Gowanda PennySaver/News - January 26, 2003 I remember growing up in Gowanda, part 2 By Richard Westlund After the first of my series on growing up in Gowanda appeared, I received a call from Ruth Bury. She said that she had the words to the song about Gowanda that I remembered and wished I had. She sent them to me. I include here the words to that song, with Ms. Bury's comments about it. If you've seen homelights If you've seen homelights starring a valley Below the dim line of hills against the sky, If you've known mornings when Cattaraugus Sings a low song as she goes winding by, If you have wandered under the shadows The setting sun throws in Gowanda Glen Although you travel far from Gowanda Her charm will bring you back again Back to the old friends and comrades true Singing a gay song, Gowanda to you. Ruth continues: "I have an old High School Song Book from which we used to sing songs at morning assemblies (now a long-forgotten activity.) The words to this song are pasted inside the front cover, along with the words of our Alma Mater. A Miss Anderson was music teacher at that time. I think the wife of the athletic director, a Ted Concowich (sp?) wrote the verse. I've often thought how true and poetic the words are, as I drive from Perrysburg to Gowanda at night, and see the starry lights in the valley, and the dim line of the hills in the far distance. She described that wonderful view perfectly. To me it's awe-inspiring, and it's my home. I know the tune, but don't know if it was original or from a source with which I'm not acquainted. It is a lovely song about Gowanda. We should find a way to use it." I also later received a note from Julie Woodcock, who identified the author of the words as Hazel Barber Conwicke and of the music as Arlene Anderson Reed. Now back to my remembrances: Schindler's had a feed store at the foot of Mechanic Street, which would be across the lower driveway of Jubilee. As a teenager I had a project for a whiIe of raising rabbits. I started with just two does and a buck, but was soon delivering rabbit meat to customers all over town. I once timed the breeding of a couple does so they would produce birth about a month before Easter. Then at Easter I put a bunch of little white, month-old bunnies in Schindler's store for sale as pets. Mr. Schindler was very indulgent of me in helping with my project. This brings to mind a story illustrating why mothers get gray. One summer day, Norm, the oldest of the Schindler boys, and myself were out in the country target shooting with my 22-rifle. We saw an old glass milk bottle, and Norm asked if I could hit it on the fly. In throwing the bottle into the air, he threw it almost straight up, so when I shot and hit it, the broken glass showered down on us. We ducked of course, but one large shard hit me on the backside of my head. I was bleeding profusely, so I took off my tee shirt and was wiping my neck and the side of my head. Finally I just wrapped the bloody tee shirt around my head and we proceeded home. I was not in any pain. When I walked into the house still carrying my rifle, my mother looked at what a sight I must have been and asked, "What in the world happened to you?" Trying to be clever and/or funny, I replied, "Norm Schindler shot me." Then seeing the shock on her face as she started turning pale, I quickly added, "No Mom! I'm sorry he didn't. I just cut myself on a broken bottle." As I said, "Why mothers get gray." As I recall, a Mr. Eastwood, or Eastman ran the Hollywood Theater. It was indeed one of the best small-town theaters around. In those pre-television days, it played a major role in the lives of the Gowanda residents. They had a large billboard on the sidewalk on the east side of the Gowanda Loan (now the Community Bank) advertising the upcoming shows. Usually the biggest and best picture of the week was scheduled on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday nights. These were also usually Technicolor productions. Wednesday and Thursday would be a black-and-white movie that didn't quite make it for a Sunday/Monday schedule. Then Friday and Saturday night catered to kids. They were often a double feature including a Western with Wild Bill Hickok, Roy Rogers or Hop-a-Long Cassidy. I remember seeing "Gone With the Wind" there when it first came out. That would have been a Sunday night show. For some reason, I don't know why, we had to go to Cattaraugus to the small theater they had, to see Disney's "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" when it first came out. On Sunday evening, the big show of the week started at 7:30 p.m. Bob Palcic, a Gowanda musician extraordinaire, was scheduled at 7 p.m., a half-hour before show time. He would play selections on the great Wurlitzer organ they had. Everyone would try to come early because it was always a very pleasant half-hour. It was also the night to take your best girl to the movies. Bob used to take requests