BILLY: Billy Thompson was a good playmate when we were little guys. Billy lived in the apartment over the shop with his family so I saw him a great deal during the early 50s.

This is a neat pic of him skating down the walk on Grand Street. Though he’s bundled up pretty good it’s unlikely that it was very cold outside when this snapshot froze him in time. (It was probably very near spring.)

During his teen years Bill, so lively and happy when young, fell ill – and he never really recovered. But this is the way I will always think of him – when life was treating him right.

ALMOST NOTHING NEW HERE (AGAIN): The photos certainly speak for themselves. Sometimes the only things that really change are the days and years on the calendar.

EASTER IN VERMILION 1949: Nearly 60 years have passed since local photographer Paul Ludlow captured this chorale of cherubs on film. To be specific It was Easter Sunday April 17, 1949. It was a day of excitement for all the children. Brightly colored arrangements of lilies, hyacinths, and tulips bedecked the dark crimson carpeted sanctuary of Vermilion’s First Congregational Church that sat just to the north of the Vermilion Township Hall. Little ladies arrayed in pastel colored dresses, ribboned bonnets, and white gloves chirped and chattered away with their friends in the front pew. The “boys” sitting directly behind them, made red in the face by neckties tightened at the last moment by a hurried mother/father, each fought off the temptation to pull on the ribbon on the hat of the girl in front of him - more often than not losing the battle. And it was not until the Choir Director, Mrs. Glasgow, (not pictured) stepped forward, raised her arms, and directed the choir to sing the old Easter hymn, “Christ the Lord is risen today/Sons of men, and angels say...” (Charles Wesley - 1788) that the children settled, and devoted some serious attention (if only fleetingly) to the occasion which had brought them together. It may be of interest for readers to observe that these were the days of the Blue Laws. Those statutes (believe it or not) were designed to enforce moral standards, particularly the observance of Sunday as a day of worship or rest. They prohibited certain commercial activities on Sundays during certain hours with the exceptions of specific commerce, like grocery and drug stores. The consequence of these laws in the Village of Vermilion, Ohio - which then boasted a population of roughly 2000 souls - should escape no one. Church attendance was never mandatory. But it surely was a widely anticipated and preferred Sunday activity for a majority of local families. And were it possible to move Mr. Ludlow’s camera to the very back of this sanctuary in 1949 you would have seen a SRO crowd in attendance. All we are allowed to see, however, is the Junior Choir of the aforementioned church. On that particular day it consisted 23 children ranging in age from 11 to perhaps 13 or 14 years; the Choir Director, again, was Mrs. Charles Glasgow; and the organist Mrs. Dean (Mary) Rapprich. The youngsters in the choir are:

1st Row L-R: William “Billy” Troxel, Jack Seith, Sam "Bif" Langfitt Jr., Evalyn Todd (Wheelock), Alice Wakefield, Shirley Greenhoe (Lehky), Carol Eberle (Mayer), and Nancy Lee (Fulper). 2nd Row L-R: Carla Widdowson, Gordon Clauser,Jr., Jeanie Lindsley (Miller), Karen Kishman (Rathbun), Pearl "Ginny" Tarrant (Wilkes), Leslie Roberts (Ennis), Cheryl Barber (Phillips), and Doris Boone (Stwan). 3rd Row L-R: Gretchen Kishman (Neiding), Florence Louise Langfitt, Nadine Miskow, Joyce Zelinski, Phylis Weaver, Richard Cone, and Harriet Langfitt.

Readers might take note of the fact that more than a few of the youngsters in this great photograph still abide in our pretty city. There are even a few who are still active members of the same (albeit an older) church choir. Nearly 60 years have passed and many things have changed: Some for the good, some for the bad. But Easter morning still dawns, families still gather at local churches for worship services; and little boys, red-faced from having their neckties hurriedly tightened by one of their parents, still look for ways to gain the attentions of little girls dressed in pastel colored dresses just as little boys did in a yesteryear: Just as they will henceforth. _{Ref: The Vermilion News, April 21, 1949; Special Thanks to Alice P. Wakefield and Nancy A. Emery; Published in the Vermilion Photojournal 04/05/2007.}

Vol. XII, No. 8. - VERMILION, OHIO, THURSDAY, July 30, 1908

MRS. ALBERT KRAPP DEAD

Word reached Vermilion, Wednesday about noon of the sudden death of Mrs. Albert Krapp at her home in Sandusky, at 10 o'clock. Mrs. Krapp was the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. John Vedder of this place and up to a few weeks ago was a resident of Vermilion. The deceased had a large circle of friends and relatives who mourn her departure to the great beyond. The sympathy of the entire community is with the bereaved husband and parents.

