The Publisher's Page BY HAROLD T. BECK

AUGUST 14 - AUGUST 20, 1999

AUGUST 20, 1999

Apology

I apologize for the fact there was no article today.  This was indeed a lousy day. It began with a lightning strike at 3:12 A.M. and continued with the death of a good friend. We will be back tomorrow. Thanks for your patience.   Bud.

AUGUST 19, 1999

After the fair at the Bradford Hotel

I was sitting in the Re-Elect Harold T. Beck Booth at the County Fair talking to Tom Riel, the recent hero of the Demolition Derby, when my cell phone rang.

"Brother Beck," the voice began. "Are you coming to the hotel tonight?" it asked.

I recognized the voice immediately. Even if I hadn't, there was only one person who called me Brother Beck. It was the finest Police Chief in the history of Bradford, PA and a great Irish tenor, Billy Peckham.

"I hadn't planned on it," I said. "I've had a heck of a day. I've been in Court all morning and then I took care of some quick business before going to lunch with Greg Henry. You know what those lunches with Henry can be like. And I've been here at the fair since about two. Why? What do you need?" I asked.

"We need you to settle a dispute."

"What's it about?" I asked.

"The DJ Election."

"Oh," I said in a hollow tone of voice.

Now to this time I have tried to stay out of this as much as possible. Sure there as that Bradford Area Alliance thing. But that was down right wrong what they were doing. What was I supposed to do? Sit back and let Chris Hauser take a job away from some woman who had worked hard in spite of adversity and all the political forces in play that have their own agendas in mind? I had to take a stand against that sort of thing.

Now, I could see myself being drawn into this in an even large scale. I could see myself being forced to choose on candidate over the other, and I wasn't sure I wanted to do it.

"Are Cornplanter and Red Jacket there?" I asked.

"Yes," Peckham answered. "And two of Cornplanter's wives, too," he said. "And Greg Fox is involved talking about trying to polish up horse turds or something like that. This could get real stupid. You are the only one who can make sense out of this type of thing."

"I'll be there in an hour or so," I told him. "Keep a lid on things if you can."

Tom asked me what was up and when I told him he suddenly had some family function to attend - a bon fire or something like that. Who could blame him? Red Jacket was still mad about the car business. So, about eight thirty I started to Bradford to see what I could do to avert a new Indian War. The entry of two of Cornplanter's wives into the mix really scared me.

When I arrived the bar was in a full and heated discussion.

"Am I glad to see you," Dave Sheffer said. "I had Billy call you. Hope against hope, you are the only one these Indians will listen to and Foxy won't listen to anyone."

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"Welfare Wes is pulling his usual political crap," Dave said. "He's got Red Jacket all worked up. About that time Cornplanter arrived with his two wives who are Indian versions of Carrie Nation." (Now Sheffer was dating himself when he mentioned the turn of the century women's activist. I wondered who else might recognize that name?)

Sure enough Red Jacket and Wes were in the heat of a loud political discussion.

"Come on," Wes said. "What do you really know about Hauser? And what do you really know about Cavallero? I wanna know cause voting is just around the corner. Hauser is my vote because I feel he will do what needs to be done. Cavallero? I keep thinking back when he was in the news with the former Mayor Nelson.

"Mr. Nelson wanted to "let him go" because of not doing his job in keeping up with all the paper work. Yes, no, true or not?" he asked.

"True," Red Jacket said back to him.

"Maybe Hauser doesn't like cats. I don't know. But I do know he LIKES dogs!"

"I like dogs, too," Cornplanter threw into the conversation. "What's that got to do with hating cats and being a chauvinist?" Both of his wives patted him on the back when he said that. A big smile came over his face.

"Anyway," Wes continued. " I've always gone for someone who will always inform the people of what is really going on. Like I said, "closed doors" is a bad omen for me. What is really going on behind those "closed doors"? We the people should never have to wonder what is going on within our community."

About that time Mattress Margie jumped into the conversation.

