’s Letter
Good Living In
West Frankfort
I
hope you won’t mind a little self-indulgence here. Congratulations are in order. Michael and I have not given in to procrastination. As you can see from our cover, this is the second collection of 12 covers showing 12 issues of the magazine, making this, of course, our 25th issue. Well, yes, we do procrastinate, actually every time we put out a new issue, but this is proof that we never let it overcome us. Alan Whitney Brown, a writer and comedian, said, “The past actually happened, but history is only what somebody wrote down.” This little magazine of ours started out 10 years ago as an endeavor to prove to ourselves that we could do this, and do it well. But it has turned into a mission to provide glimpses into the past of this community and has become almost a frantic determination to preserve stories, incidents and records of West Frankfort in detail, details that might be forever lost. Sometimes, when we publish a story of a veteran, I breathe a deep sigh, thinking, “There, we saved another one.” For this issue, procrastination almost did get the best of us, but here we are again. I love the stories in this issue: the memories of beloved former school teacher, Zella Spani of her life as a young SIU coed; the story of one of the events of the Old King Coal Festival that only endured for two years, and the amazing story of John Tersinor and his racing genius that proved a coal miner without a high school diploma could become an engineering magician. And yes, I love preserving my personal memories of my mother bringing “pizza pie” to West Frankfort in the fifties, Sherri Murphy’s memories of being a mom to three little boys, especially when she was not around to micro-manage that job, and even Gary Marx’s memories of his chicken farming at a very early age which taught him a valuable lesson in life. I love the opportunity I have in these pages to complain about things that bug me, like the current news media practices. But even that story has a historical lesson. Again, it seems only appropriate to lament the passing of the Daily American and what a huge impact it has had on this community. “We all know the past actually happened, but history is only what somebody wrote down.”
Gail Rissi Thomas, Publisher Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015 3
PLEASE SUPPORT OUR ADVERTISERS THEY MAKE THIS MAGAZINE POSSIBLE Aaron Hopkins, Attorney ....................... pg. 8 All American Hearing .............................. pg. 31 Baldwin Piano .......................................... pg. 25 Banterra Bank .......................................... pg. 12 Burg’s Hair Parlour ................................. pg. 23 Calico Country Sew & Vac ..................... pg. 13 Dr. Toni Young-Norman, Orthodontist..pg. 24 Frankfort Area Historical Museum ..... Back Gandy’s Auto Body Shop ..................... pg. 20 G. L. Williams Real Estate ...................... pg. 25 Good Life Publications .......................... pg. 13 Heights Market ........................................ pg. 11 Herron Rehab & Wellness Center ....... pg. 30 Howell Insurance ...................................... pg. 7 Honker Hill Winery .................................. pg. 12 J & S Professional Pharmacy ..................... pg. 2 Johnson Real Estate ................................. pg. 29 Lance Brown, Attorney ............................. pg. 28 McCollom Real Estate ............................. pg. 8 McCord’s Market ..................................... pg. 29 McDonald’s ................................................ pg. 16 Mike Riva, Attorney ................................. pg. 4 Murphy’s House of Tattoos ...................... pg. 23 Nolen Chiropractic ................................... pg. 16 Old King Coal Festival ............................ pg. 26 Parker-Reedy Funeral Home ................... pg. 10 People’s National Bank ............................. pg. 25 Ramey Insurance ....................................... pg. 19 ReMax Realty ........................................... pg. 7 Sandy’s Flowers & Gifts ............................ pg. 4 Severin Garden Center .............................. pg. 21 Southern Illinois Bank ............................. pg. 7 State Farm Insurance, Paul Lawrence... pg. 25 Stone Funeral Home ............................... pg. 29 Stotlar-Herrin Lumber ........................... pg. 21 Union Funeral Home ................................ pg. 15 Watsons Jewelers ................................... pg. 15 Weeks Chevy-Buick-GMC ...................... pg. 30 WF Chamber of Commerce ...................... pg. 29 WF House Furnishings ............................. pg. 13 Your Heart’s Desire ..................................pg. 7 Contact Michael A. Thomas at 937-2019 if you wish to advertise in “Good Living in West Frankfort”.
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Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
Good Living In
West Frankfort 6 11
No.25 Spring 2015
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Table of Contents
Sometimes it is not a bad idea to loosen our grip on ideas we cling to. Gary Marx explains.
Sheri Murphy is not sure Father always knows best, at least not when it comes to taking care of three young boys and the family dog for a week while she is away on a trip.
14
11
Believe it or not, there was a time, not too long ago, when pizza was not a familiar food in West Frankfort. But one lady changed all of that in the early 1950s.
14
17
Gail Thomas comments on the way television news has changed and laments the passing of the Daily American Newspaper.
17
A Wedding at the Strand Theater? Yes, it actually happened as part of an early Old King Coal Festival.
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27
The nearly forgotten story of West Frankfort racing enthusiast John Tersinor recently came to light. Tersinor not only built his own racecar but also won many races and set track records in the mid1930s.
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Former West Frankfort teacher Zella Spani remembers S.I.U. when things were much different than they are today.
Good Living in West Frankfort is a magazine about the people, places and pride of West Frankfort. Our goal is to showcase interesting, unique and previously unpublished stories about the citizens, events and places in our community in a positive manner. Good Living in West Frankfort provides businesses the choice to advertise in a high-quality full-color venue at affordable prices. This magazine is free to our readers because of those advertisers.
No portion of this publication, including photos and advertisements, may be reproduced in any manner without the expressed consent of Good Life Publications . Š2015 ON THE COVER: As Good Living in West Frankfort celebrates its 10th year, we show the covers for the last 12 issues.
