Wisconsin War Bride Diary II “Pedal Pushers”

Charles Herbert Ripp. My name derived from maternal Great Uncle Charles Zuercher – an early 1900s cheese baron in his days with cold storage and cheese manufacturing in Decatur Township within Green County, Wisconsin. Charles shipped cheese globally; and was far ahead of his competitors’ business. Herbert was from my dad’s first name (Herbert John Ripp). The Ripp’s were German immigrants and the Zuercher family (cheese) were also Ellis Island Swiss immigrants. The first brew of Esser’s beer was accomplished in Grandpa Zuercher’s garage in Cross Plains, Wi.. Thus, there is beer and cheese legacy within our family. I have been called Charles (schooling), Charlie, Chuck, Chucky, Herby, Little Herby and Ripp. I have far too many names; but everyone means well. When Mom (The War Bride) called me Charles Herbert, I immediately knew I was doomed (grounding, paddling, scolding). Most people called me Chucky – some spelled it distastefully Chuckie. Why waste letters with a long spelling of the name? That’s me; and I’m here to tell everyone what it was like growing up in small-town America a couple generations prior. Please follow along.     

Day I (Brother Steve’s Birthday Party) 

My first recollection of real life was my brother’s Steve birthday party at age 5 (1956). I was 3.5 years of age and was properly invited. There are black and white pictures of this day on record; but I remember vividly who was there, the chocolate cake and the actual birthday presents. Neighborhood kids arriving from nearby were neighbors Susie and Billie Shrier, Gary Huffman down 4thstreet and Sherrie Coplien across 4thStreet. This was a small colorful birthday party with balloons, bubbles, an old picnic table, steamy August 28 weather, lemonade, and chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream People wore pants that ended at mid-calf – termed pedal pushers. Modernly girls feel they are cute calling them clam diggers or capris; but the real term is pedal pushers. Pedal pushers came from biker’s attire so the bike chain wouldn’t catch in the long pants. Kids extremely cool (groovy hadn’t arrived yet) had cuffed pedal pushers (probably oversized from an older brother). Cool was stated not short and terse as modernly; but long and drawn out back then (1950s). Some at the birthday party actually did wear pedal pushers; and thus, were not considered “squares” – modern term is “Geek”. Kids at the party wore tee shirts and had primitive flip-flops or Keds tennis shoes (totally “in”). We played games around the yard, had immense fun and Mom (War Bride) supervised the entire operation. Tag was the best game and I was always tagged being the slowest and youngest child present.  

Mom (War Bride) wore a colorful matching pink blouse and long shorts with sandals (no socks). Dad was around a touch; but was always working on something around the house and yard. Dad was happy because Mom was happy. Mom was happy because all the kids were happy. Nobody wanted the day to end because of the sheer fun. Grandma (Grams) came from the county seat of Green County (Monroe, Wi..) Grams was a strict disciplinarian but a very good person. There never could and will be a better birthday party than my brother Steve’s 5thbirthday party. I was saddened when it finally ended. Amazingly, as a birthday party participant I received a “tommy” squirt gun. This gun delivered multiple long stinging soaker rounds. I wetted the entire party before the day was done. Mom definitely said Charles Herbert at the end of the day; and I knew an upcoming mild scolding would ensue. Dad was drafted for bigger punishments. My brother Steve garnered a few successful birthday presents. I felt the day was a success and hid from Mom in my upstairs room after the party to avoid punishment. I had sprayed Sherry Coplien a bunch and probably half-drowned her with the tommy gun squirt gun (I’m certain these water rifles are off the market and not PC today).  

