Great Uncle Dale Chetister

I didn't know my Great uncle Dale, son of Leta, brother of my paternal grandmother Vivian very well. I only talked to him and my Great Aunt Kate in passing—at family gatherings or an occasional chance meeting at my grandparents’ home. I don’t recall ever having been to their house. In fact, I always felt like it was miles and miles away, even though it was only in Rossford, Ohio, just on the other side of East Toledo, past the I75 South onramp, along the Maumee River.

Dale Louis Chetister was born to Leta and Ralph Chetister on October 13, 1916. He was nearly three years younger than my grandmother, the second and last child of both of my great-grandparents. When his parents divorced on November 8, 1922, he was barely six years old and lived with his mother and stepfather Albert Mohr.

On June 4, 1927, when he was ten years old, he was the only witness of the murder of his stepfather by Fred Valentine. He even chased the assailant down the street, shouting to draw attention, and helping to catch the man.

When he was approximately twelve years old, in 1929, he and Vivian moved in with their father Ralph, who lived with his parents. On October 18, 1929, Ralph married Eunice (Tinkle) Powers. Dale graduated from Waite High School in 1934. He mostly lived with his father, stepmother and grandparents until he married.

On July 17, 1935, he began a short service in the U.S. Navy, being discharged on January 9, 1936. Some time between 1936 and 1942, he started to work at Spicer Manufacturing, referred by his stepfather Robert Fields.

He converted to Roman Catholicism and subsequently married Kathryn Peer on January 23, 1942, settling in Rossford, Ohio. Kathryn was born on November 3, 1918 in Rossford, Ohio to John and Julia Peer. Her parents were immigrants from Slovakia. She was the sixth of 10 children.

Dale and Kate had four children: Constance Marie (April 18, 1943), Duane Louis, called Sonny (April 19, 1944), Christine Ann (October 6, 1947) and Alan Louis (December 16, 1950). Sadly, Sonny died on November 21, 1948 at age four, and Christine died on May 21, 1975 at age 27.

Dale Chetister worked at Spicer, which became Dana Corp. until his retirement. He died on July 28, 1998, at age 81. Kathryn died on May 20, 2010, at age 91.

Alone Again

Leta had not left the house in three days, and even so had confined herself to the first floor. She spent most of her time sitting on the sofa. During the day she dozed, but when darkness descended, she could not sleep. She lay down, pulled the knitted afghan over her body and closed her eyes, but sleep would not come to her. At least it didn’t seem to. While waiting for the first hint of daylight, she would listen to the night sounds—the creeks of the of the house as it was tickled by a breeze, an owl pausing on a nearby tree before resuming its hunt, a distant train or lake freighter carrying cargo from one location to another, a forlorn tom cat moaning at its loneliness.

Sometimes she would rise, meander in the darkness to the kitchen and sit at the table. Although she had started several games of Solitaire, she could not concentrate enough to finish, leaving the cards in disrupted formation until she decided to try again. When she returned to the previously neglected game, she would to try to figure out where she was, but eventually decide to start over. More than once, she turned on the radio—to distract her or for companionship—and then suddenly realize that she was hearing only static, that the channel she thought she was listening to went quiet for the night.

She ate, even though she wasn’t hungry at all, forcing down toast, an egg here and there, some applesauce, or soup with saltines, and coffee. She drank a lot of coffee. Most of the food spoiled in the icebox.

Early on the fourth morning she heard a light rap at the door. She was awake, but startled. It was such a human sound. She stood, dropping the afghan onto the floor and made her way slowly and deliberately to the back door. Without looking to see who it was, she opened it to find the milkman standing on the stoop. The light was coming from the side, so she could make out part of his face.

“Mrs. Fields?” he said, somewhat like a question. “I saw the light on and, well, ma’am, I noticed that the milk I delivered a few days ago was still sitting in the milk box.”

“Oh, it is?” she questioned. “I simply forgot. Thank you.”

“Do you want me to change it out, ma’am?”

Although she heard the words, none of them penetrated.

“Ma’am?”

“Why, yes. Yes, of course,” she answered. “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s not pay time, ma’am. It’s the milk,” he replied patiently. “Why don’t I just hand you a quart of milk and a pint of cream. Would that do?”

Leta held out her hands, and he gave her the bottles.