Collage by Michael A. Thomas
Good Living In
West Frankfort A production of Good Life Publications 309 East Oak Street West Frankfort, IL 62896 (618) 937-2019
E-mail Contact: GoodLifePublications@Gmail.com Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
5
Fighting Over Chicken Feed by Gary Marx
M
y brother and I were dressed in shorts and summer tans, squinting into the sun and smiling for the camera. We were squeezing chickens to our bare chests. I remember that day well …. I can still feel the heft of that bird and the prick of its feathers. I can still feel its body shiver. Mine, too. We both wanted out. “Hold tight,” Mom said. “Don’t let go.” She took the photograph. We put the chickens back in their pungent coop and closed the door on another Kodak moment in the early days of the suburbs. We weren’t farmers by any stretch. We were urban transplants, trying to homestead half an acre of unincorporated land just outside the corporate limits of Chicago. If you visit that area today, you’d have to use your imagination to envision coops of chickens and large truck gardens. You’d have to go almost 20 miles west to find an acre of open ground now, but back then we were pioneers in Cook County. Bumbling pioneers, perhaps, but pioneers just the same. We lived in a house that Dad built, which we heated with oil. We pumped water from a well and had a big garden that provided all sorts of green things that Mom and Grandma jarred for winter. The chickens were an experiment. We thought we’d get a few eggs and generate some fertilizer for the vegetables. I don’t know where they came from, those chickens. From a neighbor, perhaps, or a guy Dad met on the job. And I don’t know how long it took for us to figure out that those chickens weren’t going to provide us with any eggs. I think it was the cock in the doodle-doo one morning that tipped us off to the gender misidentification.
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Good Living in
So, instead of omelets in the morning, we had a couple of dinners in the evening. And Mom stuffed a small pillow. I wasn’t a witness to the beheadings, but I understood what went down. I don’t recall feeling distraught about it. They weren’t pets. We hadn’t named them or anything. Just the same, while they lived, my brother and I had each claimed one for our own. He chose the bigger, fatter one. I liked the skinnier one, which looked to me, somehow, to be more intellectual. As it turned out, he wasn’t smart enough to keep his mouth shut in the morning. That’s how it went with my brother and me. Al was two years older, but by the time we quit wearing shorts and started wearing shirts, we were similar in size and appearance and were sometimes mistaken as twins. This ruffled both of our feathers, and I think we intentionally looked for ways to accentuate our differences. We made choices, stating our preference as if staking claims. I liked blue and said so. He chose red. He craved chocolate so I chose vanilla; he cheered for the White Sox and I suffered with the Cubs; he liked Mary Ann and I liked Ginger. And so it went, dividing the spoils of our culture as we grew up. Our differences became more pronounced with age. We argued about politics and religion and all those things we were told never to talk about in polite company. But between brothers, there was no sense in being polite. My brother absorbed my parents’ views and values, but those ideas were old and rigid in my eyes. He had fallen pretty close to the tree and stayed there, but I hit the ground rolling and didn’t stop until I was all the way down the hill. When I look back, it baffles me how we could be so different when we shared the same formative experiences. We were virtually twins at one point. The chickens we clutched were almost identical. Perhaps it’s natural for younger siblings to rebel for the sake of rebellion, to act as if we had something to prove. Perhaps, because we’re the smallest voices in the family, we’re compelled to shout. Whatever it was, I intentionally looked for alternatives and reasons to embrace the opposite. By the time I was a teenager, Mom and Dad were becoming concerned that I was about to leave the nest and fly away for good. “Hold tight. Don’t let go.” In many ways, I was already
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
gone.
Somewhere along the way, and in spite of myself, I matured. My parents and I grew closer as they aged. And my brother and I did, too. I didn’t alter my political or religious views; I’ve just come to accept our differences and I’ve quit thumbing my nose at his opinions. Except the really stupid ones. Oh, I’ve changed in little ways. I’ve learned, for instance, the value of chocolate and I root for the White Sox these days. I have occasionally embraced the color red, although not in the voting booth, and I’ve discovered in the reruns, much to my surprise, an attraction to Mary Ann. Some of the things Al and I
Gary Marx (l) and his older brother, Al pose for a ‘Kodak moment’. (provided)
bickered over were pretty darn silly. The high ground we tried to hold turned out to be fairly low, and the lines we drew in the sand quickly drifted over. Who’s right and who’s wrong? Depends on the time of day and the season of the year. It depends on your perspective: Is it from the window or from a look in the mirror? I hate absolutes. For that reason I try not to argue anything too strenuously, with my brother or anyone else. Because at the end of the day, the hen I’m holding is just as much a rooster as yours. Gary Marx is a former columnist and news editor for The Southern Illinoisan. He’s now a freelance writer and author, and he works for The Kansas City Star. But no matter where he is, he’ll always be an Illinois boy. Contact him through his Web site: www.marxjournal.com.
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West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
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One WEEK
WITHOUT A MOM When it comes to taking care of the kids, husbands don’t always share the same priorities as their wives. l-r :Jon, Jordan and Josh Murphy
A
By Sheri Murphy s Mother’s Day approaches, I recall a time when my three sons were young and when my mother’s heart was stretched more in one week than I thought was possible. It was the first of many lessons of the “heart-stretchingpossibilities” that awaited me. Looking back, I can tell the story with a smile. While living it, I was wringing my hands while envisioning wringing one neck in particular.... Many years ago, I was asked to be the featured singer at a weekend ladies retreat in Carlsbad, New Mexico. Although I was excited about the opportunity, I also had many reservations. I had never left my three boys for more than two days and this trip would require me to be gone for a week. It was summertime and they would be left in the care of their father, a good man, mind you, but in my mind, I could not imagine him handling all the “mom’s work” I did, all by himself. Nevertheless, my husband Alan assured me that it would be a great experience for me and he and the boys would be fine. I decided that the pros (being a part of a wonderful retreat for ladies, being able to stay in the home of my cousin whom I rarely was able to see and missed very much) outweighed the cons--on paper,
