Boasting

Today I am going to try to deviate from what I consider to be my normal blogging style. I normally try to relate things that have happened to or around me (which many I am sure consider to be tales) I try to be humble, humorous and honest with whatever I describe. But today I am going to boast a little bit which is something I try my darndest to avoid. I have always found braggarts to be obnoxious and usually full of shit, even if in this day and age a lot of them are riding a wave of popularity. So at the risk of joining their ranks I am I am going to shed my modesty and brag about my son.

Every day I see on the news a parent standing behind their son or daughter no matter what heinous act or crime they have committed and I think what is wrong with these people.  Every day I think of how lucky I am to have four children and a grandson that I am proud of. I also have a great son-in-law and a future son-in-law who shows promise. But that scary thought looms in the back of my mind how would I handle a social stigma? I hope I would be as strong as the people I see on the news everyday who stand by their own even though they are ashamed and heartbroken.  So with that being said I realize how fortunate I am to be able to relate to you a little something about my son Joe. Everywhere I go with him in public he is the personification of a gentleman, pleasant, courteous and respectful. This has always pleased me and I credit his mother for that.  For if there is such a thing as a gentlewoman it is she.  I am sure he will not be too pleased that I relate the following incident. At home he is a convivial person but in public he is a much more laid back private person and will frown on me blogging this. Members of the family had gathered at a restaurant in Newburyport to observe Diana’s 30^th birthday and to wish her bon voyage as she was leaving the next day to fulfill her wish to spend the actual May 7 birthday in Paris. After the festivities were over Joe graciously picked up the check and said he was treating.  After perusing the bill he summoned the waitress and pointed out the fact she had .made a mistake.  As it turns out she had received cash from a different table and had inadvertently credited our table. The manager was summoned and a new bill was made. Joe did not tell anyone what transpired but as I was setting right next to him I took it all in. What he did added eighty dollars to his bill but saved the waitress the embarrassment of coming up short at the end of her shift. This was all done in a low key quiet manner. I could not have been more proud of him. So I feel justified about praising him.  

 

Just Bitching

It’s that time of the year when I regret living where I do. The beginning of March, The weeping willows branches have turned yellow and from a distance on a sunny day seem to have a golden glow. The day light hours are getting longer. The Juncos are long gone and I get my yearly longing to put an order in to Murray McMurray hatchery for a batch of baby chicks. I got my interest in chickens back in the late forties when I would sneak into Parker Davis’s coop to get in out of the wind and cold. I would set there and watch them for hours. For some reason they fascinated me, and they still do. I am sure the other kids thought that it was eccentric behavior at best.   But oddball is probably a better term, as I had a lot of different interests than my peers. The old adage “rich people are eccentric, poor people are crazy” proves that I am not eccentric.

When I first moved to Virginia Avenue the Thibedeau’s had chickens, Rhode Island Reds roosters and on Sundays one would end up in the pot. We were real young then and it seemed like a one year thing as the roosters and the two sheds soon disappeared.  I do recall searching for bugs and worms for them and Victor claiming the dominate one as his own and sagaciously named him Big Red. I also recall chasing a rooster around the back yard and having David Burke come over later and tell me his mother and father where listening to Beethoven and having a big laugh about how my scrambling around was in time with the music.   So maybe my interest started sooner than I think. I often wonder how I can recall things like that which happened more than sixty-five years ago but cannot remember someone’s name fifteen minutes later.

The first birds I raised were Rhode Island Reds that I got from Hardy’s Hatchery which use to be on route 133 in Essex Mass.  I had made a coop out of scrap wood and old doors. It was ugly as hell but it served its purpose for a few years. The first batch was definitely a learning experience. Trial and error was how I learned. If any of you remember or have heard of Don Buddin who had recently finished a mediocre career as the Red Sox’s shortstop you would have seen that I made many more errors raising my chicks then he did playing shortstop. In fact compared to me he was a gold glover. Priscilla please feel free to correct my selective memory.

The first batch started out in a Scott toilet paper box in the backroom of the house. A drop cord with a 100 watt bulb for heat, a couple of saucers for food and water and eight chicks all females.    I actually picked them up at Hardy’s Hatchery the day they were sexing or culling the chicks. The method they were using was vent checking as these were purebred. They would gently put the pullets into small cartons and flip the cockerels over their shoulders into large tissue boxes. I never went back to Hardy Hatchery, mainly because I wanted to move on to Barred Rock hens, and other sex-linked types that Hardy’s did not breed. And I was not real happy with what I thought was a little inhumane treatment of the cockerels. As you can guess vent checking could be somewhat hit or miss according to the expertise of the sexer, and many customers would end up with a rooster or two when they thought they were getting all pullets.  After a couple of days it was plain to see that just a big box with no bedding and half assed feed and water stations was not very practical. So in all of my infinite wisdom I decided to move them to the basement. The reason I did not put them in the pit to begin with was that most springs it became somewhat fen like down there. On top of some First National wooden tonic cases and some scrap wood I put into another toilet paper box some wood shavings, a small water font and feeder that I purchased at the Agway on Wenham Street in Danvers. So back to the infinite wisdom part, I picked up the Scoot toilet paper box and headed for the cellar door. Needless to say with the soggy bottom the chicks and the dishes the bottom fell out as I was half way there. All the wet newspapers, mushy feed pellets, water and chicken shit on the living room floor. Chicks running everywhere and me slipping and sliding in hot pursuit thrilled Priscilla to no end. The chicks eventually made it out to their coop in the back yard and started laying eggs towards the end of August and were very productive until December when the winter weather slowed them down. They were pretty productive that spring and summer. One morning in the fall I found them all dead with their heads and crops missing. People said it was probably a dog.  I did not believe it than nor do I believe it now. It’s true that there was no leash law back then and it was not out of the ordinary to see dogs roaming around. In this day you see one and you think that somebody is having a fit wondering where it is. Back then I knew most of the neighborhood dogs and they knew me and for one of them to get into the coop with no visible means of entrance make no sense to me. But some kind of a weasel or raccoon could somehow do it. I still have the two rock eggs I bought to induce those girls to start laying and I think of those times when ever I see them. They looked realistic at the time. However for some odd reason a couple of years ago I decide to spray paint them a Greek blue as the orthodox and traditional Easters fell on the same day that year and (traditional is probably the wrong term, theology is not one of my strong suits) tuck them into an Easter basket. However they dried a very pretty robin’s egg blue. I am sure if I ever stuck them into a robin’s nest the poor mama robin would swoon.

The next batch of chickens were Plymouth Barred Rocks and to this day are my favorite breed. They are very docile, good looking stout birds and prolific layers. Their molting season seems to be shorter than other breeds. Their wattles and combs stand up well in the winter cold and the pecking order seems almost nonexistent, they appeared to be broody but were never put to the test because Brewster was not a resident of this flock. Somewhere tucked away are a bunch of blue ribbons these birds won at the Topsfield Fair. I have mixed emotions about entering my birds into the fair.  The second year, somebody had entered some sick birds needless to say all of the entrants were affected. When I brought my bird’s home they were soon all sick. I managed to get them through it but they were never as vibrant and as robust as they were prior to the fair. That plus the fact it was plain to see that the judging in all of the barns at the fair was odd to say the least. In the poultry barn it would not matter to the judge if the chicken they were testing quaked like a duck. The only thing that mattered to them was the name of the entrant as ribbons were secondary to best of show. So with the health of my birds a priority I decided to never enter a bird into any poultry show. But maybe someday I might submit a posy in a horticultural barn. The most outstanding memory of the fair was the last day of the show. I went there with my daughter Lisa who was about eight years old at the time. As I was loading the hens into the poultry carrying cages, one got nervous and jumped out of my hands and started to scamper all around the barn. The bystanders for some strange reason were as scared as that poor little hen and started acting just like her. The little hen going one way clucking like crazy, the people going in the other direction audibly scared, you would think the Tasmanian devil was running loose. Lisa three foot tall at most darted under the tables and deftly upended the hen and calmly carried the now docile bird back to its cage. The embarrassed sighs and sheepish looks of that throng were priceless. To this day I rue the fact that I do not have that little escapade on film.

