Good Living In
West Frankfort No. 28 Fall 2016
Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois
Holiday Memories Delivering the Nightly News Pillars from The Past Buyer Beware Zella and the Gorilla Trees Fall & Pages Turn What Can You Do? Good Living in WF Fall 2106 No.indd 1
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Publisher’s Letter
Good Living In
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ell, Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas! I hope that helps to put you in the spirit. So far, nothing has pushed me in that direction. Here we are in the first days of November and the trees are more green than not. The smell of burning leaves has hardly filled the air as people wait to rake. We’re still running the air conditioner tonight for heaven sakes. Consider me stubborn, but I like fall to be fall. I hope the cover of this magazine and all the Holiday memories and greetings from our advertisers get us all Christmas ready. We did ask several local residents to share a holiday memory or tradition with us. It is something we have done before in some of our previous holiday issues, and we always received a lot of positive feedback from our readers. People love hearing from someone besides us and enjoy personal thoughts from friends and neighbors. Thank you to all who contributed. We have some other guest stories this issue. We asked Tim Hastings to give us an idea what it is like to be out delivering papers in the wee hours of the morning. And speaking of newspapers, our favorite professional columnist, Gary Marx, reflects on the passing of the daily newspaper as a staple of our everyday lives. I miss it too, but not nearly as much as I would have some time ago. I think that says a lot. Tim Hastings also gave us a tip on a story of when Zella Spani was just a teenager and had an encounter with a big bad gorilla. I love listening to any story that Zella has to tell and this is one of my favorites. On the serious side, I spent a long time researching an article about two of West Frankfort’s pioneer families. In the 1930s, Sam and Ida Arsht lived in the house we now occupy on Oak Street. William and Lula Pharis lived in the big house next door to the west. They were both interesting couples who contributed much to the growth and prosperity of our community. Sherri’s back! Don’t forget to read about her doing a little bit of accidental Christmas shopping last week. I have a feeling I will get a can of beans and three bottles of shampoo from Sherri Murphy at Christmas this year. Finally, we have something for the little ones this issue. Years ago my sister, Genelle Bedokis, wrote the poem “What can YOU do?” I love its message. Look at it as a little surprise gift unlike anything we usually do. Enjoy your holidays. I hope you have great food, fun gatherings, good health and that you are surrounded by people you love. I hope that when you count your blessings you include that the election is over, and regardless of who wins, we can still feel blessed that we live in the greatest country in the world. We are so fortunate in so many ways. God bless us every one.
Gail Rissi Thomas, Publisher Good Living in
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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. 11 Banterra Bank ....................................... pg. 21 B F J Interiors...... ...................................... pg. 29 Browning Clark Automotive .................. pg. 27 Calico Country Sew & Vac ...................... pg. 12 E. R. Brown Furniture ............................... pg. 29 Frankfort Area Historical Museum ..... Back Gandy’s Auto Body Shop ..................... pg. 21 G. L. Williams Real Estate ...................... pg. 21 Good Life Publications.............................. pg. 20 Heights Market & Deli ............................ pg. 11 Herron Rehab & Wellness Center ....... pg. 28 J & S Professional Pharmacy ..................... pg. 2 Johnson Real Estate ................................. pg. 29 Lance Brown, Attorney ............................. pg. 28 McCollom Real Estate ............................... pg. 15 McCord’s Market ..................................... pg. 29 McDonald’s ............................................... pg. 12 Mike Riva, Attorney .................................... pg. 12 Nolen Chiropractic ................................... pg. 22 Parker-Reedy Funeral Home ................... pg. 7 Paul Lawrence Insurance .......................... pg. 21 Peoples National Bank ............................. pg. 4 Ramey Insurance ....................................... pg. 20 ReMax Realty ............................................ pg. 20 Rissi Event Center ..................................... pg. 25 Sandy’s Flowers & Gifts ............................ pg. 12 Severin Garden Center ............................ pg. 17 Southern Illinois Bank ............................. pg. 22 Stotlar-Herrin Lumber ........................... pg. 17 The Smile Place .......................................... pg. 28 Union Funeral Home .............................. pg. 27 Volanski Heating & Air ............................. pg. 14 Watsons Jewelers .................................... pg. 7 Weeks Chevy-Buick-GMC ...................... pg. 22 West Frankfort House Furnishing ........... pg. 29 WF Chamber of Commerce ...................... pg. 29 Your Heart’s Desire ................................. pg. 4
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Table of Contents
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West Frankfort residents share memorable holiday stories from the heart.
16 23
What’s it like to bring the news to your doorstep while you are still tucked into your cozy bed? Tim Hastings tells us.
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Nearly a century ago these families believed in West Frankfort enough to leave a legacy for today.
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23 to her!
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No.28 Fall 2016
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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.
No portion of this publication, including photos and advertisements, may be reproduced in any manner without the expressed consent of Good Life Publications . Š2016
ON THE COVER: Anne Popit, daughter of Kevin and Joycelyn Popit, looks adoringly at her baby brother Joseph during a Christmas moment from 2014. (Photo Provided)
Shopping with Sherri Murphy can be a real adventure. What she buys is a surprise, even Another delightful memory from Zella Spani, a true living treasure of our community. Gary Marx laments the loss of the newspaper as an important routine in our daily life.
A Christmas surprise to share with your kiddos. Genelle Bedokis points out the positive side of being different.
Good Living In
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
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Holiday Memories Santa Exposed! By Ben Murphy
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ne of my favorite Christmas memories centers on Santa Claus. To be more specific, it is about me portraying Santa Claus at a church in Marion, Indiana in the early 1970’s. They furnished me with a beautiful red and white costume for the occasion which was an annual Christmas party. After hoisting and seating onto my lap several children in ages ranging from four to seven, I had finally narrowed the tribe down to two of the smaller ones. Leftover was a four year old
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“child prodigy” named Daniel and my own little daughter, Dawn who was three at the time. First, the little guy with arms folded tightly, reluctantly climbed aboard for the usual interrogation from Santa. “Hello young man. And what is your name?”, I asked. With a sigh of disgust, he finally answered. “Daniel.” “Ho, Ho, Ho. Well Danny….” “No sir, excuse me. I told you, my name is DANIEL!”
“Right! So… DANIEL, what would you like for Santa to bring you for Christmas?” Again, there was total frustration on his face. Then with pursed lips he answered. “I told you at the mall last night, but apparently you can’t remember. So I will tell you one more time. I want… ” (and I don’t recall what he wanted and could have cared less by this time.) So he nailed me, but one out of twenty five is not bad. I finally got rid of him before being embarrassed any further. Next it was my little Dawn’s Ben Murphy
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turn. “Maybe some redemption from my own kid” I thought to myself. Not! As she approached Santa and prepared for the traditional seating I noticed an extremely quizzical, if not a somewhat angered look on her face. Up she goes. Of course with a camouflaged voice I rocketfired first one, then two, then the third question, and got nothing but absolute silence from her. Finally, with a little bit of fire in her little eyes, she broke her silence and said, “My daddy has some gwoves just wike doze.” (Uh Oh! This can’t be good!) Then she said; “And my daddy has gwasses just wike dem.” Busted again! I felt like Rodney Dangerfield in a red suit and fake beard! Art Linkletter said “Kids say the darndest things.” Well, Art, you should also have reminded us to never play Santa Claus without first being prepared by professional debate coaches. Our presidential candidates should be required to be questioned by the likes of some little kids such as Dawn and DANIEL! Though I am 50 pounds heavier now than I was in those days, and certainly look more the part perhaps, I vowed to never play Santa again. See, I’m also nearly 50 years the wiser! Have a blessed and very Merry Christmas!
tic you still roams. You can daily envision long lost teachers, neighbors, family and friends and still feel their influence in your heart. The second is: If you don’t do stupid things when you are young you won’t have things to laugh at when you get old. And fortunately for me, my entire life is littered with stupid things that now in my dotage I can sit back and relive and smile through my rough-edged days. At times these two life observations in-
tersect and the other day was just such an example. I went in to the West Frankfort City Hall to pay my water bill. The home of city government is now in the building that originally was the First Community Bank, and the now gravel parking lot across Jefferson Street from it way back in 1968 was the Central Junior High School, proud home of the Purple Dragons. And as I wrote out my check for water, the young female clerk did not notice that for, a few moments at least, I was transported back 48 years in time.