“And I’ll just take these that you haven’t drunk, and take them off your bill.”

Leta stood in the doorway, and when the milkman finished, he tipped his hat to her.

“You take care of yourself, Mrs. Fields,” he said, as he turned away.

“Thank you,” she said.

At some point, she went back into the kitchen, put the two bottles into the icebox and made her morning coffee.

Before noon, she took a bath, curled her hair, put on a clean dress and walked to the grocer’s. She had a craving for bacon.

Dale Joins the Navy

Leta's son Dale told her he had a surprise for her. Would she meet him on Saturday morning at his favorite restaurant for lunch? Leta didn’t care for surprises, disliked the restaurant, and detested that this was also a restaurant frequented by Dale’s father Ralph, her first husband. She still felt several resentments toward Ralph, even after being divorced for nearly thirteen years. Both had been remarried, Leta several times, and Ralph once to a woman who died of cirrhosis of the liver—or, as Leta liked to put it, drinking too much. She should have felt some compassion or even a little sympathy for Ralph. After all, he was her children’s father. But she did not. Once he tried to steal her children away from her, and he always called her an unfit mother. These atrocities she could not forgive.

“Can’t we meet somewhere else?’ she asked Dale on the telephone.

“This is the best place,” he replied. “Humor me, Ma, just this once.”

Leta was apprehensive. After taking a three-month hiatus from responsibility by living as a hobo, Dale had been home for barely a month. She had seen him only a couple of times since then but knew that he was still not seeking employment, nor was he staying home very much. Now, he made this unusual request for her to dine with him at a place where she would already be uncomfortable to tell her something she probably didn’t want to hear. She was his mother, and she was concerned.

“Please, Ma?” he entreated.

“Very well,” she sighed.

At the appointed time, Leta arrived at the restaurant. She looked inside, and didn’t see her son. Nor was he waiting for her on the street outside. She watched for him, looking up and down the sidewalk. After all, he did not own an automobile. Without employment, he could not afford one. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar, coming from one of the vehicles that had just parked across the street, and with a flutter in her heart looked there. As he closed the door on the vehicle, an older man was whispering into the ear of a large, giggling woman. For a few moments after that, Leta wondered if perhaps her son did acquire an automobile. He had often talked about getting one, and since neither his father nor grandparents with whom he still lived drove, they could easily have financed the possibility of having him drive them to various destinations. It would be a foolish decision, but a far more welcome surprise to her than an announcement that he decided to leave home again for distant parts.

When he old her about his three-month excursion, riding in boxcars throughout the eastern states, he focused on where he went. He had seen Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Gettysburg, Buffalo, Boston, New York, and the New Jersey shore. He talked about the cities, historical landmarks and practices of the people in those environs. He told her that he ate, slept well and was never arrested for vagrancy. However, he never shared a word about the men with whom he traveled. All she could draw out of him was that they were all men of many different ages, some of whom had been traveling for years and others going to specific destinations. While they all drank illegal liquor, not all of them were drunkards. They bathed where and when they could. He never mentioned names and would only say he had traveled with a couple of fellows for more than a day or two.

Nothing much had happened to her son since then, so what, she wondered, could he possibly have to tell her today?

Leta did not see her son until he was nearly upon her. While she was looking in his direction, and actually saw him from a distance, she did not recognize him, because of his attire. Then he was upon her, and her countenance fell and rose simultaneously. While her face lit up, her shoulders dropped. There was her son, standing barely twenty feet from her and coming closer quickly, dressed as a sailor.

“Dale?” she inquired, still not quite believing her eyes.

“Ma,” he smiled. “Yep, it’s true. I joined the Navy.”

Dale Returns

Leta's son Dale graduated from high school in 1933. Unlike his older sister Vivian, he was not a good student. Leta always believed he was smart, only that he was restless and lacked concentration. Perhaps he had been living with her through his high school years, she might have been able to work the skittishness out of him, but since eighth grade, he had lived with his father, grandparents, and, for a short time, a stepmother. While she had no direct experience of their home-life, Leta strongly suspected that there was very little of the kind of discipline that Dale needed in order for him to succeed. Nonetheless, he did finish high school, but upon completion had secured no employment.