"And what do you think the Bradford Area Alliance is Wes?" she asked. "It's twelve rich guys who get together behind closed doors and make secret decisions and plans that affect the lives of each and every one of us. And, I'll guarantee you a penny against a dime that those decisions will benefit them more than they will benefit us.

"Whether we like Dick Cavallero, or whether we approve of the way he handled the paperwork; we almost have to vote for him just to vote against Hauser and the Bradford Area Alliance."

Now Toothless Tim, as big and as mean and scary as he looks is a gentle kind of guy if he doesn't have too much beer. Tonight he was in one of his gentle moods. He carefully chose his words and began to talk.

"One of the things I think will be really important from our future District Justice is to really come down on the animal abusers and not just slap them on the wrist like Ackerman does. You do know that in MOST CASES, those who abuse animals will most likely abuse their children. That is what is important to me.

"Children and animals are totally defenseless unless there is someone who is willing to stand up and be there for them. It has to start with the District Justice." Tim said. "How can we trust someone who hates cats or wants to fire some nice woman named Candy Bush?"

Wes was irritated with his friend. "Whadda you know about anything?" he shot back.

"I know you're three months behind in your child support, collecting disability, and you're sitting here in this bar spending money on beer for everyone. That's what I know," he said back.

Wes, oddly, said nothing. With that the conversation began to cool down.

Cornplanter came over and introduced me to his wives. Surprisingly enough, they were young women, both in their early twenties. One of them was pregnant.

"Do you know Marty Robacker Wilder?" she asked me.

"Yes," I answered her. "I know Marty."

"Is she as nice as she seems in her picture?" she asked me.

That definitely took me back. No one ever asked me if Marty was nice or not. I had to think about that one for a minute or two; but really, Marty had never done anything to me. We had differences on an issue or two, but for the most part, we agreed on many things. And, she was always there to talk to me if I called. She never ducked me.

"Yes," I said. "She's nice."

"I knew it," Moonbeam said. " I just knew it."

Sunflower, Cornplanter's other wife who seemed to be a little more shy and quiet, smiled too. But it was obvious that she had something to say. I was careful not to offend Cornplanter so I asked him if there was something she wanted to tell me.

"Go ahead," Cornplanter told her. "Bud's a good guy. He'll listen and he'll agree with you that it's important."

In a very quiet voice she asked me if I knew Ray McMahon.

"Yes," I answered. "Why?" I asked.

"I'd like you to talk to him and see if there isn't something we can do to save the J.C. Penny's Catalog Store in the Bradford Mall? They are going to close it on December 31st," she said.

"They are?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, her voice only just a bit above a whisper. "It is a Corporate Policy to close all catalog stores that are not attached to retail outlets."

"This is the first I've heard about it," I said.

"There's a sad personal note to this, too," Sunflower told me. "A very nice lady who has worked for Penny's for years is going to be put out of work."

I shook my head. "Yes. They call this down sizing and many people get hurt by this kind of thing."

"But they are going to close the store and put Carol Henke out of a job only two or three months before she is to be eligible to retire. They are going to cheat her out of her retirement all because of a few months."

I agreed with her that I thought it was horrible. I know that Sharyn and I bought quite a few items through that store. We liked the convenience. I wondered who the bone head was who was making that decision. I wondered if there wasn't some way to get to that bone head and try and change his mind.

I promised Sunflower I would look into it. I also said that unless there was something in it for Ray McMahon, he couldn't be bothered. He and Hauser were cut from the same bolt of cloth, I told her. With that, I went home totally exhausted.

Comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.

AUGUST 18, 1999

Racing Results and the aftermath

Good morning. It is 59.9 degrees in the mountains right now. And the racing team made a fine showing last night!

Congratulations to Tom Riel who won his heat, took home a cash prize, and a trophy while representing the HAROLD T. BECK RACING TEAM!!!

GOOD JOB TOM.  WE ARE PROUD OF YOU!

