My Uncle Fred wrote the occasional short story.  I must have inherited my proclivity from him.  This one concerns his meeting President Truman in Columbia, Missouri, after WW2.

 

 

GOOD MORNING, MR. PRESIDENT

 

 

It was June 1950.   The word was out that President Truman would come to Columbia to speak at the University Commencement. Also, that he would spend the night before he was to speak at his favorite hotel, the Daniel Boone.

 

Mr. Truman had visited Columbia on other occasions when he was a United States Senator, but no since he became President. In the summer of 1942, President Truman (then United States Senator from Missouri) reviewed our Division a Fort Leonard Wood. I was very anxious to meet him.

 

It was commonly known that the President always took an early morning walk.   Whether he was at home in Independence, in Washington or traveling, he would arise early and take his ‘constitutional walk’. Very often on these occasions it was not difficult to meet the President and chat with him.

 

A few days prior to the President’s arrival, I told my brother that I planned to meet President Truman on his walk in Columbia. Lawson replied, “Bud, you will never manage to get up that early.”

 

The V.F.W. Club on Ninth Street was our favorite “watering hole”. I stayed only a short time that evening and went home early. My apartment was on the third floor above Hunt’s Drug Store on the corner of Broadway and 8^th Street, on one-half block from the entrance to the Daniel Boone Hotel.

 

With the alarm clock set for 5:00 a.m., I read a few minutes and promptly fell asleep. At 5:00 the next morning, I jumped out of the easy chair and looked out of the west window. A security man was standing on the corner in front of the College Corner Café. I hurriedly shaved, put on a clean white shirt and rushed down the two flights of stairs and across the street.

 

My first question was, “Do you expect the President to come this way?”   He replied, “He should be along at any time”, and he looked toward the hotel entrance a short distance away.

 

A Columbia Police officer arrived and the two had a short conference while I was watching the hotel door for the President to exit. The Security man took a pad from his pocket and asked my name and where I lived. After writing the information down, he looked me over more carefully. I was wearing a sport shirt that was not tucked in at the waist. He asked me to raise my shirt and turn around once so that he could examine me more closely, which I did. Then he asked why I wanted to see the President. I explained I just wanted to meet him and have a short conversation, if possible. Again he said, “The President should be along any minute.”

 

I looked toward the hotel and there was a large crowd gathering under the canopy. Realizing that Truman would be swamped by the news media and others, I walked quickly to the hotel and entered the lobby. As I went in, the elevator door opened and President Truman stepped out along with an Army Colonel and other Security Personnel. I was almost in front of him in the center of the lobby. He glance at the crowd, took a few steps, turned to his left and quickly exited the hotel by the rear door. I was right on his heels. As he turned toward Eighth Street, I moved in close on his left side.   His cane in his right hand, his straw hat almost touching his glasses, looked at me and nodded his head. “Good morning, Mr. President,” was all that I could think of to say. As we crossed Eighth Street and started east on Walnut, Mr. Truman looked at me again and asked “Did you want to see me for some reason?” I replied, “No, sir, I just want to enjoy a morning walk with you.”

 

The Security men were hurrying to stay on all sides of us; the Army Colonel had discreetly fallen behind the President and I was the only one at his side.

 

Again, he glanced my way and said in a slightly curt tone, “Young man, if you are going to walk with me you are going to have step right out!” I replied, “Yes, Mr. President I know, you walk at the old Army cadence of 120 steps per minute.” Without pause, his head turned toward me and he asked, “How do you know that?” I answered, “I have read that about you many times.”

 

After a few more steps, he looked sideways at me again and asked, “Young man, were you in the Armed Forces?” I said,   “Yes, I was a Lieutenant in the Field Artillery for five years.” The next time he turned to looked at me his voice was somewhat reserved and he replied, “I was a Field Artillery Officer in World War 1.” Not wanting our conversation to lapse, I added, “You were with the Missouri National Guard.” His next question was, “How do you know that?’ I told him that I had read this in the news media. To add to my nervous condition, Mr. Truman said, “You have read a lot about me, young man.” And all that I could reply was “Yes sir.” After a few more steps, he looked at me again and asked, “What Unit were you in?” When I told him the 6^th Division he said, “Yes, you were in the South Pacific Theatre.”

