Gl in wf spring 2017 issuu by Michael Thomas

Good Living In

West Frankfort No. 29 Spring 2017

Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois

Remembering Mothers Ghost Signs Nobody Likes Us Making Hay Loren’s Pigeons Don McCord’s Market Zella Spani Good Living in

West Frankfort No. 29

Spring 2017

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Publisher’s Letter

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West Frankfort

’m pretty sure that there is not a community in Southern Illinois that doesn’t have its share of mysteries, folklore and stranger than fiction stories about its past. I’m just as sure that West Frankfort has its fair share or even more. Every once in a while a new one raises its head, whether by a brick wall collapsing to reveal an unknown product ad underneath or maybe a question or two brought up on the Facebook Page, “If you’re from West Frankfort, You Must Remember…” We’ve tried to share some old secrets and facts about stories unique to our community again in this issue of Good Living in West Frankfort. Thank you Paul Yadro for sharing the story of the little station on West Main. It’s been standing on that corner for over 90 years. We missed the deadline we had set for ourselves in May, so our Mothers Day tribute is a little late. But isn’t any day of every month an appropriate time to tell the world why we admire our Moms? Well I’m a mom and I vote, “Yes.” Our neighbor Loren Curry is an interesting man with an interesting talent. We visited with Loren and learned a lot about homing pigeons and how he trains them. Who knew? We’ve invited Gary Marx back into our magazine again because we love so much how he can make a nostalgic monologue out of a very mundane thought. We always feel honored when he allows us to take another walk through his memories. And speaking of memories, my husbands memories of his summer stay at Camp Phantom Lake weren’t quite what he thought they were. Poor Mike, all these years thinking nobody liked him. That turned out to be not such a bad thing for us, because at least we got a good laugh out of it. I hope you do too. So as the spring rains dry up, I think we are all wondering and maybe worrying about what kind of summer this will be. I hope that for all of you, it is lazy, hazy, and maybe crazy wouldn’t be too bad either. Most of all, enjoy the pleasures of living the good life here. I hope you get a chance to kick back, relax a little and feast on the blessings of Southern Illinois.

Gail Rissi Thomas, Publisher

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PLEASE SUPPORT OUR ADVERTISERS THEY MAKE THIS MAGAZINE POSSIBLE Aaron Hopkins, Attorney .......................... pg. 25 All American Hearing .............................. pg. 31 Baldwin Piano ........................................... pg. 13 Banterra Bank ....................................... pg. 4 B F J Interiors...... ...................................... pg. 29 Browning Clark Automotive .................. pg. 28 Calico Country Sew & Vac ...................... pg. 17 E. R. Brown Furniture ............................... pg. 29 Frankfort Area Historical Museum ..... Back Gandy’s Auto Body Shop ..................... pg. 29 G. L. Williams Real Estate ...................... pg. 18 Herron Rehab & Wellness Center ....... pg. 24 J & S Professional Pharmacy ..................... pg. 2 Johnson Real Estate ................................. pg. 29 Lance Brown, Attorney ............................. pg. 24 McCord’s Market ..................................... pg. 19 McDonald’s ............................................... pg. 17 Mike Riva, Attorney .................................... pg. 9 Nolen Chiropractic ................................... pg. 22 Parker-Reedy Funeral Home ................... pg. 12 Paul Lawrence Insurance ......................... pg. 4 Ramey Insurance ....................................... pg. 18 ReMax Realty ............................................ pg. 18 Rissi Event Center ..................................... pg. 25 Sandy’s Flowers & Gifts ............................ pg. 17 Severin Garden Center ............................ pg. 20 Southern Illinois Bank ............................. pg. 22 Stotlar-Herrin Lumber ........................... pg. 17 Union Funeral Home .............................. pg. 28 Volanski Heating & Air ............................. pg. 21 Watsons Jewelers .................................... pg. 8 Weeks Chevy-Buick-GMC ...................... pg. 22 West Frankfort House Furnishing ........... pg. 29 WF Chamber of Commerce ...................... pg. 29

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Contact Michael A. Thomas at 937-2019 if you wish to advertise in “Good Living in West Frankfort”.

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Table of Contents

6 10 14 19

West Frankfort residents share memories about their mothers.

14 19

20 23 26

ON THE COVER: Two-year old Emmalyn Hopkins shows how to “open wide” as she feeds her father Dustin Hopkins some popcorn at the Old King Coal Festival recently. (Photo by Jenna Hopkins)

Summer Camp took a rather strange twist for Michael Thomas when he was 12 years old. We share a beautiful poem about June written many years ago by past resident Lee Walston.

Regular contributor Gary Marx reveals how his father’s voice is still heard whenever he mows grass.

West Frankfort recently lost one of its treasures when former teacher Zella Spani passed away. We remember Zella and appreciate how she shared so much history about West Frankfort.

Loren Curry knows a thing or two about raising pigeons and shares his interesting hobby.

McCord’s Market has been a fixture in West Frankfort since 1974 and Don McCord talks about owning a family grocery.

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.

Signs of the past are all around us, telling their stories and history.

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West Frankfort Good Life Publications 309 East Oak Street West Frankfort, IL 62896 Ph: (618) 937-2019 E-mail Contact: GoodLifePublications@Gmail.com Good Living in

West Frankfort No. 29

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Remembering Mothers Leon Rissi, of Rissi Photography, was making glamour shots long before they became fashionable. His wife, was his favorite model.” --Gail Rissi Thomas

We asked our readers to submit photos and memories of their mothers. My mother, Vera Catalina Rissi, 1913-1999.