Sherry Coplien was an older gal than myself. She thought she was more sophisticated than anyone else. Guys thought she was cute and always attracted to her. I didn’t care for her until she let me skate in the winter months on her incredible backyard rink (music, bleachers, evening lights – the works). Then I felt she was okay. She always had this heir of royalty because Burt (her dad) owned this beauty salon next to their house. Running the only beauty shop in a town of 2200 made you royalty because you made non-beautiful people beautiful. Everyone exited Burt’s Beauty Salon with the stylish stiff poodle cut or similar. Most of the small-town wives spent hours at Burt’s and gave us tootsie rolls from their purses if we were in the yard playing hoops or another game. If a woman exiting Burt’s Beauty Salon was not smiling and happy, then we assumed they belonged in a nearby power community (Monroe, Janesville or even Madison, Wisconsin).  

The salon shop thus made Sherry Coplien royalty (akin to a duchess). And Sherry certainly acted like royalty in all ways. She attached and dumped guys with regularity. I, however, liked Sherry because of the skating rink. Sherry escalated to high prominence when the song “Sherry” by the Four Seasons arrived. Nobody in our little town could touch her! I gave up trying to compete with her because the Ripp’s across the street were fodder compared to the royalty Coplien family who owned the Beauty Salon. Our family didn’t belong to the Decatur Country Club nor run for office (yet). My parents had friends (Pierces, Timms, and others) who played serious bridge. Everyone smoked and drank some hard liquor. Modernly, we tee-pee yards with toilet paper in trees. The 1950s joke was to place a card table and chairs with empty liquor bottles in the yard at night. People drove by and laughed – it was mere adult fun. Kids thought this endeavor was stupid. Life was quite simple back then. My world was a large old house with constant remodeling by Dad, my neighbors, nearby friends and family. A few weeks later my tommy squirt gun cracked from the cement, leaked and was in the trash can. I had small tears because it was my favorite toy. Mom and Dad put the clamps on me shooting people; so, I shot trees, birds and anything else that was an object. I was a very happy kid at 3.5 years of age. My world was all within a small-town city block. I didn’t know that anything else existed outside of my immediate neighborhood. Life would engender complexities beyond contemplation. Sadly, we can’t remain at this happy developmental stage optionally.    

Day 2 (Wisconsin Oleo Wars – Secret Runs to Illinois)

The next day Mom and Dad packed brother Steve and myself into our two-tone tan Country Squire Ford station wagon for a trip to South Beloit, Illinois. Oleomargarine sales in Wisconsin had been banned since 1895 because of the butter industry. Everyone was supposed to pay a $1 license and a 6 cents/lb. tax on oleomargarine purchased out of state. The smuggling of Oleo was widespread; and the Ripps were in the middle of the pack. We had cold large storage bins with ice in the back of the station wagon. Butter was expensive for blue collar folks; and the smuggling practice was widespread. The South Beloit Piggly Wiggly was only 20 miles away from our house. Once we crossed the state line, it seemed we were in another world. There was more traffic, people and commotion. We all went into the store together and for the very first time I confronted African-American minority people working at the grocery store. I remember talking to a young Black guy who was very nice. We discussed sports and he helped my parents smuggle Oleo. Everything appeared to be so secret. We immediately drove home and placed the oleomargarine in the back refrigerator. Mom and Dad never said much about the practice of oleo smuggling. I thought in the back of my mind that oleo was criminal and butter (the state crop) was clean and pure. I told this story in college and nobody believed me. And we always purchased yellow oleo as opposed to white oleo – the upgrade.  

Arriving home from our secret oleomargarine mission Mom gave me a pop (Coca-Cola). I needed to get my mind off the secret raid. We just purchased a television set and I now was aware of bad-guy or possible criminal behavior. We had a black and white television set (Motorola); and I’d seen Lassie and Father Knows Best. There was nothing but good on TV. Father Knows Best never would think of smuggling oleomargarine. I felt like my parents had robbed a bank and the Country Squire station wagon was our get-away vehicle. I left after my pop and played endlessly in the yard and sand-box. Dad as a WWII Pacific veteran and now Reserve Major commanding a local battalion gave me military vehicles (jeeps and tanks) along with American and Japanese soldiers.  

