Warmth One Winter

 

Journey of our Journeys

Chapter 6 - Warmth One Winter

 Shortly after my parents married in 1945, my dad got a job at the Owens-Illinois paper mill. At the time, it was by far the best place to work in our town. The pay was good, and the work was steady, even if it was noisy and smelly.

          Dad worked in the maintenance department, so he wasn’t stuck with the swing shift like many others. Instead, he clocked in from 7:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. He did have to take call, though, so he would go into work in the middle of the night or on weekends if a piece of machinery needed emergency care.  

          This also meant that if needed, he would travel across the country to one of the other mills owned by Owens-Illinois.

          Years before I was a twinkle in his eye, my father worked for an extended period of time at the Valdosta, Georgia, mill. Mom, Tom, and Judy went with him, living in company housing and dealing with the joys of submitting their northern-born bodies to the hot, humid, bug- and snake-infested south.

          Near the end of October 1967, Dad and some of the guys from his crew were needed at the mill in Orange, Texas. What a paper mill was doing there, along the Gulf of Mexico, was a mystery to me – and still is. Isn’t Texas a state known for ranches and wide-open spaces? Where do the trees that are needed to make paper come from?

          In any event, Dad took the camper to Texas with Tom Allory, Red Wurl, and a few others. When they got to Portage, Wisconsin, Dad took a wrong turn. Instead of crossing the Wisconsin River at the new Highway 51 bridge, he took the Merrimac ferry. Although there are 1,200 miles of dry land between home and Orange, we would always mention how Dad took the ferry there.

          At some point during his absence, Mom packed up Pat, me, a lady named Mrs. Lane, and two young men in the military and drove to Texas for a few weeks. For some reason, we left at four o’clock in the morning. It was pitch black outside and freezing cold that November.

          We arrived in Texas the next day to a warmth we never dreamed of in November. We were amazed that we could go outside without jackets or scarves. The motel where we stayed had an outdoor pool, which was still in use. Of course, Mom wouldn’t let us use it, but no decent mother of the time would let their children go swimming outdoors in November, no matter what the weather or where you were.

          Our jaunt to the Gulf of Mexico was rather chilly, more seasonable for us, with a stiff breeze coming off the ocean. Mom made us wear our jackets and scarves. Our plaid cotton scarves, with fringes, were almost extensions of ourselves, to be worn at all times unless the weather was extreme. Extreme cold was what we had left behind in Wisconsin that November, requiring a home-knit cap pulled down around our ears. Extreme heat was the month of July, those four weeks during the Wisconsin summer when the temperature consistently stayed above 45 degrees.

          Two of the souvenirs we brought home were silky scarves with a picture of the Lone Star State printed on them. Pat’s had blue trim, mine red. Mine is still at the bottom of one of my dresser drawers, threadbare and wrinkled, but still bearing the Texas logo.

          The other item I remember Mom purchasing was a play cowboy whip for my 16-year-old cousin. I cannot fathom why she thought that was an appropriate gift. As soon as she gave it to him, he chased Pat and me around my aunt’s yard with it.

          Free souvenirs are sometimes the best. Dozens of seashells found their way into the camper only after Mom had inspected them to ensure no animals were lurking inside.

          “You know that animals do live inside those shells, don’t you?”

          “Yes, Mom,” we obediently answered and immediately thought, “Wouldn’t it be cool if one of those animals made it all the way home before crawling out when we took the shell to school for show-and-tell?”

          We really wanted to take the jellyfish to school. We found one washed up on the beach, its long transparent tentacles trailing into the ocean. It was positively unearthly.

          “Get away from that thing,” Mom shouted before we could get within ten yards. “That thing is poisonous.”

          “But Mom, it’s dead.”

          “It doesn’t matter. It is still poisonous and can still sting you.”

          So much for extraordinary wildlife.

          Dad packed us up in early December, and we headed home together in the camper, stopping at the Astrodome on the way. It was the eighth wonder of the world at the time, a mechanical feat of engineering ingenuity. Opened in April 1965, it was still new when we visited it two years later. And for many years, it was one of a kind—a structure to rival the pyramids of Giza. Even the Astroturf was awe-inspiring. Over the last twenty years or so, the space had become archaic and fell into disrepair. 

          The only thing good about returning home to the frozen tundra was that I got to show off all sorts of neat stuff to my kindergarten class.