Pauline Gray Tornado Survivor and Elvis Fan by Joanna Gray

y mother, Pauline Gray, survived the Great Tri-State Tornado of 1925. She was just five years old and was at her grandmother’s house when the tornado hit. A wall collapsed on them, but her Uncle Bill came and lifted the debris off just in time to save their lives. “It’s a good thing or else I wouldn’t have been born,” I would tease my mother. “Be thankful,” she would reply wryly. On this Mother’s Day

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2017 I am thankful I had a smart, tough, and witty mother – and I miss her. I returned to West Frankfort in 2001 after 22 years away, but not because my mother needed me. She lived independently and was active up until right before her death in 2012 at age 92. I’m so glad I had those 11 years with her. She loved to go to “the boat” at Metropolis and I joked that it was my part-time job to drive her there almost every week. But she always stuck to her budget, and she kept an eye on me, too. I would be winning big at a slot machine and suddenly she would appear beside me saying, “Cash out! Don’t you want to go home a winner?” I wanted to play more, but I would reluctantly cash

West Frankfort No. 29 Spring 2017

photo provided

out. Pauline rarely took no for an answer! She also loved going to concerts at the casino, especially the annual Elvis impersonator show. My mother was celebrating her 90th birthday in this photo of her and Kraig “Elvis” Parker, proving that you’re never too old to rock ‘n roll. Going to the casino isn’t the same anymore without Pauline, so I don’t go very often. But when I do, I still hear my mother saying, “Cash out!” I take my money and go home a winner. But I became the biggest winner of all long before I was born when Pauline Gray survived that tornado and lived to become my mother – and I am thankful. Margaret McKee A Virtuous Woman By Jayma Cook and Gaye Morris “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.” Proverbs 31: 10

his scripture exemplifies our mother, Margaret McKee. She was never one to acquire expensive jewels, fancy clothing, nor did she care about worldly goods. Instead, she found wealth in her faith in God and in investing in the lives of her husband, children, grandchildren and those who were less fortunate. We remember many times when our mother purchased and delivered groceries, clothing, and other items to her neighbors who were unemployed. Many of them were single moms with no support who had several children to feed and clothe. She never wanted any recognition and gave out of a loving heart and a giving spirit. In later years, when we were teachers, she worried about our students who were in need and always and willingly provided for them. In giving to and caring for others, she was a living example of Christian love and taught us to be compassionate toward other people. She never wanted to be in the spotlight. She just wanted to help people and in a small way, make a difference in their lives. As she reached out to others, she never neglected her family. In our unbiased opinion, she was the world’s best mother. She was a great cook, dependable taxi cab driver, cheerleader to her favorite shortstop (our dad), loving babysitter to her four grandchildren, and a wise counselor to all of us. It is easy to honor her still, even though she has been in her heavenly home nearly eight years. Proverbs 31: 28 and 29 says, “Her children will rise up and call her blessed. Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.” Mom, to us you were a woman of great worth and in our eyes, you surpassed them all.

Memories of my dear mother, Mary E. Schafer By Marcia Raubach

Margaret McKee with her husband, Bill

photo provided

ost people who knew my mother remember her as being soft spoken, quiet and reserved. She had quite a sense of humor when you got to know her. She was also

Mary (on the left with guitar) and Kay Schafer performed as the Key Sisters, The Sweethearts of the Prairie during the 1940s.

a very talented musician. At the age of 12, she and her sister Kay began singing on the radio around their hometown of Decatur, Illinois. They also performed at several WLS radio Home Talent Shows and sang on WLS in Chicago. In 1940, as the Sweethearts of the Prairie, the Key sisters began singing on WDZ in Tuscola, IL, one of the first commercial radio stations in the U.S. The Key Sisters also performed for thousands in the many WDZ road shows in the early 1940’s. Tragedy struck in 1944, when Kay died in an accidental drowning. They were very close, and I don’t think mother every fully recovered from losing Kay. Tragedy struck again after dad and mom were married, when they lost Robert Michael, my little brother who was born in 1947 when I was just 10 months old. The next year, sister Cheryl was born. Mom’s strong faith carried her through these losses and her sense of humor was very evident when she wrote this letter to Arthur Godfrey in 1953 describing life in the Schafer household: Dear Arthur, My husband is always lamenting the fact that he is the only male member of our little family which consists of me-the wife, daughter Marcia, seven; daughter Cheryl, five, and female cocker spaniels Taffy, six and Sissie, three. The

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new minister came to visit us the other evening and as he was leaving he said to my husband, “It’s been so nice meeting your charming wife and two charming daughters.” Where upon my husband told him about the other two female members of our family, the dogs, explaining how he was dominated by women. Seven year old Marcia, evidently had been turning this over in her mind, for the next morning as her Daddy left for work this conversation took place: Marcia: Daddy, you’re a sissy.” Daddy: “What makes you say that?” Marcia: “Cause you live with all girls.” Daddy: “Well, that’s not my fault.” Just then, five year old Cheryl popped up and quite indignantly said, “Well, it’s not Marcia’s fault either.” I sure love that story and glad mother kept a copy of the letter for all of us to enjoy although she never did hear back from Arthur Godfrey. As you might imagine, things were quite interesting in the Schafer household, especially if you knew my father, Walt, and sister Cheryl with their lively personalities. Our baby sister, Merrie Ann came along in 1961 and added to all this enjoyment. Although mom never returned to her musical career, she would take out her 1939 Martin guitar, put on her WDZ western outfit, complete with boots and hat, and sing beautifully to the Schafer sisters. We sure enjoyed those times and I am fortunate to have actual recordings of the Key Sisters singing all their favorite songs. In later years, she would sit at her piano and play her favorite hymns. She sang for many years in our church choir and in the Grandma’s trio at church. One of mother’s dreams was to be a secretary. Her dream finally came true in 1973 when she became secretary at First Christian Church. She retired in 1988 and was able to spend many happy years enjoying her family, traveling, keeping up with her beloved Cubs and being a wonderful mother, grandmother and great grandmother to all of us. Dad passed away in 1982, sister Cheryl in 2010 and mother in 2011. Those precious memories sure do linger when I think about growing up in the Schafer household and how the strong faith of our mother made such an impact on all of us.