anyway. I reluctantly began preparing for my trip. I knew there were things I must get in order before I left. During the week I would be gone, our church was having Bible school for the children. So I went ahead and put together 5 outfits for each of the boys, ironed the clothes and laid them out (Mon-Fri.) This way, I wouldn’t have to worry about Alan allowing them to show up at church looking like little ragamuffins. I cleaned the entire house in case I got in a wreck and died, and people would be coming to the house. I wanted to leave a good impression, you know. “Man, that Sherri was immaculate! Who knew?” I also left a list as long as my arm filled with every detail I could think of, including what to do in the case of an emergency. “CALL GRANDMA ROSE!” I wrote a letter to each of my sons, and about an hour before I left, while they were still sleeping, I prayed over each one of them individually. I was very nervous about leaving them for the first time...in the care of their extremely laid-back, but loving Daddy. I said my final general prayer to God, also giving Him the “list” of things I needed Him to do in my absence (yeah, I know, pretty pathetic) and in the middle of one of my requests, “God PLEASE watch over them and protect them while I’m gone,” it hit me. WHO DO I THINK I AM? I quickly added, “Just like you
(provided)
do when I’m right here.” I think He smiled about that one, while nodding and proclaiming, “Exactly.” Finally, I gave Alan a big long kiss to ensure I was missed, and I heard the honk of the horn from my ride that was ready and waiting. My traveling posse included Judy and Lois, who were both going to be speaking at the retreat, and my friend Sharon, my “calm and steady” friend whom I brought along for support. We enjoyed a long but pleasurable ride to Carlsbad, extended by several hours due to the frequent “potty breaks” necessary for a car full of women. When we arrived at my cousin’s home, and shortly after sharing greetings, introductions and hugs, she had some bad news for me. A friend of mine who had been battling cancer, had passed away that same day. I realized I wasn’t going to be able to attend her funeral. Her death and my being unable to be there for her service was hard to handle, but I didn’t want my grief to ruin the trip for the other ladies, so I tried to make the best of a bad situation. I tried to keep my focus on the retreat and on enjoying the company of these fine ladies, and of course, my family. My cousin told me Alan had called, and wanted me to call him. I couldn’t wait to talk with him. We talked about my friend who had passed and he tried to share some comforting words. We talked about my trip, and then I told him I loved him and I wanted to talk to the boys. I spoke with
Good Living in
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each of them, and then one of them decided that I needed to know that there was a child molester casing the neighborhood. “WHAT?” At that moment I began to believe that this trip was NOT a good idea after all, but I couldn’t back out now. Alan got back on the phone and tried to calm my fears by vowing to hunt down and “take care of” the guy himself! (Don’t judge him- he was protecting his young). He sounded convincing, so I tried to put that fear aside. Then I asked about my little dog Roxie that I adored and who also adored me. Alan paused, then told me that she was “not feelin’ too well.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Well, she’s been really sick. She couldn’t keep any food down.” (It was coming up and out-, which, according to my friend Sharon, was a great risk of dehydration for a little dog.) She told me to tell Alan to grab the skin on the back of Roxie’s neck, and if it didn’t fall back quickly, a trip to the vet was in order. I asked him to do that for my peace of mind. “Okay, I will”, he said. “Well, would you do it now so I can have some peace?” I asked. “I’ll do it when I get off the phone, and I’ll only call you back if there’s a problem.” I agreed to the deal. I didn’t hear back from him right away so I figured that no news was good news. I was grieving for a lost friend, missing my family, and worried about a child molester casing the neighborhood, so Alan didn’t have the heart to deliver another punch ...Roxie, my beloved puppy had already died. I actually, somehow managed to enjoy
my week, blocking out the thoughts of the crazed molester and sick (dead) dog. I talked to my family everyday. It was 114 degrees the entire week we were in Carlsbad -give or take a degree or two- but no humidity, which was nice. The retreat was going wonderfully. It kept my mind from dwelling on negative thoughts and fears. Alan was happy to report (in a John Wayne sort of style) that he had, in fact, ran the “boogie man” out of town. (Don’t ask.) When I would ask about the kids or talk to them, they “were having a ball”! When I would ask about sweet little sick (dead) Roxie, his answers were very clever and evasive.“She’s better now.” (Doggie heaven) “She’s resting”, etc. After a long week and a very long ride home, I was thrilled to see Main St. in West Frankfort again. As we approached our house, I saw a young boy off in the distance riding a bike IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD! Poor child was wearing a winter coat, a pair of shorts and cowboy boots in the very humid 100-degree temps. The closer we came to the house, the more familiar the little boy looked... Yep! It was a Murphy boy, one of mine if I needed to be more specific! Unsupervised bike riding IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD dressed like the ragamuffin I had feared a child of mine looking like while in their father’s “care: my worst fears were realized, or so I thought. When my son saw the car, he quickly sped up and hopped off his bike to hug and kiss me and welcome me home. His enthusiasm
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Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
was precious. He ran inside to get the others. My oldest brought out a “Welcome Home” poster they had made for me. We shared hugs and “I-missed-yous,” and I was feeling the love. Alan gave me a big kiss and loving hug. All was good...for a couple of minutes there, anyway. I was shocked that Roxie hadn’t come to greet me as usual, so I asked, “Where’s Roxie?” Silence. The boys went on inside the house. So I asked again while looking around, “Where is she?” Nothing but crickets. Finally, my husband comes clean... sort of. “Well, Sher, she, uh... ran away.” I gasped, and then began my next line of questioning. “She ran away? How long ago? Did you try to find her? When was the last time you saw her?” He interrupted my interrogation to interject, “Well, uh, I think she ran away to die.” He didn’t think it. He knew it. I started sobbing. How I loved that little dog! I went on into the house. I didn’t want the neighbors to see even more of the show. (No telling what they had been witnessing all week already). When I passed my kitchen (that I had left sparkling clean, of course), I caught a glimpse of my youngest son through my teary eyes. He was sitting at the table eating cereal out of a large flower vase with a wooden spoon! Do you know why? There wasn’t a clean dish in the house. Alan— who had left the house spotless in every other way—had not done a dish for seven days. So there was my four-year-old, with nearly a gallon of milk poured into a vase with cereal on top. He smiled at me while happily slurping up the goodness from the wooden spoon. I decided to never ask any probing questions about how the week REALLY went. My heart just couldn’t take the truth. My neighbors were apparently sworn to secrecy. They would all get fidgety when I mentioned that trip, and act scared to death that I might ask a direct question about the goings on that week in my absence. But looking back, I realize, God is good. He miraculously kept the world on its axis while I was otherwise preoccupied. It may have been spinning backwards there for a bit, but my family survived “THE WEEK DADDY WAS LEFT IN CHARGE.” Poor Roxie, God rest her soul.