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The Christmas That Almost Wasn’t By Terry Green
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’ve lived in West Frankfort some 61 years and in that length of time I’ve learned at least two important things for which I am most grateful. The first is: Living your whole life in your small home town has a great benefit you can not find anywhere else on earth. Every single day for decades as you travel throughout town and go about your otherwise mundane routine the entire day is awash in memories of your personal triumphs and tragedies, of moments large and small that molded you into the person you are and of locations that still exist at least in your mind (like the old schools, stores and sandlots) where a younger and optimis-
Wishing the Blessings of the Season to the West Frankfort Community
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As a 12 year old CJHS 7th grader in those early days of 1968, I learned from many of my classmates that the bank across the street from our school had a program called a Christmas Club, where you could make regular weekly deposits from January through November so that you could save a tidy sum to buy presents for your family. Wanting to fit in with others in my class, when school started back after the holidays I marched across Jefferson Street during my lunch hour and joined the Club. The First Community Bank teller, the same age as the young Water Department clerk in my future, but now considered “old” by pre-teenaged me, kindly explained how a mere deposit of 50 cents a week would net me nearly $25, a princely sum at the time, that would allow me to set my loved ones awash in Christmas gifts. My eyes lit up with the dream of sitting around the tree with Mom and Dad and my sister and two young brothers as I basked in the warm glow of their love and gratefulness at my lavish generosity. I there and then decided to skip eating that day and handed over all my lunch money (two quarters) and the nice lady gave me a fancy booklet filled with the 50 cent coupons to be torn out each week as payments were made. But dreams are much different than reality, and being a young irresponsible adolescent with an addiction for the pin ball games and jukebox at Mike’s Confectionary, West Frankfort’s premier teen eatery and hangout, saving half a dollar a week was well nigh impossible. I skipped paying week two of my Christmas Club telling myself I could surely “double up” on week three. Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet “To thine own self be true”, but I wouldn’t read that till high school. On week three I paid only for week two, but the nice lady at the bank was warm and understanding. But January quickly became February and I managed to only go in once between Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays (separate holidays back in ‘68). The lady was friendly as always, but I was pretty embarrassed as she tore out the coupon showing I’d saved $1.50 when I should have saved more than twice that. I am not sure if in those days banks had cameras in them like they do now; but if they did, the nice lady would have been able to have a memento photo to remember me by as I wouldn’t darken the bank’s doors again until the beginning of December, when I cashed the huge $1.50,
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Christmas Club check to go shopping. While prices of goods in the late 60’s were generally a fraction of those today, even by 1968 standards a buck and a half wouldn’t go too far. Walmart didn’t yet exist with Sam Walton still a retailer in Arkansas. But West Frankfort was blessed with a couple things even better than Walmart Superstores, and they were on the very same block as Central School. The Ben Franklin and J.J. Newberry five and dime stores on Main Street were very much alive and thriving. Now the buildings are occupied by Swain’s Furniture. With my paltry life savings burning a hole in my pocket, I marched up and down the block repeatedly window shopping both stores and trying to decide on appropriate gifts for everyone. I’d recently learned a new word in Miss Dranginis’ junior high English class, “impecunious”, and not only did I know its definition, I felt its definition. Soon it was apparent that my “impecunious” circumstances would require I change my standards from “appropriate” gifts for my family to “affordable” gifts for my family. I walked up and down the aisles of the Ben Franklin and the Newberry’s, doing more math in my head than I’d ever done in class. Ultimately I managed within budget to head home with my “treasures” that certainly would not have been confused with the gifts of the Magi. I got Mom a thimble with needles, though she didn’t really need them or probably want them since she had a sewing machine. Dad, a pair of white work socks (thinner than boarding house soap, and they probably only lasted one washing). My sister, a handkerchief, an outdated item with the invention of Kleenex, and my kid brothers split a paddle ball set. I figured that the flimsy gray rubber-band would snap on about the third hit and one could have the paddle and the other the little red ball. And as I was a novice gift wrapper, the miserableness of my gifts was only surpassed by the sad manner in which I presented them under the tree. But we are all familiar with the Magic of Christmas. My family, all good actors, feigned appreciation for the shoddy gifts I gave. Well, except for my little brothers, who pronounced my paddle ball gift as “lame” and “junky”. I’m sure they’d have used stronger language but for the fact that Mom and Dad would have used the paddle,
which had already predictably become separated from the gray rubber-band and ball, on their back sides. For me, the Christmas of 1968 was somehow rescued by those great West Frankfort stores sadly now long gone. And in the ensuing 48 years, knowing myself as well as I do, I’ve never used another Christmas Club to try and save up for Christmas. Pardon me, I have to get online and go to E-bay and start my Christmas shopping. I wonder if there is enough room on my maxed out Visa card to get my wife a thimble and a paddle ball set.
Terry Green
Midnight Mass With The Judge By Kari Karnes
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rowing up during the 1970s in West Frankfort was a privilege in many ways. My world was very small compared to children’s “world wide” community of 2016. My grandpa, Joe Sabolo, lived on the “Hill” and I grew up surrounded by my aunts and uncles.... the Antolini’s, Turchi’s and the Peri’s. Whatever love and support they neglected to give, I received from my extended family....the Levanti’s, Covilli’s, Donini’s, and the Bonacorsi’s. Christmas in the neighborhood was a particularly magical time, with lots of laughing, hugging and yelling (because no Italian ever simply speaks). There was an abundance of food....tutlache, bagna cauda, and succadines. My aunts spent hours making homemade ravioli and tortellini, arguing the whole time in Italian about how much filling needed to be added. The pasta was made by hand in my Aunt Emma’s basement and was laid out on cheesecloth in perfect rows and columns. I remember thinking that it looked like jewelry in a fancy store. When I was in the fourth grade, my music teacher, Jayma Cook, told me that I could sing. So I did....I sang at baby showers, weddings, talent shows, summer theatre and in church. Every December, I would get a phone call from my beloved “Judge”,
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the late Terry Hopkins. “Kari, will you sing with me at Midnight Mass?” As if I would refuse..... We would get together a few times and practice, singing songs that are engraved into my memory. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”, “Oh Holy Night”, and finally, an especially joyful edition of, “Joy to the World”. On Christmas Eve, we would come rushing in from family parties and Christmas dinners to pause and show respect for the real meaning of Christmas. St. John’s Church was always dimly lit with candles and smelled of incense and beeswax. There was a reverence present on Christmas Eve that I felt more than any other day of the year. After Father Baggio finished mass, families and friends lingered to see familiar faces that were home for the holidays. As we finished in the balcony, my Judge would always hug me and wish me a Merry Christmas. When I reflect on my favorite Christmas memories there are so many..... my first year as a mother, my favorite childhood presents, Christmas caroling with Mr. McHaney.....but when I close my eyes and think of “Christmas”, I will always and forever hear those songs from Midnight mass and the booming baritone of Terry Hopkins singing “Ave Maria” in a silent church. I didn’t realize as a child that time would slowly steal family and friends from me. I didn’t realize how much I would treasure my memories of Christmases spent on Locust Street. My soul will forever be grate-
ful to those precious people for giving me a childhood filled with such happiness. And I will always be thankful that I lived in West Frankfort at Christmastime.
