I love my neighborhood. We've lived here 27 years. Many right around us have lived here longer than we have. It gives me a nice feeling of stability. But there is a house almost across our street that was rented to a big loud woman in her 40's and her elderly mother several months ago and the stability is cracking.
There is such an excess of activity there, compared to any other house on the street. Almost 24 hours a day, cars come and go, in and out. Sometimes there are 4-6 cars parked in the yard and in the street. For the most part they belong to Guatemalan men, which I wouldn't mind if they could drive. Someone trying to get out of that driveway backed into our truck twice this year, and since we couldn't prove which person did it, no one else's insurance was going to cover any repair. The police said Guatemalan's don't carry insurance anyway.
Three weeks ago, a Guatemalan driving a car hit a parked vehicle a couple blocks away and kept going. Since he took out his own right front fender and wheel he couldn't go very fast and police located and followed him where? right across the street. We watched as he was arrested. It seemed the woman who rents the house was protecting him, though I couldn't be sure. She was obviously telling the police what they could or couldn't do with his wrecked car.
For the last week I have been wakened, or couldn't fall asleep due to fighting, yelling, laughing or music through my bedroom window, though of course I don't mind the last two.
Four nights ago, 6 teens, 5 girls and a boy were fooling around up and down the street. Their home base was the rental across the street. I was nervous only because graffiti has been spray painted on cars and buildings right around us. My next door neighbor just finished repainting his garage door which sported such nice things as a penis and testicles, the word "C-NT" and bold initials. So I kept half an eye on the kids. One had a large slurpy drink. She was standing by my rose bush and suddenly heaved the drink out into the street. My husband went out and made her pick it up. She argued "I'm not a litterer", but she picked it up.
Two nights ago I heard glass breaking and heard the big lady yelling and cussing. "you're so stupid and retarded 'cause you can't even talk English, you motherf---ing son of a b-tch! I have to put up with your sh-t!". On and on. She picked up three big pieces of glass in her front yard, threw in in the trash then stomped into the house. She grabbed hold of the door and threw it back so hard I wouldn't have been surprised if the whole front of the house just fell away. I heard more yelling from inside, slamming, more yelling then it quieted down.
Last night I was wakened around midnight by glass breaking. Then more glass breaking. She was back outside screaming into a cell phone "Your ass is going back to Guatemala. I've called the police. Yes, just get ready, you're going back, you Motherf---er. You stupid Motherf---er. Then I saw a police cruiser driving around hunting for whoever she was yelling at. The next time I looked out the police were there and by now "Juan" was laying on the curb passed out. I wasn't sure if she hadn't killed him. A policeman was trying to coax him awake. "Juan, wake up. Come on, wake up".
And now unbelievably, this woman had changed. She's all sweet. "Get up Juan, get up and go to bed. We need you to sit up so I can get you up to bed. And to the police, "Someone gave him beer, he's been drinking all day". And later to the neighbor "you should see my house. He broke both upstairs closet doors and my front door." He threw two plates my mother gave me" I'm like, WHAT?! What happened to your threats, to pressing charges, to kicking him out, to getting rid of him? I shook my head and I laid back down, thing's quieted outside.
I woke to more glass breaking, then more, and more of her screaming obscenities. The dogs in the neighborhood were barking. My dog was crying. My cat was running up and down the stairs meowing. I looked out the window again. Seems Juan had heaved trash bags into the street and there were scattered broken bottles. Fat neighbor was calling the police again, "He's tearing up my whole front yard, tell them to come again." Juan was behind a tree sobbing. BooHooHoo, and talking, but I couldn't understand him. She was ripping him another new one. She walked far enough from her front door that he had an opportunity to bolt, ran into the house, slammed the front door and locked HER out. She's screaming obscenities and walking in circles in the front. I went back to bed; it was 1:20 am.
I personally think this woman is her own worst problem. The activities she allows in her home, (with a sick elderly mother living there!) that is where the problem is. She blamed that someone gave "Juan" beer to drink all day, but it happened in her house, the evidence of bottles was laying in the street. Actually there were many bags of bottles. I don't know when she'll learn, but I hope it doesn't continue on my street.
I'm sending big woman's landlord a copy of what I've written here. I hope she stops over and inspects the house, and asks big lady to move away. I hope I get new neighbors.
4/23/2014
Steak Knife Horror
I'm hunting for a 2nd carbon steel knife to buy on the internet and ran across this set, identical to a set my family used probably since the 1950's. The blade is very thin and cuts tomatoes and steak proficiently. I'd forgotten about them until now. But the picture reminded me of a story. I had been a nurse only a short time and had very little experience with the odd accidents that roll thru an emergency room. One afternoon a group of 5-6 young college students from a nearby dorm walked in and headed to the ER window to sign in. The fellow in front explained that no crime had been committed, and that he was fine, but maybe he should be checked. He said they had all been messing around and he'd accidentally been stabbed with a knife, which he then laid on the counter to show me. It was identical to one of those knives our family had used for the past 25 years. They were all nervously laughing which quelled any alarm in me. I asked where the injury was and he pulled up his shirt to reveal a tiny red mark on his abdomen. There was no blood.