When
pizza WEST FRANKFORT Came to
Photo:Wikimedia Commons
I
By Gail Rissi Thomas
an older man whom she had never met. It was a marriage arranged by her father t seems like Pizza has been who decided life would be better for his around forever, doesn’t it? daughter in America. For the younger generation in But I digress. I heard the story many times West Frankfort, it has. They that she was very seasick on the journey. can’t remember a time before you could After not being able to eat for several days, pick up the phone and make a quick call her father took her up to the top level of to Dominoes or Papa Johns, and for the the ship for sunshine and fresh air. “It was little older generation, even Pizza Inn where the rich people traveled,” she said. or Franco’s, to order the fresh hot Italian “He bought me a piece of thick bread with delicacy. Some of us, not me of course, oil and tomatoes on it. They called it ‘pizza can even remember getting a pizza from pie.’ Oh it tasted so good.” Apparently it Chickn’Quick in the Heights. Well I do remember it, but not too well. It seems the crust was kind of thick and hard, and the sauce thick and sweet. Actually, it wasn’t bad. But before all of that, there was another pizza in town, and I would venture to say that the pizza, Vera Rissi made may have been the first taste of pizza that many West Frankfort residents remember. We always The Friendly Little Market on The Hill had homemade pizza at our house. I don’t 1720 East Main West Frankfort ever remember a time that we didn’t have (618) 937- 4921 it. It was “what’s for dinner” once or twice Open Daily 6am-10pm a month, or maybe a treat when cousins came to visit. Perhaps it was the snack that we took to the drive-in. I have to guess my mother learned to make pizza or a variation of it from her mother, Assunta. Grandma Susie, as most West Frankfort residents knew her Call-in Orders Always Welcome in later years when she lived here, made Lunchtime Delivery Available the crossing from Italy to America when M-F 11-1 she was only 16 to marry John Catalina,
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was not anything that she had ever eaten at home in Abruzzi. But I was talking about the Fifties, and I was in grade school. I wish I could take a poll among my grade school friends to ask who remembers hearing about “pizza pie” for the first time at my house. I recall my best friend’s mother calling my mom and asking, “Vera, what kind of pie is this that you make that Cathy keeps talking about?” I believe I had my first boy/girl party in the sixth grade. It was held at my dad’s photography studio at the front of our
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Good Living in
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house. My father rolled back the camera and the big lights and we danced to 45 rpm records played on the phonograph. When it was time to eat, we ate pizza pie. And although none of the guests knew what they were eating, I know they all loved it and remembered it. I’m sure nobody knew at the time that they had tasted a piece of the future. When we graduated from 8th grade, Timmy Ahlm and I shared a graduation party for our class. My mom made pizza pies. I don’t know how many, but our older sisters carried them across the alley from our kitchen to the Ahlm’s basement. When Tom Feeley left for the seminary, another party, featuring, what else? Pizza pie of course. On my 16th birthday, in 1965, my mother and some of my friends threw me a surprise party. Even at that later date, pizza pie was still an unknown to most of my high school friends—to which entries in my yearbook will attest. But the greatest number of West Frankfort residents got to enjoy my mother’s pizza, when the St. John’s St. Bernadette’s Sodality hosted a unique fundraiser during which each member was given $10 and were told to use it as seed money to raise as much money as possible for the church. Some members sewed or knitted, many sold bake goods, and my mother, of course, made pizza. I must have been about 10 at the time, but I remember it very well. She had four round pizza pans, one smaller than the other three. She would make four pizzas for lunch. People would preorder and pick them up at our back door. They then had to return the clean pans by 3 pm so that she could make four more for her dinner orders. It was a huge hit, and she made the most money of anyone in her organization. Even after the project had ended, a few local business people, like Burles Browning, for instance, would talk mom into filling a pizza order once in a while. When Henson Purcell’s daughter, who worked for my father in the studio, had a big slumber party, she wanted to treat her friends to pizza. They picked up four pizzas either two or three times that night, transferring them into their own pans at home and rushing back to pick up the next batch. I have made my mother’s pizza pie for years, although we are often known to call a local pizza spot for a quick fix and avoid the effort and mess. And alas, although I know how she made it, and I follow her recipe, it is a long way from meeting the mark of both taste and texture compared to that of my childhood. Pillsbury Hot Roll Mix, sold at any grocery store in the bake goods shelves serves as the pizza crust. Yes, it’s been around for a long time. Mix it according to package directions and roll it out with a rolling pin as you would any dough, using flour to keep it from sticking. My mom made two crusts per box. I use a cookie sheet and made one per box. Brush the pan with oil, {She rarely had olive oil}, and then brush the top of the crust with oil. I make a homemade sauce. I’m not sure what her sauce was: crumbled browned hamburger and probably her homemade tomato sauce, sweet and garlicky. I know it had big slices of tomatoes, either fresh or canned on top, covered generously with slices of Muenster cheese and then sprinkled liberally with Parmesan. . I have even used Prego in a pinch. Try it. It works too. For my kids, this is their childhood memory of homemade pizza. My husband thinks there is no better pizza available anywhere. It’s OK. They never ate Vera Rissi’s.
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Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015 13
The
Changing Shape News of
“Newspapers continue to reign supreme, however, in the delivery of local news. If you want to know what’s going on in your town – whether the news is about the mayor or taxes or high school football – there is no substitute for a local newspaper that is doing its job.”