My Christmas Eve Doll By Nancy Monaghan Summers
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t was Christmas Eve and I was about eight years old. The Christmas lists had been turned in long before this night. Truth be known, mine was probably rewritten numerous times. My sister Pat and I always got to open one gift on Christ- Nancy Monaghan Summers mas Eve, but everything else had to wait until Christmas morning. It was always a big decision which package would get chosen. My dad had left the house with our Uncle Bernie. This was a little unusual, since the two of them seldom would have gone anywhere together without one or more of us tagging along with them. When he came home, he had a big grin and an equally big box. This is what I got to open for Christmas Eve. The two of them had gone up to the Illinois Brokerage right before they were closing for the holiday. The Christmas toys had been marked down and the two of them came home with a doll for me
and my cousin Susie. (Pat was just enough older that dolls held no interest for her). Now this was no ordinary doll. It was a 36” hard plastic Pollyanna doll with long blonde hair and a red and white checkered dress just like Hayley Mills wore in the Pollyanna movie. Words can never express how excited I was. That doll was my companion for a long time. I remember even dragging her behind my bicycle. By the time I outgrew her, she had been through a pretty rough life. I remember her clothes looked pretty tattered (what ones were left), and even her toes were pretty worn off since she had lost her shoes long before that time. By the time I tossed her aside, she didn’t resemble the beautiful doll she once had been, but believe me, that unexpected Christmas doll had been loved like no other!
A Most Thankful Day By Cathy Short
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hanksgiving Day of 2011 was very special to me, and I have some great memories from that day, especially since on January 18th of that year I was diagnosed with breast cancer. You can imagine the shock I had after hearing that I had cancer. That devastating news meant several doctor Cathy Short appointments and many tests in St. Louis that I had to go through before I knew what would happen next. I ended up having three surgeries in March. That was followed in May with starting chemotherapy, and in July I finished up with my fourth and final treatment. Up to that point, most of 2011 had pretty much been a blur with trips to and from St. Louis for doctors appointments, surgeries and chemotherapy. In August I had a PET Scan done and received the results a week later. I was cancer free. I thank God every day. If it hadn’t been for God, my family and friends, I am not sure I would have been strong enough to make it through one of the worst times in my life.
The Karnes Family: (from left) Maxon, Jackson, Maddox, Karis, Mace, Kari and Jarrod (provided)
We had Thanksgiving at our house that Good Living in
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year with my fiancé, his family, and my family. The food was all done and as we were all getting ready to sit down my fiancé’s mother announced she would like to say a prayer and afterwards would like for everyone to tell something that they were thankful for that year. Each person took their turn. Do you know what they all were thankful for? Me, and the fact that I had survived breast cancer. I was so overwhelmed. After the final expression of gratitude for my recovery there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. At that moment I felt so much love, and I was so very thankful that God had given me a second chance and that everyone was thankful for me.
made a recovery, and my husband’s condition was found early and treated. So, you ask about my favorite Christmas, it was last year, but this year it will most definitely be special. God is good all the time, and may he bless all that read this with family and love.
That was nearly five years ago, but there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about the love I felt that Thanksgiving day.
Why This Christmas Will Be Special By Susan Nolen
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t has been awhile since I sat down and wrote something. When asked to write a few paragraphs about my favorite Christmas, I immediately felt that anxious feeling arise. As I reflected back on the past that feeling soon went away. I remembered the smells of food cooking especially yeast rolls, candy of all types, pies, Christmas trees, gifts wrapped and waiting, but most of all I remembered the people: my husbands family, my family and many friends. I realized how much my circle has changed over the years. We now have 3 children, 2 son-in-laws, a daughter-in-law and 7 grandsons ages 3 to 12. Yes, no granddaughters yet. That brings me to my favorite Christmas. Not that I didn’t enjoy the earlier Christmases, but the recent ones have a new flavor. All the boys wound up and on the move, picking on the food and ready to open those presents. What a mess they leave behind when they all head home. Not a clean dish anywhere. Everything is in dismay and we wouldn’t have it any other way. This past year I had a stroke and Alan had a heart issue. They say I am a miracle having
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Photo Provided
Enjoy the Holidays! Alan and Susan Nolen.
The Best Ever Gift Wrapping Memory By Tara Fasol-Chambers
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s I’m sure many people understand, the holidays can be such a bittersweet time when your loved ones are no longer around to celebrate with you. Tara Fasol-Chambers Losing my dad has made a lot of my Christmas memories fall into that bittersweet category, instead of just sweet, as they used to be when he was still around making them with us. When I was asked to share a memory, my first thoughts were, how can I come up with anything that wouldn’t be gloomy, at least in part, and nobody wants to read a tear jerker at the holidays. Every memory I could come up with was about or including him though, because as many know about me, my dad was my best friend. We spent every day together and holidays were certainly no exception. As I sorted through memory after memory in my head and with a blank stare on my face and hands hov-
ering frozen over the keyboard, I giggled realizing I was smiling…ear to ear, because as heartbreaking as not having my dad here at the holidays is, he sure left us some colorful memories to share and so, I’ll share. My dad was not into the last-minute rush for shopping. He actually shopped all year long and kept a stash in his laundry room, many of which we found piled up and waiting for the next holiday when he died in January. He’d gone right after the rush and started buying for the next year. He made sure each gift anyone received was handpicked for them. It was no surprise the identical golf joke books were for my husband and his best friend and on-air partner Rick. Counting and color learning cards were set back for my Sophia and coloring books in their favorite characters were stuck back for Zakk, Bella and Bre’Anna. In that stash he left behind for us was also a cookbook. My dad has been buying me a cookbook for Christmas for as long as I remember. I have a library of cook books in my kitchen and I’ve thumbed through each one dozens of times. I have a couple of repeats, as well, but I never told him that. Cookbooks was just one of the many traditions he shared at Christmas. He also wrapped and gave both me and my sister something used each year. This wasn’t a second-hand store used gift. It was something he wanted us to have that he had chosen from my Aunt Carole, who passed away or from my grandma or grandpa, who were both no longer with us. It usually came with a letter explaining why it was important to them. My love for photography had him gifting several of my aunt’s now antiqued cameras and a few black and white photos she’d taken with them. Those
Bruce Fasol waves to the crowd as Parade Marshall of the 2014 FCHS Homecoming Parade.