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Memories of Jodi Hopkins By Aaron M. Hopkins

“T

here’s a special place in heaven for the mother of twin boys.” I’m not sure where I heard this quote, and I’ve yet to find it reproduced anywhere, except for on craft signs you can buy on etsy.com. Nevertheless, I believe the fact that I am unable to find it attributable to any great writer does not make it less true or less profound. When my son was born almost 6 years ago, every time he would act up or do something that challenged me as a new parent, I would go to my mother to vent my frustrations. Her response was always the same, “imagine two of you”. She most certainly experienced twice the blessing along with twice the burden as the mother of twins. I’m sure that when my twin brother and I were little, we must have been a handful with which to deal. I remember as teen agers and young adults we were certainly difficult at times. Nevertheless, my mother was proficient, flying solo mind you, of dealing with every conflict, every bloody nose, every shoe thrown, and every hair pull that life threw at her. Although a challenge, mom always made it very clear to us that her boys were blessings, and that she loved us more than anything in this world. That being, until our own children were born and she was blessed with the title of grandma for the first time, and then subsequently three times more. Mom

Jodi (Boyett) Hopkins at age 24.

(Photo Provided)

was tasked with raising us almost single handedly. She was one of the last of a dying breed, the stay at home mom. She fed us, clothed us, and nursed us back to health when sickness befell us. Mom was the great mediator. As with many mothers no doubt, it became her place on a regular basis to solve the most minor and the most major of disagreements. Nevertheless, Mom always had a way of solving every problem in the most simplified and easy way. As scores of people have said to me over the past few weeks she her passing, my mother was the glue that held people together. If it wasn’t

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West Frankfort No. 29 Spring 2017

for her my brother and I would have left each other for dead on a roadside long ago, in a manner of speaking. However, in the face of such odds she was always successful in keeping us together and solving any problem that life and her boys threw at her. In December of 2014 she was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer, an aggressive disease that presented with only a 5% survivability rate over the course of two years. Instead of losing hope by being faced with a disease with such a morbid prognosis, she faced this battle head on. Her common response when told the odds of survival was to calmly say “O well, it is what it is, but we are going to fight this for as long as it takes.” I always knew she was brave, being the single mother of two combatting brutes like us she had to be, but it took her diagnosis for me to truly see the strength within her. Yes, I did see her cry, I did see her worry, but not for herself, it was for her grandchildren. “I just want them to remember me”, Mom would often defiantly say. She would struggle on, through chemotherapy, through radiation, though every experimental treatment she could find. This she did, not necessarily for a cure, Mom had resigned herself that such was unlikely, she would fight on simply … for time. She fought and prayed for just a few more months, perhaps days of precious time in her hope that she would defeat this malignancy just a moment long enough for her four precious grandbabies to remember her.

My Mom, Ruth Cutsinger By Darlene Weaver

hen I think of my mom, the word, love, comes to mind. My mom would often say to me, “Dar, You gotta’ show love.” Unfortunately, I did not fully understand her words until after her death. My mom viewed showing love as her calling from God, and she spent her life trying to fulfill that calling. There were times when I would even be embarrassed by her eagerness to show love. I remember saying to her, “Gee Mom, you can’t love everyone.” Mom would tell me that as a Christian, she had to love everyone. I now know that God gave Mom that gift, and her love was a “healing balm” to so many. There were times when my mom would meet people who would not respond to her. She was never discouraged. She would view this as a challenge and turn up the “love meter.” Through showing love, my mom touched so many lives. This point was made abundantly clear to me when my mom passed away last May. While standing at her casket, countless people walked up to my sister and me and told us that Mom was like a mother to them, tell-

ing us how much love she showed them.

After the funeral, as we were traveling to the cemetery, I could not help but notice the line of cars following us that were filled with people who were

On Saturday April 8th, 2017, after years of punishing treatment, her body could no longer sustain. Her fight for time had ended, and her final surrender to this disease was a testament to her strength and her dedication to her family and her grandchildren. However, it did not define her. Her station as a Cancer Survivor was only one aspect of her life. During mom’s years on this earth she taught her boys and her grandbabies many profound and lasting lessons. “We don’t hate”, Mom used to say. “We may not like someone for a while, but we shall never hate.” She was love, she was light, she was everything to four little grandbabies who will remember her. We boys, who tested her resolve for so many years, will see to that. Mom, we love you and we will remember you.

Ruth Cutsinger celebrates her birtday with a cake that depicts her as a little girl. (Provided)

loved by my mom. I turned and looked at my husband and said, “Mom truly understood how life is to be lived. We should all show love and acceptance and let everything else take care of itself.” Even after her death, mom continues to show me the importance of love.

Happy Easter 2017

Mike Riva

Attorney at Law Since 1974 Good Living in

(618) 937-2404

226 East Main • West Frankfort, IL

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omething dramatic happened in downtown West Frankfort recently that quickly became the talk of the town. It wasn’t a new business coming in, but rather it was an unexpected change to an old business, a very old business, that

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stirred up a lot of mysteries and stories. The brick wall crumbled from the back of a building that is in very advanced disrepair, and unveiled behind it a piece to the city’s past. When the outer wall fell away, it revealed a huge display ad for a brand of

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flour on what was the E.B. Pharis Wholesale Feed and Flour Business on South Emma. The building is remembered by most of us as the Elks Cleaners, popular in the 1950s, but it had past lives as the Pharis Building, one of several Pharis Build-

Ghost Signs Fascinating traces of West Frankfort’s past are still visible on some buildings to this day

Story by Michael and Gail Thomas Photos by Michael Thomas

(Left) When the outer north wall fell away on the old Elks Cleaner building on South Emma, it revealed a huge display ad for a brand of flour on what was the E.B. Pharis Wholesale Feed and Flour Business . It is just one of a few Ghost Signs in West Frankfort that tell a story of times gone by.

