Little tales from my walking journals begun in the 1950’s need this preface. A person wishing to divorce in the 50’s had to give a reason for it. The petitioner had to show hardship of some type for the divorce to be granted by a divorce court. The usual reason given was “mental cruelty” if you were incompatible with your spouse.
In Chicago, Mrs. Rum charged her husband with drunkeness-won her divorce and resumed her maiden name of Miss Cork. (March 10th, 1968)
These snippets are name related, as you shall see.
A women in Los Angeles charged her husband nagged her when she refused to drink with him. She was granted the divorce and resumed her maiden name of Selma Sober.
At one time, Mrs. Ashe was in charge of the barbeque pits at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.
Donald C. Crooks was a probate judge in Redwood Falls, Minnesota in 1952.
William C. Wolf was voted President of the Lions Club in Duluth, Minnesota, also in 1952.
Dr. Michael Fox is an animal psychologist. (1976.)
I think Dr. Fox is still practicing, but it made more sense to treat the pet owners than the pets, in my opinion. Hmm! In a sense he did.
Morris Fisher is president of the Wisconsin Fish Company, Green Bay, Wisconsin.
Harlan Apple used to be a foreman for the Skoman Apple Corporation of Wenatchee, Washington.
Cardinal Sin has been the archbishop of Manila for 12 years.
Patience Scales has been a piano teacher in San Francisco for 30 years.
Jack Swallows has been hearing puns about his name ever since he moved to San Juan Capistrano. Swallows says: “I do fly away from time to time, but I always come back.” The radio stations call him every March and October, when the swallows normally arrive and leave the Mission San Juan Capistrano. They usually ask if he has packed his bags.
Whoo boy. That must get tiresome.
And, from this sign in Pittsfield, Massachusetts:
Ice Cream Cones, Sundaes, and Malts- J. Freeze Proprietor.
My walking journals have taken several phases. I readied six of them and thought I should launch them into the world that they might gather little stories wherever they landed. I placed my name and address in them to be returned. None has come back. I left one at a bus station, another in a doorway of someone who was moving to Texas. I passed one to a friend who sent it around with members of his writer’s workshop. I kept one journal, intent on collecting those trivial little stories from the lives of friends, family and people I meet. For instance, my friend Pam, after a painful second divorce, had the words Never Again tattooed on her ring finger.
On-line, they never disappear.