(Photo by Michael Thomas)
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have all been displayed on my piano for years and years. My sister has a footstool in her house that is full of buttons; hundreds and hundreds of buttons that my grandma had collected for mending and sewing and it was a source of tons of digging and sorting fun when we both were little. All of this thought and effort was a tangible representation of a part of my dad that most people didn’t get to see…the dad part of him. He was a “voice” for many people but to me it was his heart, however ailed it might have been, which always made him who he was. However, the love that poured from my dad’s choices was only visible once the gifts were opened. These traditions and many other great finds made us feel as though he’d spent all year thinking about us, because he had. At first glance, for those who might not have known otherwise, my dad’s gifts to us looked like nothing more than old boxes he’d dug out of the dumpsters behind the Dollar Store. On this point, I couldn’t be more serious. My dad was great at many things. Wrapping gifts was not one of them and he was more than aware of it. He had a great and deep distain for gift wrapping. There was no fancy paper. It was left over whatever he had from Valentine’s Day, birthday’s or retirement, as it was one year, because it was on sale. He thought it was funny and economical. He would crunch and bend and cut and pull the paper so much that eventually, wad and tape or tie was just the easier option. He often used more industrial tap than your common Scotch brand, because that meant you could wad up bigger sections to make the ends come together. Cut the paper too short? He’d just turn the box to the unwrapped side down and write the name on top, clearly sending the message to not look at the bottom. After years of this wrapping battle, he came in with his big bag of gifts one year with an unusually big smile on his face. He was proud of a new idea he had, spray painting the boxes. I kid you not. A few other years, he wrapped the gifts and then couldn’t remember whose gift was in what paper.
the kids, the wrong gift got passed to my husband and my dad approved it as being his. Dave opened it and looking a bit confused, thanked my dad and put it away. I didn’t take too much notice of what it was and several days passed. When my dad came in the house he stopped dead in his tracks. He smiled and then raised his eyebrows in that way that he used to do before a good zinger…”nice shirt,” he said to Dave. Dave thanked him and said, yeah, you got it for me for Christmas. “No, I didn’t,” he replied. Apparently, Dave was wearing a shirt my dad had purchased for my sister.
Naturally, this was the running joke for every gift my dad gave my sister for years on end after that, “Watch your pile Sara, Dave might want your pajamas…” Christmas isn’t the same without him but what wonderful memories he gave us in the time he was here. People say it isn’t about the amount of years in your life but the life in your years. His life gave mine an eternity of memories, giggles and smiles. His death gives me many tears but overall, memories of his life always brings the smile back. Merry Christmas!
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It is always very chaotic at Christmas at our house. The kids are ripping in and I’m right in there with them, trying to get the duct tape off the paper to get to my cookbook. With paper flying and my dad focused on Good Living in
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To All our Friends and Neighbors, Best Wishes for a Joyous Holiday Season and a Blessed New Year. Thank You for allowing our family to be a part of your family. - John and Mary Moreland
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“The seats of my van are higher than seats in a sedan making it much easier to get in and out of the vehicle. That’s important because I get in and out about 165 times a night.” ~Tim Hastings
By Tim Hastings
I
t’s a time when cats rule the streets, moths flicker around lampposts, and the aroma of frying donuts wafts for blocks and blocks like a fog. These are the surroundings as I deliver The Southern Illinoisan newspaper six mornings a week to upwards of 250 customers in West Frankfort. I pick up the bundled papers each Tuesday through Sunday under the awning of a sidewalk outside the now-vacant CVS Store next to Kroger on the west side of town. The papers arrive about 1:15 a.m. and I have until 6 a.m. to deliver them (7 a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays). After loading the papers in my mini-van, I count the first bundle. I don’t count the other bundles because they are counted automatically at the newspaper’s office in Carbondale. Next, I check to see if there are any delivery changes. I also look at the weather forecast in the paper.
––If it’s dry weather, I stuff about 100 rubber bands in my pocket so I can roll and band papers as I walk from my van to my customers’ front doors. If rain is predicted, or if it is already sprinkling, I tie a cardboard holster with about 100 plastic rain sleeves to my waist with a rope. That way I can bag papers as I walk. If it’s pouring rain I find a covered parking space where I pre-bag the papers. The awning of a non-24-hour service station works in a pinch, but my favorite rainy night worksite is a self-serve car wash bay. The concrete walls of the car wash give the best protection against the elements as I climb in and out of the car rearranging bundles of papers and searching for rain sleeves. Once I’m settled, I listen to the radio and keep an eye on the rain as I bag papers. The seats of my van are higher than seats in a sedan making it much easier to get in and out of the vehicle. That’s important because I get in and out about 165 times a night (185 times on Friday and Saturday, and 250 times on Sunday). Some folks are
surprised to learn that I actually get out of the car and deliver to each customer’s front porch. That’s just the way my manager taught me. My wife Ginny accompanies me on Sunday mornings. I drive and she sits in the passenger seat and stuffs the classified section into the news portion of the paper , rolls the paper, and bags it. The wide dashboard of the van makes an invaluable table for this operation. My wife and I know the last names of many of our customers . We also have nicknames for some. These range from “beautiful house” to “trash can”. The latter refers to the ever present trash can blocking the sidewalk at one of our stops. Nights with non-stop rain are the pits. Fortunately, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had no choice but to get soaked. On those rare nights, I maneuver the car as close to houses as possible and make a mad dash to the porch.
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I avoid delivery during blizzards and ice storms because my manager told me to use my common sense. Most of my customers would rather I hold their paper for a day than run the risk of an accident. We LOVE our customers who shovel and salt their walks. Leaving the porch light on for us isn’t that important as the whiteness of the snow generally makes everything brighter. But, we do appreciate it!