I did not raise any chickens for quite awhile after that until I landed in Gilford New Hampshire. As an employee of Triple Trouble Farm I had as my residence a beautiful big house two acres of pasture and a perfect little barn. Triple Trouble Farm a rich man’s dabbling consisted of a beautifully landscaped estate. A picture perfect for show only nonworking farm about a mile away and a pick your own Blueberry and Raspberry operation on the side of a mountain next to the Gunstock ski area. And the previously mentioned caretaker’s house. Idyllic sounding indeed, but Triple Trouble turned out to be just what its name implied.  But for a few years doing the things I loved outweighed the bad. I managed to raise chickens, Turkey’s sheep a steer and do some gardening while I was there.  The barn was perfect for me as it was built for horses and had perfect chain link separated stalls.  In the summer George the steer stayed out in the pasture which I fenced off half for him, the other half for the sheep. In the barn I kept the chickens in one stall the turkeys in another.  The two empty stalls would be cleaned and waiting. Every two weeks I would rotate the birds into the empty stalls and then clean the other two. This way the birds were always in clean conditions. When winter came the lamb and turkeys went into the freezer and George went into the barn and became part of the two week rotation. I have pictures of Joe down in the barn dressed just like his Father. He loved going down there with me. In the photos he looked like he was going to grow up to be a shit kicker just like me.  Sadly the house and acreage was the only good thing about my Triple Trouble experience. I miss that barn and life style more and more every day.

My last aborted attempt to raise a few hens was in a little shed that I had under the elevated deck at my house in Salisbury Mass. I did not keep them for much more than a year because it was just too close to the house.  I was working as a dispatcher for Rayproof industries at that time. They had made a shed like structure for testing equipment for the stealth bomber. They decided it was not adequate for their purpose and were in the process of disposing of it when I rescued it to be my last chicken coop. I talked the owner of the truck company that we used to transport it for me. After putting on a new roof and door it was semi adequate for the hens. I ended up giving those chickens to a hippy like family in Amesbury Mass.

Finally after my tedious and wordy lament about my love affair with poultry, I get to the gist of this whole sad tale.  I said I regret living where I do. The house itself a humble mobile home suits me just fine. It is the yard and the shed that bother me when spring arrives. There are so many trees that it is really difficult to grow things that I really enjoy. I have become semi proficient at growing shade gardens. But it is not the same as all the wonderful things you can grow in the sun. But I figured I could adjust to that because with that beautiful two sectioned shed I can finally raise some chickens again. So with that trade off I made the move. Much to my dismay I found out to late that raising chicken in a utopia like Seabrook New Hampshire was a no no.  But in New Hampshire it is legal to carry a loaded concealed handgun. There are no laws on bulk purchases, ammunition regulations or magazine sizes. Background checks are not required nor administered when purchasing a firearm. Fingerprints, ballistic filing, and even safety provisions for children are neglected. But you want to raise six hens? What are you some kind of a deviant. So my neighbors can have snakes. Rats and attack dogs but I must refrain from raising socially unacceptable dangerous fowl. So every spring I give myself a mental kick in the ass for not checking this out beforehand. So I have to be content with my growing conditions and learn to live with the type of plants that like the shade. I refer to them as shady ladies. In retrospect that’s what I probably need, a shady lady!

 

 

 

Vale cemetery revisited

           In the summer of 2013 my son and I went on for me what was a long anticipated pilgrimage to Cooperstown N.Y. to visit the Hall of Fame. I had been to upper state New York many times in the past but purposely avoided the Schenectady area for remorseful reasons. On our return trip home my son purposely steered me in that direction. In route we came upon the Cooperstown farmers Museum on one side of the road and the Cooperstown Art Museum on the other side.   Now other than sports and beer my son and I have very little in common. So as we were somewhat short of time we were faced with this dilemma. On one side was the famous Farmers Museum where I easily could have spent a couple of days blissfully wandering around. On the other side was the famous Fenimore Art Museum with a sign promoting an exhibition “The Wyeth's: A Family Legacy” And the fact that Andrew Wyeth’s painting “Christiana’s World” is a personal favorite of mine which I have a large framed reproduction hanging in my front room. So as Joe tersely informed me we could spend one hour there, I opted for the Farmers museum as I knew Joe would consider that the lesser of the two evils. That hour seemed like five minutes and I do hope to return there someday with someone who will have similar interests.

Joe shortly urged me to get going as he was firmly committed to see that I did not find an excuse to avoid doing something that I often said my conscience wanted me to do. So we left Cooperstown and headed for Schenectady and the historical Vale cemetery the final resting place for a number of Lemp’s.   I owe a debt of gratitude to my son for making me do what I should have done may years earlier. I feel as though the visit enlightened me and I now look at things much differently than I did for many years.

My father Herman, his brother James and Grandfather Harry have headstones or plaques there in their remembrance. James and Harry’s wives are marked there also. But I do believe that Harry’s remains are actually in Arlington National Cemetery. Vale cemetery today is in a sad state of neglect and only gives a hint of what a beautiful and historic place it was and is. I know I am rehashing some of the things that I put in a previous blog call “semi-sentimental journey”

Below are a few videos and items that better state the message I am trying to broach, better than my clumsy attempt to make a point. The last one is the article that triggered my need to revisit this subject.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUlTRPb58r8

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSJh-reWod0

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farmers'_Museum

http://www.usatoday.com/story/life/books/2017/02/20/a-piece-of-the-world-christina-baker-kline-book-review/97915458/

Rainy Day Rant

I have always have had a keen interest in the history of the area that I grew up in. That of course all started when I was living in Ryal Side in Beverly from there it expanded to just about all of New England. As a student in the Beverly school system I was mediocre at best. I was always that inept student who was daydreaming or looking out the window. The only class that would pique my interest was history, and those classes had absolutely no feel at all for local history. I am sure the only reason I graduated from Beverly High school was the school systems philosophy of keep them moving, to make room for the next crop of dullards. My history teachers introduced me to many country and world events, but I could have taught them a thing or two about Beverly and the surrounding area. This knowledge I acquired by hounding the old timers of the community with my persistent questions of why things where named the way they were and what things were like when they were young.
To this day it amazes me how many people know very little about the area they live in. When Bill Nesbitt one of my childhood friends posted on Facebook a utube video that was resplendent with local history, I thought everyone would love it as much as I. However much to my dismay it hardly created a ripple. The way I see it, other people must know all this history and therefore it is old hat to them or it is more than likely just apathy. I should have known better, this educational video is lengthy and most FB users use the media with strategic sorties of rumor innuendos and doctored videos to push their personal agendas. That may be a bit harsh as there is a lot of good and interesting postings and photos, but Facebooks cover photo could very well be the Pied Piper. The utube I am referring to is titled “No Country for Old Buildings” This is a television show on the Beverly Community Access Media which highlights historic preservation. As I stated before I am a little on the slow side so entering the right key word of praise when using a search engine escapes me and makes my historical searches difficult and almost to the point of nonexistence. But as I watch different episodes of this show I find myself constantly scribbling down notes that I will use on future Google searches.

