Excerpted From Tales of A Hoosier Boy and Selected Works
(this setting of my boyhood experiences became the backdrop for the children's short story, "Margaret"                   Home

"Tales of A Hoosier Boy
 

Epilogue

I'm guessing the year at about 1951. I'm on the lap of an adult in a large sedan. On our left is deep woods. From the right rear seat we look out the window. Into our view and somewhat below us a farm appears. The sedan rolls down the gravel road and makes a right hand turn. A little further another right hand turn and we are into the farm property.

My mother tells me I'm too young to remember these things, "You were just a baby!". But I remember nonetheless. The house is now before us. To the left is the poultry barn with a potato patch behind it. I remember being in a furrow in the potato patch and imitating my elders by uprooting a sizeable spud. Though my Mother is amazed, I am able to recall some details as to the interior of the home. This was the farm in Middlebury, Indiana where I was just a baby.

Other than the above all other memories commence in Bristol, Indiana where the story truly begins.

Bristol

The house sat right on the main drag. Vistula Street ran right through the middle of Bristol, Indiana. Not a large town, a 1960 census sign at the edge of town read, "Population 998". I thought, "Couldn't they come up with at least two more people to make it a thousand!"

As befitting a small town, everybody knew everybody. Everybody knew the Kellerman clan, we were one of the largest families in town and one of the poorest. One year at Thanksgiving a box of food showed up on the front porch. That was embarrassing. Another time in grade school, during an in classroom recess, the neighbor girl, Patty Stutsman said, "My Mom has another box of clothes for you guys". But being young, the worries and embarrassment of being a ne'er do well easily fled my mind as I went about enjoying and suffering typical boyhood experiences.

Someone had said that the house we lived in was built in Civil War times but that was never confirmed. When very young I remember that we had no indoor water, the pump was on the outside of the house. Later on we became sophisticated and the pump was on the back porch. Heaven forbid not leaving primer water in the bucket though, you can't prime the pump if the water bucket is empty! One winter day the water was there sure enough, frozen solid!

Also early on it was the proverbial fifty yards to the outhouse. I recall a two seater that sat well behind the house at the rear of the property. One year some pranksters tipped it over. It was not too upsetting to Mom and Dad, I suppose, the Kellerman bunch could boast their own fair share of town pranks. But, after some years we entered the twentieth century and a bathroom became part of the indoor household. Prior to that many a bath was done in a washtub. Central heat was never an option. A wood and coal burning stove on the first floor served as the heating source. You sure could catch hell from Dad if you were the one to bring up the coal or shake down the ashes and you didn't get it done. Did we miss out in this more primitive lifestyle? I would never say yes to that one. We had no idea of what we missed other than when visiting friends I would often wonder where the heat came from when I didn't see a stove. Besides, If your were one of the lucky ones who had gloves in the winter, what better way to dry them by plopping them smack dab on top of the stove. They would hiss at first as cold, wet cloth hit the hot stove top. Then you had to be careful they didn't start to burn!

I didn't know until years later why Dad and the older boys would clean the Episcopalian Church across the street. In the summer it was mow the grass on the Church grounds and the dreaded trimming around the headstones in the cemetery. It was later told to me that we enjoyed living where we did because the Church owned the house we lived in and that's how Dad paid the rent. But again, there were great adventures in the midst of this. The Church had a secret passageway near the altar that lead to the basement. Many hours of hide and seek overcame the otherwise monotonous task of dusting every single pew. Outside, nature had provided several tall pine trees, all cone bearing. Being young and adventurous the pine cones naturally became projectiles. We always seemed to find a way to have fun.

Being a small town, you didn't have to go far to be away from the urban congestion. Farmland surrounded that part of the country with many a deep woods, a river and creek (pronounced "crick"), were close by. With all the accouterments of boyhood adventure, the following chapters will display the rich fabric of life's experiences for this Hoosier born boy. Hoping that your will be amused.


Playland
   I live in a West Central Florida subdivision. At the time the homes here were constructed, the market targeted was the retiree crowd. It's a pleasant neighborhood, paved streets, sidewalks, street lights. But everyday I see adolescents and teens wandering around, no place to go for privacy or to "hang out".

