Good Living In
West Frankfort No. 31 Fall/Winter 2018
Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois
Puppy Shoes Arthur Rothstein A Cake Story You Can’t Go Home Life is a Gift Lawrence Webb Nostalgic Greeing Cards Touching a Spot
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Merry Christmas
Front Row: Shannon Huff, Angela Triplett (R.Ph.), Valerie Blake, Callie Stoner (Pharm D), Tammy Woolard, Shane Bennett, Karen Bennett. Second Row: Nick Minor (Pharm D), Lisa Claunch, Joyce Fogleman, (R.Ph.), Darci Mandrell (R.Ph.), Judi Markwell, Audrey Dorris, Mark Roe (R. Ph.) Felicia Mortag, Jordan Moschino, and Steve Heyder Not Present: Shiela Blackwood, John Dimmick, Marianna Davis, Linda Sisk, and Jordan Schach.
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6 Pharmacists to Serve & Counsel You Joyce E. Fogleman, R.Ph./Owner 937-2416
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Publisher’s Letter
Good Living In
West Frankfort
W
hen I write a Publisher’s letter, especially like this one, when I can’t think of anything especially funny or clever to share, I revert to the advice about writing that was given to me by my boss when I was in college. “Tell them what you’re going to tell them. Tell them. And then, tell them what you told them. I’ve remembered that formula thousands of times over the years, and I may have even quoted it in one of my previous letters. But I figure if I can’t remember that, you probably won’t either. When we published our last magazine, November, 2017, we thought it would probably be the last ever, and said so. At least we thought if we took a year’s break, we would have fresh new ideas for stories and be eager to share them with our readers. Well, not so much. In fact, we had to resort to reusing a couple of stories that we first published years ago. But from comments we’ve received from time to time, we know that “The Cake Story” and “The Hickory Nut Pie” are two of the all time favorites that have touched people’s hearts. We also chose one of our own favorites. It’s a story by Sherri Murphy, who has written many touching first person accounts for past issues. “Puppy Shoes” is her memory of a true lesson in giving from the heart, and it is the perfect sentiment for the Christmas season. About a month ago, Michael read a letter in The Southern from a friend, West Frankfort resident Gary Campbell. It was a tribute to Lawrence Webb. Gary wrote it to show his admiration to a WWII Navy Veteran who had just passed away. We regretted that we had not learned of him sooner so that we could have allowed him to tell his story himself. Luckily, his grandson, Kyle Webb, was also an admirer of his grandfather, and was happy to share the stories he had heard him tell over the years. We have published many accounts of veterans in our magazines and were only too pleased to share this one, another local hero who walked among us. Many of our readers will remember the famous photographs of Arthur Rothstein. During the 1930s, the federal government commissioned him to take pictures in various small towns around the country to show the effect of the Depression on the people and their communities. We have used some of his images in our publications; some are in our book, West Frankfort Back in the Day. We have always thought it interesting that West Frankfort was chosen as a fortunate recipient of this visual record. Michael delved into the story behind the man and his art. Lastly, West Frankfort’s Amanda Hopkins helped us with a commentary on how memories from our childhood change and stay the same as we carry them with us throughout life. “Going home again” usually means going not so much to a place, a store or a building, but more going back to a place in our mind that is always safe from the passage of time. So I told you what we are going to tell you. If you read this issue, we will tell you. As for what we will have told you, it’s all about nostalgia, the memory of who we were. The advertisers tell you who we are now. And if we see you again in a year – or not—We wish you a beautiful Christmas season and a blessed 2019.
Gail Rissi Thomas, Publisher Good Living in WF Fall 2108 R.indd 3
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PLEASE SUPPORT OUR ADVERTISERS THEY MAKE THIS MAGAZINE POSSIBLE Aaron Hopkins, Attorney .......................... pg. 19 All American Hearing .............................. pg. 31 A Special Occassion ................................. pg. 25 Banterra Bank ....................................... pg. 12 B F J Interiors...... ...................................... pg. 29 Browning Clark Automotive .................. pg. 23 Bonnie Cafe ............................................. pg. 19 Calico Country Sew & Vac ........................ pg. 27 E. R. Brown Furniture ............................... pg. 29 Frankfort Area Historical Museum ..... Back Gandy’s Auto Body Shop ..................... pg. 29 Gardner Construction ............................ pg. 12 G. L. Williams Real Estate ...................... pg. 11 Herron Rehab & Wellness Center ....... pg. 7 Hidden Treasures ..................................... pg. 11 J & S Professional Pharmacy ..................... pg. 2 Johnson Real Estate ................................. pg. 25 Lance Brown, Attorney ............................. pg. 27 McCord’s Market ..................................... pg. 29 McDonald’s ............................................... pg. 4 Mike Riva, Attorney .................................. pg. 23 Morties Botique ......................................... pg. 11 Nolen Chiropractic ................................... pg. 15 Parker-Reedy Funeral Home ................... pg. 11 Peoples National Bank .............................. pg. 4 Ramey Insurance ......................................... pg. 27 Sandy’s Flowers & Gifts ............................ pg. 7 Severin Garden Center ............................ pg. 14 Southern Illinois Bank ............................. pg. 15 Sparkling Arrangements ........................ pg. 15 Stotlar-Herrin Lumber ........................... pg. 17 Stone Suneral Home ............................... pg. 15 Union Funeral Home .............................. pg. 21 Volanski Heating & Air ............................. pg. 25 Watsons Jewelers .................................... pg. 21 Weeks Chevy-Buick-GMC ...................... pg. 12 West Frankfort House Furnishing ........... pg. 29 WF Chamber of Commerce ...................... pg. 29 Your Heart’s Desire ................................. pg. 4 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
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Sherri Murphy delights us with a wonderful story abouut a little boy who shows us the true meaning of giving at Christmas time.
