Chapter 2 the harvey family
MY FIRST CAMPING EXPERIENCE
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- Navigate this page:
- ANOTHER CAMPING EXPERIENCE
- GETTING PAID
- CRAZY MIXED UP DINNER
- THE PRACTICAL JOKER
- WATERWORKS or WATERPLAY
- THE "GOVERNOR"
- A WHOLE LOT OF BULL
MY FIRST CAMPING EXPERIENCEWhen I was seven or eight years of age, I begged my parents to allow me to go to camp, but they said that I was too young. I insisted that other kids my age were going, "Besides, why would they have a camp for children my age, if they are too young?" The real reason for their reluctance in sending me to camp finally surfaced: "It costs a lot of money to send kids to camp. We aren't rich, you know." Logical reasoning was always my greatest strength. I developed this gift early because it proved invaluable in getting me out of work and trouble (it also got me into trouble often enough). My logic machine was functioning well. If I continued to beg, I knew from bitter experience that my parents would start bargaining. There were plenty of jobs around our house that even little boys could do. I reasoned that there must be a better way to get to camp, than to spend countless hours weeding the garden. I decided to play upon the heartstrings of a more compassionate soul, like my Sunday School teacher. She was the person who had suggested going to camp in the first place. During Sunday School, I behaved myself as well as could be expected for a lad my age. Finally, the opportune moment arrived. I can't remember the details now, but with a very sad countenance, I expounded upon the unfortunate plight of children who live in large families and whose parents can't afford to send them to camp. The following Sunday, a wonderful thing happened! The Pastor announced that the church was making money available to help poor, underprivileged children get to camp! I remember getting homesick on the first night of camp, but enjoyed every minute after that. On the final night, there was a hot-dog roast around a big campfire. Awards were presented to the kids who kept the cleanest cabin and to winners of various contests. After the fire died down, a leader told some funny stories, followed by a scary ghost story. We sang our favorite camp songs before the message. The Camp Director brought the message, painting a vivid picture of that horrible place called hell, the final destination of all sinners. He then compared this to the mansions in glory which God was preparing for all Christians. Afterwards, the invitation was given. He asked how many of us would prefer going to heaven rather than to hell. Burning logs provided a dramatic backdrop for his challenge. If we were prepared to take that "step of faith," all we needed to do was to raise our hands. Our options being so clearly defined, most of us chose heaven rather than hell on that memorable night. On the following Sunday, the Pastor herded all campers to the front of the church and asked us to share our camping experiences. Apparently he had heard about the campfire service, for he asked me if I had experienced anything "really special" at camp. I told about swimming and long hikes, but he kept prodding. I was nearly in tears when he finally asked if I had not invited Jesus to come into my heart. If I had known then the consequences of an affirmative answer, I would have denied with all my might - like Peter at the crucifixion! But I was anxious to get back to my seat. I smiled and gave an affirmative reply. From that time on, the night of the campfire became a very memorable experience! My parents especially, would not let me forget the occasion. I was not such a good boy, and it seemed like every time I did something wrong, my mother or father would remind me of that night by the campfire. "Christians don't do such things," they would say. As I soon discovered, Christians do get spanked. It never occurred to me that I probably would have gotten the same spankings if I had not "become a Christian." I vowed that I would never, ever again raise my hand in a meeting! I still liked going to camps, though. ANOTHER CAMPING EXPERIENCEMy parents listened to two Christian radio broadcasts every morning during breakfast. One of them was called "Pinebrook Praises", a program of the Philadelphia evangelist, Percy Crawford, who also pioneered Christian television. The other was Rev. George A. Palmer's "Morning Cheer Broadcast." Both programs were aired directly from the campgrounds and Bible Conference Centers which these men of God had founded. I remember being jealous of the Crawford and Palmer kids, who actually got to live at camp. They sang children's songs over the air, and my parents would ask us why we didn't sing like that in our church. When I was about twelve, Pastor Palmer announced the opening of a new boy's camp. I was all ears when he added that any boy interested in winning a free week of camp should write him a letter. He encouraged us to tell how we liked the radio program, why we wanted to attend camp, and be sure to include our name and address. I went right