 

By this time, the news reporters and photographers and others had joined the crowd. I knew there couldn’t be any more conversation so I said, “Good day, Mr. President: and started to leave the procession. He paused at the corner of Broadway and Short Street for some pictures…but before he started back to the hotel, he looked at me and said, “What is your name, young man?” Knowing that he was from Missouri and that several with our name had lived in many parts of the state, I said, “I have a rather unusual family name – it is Obermiller.”   As an afterthought I asked, “Have you ever heard that name before?” With a sly smile, the President replied, “My name is Truman, have you ever heard that name before?’

 

Can you imagine this happening in this day and age.

 

HARTSBURG AND THE TEMPERED GLASS

 

 

Shortly after World War II, Dad and Uncle Fred started their own business – Obermiller Brothers Amusement Company. They owned and operated coin-operated machines such as juke boxes, pinball machines, pool tables, slot machines and the like. All of us kids, Freddy, Nancy, Jan and I, worked at various times for Dad and Uncle Fred. I loved the business, the shop, the ‘locations’, fixing pin games, running routes, even counting thousands of dollars in coin by hand and wrapping rolls.   From my earliest days of roaming until I entered graduate school I worked for Dad. I had many, many adventures in this connection, from brushes with strong-arm robbers and run-ins with the mob, to fending off hordes of Stevens College girls on Saturday morning while filling candy machines.   This is a short lesson in life story from the tiny town of Hartsburg.

 

The Hartsburg story occurred when I was about 18. Hartsburg is a tiny river town south of Columbia on the Missouri.   The town consisted of a general store, a church, some houses, and, of course, the tavern. Obermiller Brothers had a jukebox and a single pinball machine in the tavern. During the winter or school year I ran a candy machine route at the girls college. In the summer, I went where I was sent to service machines. Generally this was to the little rural towns such as Hartsburg. This summer I had a problem.

 

Saturday night is, of course, the big night in the rural taverns. The tavern at Hartsburg would fill up with farmers, river men, and red necks. As the evening wore on, the tavern patrons would get rambunctious. One particular young man played pinball as he consumed his beer. After some time, he would loose enough dimes that he would loose his temper. For several weeks in a row, he finished his last losing game by slamming his fist down on the pin game glass, breaking it. The tavern owner would call in the problem and I would be sent out to replace the glass.

 

Now, a pinball machine glass cost several dollars and sending me out to replace one every week cost several dollars. It doesn’t take too many dollars to eat up the rather meager profit gleaned from a pinball machine that is only played on Saturday night and then only for a couple of hours until the local yokel breaks it. Uncle Fred ran the pinball’s and we had a discussion.   He decided I should go down to Hartsburg on Saturday and observe the proceedings. As no one in Hartsburg cared or perhaps even knew about the legal drinking age, this was all right by me. The tavern owner and I were well acquainted and as long as I was there on business I could drink all the beer I wanted. (It is amazing how that worked.   I drank beer in numerous taverns all over central Missouri for years before I turned 21, but only when I was at the places alone and on business fixing machines.) I watched the guy play the game. He was really big – like 6’-2” and heavy – like 250 lbs., with a ½” beard and long greasy black hair. He drank six or seven beers while he played. He liked to bang the machine to help the balls move (this doesn’t really help but everyone did it) and frequently tilted ending the game.   After a while he would be too drunk to win and with a last tremendous shake, tilt the game and slam his fist down on the glass, breaking it. Now, it is not easy to break a pinball glass. It takes quite a blow with a fist to do it, but the yokel was big enough and was very proud of his accomplishment.

 

So I reported to Uncle Fred. The next Saturday morning, some new pingame glass was delivered to the shop. Fred unpacked one and leaned it against the wall.   “Come over and kick this,” he ordered.   I demurred, not knowing why he wanted me to smash a new glass. “No, kick it and kick it hard,” he said. OK. I got in position and gave it my best karate kick. The glass bent, rebounded, and almost broke my knee.   This was tempered glass, a new concept to me and quite expensive. Fred told me to load it up, run down to Hartsburg, and put it on the machine…and do it before patrons came into the tavern. Watch what happens and report back.