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In 1939, famous photographer Arthur Rothstein captured the effect of the Great Depression on West Frankfort and other southern Illinois towns.
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Food touches the heart in so many ways. One woman wanted to honor her mother with a very special cake.
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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.
Often it is the everyday opportunities that can give our daily lives special meaning. Lawrence W. Webb lived his own version of “Saving Private Ryan” during WWII. We share a collection of old fashioned greeting cards made just for the Holiday Season. A pie, a man and a memory. A widower has a special request for a special pie.
Good Living In
No portion of this publication, including photos and advertisements, may be reproduced in any manner without the expressed consent of Good Life Publications . ©2018
ON THE COVER: The West Frankfort City Park is a favorite place for many to do their daily walking. Jim McPhail is shown here spending a sunny fall morning with a morning stroll. (Photo Pby Michael A, Thomas)
We explore childhood memories and wonder if you can ever go home again.
West Frankfort Good Life Publications 309 East Oak Street West Frankfort, IL 62896 Ph: (618) 937-2019 E-mail Contact: GoodLifePublications@Gmail.com
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s e o h S y p u p P
his room with two contributions: A fuzzy lamb backpack full of books and a pair of "Pound Puppy" house shoes. He handed them to me and said, " Here Mommy, give these to those kids to make them happy." When I saw his gift choices, I thought he had misunderstood what was going to happen to his gifts. "Now, you won't be seeing these again, they will stay in Mexico with the kids", I said, certain that he must have been too young to understand this concept.
(Editor’s note: For years, almost from our first publication of our Good Living Magazines, we have welcomed several writers whom we have considered to be talented, thoughtful and articulate to join us in providing content for our publications. West Frankfort resident, Sherri Murphy, has done so on many occasions. We love her sense of humor and heartfelt sentiment in the stories she shared with us. “Puppy Shoes,” a nostalgic description from her days as a mom of young kids is one of our favorites. When we printed it in Good Living in Southern Illinois, a publication which we discontinued after the first two years, we received many comments from readers who found it as sweet and touching as we did. We felt this was one of those stories from the past ten years that was worthy of reprinting.)
By Sherri Murphy
M
any years ago during the early years of our marriage, my husband and I were preparing for yet another Christmas holiday, putting our gift list together and planning to give to a very worthy cause.
My brother had told us of a church nearby that had parked a semi-truck in their parking lot and were going to fill it with furniture, gifts, toys and clothes and drive it to an impoverished community in Mexico to be distributed to the needy villagers there.
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We were struggling financially, so there were no new items to purchase for them, however, we had PLENTY of clothes and toys we could donate. I went through my closet and pulled out a large pile of clothes that I no longer wanted or needed, picked out a few other items from around the house, then went to talk to my four-year-old son about going through his toy box to give from his abundant collection of unwanted toys. I explained to him that his toys would be going to children who may have never had their own toys to play with, as they were very poor. I explained to him that many of the children had no parents or their parents had no means to buy playthings for their children. We discussed had sad their life was in comparison to ours, and although we didn't have much money, we would be considered rich in their eyes. I told him how any toys that he decided to give away would be putting a smile on the face of a needy child many miles away. I left him alone in his room so he could sort through his toys so he could choose the toys he didn't want to play with anymore. A few moments later, he emerged from
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"I know. I don't think they have puppy shoes and lamb backpacks in Mexico", he explained. In that moment, my entire perspective on giving to the needy changed. Let me explain the significance of his gifts. Every morning when he awoke, he would fill this lamb backpack, (his favorite) with books for me to read to him each day. If we finished reading those books, he would refill it. He would walk around the house wearing this backpack and would choose one book and ask me to read aloud to him. He loved the backpack, and so enjoyed the many books we would read through together. The "Pound Puppy" shoes basically never came off his feet unless we were going out of the house. He would even sleep in them! They were just white slippers with puppy heads on them but he was so attached to these little shoes. I looked at the two gifts he had chosen to give, and then looked at the large pile of "gifts" I had chosen to give. Mine were clothes that were out of style, didn't fit, or things I just didn't care to hang onto anymore. His were the two most cher-
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ished items from his collection of treasures. I was immediately humbled. A four-year-old child was giving the very best he had to someone he didn't even know because he wanted to make them happy. He was HAPPY to give his most cherished possessions if it meant making life better for someone else.
Merry Christmas & Happy New Year
Sandy’s Flowers & Gifts
I went back to my closet, picked out my best Sunday dress, with the matching shoes and purse and laid them on the top of my pile as I asked forgiveness for my very selfish "generosity". I really had not given anything. I was getting rid of things I didn't want to help make space for the new and improved items that would soon take their place. My four-year-old child led the way to inspire my giving from a heart of love and true compassion. In my Christmas generosity this year and every year, I say a little prayer that I will be conscious of putting a smile on someone’s face and hope to lighten their load. May I always give by a heart that’s touched by compassion and that a little child shall lead me. Will you let a four-year-old child lead you?
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Capturing Southern Illinois In Crisis Mode Arthur Rothstein’s photos showed the depth of the Depression here
(Above): The seemingly desperate plea of from the owner of the American Brokcrage to raise cash draws the attention of several West Frankfort shoppers.
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His photographs of West Frankfort, Herrin, Stiritz and Shawneetown were sent back to Washington D.C. There they were cataloged and given captions. The best ones
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Rothstein was sympathetic to the union miner and the hard working farmer. HIs pictures of mines, working and abandoned, as well as miners working with outdated equipment captured the desperate situation as mines clung to hang on, barely able to provide jobs to a few men let alone hundreds of others who weren’t as lucky and had lost their jobs.