to work on my letter, mailing it the same day. It was a very simple and honest letter. I said that my parents had eleven kids and couldn't afford to send us to camp. I added that our entire family listened to his program ever since I could remember. Finally, I told Pastor Palmer how lucky his children were to live in a camp all the time! Something I said must have appealed to Pastor Palmer because he read my letter on the air and when the contest was over, I was among the winners! There was only one minor problem with my prize. My parents said that they couldn't drive me to camp because they had other plans for that weekend. Mom saved the day however. She called Pastor Palmer and asked if there was any way that they could bring me to camp on Friday already. He explained that the camp was not quite finished, but if I wanted to help clean up trash and get things ready for the grand opening, I was welcome to come. When my parents dropped me off at camp, no one less than Pastor Palmer's own son, Jack, was assigned to take me under his wing. Being about two years my elder, we got along quite well and even slept in the same cabin. I felt privileged to be in the company of a real live son of the Palmers. Early the next morning we went to breakfast, after which Jack gave me a rake and showed me what to do. About mid-morning, Jack said that he "had to go", but the rest rooms were quite a distance from where we were working. Since we were alone with bushes all around, Jack did what any normal all-American boy would have done. There was of course no toilet paper available, but an abundance of leaves! Sunday was the grand opening. Hundreds of guests began to arrive for the dedication service. Parents were also bringing their offspring for the first week of the new camp. I kept looking for Jack, but he was not to be found. Finally, another staff member explained his absence. Jack was at home, suffering from a bad case of poison ivy on his posterior! It was a great moment, when Pastor George A. Palmer arrived. I can't remember what he said at the dedication service, but I shall never forget the offering. I found out why my father nicknamed him "George Asks Plenty." Apparently, no one had thought to bring offering plates, but Pastor Palmer was equal to the occasion and soon found the ideal solution. He pointed to a nearby tool shed and had staff members retrieve a pair of wheelbarrows. He jokingly encouraged the people to throw in all their small change "because the ringing sound was like music to his ears." When the staff members got back to the front, Pastor Palmer looked in the wheelbarrows and said, "Why, they are almost empty! I guess we shall have to make the rounds again!" Everyone laughed. God loves a cheerful giver, and the same was true of Dr. Palmer. The staff members pushed the wheel-barrels through the crowd a second time. Since they had tossed in their small change the first time around, the second collection was mostly paper money! OIL SPILLNew Years Eve, 1954, is a date that I won't soon forget. Mom was cooking supper and complained to Pop that it smelled like kerosene in the kitchen. Pop smelled it too, but decided that it was because the oil tank had only recently been filled. The tank was above-ground and near the kitchen door. On New Years morning, Mom drew water for coffee and exclaimed, "The water smells like kerosene!" Pop investigated and discovered that the copper tubing which led from the oil tank to the furnace had been leaking. Nearly all the oil had seeped into the ground and much of it into the well! I always parked my bike by the tank and the break was obviously caused by me. I was scared and feared the worst, but even though Pop was quite upset, he didn't blame me. I remember helping to scoop many gallons of kerosene from the well. We were able to rescue some of the oil, but the well was ruined. During the coldest part of winter, Pop had to get well-drilling equipment and begin drilling a new well. It seemed like we would never hit sufficient water. After adding several lengths of pipe, Pop decided to pull the drill tip from the outer casing and try pumping. He took his five-cell flashlight and peered down the hole, but it slipped out of his hand and fell to the bottom of the shaft! There was no way to retrieve it and Pop had no recourse except to start another well! Before I got my drivers liscense, I must have ridden a thousand miles on bikes. My first bicycle was a well-used single-speed Rollfast. My father put a new fender on it and after painting it, I got it for my birthday. I promptly took the fenders off and mounted a car steering wheel in place of the handle bars. But I liked to ride it no-handed. CHILD LABORBeing the oldest boy had its advantages, but there were also disadvantages. If the garbage needed emptying or the garden weeding, I was, more often than not, selected for the job. The house that Pop bought in 1947 had eight rooms but was still too small for our family. My father began almost immediately to add and expand in every direction. The basement consisted of a small