CHAPTER 3: blue valley
With loving care our parents made a home
And carefree we the neighborhood would roam.
And carefree we the neighborhood would roam.
Mark, Ruth, John, Pete, Paul (in 1923 at 923 Newton Avenue)
The neighborhood in which we lived was referred to as Sheffield, after the steel mill it contained, or more generally, as Blue Valley, after the river that marked its eastern border.
It was a great place to live, its inhabitants a melange predominantly of European stock. Some were of more recent arrival than others, and accents among the grandparents were not that unusual, be they Irish, German, Italian, or Slavic. Across from us were the Park, McCulloch, Mulvaney, Hudgins, Rich, Renfro, Hodges, Dunlap families, the hospital and Lynn's grocery store. On our side of the street the Hamilton, McCann, Tuxon, Feldegger, Williams, Parker, Rex, Levich, Johns families, Rich's grocery store, and the church. Behind the church lived Mr. Robberson, the sexton, and his wife. Mr. Levich ran Levich's dry goods store. Not far from Levich's was the Brooks Coal and Feed Company, source of our fuel, and of the chicken feed I would periodically fetch in my little wagon.
Despite the mix of the neighborhood, we, as new arrivals come in time of war and not knowing English, were viewed with suspicion. On occasion, taunts – “you goddamn German Kaiser Jew” – were flung in lieu of a rock, or along with one. Still, in a short time we acclimated and were accepted, “differences” even redounding to our advantage. After all, we could talk French and had come from a nice place, Switzerland, home of Heidi, of the Swiss Family Robinson, and of the legendary William Tell. All joined in celebrating the Kaiser’s downfall and war’s end a year after arrival.
My first school in America was Jackson elementary, located at 12th and Ewing (and today used as a neighborhood center for senior citizens). I was there for kindergarten and first grade, during which I was much helped by my classmate and cousin Dan Perrenoud who lived across the street from the school. Dan had been an infant when his family came from Switzerland. His brother, Big Jean, was my brother Pete’s age. He was called Big Jean to distinguish him from my younger brother, called Little Jean. We spent much time together, particularly on Sunday afternoons when we played games or, under Dan’s older sister Margaret, held simulated Sunday school classes. Afterward, we would share generous helpings of homemade ice cream, having taken turns cranking by hand the gallon container full of rich ingredients resting in the briny bucket of ice.
At the end of my second year there, Jackson school was closed to regular classes and used as an “opportunity school” for educable retardees. Dan was sent south to Manchester and I north to Clay. There my sister, brothers and I all finished our elementary school days.
Clay was an improvement in at least one respect: it had inside plumbing, which I seldom used without remembering the distaste with which I had viewed the crude wooden multi-holers at Jackson, and indeed, during our early years, the outhouse at my own home as well.
Clay elementary’s principal was Miss May Flavin, a gracious woman of uncertain age, her face a network of wrinkles. We responded to her firm but kindly discipline, and to the devoted efforts of our teachers to instill in us basic skills and decent values. All grades were taught by women teachers - I see them now - Mayfieid, Bryant, Hooper, Hooley, Olson, Knight - and we loved them. Indeed, graduating from one grade to another was viewed with mixed emotions, for we were leaving a true friend for parts unknown.
The gym teacher for boys in the upper grades was a man. He also prepared participants for interschool track meets sponsored by the Kansas City Athletic Association (KCAC), held annually at Convention Hall. I still have medals won in those days for running in the 75 pound class events. And in the strange ways of life, some five years later, at the University of Kansas, my phys ed teacher would be my elementary school coach’s father, Dr. Naismith, inventor of basketball.
Our neighborhood teemed with children. We had a great time. A short distance below us as the terrain fell away were largely unoccupied areas which led to Ford’s park. Then came the flats upon which the Ford assembly plant, Sheffield steel mill and other industrial concerns of lesser importance stood. Beyond the rows of plants was the Blue River, where fish, snakes, turtles and mosquitoes were rife. There was space to spare and too few hours for the roaming of it. For our games we had: tag, hide-and-seek, rolling hoops, tops, roller skating, tree climbing. And marbles – chalkies, glassies, Indians, agates, puries. A nick in a purie, the top of the line, was supposed to disappear if left long enough in lard, but I never found this to be so. There were also mock battles between Robin Hood’s merry men and the henchmen of wicked King John; or between cowboys and Indians. In time scooters and tricycles yielded to bikes, and later even to an ill-fated motorcycle, while indoors, boys and girls alike played house and enjoyed dolls. Favorite games included checkers, authors, lotto, chess, and some peculiarly Swiss, Char and Jass.