Dale’s father Ralph was a postal employee, but Dale was not interested in a position with the U.S. mail. His grandfather had worked in manufacturing, but Dale wasn’t interested in that either. Vivian worked as a secretary and then became a housekeeper for another family, a position that a boy could never do. Even though Leta was not working when he graduated, she had several contacts from jobs she held over the past years, as well as many cousins and acquaintances who would have helped him secure a job, but Dale gently refused her offers of assistance, also.

For the first six months following his high school graduation, they were all patient with him. As far as Leta could ascertain, her son was not a drinking man, but he did enjoy the company of rowdy, drinking men. Vivian relayed to her that throughout the summer and fall, he was rarely at the house, and when he was, spent most of his time sleeping after being out all night. When winter came, Dale’s activities were diminished. With no job and little to do, he spent most of his time idling in the house with his grandparents and stepmother, who was ill much of the time.

Finally, in March of 1935, at age 18, Dale made a quick visit to her. He had a small satchel in his hand and told her that he and a friend were going to “take to the rails” and “hobo it” across the country. He would write when he could, and she would see him when he returned. Despite her questioning of his plan, his mind was made up. She fed him, gave him some extra food and then let him go.

After he left, she did not sleep for the next three days until finally the grief and anxiety fell away, and she collapsed into bed and slept for sixteen hours. Leta was not much of a worrier. Certainly, she missed her children during those years when they were still young and lived away from her, and she thought about them regularly. But they were neither a welcome or unwelcome burden on her mind. Dale’s abrupt departure, however, filled her with dread. It brought back all the loneliness and self-blame she felt as a small child when her two older brothers, oldest sister and father all suddenly left home. While she didn’t remember any of the details, she remembered the feelings. She felt abandoned.

Dale’s departure brought that abandonment back, and even as the feelings became less prominent over the first two months, they still lingered. She received one letter at the end of March, one in April and one in early May. Each was similar: He reported that he was doing fine, he was getting enough to eat, and he was having the time of his life. He never shared if or when he would be returning home.

“What possessed him to do such a thing?” Leta asked her daughter Vivian, as they were sharing the first letter.

Vivian shook her head and slightly shrugged her shoulders. “Ma, he’s just a little restless, that’s all,” she answered.

Leta looked hard at her daughter. This was the truth and not the truth. While there was a certain air about Dale that made him slightly different from other boys, she would not call it restlessness. Aaron called it skittishness, “like a young mare,” he explained. Although she agreed in principle, Leta disliked the comparison of her son to a female animal.

When June arrived, more than two months since Dale left, Leta continued to worry, but it had a lesser impact on her life. She was working at an office downtown and living in a boarding house to be closer rather than traveling from her brother’s house in the country every day. She didn’t really like the job—not the work as much as the man who owned the company. He spent much of his time locked up in his office, and whenever he needed something, he would ring a bell. Leta’s co-worker would look at her, and then she would have to stop whatever she was doing to cater to the owner’s need. Sometimes it was fetching coffee or delivering some papers to a colleague in another office. Sometimes, it was as ridiculous as sharpening his pencils, because he had no interest in getting out of his chair. At 11:45a.m. every morning, she would leave the office to get his lunch at a luncheonette two blocks away. He had a routine, which made the task easier, a specific lunch every day, but he became downright vicious when the hot meals were lukewarm.

One miserable, dreary Wednesday afternoon in mid-June, as she was leaving the office and craving a stiff belt of whiskey, she was greeted by a very familiar voice.

“Well, if it isn’t my beautiful mother.”

Leta nearly dropped her pocketbook. She turned quickly, and there was her beloved son, standing a few feet behind her with his arms open.

“Dale?” she whispered.

“Ma,” he acknowledged.

He looked scruffy and unkempt. His clothes and face were dirty, and he was thinner than he had ever been. Leta did not care. He was her boy, and after three months away, he returned.

They walked steadily toward each other and embraced.

Learning to Drive, part five

Leta was having her second driving lesson. During the first, she sat in the driver’s seat, learned the names and purposes of the dials and controls, and mimed shifting the gears, manipulating the choke and the clutch. After some experience with this, she successfully started the automobile. That was her lesson. After a quick bottle of beer, her husband Bob took over and drove them on a scenic drive along the river. For Leta, the experience was a surprise. She had never considered the possibility that she would or even could operate an automobile. The experience startled her, but because her daughter Vivian had recently learned and mastered operating the vehicle, she thought she should at least try. However, upon completion of the first lesson, she began to dread the moment when her husband would lead her again to the driver’s seat for a second lesson. They hadn’t planned any specific time for the second lesson, so she had no idea when he would bring up the matter. Sundays were most likely days, since he had more time available. On Wednesday afternoon Sunday seemed a long way off.