We got him into a room and the ER intern poked a six inch long cotton tipped applicator (like a Q-tip only longer) into the wound. That sucker went straight in deeper and deeper and I knew then the knife had entered his abdominal cavity. Off to OR he went for exploratory surgery. I never heard the outcome, and I hoped he recovered without incident.
My Husband's Grandpa Was an Upholsterer
His name was Tom Frankhart and he raised his family
in Tiffin, OH. I found the family in the 1940 census, and it said he
was born in 1898, he would be 42 that year. He and his wife Alice
raised 8 daughters, Madelyn, Evelyn, Beatrice, Alice Jane, Patricia,
Matilda, Mary Jo, and Norma Jean. It said Tom had a 5th grade
education. He never owned a house, always rented. Alice, his wife,
died a couple months after she had finally given birth to a son, who
died at birth. Those had to be some dark days for Tom. After that, Tom
married Alice's sister, which was socially acceptable back then, and
brought 3 more girls into the mix! (By now, my MIL was married and out
of the house.)
I never knew how he became an upholsterer. Self taught? His family? I will find out, but I do know it was a lifelong career, his only help was his family. My mother in law told me she had to work very hard, she was an older daughter, to help with the large family. Really, she never looked back on her childhood with a lot of sentimentality. Her father and mother needed a lot of help to survive with all of those children, I suppose. She was a bit resentful of the responsibilities and said she never had a "childhood". And their routine was different back then. After school, she helped her mother prepare supper. If she didn't peel the potatoes thin enough her dad would make her scrape the peelings again, to add more potato to the meal. All of her sisters had to be bathed and redressed before the meal, hair braided, and dressed in fresh clothes when they came to the table. I guess that was the way things were done back then.
Tom's upholstery shop always was at 469 West Perry Street in Tiffin. My MIL said she remembers he had a job upholstering the interiors of Model T cars at first. It was an agreement he had with someone from Fostoria, OH if I recall correctly. (Recognize those towns names? Tiffin and Fostoria were known for their elegant glass, and Norma Jean worked there when she grew up) Once, one of the Model T's came back because some one said it wasn't done right. I would imagine that was an unfortunate financial blow to the family, because that story was remembered many years later.
Another job my MIL had was "tying the springs". She said she had take cloth and sew it around every upholstery spring before it was installed into the project. She hated that job. The only way I can relate to this is from a mattress commercial I've seen where they show each spring is individually covered. (Sealy, Beautyrest?) I imagine this was a monotonous job. She also had to thread big curved upholstery needles, all sizes, with a couple yards of thread on each, and set aside for him to use as he needed them
She told a story where she was "helping" in the shop, she was just little girl. Tom had finished reupholstering a sofa, and she was left alone in his shop. She saw a can of open black paint with a paint brush laying across the top. She decided to paint the sofa! Oh my gosh! When Tom returned she had paint on herself, her clothes and the sofa. Back then all paint was oil based, I can only imagine what a mess that was.
Tom was the only upholsterer in town, to my knowledge. I imagine a few of his upholstery jobs are still in use in that area. Some of his other daughters learned to upholster, but not my MIL. She probably knew the process well, but never did it. She even paid a lady later years to cover her desk chair seat and back in a big brown and black plaid. $50, and the plaid wasn't matched and was a little crooked to boot!
Tom was retired and the shop was gone when I came into the family. He died in 1979. His daughter Beatrice had his sewing machine, I was told. I'm not sure what Singer he used. Norma Jean got his "Sample Chair" first. This was a great idea. In the 40's he sewed dozens of sample squares together and upholstered a chair with them, so customers could better see how they would look. I now have this chair. I wish I could just go back into his shop once to see the equipment he accumulated, the fabric sample books. Aunt Bea gave me a bag of his samples once. I still have them but haven't used them. They look like fabric from the 60's and 70's.