ings in town and later a similar business owned by S. L. Plumlee. “According to a 1919 account from the Daily American, Provided by local historian. Lois Short, “Mr. Pharis, we are informed will now engage in the automobile business with his

brother, the local Ford Agent, now in business on East Main Street.” Much to the surprise and pleasure of Short, she has a personal stake in the building’s history. She writes, “I received

phone calls telling me about the building, how wonderful it was and that I should go see it for myself. “ “I love history. I have done my family his

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tory, the family history for my husband’s family, friend and people I barely know. So when this great find presented itself, I got in my car and went to see it. It is a thing of beauty for those of us who love old stuff. What a great visual history!. I recognized the name on the sign from previous searches in old papers and books. But I wanted to know more, so I went home, dragged out my information and started to search. I was pleasantly surprised to find information on my grandfather, S. L. Plumlee, who bought the building from E. B. Pharis in 1919. Now it was no longer just a treasure for the city of West Frankfort. It is my treasure as well!” During the 1920’s, the pavement on East Main Street ended and a dirt road continued west. Yadro’s filling station was strategically located to be the last place to gas up as you left town. Anton Yadro is pictured standing near the pump. (Photo provided)

The Old Yadro Filling Station

erhaps you’ve noticed it. Perhaps you’ve seen it there for years and wondered about it. The little brick building that once was a service station, sets at a cock-eyed angle at the corner of Main and Taft. It’s very small by today’s standards and no longer in service. It was built over 90 years ago, and although it has been there so long that people probably no longer even see it as they pass by, it is a landmark in the community. Anton Yadro, known to most people as Tony, and his wife, Pauline, built the station in 1926; it was actually constructed by Odum Concrete. The Yadros lived in the house directly to the north behind the

station. They raised their family there, four girls, Mary, Ann, Eve and Amelia and two boys, John and Paul. Paul, the youngest, was born in that house and he and his wife raised their family there also. Paul and Maureen still live there today. Paul’s mother was 48 years old when he was born; his brother John was 19 and his four older sisters all in their 20s Across Taft Street, on the corner where the Chinese Restaurant now stands, was Angeli’s Deli. Angeli sold gifts, candy, food and drinks. “During Prohibition,” says Yadro, “he sold alcohol in ginger ale bottles.” An-

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geli also owned the Illinois Hotel, the first building west of the railroad tracks, which later became the Angeli Apartments. “But it was the deli which holds the most significant, even life-changing memory for the Yadro family. “My oldest sister, Mary, used to work in the deli for Angeli,” Yadro recalls. “Well actually all my sisters did at one time or another. It was close to Christmas, and Mary was decorating for the holiday. She was trying to hang something from the light fixture and stepped on a glass display case. The glass shattered, Mary fell through and was badly hurt. She never fully recovered. Sometime later, Frank Trobaugh, the attorney in town, was at the post office and he ran into my dad. He asked how Mary was doing and my dad told him that she was very frail and had never recuperated from the accident. Mr. Trobaugh told him to meet him at his law office.” “My dad did that and Mr. Trobaugh made a phone call to a doctor that he knew in St. Louis. Arrangements were made for the doctor to travel to West Frankfort to examine Mary. Somehow he was able to conclude that a shard of glass had wedged in Mary’s heart. Mary died about a day later. The doctor told my dad that if he had reached her about 24 hours earlier, he could have saved her.” The little station was situated at a pretty busy intersection. At that time, Main Street turned north at Taft Street right in front

The pumps and the Mobilgas sign are long gone, but the words “Yadro Filling Station” are still visible today (inset) on the once busy station at the corner of Main and Taft. (B& W Photo provided)

of Yadros. It continued west at St. Louis Street and curved back to become Rt. 149 out by Orient Road. Beyond that corner, Main Street, from Taft Street west was nothing but a dirt path. “The station was originally a Diamond Station,” Yadro explains. “Later it became a Mobile station. My dad sold regular gasoline and white gas. White gas was clear; it looked just like water. Later a third pump was added to dispense Ethyl.”

boards with machine guns in their hands.” “There was all kinds of stuff going on then,” he continues. “Everybody knew about Shady Rest, the Birger hangout over by Johnston City. A rival gang bombed it from an airplane one time. My sister’s husband used to deliver beer out there. They tried to scare him away without paying him, but he didn’t scare that easy. “The state cop, Bennie Witunski, told a story that he pulled one of the Birgers autos over for

something and the guy inside the car had a machine gun in a violin case on the seat next to him. Witunski said he took a look at his license and waved him through. “Just go right on. “ It was probably the most dashing and dangerous time in West Frankfort’s history.” And in an odd way, it’s almost comforting to know that there is still a piece of it left behind and someone around to tell us about it.

“My dad also owned the bulk plant back then,” Yadro says. “He had two 10,000 gallon tanks, set up where gasoline could be taken off from the rail cars to fill the pumps. He bought what became the Yadro Station up on East Main for my brother, John, just a few months before I was born. John was 19 at the time. My dad ran the little station at the corner of Main and Taft until 1967. I remember some guy wanting to buy it at one time to move it to St Louis, but that never happened. In the last years my dad ran it all day and after supper, I would go out and take care of it for the last couple of hours. He died in 1969.” It must have seemed that the whole world passed in front of the station at 801 West Main. “My dad and John remembered seeing members of the Shelton and the Birger Gangs rounding that corner and passing the house with men standing on the running Good Living in

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Homing In On Homing Pigeons Loren Curry counting on birdâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s instincts to develop his pigeon hobby

Loren Curry holds one of his prized Tumbler Pigeons, so called because they like to turn summersaults in the air as they fly.