A shaky soap box

My original intent as anyone who has read any of my inane blogs knows was to impart to my children events that occurred in my life, also perhaps a little wisdom. The reason of course as a father I was inept in that regard. I have tried to be truthful with the actual events As far as wisdom goes they are all a hell of a lot sharper them me. So I am sure they take my meandering thoughts with a grain of salt. In each tale I tried to inject a little humor. Knowing full well that my sense of humor is somewhat warped. But in this blog I am going to climb up on a soap box and take a somewhat different approach. As I try to get philosophical about some things that are discouraging to me. Respect is what seems to me is the word, I am searching for. It also may be courtesy or just common sense. All of which seems to be missing in this electronic age we live in. The gist of my problem is I am an alien in cyber space. The different devices and the keeping up with the Joneses mentality are frustrating in many respects. The fact that I am inept at everything that evolves electronic devises, compounds my dilemma. My first bitch will be facebook. When I first signed on as a member of this site, I was enthused. I thought what a great concept. A chance to interact with distant relatives, old school mates and other interesting people I have known over the years. A place to post photos, relate family news and express an opinion on something that might interest or alarm you.
Now my enthusiasm for this site has waned considerably. When I sign off now I wonder why I bother to return. What I express next is not a shot at all my facebook acquaintances (friends) about forty percent of them post interesting respectful insights. The other sixty percent reflect society as it is today in my opinion. Disrespectful to the point of malice. When I was a kid we were taught to be respectful to our elders and people of authority. When I went into military service I was trained to salute officers. Not the individual, but for what their commission stood for. I am absolutely appalled by the slanderous disrespect my so called facebook friends so gleefully post about their commander-in-chief. I am all for people posting their feelings on all subjects. But I feel it can be done respectfully. Most of the things people so spitefully infer would d get you kicked off of their friend list if you posted something viciously untrue about them or one of their own. I feel like everywhere I turn people are only happy if something bad happens to the president or the country. I am not tub thumping for Obama. I feel that he has probably made as many mistakes as the man who preceded him. But he does deserve the respect of his office.
The facebook friends I am talking about rarely pass on a thought that is their own. They mostly just pass on cruel propaganda. This somehow reminds you of the kids in the school yard who just stood around and watched as some sneering bully made life miserable for some poor soul who had the gall to be different. So if I am profiling so be it. When the holy rollers come around knocking on doors, I pretend like I am not home. With which I segue into my second facebook bitch. .Those who feels it is their duty to insult what little intelligence I have by smugly spouting scripture to my evil hopelessly lost soul. That too is disrespect for others. So I guess my only recourse is to shy away from facebook like I do the canvassing neighborhood bible thumpers. It’s hard enough to have to endure bigotry with out seeking it out in what is considered a social media. I probably should start using the only part of electronic devices that I feel comfortably able to manage, the shut down icon.
My third gripe is my futile attempts to reach any one I have business or medical connections with by telephone. After glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching or listening to me talk to a recording. I proudly submit that yes I do speak English, and then after I fend of a long list of options that no sane person would opt for, the recording gleefully invites me to start the same process all over again. Of course this strategy is a well thought out ploy to get me to hang up. How can you as a customer or a patient dare to have the nerve to expect to get any kind of service or courtesy?
Finally I figure out how to talk to an actual being. Sometimes it is as simple as hitting O for operator or simply slamming the phone against the wall or my head. As a rule I usually use which ever is closest. Now they really start to crap all over my sensibilities when they connect me to a slurring alien who certainly was not asked to press one if he or she could speak English. Now I am talking to someone in some remote part of India, he actually acts insulted when you have the nerve to tell him you do not understand a word he is saying. When you ask to speak to his supervisor or perhaps some one who might have any idea of what you are asking. He promptly agrees and puts you on hold. Of course after a pregnant pause another recording tells you to hang up and try redialing. Or if the phone company is having a bad day, just an irritating busy signal.
As an aside I have to say “hats of to Prudential life” they have some how managed to make their web site even more convoluted than their phone system. It just goes to show you that insurance company’s are still always one step ahead of every one else when it comes to indifference. So I show my age when I say, I remember when you dialed a business number and a cheery voice said “Hello, how may I help you”
So as I delve further into my electronic insecurities my next gripe pertains to a plumbing problem I have. Well actually I have two plumbing problems, but the physical lament I will put aside for another day. I had a hot water pipe spring a leak. A plumber made a temporary repair and promised to return and rectify my problem. Needless to say he like most professional people overbook at every chance they get, as they all fear that congress is hell bent on creating another recession. So his office like all businesses answers the phone with a recording that announces that they are way to busy to talk to you. But if you leave your name, telephone number and address with a brief summation as why you would have nerve enough to bother them. They will get back to you. After you try calling them back three or four times in the next week or so, you start wondering did I screw this up. Did I jump the beep? Or did I wait to long after the beep? Was I supposed to hit the pound key when I was through with my message? But off course the message is there. It just does not seem like a priority to them and like the facebook sixty percent a total lack of courtesy and disrespect is accepted as the norm.
My last bit of electronic frustration is my failure to master the computer key board. How I can have my words jump to any anyplace they want is beyond me. Sometimes I will glance at the monitor and what I thought I typed is no where to be found. And other times when I look up I see the words have some how just inserted them selves randomly in a completely different paragraph. This off course makes my task quite tedious. But unlike the mysteries of my other gripes, I know what my problem with the keyboard is. I am over extending myself by trying to type and think at the same time.
My final shame is that every month after I have paid my TV ransom to Comcast. I realize that one of the big trees that hang over my house must be a Chestnut because that is certainly where the village idiot sits.

So after this bombastic spiel, I climb down off of my shaky soap box.

Jumping At the Woodside

I had intended to go off in a different direction at the end of my last blog but I started to do a little “Jumping At the Woodside” and I got distracted. I had intended to mention some of my odd summer distractions. You would think that here where I live was rural East Overshoe, New Hampshire instead of the southern sea coast. The other morning at day break there was a deer drinking out of my birdbath. This would have been all right, except he was doing his Gene Gene impersonation all over my Geraniums. After dispersing him, I went back into the house to finish my coffee. I glanced out the window to make sure he had not returned and much to my dismay there is a young woodchuck dining in my cucumber patch. So after a few days of skirmishes, I do believe he has taking up residence down the street in my neighbor’s yard and seems to be quite content. My neighbor however seems to have acquired a slight case of Saint Vitus Dance. A foot note to the ground hog saga. A noted woodchuck aficionado advised me to coexist with the little rodent by serving him a buffet a couple times a day. Needless to say, I filled that suggestion in the circular file.
Last but not the least, a family of Turkeys has taken up residence in the neighborhood. It was interesting to see the mother hen lead her little brood around the neighborhood. How ever as they grew they for their own safety had to find a place to roost at night. Much to my next door neighbors dismay they selected a tree in her back yard. So every evening about a half hour before dark they arrive from their day of foraging proceed to her front yard fly up on her roof and then up into the tree from there. Needless to say this has become a nightly attraction. I suggested that she should sell tickets to the spectacle. She suggested that I do something very difficult and painful to my posterior. So I filed that suggestion along side of the buffet suggestion.
It will be interesting to see where the turkeys move to when all the leaves have dropped. Some spruce thicket I imagine.