In the meantime, there was a problem in the pits last night and you can guess who caused it. None other than Red Jacket himself!

Fortunately, for the officials and the county as a whole, I was there to keep things under control. Even Cornplanter threw his hands up in the air and walked away to have an Italian Sausage Sandwich with peppers and onions from the Smethport Sports Boosters Club. And it was all about his car. He was still steaming about it this morning.

"It's absurd!" he roared to me. "It's absolutely absurd. After I pulled strings with PennDot to get a drivers license and bought the car, to have that happen to me is just absurd."

Red Jacket was talking about a little known rule that bans Chrysler Imperials from Demolition Derbys. It seems that because of the construction they are virtually indestructible in modern day events. Needless to say he did not participate in the events last night.

After I calmed him down about having his car disqualified, he turned his attention on Tom Riel.

"You're the white man who bought my car!" he roared.

As old as Red Jacket is, when he is riled, he is fearsome. No one jumped in between Tom and the old Chief. No one dared! We all held our breath as he faced the younger man, eye to eye. Then he said what he really wanted.

"I'll forgive you," he said. "If I can paint Hauser Hates Cats on your car."

Tom agreed and on the side of number 27, a big red Cadillac already painted up with VOTE FOR BECK, Red Jacket took a quarter panel and painted his message. As he stood back, he wondered if Hauser Hates Hunters would not be better, so he crossed out Cats and wrote Hunters below it. By that time Cornplanter was back and he wanted Hunters crossed out and replace it with Women.

It was at that point I intervened and talked them out of the Women because of the possible implications that could be taken against Hauser with such a statement; and, being the responsible journalist that I am, I said, absent positive proof that Hauser hated Women, they could not say such a thing. I suggested a comment about Hauser being a Chauvinist because Marty at The Era had already said it, but no one liked that idea and they weren't sure my spelling was correct.

Anyway, Red Jacket was happy. He just wanted to get his message out. Tom won and the night was a success.

Once Red Jacket calmed down this morning he told me more stories about the Alliance.

"Mike Glesk is trying to get Diane Galt to write a retraction to the letter she wrote to Dale Phillips on July 21, 1999," he told me.

"What letter?" I asked.

He produced a folded up piece of paper written on the letterhead from a Foundation in California that read:

Dear Mr. Phillips:

     It has come to my attention that there has been some thought as to the reasons for my departure from Bradford. Those reasons being that I did not get along with Candy at the Chamber office. This is simply not true. I left Bradford for personal reason.

     As much as I feel that I should stay out of this matter I also feel that the record should be set straight. If you or anyone else should have any questions regarding this matter please feel free to call me.

Very Truly Yours,

Diane Dodson Galt

"Why does Mike Glesk want Diane Galt to retract her letter?" I asked.

"Because it confirms that he and George Leonhardt didn't tell the truth when they said she left because of Candy Bush."

"I already said that," I said.

"Well, they're trying to save face and make you out to be the liar, not them."

"They do that to me all the time. Look what they did to me over the asbestos. I was the good guy and they made me out to be the bad guy. Figure that one out!" I said.

"Well they can't now because I have the letter and I am giving it to Cornplanter's wives for safe keeping. They are really up in arms over this conspiracy of chauvinism. The letter will be safe," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "Anything else?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "Rumor has it Hauser has resigned from the Alliance."

"Wow!" I said. "That is news! Why?"

"I think its pretty obvious," he said. "It is damaging him in the polls in the District Justice race. Total votes, Republican and Democratic combined in the primary, Hauser beat Cavallero with an e by only 32 votes. The Gallup Poll taken last week shows the race Too Close to Call with Hauser's support being eroded because of the Alliance scandal!"

"Wow!" I said. "I'll call Hauser today and ask him to confirm or deny the rumor."

"Great idea," Red Jacket said. "Ask him why he hates cats and hunters, too."

I agreed and he went on his way. Oh well. Every day is a new adventure. We will see what today brings. Comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.