The remains were brought to Vermilion, Thursday noon. Funeral services will be held at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Vedder at 1 o'clock, Friday afternoon.

LUDWIG KRAPP HOME

Sunday morning when Ludwig Krapp was about to start for Vermilion, Henry Miller of Amherst appeared with his auto and invited him and those with him to take the trip with him from Lorain. This was the same gentleman and auto, which took Ludwig to the hospital the day he was so dangerously wounded. But the trip was far different.

The boy is getting along as nicely as can be expected and is able to be out to play some. It is stated at the hospital that his case was at one time the most hopeless of any ever attended there, where recovery was made.

Ward Beecher Pickard

Ward Beecher Pickard the well-known orator, will give his famous lecture, "The House that Jack Built" at the Tabernacle, Linwood Park, Saturday, August 1, beginning at 8 o'clock. The charge will be 25c, which includes admission to the park. Secure your tickets as soon as possible. On sale at Nuhn's Drug Store. You should not miss the opportunity of hearing something good.

Correspondence

AMHERST

Leo Osborn is reporting quite sick at his home on Church Street.

Walter Motley who was injured several weeks ago by falling from a boxcar is now able to be about again.

Amherst turned out a full force at the Quarrymen's picnic at Cedar Point Friday. All the quarries were shut down and all enjoyed the day's outing.

Mrs. Cassen is reported quite ill.

A son was born to Mr. and Mrs. W. E. Foote, Sunday evening.

Postmaster Baker distributed over 1000 souvenir postcards sent from those who attended the Quarrymen's picnic at Cedar Point Saturday.

Mr. Malley was taken to St. Joseph's Hospital, Lorain Monday where he will be cared for until he has recovered from the injuries received while coming from Cedar Point Saturday.

Quite an attraction as produced at the Aamuse-U theatre Saturday evening, that of a rat killing affair, in which Ed Gawn was the star, providing himself the hero, killing four rats that occupied "boxes" free. The piano player whose bashfulness prevents us giving her name appeared on the scene doing herself justice in solos in a high key, and performing on the seats of the chairs in a manner becoming to the sex.

_{[NOTE: I’m not sure how to take this article. I assume that Mr. Gawn found some rats the movie theatre and had to chase and kill them. Meanwhile the piano player must have screams and jumped on the backs of the seats in the theatre. At least I think that’s what took place…]}

The funeral services of Frank Barber who died in Chicago, Thursday, were held Sunday at Baker's undertaking rooms. The Christian Science burial service was used. Mr. Barber spent his youth and early manhood in Amherst and was at one time associated with the business interests of this place. The esteem in which he was held as manifested by the number of friends and neighbors who were in attendance at his funeral.

Humans are life, the daughter of Edward Foster and one son Joseph Barber. His brother, Percy Barber and sisters, Mrs. Charles Boutin and Mr. Mrs. Josephine Cornwell live at this place. The remains were interred in Crown Hill Cemetery. Several out-of-town people in attendance at the funeral.

He leaves a wife, the daughter of Edward Foster and one son Joseph Barber. His brother, Percy Barber and sisters, Mrs. Charles Boughton and Mrs. Josephine Cornwell all live at this place. The remains were interred and in Crown Hill Cemetery. Several out-of-town people were in attendance at the funeral.

BROWNHELM

The woods are full of berry pickers. Thirty-five got off at Sunnyside to go berrying.

Miss Mattie Bacon is gone to Venice to visit friends.

Bacon Bros. thrashed 500 bu. of wheat Tuesday.

The Lorain shipyard is to be greatly enlarged and 4000 men will be employed instead of 2100, so it is officially stated.

_{[NOTE: I certainly hope that readers take some note of this little blip. It’s hard to imagine the shipyard as having once employed so many workers. And the same goes for the steel industry. The loss of those jobs over the past century has made life difficult for places like Vermilion and Lorain Ohio. However, it should be very clear to most that those factories served their purpose – and then their purpose disappeared. As much as we don’t like change and try to blame it on trade agreements, etc. the fact is that times change and we need change with them to survive. We no longer live in the industrial age.}

The firm of Wickens and Ransom will be dissolved. The Wicken’s heirs have purchased the half interest of Mr. Ransom and will incorporate.

The management of the Park Hotel at Oberlin will change September 1. E.H. Bacon will retire and Winfield Hatch who for many years has had charge of the Talcott Hall will take his place.

Locals

The Toronto yacht Girl-For-Me put in here for shelter one day last week.

A fair catch of fish was reported Wednesday by some of our fishermen.