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n January of 1939, a young photographer came to southern Illinois at the behest of the Roosevelt administration. His name was Arthur Rothstein and his job was to photograph the effects the Great Depression was having on the working men and women across America. Rothstein was one of a group of photojournalists hired as part of FDR’s New Deal to travel accross America and document the plight of people still struggling. Rothstein worked for the Farm Security Agency (FSA), one of many so-called alphabet agencies such as the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC),
R ot
Courtesy Library of Congress
the WPA (Works Progress Administration) and the TVA (Tennessee Valley Authority) all of which were designed to provide jobs and economic relief to America.
A r th u r
By Michael A. Thomas Photos by Arthur Rothstein
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were published in books, magazines and newspapers to inform the government and Americans not only how these people were coping but also what the Government was doing to help. From the Library of Congress website we read that staff photographers were given specific subjects and/or geographic areas to cover. These field assignments often lasted several months. Before beginning their (continued on page 10)
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Despite a lingering economic depression which didn’t end until the entry of the United States into W.W. II in 1941, West Frankfort’s Main Street seems bustling on a cold Janurary day in 1939. Part of Rothstein’s mission was to document scenes of recovery in rural America, and this picture seems to do just that.
A man gives a woman shopper plenthy of room as he passes her on the sidewalk in the 100 block of West Main Street.
"Because powerful images are fixed in the mind more readily than words, the photographer needs no inte ”Because powerful images are fixed in the mind “Because powerful images areno more readily than words, the photographer needs fixed A inphotograph the mind more interpreter. means the s readily
than words, the photographer needs no interpreter. A photograph means the same thing all over the world and no translaame thing all over the world and no translator is tor is required. Photography required. Photography is truly a universal language, is truly a universal language, transcending all boundaries of race, politics and transcending all boundaries of nationality.” ~ Arthur Rothstein” race, politics and rpreter. A photograph means thenationality.” same thing all over
Arthur Rothstein ~ the world and no translator is~required. Photography is truly a universal language, transcending all boundaries of race, politics and nationality." ~ Arthur Rothstein” (Above) Even in 1939, hand loading coal was obsolete. But because of a shortage of working capital, Old Ben No.8, had not been able to install loading machines to handle the entire output of the mine. Accordingly, the mine still used the now obsolete pit car loader, and even employed a few hand loaders alongside modern, highly efficient automatic loading machines. (Left) A shanty built a on refuse pile near Herrin. Many residences in southern Illinois coal towns were built with money borrowed from building and loan associations. During the Depression, almost all building and loan associations went into receivership. Their mortgages were sold for whatever they would bring and the purchasers demolished homes by the hundreds in order to salvage scrap lumber. The result was a serious overcrowding and high rents in all the coal towns. A number of people could not find any houses to rent, and lived in tents and shanties on the fringes of the town. Good Living in
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assignments, photographers read relevant reports, local newspapers, and books in order to become familiar with their subject. A basic shooting script or outline was often prepared. Photographers were encouraged to record anything that might shed additional light on the topic that they were photographing, and they received training in making personal contacts and interviewing people. It is not clear how long Rothstein stayed in southern Illinois in the cold days of January, 1939, but we do know that he visited several locations in the area including Stiritz, Bush, Herrin and Shawneetown. After finishing his photo assignment for the U.S. government, Rothstein enjoyed a successful career as a photographer for Look and Parade magazines. He published 9 books on photography and his work has been recognized in exhibits around the world. Rohtstein died in 1985. Photos: (Upper Right) A young boy, slingshot at the ready in case he catches small game offguard, gathers coal from a gob pile near Stiritz (Below) An unemployed coal miner from Bush sits absently mindedly near his coal-burning furnace, perhaps wondering what the future holds for him. At the time of this photo, there were only two active coal mines in Williamson county, down from a one time high of sixteen. Opposite Page (Top Left) Hand painted signs on the window display the specials at the A & P grocery in Herrin.
Three years before coming to southern Illinois, Rothstein had been documenting the effects of the Dust Bowl. It was in 1936 that he took his most iconic picture: a farmer and his two young sons leaning into the wind of a sudden dust storm, sand biting into their faces as they made their way to a shack of a home to seek shelter.
(Top Right) Rothstein captioned this picture “Popcorn stand on main street in Herrin, Il.� Perhaps it was taken to show the ingenuity that out of work coal miners would go to in order to make a living. (Middle Left) A coal miner, probably at Old Ben No. 8, strikes coal using a pick ax. Rothstein had a penchant for showing the work ethic of the struggling man during the Great Depression. Many coal companies were unable to afford modern machinery to make the life of the miner easier. (Bottom Left) A young man in a hurry scurries past the State Bank in West Frankfort. The bank may have been one of several that had to close because of the economic hard times. A closer inspection of the picture reveals the building also contains the office of a doctor and a dentist.
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WEEKS
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A Cake Story
(Editor’s note: “Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven,” and when Pillsbury said it best about 70 years ago, it so well captured the sentiment that food and love both provide comfort, that they’ve been saying it ever since. Few would disagree that whether it’s warm cookies or homemade bread just out of the oven, or a pot of steaming vegetable soup on an crisp Autumn day, people equate special memories of food with special memories of loved ones. The emotions provoked are as rich and flavorful as the food itself. Being a person who loves to cook and loves even more to give food as gifts, I am well aware of how true that is. Having a mother who was known throughout the community as a great cook, and having owned a bakery for eight years, both my sister and I can recall times when food brought out an emotional story.
I remember years ago inviting a recently widowed friend over for dinner a month or two after his wife had passed away. He showed up at our house at the appointed time, laughing and talking with my husband. They sat at the dining room table, and as I began to place the hot entrees on the table in front of him, he became very quiet. To our surprise, he began stifling emotion as he wiped tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know why that happens, but there is just something about the taste of certain foods, or maybe just the smell of something my wife used to make, that just brings back so many feelings and reminds me how much I miss her.” In all the years of publishing Good Living in West Frankfort, there are two stories that people have commented on more than any others. Even years after the fact, I have heard readers say, “You know, one story I loved is “A Cake Story.” Another one frequently mentioned is “that one about the Hickory nut pie.” In choosing a couple of stories to repeat, we feet that these two lend themselves to the spirit of Christmas. They are two of our favorites as well.