“I’ve invested a small fortune in snacks. But it’s a fair trade for a little warm (or cool) air, a restroom, and the camaraderie of the clerks.” --Tim Hastings
The spiky little seed balls of the sweetgum trees, usually a bane for delivery, actually give traction when they stick up through the snow and ice. I also have cleats which help tremendously. The first two days of extremely hot or cold weather are miserable. Fortunately, the body acclimates by the third day. Air conditioning is a blessing, but heat is critical. On the coldest nights I often sit in the car for a few seconds to warm up between deliveries. I’ve learned to work without gloves so I can band or bag papers as I walk. If it is especially bitter, I jam my hands into my pockets after making a delivery. Cotton t-shirts in the summer and wool socks in the winter are great assets. Plus, I don’t do winter without my wool scarf. I make nightly use of one or more of West Frankfort’s numerous all-night convenience stores. I’ve invested a small fortune in snacks. But it’s a fair trade for a little warm (or cool) air, a restroom, and the camaraderie of the clerks. The radio is my close friend as I deliver papers in the dark. I flit between about five different stations. I’m especially
fond of Christian news and information , and contemporary Christian music stations. I’ve passed many a night simply being in awe of creation. I’ve witnessed meteorites and meteor showers, lunar eclipses, and the seasonal ascent and descent of the constellation Orion. On a couple of occasions I’ve watched the rings around the moon disintegrate as if they were caught in a windstorm. We have been delivering the paper since July of 2001. I was originally going to deliver it for just a few months to supplement my income, but then September 11th hit. After the terrorist attack, I felt it was my civic duty to continue carrying the newspaper to keep readers informed about the crisis. Ginny was also instrumental in keeping me on this job. Reared on a dairy, she
grew up working outdoors at all hours and in all weather. She ran the route herself for most of 2002 through 2007 when I was working as a newspaper reporter and book salesman. I appreciate her dedication because the route has been my steadiest income since 2008. Until April, 2016, The Southern Illinoisan appeared every night except in December or January when it alternately ceased publication on either Christmas Day or New Year’s Day. During those years, that holiday was our one “paid” vacation. Whether it was the Christmas or New Year’s Day paper, the press usually ran about six hours early which meant we’d get done on the eve of the holiday. I wouldn’t trade anything for the experience of delivering a paper on Christmas Eve. Cheerful strings of lights lined the streets and at many of our stops we could
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Ben Woolard / Carl Volanski
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peek in the windows and see families in joyous celebration. The aromas of warm food wafted out to our car. The aroma of rich, creamy lasagna was especially enticing on a chilly night at 9 p.m. Some people in town just seem to be born with an extra dose of reliability. One of those is Daryl McCoy. As a retired West Frankfort U.S. Postman whose specialty was subbing every route in town, Daryl is imminently qualified to sub a newspaper route. He knows a current or previous occupant name and street number of practically every house in town. In many instances, he can relate an anecdote about the occupant. Daryl has subbed our route many nights and we deeply appreciate it! He has also responded to my call for help on two or three occasions in the middle of the night when I’ve had car trouble. Deanna Neibel is another trusted soul. She may have waited on you at First Bank in West Frankfort, or at Nola’s Tax
Service. Deanna waited on me at about 3 a.m. one frightfully cold Sunday morning when I was delivering papers near her home. I got my car stuck on a patch of ice and confidently knocked on her door to borrow a shovel. I wasn’t disappointed. Charles “Charlie” Sharknas has also assisted me. While delivering papers one morning near Charlie’s home, I encountered a young woman whose car was stuck in the snow. She had a baby in the car and was late for work so I offered to find help. I knew I could count on Charlie. Sure enough, in little more than a minute after learning of my need, Charlie reappeared at his front door with a shovel, ice pick, and bucket of road salt. The biggest surprise I’ve had in being a newspaper carrier is the relationships I’ve built with customers. Believe me we notice the customers. It’s hard to ignore a generous tip. Cheerful notes and loving Christmas cards also bless us. We treasure the gifts we’ve received of
homemade fruitcake and Italian beef. Once, a customer expressed her appreciation in a poem: “Past the hedges through the gate—never late,” she wrote. “Over the sidewalk and up the steps as guitar frets. Across the porch floor and to our front door, Know Mr. Hastings, how much we appreciate your journey to our door.” When I became a paper carrier in 2001, I never imagined I’d find success or satisfaction in the job. I’m happy to say that with the help of a wide variety of loving and loyal family, customers, and neighbors, I have felt successful and satisfied! In addition to delivering The Southern Illinoisan newspaper, Tim Hastings is a contributing writer for The West Frankfort Gazette weekly newspaper. He has lived in West Frankfort since 1976.
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Pillars from The Past
Pharis, Arsht, Susman, Burg and Joseph Families had big impact on West Frankfort’s Main Street
By Gail Rissi Thomas We build on foundations we did not lay. We sit in the shade of trees we did not plant We warm ourselves by fires we did not build We drink from wells we did not dig We profit from persons we did not know
Someone sure believed in this town and dropped a lot of money here a long time ago to make it what it still is today.”
’ve always liked the thoughts that are expressed in this. The thoughts remind me of West Frankfort, although they are true of every community, and actually a statement of history, culture and every freedom and benefit that we all enjoy.
I often remember that, and when we drive down Main, as I look from side to side at some of the buildings that line the street, I often find myself absorbed in the history of the community, what we know about it and what we don’t know. When most residents, both new and old, think about West Frankfort’s history, we are probably thinking about the thirties, the forties and even the fifties, which so many of us lived and loved. We know the stories of the gangs, the coal mine disasters, the fires, the tornadoes, the schools, and the businesses, like the dime stores, the teen hang outs. We know the stories of the shopping mecca that once thrived here.
I remember that when we first started the magazine “Good Living in West Frankfort, “ Michael went out with his camera early one morning to get some breaking dawn shots of West Frankfort Main Street. When he came back, he said, “You know, I was looking at the buildings on Main Street.
I may be wrong, but I think that the past behind the past in West Frankfort is forgotten, a, kind of a gap between the time when the French first defended themselves against the Indians and those popular stories that we have heard repeated so many times
~Peter Raible~ Paraphrased from Deuteronomy 6:10-12
I
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A local resident, a friend, Lois Short, stopped by several months ago, to share some books with me. If you don’t know Lois, she is a historian that has singlehandedly preserved enough of West Frankfort’s secret or forgotten history to fill a small library. Our magazine has been the beneficiary of facts and stories that she has meticulously compiled and generously shared. The most recent treasure she shared was what is probably a very rare copy of the Franklin County Illinois War History 1820-1991. Among the many articles I found that interested me were two biographies of Early West Frankfort families who helped build this community and left behind a legacy that is still prominent in 2016, nearly one hundred years later. Sam Arsht and William Pharis were two of the early pillars of the community who sought out West Frankfort as the place to build their fortunes. Why they chose West Frankfort, if only we knew. They were here at the very onset of the community’s reputation as a boom town, probably a reaction to the
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ever growing coal mining industry. As far as we know, they had no family members or business contacts who lured them here, although we will never know that for sure. Sam Arsht was born in Russia in 1886.. His name was originally Arksto, and his appearance on the local scene coincided with a group of several wealthy Jewish families who came here, mainly from the St. Louis area, built expensive and impressive buildings, started successful businesses, mainly ready-to-wear enterprises. They built homes in the community, stayed here for ten or more years and then sold out and left West Frankfort, returning to St. Louis. There were the Burgs, Max and Vera, who opened Burg’s Ladies store, possibly the most exclusive retail store in the south half of Illinois. “We had many customers who came here from St. Louis to buy their clothes,” said the late Etheredge Tharp, who worked at Burgs as a stock boy and window dresser in his teens. Tharp, who passed away a couple of years ago at the age of 103, was a wealth of information about the retail establishments on our Main Street and had contributed to several of the Good Living Magazines as well as our book, “Back in the Day.”
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Tharp also recalled Mr. Susman, who established a very large, exquisite menswear store in the Heights, and Mr. Joseph, another of the group, who opened the menswear retail store, Joseph’s, where Simple Solutions is now located on the South side of East Main. In fact, the name Joseph’s still graces the entry way where the store front meets the sidewalk. (See photo right)
J. Susman who established a very large and exquisite menswear store in the Heights, This photo was taken in the 1920’s. (Photo Franklin County Illinois War History
1820-1991.
I have a personal interest in Sam Arsht and his legacy. My husband and I live at 309 East Oak Street, a brick house that we bought in 1986. The house was built by Arsht, and the Capitol A in stone, embedded into the brick chimney represents his last name. Many longtime residents assume that the A stands for Ahlm, as Dr. Charles Ahlm who acquired the house, probably from Arsht and raised his family there for many years. I found Sam Arsht living in West Frankfort in the 1930 federal census, but not yet at the Oak Street Residence, but rather east of town in a rural area near Burton Road Arsht had attempted several business ventures in America, beGood Living in
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Sam and Ida Arsht
(Photo Franklin County Illinois War History 1820-1991.