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Howard Thompson, Friday, July 24, ‘08, a son.

The G.A.R. Band gave another one of those enjoyable concerts last evening.

The Sandusky Auto Club made a trip to Ruggles Beach Sunday forenoon and enjoy ae chicken supper. About 75 were in the party

Dr. Oden of Lorain made the News Office a pleasant call Monday. He is a veterinary surgeon and Dentist. Anyone requiring his services for their livestock, note his address and advertising on first page.

The harbor was the scene of unusual activity last Saturday afternoon and evening. A large number of yachts and motorboats, having dropped in for the night. They were on their way from Put-in-Bay to Rocky River.

Capt. Stone was home from the lakes Monday.

Lottie Goodell has returned to her home in Berea Kentucky.

Capt. George Bell spent the latter part of the week with his family.

Robert Brown who for the past year has been employed on the farm of Arthur Rhinemiller near Huron was found unconscious near the L. S. Track Sunday. It is not known how he was hurt. He is not expected to live.

150th ANNIVERSARY OF THE “BATTLE OF THE HUNDRED SLAIN”: Three miles from Fort Phil Kearny near Story, Wyoming will be held this year (No date was provided). For more info see wikipedia.)

Late Vermilion resident, Matilda Louis Grummond was the sister of 2nd Lt. George Washington Grummond. Grummond and 81 of his fellow soldiers were killed by an overwhelming force of Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians in one of the worst military disasters suffered by the US Army on Great Plains.

If you are a descendant of Matilda and your are interested in this history you can email email John Horton for additional information.

HARD TIMES, PART 2

Mary Wakefield Buxton

Thanksgiving neared that dreary fall of 1961, I had moved into an apartment in the old Alexander Winton mansion on the lake west of Cleveland and I badly needed a job. Mother had left a supply of groceries for me in the carnivorous cupboards of my primitive kitchen of cracked linoleum flooring and what struck me as highly comical, almost laugh out loud appliances that looked as if they had just managed to survive the last century. It was good that Father had paid my first month’s rent in order to help give me a start in my new life as I didn’t have a cent to my name. I well understood it was now up to me to become a responsible person who could earn her own keep and a daughter of whom my parents could be proud.

The first morning as I was eating a bowl of cold cereal in the hilarious kitchen (which didn’t strike me as quite as hilarious as yesterday) it struck me that I would have to catch a bus into the city and apply for a job. To reach downtown Cleveland where I hoped to find a job, I stood on West Lake Road and waited with the commuter traffic speeding by for the city bus which came every 20 minutes or so. It delivered me to Public Square in downtown Cleveland.

As I gazed up at the Terminal Tower I remembered all the many times I had accompanied my parents to Cleveland on jocular shopping trips at the end of each summer to buy my new fall wardrobe followed with dinners at Clark’s Restaurant afterwards. The grim reality hit me like a blast of cold winter’s air off the lake. No longer did I have dear old Pops to pick up the tab, no longer did I have his American Express card tucked safely in my pocket in case of emergencies, and no longer did I have a scrap of money in my poor purse. These thoughts pinged on my consciousness like icy sleet hitting wet pavement on a winter’s morn.

I can’t describe the pain, even now, looking back at that bleak time all these years later, as I walked down Euclid Avenue staring at the beautiful clothes on display in the windows of Halle’s, May Company and Higbee’s... memories of lavish lunches in the Halle’s dining room came flooding back…and Christmases when I was a child when meals were served up in tiny ovens. Miniature crocks of mashed potatoes and gravy, turkey, vegetables and hot rolls were joyfully opened from each oven compartment finished by the grand finale of a Christmas cupcake sporting a sparkling candle for dessert.

Maybe I could get a job selling ladies’ hats or lingerie in a department store, I thought, and hopped on a bus up Euclid Avenue to Sterling Linder Davis just kitty corner from the Hanna Building. As I made my way to the personnel office I saw the majestic 7 story Christmas tree that filled the center of the store and had done so each year from Christmases past.

I asked the kindly, grey-haired personnel manager, Mr. Kelso, if there were any jobs open for someone who could not type but had had two years of college and could speak and write well. I was in luck. Mr. Kelso offered me a job on the spot. They had just opened their annual Christmas “Enchanted Winter Wonderland” which was a snowy forest filled with animated elves busily making Christmas gifts for all the good little boys and girls which a miniature train with open cars that carried children who had come to see Santa to his special abode at the end of the forest. My job was to be Mrs. Santa Clause, but, really, I was to supervise the entire show, make sure all the live elves along with Santa showed up to work on time each day, that Santa was kind to the umpteen children that would plop on his lap all day, and that the train would not crash with its precious carload of children into any mechanical elves as it made its way through the enchanted forest. Certainly, it was a job that was bound to cheer up even the gloomiest person at Christmas.