--Warren Buffet
C
By Gail Rissi Thomas
this is the right one,” he responds. The broadcast moves, abruptly, I might add, to all me a news junkie. I love the next story, another snowstorm traffic the fact that I can hear what tie up as we saw every night this winter. is going on in the world at “No, I say. We saw this last night.” A big any time, day or night, even sigh and he responds, “This is tonight’s if the reporting is ambiguous, biased or news. This is a different one.” I watch for unsatisfying. I am a little concerned that I a minute. “No, I saw the picture of that go to bed at night worried about the people yellow semi laying on its side, yesterday.” living in chaotic or catastrophic situations, Granted, unless people die, a snowstorm and check the first chance I have the next is a snowstorm, and this winter has been day to see what tragedies Isis has created full of them. So, the story is the same, only while I was sleeping. Throughout the day, the names of the city or state, the highway when I hear a privileged American say, number has been changed? Are the news “This day couldn’t get any worse,” I can’t staffs on national news too understaffed, help but think, “Oh yes it certainly could,” too uncreative or just too indifferent to get out and get fresh thoughts with different even if I don’t say it aloud. Michael and I have adopted the habit witnesses and different highway crews? of recording the ABC World News and I know that we have seen the same watching it after supper. Much of our footage with the same people saying the conversation about the content of that same things two, three or maybe more program centers on our disappointment and times on the same network. Do they disbelief about the quality of the reporting. just think that we, the consumers are too The conversation many nights has started stupid or too distracted to notice? I don’t with me. “ You must have clicked on the know, but I wish I had started long ago, wrong date. We saw this already.” “No, counting the times I have seen the photo of
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Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
millionaire, alleged murderer Robert Durst, in his flashy orange prison jumpsuit seated in the back seat of a squad car with the smirk on his face. Thirty times? Forty? It seems like over a hundred, for a story that I care absolutely nothing about. Apparently, the network news executives think that if I watch it often enough, I will begin to. They’re wrong. Can you imagine Walter Cronkite interviewing an aged Disney princess about nothing, related to no news event? I realize that Disney didn’t own CBS, but neither did 30 percent of his news consist of an “Instant Index,” also consisting of nothing but obscure, warm- fuzzy stories of viral videos we’ve seen on You Tube. “And when this dog saw that baby chewing on his favorite toy, you won’t believe what he did next. ”We wait - through four commercials. Well actually we fast forward. Ok that was cool. I saw it on Facebook this morning. When I complain to my son about the collapse of quality of the network news, “So why do you watch ABC World News if you hate it so much,” he asks. I don’t
know; we watch WSIL local news and the weather, and there we are. Blame it on Jim Razor. Old habits die hard. Good news coverage has had its lumps and bumps over the past decade or more. Maybe I’ve only recently become so bothered by it. Look at newspapers. When I was a child, our family subscribed to the Wall street Journal, the St Louis Globe Democrat, The Southern Illinoisan and the Daily American. I didn’t read them, of course, but my parents did, and I guess I appreciated them. I was greatly influenced by my role models. But no industry has suffered the decline brought about by changes in society and the influence of technology more than newspapers. The decline of the sales and advertising in newspapers has led to a minimal number of new ventures into the world of printed press and the demise of thousands of them in this country alone. I recall that when we first talked about starting our magazine about 10 years ago, the idea was met with surprise from several individuals who were not very encouraging. “Starting a magazine supported by advertisers? Well that is certainly ambitious.” But we were not alone in our optimism. Although our magazine does not contain a wealth of news, but mostly nostalgia and personal interest stories, someone else whom I have read about recently, believes that a successful newspaper is a priceless addition, especially in a community. Warren Buffet, consistently listed as one of the wealthiest men in the world and the most successful investor of the 20th century, has purchased 28 newspapers in the last two years for $344 million. In his 2013 “Letter to Shareholders,” Buffet confesses that he loves newspapers and admits that he believes there is still value and potential in local newspapers as an investment. “ The world has changed.” Buffet writes. “Stock market quotes and the details of national sports events are old news long before the presses begin to roll. The Internet offers extensive information about both available jobs and homes. Television bombards viewers with political, national and international news. In one area of interest after another, newspapers have therefore lost their “primacy.” And, as their audiences have fallen, so has advertising. (Revenues from “help wanted” classified ads – long a huge source of income for newspapers – have plunged more than 90% in the past 12 years.)
Buffet comments on some truths that may have been on the minds recently of many in West Frankfort. “Newspapers continue to reign supreme, however, in the delivery of local news. If you want to know what’s going on in your town – whether the news is about the mayor or taxes or high school football – there is no substitute for a local newspaper that is doing its job. A reader’s eyes may glaze over after they take in a couple of paragraphs about Canadian tariffs or political developments
Spring
into
in Pakistan; a story about the reader himself or his neighbors will be read to the end. “ Buffet defines news for us. “News, to put it simply, is what people don’t know that they want to know.” In my own opinion, news has become what the national networks want us to know, like the months and months of repeated useless details about Natalee Hollaway missing in Aruba or Drew Peterson convicted of killing his wife. I think he was convicted, or was he acquitted. I think that was when my eyes
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glazed over. The insignificance of those stories is clearly only my opinion. You know, like back in the day when Walter Cronkite would clearly establish, “And now, here is Eric Severeid with our opinion.” Opinion was unequivocally separated from fact, not happenings or things that had not yet happened, meshed together with what the media wants us to think. And the local news? I guess we can always get that from Facebook. So Dear Reader, I only hope that my humble thoughts, and Warren Buffet’s observations serve as a commentary on what we have had in West Frankfort for 99 years, and what we are about to lose. The announcement by Gatehouse Media that the Daily American would cease co publish in May, came as a shock, or perhaps would be better described as an aftershock. It was something we have all expected for some time, but still a shock when it happened. This photo of a vintage Daily American sign It’s a shame. After appeared in the 1976 Old King Coal Festival all this ranting, I have souvenir program. to confess. I don’t have a solution, just a lot of complaints, mixed in with some sadness. It is always sad to see something lost in our community. The Daily American has been a foundation for nearly 100 years, recording the growth, the progress, the mistakes, the failures and the successes of a community and the day-to-day happenings of the people who made their lives here. It is the only comprehensive, public written record of West Frankfort that exists. We have gleaned stories and photos for our own writing from old issues stored at the Frankfort Area Historical Society, and along with curious historians and frantic genealogists, we will be forever grateful. The future generations of this community will not have their story recorded. As Walter might say, “That’s the way it was.”
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Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
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The Old King Coal Weddings
At one time, the Old King Coal Festival included a real wedding sponsored by local Clara May Britten and George Tadmerchants. lock recite their wedding vows on the stage of the Strand Theater as part of the 1949 Old King Coal Festival.
