OCR Text |
Show THE ZEPHYRDECEMBER 1995 PAGE 2 As the month of December naPPchcd' and the Christmas still had their home, that they'd Susan and Sue Montfort could be thankful that they the winter, and that they were canned many vegetables from their summer garden for all healthy. But job prospects were grim and the family's savings Fourth Street, Sue had eyed a red checkered depleted. While window shopping on her hopes Santa was dress at Stewart's Dry Goods. But her mother dampened There may not be many presents under the tree. having a bad year too, she explained. even be a tree. Or a turkey. Nothing. It was My grandfather feared there might not that tight. better when he One afternoon, Frank decided to take a walk. Somehow he felt dilemma and was moving, for when he sat, he thought. He thought about his family's his hands shoved he his inability to change it. So, wrapped in a worn wool overcoat, Birchwood to Frankfort Ave. deep in the coat's pockets and moved briskly up Frankfort Avenue was the commercial renter of the Crescent Hills section of Louisville. Its sidewalks were lined with small shops and markets, although many of them were closed and boarded up. As he watched the lined and worried faces of the He knew he sink into self-pitpeople he passed, my grandfather stifled the urge to had no right to feel victimized for he was surrounded by other victims. He was not alone. For that reason, Frank almost felt guilty when he was suddenly confronted with a stroke of remarkable good luck. He had just passed beneath the marquee of the old Crescent Theatre when a man appeared behind the ticket window of the box office. The man was holding a small cardboard sign. In crude handwritten letters it said: - Page Two Jim Stiles y. This time of year, I always think of my grandfather. He died many years ago; in fact, more time has passed since his death than the years I was able to spend with him. Yet, there is scarcely a day that passes that I do not think of Grandpa. He was born in Concordia, Kansas in 1882, the oldest of six children and, as a boy, once saw Wyatt Earp; yet he lived to sec men walk on the moon. He used to tell me he'd lived the best part of America and I think he was probably right. Frank Montfort was not much of a success, at least in the way most of us measure it these days. He never made a lot of money and he never acquired any fame. In fact, he struggled to make a living throughout much of the Depression and at one point, when he'd hit rock bottom, could only find comfort in a bottle of whiskey. But he overcame all that, driven by his own pride and his love for his family. For me, Frank Montfort, my grandfather, remains something of a personal hero. He was fair minded without being judgmental, honest without being opinionated. ..and his love was unconditional. As a teenager I was in and out of trouble from time to within my family. But time, and my rebellious attitude was not all that my grandfather's support never wavered. He would smile and put his arm on my shoulder and say, "Jim, I don't always understand you, but I love you and I'm behind I you 100." It's amazing how much those few words can mean. miss my grandfather well-receiv- ed a lot. And at Christmas I remember this story about my grandparents and my mother during a particularly rough winter more than 50 years ago. Most of what follows is true... My mother was only five years old in the cold and bitter winter of 1932. It was bitter for more reasons than the freezing temperatures and early snowfalls that fell million Americans, there was no work upon the Ohio River Valley. For twenty-fiv- e and no prospect for work. Families that just a few years earlier were a part of the nation's safe and secure middle class, now found themselves homeless and hungry. My mother's father, my grandfather, was one of the unemployed. A few weeks earlier, Franklin Roosevelt had been elected President and he had promised a New Deal for Americans. In a few weeks he would tell his fellow citizens that "the only thing they had to fear was Fear itself." For now, however, there was the basic fear of hunger and the cold. Sue (my mother's name) often overheard the grim conversations between her parents and it scared her. How was he going to keep food on the table, my grandfather would ask my grandmother, and she would softly reassure him, "You'll find a way, Frank." Sue asked her father why they were poor; he smiled wanly and tried to explain, "It's the Depression," he said. "Everybody's poor." That helped a little. At least her family wasn't alone. But the Depression? It was hard to explain to a five year old. HELP WANTED. For a long moment my grandfather could scarcely believe his eyes before he ran inside. In a few minutes, Frank Montfort was the new ticket collector at the Crescent Theatre. He glanced through the ticket window and saw a dozen faces fall as the manager removed the "help wanted" sign. He knew that a matter of seconds could have changed everything, and he could have been on the outside looking in. But he wisely decided not to flog himself too severely for his good fortune. After all, he'd he could go home today with a been recently plagued by nothing but bad news smile on his fare. In reality, Frank was happier than he had a right to be. The job was nothing permanent; he was hired only for a week to help out during the Christmas rush. And the job paid twenty dollars. Twenty bucks. But that amount of cash could go a long way in 1932. He could get a turkey and all the dishes that go with it to make a proper Christmas dinner. He could afford a tree, and maybe if he was very careful, still have enough money left over to get that red checkered dress. My grandfather brought the news home to his wife and daughter, and the next day he started w'ork at the theatre. Collecting tickets at a movie matinee did not exactly challenge Frank's intellect, but it never even occurred to him to complain. He was grateful just being there and the days passed quickly. On the day before Christmas Eve, the manager called him into the office, and handed him a crisp $20 bill. Whether the theatre would need additional help after Christmas depended on the crowds the manager explained, and he added stay in touch. My grandfather nodded, shook the man's hand, and put the bill in his coat pocket. There was an extra bounce in his step as Frank walked briskly down Frankfort Ave. His sister Louise and her husband Ham planned to stop by the house later. Ham and Louise had a car, and with their help, Frank and Susan hoped to find a turkey, a tree and the dress for Sue. He passed a man standing alone by a lamp post. His face was dirty and unshaven, his clothes were in tatters. His hands were wrapped in rags. Clutched in his fingers was a pint of Kentucky bourbon - a cheap brand, and as my grandfather walked in front of him, the man tried to hide the bottle. My grandfather looked away; Frank knew that had the breaks gone differently, the man could just as easily have been himself. Again. Mother and daughter were waiting when Frank appeared around the comer. He was almost running when he hit the front steps. Susan lifted the hat from his head and brushed off the snow that was just beginning to fall. Frank smiled and reached into his coat pocket... SUBSCRIBE NOW TO THE CANYON COUNTRY ZEPHYR PRINTED WITH THE ZEPHYR SOY INK Write to: P.O. BOX 327 MOAB, UTAH 84532 (801) 259-77- 73 publisher & editor Jim Stiles contributing writers Jane S. Jones Chcric Cilmore Joel Tuhy Mary Crizzard Scott Grocnc I lank Rutter Dan O Connor Mike Marooney Ken Sleight historical photos food editor I Icrb Ringer I toward Johnson & subscriptions grounds maintenance Jan Peterson circulation computer whiz-ki- d Brandon Orcno Neils Adair The Hammer Still Marooney T1 IE ZEPI 1YR, Copyright 1995, All rights reserved The Zephyr is published monthly (11 times a year) The opinions expresed herein are not necessarily those of its vendors, advertisers, or even at times, its publisher. All photos by editor unless otherwise noted. - This newspaper may make you sick, but you can't blame it on the ink... We use non-tox- ic SOY INK. The Zephyr, P.O. Box 327, Moab, UT 84532 One year (11 issues)...$15 Two years (22 issues)...$28 Three years (33 issues)...$40 Name Address SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST START WITH NEXT ISSUE.JSACK COPIES ARE $2.50 EACH. Renewal New Subscription |