I made just enough money as Mrs. Santa Clause to pay room, buy groceries and buy bus tickets to and from work each day. It was not a terribly scintillating life but it paid the bills. I was somewhat concerned that my job would end right after Christmas even though Mr. Kelso had promised me he would keep me on as a stock clerk until something in sales “opened up.” Perhaps such a future didn’t sound that promising but it gave me just enough hope to imagine that I was going to find my way out of my desperate situation.

The next day I showed up for my first day of work. It was lots of fun managing the Enchanted Winter Wonderland but it was a shock to leave the snowy, twinkling and magical Christmas world each evening and return to my dismal life in the comical kitchen of the old Winton mansion. I was soon sitting alone in the kitchen heating a can of chicken noodle soup and spreading peanut butter on crackers for my dinner and hours without TV, radio, a friend to talk to or even a dog to hold in my lap before retiring to bed. I supposed I could learn to cook but I had little interest in culinary skills beyond devouring food when hungry. Even a year under the tutorledge of Miss Grob in Home Economics at VHS had failed to excite any spark of interest in such an endeavor.

Thoughts of my family and my previous life growing up in Vermilion came back again and again to haunt me. There! I can see Father and Mother going into Hart’s Drug Store just at this very moment! Mother is headed for the salted nut bin where she will choose a bag of fresh warm cashews! Father has stopped at the magazine to pick up a copy of the Vermilion News and the Saturday Evening Post! Alice was married and living in New Hampshire, but little baby sister, Georgia, still in pony tail at age 11 and in the sixth grade, was still living at home, Oh! There she is! She is picking up an Eskimo Pie from the ice cream freezer for an after dinner treat! Oh, there’s Billy peering out from behind the cash register! And Jimmy Hart is waving from the back room pharmacy! How alive was my brain with the sweet scenes of the past.

My parents were thrilled to hear of my great success getting a job in Cleveland and I was writing comedy about my working as a secret supervisor at Christmas in an enchanted forest while dressed as Mrs. Santa Clause. My sense of humor was returning and I had stopped feeling sorry for myself. Comedy is a great blessing and I was able to laugh at myself again, even though I had become the leading comic character in my book. (I always had a running book going in the back of my mind with new exciting chapters added with every passing day.)

Father was proud of my efforts to pay my own way and he started financing bus tickets on weekends for me to come home. I learned I could stand in front of the old Winton home on West Lake Road, a Greyhound bus would stop and pick me up and I could simply tell the driver my father would pay for my ticket at the bus stop in Vermilion. This happened every weekend I could manage an escape from the enchanted forest. It was like heaven to wake up in my childhood bed and have Mother serving me scrambling eggs again in the morning and Father lecturing me on the importance of honor or the thrill of the free market system where people could freely move up and down the social and economic scale depending on their ability and desire to work.

The Vermilion bus always pulled into the Lorain depot on its way to Vermilion. One weekend as I looked out from the rear window seat I saw the inappropriate man I had so foolishly eloped with from college earlier that year and had now divorced. I can still recall how he stood outside the bus starting with the first window and methodically searching each window on the crowded bus until his eyes finally settled on me. In a dash he came on the bus, moved to my seat and asked the lady sitting next to me if he could have her seat.

Like a nightmare, what happened next played in slow motion. I did not speak but stared straight ahead of me as he spoke of his plan to rescue me from my parents. His crazy plan unfolded, he had left his car at the side of a corn field near my parents’ home on West Lake Road. The deal was I would depart the bus, go home with my father as if nothing had happened and making no mention that I would secretly meet him at his car a cornfield away at the stroke of midnight, and then we would then drive off to safety.

As he pratted on and on of his lunatic scheme, I felt real fear. How did he know I would be on this bus at the Lorain depot? How did he know my father would be waiting for me in Vermilion? Did he know where I lived in Cleveland? Where I worked? The schedule of my work days? An inner voice told me to remain quiet and say nothing as the bus rolled on to Vermilion. It seemed as if the bus would never reach my home town. Finally, we pulled in front of the newsstand on Liberty Street and I saw Father standing there, his breath steaming in the cold night air, waiting for me, in his old red and black plaid L.L. Bean jacket.

Without a word, I arose, slipped out of the seat and out the door of the bus while Father paid the driver. I asked him to follow me and I walked inside the newsstand and closed the door. I told him of the threat I faced and Father immediately went outside as the bus pulled away to make sure the inappropriate man had stayed on the bus.