Not so in my boyhood town of Bristol, Indiana. I named this chapter Playland because there probably could be no more perfect place for a youngster to grow up. Many, many places in town offered endless adventures for us Kellerman boys in the fifties. Bristol had it all and if I could wave a magic wand, I would enable every young person to enjoy the same arena for childhood experiences. Custom made for growing up, Bristol offered a richness that cannot be met by the current neighborhood I now inhabit. What the effect on young people not having this gift of storybook surroundings I can only guess.....and be saddened.

Take a look at the rough sketch of my most immediate world in the mid fifties. This was only the beginning. As I aged and was allowed greater roaming rights, the little town of Bristol, Indiana offered daring exploits no matter what direction you turned.

The home straight upward in the middle was the ol' Kellerman abode. To the right, in the easterly direction a greater amount of my childhood leisure was spent in this small niche on the planet. To the east the was the Nazarene church next door and on the other side was some of our closest chums, Steve and Patti Stutsman. The Stutsman's had a real nice home. And talk about the neatest toys. When I was very young I played with Steve's cowboy and Indian set. Made of plastic, it was still kind of new back then, the little figures and the simulated fort had a certain plastic aroma that I just loved. Perhaps that accounts for the few remaining brain cells that I still have functioning, I sniffed too many plastic play figures. The big tree out in front of Steve's house was the perfect miniature terrain for a little boy's western adventures.

The Stutsmans were better off than we were. The frosting on the cake was the lighted basketball court at the rear of their property. I wasn't aware back then of the impact that basketball had on rural Indiana. But when I moved to Chicago years later, only the black guys in high school could keep up with me. I only played one season in grammar school basketball but we sometimes played all day and into the night on the Stutsman's court. We got good just out of sheer practice.

Steve Stutsman was extremely competitive. A Nazarene church sat between our homes. In back of the church was a large field. Just the right size for a whiffle ball field or as we did, commensurate with International Sports, an Olympic field! We’d mark out the oval for the track and field events and have our own little Bristol Olympics.

One year in particular, Steve and I ran a distance race around the oval. Don’t ask me to remember the length of the race, I can’t, but it was more than several laps. Steve and I took off from the starting point and I expected Steve to win because he was about two years my senior and I was only about seven or eight years old. Steve and I jogged the bulk of the race, knowing to pace ourselves to complete the event. Surprisingly, I led most of the race while I heard Steve somewhere about forty yards behind me. "Gosh", I thought, "I’m going to win this thing!" Steve’s back there chugging and I’ve got this baby sown up!". It was the final lap that dashed this young boy’s dream. We were on the last lap and the pace had quickened. With about a half lap to go I smelled victory. Then I heard the footfalls.

Steve had been sandbagging. Pacing himself for the inevitable win, Steve powered his strong legs into action on that last lap. He literally blew by me on the last turn. The thought of beating the older boy went sailing right out the window along with a slight bit of this boy’s naiveté. Steve had only laid in wait for the younger upstart and waited to the last lap to display his athletic superiority. In spite of the defeat I believe the act of competing made me better able to accept competition in the adult years. In athletics there can only be one first place winner but coming in second sure beats being a spectator.

Being young and being boys, competitiveness was an axiom. Whether we were skipping stones, throwing spears from river reeds or swingin’ off the rope and dropping into the cold creek water, there was always the element of who did it the best. "Oh, yeah, watch this!" was an everyday expression in these times.

Many more adventures were available in the quaint little town of Bristol. Other tales were of the hikes deep into the woods, the long, long bike ride, the time we took a small boat way into the headwaters of the Little Elkhart River, climbing the rails under the big bridge in town and discovering the Indian Burial Mounds.

There is more than just one or two chapters can relate. But, Mom and Dad, the economic promise of the big city may render a comfortable income, a splendid home with a pool and other worldly rewards. However, if you get a chance to have a home in a small town somewhere, grasp the gold ring. Do it for the kids.

There I am, lower front. Must have been about two or three years old. 1951, maybe 1952

  

Read more of "Tales of a Hoosier Boy" in the publication "Tales of a Hoosier Boy" and Selected Works, shown on the Home Page


Charles G. Kellerman

Writings And Sketchwork For Sale by the Webmaster

"Margaret"
"Old Tom P. Dodd"
"Tales of a Hoosier Boy and Selected Works"
"The Misadventures of Charles"

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