SIMPLE PLEASURE—
It was an impromptu dinner out that Friday night that morphed into one of life’s spontaneous and warmly enjoyable events.
After dining, we left the Oak Park Restaurant and enjoyed a couple of random, back-road turns when I offered to show our companions a near-by eagle’s nest; one of at least four local nest sites that had been active earlier in the Spring.
From there we rolled down Harlan Rd., to SR 603 and a visit to the secluded Copus Monument.
It is an off-the-beaten-path memorial to a family and friends slaughtered by Indians there in 1812.
We decided to continue wandering the back roads under cumulus cloud remnants arranging themselves in a spectacular sunset framework while enjoying the first few of nearly countless whitetail deer that shared the quiet pace of our summer evening.
Sue and I were with our friends Don and Roberta Karger and were grateful for that fact alone.
The highlight of our countless deer sightings was the spotted fawn peering at us through a wire fence with a mournful expression while the township road separated it from momma deer.
Their reunion likely happened shortly thereafter as we slid quietly down their road and passed through Pinhook, OH. That’s one of those small places where the entry and exit signs for the town are on the same post.
I silently remembered renowned artist George M. Biddle had a hilltop home there where he died in 1959.
Somewhere along our way down there in the hilly woods of Monroe Township we obeyed the right-of-way of a squadron of young turkeys. They clucked and we smiled and all was well.
We trundled through the boat launch area of Pleasant Hill Park and enjoyed families; themselves enjoying the timeless pursuits of boating and fishing on a warm, summer evening while sparks blossomed from nearby campfires.
We eased up Bromfield Rd., and pondered almost visible apparitions from the story of Ceely Rose and the ghastly events of the late 1800s in that house right over there on Louie's Malabar Farm.
On a dead end of Tucker Rd. with daylight failing, our skin tingled again with legends of the paranormal as we visited the desecrated cemetery of Mary Jane’s grave then wandered toward home up Hastings-Newville Rd.—the latter name for a town long abandoned and submerged under the lake now known as Pleasant Hill.
As we bade good night Venus sparkled in the Western sky as if it was a celestial exclamation point to our collective gratitude for the simple pleasures just shared.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Finished Jones’ Chips move along the elevated line high above the production floor while (lower right) a potato is pushed manually through a spare slicer head that cuts the potato chip into its very distinctive shape.
Marcelled
JONES’ CHIPSOur story on Mansfield’s very-own, Jones' Potato Chip Company actually has its origins in my youthful memory of their delicious smell as they cooked in a nearby neighborhood on Bowman St., more than 60 years ago.
Later, a larcenous raccoon with good taste moved the story along when it stole our bag of Jones Chips on a camping trip--and I even more recently offered to share that photo with the company.
That led to my acquaintance with President Bob Jones and a tour of their modern facility just a mile or so north of the origin of those delightful smells, still firm in the memory from my youth.
Bob’s father Frederick launched his business by hand cooking his sliced potatoes in kettles in that original building about the size of a three car garage. While that cooking process became fully automated by the 1970s, it is interesting to note kettle-cooking has returned to the industry as a trendy variation of his original production technique.
Jones enjoyed rapid growth and four expansions to his first shop then expanded once again into the old A & P grocery store just a bit south of his original location on Bowman St., and adjacent to the old location of the Gorman Rupp Pump Co.
The company operated there from 1978 to 1988 when they grew once again into a 30,000 square foot facility on National Parkway. They have 50,000 square feet of space in their current building.
Bob’s older brother Steve ran the company for 30 years after their father’s retirement in 1966. Bob has been at the helm of the family firm since May of 1996.
Today they consume more than eight million pounds of potatoes annually in the production of 2 million pounds of their tasty products. Most of the weight loss is in the form of water in the raw potatoes.
Potatoes are loaded into the front end of their production facility where they are washed, then skinned in a large, abrasive drum. A sharp-eyed lady then culls damaged potatoes before they enter the slicing apparatus.
From there the chips are blown dry, twice, then plopped into a huge fryer for cooking at a very precisely controlled temperature and length of time. Careful selections of two cooking oils and maintenance of fresh oil quality are also principal ingredients in their product’s distinctly, pleasurable taste.
The cooked chips are de-oiled and dried and shaken and inspected and seasoned and inspected some more as they accelerate their way to a highly automated packaging line before being boxed and shipped to the retailer.
Bob points to designs in their new facility that will allow the future addition of a second production line. When that is added with more production hours, the stage is set for their next and anticipated spurt of growth.
As I walked to my vehicle I could not help but wonder what would have happened to that huge and now-vacant automobile plant out on Fourth St., if the Jones boys had applied their work and product quality ethics to building cars.
Company president Bob Jones (left) tracks the final stage of packaging in the highly automated end of the production line as a worker prepares to move the latest filled, box to the shipping department.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
“Family Owned
Since...”This potato (above) was manually pushed through the slicer that gives Jones Potato Chips their descriptive name. The hand in the photo belongs to Bob Jones, president of the Mansfield-based company which traces its birth to Jones’ father Robert in1945—actually several years before that, but World War II intervened.