 

AUGUST 17, 1999

The Bud Beck Racing Team

Good morning. It is a very mild 64.6 degrees in the mountains this morning. And it is County Fair Week in McKean County.

As many of you know I am running for re-election this year as the County Commissioner. It's an up hill battle and we are forced to do many things in the campaign. One of those things is sponsoring a team of cars in the Annual Demolition Derby. Hence, the Bud Beck Racing Team.

Three fine men are driving. Each is an experienced (as well as deadly competitor) on the field of battle when the flag drops and the autos start crashing into one another. Only when the last car is still moving is there a winner. And we expect the winner to come from our team!

Sean Luce, Victor Luce, and Tom Riel are the drivers. They may be team mates, but when the race begins anything can happen with this trio. You can bet if they are the last three standing, it will become a veritable bloodbath from that point on. This is what makes Fair Week fun!

After manning the "Re-Elect Harold T. Beck Booth" at the County Fair   for six hours yesterday, I came home. I settled down to watch some television. Sharyn had just gone to bed. The dogs were sleeping on the floor around me and the cat was in my lap. Imagine my surprise when there was a knock at the door. What came next was even more surprising.

As I answered the door I was shocked to see Red Jacket standing there. I was even more shocked when I saw what he was wearing. He had on a Dale Earnhart tee shirt and ball cap. Finishing off the attire was a Dale Earnhart racing jacket with a big number 5 on the back.

"I'm ready!" he said in an excited tone.

"Ready for what?" I asked.

He pointed out to the driveway where one of Clayt's Towing Service flat bed trucks held a car evidently prepared for the Demolition Derby with a big number 5 on the side.

"Some one bought the red Cadillac I had picked out at Luke's," he said.   "So I got this Imperial."

Sure enough, when I turned on the outside lights, there was a 1958 Chrysler Imperial - the kind that had the huge front end and the tire built into the trunk lid out on the trunk.

"Where in the world did you get that?" I asked.

"The salesman, a really nice guy named Chris, was walking me around the lot showing me what was left. He told me some guy named Tom Riel bought my Cadillac. I wasn't fast enough to get that one I guess. So he was showing me what else was left. That was when I saw this car."

"A 1958 Imperial is a classic," I said.

"I know," Red Jacket told me. "Chris said it was too. He told me that it was part of Luke's Classic Car Collection and when I knew that it was Luke's, I knew I had to have it."

"But it's, or was, a classic," I said again repeating myself.

"I know," Red Jacket insisted. "Look at the size of that thing. It's like a battering ram. If we would have had something like that we could have done a full frontal assault on the British at Fort Pitt and won the war. That baby could knock down any doors they could put up. Just think what it will do in the Demolition Derby!"

"What did you pay for it?" I asked calmly.

"Chris, like you, kept insisting that it was a classic. I kept saying fine. I wanted a car with prestige if I was going to enter a Demolition Derby with a pile of white men. I didn't want to give the world the image of that red pickup I bought from that fat insurance man."

"What did you pay?" I asked again.

"Sixteen thousand dollars, even. Tax and tags included. I got a 12% discount for paying cash."

"And where did you get sixteen thousand dollars?" I asked, almost afraid at what I was going to hear.

"Oh. Don't worry. I didn't put it on your credit card this time. I hit it big at Bingo over on the reservation last week. I had enough to pay for the car and some left over to get Clayt to do the body work to get it ready."

What body work?" I asked.  "It looks like you had a beautiful old car ruined just to smash it up in a Demolition Derby."

To that Red Jacket flippantly answered: "Easy come, easy go."

"There's only one hitch," he said.

"What's that?" I asked.

"I don't have a valid driver's license."

"That could pose a problem," I said. "Seeing how you need a valid driver's license to enter, that could pose a real problem."

"I know," he said. "That's why I came to you. You're a County Commissioner and I figured you could pull some strings and get me a driver's license."

I shook my head. "You are talking to the wrong person," I said. "John Gates has been without a drivers license for twenty-nine months and that is because of a first time DUI offense that went on an ARD."

