Main Street – January 22, 1948

By Morris Rote-Rosen

Here we are, on a quiet winter night, behind the typewriter. "Twinkle" is stretched out, under the desk light in our den, purring as she watches the typewriter keys, striking off word after word of "Main Street." The cat apparently is enjoying the heat coming from the two bright and warm electric lights, under which she lies. Her head moves with every skip of the paper carriage of the typewriter. When the bell rings at the end of the line her ears point straight up. We wanted to go to Dwyer's to see that Tandberg-Maxim fight on the television, but the machine is out of order.

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Then we thought that perhaps we would go down to the high school to witness the Granville-Fort Edward basketball game. On a second thought, we haven't seen GHS win a ball game in a long time. If we stay away it might bring the Blue and Gold a break in their basketball luck. So here we are writing our column with the cat as a silent partner. Our left arm is in a sling. We are nursing a fractured collar bone. We pick on the typewriter keys slowly and with deliberation, stopping now and then to shift to a capital letter, or a punctuation mark. We now understand the interpretation of the saying "as busy as a one-armed paper hanger."

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It was our privilege to assist about 100 World War II veterans in filling out their applications for the New York state bonus and we were impressed by the fact that if our country is ever in danger our people can feel that in our veterans we have a mighty force of men who have proven themselves worthy successors to the soldiers of Valley Forge, of Bull's Run and of Chateau Thierry. Men who appreciate their American heritage because they had to fight and fight hard for it.

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We watched the line of veterans coming and going. Among them were the farmers, the quarrymen, the mechanics, the teachers, the technicians, the merchants, the white collar workers. Some came in their overalls; others in their dress clothes. Some had just come off the farm; others had just left their factory benches. These made up a representative group of Americans who go along from day to day, following their trades and occupations, who prefer peace to war and civilian clothes to service uniform.

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The service records, which they brought with them, showed honorable and distinguished service under the Stars and Stripes in almost every foreign country and in every corner of the globe. Soldiers, sailors, marines, all branches of the services of the United States. We were proud to associate with them. None spoke of their service record. None pointed to the act of heroism which were included in their discharge papers. None pointed to the decorations awarded for bravery. Service men all who answered the call to arms and gave it their best.

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And among these veterans there was a sprinkling of mothers who represented the more than 300,000 homes throughout our great country whose sons made the supreme sacrifice. One mother clutched a crumpled piece of yellow paper -- the telegram -- which she brought with her as evidence to apply for the state bonus. "Have you the telegram notifying you of the death of your son?" we asked a mother dressed in black. Her eyes moistened. She gulped. "Here it is," she said, "my husband opened it and closed it two years ago and I haven't looked at it since." We unfolded it. She turned away as we read it.

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Among these veterans, all of whom were writing, filling in the proper answers on the bonus application, there was a youth just out of his twenties. He struggled with his pen. His hand was shaky. He stopped every few minutes trying to concentrate on the questions and answers. At 20 years of age he is an old man. His nerves shattered. His health is gone. A nightmare is running through his mind. He is one of a group of survivors of the inferno of Iwo Jima. We take the paper from him and we complete his form. He whispers, "Thank you."

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A father comes in. He takes his seat, seeking information on the bonus. His shoulders drooping, his head lowered. He turns over a packet of official army papers. Two sons of his made the supreme sacrifice fighting for their country. We ask no questions. Mother couldn't face the ordeal to come. Would we assist them in filling out the forms? What would your answer be? And so, in only a few days, we witnessed a line passing in review which aroused admiration, compassion and sympathy and a sense of appreciation of a group of men and women who made us feel humble in their presence and truly grateful to them for the privilege of being able to enjoy the liberties which they preserved for us at such a great sacrifice.

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Do you remember the parody entitled: "Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Mulligan's chowder?" We ask who threw them in the oyster stew of the Veterans of Foreign Wars meeting to cause it to curdle before serving the other night. Something went sour in the kitchen. The oysters, the milk, or the mess-sergeant. Better luck next time, soldiers! ... Meat highjacking is back in Granville like it was during the war. A cow was butchered in a Middle Granville barn, the hind quarters taken away and the rest of the carcas left in the barn to rot.

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The girls did it again in 1947. They beat the boys in the stork race with a score of 104 to 101, out of a total of 105 births in Granville during the past year ... Arthur Bruce, an ardent fisherman, winter or summer, and quite a time stretching that ice hole on Lake St. Catherine in order to pull through a 12-pound great northern pike ... Ralph Stafford, who has held down the position of clerk in the county treasurer's office for 35 years, has told as many funny stories during that time as the number of days he has served. Ralph has a million of 'em ... Now that Stuart Howland has finally got his own temperature under control, he is again harassing the weather bureau's temperature. Welcome back, Doc!

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We don't know the reason, but our phone has been ringing with inquiries recently about the village census. So we will put it down here for general information. The last (1940) census of the village showed the population as 3,173; the town as 5,508, the county as 46,376 ... It's good to see that jovial and friendly neighbor, Leo M. Rock, back on the street once more. We miss fellows like that when they drop out of circulation ... Our staying away from the basketball game didn't bring the Blue and Gold good luck after all. We learned later that they lost 50 to 36.

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We watched them loading Christmas trees on a rubbish truck. Trees which only a few weeks ago occupied the most important corner in a warm comfortable home, bedecked with shiny tinsel, arrayed in colored lights, and loaded with gifts, the attraction of all. Now these are being hauled away and dumped with a lot of worthless rubbish. It reminds one of the brevity of life. Like an individual who struts his stuff from the day to day, with an idea perhaps, that without him the world would be a void and all would come to an end. And just about the time when he thinks that he is indispensable he finds his way out to the trail of the unknown, gone and soon forgotten.