Americans always won these sand-box wars. I assumed these wars with Dad’s involvement were mere scuffles. I couldn’t imagine what really occurred. Brother Steve came to the sand-box and accused me of being pro-Japanese. I ignored him! Brother Steve could start and finish a fight with anyone (Tarzan on TV, the priest or neighbor kids). These were fun – fights/no big deal – just somewhat annoying. Ignoring Steve really bothered him because he always demanded action. Jap slang after WWII was a 4-letter word in three letters. Thankfully that has faded with time.  

My world now stretched beyond 402 East Second Avenue in Brodhead, Wisconsin to South Beloit, Illinois. I didn’t really like stuff outside of my home turf. I shared a room and lower bunk bed with my brother. He still called me a Jap; but I fell asleep again ignoring him. WWII was in our immediate history; and, thankfully the labeling slang of our prior enemy (Japan) has faded. I later learned that Dad had flown many missions over Southeast Asia and Japan. He worked with the Flying Tigers and other heroic dedicated General MacArthur groups to ensure our everlasting American freedom. As an adult, I actually witnessed him on the back of a flatbed truck with other military guys evacuating Burma. I had no idea as a kid what Dad had endured for many of us.  

Day 3 (Grams House) 

Monroe, Wisconsin was 11 miles west of Brodhead, Wisconsin on Highway 11. Highway 11 was a tortuous 2 – lane drive with a high fatality rate for years (Wisconsin 18-year-old beer bars attracting young adults from surrounding states). We traveled to Grandpa and Grandma’s (Grams) house frequently. Mom (War Bride) was raised in Monroe and she had a very close relationship with her parents. Periodically, her brother James (Uncle Jim) would reveal himself. James was a Jesuit brother who also went to Marquette University for 3.5 years and left college to become a Jesuit brother (hard calling). Grandpa it is said loved the Jesuit ministry, but wanted James to finish college. James traveled about Iowa and helped special needs children and adults. The vows of poverty are real; and James virtually had one pair of shoes and two changes of clothes his entire life (simple). He was a very happy man with Christ; and talked endlessly about Christianity. He was the very best uncle.  

Mary, Mom’s sister was frequently at Gram’s house because her husband Roland (French Canadian) was with the military and assisted Chiang Kai-shek with translation in Southeast Asia during and after WWII. Mary’s kids, first cousins (Jim and Michelle), were frequently at Gram’s house. We played endlessly on green scooters up and down 17thAvenue in Monroe, Wi.. The basement was stuffed full of old toys that Mom, Mary and James played as children. I extremely enjoyed playing with old Chinese Checker boards, Jack-in-the-box and primitive Lincoln Logs. These toys obviously were the last generation’s (1930s) fun. My toys were a tremendous upgrade from these archaic playthings. At home I had a modern trike, potato head doll, hula hoop, Play-Doh and my rifle squirt gun.  Our checker board was elaborate; but nowhere did anyone in my neighborhood have Chinese Checkers. This was an interesting and unique game compared to American Checkers. My cousins, brother Steve and I played endlessly in the basement these old games that Grams had purchased for Mom, Mary and James as children. 

If we were there on a Sunday evening, the kids were ordered to the basement. The couple across the street (Huber’s) came to Gram’s house for bridge play. Everyone back then was a wonderful bridge player. Bridge was a real sport similar to football; and for years was analyzed within Sports Illustrated. The Huber family was famous for beer – German immigrants beginning the brewing in the 1840s. Huber Brewery was the second oldest brewery in the United States. Huber’s were world famous within the industry and amongst beer drinkers. They had an old empty keg of beer in their front yard; and that helped me locate Gram’s house if I was lost on the scooter. A block west towards the then Monroe High School was an outdoor skating rink. This was an upgrade from our skating rinks in Brodhead (Sugar River or The Mill Race). There was a warming hut, skate rental and hockey nets. The cost was 10 cents for all-day. I had just begun to skate as a tike; and we only had sticks for hockey goals in Brodhead, Wisconsin. After a day of skating, I found my way home again looking for Huber’s beer keg in the front lawn.  