Despite relatively cramped quarters when our immediate family alone occupied the house, there were few days when others in the neighborhood did not join us at play, work or meals, including even a neighbor's retarded son, Don, a hugely built boy of sixteen with a mind of a five year old. I see him to this day making ornaments of paper spitballs for his wagon before pumping down the sidewalk scattering all in harm's way. Poor fellow, he took his share of abuse. Once when we were demonstrating a beautiful new electric train set, which Father had just brought us from Switzerland, a fuse blew. In total darkness, I cautioned for no one to move, only to have my barely uttered words followed by a resounding crunch. When the lights came on again, there was Don, standing upon our gorgeous train station. It was flattened beyond repair. “I tink I go home,” said Don. And he did.
No neighborhood is self-contained. Among the visitors to ours none was more welcome than the iceman on a hot day. Others we looked forward to seeing were the Jewel Tea man with his wagon of good things, and the ragman whose solicitous cries often broke the morning quiet. Such figures were familiar, their wagons drawn by horses, themselves a center of joyful attention. Police vans and firetrucks also stirred us to action. We would follow these as fast as legs could carry us, on occasion returning with tales of bootleggers found or the tragedy of home or life destroyed.
Wagon, truck and streetcar hopping was another diversion. By the time the driver or motorman of the vehicle became aware of our presence and stopped to shag us off, we had hopped off and run for cover. On occasion, our destination in sight, we wanted to get off. But the truck's speed had increased the risk. Then we either went much further than we wanted to and paid the price of a long walk back. Or, we took the risk, jumped off, and came back all skinned up and ready for first aid, in which case a generous application of iodine on the raw wound was designed not only to cure the hurt but curb further like adventures.
Ventures beyond our neighborhood usually had a specific objective. There was Ford's Park where we went to see the Blue Valley Boosters play against a visiting baseball team of the industrial league. There was the firehouse, where waiting firemen played checkers in the shadow of their crimson chariots (would the alarm never sound so we could see those on the upper floor slide down the pole while snatching gear?). Also at Ford's Park, the movies shown on a summer's night. A portable projector was set on the side of the hill projecting to the screen below, one reel at a time, the daring deeds of our favorite cowboys: William S. Hart, Buck Jones, Hoot Gibson and Tom Mix. Further afield, in company of Mother, was Montgomery Ward. There we could see the fascinating things we had so often admired in the company's mail order catalog. And more. For messages in that vast store were transmitted from department to department at great speed by much admired young men on rubber-tired roller skates.
A very special treat was the occasional outing to one of the area's amusement parks. There were three: Electric Park, Fairyland Park, and Fairmont Park. The one closest to home was Fairmont. It lay between our neighborhood and Independence. We never tired of the rides and sideshows. We were, however, on a tight budget and took care not to be frivolous in our choices lest we miss our favorite rides. The younger children chose the Merry-Go-Round, and, with some daring, the huge Ferris Wheel. The older of us, the jarring Dodge’m carts and the Mountain Speedway, screaming and hanging on for dear life as we plummeted down its steep inclines. Picnic basket fare was augmented by cotton candy and Eskimo Pies. On the way home we reviewed the thrills of the day and began an active campaign for an early return.
The quality of the house and the kind of automobile in front of it were reliable indexes of how good a job the head of the house had, from the superintendent of the Ford plant on down. Many of our neighbors were dependent upon the local industrial establishment. None put on airs, but a certain pecking order was tacitly accepted.
Dr. Mulvaney, whose two-story brick Eastside Hospital (later K.C. Industrial) was across the street from us, was a community leader. He drove Packards, Peerlesses, Pierce-Arrows, as both family cars and ambulances. Dr. Mulvaney and his wife were kindly folks (with two sons) from whom we felt somewhat estranged because they were Catholics. They lived in the hospital itself, where we, in turn, had tonsils removed, broken bones set, and on occasion even an injured dog looked after.