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By Gail Rissi Thomas Photos by Michael A. Thomas

’m not much of an animal enthusiast, and I’d certainly never call myself a bird watcher, but when my neighbor, Becca Curry, mentioned to me earlier this year what she had just bought for her husband, Loren, it caught my interest immediately. I knew there had to be a story here. “I bought Loren four tumbler pigeons for Christmas,” Becca said. “They are from turkey, but I ordered them from a guy in Texas. The postal service sent them to the wrong address and they were boxed up for 7 days with no food or water. We were sure they’d be dead, but when we got them, they were just fine.”

ple used to keep the captive pigeons until they bred about two or three broods, and then they would kill the captives, because they were of no use to them. “It really is a survival of the fittest,” Loren said. “If you set a pigeon free and it doesn’t return, you haven’t lost anything because it never had the homing instinct anyway.” “Becca also bought four pair of nontumbler homing pigeons,” Loren said. “I was supposed to have four female and four males. It’s very hard to tell the males from the females, and watching them, I think that we probably have seven males and one female. I’m afraid we’re going to have to buy some more pigeons,” he laughed.

Well that was one thing to know about pigeons. They must be tough birds, but little do most people know how versatile and how interesting they are. Loren is a retired coal miner who, by his own admission has “lots of hobbies.” He sat down with me last week and shared what he knows about pigeons. It’s a lot! First of all, nearly all pigeons that people breed and train are homing pigeons. They have to be, because first they have to be trained to fly away, but come back home again. This particular tumbler pigeon will turn a summersault in midair as they fly. Why? “Well, I don’t know,” Loren said. ”it’s bred in them. They just do that, but they have to be homing pigeons, or if I let them go right out, they would take off and fly back to Texas where they were born.” So until they have a brood of their own, these pigeons will be what are referred to as prisoner or captive pigeons. In fact, they will always remain captives. If they were set free, they would return to Texas. Once a brood is born at Loren’s farm in Pittsburg, that will be home to the newborns. Then when they are set free to fly, they will always return their loft at the farm. Some peo-

know if there are any around here anymore, although there probably may be a few up in Northern Illinois. Racing is still really a big deal in Asia, and I’ve read stories about pigeons that became famous for racing and sold for huge amounts of money. I think the most expensive pigeon was bought at auction by a Chinese businessman for $400.000 not too long ago.” “I had an uncle in Herrin that used to race pigeons.” Loren continued. “I just got some books and started reading about it when I got interested in it. You have to start them out by taking them just a short way from their loft, maybe a mile or less, and letting them fly back to their loft. You start them from the north, the south, the east and then the

Several pigeons line-up at the feed trough. Curry is raising these in the hopes that they will breed pigeons that he can train as homing pigeons.

So how does someone learn to train homing pigeons? “I guess I came by it naturally,” says Loren. “My grandfather used to raise chickens and enter them in in chicken fights. I know they used to hold chicken fights and dog fights out at Shady Rest, the Birger Gang’s hideout on Route 13 between Marion and Harrisburg. I was from White Ash and went to high school in Johnston City. There used to be a lot of pigeon racing clubs around. I know there was a big one in Marion; I don’t

west until they become familiar with their territory. You keep starting them from farther away, eventually maybe five to 10 miles, and they will find their way back. It’s pretty interesting when you start them out, he said. They will make a circle overhead and then the circles get bigger and bigger, scouting out the lay of the land. Pigeons will actually return home from a race of 500 to 1,000 miles.” There are quite a few theories about

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how a homing pigeon learns to return to their loft but that mystery has never been completely solved. Two main theories say that pigeons rely either on their sense of smell to navigate or that they follow the earth’s magnetic field lines. A newer school of thought from studies at Cornell University suggests that the birds are following ultralow frequency sounds back toward their lofts and those disruptions in their ability to “hear” home is why they occasionally get lost. Pigeons can hear sound waves well below the range audible to people. Homing pigeons have a long and fascinating history. The carrier pigeons we have heard about, the birds like Cher Ami, who achieved fame by delivering messages in WWI and saving hundreds of lives in the midst of battle, were homing pigeons. They would be taken in cages by the leaders of battalions out to the battlefields. One leg would be banded and attached with a small metal cartridge. In crisis, the battalion commander would write a note containing vital information or calling for help in an emergency, and put the note into the cartridge. The pigeon would then be set free and it would return to the headquarters where it had been born, and in many cases help could be sent or perhaps it would provide their exact location which in turn would protect them from future friendly fire.

PIGEON OF VALOR

he sport of flying homing pigeons was well-established as early as 3000 years ago. They were used to proclaim the winner of the Olympics messenger pigeons were used as early as 1150 in Baghdad. The earliest documented use of pigeons by an army was by the Romans more than 2,000 years ago. During World War I, both sides routinely used homing pigeons as couriers. At the urging of General of the Armies John Pershing, the US Army Signal Corps established a pigeon service in 1917. Although a pigeon toted its message in a tiny capsule fastened to one leg, handlers started attaching a larger capsule, the size of a cigar tube, to the pigeon’s back, able to carry a bigger load, perhaps including maps, photos, and detailed reports. Very few messages—less than one percent— were coded, because pigeons were so dependable at reaching their destinations. Cher Ami (French for “dear friend,”) was a homing pigeon, donated by the pigeon breeders in Britain for use by the U.S. Army Signal Corps in France during World War I, and trained by American pigeoneers. She helped save about 200 men, from the lost Battalion of the 7th Division in the Battle of the Argonne, October 1918. On October 3, 1918, Major Charles White Whittlesey, and more than 500 men were

“Homing pigeons have been bred to exist in a lot of pretty colorful varieties. They learned long ago that stark white pigeons let off a glare that made them easily detectable to hawks,” Loren explained. “That’s always a possibility when you set pigeons free to travel over a long distance. One reason I haven’t raised them for quite a few years is that the last time I raised them, we were gone one time and some coons got into the loft and killed every one of them; didn’t eat them, just killed them. So I got away from it for a while.