from the audience. You could just call out the title of the song you wanted to hear. I remember being there one Sunday evening when Bob turned to the audience and said, "A couple weeks ago when I asked for requests, someone called out, 'Aw Go Fly a Kite!' Well, since then a song of that title has been published, so now I can fulfill that request." He then went on to play the song,"Go Fly a Kite." I doubt that anyone would have actually told him to go fly a kite, but it was certainly a clever introduction on his part. The Hollywood was the main entertainment source we had in those days. It's not surprising that local residents are anxious to preserve it. When they established a VFW Post in Gowanda, they named it the James Cruden Post, because he was the first Gowanda resident killed in World War II. He was killed somewhere in North Africa in the early days of the war. Although Jim was several years older than me, we were good friends. I'll never forget him, because he saved me from a beating one day. I must have been in fifth or sixth grade. We were walking down North Water Street after lunch hour on our way back to afternoon sessions at school. This other kid who was in my class, I'll call him Billy here, I considered tobe pretty tough and I generally gave him all the room I could. I was never one to look for a fight anyway. I was a fast runner, and it normally seemed that my best defense in a conflict was that no one could catch me. I don't recall just how this got started, but it had something to do with the fact that I had some candy and I didn't want to share it. A push led to a shove and the first thing I knew we were fighting. Somehow I must have gotten a lucky punch in as Billy got a pretty serious nosebleed, which ended the fight. He went to get help with his nosebleed and I continued on to school with friends. About the time we reached school, Billy's older brother caught up to us. He was furious. "You little (expletive deleted)," he raged, "you broke my little brother's nose, and I'm going to break yours." He was a few years older than me and could have done it, too. At this point my older friend, Jimmy Cruden, stepped in, put his hand on the fellow's shoulder and said, "You touch one hair on that kid's head and I'l lbreak your neck." Of course I hadn't broken Billy's nose. The next day in class I remember him shaking his fist at me across the classroom with one knuckle raised as though to exact extra grief, which gave me cause to worry, but he or his older brother never bothered me. Thanks Jim. Sometimes it's nice to have powerful connections in life. Back in the '30s, Gowanda had its own electric power-generating plant. Being a kid, I don't know how much power it generated for how many people, but I do remember that a Mr. Alverson or "Uncle Nate" as my friend, and his grandson called him, worked in the generating plant, which was behind where the Municipal Building now stands. I remember being in there and him showing us how things worked. There was a dam in the Cattaraugus upstream near the railroad trestle. This backed up water to be shunted down a narrow canal, which ran from behind the dam, down between the American Legion and Erie Avenue. It sort of made the Legion on an island. The canal came around behind the present Municipal Building with very little drop in elevation from behind the dam. Then there at the generating station, there was a raceway or steep waterfall of about 20 feet, which drove the generators. I don't know when the dam was built, but I seem to recall seeing a large crew of men with wheelbarrows carting and pouring cement into the forms. It made one think of ants swarming over an anthill. If my memory is real, it would have been in the early '30s. Today, that would be done with more machinery and fewer men. I don't recall when it was abandoned. I assume it was about the time they built the new Municipal Building. When they did that, they moved the old fire hall, which had been where the new one was built, back behind it, and that's where the Boy Scouts used to meet. The Stevens family lived on Perry Street. They were a fairly large family. I believe the oldest and youngest were boys and the rest girls. Leroy, the youngest, was a year or two younger than me. His mother used to make baseballs out of old socks for us. They were ideal for baseball games in Perry Street because they didn't break windows or go as far as regular baseballs, which was good for games played in the street. They were also soft enough that a glove was not at all required to make a good catch. We kids in the neighborhood would play baseball in the street in front of their house for hours in the summer. First and third bases were always at opposite curbs and second base in the center of the street. We were seldom bothered with any traffic. Without television to interfere, we found it necessary to use our ingenuity to entertain ourselves. One summer diversion