(provided)
“For the ceremony at the Strand Theater, Reverend Wilde from the First Christian Church married us. He was very nice, but I went to the Episcopal Church, and I had to be married in my church or they didn’t recognize the marriage, so we had to get married all over again.” --Clara Tadlock Sullivan
I
n publishing a magazine, timing is everything. The selection of stories to tell or not to tell depends on how much room we have in that particular issue after the ads are sold, what season we are in, and what the rest of the content in the magazine will be. When we received a letter from Pat (Morthland) Montrym, just about a week ago, we didn’t even realize then that it was perfect timing. Pat lives in
Arizona these days, but has fond memories of West Frankfort. She is a faithful reader of our magazine and wrote, “I grew up in West Frankfort and loved every minute of it, your magazine refreshes my memories. Please don’t stop.” I prefer to think of Pat’s letter as a coincidence, since she had no idea we were working on our first issue of 2015. But even we didn’t realize that the Old King
Coal Festival was just around the corner. Her story about a promotion during the 1948 OKC Festival just emphasizes how deeply the town- wide celebration is rooted in our community’s history. Pat relates: “In the 1940’s the Old King Coal Festival was huge, likened, perhaps to a mini Mardi Gras. It was a big, big deal back then. Main Street was shut down to
Good Living in
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traffic and booths lined both sides of the street and carnival rides sprung up. One year, in 1948, it culminated with a town sponsored wedding. My sister, Del (Morthland) was the bride and Gus Allen was the groom. Gus was instrumental in making the festival bigger and better each year. My sister worked for Etheredge Tharp at his store on West Main Street and it was he who introduced Gus to my sister. The town paid for the entire wedding. The wedding itself was held at the high school. The reception was in the cafeteria. Fashion Shop gave Del her wedding gown. Herman Behn Jewelry Store gave them their wedding rings. Table Pride Bakery provided the cake. The furniture stores gave them furniture and on and on. It was quite a big deal. The next year, 1949, the town again provided a wedding during the festival. Clara May Britton and George Tadlock were married at the Strand Theater. Both weddings were unusual and unconventional to say the least.”
Over 700 people packed the Strand Theater on October 6, 1949, to see Clara Britton and George Tadlock get married. The couple is seen here walking down the aisle at the conclusion of the ceremony.
Clara May Britton, and now remarried to William Sullivan after George Tadlock’s death, Clara was kind enough to tell us the
Virgil Britton walks his daugther, Clara, up to the stage of the Strand Theater as part of a promotion for the Old King Coal Festival. Clara explained “This was supposed to be a town tradition of West Frankfort and the merchants were to give fabulous gifts to the bride and groom. As we were both poor it seemed like a good idea. But we got very little. I did get the gown and free passes to the Strand for a year.
It wasn’t difficult to reach Clara May Sullivan, who still lives in West Frankfort. A local florist and successful businesswoman for most of her adult life, she was owner of Lacy Flower Shop until the Sixties. Born,
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Good Living in
story of her memories of that 1949 Old King Coal wedding and even search out some wonderful photos that illustrate it better than anything we could describe. “Well Gus Allen talked us into doing it,” Clara laughs. “I can’t say I would have
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
agreed if we had known the truth about the whole thing. Yes, we were married at the Strand Theater, and the place was packed, so there had to be over 700 people there. The wedding of Del Morthland and Gus Allen the previous year was a huge success as a festival event, but I think by the second year, many of the merchants and promoters were losing interest. I did have a gorgeous gown donated by the Rosalie Shop, and Weavers Flowers must have donated the flowers. I’m sure the cake was donated and probably the photos, and we had a wonderful dinner and dance for all of the wedding party at Barrett’s on West Main Street. We had four bridesmaids and four groomsmen, but they are all deceased now. I am the only one left.” As an aside, Clara says that she and George Tadlock met at Mike’s. “You know Mike Belbas, how he was. George was from Benton; he was a big high school star athlete. I didn’t even really know him, but he was at Mike’s one night and Mike said, jokingly of course, ‘What are you doing here? You don’t belong here.’ George answered, ‘I’m here for her,’ and he pointed at me. Mike said, ‘Oh no you’re not. You go on back to Benton, where you belong. She’s not leaving West Frankfort.’” “Well. Would I do that kind of wedding again? No. I told Gus many times after that, ‘How did I ever let you talk me into that? ‘ Of course there were supposed to be a lot of things happen that didn’t follow through. Every store was supposed to donate something. In fact, we were supposed to
get a new convertible. Well, we got a new convertible to drive around for a week,” she laughs. I used to tell Gus, ‘You’re just lucky we’re good friends and I like you so much.’” Another thing was, “For the ceremony at the Strand, Rev. Wilde from the First Christian Church married us. He was very nice, but I went to the Episcopal Church, and I had to be married in my church or they didn’t recognize the marriage, so we had to get married all over again.” What a wonderful anecdote in West Frankfort’s history. Many thanks to Pat Montrym for sending us the idea and many more to Clara Tadlock Sullivan for sharing her story just in time for the Old King Coal Festival.
Mr. Gus Allen, who married Del Morthland on the stage of FCHS as part of the first OKC Wedding Promotion in 1948, takes the microphone to announce that George and Clara Tadlock had won the use of a new convertible as part of their prize package in the 1949 Old King Coal Wedding promotion.
The wedding reception was held at Barrett’s, a popular eatery near the intersection of Main Street & Rt. 37 Pictured l-r: Eldon ?, Barbara Gosnell, Clara Tadlock, George Tadlock, Bill Wortman, unidentified little girl, Joyce Lockwook, Dortha Harris and Frank Pattarozzi. The sign above them indicates the wedding took place on a Thursday.
Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015 19
John Tersinor:
West Frankfort’s Racecar Driver Extraordinaire
A
know exactly when mankind first invented the wheel, but I wouldn’t be surprised if not long after he made his discovery and shared it with others, somebody invented
racing. The need for speed seems to be a part of our collective DNA and one can only look at the popularity of NASCAR or the Fast and Furious movies as proof that we have a love affair with auto racing. A little known fact of West Frankfort history involves a man who was very much in love with
racecars. John Tersinor (pronounced Ter-seen-er) was born in Franklin County in 1905 and grew up in West Frankfort. Even at a young age, John liked to tinker with machines and as a teenager found himself in possession of a motorcycle. Motorcycles were not nearly as common as they are today. “My
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Between 1935-37, John Tersinor (in V5 above and below) won many races and set several track records using a car that he built himself.