Naturally, the slicer is automated. It is a circular drum with knives of the marcelled shape that cut the distinctive form of the tasty chips at the front end of the modern production line in their new facility on Bowman St., just north of US Route 30.
Please stop by Saturday and Fogeyisms will accompany President Jones on a VIP tour of his shop which opened in January of this year.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA
Happy Birthday Myron
Happy Retirement Sue
The 4th of July holiday weekend started with lady friend Sue Brooks’ retirement. Nancy Meinzer and husband Mark (above left) with a group of 11 square dancing friends helped Sue celebrate her first hours of retirement Friday evening. The wildflower Canada Lily joined Sue’s celebration by blooming on the shore of my pond.
Saturday seared the soul with slices of Americana everywhere.
Pshew!
At the Don and Roberta Karger home Friday evening it was a sit-down dinner for Sue then the warm magic of fellowship around the fireside with intensely caring friends.
Saturday was stuffed with events that would have made Normal Rockwell proud.My little village of Bellville is small-town America on this anniversary of our nation’s birth.
My pilot friend Myron Collier flew for years for The Empire Steel Company, under its various names and retired commanding one of their fleet of corporate jets. He also was the FAA examiner who sweated me through many of my flying licenses and ratings.
His wife Pat, herself a veteran pilot, beamed as family and friends toasted Myron’s 80th birthday while he, all the while, shook his head in amused denial of his longevity.
My celebration grew more somber in Ontario’s parade where I bicycled the route with the Mansfield Tea Party and pondered the work ahead in getting our nation back on track from the train-wreck of current Washington, DC politicians.
Our weekend concluded with a picnic with dancing friends Russ and Jane Matz in the parking-lot of their Ashland real estate and appraisal business.
I sat there and watched the fireworks crowd assemble itself along a very busy Claremont Ave., where we had ring-side seats for the evening’s colorful and noisy spectacle.
I enjoyed the sensation of spinal tingles as our country’s birthday celebration ran its delightful course.
But, for the first time in my life I really wondered what form of US of A we were now fermenting for future generations.
Fireworks dazzled the senses as Ashland’s 4th of July party concluded Saturday night; this image being the product of some old-fashioned photography effort and a bit of digital magic with Photoshop software. I beg your indulgence.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
A pedesterian does a double take when he notices lever harp music drifting from between restored buildings in Roscoe Village, Coshocton, OH (above) while Makenna, Sue and Sandy enjoy a mural and artifacts of this canal town restoration in its modern visitor's center.
ROSCOE VILLAGE--
It was easy to walk down Whitewoman St., in Roscoe Village that day and visualize an era from long ago.
Early in the 19th century laborers were digging a canal right over there, with shovels, and earning 30 cents a day for their work. A little whiskey now and then helped stave off illness common to the frontier of that time.
Long before airplanes and vehicles; even long before roads as we know them today, canals and boats were the best opportunity to move merchandise through the wilderness being carved into our new nation.
The canals were man-made rivers connecting the natural watercourses, long used by the Native Americans.
Those men with their picks and shovels dug trenches that averaged four feet deep and 40 feet in width; large enough to float canal boats when the trenches were filled with water. The canal through this village stretched from Portsmouth to Cleveland, a distance of more than 300 miles.
Large chambers were built in the canals with doors on each end so water level in the chamber could be controlled, thus allowing boats to climb and descend the changing elevations of the land. These were called locks.
Towns like Roscoe Village grew along the canal routes and supplied the needs of the laborers as well as the growing, local population.
Candles pushed nighttime darkness back into the woods in those days. Refrigeration was provided only by cool, spring water.
The canal boats hauled merchandise from the area to markets, sometimes as far downstream as New Orleans. After the merchandise was sold, so were the boats. There was no practical way for them to return upriver.
Lady friend Sue’s grand daughter Makenna dipped her own candles in a visitor’s center demonstration that day. I wondered how she equated that with her fairly short, but technologically drenched life.
I paused along Whitewoman St., to be soothed by the lever-harp musical arrangements of Paul and Brenda Neal of Coshocton. Their melodies were, indeed, hypnotic and dynamic and bold and soothing; just like the program said.
Our civilization lost more than canals when that era of slower motion passed.
_____________________________
The entire village and some of its shops can be visited free. Most others are part of a walking tour; tickets for which cost $9.95 each. All proceeds go for maintenance and continued restoration.
http://www.roscoevillage.com/
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Roscoe Village is a restored canal town in Coshocton, OH and the subject of our blog story Saturday. I chuckled when I noticed this lady; thinking she might have been a bit happier if she had purchased an ice cream cone rather than her jug of carbonated pop. Pleast stop by while we savor some ambiance from a era of long ago.
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