Semi Sentimental Journeys

I have not written a blog in awhile, but I promised my children that I would put my thoughts into print. The reason I have not done so lately is because when ever I get the urge to write something, I go back and read my last blog and decide that I have already made a big enough ass out of my self. Thus the gaps between blogs get longer and longer. I think when my kids first urged me to write a blog they were really interested in learning about the Lemp side of the family. As I have previously stated I was remiss in my obligation of enlightening them to their heritage. But I do feel that my blogs in their view point have become their own personal comedy hour. It seems my vocabulary, adages and slang from my youth is foreign to them. Especially when I am with my two youngest, they look at each other roll their eyes, grin and try there damnedest not to start giggling, it seems to tickle their fancy when I unwittingly go into my own personal unknown comic routine. (Here I digress for a bit to say that I first saw the unknown comic on TV, on the Gong show. In my opinion all the current talent shows pale in comparison. Not only was the list of guest judges lengthy it was a virtual who’s who of that era. Not only can I relate to the unknown comic, I also was always a comparable dancer to Gene Gene the dancing machine. It was with out a doubt the fastest half hour in television.) I will admit that my enunciation and or articulation is some times laughable at best. Thank god for the spell check icon. So for their amusement and much to my chagrin, I post a few more thoughts about the Lemp’s
This spring Diana, Lisa, Joe and I decided to take a trip to Arizona. I had mentioned to my son the previous autumn that I would really like to go out there and visit my brother David. So Joe and Diana decided that we would do it. I of course never would have gone on my own, as I am a thinker and ruer not a doer. To me this trip accomplished three goals. I got to visit with my brother and sister in law, who I had feared very much I would never see again. Lisa, Joe and Diana got to finally meet relatives on the Lemp side of the family. And we easterners got to tour the beautiful state of Arizona. All things considered it was a great trip. We actually interacted like a real family as the two half-sibling girls engaged in a few spirited sparing matches. So as this is a blog about the Lemp’s I take the liberty of blaming their minor grievances on their mothers.
This last week Joe took me to Cooperstown New York to visit the MLB hall of fame, take in a minor league baseball game in Troy and visit the Vale cemetery in Schenectady.
Vale cemetery is where my father, Grandmother Clara, Uncle James and his wife Marion are interred. I was always reluctant to make this pilgrimage because of my reluctance to except reality in general. But again my children have steered me in the right direction. Maybe I am starting to mellow out. But more than likely it’s the fact that at my age I am starting to ponder mortality.
Aunt Clara once waxed eloquently about Vale cemetery she described it as a blissful Eden where she and her brothers spent many enjoyable hours. It seems it was used as a park as well as a burial-ground. If you believe the old adage that a person would turn over in their grave if they saw how things are today, then we would have to refer to Clara as “pinwheel Clara” because Vale cemetery has fallen into total disrepair. The neighbor has deteriorated drastically and the cemetery and adjoining park are surrounded by what can only be described as a ghetto. The cemetery it self shows signs of negligible maintenance
vandalism and graffiti. The curator or caretaker assured us that there are corrective measures in the works. This is something I plan to monitor and maybe some where down the road the family might consider donations or some other action. This is a private cemetery and appears to have had mismanagement or poor funding.
Two days ago Diana and I went to visit the grave of our great-grandfather Dr. Hermann Lemp who is interred in Pine Grove cemetery in Lynn Massachusetts. The only similarity I can see between these two burial grounds is that Pine grove is what Clara’s Vale cemetery was in her youth. I have never seen a prettier or better groomed park anywhere. This is a huge beautiful place.
I suppose I should go to North Beverly and visit my mother and brother Noel and complete the circle.

FACEBOOK AND BEAGLES

FACEBOOK AND BEAGLES

Now it is February and time to bore my few blog readers with some more trivial and sometimes facetious thoughts. I tried to reread some of my previous blogs to make sure I was not being repetitious. But I just could not do it. What I try to get across as tongue-in-cheek does not come out as funny ha ha, but more like buffoonery. So with that said I would like to talk today about Facebook.
You would think that being smack dab in the middle of the winter, visiting Facebook would be a good way to fight cabin fever. But I usually come away from a visit there with mixed feelings. The thing that attracted me to Facebook was a chance to communicate with old school mates, Friends, and relatives.
But after the initial hi how are you? Contact. Future contact seems to be spiteful agendas. Everyone seems to be seething. I liken it to road rage. The meekest people who turns into ogres when they get behind the wheel is perplexing, so too are a lot of my Facebook friends (actually the majority should probably be referred to as associates) for every funny cartoon or adage that is posted, there are thousands that are meant to belittle someone or something. Then all the sheep are asked to hit the like icon, to prove that they are just as big a sore ass, as all the other minions. I imagine a dislike icon would really upset the applecart.
Wannabe Televangelist, and political pundits are the most irksome with their holier than thou attitudes. Not to mention other silly little things. For example, hit like if you enjoy a sunny day.
So to my dour Facebook friends, forget about being politically correct and lighten up a little and try not to be like W.C. Fields who once said “I am free of all prejudice, I hate everyone equally”
But on the bright side I really enjoy it when people post photos. Relate little tidbits of what is going on in their lives and actually have original thoughts.
Moving on to more mundane things, two years in a row a flock of Robins swooped down on my Holly shrubs and denuded them of red berries. Sadly there was a meager crop this year as an unseasonably warm spell last spring forced the plants to bloom prematurely and the return to normal temperatures did not bode well for the bulk of the crop. So the Robins did not have a feast. The oddity of this is both years they arrived on the same day as the Patriots were performing their Swan song. I suppose if I was a real die hard fan, I
would uproot these villainous shrubs.
One morning last week it was one below as I ventured out for my morning walk. The boards on my deck made a load cracking noise with every step. So I was shocked when I looked out into the glooming, and saw a buck standing there. He turned waved his flag at me and was gone. As I proceeded on my walk, I thought to my self what a delightful way to start the day. Because everything was frozen I decided to let my curiosity get the best of me and go off the beaten path to a swampy area that was usually impossible to walk in.
By now it was broad daylight. I will not mention how cold I felt. As everybody knows all my lame old adages. Suddenly I heard the old familiar sound of Beagles baying on the trail of a rabbit. (My friend John, called it singing) I stood still and shortly a rabbit came loping by. Taking his time and looking over his shoulder ever now and then. Suddenly the baying grew louder and the rabbit decided to boot it, and that was the last I saw of him. Suddenly two beautiful Beagles came into view, scurrying from side to side sniffing everything in sight, and then they were gone. I never did see their master or them again, but it sure was enjoyable while it lasted.