furnace room and Pop decided that we needed a full basement. Since the older boys “were the perfect size", we were assigned the job of digging in the cramped crawl space between the cobwebbed floor joists. Each day after school, we had to remove five wheelbarrows full of earth and clay from under the house. Pop installed a homemade conveyor belt and raised the daily quota to ten wheelbarrow loads. The conveyor was constantly getting jammed by small stones, so younger brothers were engaged to keep it moving. Today, we all look with pride upon our accomplishment, but at the time, we thought the job would never end! GETTING PAIDPop and Mom had to watch their pennies raising eleven kids, and most of our clothes were the cheap "Cowtown" variety. Cowtown is the invention of Howard Harris, who started out selling cattle at auction in Woodstown. Eventually, peddlers of fruit and vegetables began to rent space, and it soon became a bazar-like place to buy anything you needed or wanted at rock-bottom prices. Vendors came from Philadelphia, New York and other states to sell their wares. Before long, Cowtown became one of the most popular shopping places in South Jersey. Virtually all our clothes were bought at Cowtown, and the kids at school knew it. I wanted to wear genuine Levi jeans, but they were too expensive. Pop told me, "When you earn your own money, you can buy whatever clothes you want, but if I am paying, you get whatever we can afford." I took the hint and decided that getting paid to work certainly beat working at home without pay. CRAZY MIXED UP DINNERThe Daretown School was famous for its turkey suppers. Students sold tickets for meals to their parents, neighbors and friends. If we sold nine meal tickets, we got one free. I had sold eight tickets but was having no luck finding a buyer for my last ticket. In desperation, I tried to sell one to Johnny Grice. Johnny was a legend among local farmers. He was a bachelor and lived with his widowed father on a ramshackle farm south of Daretown. He was the only farmer in the region who still used horses and milked cows by hand. He was eccentric and perhaps a little retarded, but he had few enemies. His worst enemy was probably his father, but I will get to that later. Johnny turned down my offer of a meal ticket, saying that he had no fancy clothes and everyone would stare at him if he went to the supper. I explained that there were "take-out meals" and said that I would be happy to bring the meal to his house. Johnny liked that idea and bought my last ticket. On the night of the supper, I rode my bike to the school and picked up Johnny's meal. It was carefully packed into a cardboard dish with partitions for peas, turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes. Coffee, creamer, gravy and cranberry sauce were placed in separate cups with sealed lids. A dixie cup of ice cream was included for desert. After wrapping everything in newspaper, I carefully balanced the meal on the handlebars of my bike and managed to reach Johnny's house without spilling a drop. He greeted me at the door and invited me in for a bottle of Coke. While I drank, I watched wide-eyed as Johnny opened his carefully wrapped meal and scraped everything including the coffee and ice cream into a bucket. After stirring vigorously, he took a large serving spoon and proceeded to devour his turkey dinner! That visit brought me my first paid job. Johnny asked if I wanted to work for him. I didn't ask what I would be doing. I just said "sure!" I husked corn, milked cows and did chores for Johnny, but that only lasted a few weeks. I had heard that Johnny was a little odd, but that was putting it mildly. "Because I was small," he lowered me into his dug well on a rope with a flashlight to retrieve a bucket. I found the bucket and a couple of dead rats with bloated stomachs floating in the water. We had been drinking from that well! When I shared that information with Johnny, he said, "We have to do something about those rats." He set a trap in the barn and soon caught a live rat. He took the cage over to the house, stuck a prong of his pitchfork through the rat's hind quarter into the ground near his house. The poor rat screeched non-stop while Johnny just grinned. He turned to me and said, "By tomorrow there will be no more rats in my house!" A couple of days later, I was milking the cows when I heard yelling in the direction of the house. Johnny and his father were having a shouting match with lots of profanity. I watched with horror from the barn window as they began throwing things at each other with the obvious intent to kill! After several hits and injuries that should have received medical attention, I ran to my bike and rode as fast as I could towards home. I was too scared to tell anyone and had trouble sleeping that night. I never went back to work for Johnny, but saw him often in town. Neither of us ever mentioned that incident. THE PRACTICAL JOKERWord got around that I was a good farm worker and soon other farmers asked for my help. I picked tomatoes, cultivated corn, helped bale