The Arshts made major contributions to West Frankfort’s Main Street Above: The Arsht Apartments were built in 1920 in the 300 block of East Main Street just west of the Rissi Event Center. It was destroyed in a fire in the 1990’s and was replaced by Coleman-Rhoads Furniture. Below: The Fashion Shop was a popular women’s clothing store for many years. Bottom: In 1930 Sam Arscht formed a stock company which built the Strand Theater.
ginning as a shoe store employee in Lynn, MA. He migrated to Staunton, IL, where he opened his own feed and grain business, and then a mercantile in Benld, then Sawyerville, learning the language and business along the way until his settled in West Frankfort in 1914. While he owned and managed stores in West Frankfort, he also established a new store in the new mining field of Orient, The 1936 City Directory tells us that he was owner of Arsht Shoe store, next door to the then famous Fashion Shop, managed by his wife, Ida. During this same time, he opened the large, Leader Department Store in Zeigler and a large theater with an ample store room there, which long housed a clothing store. (This was possibly Kohlsdorf’s)
nal Gazette. $5,600 worth of stock disappeared overnight, including 36 fur coats, all the silk dresses, hosiery, lingerie and kid gloves. Although The Fashion Shop was an anchor business on Main Street another forty or more years, very few women remember shopping there when it was still owned by Ida Arsht. Local resident, Zella Spani is one who shopped there as a young girl. “ These people may have been friends, but they were competitors,” Spani says. “I remember if you were shopping at Burgs and left without finding what you wanted and making a purchase, Mrs. Burg would keep up a conversation and follow you right out into the street to see where you were going and if
The history of the First Christian Church recalls that William Pharis donated his one third holding in the West Frankfort Elks Building to the church in the late Thirties. Sam and Ida were important enough in the community’s business and social circles, that there are tidbits about them and their endeavors in area newspapers scattered throughout the state. A search of Newspapers.com, a valuable research tool, tells us that in 1933, the announcement of the marriage of their son, Raymond to Marjorie Mayer of Yoakum, Texas, was announced in the Alton Telegraph. Raymond was a graduate of The University of Arkansas with a law degree. The St. Louis area papers covered the fire which destroyed the Arsht Shoe Store in the mid Thirties The $25,000 loss also caused damage to the Burg’s Ladies Store and the Webster Drug Store in that block. The fire started from a stove on the second story in a business college hall. And in 1933, the robbery of The Fashion Shop was headline news in Mattoon Daily Jour-
you were headed over to shop at The Fashion Shop.” Arsht’s business endeavors were always of interest to the public. In 1930, the Murphysboro Independent announced that he had formed a stock company which would provide West Frankfort with its third movie theater. Two buildings on Main Street were to be combined and rebuilt into what was to become The Strand, and he divested his other two movie theaters, selling them to Fox Interests. Perhaps even more interesting, because it seems like an insignificant story, was in 1936, when the Carbondale Free Press reported on the sale of what became the Benton Wood Building. Arsht was one of only two bidders who showed up to make a bid on the property. He lost the bidding to D. I. Wood, owner of the Woodway grocery Store Chain. The most interesting aspect of the story is that it cost
At one time, William and Lula Pharis were next door neighbors to Sam and Ida Arscht on the 300 block of East Oak Street. It was a convenient location for both families as the Pharis Ford Garage and the Arsht Apartments were on Main Street directly north of the respective houses. Photo by Michael A. Thomas
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the First Christian Church recalls that William Pharis donated his one third holding in the West Frankfort Elks Building to the church in the late Thirties. That building, originally the Elks Building, stands at the corner of Oak and Emma Streets and currently belongs to Morthland college.
As the automobile replaced the horse and buggy, Willam E. Pharis (inset) secured a Ford dealership, which he opened in the 300 block of East Main, former location of Coleman-Rhoads furniture and more currently Morthland College. The ornamental brickwork is still visible today. (Photo Franklin County Illinois War History)
$218,000 to build and sold for $36,000 at the height of the depression. The Arshts, along with the Burgs, were also involved in the purchase of the Jewish Community Building in Benton, which was the beginning of the Jewish Temple there. In the Seventies, the apartments on the upper level of the south side of the 300 block of Main were still named the Arsht Apartments. The Arshts left their mark not only on West Frankfort, but on adjacent communities before they returned to St. Louis. Sam died in University City, MO and is buried in Chesed Shel Emeth Cemetery in St. Louis. In crediting people who contributed greatly both in financial investment and influence in West Frankfort, we would be remiss not to mention William and Lula Pharis, a couple who established themselves here, lived out their life here and are buried in Tower Heights Cemetery. Pharis was born in Christopher, only a crossroads at the time. After his father’s death, Pharis married Lula Jones, of the pioneer family from Browning Hill. The young couple moved to Marion looking for more opportunities, but soon followed the blossoming coal industry to West Frankfort, where they opened a small restaurant. His business ventures made him a top man of means in the community. After successfully operating the restaurant for eight years, Pharis secured the Ford dealership, which he opened in the 300 block of East Main, more recently Coleman Rhoads furniture and currently Morthland College. As that dealership rapidly became the most prosperous busi-
ness in the county, Pharis went on to organize the West Frankfort Trust and Banking Company, where he served as vice-president. He was treasurer of the West Frankfort Building and Loan Association, as well as director of the Plumlee-Pharis wholesale Grocery Company. The Pharises had two children, Raymond and Juanita. Tragedy and heartache found them in 1927, when newspapers across the state blared headlines similar to “Son of Local Rich Man Engaged to Local girl Found Dead.” Raymond Pharis was the subject of the article which reported that the 30 year old banker and wealthy businessman was found dead on the banks of the lake at the Franklin Country Club where he had been fishing. His death was attributed to a brain hemorrhage caused by a fall. His pole and minnow bucket were found nearby. The somewhat strange newspaper story tells us that “Although there was no indication of violence of any kind, It is believed that young Pharis may have been attacked in the early hours of the morning.” We can never know the blessings that William Pharis and his family may have contributed to this community. The history of
William and Lula Pharis are buried in Tower Heights cemetery, along with their son, Raymond, who died a mysterious death at the at the age of 30 when his body was fount at the Franklin County Country club lake. Photo by Michael A. Thomas
I vaguely remember Mrs. Pharis, who still lived at their majestic home at 307 East Oak Street, just next door to the home that Sam Arsht built. When I was still a little girl, I used to go to her house to sell her my homemade potholders about once a month. I don’t know that she ever cooked a thing in those days, but she sure bought a lot of potholders. A sweet news story I found in the 1962 Southern Illinoisan reminded me of those times. In 1962, at the age of 86, she was a permanent patient of the Franklin County Hospital in Benton. She was known for her knitting of baby caps, and had knitted over 4,000 over the years for “non- royal babies.” But upon hearing that Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden of Great Britain were expecting a baby, a nurse at the hospital wrote to ask if they would like to have a hand knitted cap for the baby. Mrs. Pharis received this response from a lady-in-waiting. “I am bidden by Princess Margaret to tell you that Princess would be delighted to tell you that the young Royal Highness would be delighted to accept a baby cap from Mrs. Pharis. It should be addressed to Kensington Palace.” The article went on to say that the cap was blue with pink trim and it took her one day to make it. I can’t help but think about a story we wrote for one of our earlier magazines in Summer of 2009, It was the memoir of Helen Nicholson. She had just turned 102, and shared some of what it was like in the “Good Old days.” She married her husband in 1923. “We used to walk three miles to church every Sunday,” she said. “We’d carry our shoes, at least to the sidewalk. Everything was so muddy. Main Street was just mud, mud, mud, and that intersection of Emma and Main was muddiest of all.” Helen and Clyde eventually acquired a 1929 Dodge Touring Car, and she made up for all those years of walking through the mud. We all walk over pavement that we didn’t lay. We profit from persons we did not know.