As much as I hate the winter, something like this could only happen on a winter day

Acrobatic Pests

It’s January and cabin fever is a perfect adage for what ails me. Lack of sunshine and daylight is very depressing to me., I try to keep up my regular walking routine but dressing properly is something that escapes me. I am either sweating my ass off or freezing. This of course takes all the enjoyment out of gadding about.
I thus spend more time in the house dressed up like Nanook of the north as I try to keep Unitil’s utility meters from emulating pinwheels.
This also ushers in my yearly conflict with the bushy tailed rodents know as squirrels. I have battled with these little acrobatic pests at my bird feeders for many years. How anyone could prefer Rocky J. Squirrel over the loveable Bugs Bunny is beyond me. This year I decided that I was getting a little to old to going running around my backyard like a deranged Elmer Fudd, chasing the elusive Rocky away from my feeders. My plan was simple I would create a squirrel feeding station away from the bird feeding station and every one would be happy.
How wrong I was. Not only did it create a much bigger dilemma it also proved to my way of thinking that yes, Bugs is intelligent and Rocky is stupid. Or as Bugs would say Rocky is a real maroon!
I hung the squirrel food on the rail fence that the two backyard squirrels use as their super highway. This being the normal route they use to make plundering raids on my bird feeding stations. For almost a week they blew right past the cornucopia of squirrel delicacies that I had provided for them. Little did I know that these greedy little buggers where so afraid that one of the poor little Chickadee’s might get a seed that they were ignorant of anything else happening in their domain. So I had to more or less stick their noses into their own feeding station. I slathered a mixture of peanut butter and sunflower seeds on the rail right above their catered feast. That day as they sped along the rail and stepped into the peanut butter it dawned on the morons that there was something there that could dine on with out have to hang by their tail at a contorted angle trying to pilfer a tiny seed.
As an avid backyard gardener and lover of the woods there is only two things that I could have done over the years that was stupider than setting out a squirrel feeding station. One would be planting invasive bamboo in a flower bed and the other was a having a wrestling match with a lady friend in a patch of poison ivy. And looking back that would be a stretch because the squirrel feeding station was a much worst disaster. Now it seems as though every gray squirrel with in a thirty mile radius has heard that the buffoon at 39 Norman road is this year’s patsy and has moved into my back yard. And of course that means they can not all be at the squirrel feeder at once. So my bird feeders are really under siege
My friend Bugs must be shaking his head in amazement or disgust at this years patsy!
I should not omit another humbling winter experience. My son-in-law Patrick completely kicked all the other Lemp’s asses in the annual college football pool. Let’s just hope this modestly shy and humble lad does not need to go out and purchase new hats because of it.
At my age I should not be wishing the time to fly by, but the way this winter is progressing the next seventy six days look like an eternity.

Mr. Schadenfreude revisited

My great grandfather was originally from the German speaking part of Switzerland, and was fluent in the German language. I am sure he would snicker at my attempt to pronounce my favorite German word. Which as anybody who has read my previous blogs knows is schadenfreude. This means, “Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.”
In one of my previous blogs, Mr. Schadenfreude, a.k.a Mr. Rattus. I mentioned the old adage “what goes around comes around” I wondered how that could be true as this bully was just running rough shod over his neighbors..
He was the major factor in my decision to try to buy a house and get the hell out of there. Before I did something to him that not only would get me into trouble with the law. But it would also embarrass my family.
As it turns out, that asshole (I was going to refer to him as a son of a bitch, but he would probably take that as a compliment) did me a favor by forcing my hand.
For financial reasons I searched for a house in a rural location. I was thinking about raising a few chickens in an isolated area far away from the likes of Mr. Rattus. But the longer the search ran on, the more reservations I had about leaving this area.
So I did something that I thought I would never do. I bought a mobile home. It is about two miles away from the Salisbury Housing Authority unit. It is also about the same distance to Toll road in Salisbury where I lived for many years.
Financially living in senor housing makes a whole lot of sense. Mentally it was like being a state ward again. I could never get comfortable there. There were a few nice people who I consider to be friends. But the majority of the population was not really people I would want to be involved with. Their favorite pastime was to sit around and bitch and moan and listen to their arteries harden. But it was plain to me that SHA was a huge up grade in their life style. It was practically a free ride for the majority of them.
Owning of course is a lot more expensive with utilities, taxes and maintenance. But it is worth every penny to be away from the likes of Mr. Rattuss. I still get to have gardens, but raising poultry or any small farm animals is out of the question. My neighbors are a huge upgrade over my previous ones. But then are all snobs to a certain degree. It’s all right to have their dogs come over and shit on your lawn or their cats hunt the birds at your feeder. But God forbid, they have to see a couple of hens as they grill their chicken wings.
So again I thank Mr. Schadenfreude for forcing me to make a move. I have ended up in an area that does not look like a trailer park, with large well landscaped lots and more trees than a forest. And the truth of the matter, most of my reservations where, I could not get comfortable with moving a long distance away from my kids or the area where I have lived all my life
Mr.Rattuss finally found out that what goes around comes around. As the legal system finally incarcerated him for ninety days in the county correctional facility, and evicted him from the SHA. During his stay in jail, he found what it was like to be bullied. He took a severe beating and had to be isolated from the other inmates for his own protection.
I’m glad all this transpired after I had moved out. Or I might have remained there.
I moved here in November of 2010 and started to enjoy a much more normal life style. I have only had one little bump in the road. On New Year’s Eve 2011 the weather report called for a bright, sunny and unseasonably warm new year’s day. I decided that I would be at Salisbury beach and start the New Year with photo’s of the sun appearing to rise right out of the ocean. I was standing on a dune snapping pictures when I heard a voice say throw the camera down and give me your wallet. I turned to see a young Hispanic man who was dressed like he did not care if his pants fell off and was not sure if he was coming or going as his hats brim was pointed west as he was facing east. My reply to that was there is no way I am throwing my camera in the sand. Then another voice said, don’t make me take my gun out. Throw the camera down and give us your wallet and anything else you have in your pockets. I turned and saw another taller Hispanic who evidently had the same humorous haberdasher. As he started to repeat this I turned and started walking away at a brisk pace. Peeking over my shoulder I saw that they were keeping pace. I sensed they did not have a gun or it would have come out as soon as I showed reluctance to obey them. Then to my relief there appeared a woman and two huge dogs coming over the dune right at us. The two would be thieves turned and ran off toward the seasonal homes and disappeared. I expressed my relief to the woman and asked her if she had a cell phone that I could use to call the police. Unfortunately she had left hers at home. So right away we had something in common. I told her she should be careful if she planned on walking the beach. Her reply was No! I think my dogs would like nothing better than to meet those two punks. And looking at those two mean looking giants straining at their leashes, I could not help but think she was right.
As I was walking home that morning I was sure that I had just met a couple more assholes who were about to spend a lifetime emulating, Mr. Rattuss.

After reading this blog,my daughter Diana chided me for stretching the truth.
She said she recalls me relating that on my walk home reality set in, and I was on the verge of soiling my trousers. She also recalls that after hearing what had transpired all four of my kids hoped that my stupidity was not heritary.

The Great Pigeon Caper

I have always been a lover of birds and fowl. The sound and movement of them has always fascinated me. The sight and sound of them in a pasture, a woodlot or in my backyard cannot help but cheer me up.