The family doctor was Dr. Dunlap, who lived a block away. Dr. Dunlap was close to the family, sharing our concerns when we were ill. Sometimes we were quarantined, for miracle drugs where then unknown, and diptheria, scarlet fever and pneumonia were diseases to be dreaded.
In those early years we suffered two tragedies. Blind grandmother Borel, making her way from the kitchen to the bedroom, took a wrong turn, opened the basement door and fell headlong down the steep steps leading to our coal bin. She died in 1918, never having recovered from that fall, and we missed her loving care. Then brother Luc, born in 1919 at home, died in 1921, age 17 months, of pneumonia (not many months before brother Mark was born on March 25, 1922). Luc was buried next to Grandmother. Their markers may be seen in the little cemetery on 83rd Street just east of Mission Road in Johnson County, Kansas. These losses were deeply felt by my parents but borne with grace and equanimity, for their faith and trust in God never wavered.
It was a great place to live, its inhabitants a melange predominantly of European stock. Some were of more recent arrival than others, and accents among the grandparents were not that unusual, be they Irish, German, Italian, or Slavic. Across from us were the Park, McCulloch, Mulvaney, Hudgins, Rich, Renfro, Hodges, Dunlap families, the hospital and Lynn's grocery store. On our side of the street the Hamilton, McCann, Tuxon, Feldegger, Williams, Parker, Rex, Levich, Johns families, Rich's grocery store, and the church. Behind the church lived Mr. Robberson, the sexton, and his wife. Mr. Levich ran Levich's dry goods store. Not far from Levich's was the Brooks Coal and Feed Company, source of our fuel, and of the chicken feed I would periodically fetch in my little wagon.
Despite the mix of the neighborhood, we, as new arrivals come in time of war and not knowing English, were viewed with suspicion. On occasion, taunts – “you goddamn German Kaiser Jew” – were flung in lieu of a rock, or along with one. Still, in a short time we acclimated and were accepted, “differences” even redounding to our advantage. After all, we could talk French and had come from a nice place, Switzerland, home of Heidi, of the Swiss Family Robinson, and of the legendary William Tell. All joined in celebrating the Kaiser’s downfall and war’s end a year after arrival.
My first school in America was Jackson elementary, located at 12th and Ewing (and today used as a neighborhood center for senior citizens). I was there for kindergarten and first grade, during which I was much helped by my classmate and cousin Dan Perrenoud who lived across the street from the school. Dan had been an infant when his family came from Switzerland. His brother, Big Jean, was my brother Pete’s age. He was called Big Jean to distinguish him from my younger brother, called Little Jean. We spent much time together, particularly on Sunday afternoons when we played games or, under Dan’s older sister Margaret, held simulated Sunday school classes. Afterward, we would share generous helpings of homemade ice cream, having taken turns cranking by hand the gallon container full of rich ingredients resting in the briny bucket of ice.
At the end of my second year there, Jackson school was closed to regular classes and used as an “opportunity school” for educable retardees. Dan was sent south to Manchester and I north to Clay. There my sister, brothers and I all finished our elementary school days.
Clay was an improvement in at least one respect: it had inside plumbing, which I seldom used without remembering the distaste with which I had viewed the crude wooden multi-holers at Jackson, and indeed, during our early years, the outhouse at my own home as well.
Clay elementary’s principal was Miss May Flavin, a gracious woman of uncertain age, her face a network of wrinkles. We responded to her firm but kindly discipline, and to the devoted efforts of our teachers to instill in us basic skills and decent values. All grades were taught by women teachers - I see them now - Mayfieid, Bryant, Hooper, Hooley, Olson, Knight - and we loved them. Indeed, graduating from one grade to another was viewed with mixed emotions, for we were leaving a true friend for parts unknown.
The gym teacher for boys in the upper grades was a man. He also prepared participants for interschool track meets sponsored by the Kansas City Athletic Association (KCAC), held annually at Convention Hall. I still have medals won in those days for running in the 75 pound class events. And in the strange ways of life, some five years later, at the University of Kansas, my phys ed teacher would be my elementary school coach’s father, Dr. Naismith, inventor of basketball.