By Gail Rissi Thomas
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t one time my sister and I owned a bakery and got to interact a lot with the public, It gave us the opportunity to meet a lot of individuals with special requests, and some are so adamant about what they want that you can’t help but wonder what it’s really all about. An example that my sister reminded me of just the other day was an elderly man that came in with recipes. Smudged and worn, the recipes were hand-written and he explained to us that they were the recipes for dishes that his wife had cooked all their married life. She was now in the final stages of cancer and he spent most of her waking hours trying to persuade her to Good Living in
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eat. He talked to her about different foods that they had enjoyed, and at the least glimmer of interest from her, he would race to our bakery with the recipe to see if we could reproduce it. He reasoned it might get her to eat something, therefore stimulate her appetite so that she could get stronger. We had kind of an unwritten policy not to try duplicating recipes like that, (other people had asked.) but try we did. I don’t know if we ever came that close, but we followed her recipes meticulously. When we asked on each subsequent visit if we had gotten it right, he would say it was very good, but she could eat only a tiny bit. I am not sure if we ever knew his name. Eventually, he had no more reason to come to the bakery. I’ve often thought about a late summer
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afternoon several years ago, just as I was turning out lights and getting ready to lock up, a woman shoved open the door and hurried into the room nearly sliding into the front counter in her rush. “Hi,” I said, not really overjoyed that she got there in time to keep me from leaving. “Can I help you?” “Oh, gosh,” she gasped. “I’m so glad you’re still here. I need a cake, an Italian Cream cake; can you make me one? Someone told me to get it here.” “Well, when do you need it?”, I asked, almost thinking that she intended to wait while I baked it. ”I need it tomorrow,” she answered. “And I need it to look like it’s homemade. Can you do that?” “Well,” I answered smugly. “All of our cakes are homemade.” “No,” she said. “I want it to look homemade—like I baked it, or someone else. I don’t want it to look too good, like a bakery.” I was beginning to get the picture here. She wanted a cake that she could pass off as one she baked herself. I knew this story. I had often had people bring in their own cake plate, so that I could put the cake on it rather than a cardboard or bakery round. “Yeah, I can do that,” I answered without any enthusiasm for the project. “You probably don’t want any borders on it?”
out from work 10 minutes earlier.” She left without ever asking the price, and I, very stupidly, I told myself, let her leave without asking her name. Nevertheless, I knew that I wouldn’t forget her or the order. I baked the cake the next day, going through all the steps that it requires which makes it one of my least favorite chores. I beat the egg whites separately and folded them into the batter. When I slid the finished cake out of the oven, it was a perfect golden brown, and when I assembled the two layers, (I usually made three, but I didn’t want it to look that good), I looked at it with dismay. It was beautiful. It stood majestically on the counter top without even a hint of leaning or sliding. I’ve had these cakes do everything from sticking in the pan to seemingly jump off the table if that was what it would take to make them fall apart. Not this cake. As I sprinkled the frosting with chopped nuts and refrained from topping it off with borders, I winced as I thought this may be the most professional looking Italian Cream cake I had ever baked. Late that afternoon I took the cake out to the bakery showroom, and at the stroke of five, the harried customer came charging into the bakery. “Oh, I almost didn’t get here in time,” she huffed. She stopped short when she saw the cake. “Oh, that’s great. It’s wonderful.”
Everyone on tonight’s committee brings their most special dessert.” I refrained from shaking my head in disbelief as I fastened the corners of the white chip board box, but instead, very calmly asked, “Oh, then you’re just going to tell them that you made the cake? “Oh no,” she laughed. “I’d never do that. I think they’d all know better anyway. No, it’s for my mother-in-law to take. She always brought her Italian Cream cake, but she has Alzheimer’s now. I hope she’ll think that she made it. I kind of think she might. But even if she knows she didn’t she’ll still have something to share that she can be proud of.” “Oh,” I said. Just “Oh.” I didn’t add ‘that’s nice’, which of course it was. It was more than nice. It was generous and thoughtful and wonderful. I don’t remember if I said much more than “Thank you,” as I rang up the sale, took her money and watched as she picked up her precious cargo from the counter and let herself out the front door. I was lost in thought, as I locked the door behind her and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. I was thinking about how much we all take our abilities and talents, even the most menial ones, for granted, thinking that we do what we do so well, that nobody else can do it as well, thinking that we will always be able to do what comes easy for us now.
“That’s right.” She broke into a big smile of relief. “No borders, nothing fancy. I’ll “It’s OK then?” I asked. I studied her be back about this time tomorrow. Okay?” face; her satisfaction was obvious. “Sure,” I said, still feeling a little grumpy “Well,” I asked. “Do you want it in a box?” about this for some reason. “We close at I smirked just a little thinking how she was five. You’ll have to get here a little bit ear- going to serve this cake and enjoy the comlier.” plements on her baking talent.
