Kith & Kin

Fredericksburg, Ohio, 2010. It was the mid-1970s. My first cousin Peggy and I were both teens, and we were standing together at the top of The Cliff. The Cliff bordered my grandparents’ property and overlooked a portion of the village of Fredericksburg. Someone once told me it was about 140 feet high, but in my memory it seems much higher than that. It was cluttered with trees of various girths and scrubby weeds and rock outcroppings all the way down, and its base disappeared into the shallow water of Salt Creek. Mom and Dad and the grandparents had one rule about the cliff: Stay Away From It! So, being compliant children (as all children were in the 1970s), we obeyed. Until we got somewhere they couldn’t see us. We kids had a secret hideaway called “the Cliff House.” It was really just a little indentation in the rocky cliffside that you got to by holding on to a small tree as you went over the edge and stepped into the indentation. Its floor was maybe eight feet from the edge...

Someone knocked over Grandma’s mailbox. My mother-in-law came home on a recent Tuesday afternoon to find that her mailbox, located in a neighbor’s front yard across the street, had been knocked flat. Our first assumption was that the trash truck had knocked it over, but a neighbor claimed he had seen a passing driver hit it. (This neighbor is an undisputed oddball, not known for his honesty, so we’ll never really know what occurred.) The mailbox and post were plastic, but inside the post was a two-by-four for strength and a four-foot length of heavy pipe for stability. Whoever hit the mailbox must have been traveling at some speed, because the pipe was bent ninety degrees where it entered the ground. Shopping Mom gave me cash and asked if I would purchase another mailbox for her, remove the existing wrecked one, and replace it with the new one. Being a dutiful son-in-law, I willingly agreed. Have you shopped for mailboxes and mailbox posts at Home Depot? There are approxima...

Why do dads tell Dad Jokes? I’ll tell you why. We think they’re funny. We really do. And we tell the same ones over and over again because we think that sometime, somewhere, someone is going to laugh at one of them. So the next time your dad tells a corny joke that he’s told you a hundred times, laugh uproariously at it. Fall on the floor and roll around if you’d like. Maybe he’ll figure that since that one finally got a laugh, it’s time to retire it. Or maybe not. Anyway, here are a few of my own illustrated Dad Jokes. LEGAL NOTICE If you hurt yourself falling on the floor and laughing at any of these, I absolve myself of all responsibility. Copyright 2023 by Steven Nyle Skaggs, Father

Weston Wills and Lorena Oretha (aka “Buddy”) Skaggs , my paternal grandparents, lived in Edmond, an unincorporated community southeast of Charleston, West Virginia. Grandpa was a godly man, not without a sense of humor, and he was born on August 29, 1901. In another blog post I referred to my Grandpa Skaggs’s “tough, rangy body battered by years of hard labor in the West Virginia coal mines.” That’s actually a pretty good description. He was tall and thin and bony. He had had a hard life, as many men did in those days, working in the coal mines at a job that risked his life every day. Somewhere along the way he lost his entire pinky finger and part of his index finger on his right hand. He ended up with black lung and cancer (which resulted in the removal of one of his eyes), so the mines really did eventually kill him. Grandpa worked for seven different coal companies between 1928 and 1960. Imagine working a job where you breathe in black carbon powder every day all day long, down...

Mom (Jan Skaggs) looking young, slim, and attractive. Late 1950s? As I go through the photos in this album and reproduce them here, I am so thankful she kept the album and labeled many of the photos with names and dates! Keith, Dad, and me on Dad’s Schwinn, June 1965. I remember riding the bike this way. It was always a treat to go riding with Dad—and a little scary, as I balanced on that bar. And uncomfortable too! We would ride to downtown Fredericksburg, crossing railroad tracks on the way — bumpity bumpity bump, hold on tight! I assume this is the Cleveland Airport, June 1965. No one was hijacking or blowing up planes yet, so security was quite lax. It was fun (and loud!) to watch them take off and land. L to R: Steve, Keith, Dad. My first cousin Jill Skaggs, daughter of Dad’s brother Leo and his wife, Bonnie. What a cutie! Two more first cousins, Eddie and Kathy, son and daughter of Dad’s brother Eddie and his wife, Shirley. I wish I could have known my Skaggs cousins better growi...

NOTE: This was published months ago . . . I thought. But I found it listed in my drafts, so here it is again. A while back my brother Eric scanned in over twenty pages from one of my mom ’ s scrapbooks. I ’ ll post some of them here and more in the future, along with my comments and memories. Brothers, cousins, and others, feel free to comment! Dad and me, 1961. Time to wake up! What a cute little booger I was! 1961. Great-Grandma Mabel Slutz holding me, 1961. Wendell Sidle and his sons, Doug and Mike (behind the swing). And that’s me and Dad on the right. July 1962. Mom and Wendell’s wife, Caroline, became friends when they worked in the office together at Rubbermaid. This was taken on the front porch of our house at the north end of Fredericksburg. I remember that swing. And I remember being friends with Doug growing up—he and I were lab partners in high school Biology. Doug died in 1989 at age 27. I think he died of a heart attack, but I do not remember for sure. Too young—very sad...