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trapped in a small depression on the side of the hill behind enemy lines without food or ammunition. They were beginning to receive friendly fire from allied troops who did not know their location. After two pigeons were sent out with requests for help were shot down, only one, Cher Ami, remained. She was sent out with the message in a canister on her left leg. “We are along the road parallel to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heaven’s sake stop it.” Cher Ami was eventually shot down but managed to take flight again. She arrived back at her loft at division headquarters 25 miles (40 km) to the rear in just 25 minutes, helping to save the lives of the 194 survivors. In this last mission, Cher Ami delivered the message despite having been shot through the breast, blinded in one eye, covered in blood and with a leg hanging only by a tendon. Cher Ami received a hero’s treatment with medics working long and hard to save her life. They were unable to save her leg, so they carved a small wooden one for her. When she recovered enough to travel, the now one-legged bird was put on a boat to the United States, with General John J. Pershing personally seeing Cher Ami off as she departed France. Cher Ami’s body was later mounted by a taxidermist and enshrined in the Smithsonian Institution. (See Below) ( Information paraphrased from various Internet sources)

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It must have taken a lot of confidence mixed with apprehension to take on a venture at such a young age. “I remember in the early days, it was kind of scary sometimes,” McCord recalls. “There were at least a few days that I would wake up and think to myself, ‘Gosh what if nobody comes to buy groceries today.’” That would have been very unlikely, and the continuous loyalty to his customer base, service and good quality and variety have allowed the business to flourish in the past 43 years.

From Stockboy to Owner Don McCord Proves Hard Work Pays Off

McCords has been a family business from the beginning, He and his wife, Sue, have welcomed both daughters, Kimberly and Valerie, his son, Gabe, his mother, sister, sister-in-law and nephew all taking turns serving as store employees at times. McCord has always been a supporter of local civic and charitable efforts, sponsoring a girls’ softball team for many years and known for contributing to the success of local fundraisers. They have always been known for their quality meat department and helpful customer service. “You don’t have to be big,” he says, “to provide good service and quality. The store is open six days a week from 7 a.m. until 9 p.m. McCord is still there at least four days a week, managing the details of the day to day business himself.

By Gail Rissi Thomas Photos by Michael A. Thomas

in plans and become a very young businessman.

on McCord was only 24 when be purchased the Quick Shop market from West Frankfort residents Bob and Anita Sparks in 1974. He had recently completed student teaching requirements in Marion and graduated from SIU with a degree in education. He was heading for a career in elementary education, but Bob Sparks made plans to retire in 1972, which caused McCord to make an abrupt change

“I had worked for the Quick shop since 1966,” McCord says. “The store burned in 1971 and it was rebuilt in ’72 with two separate businesses in the building. They reopened the grocery store, but added a floral and gift shop which was operated by Bob’s wife, Anita. I went back to work for them again when they reopened, and in 1974 when they retired, I decided to buy the business and open McCord’s Market.”

Josh Poynor slices some pepper jack cheese at McCord’s Deli.

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Nobody Likes Us

Things I Learned at Summer Camp

During an afternoon treat of eating watermelon, happy campers and counselors at Phantom Lake YMCA Camp pause to have their picture taken in the main dining hall. This photo was taken in the 1950’s. (Phantom Lake Archives)

By Michael A. Thomas he summer of 1959 was going to be no different than any other: a full 12 weeks off of school during which I would hang out with friends, ride my bike to the city pool and even catch a a Cubs game on WGN in cousin Fred’s basement after a rousing morning of whiffle ball. I was going to Carpe a lot of Diems, that was for sure. For a week, things were going exactly as planned until my mother announced that we were going to Summer Camp for two weeks. “We” being the three oldest offspring in a brood of six boys: my twin brother, Marc and younger brother, Jeff, would be going with me on this grand adventure. I am not sure what rationale’ mom and dad used to make this decision. With the three youngest boys still at home, it wasn’t like they were going to be deriving much benefit from our absence, in fact, they were losing some valuable baby sitters as we all took turns watching out for our 1-year-old brother, Jay. I suppose they

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were wanting to turn us into decent human beings and figured a little nature time would be good for us. It makes for a good theory, doesn’t it. So, in mid-June, we headed to Phantom Lake, in Mukwonago, Wisconsin. As a surprise to us, Mom told us our best friend, George, would also be at Phantom. George was in the same class as Marc and I having him there would really put the icing on this cake. “This might be fun after all”, I thought. We arrived at Phantom in good spirits. The camp was abuzz with activity with all the new arrivals and after good-byes were said, we were told to grab out stuff and assemble in the common yard for cabin assignments.

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About eight boys and one counselor stayed in each cabin. The digs were primitive, just empty cots, maybe a shelf for your personal items but no running water. There was electricity for lights but no air-conditioning or even electric fans. Man, this was really roughing it. I felt like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. We were given a tribal name and grouped according to age. The Sioux, the youngest campers, was Jeff’s group. They were giv-

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en the cabins farthest from the mess hall. Next were the mighty Cheyenne, my group. There were enough Cheyenne to fill several cabins. The camp counselors were reading off names for the first Cheyenne cabin…I was in that group. But imagine my confusion when twin brother Marc and George were assigned the second cabin. I thought there was some mistake. No, the counselor assured me, my mother and father thought it best to separate the twins.

more worried about my lack of participation in this boyhood right of passage than any sort of punishment for Randy’s shenanigans. I learned then that lighting farts is part of summer camp tradition in Wisconsin and maybe in full disclosure it should be included somewhere in the camp brochure next to archery and horseback riding. I was smart enough not to include any mention of it in the mandatory postcard home to my parents, but I was not a happy camper.

I did not like that idea at all. Marc and I were womb mates, and spent almost all of our free time together. Plus, I wanted to be with George, too. Now Marc got George all to himself! Not fair.