I found this little story about Tom in someone's blog. This writer is describing his childhood memories and his father's good friends:
"Thomas S. “Tommy” Frankhart was born in 1897. He and his wife Alice eventually lived in that familiar red building at 496 West Perry St. Here he operated a well known upholstery shop. I remember this shop, and I can still see Tommy seated at that old pedal operated Singer sewing machine, which was next to a large window. As a young boy I once broke that same window with a baseball. Tommy normally had a Camel cigarette dangling from his mouth. He usually chose not to use his ash tray, opting instead to flick the butt out the front door and onto the concrete slab. We as kids saw these butts fly out the front door. We then snuck over to get them while they were still lit. He never seemed to mind when the neighborhood kids wandered in and out of the shop and roamed freely around. He occasionally stopped his work long enough to give us candy and gum. Tommy died in 1979 and his wife in 1947. "
Tom was strict and made sure his girls were raised in a way that he felt was right. My MIL told a story that when she had a "date", Tom was very keen about who, what, when, where, and how. One winter night a date brought her home and they sat longer than was respectable in his car. He was trying to give her his ring to go steady. Tom came out on the front porch and shouted "If you don't want my size 9 up your ass, you'll get moving now!" My MIL said she was so scared she jumped out of the car, and lost the ring in the snow, which wasn't found again until spring. LOL.
I never knew how he became an upholsterer. Self taught? His family? I will find out, but I do know it was a lifelong career, his only help was his family. My mother in law told me she had to work very hard, she was an older daughter, to help with the large family. Really, she never looked back on her childhood with a lot of sentimentality. Her father and mother needed a lot of help to survive with all of those children, I suppose. She was a bit resentful of the responsibilities and said she never had a "childhood". And their routine was different back then. After school, she helped her mother prepare supper. If she didn't peel the potatoes thin enough her dad would make her scrape the peelings again, to add more potato to the meal. All of her sisters had to be bathed and redressed before the meal, hair braided, and dressed in fresh clothes when they came to the table. I guess that was the way things were done back then.
Tom's upholstery shop always was at 469 West Perry Street in Tiffin. My MIL said she remembers he had a job upholstering the interiors of Model T cars at first. It was an agreement he had with someone from Fostoria, OH if I recall correctly. (Recognize those towns names? Tiffin and Fostoria were known for their elegant glass, and Norma Jean worked there when she grew up) Once, one of the Model T's came back because some one said it wasn't done right. I would imagine that was an unfortunate financial blow to the family, because that story was remembered many years later.
Another job my MIL had was "tying the springs". She said she had take cloth and sew it around every upholstery spring before it was installed into the project. She hated that job. The only way I can relate to this is from a mattress commercial I've seen where they show each spring is individually covered. (Sealy, Beautyrest?) I imagine this was a monotonous job. She also had to thread big curved upholstery needles, all sizes, with a couple yards of thread on each, and set aside for him to use as he needed them
She told a story where she was "helping" in the shop, she was just little girl. Tom had finished reupholstering a sofa, and she was left alone in his shop. She saw a can of open black paint with a paint brush laying across the top. She decided to paint the sofa! Oh my gosh! When Tom returned she had paint on herself, her clothes and the sofa. Back then all paint was oil based, I can only imagine what a mess that was.
Tom was the only upholsterer in town, to my knowledge. I imagine a few of his upholstery jobs are still in use in that area. Some of his other daughters learned to upholster, but not my MIL. She probably knew the process well, but never did it. She even paid a lady later years to cover her desk chair seat and back in a big brown and black plaid. $50, and the plaid wasn't matched and was a little crooked to boot!
Tom was retired and the shop was gone when I came into the family. He died in 1979. His daughter Beatrice had his sewing machine, I was told. I'm not sure what Singer he used. Norma Jean got his "Sample Chair" first. This was a great idea. In the 40's he sewed dozens of sample squares together and upholstered a chair with them, so customers could better see how they would look. I now have this chair. I wish I could just go back into his shop once to see the equipment he accumulated, the fabric sample books. Aunt Bea gave me a bag of his samples once. I still have them but haven't used them. They look like fabric from the 60's and 70's.
I found this little story about Tom in someone's blog. This writer is describing his childhood memories and his father's good friends:
"Thomas S. “Tommy” Frankhart was born in 1897. He and his wife Alice eventually lived in that familiar red building at 496 West Perry St. Here he operated a well known upholstery shop. I remember this shop, and I can still see Tommy seated at that old pedal operated Singer sewing machine, which was next to a large window. As a young boy I once broke that same window with a baseball. Tommy normally had a Camel cigarette dangling from his mouth. He usually chose not to use his ash tray, opting instead to flick the butt out the front door and onto the concrete slab. We as kids saw these butts fly out the front door. We then snuck over to get them while they were still lit. He never seemed to mind when the neighborhood kids wandered in and out of the shop and roamed freely around. He occasionally stopped his work long enough to give us candy and gum. Tommy died in 1979 and his wife in 1947. "
Tom was strict and made sure his girls were raised in a way that he felt was right. My MIL told a story that when she had a "date", Tom was very keen about who, what, when, where, and how. One winter night a date brought her home and they sat longer than was respectable in his car. He was trying to give her his ring to go steady. Tom came out on the front porch and shouted "If you don't want my size 9 up your ass, you'll get moving now!" My MIL said she was so scared she jumped out of the car, and lost the ring in the snow, which wasn't found again until spring. LOL.
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