Rushville

Things had been getting better economically and with the war good jobs became more plentiful. My dad was too young for World War I and too old to be drafted in the Second World War.

It was obvious the small paper at Murray would never be much for income, so Daddy took a job in Rushville, Illinois, in 1942. We stayed in Murray to see my sister Marcheta graduate at the top of her class of 21 students. Rose Marie finished her sophomore year and I got through seventh grade in Murray.

The house Daddy rented for us in Rushville was not ready so we had to live in a cabin camp for about two weeks. Bed bugs were rampant, cooking facilities were non-existent, and the small space was not really conducive to a happy family in a strange town.

We finally got into our house and it really was one of the nicest we ever lived in. Rose Marie and I enrolled in school and I had little trouble adjusting.

I got a paper route delivering the Peoria daily but the job ended abruptly when I was hit by a car. We had been instructed to be very careful crossing streets, particularly if papers blew away when we were folding them preparatory to delivery. In the darkness of one early morning, the paper I was folding got away and blew into the street. I looked carefully both ways and retrieved it. But just as I was returning, another gust caught a second paper and I instinctively darted after it into the roadway. Just at that time a car was passing and it hit me. I was leaning over to get the paper and the front fender of the car struck me in the forehead. Fortunately there was a hospital just a block away and I was taken there. I regained consciousness and was diagnosed with a contusion -- apparently a blow less serious than a concussion. The wonderful part of all this was that the newspaper’s insurance covered all expenses and gave my mother $5 a day for taking care of me at home for a week of recuperation.

My only other memory of Rushville was in the use of different terms for familiar things. For example, the first time I stepped onto a basketball court as an eighth grader, the referee blew the whistle and yelled steps. I was to learn that meant traveling, the term I was familiar with for taking steps without dribbling the ball.