Recollections of Jim Bittner
By Joan Fry
I was born in 1940, the youngest of five children, and lived my childhood during WWII near Fort Ritchie Military Base and the Maryland State Sanatorium for tuberculosis. I idolized my Daddy and would jump with glee when I heard him rumble across the wooden bridge in his old Ford sedan. That bridge was about a half mile away, and when Daddy drove across the planks, the alarm was sounded. The dogs, knowing his particular car sound, barked in anticipation of a good meal. The cats circled with tails in the air, and even the chickens would cackle.
Daddy, as we called him, was a good provider. He worked at the State Sanatorium’s powerhouse, shoveling coal into the mouths of the large furnaces that provided power and heat to the hospital and its operations. At least once, Daddy took me into his workplace. The heat and noise from the powerhouse generators and steam heating system were scary for a small boy. After work, he would come home and take the baskets of food that Mother had prepared that day back to the hospital wards and sell sandwiches, baked goods, and bed backs to the patients. I can still smell the baked goods and see the oyster patties that tempted me just at eye level to a four-year-old. On occasion, I would be offered an oyster patty. Fried or raw, they were delicious. Sometimes, Mother would let my sister Joan and me make cinnamon buns from leftover pie dough. That was a real treat.
Many items were custom-ordered, especially the bed backs. During the war, everything was used, so the feed companies would supply feed in designed bags that could be sewn into clothing and other items. Bed backs were made from these bags. Those feedbags were also used by Mother to make dresses for my sisters and shirts for us boys.
Even though I had little talent for it, I wanted to be an artist. Somehow, I sent some pictures to a patient named Lew Phelps, and he sent me some of his drawings back. This practice continued for a while, and somewhere in the family stuff, there are probably some drawings by this Mr. Phelps. His drawings were rather well done to a small boy compared to my stick people and one-dimensional dogs and trees.
If I begged for a long time, Daddy would take me along with him on his route. I had to wait in the car because children were not allowed in the hospital. I remember waiting and watching in vain for him to appear in one of the windows in the covered hall that crossed above the street from one building to the other.
Daddy would also take me along to buy chickens from Junior Pryor, produce and meat from Harry Harbaugh, and groceries from Earl Eby, Charlie Shields, Francis Manahan, and many other stores in the area. He liked to deal local and help out all of his friends and neighbors.
When I was about eight years old, I was put in charge of the pigs, ducks, and chickens. Being rather slight in stature, I was not able to carry a full pail of water, so to balance the load, I would carry two half-buckets and make twice as many trips. At 68, I am again resorting to this tactic.
Before school, my job was to feed and water 3 pigs, 20 chickens, all of the dogs and cats, and a dozen or so mallard ducks, while my older brother, Dick, walked down the road a quarter mile, fed the horse, and milked the two cows. He would bring the milk back to the house before we walked to school. Each week, we had enough milk for the family and cream to make butter. We also had a large garden that provided vegetables and strawberries, raspberries, and some apple and pear trees. The good produce was sold, and the seconds were eaten by the family or canned for the winter.
Sometimes in the winter, my brother Dick and I set traps to catch muskrats and skunks. At that time, a good muskrat pelt brought about $3.50, and a good number one skunk pelt was about $3.00. Considering Coca-Cola was a nickel a bottle with a 2-cent return for the bottle, those were good wages. Very few bottles were found along the highways in those days. I remember a cutback in the small stream where muskrats lived. My brother held my feet, and I placed the trap just at the entrance to the muskrat quarters. He would jiggle my feet and tease me about dropping me into the water.
It sometimes took quite a bit of begging to get me to do that again, but the price was right when we scored a muskrat, so with his solemn oath, I would go at it again. It was not customary to send children home from school for any reason, and twice I had to sit in the washroom because I had skunk odor on me. The second time, I was in luck because a classmate also had the same problem. We got to know each other quite well that day.
In those days, it was customary for boys to carry their own pocket knives, and I also carried a gun to school to check my traps. I would put it in the fence row, just off the playground. After school, I would get my gun and walk to Uncle Lester Bittner’s farm and check my mouse and rat traps. I think he paid me a penny for a mouse and a dime for a rat. With my uncle being a butcher, and having a feast of grain about for the dairy cattle, I did rather well with my little exterminating business.
When butchering time came, I would hide behind the pine tree until the pigs were slaughtered. Although I knew that we had to do it for food, I didn’t like the killing part of the butchering. After that, I was in there with gusto. With help from neighbors and friends, we cut up the hogs on makeshift tables and cooked the pon haus, puddin’, and lard outside. The next day, Mother would make lye soap with some of the lard and can the loins and spare ribs. Daddy cured the hams and bacon. My mouth still waters when I picture Mother taking that loin out of a jar and cooking it up for a meal of homemade sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, and lima beans.
This is how it was for me at the time Daddy worked and Mother worked from home at the State Sanatorium. This was part of the first book I self-published in 2009, The State Sanatorium at Sabillasville from 1908. At that time, I asked Jim to write something relative to the sanatorium for this book.
My late brother, Jim (1940-2025), and I were very close. Each Sunday morning for a long time, he’d call me at 7:00 and ask if I’d like to go to breakfast. He’d pick me up at 8:00, and we would unlock St. John’s Reformed Church, turn on the heat and lights, deliver the Sunday bulletins, and head for Mountain Shadows in Blue Ridge Summit, Pennsylvania. After breakfast, he would bring me home, and we’d return to church service at 11:00 a.m. I wish everyone had such wonderful memories of their childhood and siblings. I miss you, Jim.
~Joan Bittner Fry