(Photos courtesy of Jeff Adams)
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dad (John Volanski) and John were friends,” relates local resident Carl Volanski. “It wasn’t too long after John got that motorbike that my dad took a liking to it. One day, when John was off doing something else, my dad ‘borrowed it’ for a ride. I don’t think Dad knew how to drive one, but he must of thought he could figure it out. He took off for a big field near the house on John’s bike. Now that field only had one tree and wouldn’t you know it, my dad crashed that motorbike right into it. He didn’t know how to stop it, was his excuse. John was able to fix it after the crash, but I think he kept a much closer eye on it after that.” Like many men of the era, John never completed high school and instead took a job working in
In 1937, The Central States Racing Association assigned number 26 to Tersinor’s Hisso which he wrecked in at Mexico, Missouri, barely escaping with his life.
the coalmines. It was a few years later, in 1935, when John Tersinor debuted a racecar powered by a Hisso engine. Hissos, which were ½ of a WWI Hispano Suiza airplane V8 engine modified to run in racers,
were not uncommon in 1935. Getting one to run as intended and hold together was something only a few had mastered. Tersinor, and friend Jimmy Rogers, laid a ground plan that would utilize a fabricated
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Good Living in
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Jeff Adams of Coal City, Illinois, has restored Tersinor’s Hisso to its original condition. He was instrumental in providing material and photos for this story. Anybody with information on John Tersinor or his automobile is encouraged to contact Jeff at 309-799-7486 or email him at: adams@qconline.com
crankcase that would allow the use of the Hispano Suiza V8 crankshaft and one cylinder block. This was what any serious Hisso racer would attempt. This special crankcase would not only be stronger but would also allow the cylinder to run upright. It would also have a special bell housing to adapt a Ford transmission to it with ease. The combo of built-from-the-ground-up Hisso and Tersinor’s driving talent would be a contender right out of the box. As the popularity of auto racing increased, Tersinor and other racecar drivers drew crowds to fair grounds around the Midwest. With no roll bars, seat belts or safety suits, they had little more than a helmet for protection in the open cockpits of their cars. These men drove fearlessly on dirt tracks initially designed for horseracing, not high-speed automobiles that reached speeds near 100 mph. Since most races were 20 laps or less, wrecks were common as the drivers fought for position. Tersinor and his racecar were a force to be reckoned with. Newspaper accounts from 193537 list Tersinor as victorious in races in southern Illinois, Missouri and Indiana. He won the 30-lap Main Event on July 4th, 1935, in Chicago at the
Cook County Fairgrounds, which featured some of the best cars and drivers in the Midwest. Two events in 1937 caused Tersinor to give up his racing career. His close racing friend, Red Campbell, died in a Winchester, Indiana, race. Then in August, at an open show in Mexico, Missouri, John and his Hisso were involved in a terrible crash that resulted in a badly injured John Tersinor and a badly beat up racecar. It was the last race that Tersinor would run. With an infant daughter, who was not even one year old at the time, and at the urging of his wife, Tersinor knew that he could no longer risk the future well being of his family to such a dangerous sport. What happened next is unclear. John decided either to rebuild his wrecked car or build a brand new car and sell it. One thing is clear, in September of 1939, Pete Alberts—a
Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015 23
racing veteran from East St. Louis— was interested in buying whatever it was that Tersinor had been working on for two years. They agreed to meet at Mt. Vernon where Alberts could test drive the car. Alberts took a few test laps in the Hisso and then complained to Tersinor that it ‘didn’t quite feel right’. Tersinor climbed into the racecar, took a few laps of his own and reassured Alberts that the car was performing just fine. Alberts decided he would race the Tersinor Hisso later that day. On his first race in the car, Alberts was killed in a crash before completing even one lap. Whether the men were engaged in a bit of ‘horse trading’ or there was indeed something amiss with the car will never be known. The whereabouts of the “Tersinor Special” becomes a bit muddy after that. Jeff Adams, a Hisso enthusiast from Coal City, Illinois, and racecar historian, has tracked the car. Adams thinks Tersinor probably sold it to Ed Davis of Benton who raced the car in 1949. The car then made its way from Benton to Minnesota and eventually Wisconsin where Adams found it. Now completely restored, John Tersinor’s Hisso is a show car. Last year, the car even made it to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway where it was put on display along with other racing relics and memorabilia to authenticate the history of racing and how the sport has evolved. As for Tersinor, he eventually retired from the mines but never lost his love of tinkering with cars and engines. He was a fixture in the neighborhood and known for troubleshooting car problems for people. John Tersinor died in 1982.
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Z
(Editor’s note: The following is a reprint, with permission from Zella Spani, of an article which first appeared in the Dec. 2008 issue of Good Living in Southern Illinois Magazine. We are happy to share it in this magazine for the first time.)