Our neighborhood teemed with children. We had a great time. A short distance below us as the terrain fell away were largely unoccupied areas which led to Ford’s park. Then came the flats upon which the Ford assembly plant, Sheffield steel mill and other industrial concerns of lesser importance stood. Beyond the rows of plants was the Blue River, where fish, snakes, turtles and mosquitoes were rife. There was space to spare and too few hours for the roaming of it. For our games we had: tag, hide-and-seek, rolling hoops, tops, roller skating, tree climbing. And marbles – chalkies, glassies, Indians, agates, puries. A nick in a purie, the top of the line, was supposed to disappear if left long enough in lard, but I never found this to be so. There were also mock battles between Robin Hood’s merry men and the henchmen of wicked King John; or between cowboys and Indians. In time scooters and tricycles yielded to bikes, and later even to an ill-fated motorcycle, while indoors, boys and girls alike played house and enjoyed dolls. Favorite games included checkers, authors, lotto, chess, and some peculiarly Swiss, Char and Jass.
Despite relatively cramped quarters when our immediate family alone occupied the house, there were few days when others in the neighborhood did not join us at play, work or meals, including even a neighbor's retarded son, Don, a hugely built boy of sixteen with a mind of a five year old. I see him to this day making ornaments of paper spitballs for his wagon before pumping down the sidewalk scattering all in harm's way. Poor fellow, he took his share of abuse. Once when we were demonstrating a beautiful new electric train set, which Father had just brought us from Switzerland, a fuse blew. In total darkness, I cautioned for no one to move, only to have my barely uttered words followed by a resounding crunch. When the lights came on again, there was Don, standing upon our gorgeous train station. It was flattened beyond repair. “I tink I go home,” said Don. And he did.
No neighborhood is self-contained. Among the visitors to ours none was more welcome than the iceman on a hot day. Others we looked forward to seeing were the Jewel Tea man with his wagon of good things, and the ragman whose solicitous cries often broke the morning quiet. Such figures were familiar, their wagons drawn by horses, themselves a center of joyful attention. Police vans and firetrucks also stirred us to action. We would follow these as fast as legs could carry us, on occasion returning with tales of bootleggers found or the tragedy of home or life destroyed.
Wagon, truck and streetcar hopping was another diversion. By the time the driver or motorman of the vehicle became aware of our presence and stopped to shag us off, we had hopped off and run for cover. On occasion, our destination in sight, we wanted to get off. But the truck's speed had increased the risk. Then we either went much further than we wanted to and paid the price of a long walk back. Or, we took the risk, jumped off, and came back all skinned up and ready for first aid, in which case a generous application of iodine on the raw wound was designed not only to cure the hurt but curb further like adventures.
Ventures beyond our neighborhood usually had a specific objective. There was Ford's Park where we went to see the Blue Valley Boosters play against a visiting baseball team of the industrial league. There was the firehouse, where waiting firemen played checkers in the shadow of their crimson chariots (would the alarm never sound so we could see those on the upper floor slide down the pole while snatching gear?). Also at Ford's Park, the movies shown on a summer's night. A portable projector was set on the side of the hill projecting to the screen below, one reel at a time, the daring deeds of our favorite cowboys: William S. Hart, Buck Jones, Hoot Gibson and Tom Mix. Further afield, in company of Mother, was Montgomery Ward. There we could see the fascinating things we had so often admired in the company's mail order catalog. And more. For messages in that vast store were transmitted from department to department at great speed by much admired young men on rubber-tired roller skates.
A very special treat was the occasional outing to one of the area's amusement parks. There were three: Electric Park, Fairyland Park, and Fairmont Park. The one closest to home was Fairmont. It lay between our neighborhood and Independence. We never tired of the rides and sideshows. We were, however, on a tight budget and took care not to be frivolous in our choices lest we miss our favorite rides. The younger children chose the Merry-Go-Round, and, with some daring, the huge Ferris Wheel. The older of us, the jarring Dodge’m carts and the Mountain Speedway, screaming and hanging on for dear life as we plummeted down its steep inclines. Picnic basket fare was augmented by cotton candy and Eskimo Pies. On the way home we reviewed the thrills of the day and began an active campaign for an early return.
The quality of the house and the kind of automobile in front of it were reliable indexes of how good a job the head of the house had, from the superintendent of the Ford plant on down. Many of our neighbors were dependent upon the local industrial establishment. None put on airs, but a certain pecking order was tacitly accepted.
