An old house. An old yardstick. An old legend.
An old house. An old yardstick. An old legend.
Legends of an old yardstick
One of the benefits of living in an old house is that the prior owners frequently leave things behind. Usually nothing of any real value, but always something of interest to those of us who love history and the mystery of lives lived before ours.
At our weekly neighborhood Friday happy hour last week a newly returned to the Midwest couple from California proudly showed us around the century-and-a-quarter-old home they’re so lovingly renovating. One of their discoveries, tucked away somewhere, as insulation likely, were pages and pages of pristine newsprint from the early 1950’s.
Not so long ago perhaps to those of us who are now grandparents, but ancient times to the Millennial couple who think nothing of working in California via the Internet, while living in the Southwestern Illinois suburbs of St. Louis. Even we old-timers marveled at the prices, not to mention the fashions, displayed in the ads from nigh on to seventy years ago.
The sunset view from their westward facing back deck, on the highest hill in Belleville, overlooked the marching ranks of oaks and maples fading off to the Mississippi River limestone bluffs at the western edge of Belleville. After oohing and ahhing at the striking reds of the sunset, we jokingly cautioned them to not tell all of their California friends about Belleville. While we don’t mind former Midwesterners returning home, an influx of cash flush Californians driving up home prices could only have an inflationary impact on our real estate taxes.
Walking the half-block back to our relatively young, for the neighborhood, hundred-and-seven-year-old home, Annette and I marveled at the young people moving to the neighborhood. It’s a joy to see the junior high girls playing volleyball on the brick street, as expectant moms push strollers down the brick sidewalks while walking their dogs.
Each of those families live in homes with stories to tell. Stories of Civil War veterans. Stories of children grown to young adulthood who went off to fight World War II, some of whom returned. Some who didn’t. Several of the families serve or have served at nearby Scott Air Force Base adding yet another layer of life experiences to the diversity of the neighborhood stories.
As for our home, we haven’t found any old newspapers and much to Annette’s dismay, our view of the setting sun is mostly blocked by the three-story Queen Anne, now converted to a law office, that sits directly behind us. But the privacy of the shrub-shrouded, screened-in side porch, which offers us a secluded summer dining spot overlooking the life passing by on Abend Street, makes up for the missing sunset. Abend, after all, means evening in German, and there is no more delightful time to watch the passersby than evening.
The porch’s overhead fan, original to the 1914 construction, still turns, but it, like my knees, is getting a bit creaky. The electrician, who regularly services it, cautions, “When it goes, you’ll never be able to find parts. Enjoy it while you can.”
Replacing it will probably be like the chore of replacing the steam boiler, which loyally heated the home for ninety years. Roughly the size of a World War I destroyer, okay maybe it wasn’t that big, but it was at least the size of a pre-World War II Buick, it was coated with four inches of asbestos. The coal-burning behemoth had been converted to natural gas at some point and had roughly a four per cent efficiency rating, but its lack of efficiency kept the basement toasty while pumping hot water through the first and second floor radiators.
The HVAC technician likewise cautioned us that while it works great, when it dies it will be days or weeks to get it replaced. So, a few years ago, Annette and I decided it was time. We bade farewell to the hulking cast iron friend. First the asbestos remediation contractor had to come in, seal off the basement furnace room, apply “negative air pressure”, whatever that meant, to remove and properly dispose of the carcinogenic fibers insulating the monster. We, of course, left town on vacation to avoid the noise and disruption.
Once we had the signed, sealed certificate of compliance with EPA regulations regarding asbestos removal and disposal, the HVAC guys moved in with their cutting torches and dollies. I don’t know how the builders got that boiler into the basement, but I know how it came out. In pieces. Heavy pieces. That trusty, loyal, room-filling, long-lived cast-iron hulk surrendered its life to the 5,432-degree heat of acetylene torches wielded by sweating workmen.
Its replacement meekly stands in the corner occupying a space the size of a dorm room refrigerator. With an efficiency of 90+ percent, the basement is no longer quite so toasty and the heat doesn’t rise up through the kitchen floor, but the power bill is a lot less and now there’s lots more room to store camping gear and backpacking gear and kayaking stuff in the basement.
All of which brings me to the reason for this story. The coal bin, or more accurately what’s in the coal bin. For those of you who don’t know what a coal bin is, it’s a requirement for coal burning furnaces. Coal is bulky, dirty and furnaces consumed a lot of it, back in the day when it was used for heating. So, of course, a homeowner needed a place to store it. In our home’s case it was a separate room, next to the boiler room, with an outside chute, the coal delivery man could shovel the coal in without entering the house, much like our back porch has a small door which opened into the ice-box so the ice man could deliver ice without entering the home.
When the furnace was converted to gas there was no longer a need for a coal storage room, so the owner at that time converted the five by eight-foot room to a storage/tool room. That storage room, today, is occupied by boxes of Christmas decorations, plastic sheathed wreaths, an unused set of golf clubs and tools.
Now facing facts, I’m not the handiest person in the world. My wife likes to say I’m so handy I shock myself changing the batteries in a flashlight. Nonetheless over the years I’ve acquired wrenches and hammers and screwdrivers, most of which are seldom used. Then there’s the leaf blower which gets a bit more use. And the shop vac which gets way too much use. Seems every time we flood the basement it gets used, but that’s another story.
Hanging on the painted brick wall, between the leaf blower and the shop vac, is one of those historical artifacts, like the old newspapers. A varnished yardstick, that I’ve never used to measure anything, hangs there awaiting its next mission.
I’m not really sure if it came with the house or if it somehow migrated the eight blocks from Annette’s family home to our basement. But there it hangs.
A yardstick, so called for its three- foot length, was a feature in every working-class home that I ever stepped foot in during my misspent youth. I say misspent youth because as far as I remember the only use for those thirty-six-inch long, one inch wide, quarter-inch thick pieces of lumber, marked off in one-inch increments, was for disciplinary or threatened disciplinary use on wayward boys.
The yardsticks in my grandmother’s house, or my aunts’ houses, or my friends’ houses were usually from insurance agencies or grocery stores or lumber yards. They’d be emblazoned with the name, phone number and address of the establishment giving them away. I don’t recall ever seeing them used for purposes other than threatened punishment. They must have served some purpose other than advertising and discipline as every home had one.
The usual disciplinary threat went: “If you don’t stop doing that, I’m going to break my good yardstick over your butt! And then you’ll really be in trouble!” All the while the good yardstick, as opposed, I suppose, to a bad yardstick, being shaken in my direction. Although the threats were frequently made, I don’t recall one ever being “busted across my behind”.
The one hanging in my tool room doesn’t appear to have been “busted across any behinds”. The varnish is worn off along the edges and it’s got spatters of gray and white paint on it, but it’s still the full thirty-six inches long.
The business that sponsored it long since gone. “Art Biebel, Inc. Roofs & Siding. Insulation. 576 N. 20th St., East St. Louis, ILL., Phone EAst 141,” still emblazoned in red ink on the yellowing varnish.
I’ll leave it hanging there. An antiquity for the next owners to discover and wonder over. It’s not likely to get busted over anyone’s behind any more.
(C) William L. Enyart
www.billenyart.com
Email: bill@billenyart.com