I was thinking about the lady who would take the cake to the meeting, and I was hoping that she would be swamped with compliments from old friends who knew her, even if she no longer knew them, telling her that she will always be remembered for her Italian Cream cake. I was thinking about the lady’s daughter-in-lawwho made time in a very busy day to help her husband’s “I will,” she agreed. “I’ll see if I can clock “Uh, yes please. Just so I can get it home.” mother be the person she had always been, Nosey me, I had to help her to remember the feeling of pride to confirm what I and positive self-esteem. already knew. “Is this cake going to And as I walked out into the heat of the a party?”, I con- late summer afternoon, the word “compastinued with a little sion” kept coming to mind. And I was so EVERIN smile. grateful that my customer knew exactly ARDEN ENTER, NC what her mother-in-law needed, and was LANDSCAPING “Well,” she re- unselfish enough, kind enough and loving TREES • SHRUBS • EVERGREENS sponded, “it’s go- enough to make sure she got it. May we all SHRUB TRIMMING • SPRAYING ing to the ladies be so fortunate. meeting at the 721 NORTH GARDNER STREET DALE & PEGGY SEVERIN church tonight. WEST FRANKFORT, IL 62896 PHONE: (618) 932-3017
Merry Christmas G
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YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN
The childhood home of the author’s husband in Kankakee sat empty for several years before it was recently rescued and restored. (photo by Michael A. Thomas)
By Gail Rissi Thomas
20 years ago that my sister and I decided to go back to Collinsville to Grandma’s house and have a look around. We didn’t want to ou can’t go home again. Really? appear too suspicious, so we sat in the car at That thought has been running the dead end street in front of the house for through my mind lately. It’s not my a while not saying much. Honestly, there original thought of course. Thomas Wolfe wasn’t much to say. It was pretty rundown, made it the theme of one of his most fa- shabby, badly in need of paint and repair, mous novels, “Look Homeward Angel.” and so small. Only a small part of the fence I’m not sure it’s true anymore, or at least that had stood at the front was still there. not as true as it once was. But regardless of where “home” is for you. “Going home” or Since no one seemed to be around, we “coming home,” regardless of where that timidly decided to take a little walking place is, the magic of it is probably never tour. The yard was tiny, almost nothing at going to match the memory you carry in all. We carefully picked our way around your mind and heart. to the side, where a sloping concrete walk extended around to the back. I remember My parents were both from Collinsville, so that hill being so steep that as a child, I was for most of my childhood, that was where almost afraid to walk down it. It was like I found myself just about every weekend— a mountain! I was afraid that if I stood at or at least on Sundays. For some reason, the top, I might start stumbling and falling even though the place you are so familiar down, down, just rolling on forever. We with still exists, you don’t always think stood there wondering what could have about going back, and it wasn’t until about happened. It was barely an incline. Very
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little about the whole place matched my memory. But readers of this indulgence will think I’ve lost my mind when I say that my sister and I both smelled spaghetti sauce. We did. Both of us. I know. I know. This must be how my husband feels when we are driving around Kankakee and he points out the hill that he used to go sledding on with his brothers. “We thought this was a really big hill,” he says. We both laugh, wondering how a sled would even move down that barely sloping pavement. I saw some comments and photos on FaceBook a while back, posted by local resident, Amanda Hopkins. The 100 block of East Main Street in West Frankfort was very special to her. “When I was little,” she says, “my mother was very into fashion. She would take me shopping at Harris’s Clothing Store, where they sold a brand of little girls clothes called, ‘Tickle Me.’ They were very gaudy,
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ribbons, ruffles, and plastic things decorating them--very recognizable. I remember so well going there and trying on clothes, standing on a little step stool in front of a three way mirror. Other girls who were my age talk about it too. They had lay-away and you could even take things home on approval and bring them back. It was just one of those kinds of stores.”
really odd is that Ed Harris used to have a ceramic kangaroo on his counter that he kept jelly beans in. Some of my friends talked about it too, and I had never seen one like it. I looked for it everywhere, and I finally found one on E-Bay. I bought it and gave it to Gay. But I told her she could never put anything in it but jelly beans.
all the same, but the astroturf was old and dirty and the black paint was chipped and crumbling. And the ceiling was so low; it used to be so high up there. It was all there, but it was a strange feeling.” When my husband and I make trips to his hometown, routinely, we drive around on
“...the environment, even the smell of the building and the smell of the clothes you bring home. It’s like walking back in time for me...” --Amanda Hopkns on returning to the old Harris’s Clothing Store (now Mortie’s Botique)
Hopkins continues that Morties’ Boutique, just a couple of store fronts east of there, now seems to have captured that ambience. Gay Morton has brought back many of the characteristics of Harris’. “She has re-
One day, Aaron, Amanda’s husband told her that he had a surprise for her. “Meet me at lunch,” he said, “and bring a flashlight.”
his memory tour, along the river, through the park, past the big two story house where he and his brothers grew up, and fought a little, played hard and loved intensely. We’ve traveled even further north to the lake in Michigan, where perhaps even the richest memories abide, where long hot
“He’s always doing stuff like that so I just went along with him. For a few years, when I was little, my parents owned a baseball card shop on that block. We spent so much time there that they had turned from a room at the back Serving Southern Illinois Building Needs Since 1901 into a little room for me. They had put a bed in there, and it was just a place that I could hang out to play or take naps, whatever. I couldn’t believe it. He had the key to the building, and I got to go in there. Of course it was dark; I only Friendly Sales had the flashlight, but the bed was still there!. There were still drawings on the wall that I had made with crayons and stickers I had put there. I used to Quality Materials Customer Service lay on the floor on We HaveYETI Mugs & Coolers the old green astroLumber • Hardware • Doors • Paints • Plumbing • Windows turf and gaze up at the beautiful black 102 East Oak Street • West Frankfort, IL 62896 • Ph: (618) 932-2513 tin ceiling. It was
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A young Amanda Hopkins models her new “Tickle Me” clothes and accessories which her mother bought her from Harris’s Clothing Store. (Photo provided)
ally captured that feeling,” she says. “The kinds of clothes she sells, the jewelry, the environment, even the smell of the building and the smell of the clothes you bring home. It’s like walking back in time for me; the memory is so strong. Something
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Left: Amanda Hopkins, flashlight in hand, shows her son Julian the little space under the steps of her parent’s baseball card shop in part of the old Pharis building where she spent time drawing crayon pictures on the wall and playing with stickers. The mattress of the toddler bed where she took naps is gone and the astroturf carpeting worn and torn, but her crayon pictures and stickers are still on the wall. (Photo provided) Below: A Kangaroo candy dish, identical to the one that used to adorn the counter when Ed Harris ran his clothing store, is filled with Jelly beans beckoninig customers. “I looked for it everywhere, and I finally found one on E-Bay,” says Amanda. “I bought it and gave it to Gay (Morton). But I told her she could never put anything in it but jelly beans.” (photo by Gay Morton)
summer days were spent with his brothers and their grandfather whom they all idolized. It’s all still there, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t bring it back. He remembers all the details, and the feelings, ah ahh ….almost. It’s close, but without the people it’s forever out of reach. A few years ago, I discovered something that most people probably already know. I’m not very tech savvy, but if you type an address into the address bar of a search engine of your computer, it brings up the house or whatever is at that address. It doesn’t matter where it is, but if you’re lucky in a way, you will, virtually at least, go home again. If you’re really lucky, and the house was up for sale in the past 10 years or so, you can take a visual walk through every room and see what it looks like now. I promise that regardless of how it has changed, it will give you at least some satisfaction, or satisfy your curiosity at least. I started this article thinking I was writing about going home again. As often happens, I’m not sure that is where I ended up. I think we all have a magnetic draw to places from our childhood, and many times that isn’t even home. It’s just a place that holds almost palpable memories from another time, a magical time. You can go back to that place that’s in your mind, but probably not the one that’s in your heart.