Dr. Mulvaney, whose two-story brick Eastside Hospital (later K.C. Industrial) was across the street from us, was a community leader. He drove Packards, Peerlesses, Pierce-Arrows, as both family cars and ambulances. Dr. Mulvaney and his wife were kindly folks (with two sons) from whom we felt somewhat estranged because they were Catholics. They lived in the hospital itself, where we, in turn, had tonsils removed, broken bones set, and on occasion even an injured dog looked after.
The family doctor was Dr. Dunlap, who lived a block away. Dr. Dunlap was close to the family, sharing our concerns when we were ill. Sometimes we were quarantined, for miracle drugs where then unknown, and diptheria, scarlet fever and pneumonia were diseases to be dreaded.
In those early years we suffered two tragedies. Blind grandmother Borel, making her way from the kitchen to the bedroom, took a wrong turn, opened the basement door and fell headlong down the steep steps leading to our coal bin. She died in 1918, never having recovered from that fall, and we missed her loving care. Then brother Luc, born in 1919 at home, died in 1921, age 17 months, of pneumonia (not many months before brother Mark was born on March 25, 1922). Luc was buried next to Grandmother. Their markers may be seen in the little cemetery on 83rd Street just east of Mission Road in Johnson County, Kansas. These losses were deeply felt by my parents but borne with grace and equanimity, for their faith and trust in God never wavered.
Our house was simply furnished. A rug covered most of the living room floor, in which the main piece was a piano. The large rectangular grand with its heavy carved legs, bought used, in time gave way to a new upright player piano. "Alice Blue Gown" was one of our favorite rolls. (When we got the upright, the grand was cannibalized. I made a drafting table of the main top piece to pursue by correspondence the course in architectural drafting given by the Chicago Technical College. Before that, I had completed a course given by the Washington School of Cartooning.) The other musical instrument much enjoyed by the family was the Victrola with its large conical speaker magnifying the sounds which had been recorded on wax cylinders. I remember still the words to "You're Just a Flower from an Old Bouquet."
The floor covering in the other rooms of the house was linoleum, never replaced until daily wear had finally erased a goodly portion of its bright surface to reveal a dark tarpaper base. Among other chores were sweeping and mopping the linoleum and periodically supplementing the cleaning of the rug with a Bissell sweeper by hanging it over a clothesline and beating it. In addition, we vied to see who would turn the wringer as handwashed clothes were put through prior to being hung outside to dry. As battle flags they blew in the wind signaling the arrival of wash day.
Our immediate domain was the house, set in a yard containing all manner of trees: elm, oak, maple, cherry, peach, apricot. At one time or another we had a cow, chickens, rabbits and always a dog. With Father on the road, sometimes several days at a time, and not much of a hand around the house when home, the burden of managing our menagerie fell on mother — a saint if there ever was one. To her as well was left the matter of disciplining us. For this she relied on a combination of calm reprimands and the use of a newly cut switch applied to our bare legs. Generous of heart, she was slow to anger and quick to forgive. We never felt unjustly treated and often felt guilty because we had brought hurt to the one we loved most.
High on Mother's list of priorities was instruction in matters religious. Stories were the vehicles of her teaching, and Bible stories the best loved among them. Her heroes became ours. The Christ himself, David, Samuel, Job, Jonah, Elijah, Daniel, the disciples, the apostles. It came as no surprise that each of us, her six children, would bear a Bible name.
I have many memories of those days, vivid memories to be treasured. One learns even from events that hurt badly at the time. It was a dark day when my first dog, Queenie, of doubtful origin but much loved, bit Frank, the paper boy. I knew the probable outcome from the past experience of others. The day following the event I could think of nothing else at school. On coming home, I ran to where I had tearfully and reluctantly left her that morning, she not understanding her chain and my departure without her. The police had indeed come that day. She lay dead at my feet from a bullet hole in the head.
My father ventured further afield. Initially, his business was conducted, while not out of his hat, out of his suitcase. He was wholesaler to watchmakers and carried, in rectangular leather grips containing tiers of trays, watch parts needed by his customers to repair your watch and mine. He did not own a car. He traveled by streetcar to call on watchmakers in the city. Gradually, he extended his territory, traveling by interurban electric lines, by bus, by train, to towns throughout Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska, and Oklahoma.
