In the late 'spring of 1945, when the Crumps were about to set up housekeeping on south Eureka Street, we bought. a gas stove from Henderson & Baird.
It was the last one they had in stock and we considered ourselves extremely fortunate in getting it. A few years later, when one burner failed and the catch on the oven door went awry, our womenfolks were inclined to look down their noses at what they termed "that old war-time stove", but, all in all, it served us well.
Good neighbor Buford Ranson was a tower of strength, where the stove was concerned, and his tool chest was a treasure chest of nuts and bolts that seemed made to order for this, that, or the other phase of servicing required. But a day came when Buford was away on vacation and the stove door refused to close.
We propped it to with a broomstick, and took our problem to Shorty Pepper, who had sold us the stove in the first place. Mr. Pepper reminded us, as our womenfolks were wont to do, that it was a war-time stove, now out of date and out of production, and that spare parts were probably impossible of procurement.
“Okay Shorty,” we said, but “We aren't giving up the struggle. No siree, we're going on down to Wetherbee's, and will bet you money that our old friend Mr. Henderson can rig up something or other to help us out.”
“Now let me tell you something else,” said Shorty Pepper, “and I'm not kidding when I say that if there is anybody in the world who can help you with your stove trouble, Mr. Henderson is the man.”
So we adjourned to Walnut Street, to one of Greenville's pioneer mercantile establishments, and told Mr. E. R. Henderson our tale of woe.
Weep no more Brodie, said he who then proceeded to rifle through a flock of boxes beneath the counter until he came up with what he called a metal screw. Then he strung about A half dozen flat washers along the screw to fashion a sort of make-shift bushing and told us to try that on our old temperamental stove door. It worked too and we returned silent thanks to E. B. H, along with grace outspoken at mealtime, for many months thereafter.
This wasn't the first time that Mr. Henderson had come to the rescue. Back in 1923, when We first became a side-line farmer trying to make a corn crop and save a crop with borrowed tools, we learned just how pregnant was that old saying about the chain being as strong as its weakest link. For one missing bolt could stop mowing machine, dump rake, or five-tooth cultivator. And being a green hand at the game, we didn't carry spare bolts so, when the breakdowns occurred, we tied the mule or the team to the fence and took our leave for the village hardware store. But not before we had attempted some sort of estimate as to dimensions of the needed bolt, or nut, or nut and bolt. This we’d did by breaking a convenient weed stem or twig to what seemed the required length of said bolt, then marking a place on said stem with our thumbnail to denote the diameter or thickness of same. Armed with these vital statistics, we hastened to town, to lay our troubles in the lap or laps of this, that, or the other hardware man. All of them were sympathetic, and all of them tried to match our needs against the weed stem which was Old Stuff's only gauge and caliper. Sometimes they got it right, sometimes we had to make a return trip to trade for a longer, or a shorter, or a smaller, or a thicker bolt before we could get back to plowing, raking, or mowing.
It was Mr. Henderson who finally simplified our efforts in agriculture. What is the holt missing from, he asked and, if we said it was from the foot for the sweep to the double-shovel, he produced a carriage-bolt, seven-sixteenths by two and a half, and that was it. The same thing went for the cutter bar or the pitman rod or the spreader rod, or whathave you. So orchids to E. B. H., who not only helped to bake the cornpone brown, but also saved us a lot of lime on the farm where time is of the essence.
-B.C.