hay and move irrigation pipe. Our neighbor, Jay Williams, was probably the only farmer in the area with a university degree. I started working for him and he soon engaged me “part time” for $10 a week. I was too inexperienced to ask what “part time” meant but $10 was more than any of my friends had to spend, so I didn’t really care. After many months of working for Jay, my mother asked how many hours I worked in a week. I started keeping track and discovered that my “part-time” job came to about 40 hours a week! Milking 50 cows and feeding calves each morning and evening took at least 30 hours and I worked all day on Saturdays. To be fair, I doubt if Jay knew how many hours I worked. I came to appreciate Jay’s great sense of humor. He was always thinking of a new gag or a practical joke to play on anyone who happened by and I was always game for a new stunt. While cleaning out an old house, Jay found a stuffed pheasant that had seen better days. On the first day of hunting season, he placed the bird on a fence post within sight of the barn. It wasn't long before a car stopped. The driver grabbed his shotgun and fired; the pheasant lost one wing, but not its composure. Realizing that he had been tricked, the would-be hunter returned to his car and drove away. Within minutes, another hunter stopped and took a shot at the decoy. This time the bird was knocked from its pedestal, so Jay sent me out to return it to the fence post. The pheasant was pretty ragged by now, but managed to elicit shotgun blasts from two more hunters before being permanently laid to rest! Jay liked to invent original signs to keep people smiling or wondering. Daretown Lake went out in a storm around 1940 and the owner had no interest or money to restore the dam. Jay and another farmer owned the waterfront property above the bridge. Jay hoped that the lake would be put in, but the farmer who owned the property on the opposite side was happy the lake went out because this gave him additional land. Many people wanted the dam to be repaired, but for fifteen years it didn’t happen. Jay nicknamed the lake, “Someday Lake” and I made a sign to put up near the bridge. A photographer took a picture and published it in a local newspaper. Before long, things started to happen and a foundation was found to sponsor the project. Work was begun on the dam and bulldozers began clearing brush from the old lake bed. The farmer who opposed the project refused to allow workers on his property. I told Jay that I would clear out the brush myself. He just looked at me and said nothing. That night the lake bed caught fire. The other farmer called the fire department, which responded and obligingly put out the fire. Two nights later, there was another fire and the fire department came again. This time, however, the firemen just stood on the road and made certain that the fire didn’t burn anything of value. The farmer fussed and fumed, but they told him they didn’t want to lose any more sleep. Jay’s mailbox was across from his house and his wife complained about speeding cars that made crossing the road hazardous. Jay put up a sign that read, “Slow down, dear crossing!” He renamed the street we lived on “Red Dog” after our retriever, Ginger. When he mounted a small Christmas tree on the top of one of the poles, people asked about it. Jay told them it was the Red Dog. He told people that the Harveys had a red dog that was very productive and produced a dozen puppies every year. He saw the red dog pee on the pole not long before the tree sprouted on its top. He then added that this was generally a very fruitful area; there were also a dozen Harvey kids. When Jay bought a new pair of barn shoes, he put the old pair in the shoe box, tied it and told me to place the box in the center of the road. Cars would stop and we secretly watched as drivers opened the box, only to discard the stinking contents in disgust. We were able to "re-set the trap" several times before someone tossed the unopened box in the back seat and drove away. Another old pair of barn shoes was nailed to the side of a telephone pole. WATERWORKS or WATERPLAY?Once we were putting a new roof on the milk house when a thunder storm came up. Quickly, we covered the unprotected building with a large canvas. It really poured and when the storm was over, the canvas was full of water. My former employer, Johnny Grice, dropped by just as we were ready to dump out the water and resume working. Johnny called, "That was quite a down-pour; did you guys get wet?" Jay replied, "No, we were under this canvas!" He gave me an unnecessary wink and both of us heaved with all our might. Johnny was drenched by a hundred gallons of fresh rain water! Jay Williams and a neighbor, John Hitchner, shared an irrigation pond and a healthy sense of humor. I also worked for John occasionally. John was an easy going and hard working man. Once, when I was helping Jay prime his pump to start irrigating, John approached his pump on the opposite side of the pond to do the same. Powered by car motors, the irrigation pumps were capable