As kids we stayed at Gram’s house considerably. My mom and dad worked endlessly to make ends meet. Mom worked at the hospital on weekends and Dad worked generally 6 days a week for the Milwaukee Road Railroad as a depot agent and telegrapher. We had one of Dad’s telegraph machines in our house; and communicated in our house with the Morse Code for fun. Yearly we took it to school and wired it from one end to the other and sent messages throughout the school to demonstrate what Dad accomplished (business and government sent telegraphs throughout the world). Obviously, this is a time gone by; and is historic. The key was the Morse Code; and Dad was surely one of the very best. Dad learned his trade in the military and was a messenger through telegraphy in Southeast Asia.  

These days at Grams house were the very best also because of food. Grams was a fabulous chef in all ways. She made daily a large potful of oatmeal. Nobody knew what she did to make the oatmeal so tasty. I couldn’t eat enough because it was that good. Other foods cooked and served superbly were salads, desserts and endless main courses of steak/chicken/vegetables. Grams was very strict in all ways – from dress to behavior. Though she was a grandma, she was harder on grandkids than original parents. If I brought homework to her house, it had to be completed 100% before any fun activities began. Grams gave me direction and virtues of life. Later as a child I felt I’d receive a break from serving mass; however, both Grandpa and Grams went to mass daily (common in previous generations). Mass and prayer were part of their existence. I miss my Grams and Grandpa to this very day.   

Day 4 (Brodhead Fires)

At college (Creighton University) as a frosh, everyone sat around in the dorms and discussed/ bragged about their upbringing. My stories were stuffed with amazement, laughter and disbelief. It was a frequent occurrence when fires occurred in rural Wisconsin areas. The barn fires on farms were real torchers. Dad was a volunteer fireman. If available, he attended every fire. The loud town fire siren would sound at least every other day. Volunteer fireman would immediately travel to the firehouse in the middle of town. Our next-door neighbor (Ken Shrier) treated it like a code in a hospital (patient dying). Ken would back out of the driveway with extreme accuracy and whip his Chevy (worked at GM in Janesville) into drive in < 5 seconds. Ken Shrier was NASCAR before NASCAR existed. Ken led the pack of young dads to the firehouse. Shrier had his black-rubber fire jacket, boots and equipment loaded driving the firetruck with everyone hanging on into the street in a matter of seconds. Firemen on TV shows are slow compared to Ken Shrier. I distinctly remember Ken hopping curves, traveling through stop signs and peeking out in front of cars on Highway 11 traveling through town. Nothing was politically correct about Ken Shrier attending a fire. He was the Barney Fife as a firefighter – none better or prepared. Ken Shrier lived for fire dousing.  

Watching Ken was .5 of the excitement. Half the town would also get in their cars, disobey traffic speeds and signs and get to the firehouse. Someone would yell where the fire occurred; and it passed down the line. It was common to see a long-line of cars follow the firetrucks. Many had kids not strapped in, dogs hanging out windows and refreshments. This was an event beyond description – for no costs. If it was a torching barn fire, then the scene would be excitement saving animals inside, screaming of humans and animals (sheep/cows/horses/pigs), and organized chaos of fire fighters and non-paying observers. There are many close sporting contests that permeates excitement. The Brodhead fires’ excitement is well above any 4thquarter football comeback. My life is dull now comparably. The culture still exists that the town has to follow the fire trucks – no matter the mileage. I remember vividly a long line of cars speeding to the fire – clogging the roads for emergency responders. Chasing fires (akin to chasing tornadoes) was a “thing” in this community. Half the town dropped what they were doing and followed fire trucks. Most college kids felt the practice was illegal (probably is). Somehow the law is tacitly pushed aside; and the culture of following fires has never left this community. Gossip and social discourse occurred endlessly from just one fire. If a family missed the burn, shame on them. Attendants at a fire liked to be seen because somehow by being there they felt they were importantly helping the dousing cause. Ken Shrier (early NASCAR) along with a line of vehicles chasing the frequent fires is a memory beyond description. I was a back-seat patron to the fires; and I witnessed many farm animals running out of barns on fire only to earn a spraying from multiple hoses. The disbelief of this fire chasing practice still exists; but it again was a thing in Brodhead, Wisconsin.   