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Life is a Gift
John Thomas reacts with a laugh as his Uncle Tim Rissi reads him a birthday card. (photo by Michael A. Thomas)
By Gail Rissi Thomas
Y
es it’s getting close to Christmas and Yes, this is a Christmas issue of our magazine, but the things that I’ve been thinking about go so much deeper than shopping on Black Friday, finding something special for someone special and wrapping it up to enjoy the surprise. It’s even more than giving a gift of yourself by baking something that only you can give, or giving time from your life to make someone else’s life better in even the simplest of ways. What brought on all these deep thoughts was running across this piece of writing that Michael wrote for a friend’s Blog some years ago. It wasn’t for publication at the time. I guess it was just one of those incidents that hangs up in your mind and the thoughts about it start tumbling around so much that you just think you need to write them down to get rid of them. I’m glad he did.
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It was just a jar of jelly, I thought, but my wife was nearly in tears. "We have to go back," she said. I didn't really want to return to the restaurant that we had left just a few minutes ago. I was anxious to start the four-hour trip home and this unexpected delay tested my patience. "The last thing John said when we left was 'Mom, don't forget your jelly," my wife said, "but I did.” I said nothing as I turned the car around, but I pictured how happy my wife had been that morning as she came out of the motel carrying a small white paper sack. "He remembered," she beamed. "I didn't think he would, but he bought me some guava jelly.” Our son had just returned from a Caribbean cruise and he had kept his promise to her to bring back 'something'. He had
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done well. In her eyes, the gift was more than just a jar of jelly. John had not only remembered her, but also knew that she had spent many childhood summers at her grandfather's home in Florida. To a little girl growing up in the mid-west, her grandfather's backyard--complete with a guava tree--was an exotic paradise. She had taken the jar of jelly into the
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restaurant. "I love it, John," she said as she opened it and tasted it for his benefit. Our son laughed as he recounted how he had spied it at a small shop on a port-of-call and knew she would like it. It had been less than 20 minutes when we returned to the restaurant. My wife quickly went inside and told her story to the manager. It was a Sunday morning and the restaurant was busy with customers. The manager seemed in no mood to worry about a jar of jelly. "If it was left on the table and it was opened they probably threw it away," she said unsympathetically. She summoned the busboy for our table anyway. She had hardly started questioning him when he began shaking his head no. My wife felt he knew very well what she was talking about but didn't press the issue. She came out to the car in tears. She was disappointed in herself for forgetting the jelly at the restaurant but worse, in her mind, she didn't want to tell John. She worried that he would somehow be disappointed in her. As I reflected on these events, I thought how interesting one simple jar of jelly could connect these people and provide each with a different life lesson. For my son, the jelly had been on opportunity so show love and thoughtfulness. For me, it was an opportunity to show patience and helpfulness. For the manager, it was an opportunity to show sympathy and offer help to a stranger. To the busboy, it could have been an opportunity to demonstrate honesty. And to my wife, it may have been a way to teach self forgiveness.
I’m also thinking about the gifts in my life that I receive. They come at me all day long. I’m thinking about the gift of waking up every morning and feeling good enough to enjoy the day, the gift of lying in bed some nights before falling asleep and feeling no pain. Our pockets aren’t deep, but there’s the gift of being hungry and going out to buy whatever I feel like eating, the gift of being warm in the winter and cool in the summer, the privilege and the pleasure of living in this country. I’m ecstatic over the anticipation of a visit from someone I love, the
surprise of a phone call or a greeting card for any occasion – or for no occasion. The comfort of compassion and the sweetness of companionship. I’m still overwhelmed that my son would think of me in midst of an exciting vacation and take the time and trouble to bring me a jar of jelly. What Michael said in putting down his thoughts, and what I have said in many words, Thomas A Kempis said in very few words in his work, The Imitation of Christ. It is not about the gift of the lover, but the love of the giver.