of pushing a lot of water. Jay gave me one of his ornery grins and said, "Watch this!" He then disconnected the irrigation pipe except for one elbow, which was directed towards his neighbor across the pond. He gave the pump full throttle and moments later, farmer John was thoroughly drenched! He reacted quickly however, and soon, two grown farmers were back in their childhood, enjoying a water battle that has yet to be equaled! THE "GOVERNOR"After the State of New Jersey allowed casino gambling in Atlantic City, taxes were supposed to drop and the economy to flourish. Thousands of tourist busses loaded with gamblers converged daily upon this resort city, which until then had been known mainly for its sandy beaches and the annual Miss America Pageant. Money began to roll into the casinos but New Jersey residents saw no benefits whatsoever. They were convinced that the only real winners were the Mafia and crooked politicians. Taxes and insurance rates escalated even faster than before the casinos opened. South Jersey farmers, whose hard work gave the "Garden State" its nickname, complained loudly about high taxation, but their complaints went unheeded by New Jersey law-makers. Being an educated farmer, Jay asked in a 1974 committee meeting of Upper Pittsgrove Township what the legal procedures for succession would be. The following day, a brief article in the local newspaper, Salem Sunbeam, was titled, "How to Secede from North Jersey". By the end of the week, Jay was entertaining reporters from all over and soon became South Jersey's most celebrated resident. He correctly predicted that the proposal of secession would get nearly 100% support from the residents of Southern New Jersey. Jay argued, "We have agriculture, atomic energy, tourist trade and the casinos. We can cut taxes and surely, farmers can do a better job of running a State!" People who knew Jay laughed at his newest practical joke, but lawyers began to earnestly study their law books to see if such a thing was feasible. Word has it, that concerned State politicians were making long distance phone calls to Washington. It never happened of course, but Jay became a celebrity whose reputation as a practical joker was only surpassed by his fame as "Governor of South Jersey". DYNAMITEOnce, Johnny Grice was helping John Hitchner blast tree stumps in his pasture and I was hired to help clear away the debris. I was fascinated by the destructive force of those little sticks of powder. The explosives were stored in wooden boxes packed with sawdust on the back seat of Johnny's dilapidated Model-A Ford. I kept looking for an opportunity to steal a stick. Soon enough, the opportunity availed itself. Johnny had to get something from Woodstown and invited me to go along. Since the front passenger seat had been removed, I rode in the back with the explosives. I slipped a stick of dynamite under my belt, a blasting capsule and piece of fuse into my jeans pocket and pulled out my shirt tails to hide the tell-tale bulges. Johnny decided to take a shortcut down a seldom used dirt road that was full of potholes. He drove as fast as the old car would travel and I looked nervously at the open box of blasting caps, bouncing around just inches from where I was sitting. I tried to get Johnny to slow down, but he only laughed. I reached down and picked up the box of blasting caps, cradling them carefully in my lap to keep them from banging together. Several times the car jolted and I nearly dropped the box. I thought of the Bible verse which my parents often quoted after one of my many misdemeanors: "Be sure your sins will find you out!" I considered asking God to rescue me from my precarious situation, but it didn't seem fitting to pray with the contraband still on my person. Fortunately, we reached town with no casualties. Johnny took the regular road back to the farm and I stilled my conscience by determining that the dynamite was reward for my close call with death. A few days later, my friend Paul came by and we placed the dynamite in an old cast iron stove, inserted the blasting cap and lit the fuse. We then hid behind a corn crib and waited for the detonation. Nothing happened. Knowing that the fuse could still be glowing and re-ignite, we decided to leave for a while and return later with a new fuse. I got involved in something else and my father discovered our "bomb" first. "Where were you planning to watch the explosion?" he asked. I replied, "Behind the corn crib." His face turned ashen and hands began to tremble. I expected the spanking of a lifetime but that was one time when I escaped the whipping I deserved. God had preserved me again! DYNAMITE IIA local feed mill was looking for new-born calves to test a new line of calf feed. Jay thought, "One less mouth to feed!" and offered a calf for six months. When the animal was returned to the farm, she had become a beautiful heifer that could have won first prize at the County Fair. She never made it to the fair, however. After being pampered and pestered by customers at the feed mill, we had nothing but trouble