I recalled the mad plot for Father as we drove home and into the winding driveway back to the lake to “Slimacres” and I repeated it for Mother when we walked in the house. She was horrified, as only mothers can be when they hear of their daughters’ latest batch of problems. It was late and time for us all to retire for the night. Father locked all the doors, checked the windows and pulled the living room drapes that, as far back as I could remember, had never been closed. Then he walked to this bedroom closet and pulled out a revolver, loaded it, and set it next to his bed.

Good night, Mays,” he called from the hall ever so tenderly as I slipped under my covers. “Sleep tight,” he added as he had always said throughout my childhood. He was a quiet, kind, soft- spoken man with a tender heart and a beautiful, sensitive and creative brain. But, like all the Wakefields, he kept a closet full of guns, was a fine shot and was an avid hunter. I thought his gentle bidding me a good night with a loaded gun at his side was Just another addition to the running comedy of my life.

The next morning I awoke, how I had slept that night, I do not know, but there was no sign of the inappropriate man. Whether Father had called the police and had them check things out or he had simply departed town on his own volition after I had failed to show up, I never knew. Father never mentioned the subject again and it was the last time I ever saw him.

Soon enough I was back in my apartment in the dilapidated Winton mansion. After a weekend with my parents, an evening after work alone in the winter night was almost unbearable. I would sit in a scratchy, old horse-hair stuffed chair staring at the clock on the wall which hands crept onward like a pair of snails. I would try to read a pot boiler book that Father had given me to fill my empty hours like “Ship Wrecks on the Great Lakes” or “The Tragic Loss of the Edward G. Robinson” or the “History of the Cleveland Cliffs Line.” Finally, the long night would pass, I would put down Father’s captivating tomes and move to my grim bedroom behind the rod of limp hanging sheets that separated the living area from the bedroom.

But there was little sleep for me. I mostly lay in bed listening to every creak and groan of the old mansion and every branch that swiped a window pane like the fingers of a witch in the cold wintry winds off Lake Erie. The nights were the worst of that dreadful year.

Memories of my previous posh life in college in Virginia haunted me where maids cooked, cleaned and did my laundry as I daily skipped the first breakfast bell at 7am but finally dragged myself out of bed in time for my 8am class in a trench coat that covered my nightgown. (I was too lazy to pull on a dress,) to consider the rise and fall of western civilizations, read Voltaire’s philosophy in French, list the reasons for the rise and fall of Rome and consider the pros and cons of the philosophy in Plato’s “Republic.”

Oh, what I would give to be back in college, far removed from busses, cities, terrifying mansions inhabited by mad caretakers and the daily grind of work in a low paying job with little or no future.

Yes, hard times had hit me in full force. In the wee hours of the night, I could see no escape from the new misery of my life. In the wee hours I thought bitterly of how unfair life was and wondered how in the world my parents could possibly allow their dear little daughter to fully experience every horrendous minute of her wretched life.

Then I burst out laughing. I suddenly saw this splendid character that had done herself in with her own behavior and then had the bloody nerve to feel sorry for herself! She was now even blaming her parents for “ruining her life” and “making her suffer!”

That’s when the idea sprang into being that this was the making of a marvelous novel! What hilarious characters! What fascinating plot! What fine comedy! What perfect satire of human behavior and the universal tendency to blame others for the problems we have made for ourselves!

I went to sleep dreaming, indeed (to use one of Father’s pet words,) I was sure that I would write a book one day about all this… my life at age 19, what my forever romantic father would call … “A thrilling experience.”

_{A note about the author: Mary Wakefield Buxton is the author of 12 books about love and life in Virginia including her latest novel, “The Private War of William Styron.” She has written a column for 30 years for her hometown newspaper, the Southside Sentinel in Urbanna, Virginia where she lives with her husband, “Chip” and her two beloved spaniels; “Dandy” and “Dasher.}

VHS 1898: This little gem was among items inadvertently donated to the museum by Elizabeth Krapp Phillips and her husband Clarence. In any case, it actually speaks for itself. I copied both the inside and outside of the programs that were very likely printed by the presses of THE NEWS way back when.

One of the many things I noticed about the item are the middle names of two of the five graduates – the Abell girls – Ollie and Hattie. While I always enjoyed their first names I didn’t know their middle names until I came across this item. I have pix of both and both were very pretty.

Hattie became Hattie Rathbun and her sister became Mrs. Naegele. Just a few years afterward Hattie also became a teacher.

This is both a very beautiful and interesting Vermilion artifact.