Day 5 (Training Wheels and Beyond)

There never can be a better sensation than early riding real bikes. My parents connected me to early training wheels on a medium Huffy bike (20 inches). I felt training wheels were cheating and removed them as quickly as possible. I distinctly remember the fear of traveling down East 2ndAvenue and not being able to stop in time. I plunged into a few trees, curbs and fell a few times – sustaining scrapes. Nobody had bike helmets and many of us had larger hand-me-down bikes to ride. The issue was stopping and unloading with a larger bike. I had a larger wheel base because that is all we had to hand down. The bike was fast and I soon learned to control this incredible invention. I rode endlessly around our block and beyond. If I traveled down the street > one block or off the sidewalks, Mom and Dad would panic. It seemed the real world a block away was another country because since birth my world was just my immediate one block radius neighborhood. I distinctly remember being a touch uncomfortable if I strayed. My Huffy bike was tremendous; and I learned how to fill the tires from Dad. I couldn’t have been happier because riding a bike as a kid was as “good as it gets”. Dad eventually put a front basket on my bike; and when paper routes began, back baskets were added. I kept this bike for a long time (years). 

Bikes were very special to my brother and myself. Yesteryear allowed ingenuity with bicycles in many ways. In time we had our own bike shop -fixing our own bikes and neighborhood bikes in our garage. It required time to learn gears and hand brakes. Our early bikes had neither; but life was simple – like my first bike. Schwinn bikes developed the butterfly handlebars in America – coming from Europe. The first “Sting-Ray” bike was 1964. It was expensive so we didn’t come close to it. We had old-junky bikes that people dropped off due to disrepair. We’d fix them and sell. Finding parts was difficult; and we became reasonably good at repairs of tires, brakes and eventually gears. Elaborate bikes allowed us to place steering wheels, sirens and baseball cards on bikes. Baseball cards were cheap, a stack came with 5 cent gum and were easily traded. We thought nothing of flapping baseball cards on our bike spokes with laundry pins. I can’t believe I wore out Mickey Mantle, Lou Brock and Henry Aaron’s cards – nobody really believing they would be worth thousands in later years. The Cleveland neighbors had a bike with reverse mounting so the rider was a few feet off the ground. This was beyond cool and required considerable welding by their grandpa.  

Ultimately, bikes reigned in small towns. We rode to school, Boy Scouts, church, paper routes (120 clients) and to each other’s houses for play. Putnam Park was 4 blocks away and merely a quick ride. I usually picked up a couple friends on the way. Nobody in small towns worried about kid-stealing monsters. We were all over the community without parental supervision – other parents looking out for everyone wherever we were. My bike served me well; life was simple. My Huffy rarely broke down; and I regret taking it to the dumpster with Dad. I cried but knew its time was over because for Christmas as a youth I received a brand-new Schwinn Typhoon Roadster bicycle. I’m still in shock today because I felt my parents would never purchase a new bike for my brother and myself. My parents and everyone I knew was extremely “tight” with money because of growing up in the 1930s Depression. We never threw anything out; and only purchased items needed within the family. Footballs, basketballs, bikes, skates, school books and everything else was used. That was parenting back in the 1950s and 1960s. My brother and I had no idea that two new typhoons were Santa Claus worthy. Again, I’m still in shock over the Schwinn typhoon (26 inch) bicycle gifts from Santa. 