I tried to keep a positive spin on things. I made mom a pretty purple and yellow lanyard in arts and crafts. And a letter holder for dad. I was even determined to graduate from guppy to minnow in our afternoon swims down at the beach and I had to admit that shooting a .22 rifle at the target range was pretty cool, even though it cost extra money from my activity account. To be sure, there were times when I got to hang out with Marc and George, but it seemed like those were few and far between.

The powers to be would not relent and so I had no choice but to accept my fate and make the best of it. Things would have been OK, I think, if it hadn’t been for Randy. Randy was a kid assigned to my cabin. Randy was a lot like Scut Farkus, resident evil kid in “The Christmas Story”. Randy was a natural leader and could sense fear in you. And he wasn’t bigger than me but he was a grade older than me, which meant he was five years older than me in kid years. When the counselor was gone, Randy would take control of the cabin. I could tolerate the occasional curse word and the dirty jokes he would tell to the other guys, but I never laughed at them. It just wasn’t my style. Then there were the cabin shenagins. Randy persuaded some of the boys to pass gas while he held a lit match close by. The howls from the boys witnessing the resulting eruption of a brief flame only encouraged Randy to stage several encores as other boys took their turn. When I declined my opportunity, you would have thought I had refused to wash my hands after picking up doggie doo. From that moment on, my Phantom Lake experience became one of enduring my remaining time at camp. I told my counselor about it, but he seemed

At meal times each cabin was assigned a table. We weren’t allowed to mingle. I would see Marc and George, sitting together with their cabin mates and having fun. And Jeff seemed to have picked up a buddy or two. But I was Mr. Lonely, counting off the days until camp was over. There were two traditions at meal time. There was Cinderella duty, where each cabin had to take a turn cleaning up the mess hall after meals, which meant that when all others were dismissed for free time, your group had to stay behind and get things ship-shape for the next meal. But before we were dismissed, the whole camp would sing a few songs to get our mojo going and the last song sung each time would be the Phantom Lake Camp Song. It went like this: “Ki-yikey-ike-us, nobody like us We are the boys from Phantom Lake Always a winning,

Always a grinning, Always a feeling great. Ki-YIKE!” I am embarrassed to admit this, but when I heard the camp song for the first time, I thought the lyrics were “Ki-yikey-ike-us, nobody LIKES us.” Indeed, in my camp experience it made perfect sense and I never gave it a second thought. Nobody likes me. Yep, you guys nailed it. Just a bunch of misfits here reveling in methane madness. How could anybody like that? In full disclosure, I must admit that I did end up the last week of camp in the same cabin as Marc and George. One morning, after reveille, I pleaded my case to the camp director and the switch was made a day or two later. It wasn’t easy, as one of the other campers in Marc’s cabin had to agree to make the switch. Randy watched me as I gathered up my stuff to leave. “Now we’re going to have a GOOD cabin,” he said. I probably didn’t say anything back to him, but I bet I thought of a good retort that night. Fast forward 40 years or so. Elvis has left the auditorium, men have landed on the moon, and Al Gore has invented the internet. Marc and I are reminiscing about the good old days at Phantom Lake. I launch into a spontaneous rendition of the camp song, which I had never forgotten and had defined me that summer. When I finished, Marc looked at me with a bemused smile on his face. Instead of a word of approval he says, “It’s not nobody likes us, its nobody like us.” I sat there stunned. “Are you sure?”, I asked. But I knew he was right. And I also knew that my 12-year-old self got a little bit of redemption. Yes, I was all right. I turned out OK. I did keep winning. I did keep a grinning. And now, yes, I do feel great. Ki-Yike!

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MAKING HAY WHEN THE SUN SHINES

Lessons learned from the mowers in Dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s garage

By Gary Marx

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“Now, what did I tell you?”

We managed with that push mower for a while, and then one day Dad came home with a new machine. I wasn’t really “new” in the store-bought sense – Dad never bought new – but it was a sight to see.

It wasn’t a scold. More of a gentle reminder of a lesson imparted years ago, back when I was a kid, back when doing chores meant more than just getting the job done.

It looked a little like the old push mower, with two wheels and a reel of curved blades, but on top was a motor, gas-powered and everything. Quite the innovation.

“That blade needs to be sharpened.”

My brother remembers it as a Craftsman model with a Tecumseh motor, and because he’s got two years on me, I’ll trust his memory over mine. What I remember is that it was silver, maybe gray, and it was made out of steel. Weighed a ton. It might even have had a self-propelling mechanism of some sort, but it was still hard to muscle that thing around the yard.

he mower seized up in the tall grass – foonk! – and the motor fell silent. That’s when I heard my father’s voice.

That may be true, but this lawn isn’t anything a sane person would call “grass.” It’s composed of some sort of tungsten jungle material that can stop a blade whirling at 2,800 rpm if it gets too tall. And that’s what happened here. I had a lot of excuses for letting it get out of hand. It had rained … I had been out of town … blah, blah. “Gotta make hay while the sun shines.” Dad used to say that one a lot, and it’s particularly apropos in this case. We had a similar lawn when I was a kid. Our house sat on about half an acre of assorted feral grasses and weeds – broadleaved plants and thistly things. We eventually got some seed to take, but in the early days it was a cruel, brutal thatch. We sometimes had to attack it with hand sickles. As a boy I couldn’t wait to be big enough to handle the mower and join my brother in the march toward manhood. Being entrusted with this chore was a rite of passage. The first mower that I remember was one of those two-wheel push jobs. No motor. When you rolled it, the wheels rotated a set of curved blades that whirled around as fast or as slow as you pushed. It was totally man-powered, and, being a boy, it was almost too much for me. I frequently had to be rescued when I got too deep into the weeds. “Take smaller bites. You’ll last longer.”