Then Bob came home from work a little early and a few minutes later, she was once again behind the steering wheel.

The second lesson started with a review. That was simple enough. She made a couple of errors in remembering parts of the console, but pleased herself by how much she did remember. Before he instructed her to start the engine, Bob had her twice simulate doing so and putting the automobile into gear to drive.

“Make sure you’re in neutral,” he said again. “Now, start the engine.”

Leta had also done this in her previous lesson, so she followed the instruction. The engine sputtered to life.

“Now, put her in gear,” he said with flair.

While her mind didn’t go completely blank, Leta suddenly felt as though she was in the vehicle for the first time. She released the choke, fumbled with the gear, and as her husband whispered helpfully, “slowly, slowly,” she released the clutch with her left foot. The vehicle rebelled with a groan and then went silent.

“What?” she gasped.

“Oops!” Bob said, loudly with just as much surprise.

Leta was shaking.

“It’s okay, darling,” Bob said as he pattered her arm. “When you release the clutch, you need to add gas at the same time. Remember?”

Leta was breathing heavily.

“Yes, yes, I remember,” she gasped.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructed, and then breathed with her. “Let’s try this again.

It took her four more times before she actually was able to get the vehicle to move. The second time, she punched the gas pedal before releasing the clutch, while resulted in a loud and impotent roar from the vehicle. The third and fourth times she stalled, and then on the fifth time, the automobile began to inch forward.

“That’s it!” her husband cheered. “Now give it a little more gas.” She did. “Now, get ready to go into second gear.”

Leta nervously slammed on the brake.

“Damn!” she cried.

“It’s all right,” Bob said soothingly, and then whipped his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief once again. “We’re getting there.”

However, Leta never achieved what she wanted. In fits and starts, she managed to drive halfway around the block. Everything distracted her—a child playing in a yard with a ball, a dog running beside her, an oncoming vehicle. With each one, she slammed on the brake and cut the engine. Her arms ached from clutching the steering wheel, and it was difficult to turn it, even when the car was moving. Her legs cramped, and shoulders hurt. By the time, they reached the second corner, she could think of nothing else but getting out of the vehicle and never getting in another one. Not once did she achieve a steady speed. Once she started to move, she would fail at shifting and stall the car. Bob continued to speak softly for the most part, but she noticed how over the course of the thirty minutes that it took them to get from their house to the second corner, he was wiping his forehead with his handkerchief more and more frequently. When she slammed on the brakes one time, he had been leaning toward her and suddenly flew back. After that, he rubbed his neck here and there.

Finally, she stopped. They were at a corner. There were no other vehicles on the road. Leta simply put her foot on the brake and let the engine shut down.

“I’m through,” she said with serious finality. Then she opened the door and started to exit the car. Remarkably, the vehicle was still idling, and unfortunately, they were on a little slope in the road. The automobile continued to glide forward.

“The brake! The brake!” Bob exclaimed.

Leta had the door open and one foot out. She lost her balance and fell against the car door, her outside leg dragging on the ground. She was holding onto the door and the steering wheel for dear life. This made the automobile swerve slightly to the left.

“Help me!” she cried in terror, as the vehicle started to gain momentum.

“Use the parking brake!” Bob ordered.

“I can’t,” she shrieked. “I can’t move. Bob!”

For the rest of her life, Leta would never be able to articulate how Bob managed to stop the automobile without it crashing or either of them being injured, but somehow he did. Still, neither was without blemish from the melee. Leta twisted her ankle, spending two full days with her leg raised and wrapped in ice to manage the swelling. Bob had acquired a long gash on his left arm, which bled for at least two hours, even after they cleaned and dressed it. To the day he died, he bore the scar. The automobile was unscathed.

As for the incident, neither mentioned it nor Leta’s unsuccessful attempt at operating an automobile. The possibility that Leta might learn to drive never came up again.