Before I get to the pigeon fiasco, I will relate a couple of recent events that I found amusing. On the first day of spring last year (2011) my Holly shrubs were loaded with a bumper crop of red berries. At about three o’clock in the afternoon these shrubs were ravaged by a large flock of cedar waxwings. Shortly they had devoured every berry in sight. I felt lucky to witness this sight as I hardly ever saw a cedar waxwing in my yard or gardens. I made a mental note to myself to be on the alert for this event to occur again this spring. However on Super Bowl Sunday, while watching the Patriots lose to those dastardly bullies from New York, I was distracted by a flurry of activity in my window boxes. A flock of robins was busy eating the red berries that I had put there with evergreen cuttings. From there they preceded to strip all the red berries off the Holly bushes. This was interesting to me for several reasons. One being they were flocked up, I don’t recall ever seeing robins do that. The second being there is always a few hearty robins that winter over, even in the harshest winters. But this was a large amount of robins to be here in early February. They were probably auguring a mild winter. I don’t think one mild winter is a sign of things to come. We have experienced them before. Only to be followed by a string of winters that only made the snow plower’s and OPEC happy. My son Joe chided me saying, are you going to stand there looking out the window or are you going to watch the game. So I went back to the agony of defeat. But in the back of my mind was the feeling that as the cedar waxwings migrated north this spring they were going to be disappointed when they stopped here for lunch.

On a rainy March 25th afternoon I noticed a lonely cedar waxwing hopping along on the ground near my holly bushes. After he discerned that there were no berries there, he checked out the feeders, shook his head and flew away. I’m sure he was the advance scout and returned to the flock with the bad news.

But I feel lucky to have seen the scouting wax wing and look forward to see who gets the berries next year.

Before, I relate the pigeon caper. I would like to say the commonly held belief that birds evolved from dinosaurs is a myth. It’s a little like believing in jackalopes.

Ever year in early spring, dating back to when I was a little kid I have always had the urge to raise poultry and grow things. Over the years I have done both, many times.

So when I was about fourteen I found out that the Beck’s who lived on what is now known as Shore Terrace near Ober Park in Ryal side were raising racing pigeons I was intrigued.

This particular winter/early spring,Victor Bernson, Richard Locke and I were hanging around together. This was odd because the three of us had nothing in

common. We usually hung around with different crowds. But somehow I convinced them that we should try our hand at raising racing pigeons ourselves. So we went to visit the Beck’s and view their loft (fancy name for a pigeon coop) At that time this area was mostly seasonal summer homes. And the ones that were converted to year round homes could only be classified as seedy. The male Beck’s could only be best described as gaunt and scruffy. But the loft was impressive and immaculate. The family patriarch was very proud of his birds and ran on at great length about the care of the birds and the strategy he used to win races. But what impressed me the most was how he could hold a cigarette in his mouth and talk non stop with out the ash falling off, and how expensive racing pigeons were.

 After checking with the local pigeon racing club, what the Beck’s had told us

was true.If we really scrimped we might have been able to buy one pair of racing pigeons. And hope that they mated and gave us a future brood of potential champions. Of course that was not the instant satisfaction that we were looking for. So we decided we were just going to have to find a better way to get into the game. The Thibedeau’s had a couple of empty chicken coops in the back yard and we decided we would use one as our loft.

So our plan was to wait until it got dark. Then we would go under the Kernwood Bridge and capture the common pigeons that roosted there. The first night, we only brought one gunny sack and captured four birds. The next night we decided we needed it least twelve more birds, so we each brought a gunny sack. The night was unseasonably cold and there was a little sleet falling. On our way to the bridge we all smoked a cigar. Smoking was something we were just starting to experiment with at that age. Richard some how always had cigars and his favorite cigarettes Old Gold filter kings. I never questioned where he got them. But he like the rest of us kids certainly did not have any money. I do recall that it was easy for kids to buy tobacco products, and there were cigarette vending machines everywhere. You would put two dimes in the machine and get a pack with two cents change taped to it. I know I digress but old man Beck’s smoking oddity reminded me of this.

When we got to the bridge it was a real dark night, the wind was howling and it was drizzling. I went under the bridge first and Victor and Richard followed. We were successfully grabbing pigeons when from above someone yelled “Hey what are you guys doing down there”. Now of course there were no-trespassing signs on the bridge, but we never expected the bridge tender to be there at night. We started running towards the ladder on the Beverly side of the bridge. Victor and Richard made it up, but I slipped on the icy creosoted deck and went head first into the river. Fortunately for me the tide was coming in and it was a short distance to the shore. I got out of the river and raced for home. The heavy wool mackinaw and leather brogans I had on felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. I took the short cut through the woods but it still took me about fifteen minutes to get home. We always went through the bulkhead into the basement to take off our muddy boots or shoes before going upstairs. At this time of the night there was no one else down there. There was a big washing machine down there and hampers for the dirty clothes., so I was able to find some of my dirty clothes to change into and hang the sopping wet cloths to dry. I then stood near the furnace to warm up and thanked my lucky stars that I was able to get in and change with out Mrs. Thibedeau seeing me, or there would have been hell to pay. About an hour later just as I was getting warm the bulkhead door open up and Victor and Richard came down into the basement. I was just getting ready to tell them about my adventure when Victor came over and punched me in the face and it knocked me on my ass. As it turns out they did not see me get out of the river and they were afraid I had drowned. I think they were more afraid of explaining why they were there and what happened. Then they were about me.

Any way we ended up with a flock of common pigeons. We kept them cooped up, watered and feed for about two weeks. The experienced birders would let their birds out for exercise every evening, and before it got dark they would return to the coop. So we figured two weeks was long enough for our birds to adapt to their new home and would return if we let them out for some exercise. Well we let them out and they flew straight back to the Kernwood Bridge area and we never saw them again. Needless to say that was the end of our pigeon raising and from there we all went our separate ways.

Last of the Lemp Little Bits

I only have three Lemp’s left to talk about. My mother and father and myself.  I had very little contact with my parents that I can recall. The only time I went to visit my mother she rejected me. Saying “you’re not my Herman, my Herman is dead”. I never tried to visit her again. To this day I am bothered by that. I am not bothered that she did not recognize me. I am bothered by the fact that I used it as an excuse to stick my head in the sand and act in a selfish and cowardly way. For years I felt sorry for myself. I felt as though I was abandoned. Then it dawned on me that I was doing the same thing. She was a victim of circumstance. Just like my brothers, sisters, and I.

I only remember seeing my father once when I was a ward at the Thibedeau’s. He showed up with David and Harry, in a dump truck with signage that proclaimed that he was “Thee Olde Yankee Gardener” of Schenectady N.Y. It was very awkward. We all stood around and tried to make small talk. My father appeared to be very uncomfortable and seemed to be on the verge of tears throughout the short visit. Little did any of us know that we would never see him again.

Mrs. Thibedeau was a real good influence on me while I was in her charge, but the day she blurted out “your father is dead, he has hung himself.” that could probably have been done without six kids and as many adults standing around.

I handled this news the same way I handled my mother’s situation. I felt sorry for myself instead of having feelings for the true victims in this tragedy. In retrospect there is no doubt in my mind that my mother Leah and father Herman were the real victims in this saga.

I will be the first to admit that the do-gooders can at times be nauseating with some of their vacuous demands. But their constant demands have raised our society’s social and moral awareness. And I do believe that my parent’s dilemma would be handled completely different in this day and age. At age 71, I’m not as remorseful as I was for so many years but to me “it’s just in time to be too late”!

As you can surmise, my skimpy narrative does not come remotely close to relating what really transpired.

I have stated many times in past blogs that I was coerced into this format by my children. They chided me for not sharing my side of the family’s history with them. So two years ago on Thanksgiving morning they ganged up on me and made me promise to write a blog. This blog would shed some light on my background, the family history, and to them  my whacky way of seeing things in general.  So, I vowed to myself that there would be no fabrications. Whatever I would relate would be true according to my recall. I have stuck steadfast to this principal.

