County Scandal, part I

It was one of those mornings in Schuylkill County when the sky was blue - a teaser before the clouds rolled in for the rest of the day. I was going into the Court House, on my way in to the Treasurer Office, to get my dog tag.  Actually not my dog tag in the possessive sense of that term, but my dog’s tag.  I certainly didn’t need a tag for myself.  I already had one. It is good until I expire.

 I was unable to get down the corridor, blocked by FBI agents carrying boxes out of the Clerk of Court Office to a large, white truck parked in the lot. You probably read about it in the newspaper or saw it on television. Things were moving faster out of the courthouse than bananas sold at Bill’s Produce on Senior Citizen Day or X-Boxes at Wall-Mart the night before Christmas. The Court House is normally quiet unless it is Taco Salad Day at the Canteen Restaurant, when the Mariachi Bands serenade the county employees during lunch hour. This day was no Taco Salad Day, but it was busier than ever.

  I made a bee-line out of that hall of justice as fast as I could, which is not very fast at all.  The dog tag could wait until next year. I already had a large FBI file (as well as my own dog tag and thank God I hadn't yet expired). I didn’t want garner any more attention.  According to Edward Snowden, everyone that has every clicked onto the Beansoup for the Soul Website is listed in the giant Government Surveillance Book. As webmaster I am certainly in it. Besides, many years ago I ripped off tags from mattresses at the Dusselfink Motel which I wanted as souvenirs to remember those nights that I got lucky.  I knew it was against the law, but I ripped off every  tag off that I could.  I courted danger in those days.  I also falsely impersonated a Vulcan once during the Winter Carnival. Now, I had to duck for cover.

 I headed down Second Street and stopped in front of the Eagles Bar, across from the world renowned Lipkin Incubator Building. Unbeknownst to most people, the Incubator is where city chicken was discovered by Mr.Lipkin many years ago.  I looked up at the jutting broken plastic sign, swaying in the breeze, which once proudly stated “Eagles Club” but now had the blank look which characterizes the expression on the faces of people that I passed along the way.  I headed inside. I wanted a drink today and not city chicken.

                                   City chicken could wait! 

 

 I took off my brown fedora, placed it on the bar and grabbed a stool. Before long I noticed I wasn’t alone. I let go of the stool and looked over my shoulder.  There at a table was a man, sitting by himself, smoking a cigarette and looking at daily lottery tickets. He smoked as if he was sending smoke signals to a distant planet. 

I was puzzled. “What planet?..... Pluto? Couldn’t be..... It’s no longer a planet.” My brain started to work over-time.

How much is that worth? I had no answer.

 He was a portly, thick-necked gentleman with greasy, disheveled hair; black with some grey showing at the roots that protruded from his vast scalp .  He apparently used more dye in his hair than all the dye used at the recent St. Clair Fish and Game Easter Egg Hunt.   

He was dressed rather conservatively for Pottsville. That is, he was wearing a clean long- sleeved white shirt and did not have a baseball cap on his head.   In downtown Pottsville, a man wearing anything other than a T shirt and a baseball cap on is about as inconspicuous as a nudist in the Winter Carnival Parade.

 

He signaled me over to his table. It was then I realized I was in a room with the famed City of Pottsville’s Surgeon General. I was asked to join him for a mid-afternoon drink, a pickled egg and several slices of beer bologna, that were lined up in a row on a small white dish. I quickly acquiesced and sat down at his table. It was then I remembered the planet I was trying to think of earlier.

Uranus!

He leaned over and asked me what I had thought of the Lager Jogger 5k Run that had recently been held in the city. I told him that I enjoyed it. He looked at me with sharp distain; staring with his eyes that reminded me of the eyes of the wooden horse that once looked out the window of Knapp’s Leather Good Store on South Centre Street. He raised his left arm and pointed at me as his voice went up two octaves:

“Those foolish people don’t realize that running will cause them shin splints, bunions and falling arches in years to come and not necessarily in that order.  The proper way to any finish line is to shuffle or cake-walk along, or better yet… get a ride. Haven’t these people ever heard of the STS bus system?”

I could see that he was getting upset and I quickly changed the subject. I asked him about an inquiry I had received several days ago.  It concerned the so-called Rest Haven Scandal of the early 1970s.

I was unaware of the details. I wasn’t sure if such a scandal ever occurred and if it did occur, was it sexual in nature. I had thought it may have involved hanky-panky between aged residents. You know, perhaps clandestine illicit relations on a Craftmatic adjustable bed after the lights were out.

The Surgeon-General, puffing on his cigarette, responded curtly, “No, it was not like that at all. Clandestine illicit relations occurred elsewhere in the 1970s causing scandals, not in Rest Haven. You are thinking about Martha's Vineyard or Washington DC.”

 Cigarette smoke then trailed upwards forming a cloud above his large bulbous head. What type of cloud? I quickly remembered. Thank God my brain was still working overtime.

                                     It was a cirrus cloud!

I continued my rapid-fire questioning. “Did the Rest Haven Scandal involve illegal break-ins by so-called plumbers or electricians attempting to fix the Rest Haven Bingo games?  Who would order such a break-in? Would the bingo prizes be that important?”  I remembered that the District Attorney in the 1970s organized bingo raids quite frequently, attempting to eradicate the scourge of bingo once and for all.  Maybe Rest Haven was the crown jewel of that crack-down.