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West Frankfort No. 28 Fall 2016
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By Sherri Murphy
A
s the holidays approach, the grocery stores become the new hot spot, the place to be. Even the local markets are filled to the brim with an abundance of choices to fill our fridges, our holiday tables, and ultimately, our bellies. Weekly sales, discounts and clearance items are designed to further entice us to shop a little longer and spend a little more of our hard-earned cash— even if only a few items are actually needed. I recently entered the local Kroger armed with only a mental list and a debit card to purchase a few items for supper, but was quickly distracted by some deep discounts in aisle one. A bag of “lazy lettuce” (a ready-to-serve, premixed bag of salad ingredients) was my first off-the-list purchase. Then I added a bag of organic spinach that someone else had bothered to triple wash for me and then went out of their way to mark it down low enough to make it a must-purchase. Bless their hearts. At the end of aisle one, was the piece de resistance for this frugal, bargain-loving shopper; a place I call “The Deep Discount Den.” The area has a shopping cart full of discounted, discontinued and bargain items. There are also a few such items on the shelves nearby. When I stop and shop there, I feel as if Kroger nearly pays ME money to take these items off their hands. I go back and forth, trying to decide wether to buy or not to buy. The battle within has two voices: mine and my husband’s. I can hear him say, “Just move along Sher. I’m home and hungry. Just get what you came for. You’ll go broke buying bargains.” And then the voice of reason (mine) chimes in. “But these are DEEP discounts! I’ll save money for tomorrow’s meals and snacks. They may get scooped up by another savvy shopper if I don’t grab them now.” So with this thought in mind, I began digging through the clearance cart and checking out the discount shelves. I found granola bars, chips, and a new drink to try. I almost purchased a few other items until I once again heard, “You’ll go broke buying bargains.” But that didn’t stop me pilfering through the cart, certain that I would find items I couldn’t live without. I found about six of those and then headed
Photo by Michael A. Thomas
for the meat case. Feeling a bit rushed, I quickly scanned the beef section grabbed the weekly special: steak! A bag of noodles and a carton of milk later, and I was ready to unload my items at the checkout counter. I quickly placed my steak, milk and noodles on the belt. Then I began to unload the rest of my cart and I’ll admit to feeling a rush, of sorts, as I once again looked at those discount stickers on the items I had purchased. But when I took the cherryflavored applesauce out of the cart I began to get a bit confused. Wasn’t that one of the items I almost purchased but put back? “Oh, well,” I said to myself, “I’ll try them anyway.” But then there were a few more packs in my cart. “How strange,” I thought. “Did I accidentally knock them off a shelf and they magically fell into my cart?” It seemed unlikely. I went over a couple of possible scenarios, including one of a prankster friend spotting me deep in bargain-hunting thought and—while my back was turned—dumping a few of them into my cart. Possible, but not probable. The fog was getting even heavier when I found many bags of flavored popcorn that I hadn’t even remembered considering for purchase. I focused on my cart full of discounts and that’s when I realized what had happened. I motioned for the clerk to stop checking me out. While deep in frugal mode, I had left the
discount area with the full clearance cart instead of my own! I actually almost purchased an entire cart chock-full of clearance items! I began to chuckle as I explained the mix-up to the young clerk. He smiled as he called for another employee to come retrieve the cart. He laughed along with me, and tried to make light of the situation, almost offering the “this-sort-ofthing-happens-all-the-time” line but knew I wasn’t going to buy it. How could I buy anything else as this point? No room in the cart! I asked him to hold the steak, noodles and milk as I went to find my original cart that had only a few discounted items in it. When I arrived, there was my lonely cart with even a fewer items in it than before the mix-up. Apparently someone had purchased a few of my discounted finds since they were now in the “clearance cart”. The Kroger employee came walking quickly, pushing the clearance cart back to its proper home. We laughed as I admitted being the crazy lady who walked off the wrong cart. But I added, “ I’m sure you can clearly see where the confusion came from. They were both carts. They both have four wheels. They both have handles.” I paid for the few items I had purchased and was pleased with the savings. I wondered what the total sale would have been had I actually paid for all the items in the clearance cart that day. I chuckled when I realized that I could have, in fact, truly gone broke buying bargains.
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a l l e Z
By Gail Rissi Thomas
“M
usic soothes the savage beast.” Remember who said that? I think it was William Shakespeare. I‘d bet my Thanksgiving turkey that it wasn’t Zella Spani. I’m pretty sure about that because she told me a story recently that reminded me that Zella tells great stories, and also indicated that she knows a lot more about savage beasts that most of us do. And like most good stories about learning things, she learned it the hard way. Mrs. Spani, as hundreds, maybe thousands of students knew her during her decades of teaching in the West Frankfort School System, met the savage when she was but a young high school girl in the early 1930’s. “I remember that our minister at the Christian Church at that time challenged the youth to divide into groups and reach out to areas outside West Frankfort to try to start missions in the outlying areas,” she explained. “I was with a group of about six teens who decided that we would step outside our comfort zone and take our mission to Orient to reach mining families near Peabody 18 and Old Ben 15. We planned it for a Sunday, and went with one adult.” “We arranged to gather in the Miners Hall, a large room upstairs over a tavern. There wasn’t much there except a lot of folding chairs and a small stage with a piano. But on this particular Sunday, there was a man on the stage, asleep in a drunken stupor. And of all things, next to him was a large gorilla in a cage. I guess they had both been a part of the traveling show or something the night before; you know the medicine man show or animal show where people pitch nickels or whatever.” “Well when my group saw that gorilla, they all took their folding chairs to the back of the room, but I had to play the piano, which was right next to the stage as well as the gorilla. I wasn’t too happy about that, but I took my place at the piano. We started out with a song or two, but once the music really got going, that gorilla was excited by the music or something, and he started jumping around and rattling the bars of his cage. I don’t know if he was keeping the beat or not. I don’t know if he liked the music or didn’t like it, but I know I was very scared.”
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G e Th “ When I was finished playing,” she added, “I got to move to the back with everybody else. We did go back on other Sundays, but the man and the gorilla were never there again. That was fine by me.” The mission started by those young people became the Church of Christ of Orient, began regular services and is still in existence today. The minister, Mr. Ed Pool recently invited Zella to speak to the congregation at a revival evening. We can be sure that the gorilla story was one of the stories she shared with them.
The Orient Church of Christ
T
here is only one church in Orient these days, and that is the Orient Church of Christ, which got its beginnings in the mission that was started by a young group of high school students from the First Christian Church of West Frankfort in the early 1930s. Services at The church of Christ were originally held in the Miners’ Union Hall in an upstairs room (more than likely where Zella Spani entertained the gorilla.) The building had first served as a garage, where mine executives and bosses parked their cars to protect them from coal dust when
they were on site. Eventually the mine donated the building to the church. A kitchen was added and later rooms for Sunday school and other activities. There are about 50 active members today. Apparently, according to Pool, there had at one time been a dedicated effort to, as it says in the Bible, keep all the Christian Churches together. “It says in the Bible,” Pool explained, “In the 17th chapter of John, that the Lord asked us ‘All to be one.’ Christian Church leaders and congregations strongly resisted new churches springing up in the coalfields near different mines, because they did not want to lose members who might choose to attend a church closer to their home.” In fact, Pool tells that members of the Creek Nation Church, located on Creek Nation Road near Christopher, tell the story of the man who called the first gathering of that congregation. “He came in and laid two revolvers on the podium,” Pool said. “He said, ‘Well they told me not to come here today, but here I am.’” The Christian Church of Mulkeytown, first assembled in 1818 is the oldest continuous congregation in the state of Illinois.