 

Well, I went down around 5:00 pm and did as directed.   Later the tavern started filling up and my game was being played. Around 8:30, the yokel showed up and promptly commandeered the machine. The scenario played out as usual and by 10:00 he was clearly wearing out. Losing one last game, he picked up the machine a couple of inches, tilting it, and slammed it down. And now it was time for the big moment. Raising his fist over his head, he slammed it down on the glass. Like my foot earlier in the day, his fist rebounded into the air. The glass wasn’t fazed, but the guy let out a howl. He had broken his hand. I left later, taking the expensive tempered glass with me, and feeling enormously satisfied.

 

Toys and Chainsaws

 

 

We lived in Kansas in the 1970’s and early 1980’s. During that time, we were very ecologically friendly, growing our own food and burning wood for heat. At first, we had some difficulty finding sources of firewood, even though we lived in the country. In the first three years, we went through the dead wood and trimmings on our small property, but then we made friends with our farmer neighbors. Our neighbors to the south, Thelma and George Hewitt, became our wood suppliers. They had a quarter mile hedgerow that was overgrown and taking over tillable ground. Trimming up the spreading limbs freed up the farm ground and did not detract from the hedgerow function of being an impenetrable fence. So, from the time the leaves dropped until they budded out again, my Saturday morning task was to drive over to the hedge row with my International Scout 4×4, cut and fill the bed with wood for my Ashley stove, and take it home and stack it. I generally cut a year in advance to give the wood time to dry, but, since it was Hedge, also know as Osage Orange, it could be burned completely green.

 

Hedge wood is extraordinarily dense and difficult to cut. Over time, I bought a Stihl 060 Farm Boss, an extremely powerful saw, and equipped it with chisel tooth chains. For all that, the chain teeth still had to be retouched every week to keep them cutting well. For several years I cut, transported, split, and stacked wood alone. Then, in 1979, Aaron came into the world. That was in May. The following fall, Aaron started going wood cutting. It is hard to know a baby’s thoughts, but all through the winter he would sit in his car seat in the back of the Scout watching and listening to me cut. He was a very intense baby, and seemed to carefully take it all in. When it was time to load up the wood, I would set him to the side on the frozen and snowy ground, and he watched with delight as I tossed the logs into the back. This went on for three years.

 

Christmas 1983 came around.   By this time, we also had our second son, Jared. Jared also went woodcutting, but, since he was a quiet well-behaved baby, he didn’t go every week. Aaron was a regular, however, and now was helping me load wood. For a Christmas present, I gave him a toy Poulan chain saw.   It had a shiny bead chain that ran around the bar while a little noisemaker made motor noises. Aaron loved it. None of the other toys mattered at all. He walked around the house running his saw. I should have noticed he was very careful not to try cutting anything with it. That Saturday we made our preparations in the garage, cleaning up the Stihl, touching up the cutters, mixing some fuel. Aaron made mock preparations with his new Poulan saw. I didn’t see what was coming next.

 

So, we loaded up and drove to the hedgerow. I got out and setup to start cutting 30 feet away from the truck. Then I watched Aaron get all set up to cut up a branch.   He loaded the saw with imaginary fuel, and swaggered up to start cutting. Starting the noise maker motor, he bore down on the log….and, of course, nothing happened. He tried two or three times before inspecting his chain to see what was wrong.   A look of disgusted disbelief spread across his face. His saw was a fake! It wasn’t going to cut anything.

 

I had to go over to tell him his saw was a toy. If looks could kill. He turned back to the truck and tossed the saw in. He never picked it up again. He was ready to cut firewood with a real saw, even if I didn’t quite agree.

 

I learned a valuable lesson that day. Don’t give real boys fake tools. Don’t give them fake guns, either. In the future I would give Aaron and all the boys real tools and real guns, and later real cars. You know, no one ever cut off a finger or shot anything accidentally, although they all managed to have a few wrecks.

 

I will never forget that day cutting firewood with my redheaded son.

 

Daughters

Brianna is the fourth of my daughters with Cheryl. I have one natural daughter who is older and two stepdaughters also older.  Brianna was exceptionally difficult as a child and very smart; a chip off the old block you might say.  There is much I could say about raising this child, but I won’t.  This story is about shifting gears.