This soon led to a partnership with his brother Charles, ten years Father's senior, who was a fine watchmaker and who had saved the initial capital required to start the new business. This partnership continued and prospered until Uncle Charley's death. My father's hard work and scrupulous business ethics led over years to an expansion of the business. Competitors were bought out, members of the family were added to the staff, giving rise to today's Jules Borel & Co. in its own building on Grand Avenue off Eleventh Street, with partnerships in Los Angeles and Oakland. (The Des Moines office was closed when Pete went into the Navy in 1942, and the Miami office was sold in 1983 because no Borel elected to take it over, preferring to live in Kansas City.)
There did come a time when Father took some of his trips by automobile. Over the years, he owned many cars, but he never drove one. This accounted for another feature of our household: the live-in boarder.
I always felt that by tolerating the intrusion into her home of yet another person — an adult at that — Mother contributed as much to the success of the business in its early years as Father himself. The arrangement was an essential ingredient in the economic equation. Thus, for about ten years we had in our home the rough equivalent of an older brother or youngish uncle. There were three in all, and all were Swiss immigrants, the first two watchmakers.
Arnold Hoch was the first and the son of my father's employer in Zurich, where he in time returned to head the family business there. The second — whose name escapes me although I can picture his blond hair and blue eyes — moved on to become a watchmaker in Oklahoma. The third was August Guyer, a skilled artisan-machinist who stayed several years, then went to work at the Fisher Body plant. Eventually he retired in Switzerland. It was he who drove the car, kept it in good repair, built additions to the house, poured a driveway, took us hunting and fishing, told us tales of mountain climbing, and took us camping.
A camping trip was a big undertaking, involving weeks on the road. One summer the entire family went. The roomy Buick touring car, perhaps with the top down, loaded to capacity with people, Father's business cases, suitcases, tent, spare tire and luggage, would make its stop at any town where Father was to call on customers. While he did this, we saw the sights and engaged in whatever activity the allowed time permitted. In large towns, like Denver or Colorado Springs, our stay would be for several days, and we would not need to break camp with customary regularity. Our excursions on such occasions could take on more ambitious dimensions. One day, I recall, without much notion of where we would end up, we (August, Pete, John and I) hiked up Pike's Peak. We were not dressed for the occasion, but halfway up we ran into a small cabin, home of a newspaper editor who kindly loaned us sweaters so that we might continue our journey. We spent the night in the restaurant at the top, sleeping on the floor under the tables, courtesy the friendly owner. With break of dawn — a glorious sight — we made our way back down, little realizing that our parents had not been made fully aware of our overnight intentions prior to our departure.
Under less glamorous conditions, near Garden City, a heavy rainstorm swept our tent away, and we, wet through, fumbled our way in darkness to the shelter of a nearby farm, whose owner was somewhat surprised next
morning to find disheveled intruders sharing the abode of his restive goats. And all this the day after I had been hit in the mouth (breaking half a front tooth) by a tent-pole falling off the car and hitting the highway as we sped along!
During my high school years our neighborhood was shaken by an event involving serious crime. It must have been during my junior year that family difficulties resulted in the move of Mrs. Lobach and her two sons Carlyle and Durward, into the home of her parents, the Robbersons next door. Durward and I, joined by Ray Hudgins and Efton Robberson, who lived on Bennington, would often walk together to and from Northeast High School about two and a half miles away. Carlyle, the older of the boys, worked. Both boys seemed to dress very well, bordering on the flashy, considering they had to live with their grandparents, but this caused no particular concern. They both seemed mature beyond their years and very familiar with dating, going to dances, and generally how to live it up.
It soon became evident why this was so. Not wishing to accept the slower pace of life, the brothers Lobach augmented their spending money by holding up stores in various parts of town. On their final escapade they ran into an armed policeman. There was a shootout. Carlyle was killed. Durward was captured, and shortly thereafter sentenced to life imprisonment in the Missouri State penitentiary. A sobering lesson to us, Durwood’s contemporaries. The shock of the event was the greater because it was so out of keeping with the normal peaceful pursuit of life in our neighborhood.
