By Susie Duncan Sexton

As I gleefully recall, I honestly believe that Walt Disney's Cinderella provided my maiden voyage into the wonders of cinema. That event occurred so very many yesterdays ago when American animation would never be surpassed--a uniquely authentic and creative time arguably lost to us in our 21st century.







To this moment, whenever our courthouse clock issues forth its 12th chime-- midnight -- I fear that I might misplace a glass slipper. Unless some handsome prince seeks out barefoot me to return my (size 10) party pump, I'll continue until the end of time sweeping floors for my spiteful step-sisters while confiding in woodland animals and blue birds -- my only friends. Likewise, the spooky, haunting, mournful yet promising sounds of train whistles moaning and massive steel wheels grinding and clickity clacking all along the rails, south of this tiny town, transport me to the early 50s. Stirred up are reminiscences of our parked ruby-colored Ford loaded with neighbor kids anticipating our collective mesmerized observation of another locomotive whizzing by, its passengers or cargo bound westward for near-by Chicago perhaps. We eagerly waved our little hands to connect with travelers who might smile back at us.







Thus, how fun it has been to re-establish contact with formerly local chums via Facebook--Tamara Estlick, Anne Giles, Jane Geiger, Cindy Ramsey, Judy Manago, Trish Walter, Jo Biddle, Susan Hood, Bonnie Miller! Those "girls" even ordered my books which are full to the brim with nostalgia --while adding their own memories of chalking up the sidewalks for hop-scotching, Vacation Bible School with Kool-Aid and cookies, engaging in endless rounds of sunny backyard Canasta tournaments upon spread out checkered table-cloths confiscated from our mamas' kitchens, attending double-features--during dreary rainy afternoons-- at the Columbia Theater within walking distance , catching THEN releasing lightning bugs, and giddy, precarious roller-skating (employing a single skate, in my case--to coast along effortlessly while the alternative earthbound foot provided welcome security!)







Although all of us eventually ventured varying distances from Columbia City, we still ought to be considered appropriately "local"--our memory "bank" remains intact while continually located within the same small, cozy spot with all avenues connecting each of us aforementioned "ladies". We're open for business all hours of the day and night. Although trends come and go, one inclination seems to be heading toward a comeback. Younger folks in record numbers have begun to scout about enthusiastically for one-of-a kind older homes with plenty of character as well as easy access to original, preserved landmarks located near the hearts of old timey towns. Glory be! Our beloved mid-20th-century lifestyle is enjoying a resurgence… popcorn, pretzels, lemonade, conversation, croquet with sticky wickets, street fairs, lawn chair lounging, jump ropes, shuffle-boarding, kiddie pools, sand-boxes, bikes, snow-angels and sledding (weather appropriate!), trikes, neighborliness, while combined with freedoms (that welcome and encourage individuality) once offered to all of us kids during our growing up days.



Cinderellamidnightonlywithin walking distancemy

[Caption: Roy Duncan, plant manager of Blue Bell, Incorporated - "manufacturer of the world's Wrangler Jeans" - with factories located in Columbia City, Nappanee, Warsaw, and North Webster -- ready for some softball activity, standing directly behind Don & Marjorie Souder's "Mom & Pop" grocery store circa 1952.]

Long-ago-adults who resided in those memorable homes around my particular block -- and who caught fleeting glimpses of us youngsters skating, skipping or

by -- maintain their lofty status to this very day in my recollections. They laughed

us and not

us. They provided Band-Aids. They shared iced tea and lemonade. They inquired after our parents. Quite a listing of notables, happy and content right where they landed for years and years!

it seemed for: Edith McNear--former secretary to Thomas Riley Marshall who himself eventually rose to Indiana governorship and vice-presidency of the United States; teachers Julia Snodgrass, Joe and Irene Shull, Mary Hill, Barbara Cotterly, Olive Sheehan, Hazel Munns, and "Maggie" Stultz; dentist Dr. Ralph Minear; druggist Walt Meyers; mortician Stuart Smith and wife Ada; "Dr. John" and Margo Langohr; tractor Salesman Gene More and wife Marge; lumberman Paul Morsches and wife Peggy; World War II pilot Bill Langohr and creative wife "Kit"; librarians at Peabody

Library; department store owners Ben and Bea Blumenthal; hoteliers Dave, Rosemary, and Minnie Clugston; John and Virginia Lillich; Jim and Ora

Elliott

; John Wilson with his parents--his dad a teacher (who once spanked my red-headed brother-in-law in high school, I think) and his pianist mom; attorney Jim Biddle and his wife Jeannette; optometrist Lon Sorey who walked his Dalmatian George twice daily -- his wife Beverly fed all of the neighborhood cats;

Whiteleather and her widowed daughter Velma; Marie Bloom whose husband (B.J.) served as mayor…and "mom & pop" grocery store owners Don and Marjorie Souder whose bustling, thriving business attracted all of these folks all day long every day! We teeter-tottering,

neighborhood kids viewed every one of their customers across the alley from the Duncan backyard. I should have sold tickets, maybe? (Oh, and never let us forget those revered

style, brick,

church buildings on every corner!)

Dr. Kenner and his wife, who looked as if she might have spent her youth as one of novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald's marcel-waved heroines, actually drove a vintage Model-T. Newspaper publishers John Q. and Hester Adams resided just up the alley and amazingly issued two editions per day, one for the town's Republicans and the other for a sprinkling of Democrats--back when the TWO-party system

seemed

alive and well in small Mid-western burgs. Fellow Lutheran Ona Eberhard, she of the ever-present and always elegant oversized gossip-columnist-Hedda-Hopper-inspired

propped atop a silvering French twisted hair-do…whoa, she lived on

block somewhat removed from my jurisdiction. She was so much fun that I thought she

have lived right next door!

One of my favorite musicians is a fellow named David Byrne, Scottish-born, who characterizes himself as legitimately suffering from borderline Asperger's and who shares my birthday. He provided the score for choreographer Twyla Tharp's ballet

which I still enjoy some 30 plus years after its debut. Byrne is left-handed but plays guitar right-handed. Byrne is his own person. He does not own a car and is obsessed with cycling, pedaling his bike all around New York City. He authored a 2009 book entitled

… he must be my brother from another mother. I quote here a smattering of some of his quirkiest lyrics which provided my title for today's column, highlighting a "chip off the old BLOCK", fondly cataloguing those who once surrounded me in my own house which I occasionally exited once in a while to mingle with people next door and up and down the street…loving every second spent prowling about that old neighborhood! How about LINE STREET/CHAUNCEY STREET/ MAIN STREET

REDUX

…consult a dictionary!

…see you next month!

~ David Byrne (

)

________________________

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scooteringwithatOne home for one lifetimeFree(with two "l's" and two "t's")GrandmotherswingingOld WorldspirychapeausanotherSHOULDThe Catherine WheelBicycle Diaries"…They're goin' out. They're comin' in… inside a circle around their house. These shoes don't fit. This tie don't match. I'm gonna throw it away… when I get home. I'm turned around. I'm doin' my best. I'm gonna wait… until the light comes on…"