  Again the answer was in the negative.

“What the hell was the Rest Haven Scandal then?”

“Sit back, boy and I will tell you a story that will knock your compression socks off. But first, pass me the salt and help yourself to a pickled egg and  some beer bologna.....  I like horse radish on my hard-boiled egg. How about you?”

                              

                                       TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

 

 

American Way Fair Memories

                               (sometimes good material just appears to fall out the sky)

 

 

                                           Say it ain’t so, Joe! 

Pottsville is losing its American Way Fair!   Another  loss to the downtown reeling from the loss of Pomeroy's, the Necho Allen Hotel, and the underground rest rooms. The tragic news came unexpectedly, as the $17 million Union Station was built, in part, to handle the influx of tourists, sightseers and street urchins that came to the annual Fair, boosting the city's economy.

All we have now are our memories to hold on to.  Man, it was one hell of a downhill ride, and I loved every minute of it.   How does one describe the AWF to the uninitiated?  For starters, try watching such films as “The Easter Parade,” “One Flew Over the Coo-Coo’s Nest,” “The Wizard of Oz,” “State Fair” and “The Grapes of Wrath” simultaneously.

Go ahead. I will wait until you are done…… You can get all of these films at the Red Box in the downtown Giant Supermarket….. Hurry up. I am waiting……

                                        (later, the next day)

                                               See, wasn’t I correct? 

 I did forget to mention that the new movie, “Mr. Peabody and Sherman” has a small scene in it, where the talking dog and his pet boy get into the Way-Back Machine and travel back to Pottsville in 1976; the year that the Fair opened.  It is a short five minute scene and only features the American Way Surplus Swine Flu Shot Tent with crowds of people lining up to get immunized with surplus swine flu vaccine, before Mr. Peabody yells to Sherman, “Hurry up, boy. Let’s get the hell out of here!”

I was there at the first fair.  I loved every minute. 

It opened on a solemn note, with the ecumenical blessing of the funnel cake batter, a prayer for those afflicted with disco fever, and a moment of silence for all of those who overslept. Then the Mayor and the Winter Carnival Mascot, Pottsie Ottsie, took to the podium to declare the official opening.

But, before I continue, think about 1960 when Senator John F. Kennedy visited Pottsville and removed his hat when speaking at the Garfield Diner as he tried to catch the attention of one of the Diner’s  waitresses.

From that moment, the men of Pottsville forever stopped wearing hats. Unfortunately they proceeded to burn down all of the city’s haberdasheries, leveling them into what we know today as parking lots.  In a similar manner, in 1976 the men of Pottsville stopped wearing shirts at any downtown fair after the mayor removed his polyester leisure jacket and polyester shirt to welcome the participants. 

His Honor was a hell of an emcee, bellowing out those immortal words, now taught to children in every middle school, home school, cyber school and charter school:

  “…You've proven to the world that several hundred people – and I call you people because I am one - can get together and have eight hours of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, funnel cake and Italian Sausage, and I God Bless You for it!”  

Fortunately. while the men tore off their shirts after that announcement, no men’s clothing stores were damaged.  We have our level-headed mayor and the Pottsville Police Commissioner to thank for that.

From that moment on the AWF became synonymous with bare-chested men showing off their pasty, beer barrel abs. Noted linguists contend that the term “man boobs” became acceptable part of our English vernacular due to that historic, opening fair in the heart of the anthracite coal region.

It was then time for the music to begin. The Pottsville Kilties then performed, playing the melodic “Afternoon Delight” on their bagpipes while perched high atop the rooftop of the Park Hotel. A truly magical ‘70’s moment.  There was music of all variety was heard that beautiful day. For instance, there was Little Andy singing “the Disco Duck Polka” while Country and Western sensation “Wee” Willie Whistle doing a Texas swing version of “Play That Funky Music White Boy”  and the Byzantine Choir doing a somber, slow version of “(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty, ” in the Ruthenian language.

 Wasn’t the music of the 1970’s the greatest?

Besides watching two transient street people, affectionately known to all as "The Captain and Tennille" play tennis on East Norwegian Street in a match unrivaled since Wimbledon, one of the athletic highlights of the fair was the 400-meter bed race with beds from all of the local furniture stores participating. There were teams from Nathans, Levitz, Brighters, Rombergers, Pomeroys and Sears going bed-to-bed with Tenenholz’s, Ufbergs, and Sisweins.  The local betting parlors were very busy that day with frantic wagering on which furniture store would win.   The winner, by the way, was a Chippendale bed from Tuzon’s, a 30-1 long shot. In last year's bed race, Goodwill was the only contestant.  Betting fell off precipitously.

The American Way Fair is now history.  Some say it will be like Philadelphia’s American Bandstand and relocate out west. Rumor has it that it may reappear in a year or two in Tower City, Sacramento or Rough and Ready. We can just hope.

All we have left are cherished  memories and perhaps, some Italian sausage or funnel cake shoved in the back of the freezer.  Thank you Billie, thank you Joe and thank you to all of the others who played any role in the AWF and that awesome, Sunday afternoon delight!