…………

I was driving home a few days ago in Cheryl’s car listening to a CD. The CD featured piano numbers by Shubert, the classical composer. Shubert was a Vienna resident and is buried there.  We have visited his tombstone.  My memories of Vienna are wonderful, but the beautiful music did not take me there.  It took me back to my daughters’ piano years.

My wife is a firm believer in a proper refined education for the girls.  This includes, of course, classical ballet and piano, starting at age five.  I will leave the ballet out of this story.  I am required to watch the granddaughters do it now and it is just as painful.  The piano was also painful.  The girls practiced every day for half an hour. Day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year.

After many, many, hours, all of them developed the mechanical skills necessary for playing piano.  They learned how to read music and find the appropriate keys.  The pieces they played became recognizable, if not particularly good.  I attended so many recitals they just become a blur.  You understand, I do not play any musical instrument, so listening to it was somewhat painful.

Brianna was good in a workman-like manner.  She got all the notes but could not find the rhythm. Her keystrokes were hard and unvaried. This went on into high school when rebellion set in.  It was hard to get her to practice.  She did not like her private piano teacher.  I think Cheryl was ready to give up.  Brianna was the end of the line anyway.

One evening I was listening to the piano echoing through our old house.  It was Brianna practicing Shubert or perhaps Chopin in her usual painful mechanical way. And then she shifted gears.  The playing abruptly became lyrical and soulful.  It was professional and beautiful.  The change was so dramatic I crept into the music room to listen.

Brianna was leaning over the keyboard, long hair hiding her face, swaying back and forth as her fingers danced.  I could hardly believe it and slipped away to get Cheryl. Had all the hard years suddenly paid off?  We were stunned.

Now, we had our own concert pianist playing away in the house for hours at a time. The following year, her junior year in high school, she competed in the State musical trials.  She won locally and was sent on to the university in Columbia to continue the competition.  She won First Place in the State of Missouri.  The next year she repeated the performance and won First Place again.

That was all well and good, but next was the university.  Should she continue in music, majoring in Piano.  It would be a snap now, but there is no future in it. Instead we interviewed the Business School with her.  She was accepted by the Dean’s Committee and elected to try International Business.  She was fluent in French and had even spent a summer vacation with her French AFS friend Soline who had lived with us for a year. We had taken her on a European Tour of Germany, Austria, and Italy. She was well versed with the continent and the international aspect of business.

So off she went to Columbia amid some misgivings from her mother and me. I must tell you that I had  problems with the university.  I was accustomed to school subjects just coming to me with no study required.  My first three semesters in engineering school were a nightmare.  It was a miracle I made it, but during finals week of the third semester I abruptly woke up.  I prayed for this to happen for Brianna, but it was not to be.

After four semesters, Brianna gave up and came home.  No more international business for her.  She hung around for half a year thinking about life, the universe and everything, and decided what she really wanted to be was a dentist.  A dentist! What ever drove that decision?

Off we went to interview the Dean of Dentistry at the University of Missouri in Kansas City.  She talked her way in despite rather bad grades from Columbia.  We tried to talk her out of it. So she plowed through two preliminary years taking increasingly difficult courses in chemistry and the like, and loving it.  She aced everything.  It was another great awakening, another shifting of gears, just like the piano.

As of this writing she has applied to the elite dentistry school in Kansas City.  Out of sixty undergrads, only six we are assured will make it in.  We will know next Christmas when the decisions are made.  She will make it, although I still don’t know why she wants to be a dentist.

………….

I need to pen a little followup for all this.  As is customary in our church, I baptized Brianna when she turned eight.  After baptism, I gave her the customary blessing for her future.  I kind of lost it with this.  As I spoke, I clearly saw Brianna in a white lab coat doing lab stuff.  I spoke of this, and Cheryl recorded it.  I had quite forgotten this prophetic incident until one day when Brianna showed me a photo of her and friends in the chem lab …..wearing a white lab coat.

So, medical it is through all the twists and turns and uncertainties of raising this difficult and talented child. I am so blessed.

And just a short note to my other daughters; you will have your turn.

Post Script:  Brianna was accepted to dental college but then changed her mind again.  She was recruited by some firm that needed a chemist and took the job.  Now she really does have a white lab coat.