So I have omitted things that I have heard about my parents and siblings. Many of the things I heard would seem to make sense and others not so much. So I have just filed those thoughts as hearsay.

That concludes what little bit I have to say about my immediate side of the Lemp family. For my kids sake I will now bore you with a little bit about me.

His Nibs

On the previously mentioned Thanksgiving, I referred to my son as his nibs. My kids rolled their eyes and grinned at each other. Thinking my different little sayings were figments of my imagination. That and very little knowledge of my past lead my kids into prodding me into this undertaking.

I was born in Lynn Mass. on May 4, 1941. The family lived at the time somewhere near the Saugus River in Saugus Mass. Just a few minutes due northeast of Boston.

I have no recollection of living there. And have no idea where any of my siblings were born. And to reflect on one of my biggest weaknesses I cannot recall their birthdates.

My next memories were of Georgetown, of which I have referred to in the past blogs. The next place I recall was the statehouse in Boston. For some reason the person who took us there thought two little petrified boys would be impressed that the building had a golden dome. To this day I cringe when ever I see that edifice or hear it mentioned.

Why we were taken there is beyond me. We ended up in the New England Home for Little wanderers. It claims to function differently today. But back in the 1940’s it was a very depressing orphanage. We were there for less than a year. But it seemed much longer as it was a very scary place. The inhabitants where all bullies, older, bigger and pissed off at their plight. Everyday there was unpleasant and I’ll leave it at that.

Just before I turned six, Noel and I were placed in the foster home of Helen Thibedeau. In the Ryal side section of Beverly Mass. It is thirty miles northeast of Boston and borders on Salem and Danvers Mass. This turned out to be a step in the right direction for me.

That fall I was enrolled into the Ryal side grammar school. This was another cultural shock for me because my experiences at the orphanage made me tentative about accepting the schoolhouse experience.

Thus I experienced the long lost practice of holding a student back. I was ashamed to take my report card home to Mrs.Thibedeau. For years I would poke fun at my self by saying I flunked because I could not color between the lines. When the fact of the matter is the school system took my reluctance to join in or communicate as stupidity. When in reality it was inferiority and fear. The next six years at that school I made a great many lifetime friends. But I was never a good student. The people who ran the school and the people who ran the Emmanuel Congregational church across the street offended me as much as they were offended by having to deal with a lowly state ward. It was not until my last year there that I finally got a teacher who made me eager to learn. What first attracted me to her was the amazing fact that she could stand up with out tipping over. But as it turned out, as sexy as she was, she actually was a great teacher.

The following year I went to Memorial Junior High school in North Beverly Mass. The only thing of note from that period was that we were the first graduating class from that new school. Like the Ryal side school it is no longer open. Ryal side has been converted to elderly housing and the Memorial school is now some sort of professional building. I cannot imagine a person in his dotage going back to live in the same room where he had attended the first grade.

In 1957, I started my first year at Beverly High School and was a part time clerk at the First National store in Danvers square. The job was at the insistence of a man named Dooley. Mr. Dooley was the state ward councilor in charge of me. In my mind if he was not the biggest asshole I ever met, he was certainly a contender. I understand what he was trying to do. Get me to pay room and board. Of which I had no qualms about. I was well aware that the state had spent a lot of money on me over the last twelve years. What I did not like was his slovenly, smarmy, holier than thou attitude.

I spent three years going to high school working thirty hours a week and idling away what few hours were left in the week at Murray’s Pool room. So it’s safe to say I did not have a distinguished record at Beverly High.

Mr. Dooley made it very clear to me that the day I graduated I would be persona non grata as far as the state was concerned.  I joined the National Guard and was on a bus to basic training the day after graduation. I served in the guard for eight years some active and some inactive. The country at the time was between Korea and before Vietnam. So no matter what you got involved in, you did not qualify for veteran’s status. Some things I got involved with I can expound on, other things I can not, even if I wanted to.

When I got out I worked at Parker Bros. who manufactured board games, most notably Monopoly. I hated that job and returned to First National stores. The rest of my history can be obtained by talking to either one of my two ex-brides. I still love them both and think they deserve some kind of award for putting up with the likes of me.

The little tales of my past and future blogs should fill in the blanks I may have left in this blog about the Thornton’s and Lemp’s

In my next blog I plan to tell a little tale that took place during my junior high school days. I plan to call it “The great Pigeon caper”!

A Little Bit About the Lemp's

(L-R Ralph, Diana, Delice, Victoria, and Clifford)

Delice - Sister

I never really got to know her like I should have. She got married real young and moved to Florida shortly thereafter. I don’t recall ever seeing her as a kid, until the day she was married. Later on she made a lot of attempts to become closer with long hand written letters. Here I dropped the ball by not answering in-kind. But after all these years I must admit, I could barely decipher her handwriting. If that sounds like I am using that as an excuse, I probably am. Dereliction has always been my forte when it comes to communication.

As I said before I am doing this blog to kind of rectify that a little bit.

However, orally, I still talk a lot but don’t really say anything. So after running my communication skills around the barn a few times, simply put, it’s my fault that we did not spend more time together or stay in touch.

I remember going to visit them when they owned a home in the St. Petersburg area of Florida and really enjoyed her children, two lovely girls and especially her son Clifford.

My most vivid memory of that trip was having her husband Ralph telling me that he had something he wanted to show me. This was rather surprising. Because up to that point I thought he was a mute. So, we went walking to one of his neighbor’s house. We walked the short distance without either one of us uttering a word. In the neighbor’s back yard was a big cage with monkeys in it. As we stood there, Ralph quite contently threw peanuts into the cage. On the way back to his house Ralph was quite verbose. And he seemed to delight in the monkeys antics

A few years later she came to visit me when I was living in Rowley Mass.  This trip for her was a period of contemplation. She was in the throes of a break up with a person she had a social and business relationship with. From what I could gather a fishing boat was one of the losses. And it was the lose of the boat, not the man, that bothered her most.

The next time I saw Delice she was married to Frank Capone. And again it was a mix of business and relationship. The business was the dealing of church vestments and other sundry church related items. (It seems that many southern clerics have more different colored robes than Imelda Marcos has shoes)

Delice lost her son Clifford when he was still a young man and has not had an easy life. If a splintered family start and the loss of a son was not enough to contend with. She has been battling problems with her vision for many years. Several times she has come close to losing her eyesight. But after a recent operation, she assures me that she is doing well. And with her deep religious convictions, she manages to get by.

She is fortunate to have a couple of James Lemp’s paintings, which some day I hope to see.

As for her two husbands. Both, I found to be eccentric, one liked to hint that his family had ties to the mafia. And the other, an odd fondness for primates. Both good men I am sure. But you know that all brothers think; no matter who the guy is, he’s not good enough for his sister. 

I can not compare Delice to any other family member. She is unique.

Hermann Lemp- Great Grandfather

Most of what I know about my great grandfather is well documented and easy to find.

The following excerpt is from the Mid-continent Railroad museum web site. This article is about the dedication of a plaque honoring my great grandfather for his work on control systems for diesel locomotives. In August of 2003. They flew myself, Lisa, and Diana out to Wisconsin and put us up in the Best Western hotel in Baraboo. They covered all expenses and were very nice to us. I have not tried to correct the mistakes they made in this article. When we were out there we kept trying to get the great and great-great part across to them. But they still got it wrong. 

I fell in love with Wisconsin. Just like I do with any other farming area I visit.