ella Spani was a college student over 60 years ago, arising early at her dorm room in Anthony Hall, hurrying to Shryock Auditorium in time for chapel, and strolling from class to class between Wheeler, Old Main and Altgeld Hall. She was one of a 1500 students enrolled that year. Some of the names were different then. Spani still had her maiden name, Zella Boner. She wouldn’t marry Eugene Spani until 1938, and the school we all know as Southern Illinois University was referred to in the Spring Commencement program of 1935 as The Southern Illinois State Normal University. Spani was a freshman there in 1935, long before the beautiful campus had stretched across a large area of Carbondale, long before high-rise dorms and the Pulliam Clock Tower had made their impression on the Southern Illinois skyline, and “long before a Saluki had even been thought of,” she laughs. “I didn’t even know that I was going to go to college until about a week before I went,” Spani recalls. “When I found out that my best friend from high school was going to go, I told my dad, and I guess I asked him if I could go too. He said, ‘I’ll think about it.’ I didn’t enroll until the first day of classes, and I think I got a room at Anthony Hall with no trouble. I know that it housed 72 girls, and I don’t remember it being full at all. I guess that was because most students seemed to rent rooms in the neighborhoods around campus. In fact
MEMORIES of S.I.U. By Gail Rissi Thomas
Zella Spani remembers college life as a Freshman ast SIU in 1935 including room and board for six dollars a week, rules which could expel a coed for smoking cigarettes and an unforgettable morning in Shryock Auditorium. there were plenty of empty dorm rooms and I think my roommate and I moved to a larger room at sometime during the semester. I don’t think we asked anyone. We just did it.” Built in 1918 and named in memory of women’s rights activist Susan B. Anthony, the women’s residence hall is remembered by Spani as a “pretty classy place to live.” “It cost six dollars a week for room and board,” Spani says. “I still don’t know how my father ever came up with the money for me to go. I recall meals were very formal, One student sat at the head of the table at mealtime and served as hostess. The food came from St. Louis and the quality was excellent. Much of it came in frozen, which was rather unusual for that time. I remember we had real linen napkins. After every meal, we placed the napkins in a rack with our names on them and then used them again at the next meal. They were laundered once a week.” The Powers that Be at Anthony Hall ran a pretty tight ship, and according to Spani, when the opportunity arose, they made it clear to the residents that rules were not made to be broken. “Of course there was no smoking allowed in the dorm,” Spani says. “And of course some girls were going to smoke anyway. I remember one night when a girl up on the third floor was sitting out on the balcony smoking and flicked her cigarette over onto the ground. Well someone in one of the floors below caught a glimpse of that ash falling and somehow interpreted it as a man being up on the floor above. Word spread and the next thing we knew, they sounded the big gong that they used to call everyone to dinner. We all
had to assemble down in the dining room. You never saw such a sight,” she laughs. “Bathrobes, pjs, curlers. Well everyone was sent outside while security searched every nook and cranny of that dormitory. The next day, the girl who had caused all the trouble was called to President Shryock’s office for smoking in the dorm. She was almost expelled, but somehow pleaded her way out of it. She came back to the dorm with her face all red and her eyes all swollen from crying.” Spani kept a diary during her two years at SIU, and she laughs now at the she thought was the newsworthy info that she recorded. “I’ll tell you what. If I could talk to the young people of today and give them some advice, I would say that if you are so inclined to keep a journal of some sort, for heaven sakes, write something in it. All I ever wrote about was what I ate, who I went here or there with, walked to the library with this one, walked to class with that one. I sure did walk around a lot with a lot of different people,” she laughs. “I wish I had had the foresight to write something important about the news of the day or what was going on in the world. It sure would be more interesting now.” In addition to “walking around”, Spani took the course of study which would train her to be an elementary teacher. Included in that curriculum was a course in Method Penmanship and Method Arithmetic. In a letter that she had written to Eugene Spani, the man she later married, she writes that she had begun student teaching at Brush School. She walked to the school in downtown Carbondale several blocks from her dorm. On March 25, 1936, she shares
Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
27
basketball career as captain of a women’s Saluki basketball team. She was presented with a specially inscribed burgundy and white basketball at her church one Sunday morning last spring. “If that wasn’t just a lot of silliness,” Spani laughs. “You know when I was a student, after classes some of the girls and I would go and romp around in the gym, “playing basketball.” I guess in the yearbook it does say “Captain” by my name, but I don’t know what we did. We never played an opponent; we just played one another. I was on the yellow team. I don’t think I ever made a basket in my life. Mostly we just stood around passing the ball back and forth. I was a guard so all I did was just jump around and wave my arms. If we ever had any kind of an audience, it was only the students who were waiting to play when we were finished.” “Well here I was honored as captain of the women’s Saluki basketball team, but there really was no women’s basketball team and no Salukis either in 1935 for that matter. When I wrote and thanked them for the honor, I got a letter back saying that whether I played for four years or one minute, I was still a Saluki. I guess that let me off the hook so I felt better about it,” she laughs. Among the regular activities in Spani’s daily college routine was morning attendance at chapel at Shryock Auditorium. “Chapel was mandatory as I remember it,” she says, “although that may have changed later. It was a regular church service lasting about a half an hour. We had hymnals and our professors read scriptures. We did a lot of responsorial reading.” “One morning as students were still making their way into chapel, visiting and settling down for the service, something happened that left a profound impression on Spani, a memory that is still vivid today. Years later, she wrote a column for the Southern Illinoisan about the mornings events. Contrary to her feelings about the mundane entries in her diary, on April 11, 1935 she wrote, “President Shryock fell dead in his office at chapel. Everybody was shocked. We went home to West Frankfort on the bus.” In her more detailed account of the event, Spani wrote: Faculty members took their places on the stage, and yet there seemed to be a difference. There was a delay in the usual prompt starting of the service. As in any youthful audience, the
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sight indeed. The column continues with Spani’s recollections of the April 13 funeral. …The floral tributes were banked on the stage. The most unique one was a single rose sent by an elderly African American man, Dr. Springs, who sent it in gratitude for the kindnesses President Shryock had given to the young African American students. President Henry Shryock was the fifth Zella Spani’s 3rd grade class in 1938 at Frankfort president of what is now Southern Illinois Elementary School. (Photo Courtesy Frankfort Area Histsorical Museum) University at Carbondale. As a young man he taught in Olney and came to Carbondale in 1894 as a teacher of literature and delay meant that students had more time to elocution. At the time of his death he had visit with those around them—to find out been president for 22 years… the news of campus romances, to complain Perhaps one rose sent to him by a of harsh assignments, to trade excuses as to humble man would have meant as much or why the assignments weren’t finished, etc. more than the hundreds of floral tributes, The faculty members were talking excitedly more than the outpouring of telegrams, or to one another and some left their places. more than the many glowing tributes to his Finally someone announced that visionary leadership in the building of a President Shryock had suffered a heart great college. attack while at work in his office, which One rose for the president. What a was a front part of the auditorium. It was precious memory in the life of one college suggested that the students and faculty student. should remain in the auditorium to sing Zella Spani began teaching after hymns and offer prayers. After several completing just two years at SIU and did not hymns a faculty member came to the podium graduate from SIU in 1963 with a Bachelor and announced that President Shryock had of Science Degree in Education. She was died. widowed in 2003. She taught in the West The students were dismissed and there Frankfort school system for 35 years. was a very quiet, orderly procession past the president’s office door. A hearse was parked at the front steps. It was a solemn
West Frankfort No. 25 Spring 2015
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(618) 932-2772 • (618) 937-2662 • (800) 917-1771
P.O. Box 280 • 115 East Main Street • West Frankfort, IL 62896
Ph. (618) 932-2181 Fax (618) 932-6330 201 East Nolen Street • West Frankfort, IL 62896 www.westfrankfort-il.com
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Benton, IL 62812
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