If the work ethic was strong in our family, central to daily living was the quiet moment for the study of God's word and God's guidance sought through prayer. No matter how hard Mother and Father worked, how long the hours, how exhausted they were at day's end, the following day began early enough for them to have their joint time together with God before tackling the task of the day. This took place before the children were awakened. On occasion, however, I would awaken early and making my way to the kitchen where the wood and coal burning range provided heat, I would see them there, reading, or praying while holding hands, thus gathering strength to do what had to be done in the way they thought Christ would wish them to live. In later years I would draw strength from that scene and be led to seek guidance from the same source.
Reaching back for some tangible representation of the ethic governing the lives of my parents, I was drawn to the familiar reproductions among the few hangings on the walls of our home: The Gleaners and The Angelus of Jean- Francois Millet. The quiet, honest, reverential simplicity of these works have made them of lasting meaning for me. Indeed, in 1946, while a delegate at the Paris Peace Conference, I made a special point of again visiting Millet's home at Barbizon on the outskirts of Fontainbleau, as well as the Louvre in Paris to view the original paintings themselves, having first done so on May 7, 1945, while stationed at Versailles.
The floor covering in the other rooms of the house was linoleum, never replaced until daily wear had finally erased a goodly portion of its bright surface to reveal a dark tarpaper base. Among other chores were sweeping and mopping the linoleum and periodically supplementing the cleaning of the rug with a Bissell sweeper by hanging it over a clothesline and beating it. In addition, we vied to see who would turn the wringer as handwashed clothes were put through prior to being hung outside to dry. As battle flags they blew in the wind signaling the arrival of wash day.
Our immediate domain was the house, set in a yard containing all manner of trees: elm, oak, maple, cherry, peach, apricot. At one time or another we had a cow, chickens, rabbits and always a dog. With Father on the road, sometimes several days at a time, and not much of a hand around the house when home, the burden of managing our menagerie fell on mother — a saint if there ever was one. To her as well was left the matter of disciplining us. For this she relied on a combination of calm reprimands and the use of a newly cut switch applied to our bare legs. Generous of heart, she was slow to anger and quick to forgive. We never felt unjustly treated and often felt guilty because we had brought hurt to the one we loved most.
High on Mother's list of priorities was instruction in matters religious. Stories were the vehicles of her teaching, and Bible stories the best loved among them. Her heroes became ours. The Christ himself, David, Samuel, Job, Jonah, Elijah, Daniel, the disciples, the apostles. It came as no surprise that each of us, her six children, would bear a Bible name.
I have many memories of those days, vivid memories to be treasured. One learns even from events that hurt badly at the time. It was a dark day when my first dog, Queenie, of doubtful origin but much loved, bit Frank, the paper boy. I knew the probable outcome from the past experience of others. The day following the event I could think of nothing else at school. On coming home, I ran to where I had tearfully and reluctantly left her that morning, she not understanding her chain and my departure without her. The police had indeed come that day. She lay dead at my feet from a bullet hole in the head.
My father ventured further afield. Initially, his business was conducted, while not out of his hat, out of his suitcase. He was wholesaler to watchmakers and carried, in rectangular leather grips containing tiers of trays, watch parts needed by his customers to repair your watch and mine. He did not own a car. He traveled by streetcar to call on watchmakers in the city. Gradually, he extended his territory, traveling by interurban electric lines, by bus, by train, to towns throughout Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska, and Oklahoma.
This soon led to a partnership with his brother Charles, ten years Father's senior, who was a fine watchmaker and who had saved the initial capital required to start the new business. This partnership continued and prospered until Uncle Charley's death. My father's hard work and scrupulous business ethics led over years to an expansion of the business. Competitors were bought out, members of the family were added to the staff, giving rise to today's Jules Borel & Co. in its own building on Grand Avenue off Eleventh Street, with partnerships in Los Angeles and Oakland. (The Des Moines office was closed when Pete went into the Navy in 1942, and the Miami office was sold in 1983 because no Borel elected to take it over, preferring to live in Kansas City.)
There did come a time when Father took some of his trips by automobile. Over the years, he owned many cars, but he never drove one. This accounted for another feature of our household: the live-in boarder.
I always felt that by tolerating the intrusion into her home of yet another person — an adult at that — Mother contributed as much to the success of the business in its early years as Father himself. The arrangement was an essential ingredient in the economic equation. Thus, for about ten years we had in our home the rough equivalent of an older brother or youngish uncle. There were three in all, and all were Swiss immigrants, the first two watchmakers.