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I remember that day, and the way I felt. I remembered it again when I read the account of the story seen through someone else’s eyes. It made me think about gifts, gifts that I can give. I’m thinking about the gift of making Christmas for someone who no longer has family or friends to remember them, making a visit or helping provide a meal or a part of a meal to someone who is ill or grieving. It’s not that they will go hungry if I don’t do it, rather it’s all about feeding their spirit. There is the powerful gift of complimenting someone, even a stranger. Good Living in
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Heroes Among Us The Story of Lawrence W. Webb
In a French village liberated in the summer of 1944 , a woman offers an American soldier a bottle of wine. The vehicle the men are riding in is a M8 “Greyhound” Armored Car, identical to those in Lawrence Webb’s unit. (photo WWII U.S. Army Archives)
Lawrence W. Webb 22
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Editor’s note: Unfortunately, Lawrence Webb passed away before he could be interviewed for this story in Good Living in West Frankfort Magazine. We are thankful to Lawrence’s neighbor and co-worker, Gary Campbell, who provided the initial awareness of Lawrence’s war exploits. We are also indebted to Kyle Webb, Lawrence’s grand-
son and a veteran himself, who related much of the information in this article gleaned from several conversations he had with his grandfather towards the end of his life. We are proud of the effort many citizens of West Frankfort have given in behalf of defending our nation’s freedom. And we are proud to add Lawrence Webb’s account to that record.
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man ofmen are hose in
chives)
By Michael A.Thomas
T
he WWII motion picture, Saving Private Ryan had special significance for one former West Frankfort resident. Army veteran Lawrence Webb spent his days in the war crossing France as part of an elite platoon of men whose mission was to scout enemy positions and report their intelligence back to Head Quarters so that appropriate action could be planned. It is reminiscent of one of the subplots of the movie, where Private Ryan (played by Matt Damon) is part of a group of soldiers guarding a bridge in the fictitious French town of Roselle. But Lawrence’s action was not fiction. On 31 August 1944, Lawrence’s outfit, the 1st platoon of B Troop, 3rd Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron went on a daring mission. Armed with 30 men, 6 Jeeps armed with .50 cal MG, and three M-8 armored cars with 37 mm cannons, they made a fast raid behind enemy lines to Thionville, France in a desperate attempt to prevent the bridge across the Moselle River from being destroyed by the Germans. Lawrence began his basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. His unit then shipped over to England in 1944 and on August 4, stepped onto the beach at Normandy. The recon squadron went into action immediately, scouting out German positions and often going far behind enemy lines to retrieve vital information on the whereabouts of German troops. According to his grandson, Kyle Webb, It was on one of these missions that Lawrence and a fellow soldier were dropped off to do some scouting of a French village. Unfortunately, it took the pair longer than expected to get back to their unit. After waiting an appropriate amount of time, the rest of the platoon assumed Lawrence and his companion had been captured of killed. Luckily, the two found refuge in the farm house of a sympathetic Frenchman
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for about a week until the American lines had advanced far enough that the two hooked up with another unit. The escapade cost Webb a loss of rank as he was considered AWOL. Whether it was planned or accidental, the week at the farmhouse was one of Lawrence Webb’s favorite memories of his war time experience. Webb was able to rejoin his unit before their attack on Thionville, France, an industrial town of about 90,000 It was an important bastion for the Germans. Thionville sat on the Moselle river and thus held a very strategic position. As the rest of U.S. forces slowy advanced towards the Moselle, Webb’s platoon conducted their lightning fast raid 75 miles behind enemy lines. Their objective was a vital bridge which spanned the Moselle. The task was to make sure the bridge remained useable. The platoon met enemy opposition throughout their daring trek, many times coming upon surprised groups of German troops and effectively eliminating them. Their swift unit had no time to take prisoners and used the element of surprise and speed to enter Thionville. Aided by French locals who were all too eager to see an end to the German occupation of their beloved city, the Americans were guided through back roads and alleys to their main objective, which was the bridge across the river. An account of the action, as recorded in history in The 3rd Calvary Reconnaissance Squadron (Mecz.) in World War II, 9 August to 9 May, 1945 we find this harrowing account of the action: The armored cars of Lt. Jackson and Sgt. Baker moved side by side through the narrow streets in the manner of assault tanks with the wake of six tiny bantams behind. The third armored car brought up the rear. Lead poured into the right and left intersection as the column reached corners. Machine guns from the bantams clattered and fatally dealt with the Germans on the streets. Grenades performed for a brief violent moment on enemy groups. Rifle fire broke countless window panes, shots being leveled wherever a sniper was seen. Vehicles became targets, and were left blazing and exploding on every street. The three 37 mm cannons of the· armored cars roared with high explosive shells.
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The M8 “Greyhound” Armored Car sported a 37 mm cannon and a .50 caliber machine gun. Travelling at a top speed of over 50 mph, it was an ideal fighting vehicle for reconnaissance. Three such vehicles were in Webb’s platoon along with 6 Jeeps, each mounted with their own machine gun. (photo US Army WWII Archives)
A Volkswagen drawn by two wildly running horses appeared in front of the column. Machine guns pumped lead into the hooded vehicle and suddenly there was a terrific explosion, the entire street seemed to come apart. The destroyed load of ammunition left a gory sight of horses and men. The Germans had rigged the bridge with explosive devices, ready to blow it up and retreat if the Americans succeeded in their advance. Troop commander Lt. Jackson succeeded in crossing the river to the eastern approach to the bridge and cut the wires leading to the demolition charges. He was seriously wounded in the attempt.
For several months, Webb and his unit pushed through France and Belgium and into Germany and finally Austria, where three days before the end of the war they assisted in the liberation of the concentration camp at Ebensee.
One of the other men, Sgt. Fred Baker, assumed command but shortly thereafter was fatally shot by a sniper. At that time Pvt. Webb manned the .50 cal machine gun atop one of the Jeeps and fired upon the sniper until he was wounded himself. Sgt. Baker was the only fatality among the raiders. Their mission accomplished, the platoon crossed the dynamite-laden bridge to rescue Jackson before falling back, fighting their way out. In so doing, they were no doubt the first American troops to cross the Moselle in WW-II. The platoon suffered 6 casualties and 2 Jeeps lost. Lt. Jackson was
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awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, and the bridge over the Moselle was temporarily saved from destruction but eventually the Germans did succeed in destroying it before the American forces could use it.