that periodically came about was making "Chugs." A chug was made first with a board for a body, an upside-down orange crate mounted at the front to simulate the hood of an engine, and usually old roller skate wheels, you could make a really good chug. We would have a front axle that was usually like a two by four and was connected to the body with only one center bolt and a few spacer washers, to allow it to be turned with a rope attached to the axle near each front wheel. Then there was nothing left to do but race them down the nearest convenient hill. We also made scooters in much the same way. Here we used a narrower board for the body, just wide enough to support your foot. Roller skates again furnished the wheels. In this case the orange crate was stood on end vertically at the front end and some type of makeshift handlebars attached to the top of it to complete the scooter. In winter there was a hill at the end of Erie Avenue coming down from what is now Armes' Court. There you would see kids sliding down on homemade "Go Devils," which were a seat mounted about two feet high on perhaps a barrel stay, and gave an exciting ride down the slope. I don't suppose kids today do much in the way of manufacturing their own entertanment. I was fortunate to have a regular sled, which was great for "belly flopping" down Armes' hill when it was covered with snow. The best brand of sleds were called Flexible Flyers. After a Sunday of belly flopping on my sled all afternoon, I always tried to get home at 5 o'clock, because that's when "The Shadow" came on, sponsored by "Your Blue Coal Dealers." The adventures of Lamont Cranston and his girl, Margo Lane, was always exciting for us, this kid anyway. The Shadow's girl was Margo Lane and Superman's was Lois Lane. Do you suppose they were sisters? Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of men? The Shadow knows, heh heh heh! Although we didn't have TV in those days, radio was quite a factor. Among the afternoon soaps were Ma Perkins (I can still hear her exclaiming "Land O'Goshen!") and Stella Dallas. Sunday evening had things like "The First Nighter" (smoking in the outer lobby please). It opened as though you were coming into the theater for an opening night performance. There were always the comedian shows like Jack Benny and Fibber McGee and Molly. Jack Benny always featured tenor Dennis Day. Fibber McGee always had a skit where his famous unkempt hall closet came tumbling into the hallway when the door was opened. I think it was Fibber McGee who featured the Great Gildersleeve, a first-class buffoon, and the friendly undertaker who, when he left the stage, always said, "Well, I must be shoveling along." Years later when I got into broadcasting, one of my first assignments was to accompany one of the talents, perhaps old-timers will recall Billy Keaton, a radio personality in Buffalo. Anyway, I went with Billy Keaton to the Hotel Statler to record an interview with Jack Benny. In those days it was not yet fashionable, as it seems to be today, to use profanity in public. Jack Benny, to my amazement, sat in the center of this large hotel suite, surrounded by a team of sycophants. His conversation was punctuated with language as bad as anything I ever heard in the Navy. Of course he cleaned up his act when we started recording, but it was a rude introduction for me to the world of glamour. Cursing was not so common then. I never heard my father curse. I recall when my older brother came home on leave after completing boot camp in the Navy, he had gotten somewhat introduced into Navy lingo. We were at the dinner table and he started to use the word hell, then realizing he was not in the barracks, he tried to change in the middle of the word and it came out helk, to further his embarrassment. It was quite common in the days before TV for the show people to tour the radio stations of the country interviewing and plugging their latest movie, much as they do today, but today they limit themselves to national exposure on network shows, saving a lot of travel. Later, when we had television, but still were getting the traveling celebrities plugging, we had an afternoon TV show hosted by Helen Neville. She had on her show many interviews with these traveling celebs. She didn't always prepare as she might have. One day we all got a chuckle when she had several interviewees on one show. After speaking at length with one local person, she turned to Victor Borge and asked, "And sir, what do you do?" I don't recall his reply except that he handled it in true gentlemanly fashion with just a bit of his typical humor. Ab Franklin was the head of public works in Gowanda. He lived around the corner from us. He had a large back yard behind his garage and behind our house, where he often had large trees and tree limbs that were from village trimming or windstorms or whatever. He also was an amateur pilot and owned an open cockpit bi-wing plane