Arnold Hoch was the first and the son of my father's employer in Zurich, where he in time returned to head the family business there. The second — whose name escapes me although I can picture his blond hair and blue eyes — moved on to become a watchmaker in Oklahoma. The third was August Guyer, a skilled artisan-machinist who stayed several years, then went to work at the Fisher Body plant. Eventually he retired in Switzerland. It was he who drove the car, kept it in good repair, built additions to the house, poured a driveway, took us hunting and fishing, told us tales of mountain climbing, and took us camping.
A camping trip was a big undertaking, involving weeks on the road. One summer the entire family went. The roomy Buick touring car, perhaps with the top down, loaded to capacity with people, Father's business cases, suitcases, tent, spare tire and luggage, would make its stop at any town where Father was to call on customers. While he did this, we saw the sights and engaged in whatever activity the allowed time permitted. In large towns, like Denver or Colorado Springs, our stay would be for several days, and we would not need to break camp with customary regularity. Our excursions on such occasions could take on more ambitious dimensions. One day, I recall, without much notion of where we would end up, we (August, Pete, John and I) hiked up Pike's Peak. We were not dressed for the occasion, but halfway up we ran into a small cabin, home of a newspaper editor who kindly loaned us sweaters so that we might continue our journey. We spent the night in the restaurant at the top, sleeping on the floor under the tables, courtesy the friendly owner. With break of dawn — a glorious sight — we made our way back down, little realizing that our parents had not been made fully aware of our overnight intentions prior to our departure.
Under less glamorous conditions, near Garden City, a heavy rainstorm swept our tent away, and we, wet through, fumbled our way in darkness to the shelter of a nearby farm, whose owner was somewhat surprised next
morning to find disheveled intruders sharing the abode of his restive goats. And all this the day after I had been hit in the mouth (breaking half a front tooth) by a tent-pole falling off the car and hitting the highway as we sped along!
During my high school years our neighborhood was shaken by an event involving serious crime. It must have been during my junior year that family difficulties resulted in the move of Mrs. Lobach and her two sons Carlyle and Durward, into the home of her parents, the Robbersons next door. Durward and I, joined by Ray Hudgins and Efton Robberson, who lived on Bennington, would often walk together to and from Northeast High School about two and a half miles away. Carlyle, the older of the boys, worked. Both boys seemed to dress very well, bordering on the flashy, considering they had to live with their grandparents, but this caused no particular concern. They both seemed mature beyond their years and very familiar with dating, going to dances, and generally how to live it up.
It soon became evident why this was so. Not wishing to accept the slower pace of life, the brothers Lobach augmented their spending money by holding up stores in various parts of town. On their final escapade they ran into an armed policeman. There was a shootout. Carlyle was killed. Durward was captured, and shortly thereafter sentenced to life imprisonment in the Missouri State penitentiary. A sobering lesson to us, Durwood’s contemporaries. The shock of the event was the greater because it was so out of keeping with the normal peaceful pursuit of life in our neighborhood.
If the work ethic was strong in our family, central to daily living was the quiet moment for the study of God's word and God's guidance sought through prayer. No matter how hard Mother and Father worked, how long the hours, how exhausted they were at day's end, the following day began early enough for them to have their joint time together with God before tackling the task of the day. This took place before the children were awakened. On occasion, however, I would awaken early and making my way to the kitchen where the wood and coal burning range provided heat, I would see them there, reading, or praying while holding hands, thus gathering strength to do what had to be done in the way they thought Christ would wish them to live. In later years I would draw strength from that scene and be led to seek guidance from the same source.
Reaching back for some tangible representation of the ethic governing the lives of my parents, I was drawn to the familiar reproductions among the few hangings on the walls of our home: The Gleaners and The Angelus of Jean- Francois Millet. The quiet, honest, reverential simplicity of these works have made them of lasting meaning for me. Indeed, in 1946, while a delegate at the Paris Peace Conference, I made a special point of again visiting Millet's home at Barbizon on the outskirts of Fontainbleau, as well as the Louvre in Paris to view the original paintings themselves, having first done so on May 7, 1945, while stationed at Versailles.
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