Plus, it was scary as heck. We might have had a grass catcher in the back, I can’t recall, but I can still see those whirling blades and feel all that grass – and an occasional rock – pelting my shins as I walked behind. “Don’t stick your foot in there. You’ll gum up the works.” Needless to say, my enthusiasm for mowing didn’t last very long. But, the task was made easier because my brother and I split the work. He’d do the front yard and I’d do the back, and we’d switch the next week. Still, I was delighted that day when Dad brought home another “new” mower. This one was a more conventional fourwheel design, and it was either red or yellow. We had mowers of both colors while I lived at home and I can’t recall which one came first. It doesn’t matter, though; they were among a parade of rather simple mowers that rolled through our garage over the years. Some of those mowers needed a little work, but Dad was handy. He was a carpenter by trade, but he knew a lot about a lot, including machines. He’d tinker with those small engines, and eventually he had them running like tops.

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“If it’s still got a pulse, save it.” Each of those mowers had a different personality. Some were easier to start than others. Some were lighter and some were louder. Their handles varied. But the common feature of these things was their uncanny ability to collect cut grass under the deck.

thing he ever taught me. Not only did he show me how to do stuff, but he told me why that stuff had to be done. Mostly, though, I’m grateful that even though he’s been gone for almost 20 years, I can still hear his voice. I’m still listening, Dad.

It didn’t matter how dry the vegetation was, the undercarriage would get caked with green matter. The mower would get heavier as you went along, and we had to stop midway through the job to scrape off the barnacles. And we did the same thing when we finished mowing.

Gary Marx has worked for newspapers in Southern Illinois, Indiana, and Kansas City, and he’s been laid off and fired from most of them. But he makes it a habit to read the paper every day. Except Mondays. His writing appears in this magazine and elsewhere, at www.marxjournal.com

Union

There was a trick to it, so Dad showed us how to tip the mower perpendicular to the ground in just the right way to keep gas and oil from leaking all over the place. And he told us to be sure to pull the spark plug wire before we started scraping the deck. You can turn the blade and inadvertently start the mower, he said. And you didn’t want your hand in there if that happened. “Cut your hand clean off.” Dad’s warnings about such things were generally horrific worst-case scenarios. Never mind BB guns that could “take your eye out,” Dad’s warnings were about dismemberment and death. “Don’t sniff that,” he told me once about some wicked solvent. “It’ll kill you deader ’n a doornail.” I don’t know if his method of instilling fear and caution kept me alive, but I know there was a lot of wisdom in Dad’s lessons. I am occasionally reminded of them. I keep my fingers and toes away from blades. I clean my tools and put them away. I make sure moving parts get oil. I try to stay on the level, and I lend a helping hand when I can. Sometimes I even make hay when the sun is still shining. Dad would have been 100 years old this month. And I’ve been thinking of him a lot lately. I’m grateful for every little

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Thanks for the Memories, Zella

There were others with memories, who told their stories eagerly and colorfully. L. Goebel Patton, former superintendent of West Frankfort Schools, grew up in the Heights. He was the one called to unlock the Central Gym so it that could be used as a morgue the night of the mine explosion at Orient #9. He couldn’t return home for 72 hours. He worked at the Moonlight Café when he was in high school. He recalled as a very young boy seeing an immigrant family being beaten and chased from their home in the Heights only a block or two down the street from where he lived. The stories were poignant. They were told in first person. They were precious, and they were the best record of this community that we will ever have. The story tellers of that time are gone now. Wilma Finazzo, M. C. Odle, there were others, and their words are preserved in the past issues of “Good Living in West Frankfort,” and our book, “West Frankfort Back in the Day.” Thank God that we still had them for a while to give us a glimpse into a fascinating time in our history. The passing of Zella Spani flooded my mind and brought all these thoughts to the forefront. Thank you my friends. Godspeed.

Photos Provided

By Gail Rissi Thomas

And there were others like her, who contributed to the subjects we have researched, piece by piece, helping us to solve the he danced on Main Street in 1934. mysteries of West Frankfort’s past. A under the stars at Barrett’s Res- name here, an address there, the details of taurant open balcony She earned an event that we knew from only a vague a basketball letter from SIU for- mention. Ethridge Tharp, died in last year Women’s Basketball . without ever firing at the age of 105. He was a buddy with my a shot. As a teenager, she presided over dad, Leon Rissi, and in the 1940s and 50s her court as Queen of the May in 1930. they had their heads together almost every She was frightened by a live gorilla as she day, making millions of dollars in their played the piano at a church service in Ori- dreams and schemes, while they served ent. Zella Spani was full of stories and this community as successful businessmen. memories, interspersed with giggles as she Tharp, while still in high school, was stock boy and window dresser at Burgs. He knew shared them with me so many times. the gossip and the secrets of the wealthiest When I heard that she had passed away couples in West Frankfort and was eager to in March, at the tender age of 99, my first share them with a few chuckles and asides. thoughts were, “We have lost another key As a businessman, he operated Tharp’s to the history of West Frankfort.” Zella General Store with the vision of a New Spani was a gentle soul, kind and consider- York City Madison Avenue merchant. A ate. Her memories will continue to shine, case in point, he sold literally thousands of hula hoops out of his car in the 1950s. just as her life shined on this community.

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Zell Spani with her husband Gene taken on vaction in 1957. Photo courtesy of Rita Bradley

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Homing In On Homing Pigeons Loren Curry counting on birdâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s instincts to develop his pigeon hobby

Loren Curry holds one of his prized Tumbler Pigeons, so called because they like to turn summersaults in the air as they fly.

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Ghost Signs Fascinating traces of West Frankfort’s past are still visible on some buildings to this day

Story by Michael and Gail Thomas Photos by Michael Thomas

brother, the local Ford Agent, now in business on East Main Street.” Much to the surprise and pleasure of Short, she has a personal stake in the building’s history. She writes, “I received

phone calls telling me about the building, how wonderful it was and that I should go see it for myself. “ “I love history. I have done my family his

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