Kyle Webb checks a fact on his cell phone while recounting his Grandfather’s war stories. (Photo by Michael A. Thomas}
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“My Grandfather said that was the hardest part of the war, seeing all those victims in the concentration camps,” said grandson Kyle Webb. “He never talked much about it. He said there are some things you see that you just have to leave there, if you don’t and bring them home with you, they will eat you up.” According to the unit’s history, the German guards had already fled and the prisoners had not been fed in three days and were dying by hundreds. Not having the food available to feed so many in need, the Americans turned to the village bakers who were told to make bread 24/7 for the starving people. When some store owners refused, tanks were positioned outside of their establishments with orders to destroy them if they did not cooperate. They all did. After Germany surrendered, Webb and his companions were stationed in a German town on garrison duty. They did not have much to do and were waiting for their orders to return home to the United States. They noticed a young boy on a bicycle who would frequently ride past the men each day. One day, the boy stopped and through a few words of English and some sign language, asked if the bored soldiers would like some bottles of wine. They negotiated a price for a sizable order and gave the boy some money. As he drove away, Webb turned to his buddies and said with a laugh, “You know, we’re never gonna see this kid again. How the h— is he supposed to bring back all those bottles while riding his bike?” They never got the promised liquor.
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After the war, Lawrence Webb returned to West Frankfort and never talked much about his war experience. He worked for the Army Corps of Engineers for several years at Rend Lake.
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Holiday Greetings L
ike most of our magazine issues, this one seems to consist of nostalgia and memories. Michael and I have been immersed in genealogy for about 45 years, and because of that, we have come by many tokens of days gone by. Years ago I received these old post cards, sent from members of the James Dunn Family of West Frankfort in the 1020s and 30s. Having a little space left, we thought we would wish you Happy Holidays in a very good old fashioned way.
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Touching a Spot A Pie A Man A Memory
By Gail Rissi Thomas
I
never even knew his name, but I will never forget him. Years ago, when my sister and I owned Rissi Pastries, an elderly man came in one day, marched right up to the counter and said he wanted to order a hickory nut pie. We often had unusual requests for things not on our menu, and hickory nut pie was certainly an example of that. We had even had strangers, always men, bring in a scribbled recipe and ask us to make it for them. It was usually something their wife, now deceased, used to make, and a well-meaning soul had told them that their best bet was to bring it to us and we would do it. I never knew how to make it. I never wanted to. I always did it. I explained to this gentleman that I could not make a hickory nut pie, because I was quite sure it would require hickory nuts and I didn’t have any and didn’t know where to get them. With a big smile, he replied, “Oh I have the nuts, picked them myself.” He pulled a Ziploc bag out of his pocket and carefully laid it on the counter between us. “But I’ve never made a hickory nut pie before,” I said in my kindest “I don’t want to”voice. “Oh, you can do it,” he said as he pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of
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but nostalgia does funny things to memories. “Yeah,” he said softly; he stood there quietly for a moment, lost in his memories. I was terrified he was going to cry. “There was something about that pie. It touched a spot deep inside of me.” I didn’t dare try to speak, but as I swallowed the lump in my his pocket. “Here’s my wife’s recipe. She throat, without another word, he turned and made them every Thanksgiving for me.” walked out the door. OK. The end of the story was predictable. A year later, slightly before Thanksgiving, “Pick it up Wednesday,” I said. We had an elderly man came into the bakery. There hundreds of orders for the holiday, and I’m was something familiar about him, and it sure my smile was a little more forced as took only a minute to realize who he was. It the conversation wore on. The recipe was was the hickory nuts I recognized first. An a little weird it seems. I don’t remember old phrase, something about no good deed the details, but I’m sure I scrapped the lard going unpunished, was running through piecrust, scoured the Internet, and came up my mind, when he tossed a very full bag of with a recipe close to what he had given hickory nuts on the counter, and with comme. It was the last order I filled the day plete confidence, said, “Here are the nuts before Thanksgiving, and I remember my for my pie. When do you want me to pick sister and I joked that he probably wouldn’t it up?” Suddenly, the words, “It touched a even pick it up. I hadn’t even written down spot deep inside of me,” came rushing back the order or his name. to me. “Wednesday,” I said. “Better come pretty late. We’re really busy.” That was an I think the pie was still warm when he understatement, but the hickory nut pie was showed up at the bakery to retrieve it. It on the order board. really wasn’t a big deal, similar to a pecan pir. He insisted on paying me, although I The third year the gentleman came back argued with him about that. After all, he and we did it all again. The pie was more had supplied the hickory nuts. He seemed than just a pie now. I was feeding him in thrilled with his purchase, and I felt as a way that he needed to be fed. The fourth much satisfaction as my tired, aching body year, I expected him, and he did not disapwould allow. End of story. point. The following year, the bakery was closed. I didn’t even think of him until after A few days after Thanksgiving, he returned the holidays. I hoped that he found someto the bakery. “I just wanted to thank you one to fill his stomach and his heart. And if for baking my pie,” he said. “I wanted to he is still living, I hope he finds someone to tell you, it was just like Nellie’s” Personmake him a good hickory nut pie. ally, I don’t know how it could have been,
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Last Look
A Cherub on the steps of Loren and Becca Curry’s house on the 300 block of Oak Sreet seems lost in thought as the last days of summer begin winding down. (photo by Michael A. Thomas) 30
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Please Support The
Frankfort Area Historical Museum
Preserving our Past Building for our Future
This Ad Sponsored by Brandon and Stacy Sawalich 32 Good Living in WF Fall 2108 R.indd 32
2000 E. St. Louis St. West Frankfort, IL 62896 Phone:(618) 932-6519
10/31/18 4:41 PM