"Judge Cleland," Red Jacket said. "Some one ought to..."

"Stop! Stop!" I said. "Don't you dare say what I think you're going to say. This is not the Indian Nation and none of us have freedom of speech in Clelandland. None of us have anything unless we are his rich friends. So just curb your tongue. You don't know what surveillance is going on."

"Well, I guess I'll have to go to Ken Jadlowiec, my State Representative," he said.

I laughed.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said. I still continued to laugh.

"Well," he said in a disgusted tone of voice. "I can see that this was a wasted trip. I'll just have to revert to Plan B."

"What's Plan B?" I asked.

"Never mind," he said. "I thought you'd be happy I bought a car from Luke."

"I am," I said. "I don't know how happy Luke will be, but I am."

"Well, I have to take care of Plan B," he said. "Good bye." With that he left and went off  with Clayt driving the flat bed truck.

With all entries facing a 5 PM deadline, I just can't wait to find out what Plan B is.   In the meantime, your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.  

AUGUST 16, 1999

Sundays

Good morning. It is a cool 50.4 degrees up on the hill here in Marshburg, PA this morning. I want to thank the new readers who found us last week and e-mailed us to comment on Strawberry Hill and Horizons at the Sheraton Fontainebleu. As I found out many others share my enthusiasm for the two restaurants, both in food and service.

Sharyn and I were at the County Fair yesterday. We went over to set up the Re-Elect Harold T. Beck for County Commissioner Booth. Our son, Geoffrey was staying at the house keeping Aunt Rose company (she's 94 and doesn't like staying by herself when we go out and don't take her - and who can blame her!). While we were gone my two buddies, Cornplanter and Red Jacket stopped by.

"Gee, Dad," my son said when I returned. "I thought you made the two of them up. I didn't know that they were real."

Like my father before me, I shook my head at him. Why do our children not take us seriously and then turn around and take the word of one of their friends or a stranger as gospel? Can you tell me? I guess that is the way of the world. It has probably been like that since the first pair of cave persons began raising children. Geoff went on to tell me about their visit.

"They had signs in the back of an old red pickup truck."

"What kind of signs?" I asked.

"Election signs," he said. "They were for Chief Cavallero. They were green with white letters and said all sorts of different things."

"Like what?" I asked.

Geoff laughed. On four by eight sign said "Vote No on Cat Haters! Vote for Cavallero with an E!"

I laughed at that. I realized that I had inadvertently started that Cat Hater business when I wrote the spoof on the Bradford Area Alliance trying to take over the SPCA.

"Another said: "Hauser Hates Hunters! Cavallero with an E hates Criminals!"

I laughed again. "When Red Jacket gets involved in an issues he goes all the way," I said. Then Geoff corrected me.

"No," he said. "It's Cornplanter! He's the one. I thought it was Red Jacket, too, after I read what you wrote. Cornplanter is the one who is all hot over the District Justice race, now."

"Why?" I asked. "What got him all worked up?" I asked. "He was the one who was laughing at Red Jacket. He was going along with him just to see that he didn't go over the edge and do something that might embarrass Indians nationwide. And," I added. "Even though I do write about them, he wants people to think they are figments of my imagination, too. He wants to remain as anonymous as he can, considering the circumstances and the red pickup. What got him involved in the campaign?"

"His wife," Geoff said.

"His wife?" I asked. "I didn't know his wife was still around."

Then Geoff corrected himself. "I meant to say his wives."

"They're all still around?" I asked.

"I guess so," he said. "And I guess one of them read the editorial by Marty Robacker Wilder and she is now the new heroine of the women in Cornplanter's household. They are all worked up about how Hauser and the Bradford Area Alliance wanted to fire Candy Bush and hire a man at twice the money to run the Chamber of Commerce. They are really livid about that, " Geoff told me.

"Why the old goat!" I said.

"Who? Hauser?" Geoff asked.

