When winter came, my brothers and I sure didn’t get to stay home just
because we had a foot or more of snow and the temperature was below zero. We just thought it was a fact of life. Lloyd would
break trail for the rest of us when there was heavy snow on the ground. Either
Charles or Wayne followed him and I brought up the rear. I fell down with some regularity, especially when the snow was really
deep.
By the time we got as far as the Foltz farmhouse, I was covered with snow and
half frozen. My brothers would go on ahead and leave me behind. When they did that, I’d tromp up onto the Foltz porch
and knock on the door to ask what time it was. Hattie Foltz would come to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. The minute
she opened the door, she’d grab me by the arm and shout, “Teddy Bear, get in the house! Land sakes! You look to
be frozen stiff. Let me help get your mittens and coat off. Stand over here by the stove and warm yourself while I fix you
some hot chocolate and I’ll see if I can’t find some sugar cookies.” “Rube” Foltz would sweep
the snow off me as I stood by the fire. Their boys had already left for school, most likely having joined my brothers. In
no time at all I was warmed through and through by the old pot bellied stove. After I had drunk the cocoa and eaten the sugar
cookie, Hattie would put my coat and mittens back on me with an admonition to “hurry on to school now”. She’d
give me another sugar cookie and “shoo” me out the door.
See? I made my own silver lining. My Dad didn’t raise no dumb kids!
Years later, in 1977, I decided to take early retirement. That’s when
I discovered that I hadn’t been born. In order to retire and draw a pension from Roadway Express, I had to produce a
birth certificate. So, I sent off to the right people at Indianapolis for this document. They had no record. No certificate.
“All right. Let’s go back to the beginning. Let’s try the
LaGrange Court House,” I’m thinking to myself. Again, no record. All my brothers and sisters were listed there.
Not me. Apparently, the doctor forgot to register my birth. They did tell me what documents I could use to get a “Delayed
Registration of Birth.”
1. An infant baptismal
certificate. Didn’t have one. I was baptized at the Mt.
Zion Evangelical Lutheran
Church when I was seventeen. That’s not exactly an infant. Unacceptable.
2. School records for
the first grade. The school records for Green School were kept at County Commissioner Ivo Christler’s house. Unfortunately, the house burned down and the records were destroyed. I did get a letter from Don Presdorf
attesting to the accuracy of this information. They accepted that. Got another letter from Amos Hostetler verifying that I
had attended Green School. They took that, also.
3. Birth certificates
for my children. I can’t imagine how that proved anything other than Becky and Edie’s birth, but they accepted
those.
4. Military Records.
I had those.
5. Records from an old
family Bible. I didn’t have that either, but I came up with something a lot more interesting and the people of Indianapolis thought so, too.
I made a visit to the Old Gushwa Farm. This farm now belongs
to Byron Foltz. His mother, Hattie, lived with Byron and his wife Margaret. It was green bean picking time—definitely
not cold weather. When I knocked on the door, I heard someone inside call out, “Just a minute.” Then, through
the screen door, I saw this little white haired lady coming toward me, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d been snapping beans. When she got to the door, she looked up at me and said, “Yes? May
I help you?”
“Do you know where a fellow could get a cup of hot chocolate
and a sugar cookie?”
With the most surprised and pleased look on her face that I’ve ever
seen, she threw the door open and grabbing me by the arm, she shouted, “Get in here, Teddy Bear, before you freeze to
death!” We hugged each other and cried tears of joy. It had been a long time. Too long. But, she remembered.
We called for my family to join us and we sat around the dining room table
talking and getting acquainted. She served us iced tea and—you guessed it—sugar cookies.
Finally, I asked Mrs. Foltz if she could remember when I was born. She said,
“Of course I can. You were born on Aug. 4, 1922. Your brother Wayne was born on Aug. 2,
1919.” She remembered all of us.
“How in the world can you remember when we were born?”
“I took care of your brothers and sisters when you were born. Land sakes! You were a big one. Your brother, Wayne, weighed 11½ pounds. But, you
weighed 12½ pounds. I’ve never seen such big babies.”
“But, I have a good way to refresh my memory. Let me show you.”
Walking over to a beautiful old glass-fronted cabinet, she drew out a book to show me. It was a birthday diary. She pointed
out to me the listing of the birth dates of me and my siblings as well as all our children. She had been following us all
these years. There were many, many more birth dates listed, but I was mainly interested in my own.
The photo copy of that one page was the clincher. The Indiana
State Board of Health sent me a “Delayed Registration of Birth.” It’s a great relief to know that I was
born after all. Walking to school in the snow turned out to have more than one silver lining.