Following this article will be another longer article about my great grandfather that I am going to put in that you will have to click on to open yourself.

Mid-Continent News (Source)

Montana Western #31 Designated ASME Landmark (8/23/03)

On Saturday August 16, sixty-five people attended the Great Northern 2313/Montana Western 31 gas-electric rail motorcar ceremony at the Mid-Continent Railway Museum. GN 2313/MW31 was designated an American Society of Mechanical Engineers (ASME) Historic Mechanical Engineering Landmark. The ceremony occurred at Mid-Continent Railway Museum from 11:30 to 4:30.

This self-propelled railcar is the oldest surviving equipment from the Electro-Motive Company and predates the incorporation into the Electro-Motive Division of General Motors (EMD—a major locomotive builder today. A comparison with both builder's photographs and drawings show that most of the car has remained unchanged. The car was built for the Great Northern and used from 1925 to 1939 on a run between Marcus, WA and South Nelson, BC, Canada. It was then sold to the Montana Western Railway that ran about 20 miles between Valier and Conrad, MT. In 1966, Mid-Continent Railway Museum acquired the car.

GN 2313/MW31 and sister cars represented the first major use of the Dr. Hermann Lemp control system. Dr. Lemp's control system replaced a complicated throttle and electric control system with a "one lever" system--simple enough for a steam locomotive engineer to operate. This control system was the basis of all diesel-electric locomotive systems for over fifty years. Its concepts are still embodied in the control software of today's locomotives using direct current traction motors.

Mr. Hermann Lemp III, grandson of Dr. Hermann Lemp, and two great granddaughters: Elisabeth Lemp Cheney and Diana Lemp were honored guests at the ceremony. Ms. Cheney shared reminiscences of Dr Herman Lemp. Joseph O. Slezinger III, former EMD employee, gave a talk about the development of the gasoline engine, electric traction motors, electric generator and the Lemp control system. He explained how the system on GN 2313/MW31 developed from earlier technology and led to later diesel-electric locomotive development.

GN 2313/MW31 represents the 229th in a series of historic mechanical engineering landmarks, heritage collections, and heritage sites honored by ASME International's History and Heritage (H&H) program since the program's inception in 1972. Each selection represents contributions made by the technological advances of mechanical engineering and their impact on the quality of life. ASME sections: Chicago, Fox Valley, and Rock River Valley, ASME Region VI, ASME Rail Transportation Division, and Mid-Continent Railway Museum prepared the nomination for the national H&H committee.

The 120,000-member ASME International is a worldwide engineering society focused on technical, educational and research issues. It conducts one of the world's largest technical publishing operations, holds some 30 technical conferences and 200 professional development courses each year, and sets many industrial and manufacturing standards.

A little bit about the Thornton's and Lemp's

A couple of respondents to this attempt at chronicling the little knowledge I have of the Lemp history have asked; has anyone given you any new information, anecdotes or corrected you? The answer is no. That’s not the kind of feedback I am receiving.
I doubt the people who could do that,will ever read this blog. But I would be quite content to be corrected and tutored.
Whenever I think about Noel and Adele, the next two family members I’m going to write about, I cannot help but feel contrite. The tune by The Mills Brothers “You Always Hurt the One You Love” would best describe my remorse. I certainly could have been a more helpful brother to them both.

Noel Lemp—brother
Noel and I went through the system together and reacted to it totally different. There were three years between us and at that age it makes a big difference. I was his big brother and certainly got into many scrapes trying to protect him. So we were kind of together and kind of apart the way kids can be.
Noel was definitely Peck’s bad boy right from the get go. He was constantly in hot water. When he was about eight years old he was hiding in an apple tree so he could avoid helping the rest of us kids with our chores. Unfortunately for him, a branch broke and he fell about twenty feet and landed on a wooden sand box. Landing on the two-by six frame resulted in a nasty compound fracture of one of his legs. The screams of anguish could be heard all over the neighborhood. The response time to emergencies in the early fifties was somewhat longer than now. So the feeling of despair seemed endless. He ended up with a plate in his leg. He walked with a slight limp for the rest of his life. In grammar school the system  made his life miserable as they forced him to write right handed, when he was a natural lefty. And the foster home at the schools prompting, forced him to do everything else with his right hand. To his credit he stubbornly refused. And the system finally gave up on him, in more ways then one. And for the rest of his life, in my mind, he was the real life Joe Btfsplk.
When he was a young adult he was constantly in trouble with the police. No real crimes, mostly delinquency due to imbibing.
For an example, one night after having one too many he decided that he was hungry. So he broke into a diner, turned on all of the lights, and fixed himself a snack. When the police showed up, they found him sitting at the counter, reading a newspaper and eating a sandwich. These kinds of shenanigans were a real embarrassment to me. I should have tried to consul him but I was more concerned about my image and shunned him. When my mother passed away we had to bail him out of jail for some minor scrap. He was in the Salem jail waiting for the judge’s disposition in this particular incident. I had to put my house up as surety so that he could attend the funeral proceedings. There was a lot of Lemp’s sleeping at my house that night. Except for me, I was on a constant vigil to make sure Noel did not decide to take it on the lam. If he did it would not have been done with malice. That’s just the way he was. He married a girl named Corinne or Carina (I think) who had one child. They lived in Salem Mass in a real seedy neighborhood. He had a difficult time holding a job. But they seemed to love each other and were getting by. Then one day out of the blue he came to my work place in Medford. Mass. He told me things were going pretty good but that he was out of work again. So to pass the time he would like to borrow my John boat and electric trolling motor so he could go fishing. With a little trepidation, I said yes. I gave him a few dollars and wished him luck. That was the last I ever saw of Noel, or my boat and motor for that matter.
From what I can gather, he went to try his luck with David and then Harry. And then became a drifter. At the age of forty, he was hit and killed by a train somewhere in Louisiana.
Noel had a flair for sketching and probably could have followed in his Uncle James’s footsteps. He was tall for a Lemp, about five-eleven. He had an impish nature and an infectious grin. He preferred to be called Paul and was well liked and had many friends from Ryal Side. But his rebellious nature lead to a star-crossed life.

Adele Lemp-sister
I have always called her Adele but have heard others refer to her as Elise. Which it appears is her actual given name.
Of all the missteps in my life, and believe me there were many, how I handled my interaction with her still haunts me to this day. My youngest daughter, Diana, has been trying to make contact with her. She has been in contact with Adele’s social worker. And it appears as though Adele is not the least bit interested in any interaction.
I do not blame her one bit. If the roles were reversed I’m sure I would react the same way.
When Diana told me that she was going to try make contact again (she had tried a few years prior). It filled me with apprehension. How could Adele not think after all these years, “Is this about me or him? What an arrogant asshole!”
Adele is tiny and beautiful. When she has things under control health wise she is vibrant and very witty. She is, I believe, the only one of us kids to get a college degree. You only have to talk to her for a few minutes to realize that you are talking to a very intelligent person. When she was having problems and she needed me the most, I failed her. I would like to have a few anecdotes to relate. But our relationship was stormy at best. And any tales I have should stay between her and I.
David and Delice have been much closer to her. And I applaud them for being much more helpful and caring than I.
According to the contact Diana has had with Adele’s social worker. Adele is doing well physically and is quite content. I sincerely hope so.
I can see a little bit of Adele in all three of my daughters.
And all things being equal, I think Adele and Leah would easily out shine us all.