from the heifer, which we nicknamed "Dynamite." She certainly lived up to her name, repeatedly breaking out of the barn, pasture, pen or wherever else we tried to keep her. She once got into the silo and ate so much that she couldn't squeeze back through the opening. We had to tie her jaws shut to keep her from eating until she had slimmed down enough to get out. One night Dynamite broke loose and began to terrorize the other cows. Jay awoke to their loud complaints and ran to the rescue. Dynamite effectively avoided capture for nearly an hour. Finally, Jay lost his usual composure and threw a pitchfork at the beast. When I arrived the next morning to help with the milking, Dynamite had already been transformed into beefsteak, goulash and dog bones. Shortly after that incident, I was trying to start Jay's little Farmall A-V tractor, in order to spread manure. It was extremely cold and the battery was dead as usual. I attempted to start it with the crank, but the engine refused to respond. When the engine finally did fire, the crank whipped back and almost broke my arm. Furious, I took the crank and rammed it through the radiator. While antifreeze gushed out of the gaping hole, I contemplated on how I would explain this to the boss. Nervously, I walked back to the barn and confessed my evil deed to Jay. To my surprise, he didn't get upset at all. "Well," he said, "let's tow the tractor to the garage and git er fixed; I better buy a new battery while I'm at it." A WHOLE LOT OF BULLWhile working for Jay, one of my tasks was driving the cows in from the pasture before milking. I learned how to crack a bull whip and whenever a cow lagged behind, I snapped the whip to get her moving. Such shock therapy usually convinced the cows to cooperate, but on June 4th, 1953, the trick backfired. A cow was not cooperating and I snapped the whip just above her head. Jay's prize bull apparently didn't like the way I was treating the object of his devotion. I heard hoofbeats behind me and turned to look, but it was too late. The bull caught me in the chest, one horn under each armpit and gave me my first and only raise while working for Jay! I landed on my belly a few yards from a barbed wire fence. With the angry bull hot on my trail, I scrambled on hands and knees for the fence. I am certain that the barbed wire would not have slowed that creature, but fortunately, Jay observed my solo flight from his kitchen window. He grabbed a shotgun and fired both barrels at the charging bull. Fortunately for the bull, the gun was loaded with bird shot and fortunately for me, birdshot was a strong enough deterrent to stop the bull. I was pretty sore after my encounter with the bull, but seemed otherwise uninjured. I finished my evening chores and helped with the milking before heading for home and going to bed. The following morning my alarm clock rang at 5:00 o'clock as usual, but when I tried to turn it off, I couldn't move my arm. I discovered to my horror that not just my arms, but my entire body was immobilized! Although completely conscious, I couldn't move a finger or even turn my head! Fear gripped me as I helplessly listened to the alarm clock run down. I was totally paralyzed! I began to ponder what it would be like to spend the rest of my life in a wheel chair! For what seemed like an eternity, I lay there fearing the worst, but gradually, movement began to return. First I could wiggle my fingers, then my hands, arms and feet. Within an hour, I was able to get out of bed and get dressed. I didn't see a doctor, but years later, a chest x-ray revealed that I had cracked my collar bone. Index CHAPTER 3 - CAR CRAZY As early as I can remember, my greatest interest was in cars. At thirteen years of age, I read just about every automotive magazine that was sold. I liked to spend time at the Pole Tavern Traffic Circle, where there were always plenty of cars. At fourteen, I actually founded a car club! I had calling cards and bumper stickers printed which read, "Circle City Customs". The guys at the circle loved the idea and bought my stickers for their cars. The name "Circle City" stuck. Once, when I was helping to put a new roof on Mickle's Market, my father overheard me naming the make, model, type of motor and transmission of each car that passed. Pop called up from below, "I'm not paying you to look at cars; keep your eyes on your work!" Another worker had difficulty convincing my father that I wasn't looking at the cars, but identifying them by their sounds. Pop watched in disbelief as I continued to correctly identify the next four or five cars. Then he said, "Well stop it anyhow; it slows down the other men when they look to see if you are right!" Directory: documents documents -> Concept stage documents -> Concept stage documents -> The great global switch-off documents -> Nonprofit grant application documents -> The Truth about the Rwandan Genocide documents -> Annual InStructional unit plan documents -> Chaos equipment included Download 2.2 Mb. Share with your friends:
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