"Hauser's younger than me," I said. "Why would I call him an old goat?"

"He's older than me," Geoff said. "I see him around town. I might think he's an old goat. I might think you are one, too," he said defiantly.

That threw me for a loop. My son putting me in the same category as Chris Hauser! That's a blow below the belt if I ever took one. It stopped me for a moment and I had to recover. I got back to the issue.

"No," I said. "Not Hauser or me. I meant Cornplanter. He never told me that he had women still around. I thought the skunk liver was for Red Jacket. Not him, too."

"Hey dad," Geoff said. "Men are men.  And Red Jacket liked Aunt Rose, too."

"He did!" I said.

"Yeah," he told me. "And she liked him. They sat and talked for the longest time. They knew the same people."

"Like who?" I asked.

"Teddy Roosevelt."

"Teddy Roosevelt!" I said.

"Yeah. You never told me your grandfather went up San Juan Hill with the Roughriders."

"Of course I didn't," I said. "He never did."

"That's not what Aunt Rose said. She got his old military records out and it shows great grandpa in a military uniform on a horse in a picture and the man with him looks an awful lot like Teddy Roosevelt."

"Oh my God!" I said. Then the reality of Red Jacket and Aunt Rose hit me.

"What went on with them?" I asked.

"They're going to meet."

"What!" I exclaimed. "They going to meet. Where?"

"At the Rainbow next Friday when you are at the Fair."

"Oh my God!" I said again. "Oh my God!"

"What's the big thing, Dad?" Geoff asked.

"What's the big thing!" I said. "Do you know how old Red Jacket is?"

"I think you've written that he's 275 years old or so."

"That's my point," I said. "He's too old for Aunt Rose."

"Dad," Geoff said. "Listen to yourself. Listen to what you're saying. Who can be too old for a 94 year old woman?"

"Red Jacket," I said. "Him and that skunk liver. And now I find that Cornplanter is an old dog, too. Wonders never cease! Wonders never cease!"

"Hey," Geoff said. "Cornplanter's a neat guy. While Red Jacket was talking to Aunt Rose, I was talking to Cornplanter. He said something really neat about his wives getting on his back about Hauser."

"What was that?" I asked.

"He said something like You can take medicine for a bad heart, but there is no medicine for a nagging wife."

I thought about it and then laughed. For the moment I was distracted from the possibility of an Aunt Rose - Red Jacket thing. And, I had a week to worry about it, too. Oh well.

As usual your comments are welcome at redhedbud@penn.com.

AUGUST 14 - 15, 1999

Guest columnist Tom Clark, a Bradford humorist contributes the following:

Mutant Beach - Just To Be There

Firstly, I wish to apologize to my constituents, adversaries and acquaintances for my absence from these pages.

Two weeks ago I put a Canadian quarter in a Pepsi machine and I had to wait there for the service man's arrival so that I could get my soda. During my dilemma, I had alot of chances to ponder our great city and the many subcultures it has spawned. Of course, my thoughts, always fond, would drift to those frolicking, innocent childhood days spent at Mutant Beach.

Did the early Indian explorers who named the area Mutanobecha (Iriquoian for "flowing stream between concrete banks") envision that, in the 20th Century, the beautiful place they discovered would someday give so much recreational pleasure to the masses who would habituate nearby?

I think not. Had it not been for a dead skunk in the water, the explorers may have chose not to continue downstream to the mighty Tunagawant ("waters with many shopping carts"), onto the Allegheny and, subsequently, opening the world's first Smoke Shop.

Fate?

Perhaps. I, for one, am glad that the skunk chose to expire where he did, preserving the natural beauty of Mutant Beach for all of us to enjoy, rather than the area becoming another outlet for cheap gas and pull tab games. And, on a quiet summer night, if you point your nose towards the beautiful glistening waters, you can still faintly smell that dead skunk that molded our history.

Color me sentimental, if you wish, but I am damn proud to say that I grew up a Mutant Beacher.

Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.

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