that looked like the old World War II planes you see in the movies. When he brought home a big tree, my brother and I would go over and cut it up into fireplace lengths for him with a two-man saw. (There were no chain saws in those days either.) Our payment for a cord of fireplace wood was a ride in his airplane. He flew from an airstrip on lower Richardson Road on that flat field below Dan Gernatt's works. He put us in the front cockpit and he flew from the back one. I gave him good reason to wish we were in the rear and he in the front, as having a landlubber's stomach or equilibrium, I did a good job of treating him to the remains of my breakfast, lunch and dinner. He seemed to take it OK. He never asked me to clean his windshield for him. There was also a take-off field on the Luine farm above Vogtli's sand pit on Broadway Road. My wife tells me that her uncle, Art Luine, who was a classmate of mine, got his start start in aviation by washing the planes for the pilots and thus earning a free ride. Maybe he got the job of washing the planes as I dirtied them. Sorry about that, Art. Having a flying field in his back yard was the start of him eventually becoming a Navy pilot, flying from carriers, and getting his degree in aviation engineering. When we've had high school class reunions, he has flown in from California in a plane he built. Now after a heart attack, he had to finally give up his pilot's license and sell his plane. Ab Franklin also used to sell topsoil for yards and cinders for the driveway. He would often call me evenings after supper in the summer time. We would go to the banks of the Cattaraugus Creek in the field that is now adjacent to the new middle school near the entrance of the Indian Hill part of the Reservation. At that time, that is where the town dumped all their garbage, over the bank and into the creek. Most of it eventually got washed downstream to Lake Erie, out of sight and out of mind. It was surely not any worse than the waste and chemicals that the tannery and glue factory dumped into the same creek. Anyway, we would shovel by hand a truckload of topsoil. He'd pay me 50 cents a load for my help. We would also go to the railroad depot where the big train steam engines dumped the coal cinders from their boilers. People used them to line their dirt driveways. It gave a pretty good mud-free base to the driveway. They were much easier shoveling than the topsoil, so I only got 35 cents for a load of cinders. In those days, many things were a lot looser than today. Another fellow I won't bother to name, learned to fly as a teenager, and would occasionally get to take up in someone's plane for a ride. In later years he told me that one day he was flying and was buzzing the farm of a friend who lived on Skinner Hollow. Skinner Hollow, just the other side of Cattaraugus, was a deep narrow valley with high walls on either side. My friend says that after making about three passes down into the valley to buzz his friend's house, he noticed power lines stretched across the valley that he had not seen before but had only barely missed on each dive. Some of us are fortunate to have the opportunity to learn from our mistakes. When I started going to U.B., I would take a Greyhound bus to Buffalo, about 6 every morning. This went as far as the terminal on Main Street. Then I would get a streetcar out Main Street to U.B. and get there just about in time for an 8:30 class. In the afternoon it was the same in reverse, and made for a long day with a total of close to four hours on buses and streetcars. Later I learned that Tony Gelia was also going there. He would pick me up right at the house and away we'd go in his car. I was rather shy and introverted as a young fellow and I remember being concerned about such a long ride alone with this guy I hardly knew. I was afraid I wouldn't know how to carry on a conversation with him. I was relieved after a couple rides when Tony told me I was a good listener. I think a small town like Gowanda is a great place for kids to grow up. It's true that city kids have more things available to them, but I don't believe they get the same exposure to people that kids in a small town get. In the city, you may not even know people in your own neighborhood. Overall, you are exposed to more people perhaps, but most of the folks you see are strangers. In a town like Gowanda, a kid growing up may get to know everyone in town. He may not be on intimate terms with them all, but he knows who they are and a bit about what they do, or what he may expect from them. Growing up in Gowanda was certainly exciting for me. -------------------------------------------------- Correction Editor's Note: In Richard Westlund's first excerpt about growing up in Gowanda, two mistakes have been discovered. The Riviera Restaurant was located on North Water Street, not Walnut Street. Townsend Hospital was located on Chestnut Street, not Walnut Street.