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I enjoy the entire newspaper-reading experience. There’s a ritualistic quality to it — the walk to the street, the settling down with a cup of coffee…. the tactile experience of turning pages … the look my wife gives me when I erupt over something I just read. I’ll miss all of that when it’s gone.
TREES FALL & PAGES TURN The Times They Are A’Changing (Sept 1942) As presses are rolling at the New York Times and finished papers start coming off (see background), pressmen read the paper to catch defective press work. Pressman in foreground is filling ink fount. Photo Courtesy of Library of Congress
By Gary Marx
W
hen we moved into this house in January, there was a large dead pine tree at the edge of our yard. The landlord had topped it and shaved off the branches the previous fall, so it stood there all winter and all spring like a wooden obelisk, an uncarved totem. It was two feet in diameter at the base and about 50 feet tall, a formidable tree in its prime. Must have been beautiful. It was the type of tree that built an empire, supplying logs for lodges and railroads, and the type of tree that provided pallets and pulp and rolls of newsprint. A different type of empire that was… the press. The landlord came back in the summer and cut down the totem. He sliced it into two- and three-foot sections, and it lay there for a few days like a fallen pillar at the Temple of Zeus. He even-
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tually hauled it off, and now there’s nothing left but a short stump and a hole in the hedgerow. I can’t say that I miss it, though I did at first. But I think of it occasionally, usually when I go out to the driveway on a Monday looking for my newspaper, which doesn’t print on Mondays anymore. I feel kind of stupid out there staring at the gravel, and then I feel empty. And it’s about that time that I remember that tree.
This love affair — the one with newspapers — started when I was a kid. Every Sunday, after church and before dinner, my father would sit in his armchair and read the Sun-Times and the Tribune. I remember one day he said, “Want the funny pages?” And he handed me the comics. That’s how it started, lying there on the floor of the living room, reading “Peanuts” and “Prince Valiant,” “Nancy” and “Rick O’Shay.” All of them, I read every one. And what I remember most from that experience is not the comics themselves, but the image I have of my father in the armchair reading the paper. He’d be quiet and thoughtful. Sometimes he’d laugh. And sometimes he’d get so agitated he’d snap the pages open and fold them in a single fluid motion, muttering something my young ears probably shouldn’t have heard. Whatever it was, it left me with the impression that there was something alive and interesting inside the newspaper, something important enough to get my father to sit quietly and read for an hour, and enough to get under his skin. Whatever it was, I wanted to be a part of it. A few years later, my brother got a newspaper route. He made a few bucks, and he paid me to help him a little. I wanted to get my own route one day, but that never happened. Something better came around.
I think the newspaper made a mistake by dropping the Monday edition. It’s another sign that newspapers across the country are struggling to stay afloat. It isn’t easy, after all, to do good journalism every day when you have to provide acceptable profit margins for your stockholders and appropriate bonuses for your top executives.
I was in sixth or seventh grade when a new Catholic church was built across the street from our house, and somehow, even before the first Mass was held, my brother and I obtained the rights to sell newspapers at the steps of the church on Sunday mornings.
Most young people don’t get their news from anything other than their phones, and the big media outlets have set their sights on that market, leaving readers like me standing at the end of the driveway.
This was a prime location with a steady stream of God-fearing and mostly polite customers, and we had to work only half a day once a week. It sure beat pedaling around papers every morning. That’s not to
What a coup!
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say it was all fun and games. There was a lot of work to do. The feature sections, including the comics, would be delivered to our house early Saturday morning, and we’d stack those bundles inside the garage. The news and sports sections would arrive sometime after midnight, and we’d rise at 5 a.m. on Sunday to stuff the features into the news. We’d assemble about 500 newspapers like that and be ready for the first Mass at 8 a.m. Sometimes, we’d battle the elements. You don’t get a raincheck when you run a newsstand. We were there no matter what. It was always dark when we began our work, too, and in winter the garage was ice cold. Dad would get up before us to start the oil furnace, and we’d drink coffee to keep us warm. We had to shovel snow from the driveway and the stairs of the church, and while we stood there shivering outside with our papers, with the arctic wind in our faces, we’d think hell had indeed frozen over.
bated. The newspaper is passed across the table in the coffee shop and left for the next customer in the cafe. Newspapers are vital. They are an institution we’ll not adequately replace. We’ll simply have to adapt when they’re gone, when the obelisk falls. When our totems come down and decay, and a gaping hole appears on our cultural landscape.
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 and on Facebook at Highway51Revisited
We did this for about six years and made enough money to seed our college funds. My brother studied architecture at the University of Illinois; I ended up at SIU, in journalism school. I’ve worked for newspapers for more than 35 years, and I’ll never forget how it all started, how the ink that got on my fingers every Sunday morning somehow seeped into my blood. I remember my father sitting in his chair and reading the news. And I remember that day, just before I went off to college, when he handed me the section with all the opinions and editorials and said, “Want the funny pages?” Yeah, I’ll miss the newspaper when it’s gone for good, which seems inevitable sometimes. We’ve lost them in every major city in America — most recently in Seattle and Denver and Tampa. And we’ve lost them in smaller burgs like West Frankfort and Murphysboro. But there’s more than nostalgia at stake. The newspaper holds families and communities together, partly because it gives them something physical to hold. The internet can’t do that. The internet tends to send each of us into our own virtual cocoon. The newspaper serves as the village green, the commons, where ideas are shared and de-
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What Can YOU do? By Genelle Rissi Bedokis
Everyone has something Of which he’s very proud It might be eyes that sparkle bright Or hair as soft as a cloud. It could be freckles on his nose Or a dimple on his chin. Maybe ears that stick way out Or a tongue that’s never in. Willie the waiter had a head that was flat, But believe it or not, he was quite proud of that. When business was booming, he didn’t care, instead He carried a tray in each hand and one on his head. Frieda was short and stout, if you wish Because she would always eat any dish That was set before her; all food was fine. She was proud of her size fifty waistline. Sally, a baby, was still rather small. She was so proud because she could crawl. She didn’t care that she couldn’t walk. At least she never told me so—but then she couldn’t talk I met this guy in New York named Gus. He job was to drive a big yellow bus. He didn’t know the back from the front but Gus was no dunce He was proud he could go two ways at once.
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Cows laid eggs for old farmer Lou It’s hard to believe, but his chickens could moo! To everyone else it was really confusing. But Lou was so proud; he found it amusing. I once knew a man who was seven foot ten Wherever he went, he had to bend to get in. But he was wise to be proud of his size, Because he was taller than all other guys. Did you ever think of what YOU can do? Can you crawl like Sally or raise chickens that moo? Or is your head flat, like Willie’s was flat? Maybe you’re stout and quite proud of that. Or maybe like no one else that you know You have on each foot one extra toe. Perhaps you can cook like no else can, Without any stove, without any pan. Can you spell words backwards without even thinking? Or swim in the tub without ever sinking? You can do a lot of things if you tried. But whatever you do, do it with pride.
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