Day 6 (Putnam Park)

There is no better place in the world than Putnam Park. As a child, I played here endlessly with my family and friends. As a young boy, I was placed in a summer park program with “Gummy Gumbar”. Gummy (nickname) was a member of a longstanding family in the community. Gummy (Frank) Gumbar was an excellent 4th grade teacher at Brodhead Elementary School. I remember his classes vividly from American history lore. Gummy during the summer ran the park program at Putnam. We played endless games such as “ring around the rosy”, musical chairs, peek-a-boo, and water balloons. Gummy’s dad helped on many occasions. Other games as I advanced in age included shuffle board, tetherball, whiffle and softball, football, hard-ball baseball, hoops and kickball. There were endless parties and friendships. We rode our bikes to the park daily; and sometimes brought a lunch. Parents had no worries about kids at Putnam Park compared to modern times. 

Gummy commandeered a bus to Monroe (13 miles) for a weekly swim before the Brodhead pool was built – 1960s. As kids we sang endlessly on the bus “100 Bottles of Beer in the Wall”. These were happy times for everyone. I had it all including park activities, swimming and biking. Friends were aplenty; but I usually hung with kids on my side of town. You sensed the division if someone was from the other corner of town (not in my quadrant). Everything was divided evenly in Brodhead by quadrants for kids’ sports and other competition. I secretly despised some of these kids not in my quadrant – no reason – just competitiveness.  

When the Brodhead pool was built, all the kids swam daily – generally all afternoon. Using Gummy’s morning park program and afternoon swimming I became exhausted by supper. Summer went by quickly; but thankfully school didn’t start until well into September (colleges began at the end of September). I still query why school progressively began before Labor Day as I advanced in grade. The best weather throughout Wisconsin and the Midwest was in September. As a child I lamented going back to school early and countered with go to school until July 4thand begin October 1. September was a great summer month in Wisconsin – filled with superb weather, memories and Monarch butterflies (perfection). I longed in hot/sweaty classrooms to be at Putnam Park – always thinking that September was my month of continuing summer fun. Some years they left the outdoor Putnam Park pool open on weekends; and I was thankful. I sat in classrooms and reminisced about how great a summer I experienced.  

Fall didn’t end Putnam Park visits. Pick-up football occurred after school at Putnam. We played 4 downs to score with a wide-open passing attack. We had a 60-yard field. These games were thrilling and we played until dark. Steve and I usually were late for supper. Underneath Mom was happy we were exercising and socializing. Occasionally, we had a fight over a disputed self-call like “trapping” the ball or stepping out-of-bounds. Generally, we played 2-hand touch football; but on weekends we played tackle with equipment.  

The whiffle ball pickup games were competitive and extreme fun. One strike with a miss or foul ball and you were out. I picked up on baseball through whiffle ball. It is a great sport whose time has come and gone. We improvised as kids – using bark for bases and a flat rock for the pitcher mound. Foul poles were trees. And without an ump, we made our own calls with a few disagreements. I miss whiffle ball; but life admittedly moves on. 

Lastly, Putnam Park had the mill race run adjacent to the park. The mill race was a waterway for 100 years that supplied an old wheel electric water generated plant one-mile downstream. It began 5 miles upstream from Decatur Lake – a dam created lake of the Sugar River. Many canoe trips were initiated at Putnam Park to travel to the spillway Headgates (4 miles), Decatur Lake (5 miles) or Albany, Wi. 12 miles. Skating parties and hockey matches were abundant on the Mill Race in winter. Everyone had a pair of hockey or figure skates; and most kids played a ton of hockey. These were the best of memories because we did this ourselves as kids – using sticks for goals and occasionally a rock for a puck. We mended many hockey sticks with nails and glue. Playing hockey or ice skating on the mill race was an extraordinary unique adventure in our town. Many idyllic days of playing hockey within lite snowstorms occurred at our mill race with a group of kids that have remained friends for life. It doesn’t get any better – Putnam Park!