Before Willow Oak; before Corinth and Alcorn County; before rural northeast Mississippi I resided in
extreme northwest Indiana, in the little town of Cedar Lake. There I had a two-story house on a hill over-
looking the lake. In winter the lake froze and the snow fell, and for the most part the breath-taking beauty
offset the miserable conditions of ice and frozen precipitation and sub-zero temperatures.
I have not been back to Cedar Lake since I left in the winter of 1982, but I think of the place often. I think of
the old country roads that led from there to the more urban areas of Gary and Hammond and the town
where I worked, East Chicago. East Chicago: dirty and urban; sooty and sparse. East Chicago, Indiana, was
where I worked at a little zinc-plating plant. I was the lead plater, and for a period of time anything you
bought anywhere in the United States of a zinc-plated bolt was plated at that plant in East Chicago, Indiana.
Whenever I think back to the days when I lived in Cedar Lake I cannot do so without thinking about the little
zinc-plating plant where I worked. I also think about the snow and the ice and the cold -- that incessant and
bone-chilling cold.
Driving from Cedar Lake to East Chicago always took me near the town of Griffith, Indiana. One of the
things I enjoyed doing on occasion was to drive through Griffith and cross the railroad tracks there on
South Broad Street. That particular crossing made the Guinness Book of Records for having the most
railroad tracks at one single crossing, and believe me, there are a bunch there. Either way, one cannot
drive the route from my house in Cedar Lake to East Chicago -- yea, one canot drive anywhere much, really,
without crossing a whole bunch of railroad tracks.
Generally, the guys who worked with me were a blue-collar, steak and potatoes bunch who worked hard
and got along well. Every Christmas we got together at Phil Schmidt in Whiting, for our holiday dinner. For
the most part all the guys wore regular, casual clothes and showed up with their wives or dates. The dinner
was always a treat and paid for wholly by the company, and since we all worked in very dirty conditions,
casual dress was for most of us nearly the same as Sunday dress. Nonetheless, on one such occasion I
decided to kick it up a notch so I decided to dress in my best Sunday suit. I knew when I would arrive I
would get some cat calls, but to be honest I knew that would happen, and I was doing it as a gag anyway.
After seeing me constantly all covered over with dirt and grease, I figured the guys would be surprised and
get a kick out of seeing me dressed in a three-piece suit.
On the way from Cedar Lake to Whiting I decided to take the drive over the tracks in Griffith. That was
always a treat for me, and would provide a nice out-of-the-way trek. It has been many years since I have
thought about that evening so my recollection is not perfect, but I do recall that as I passed through
Highland, another nearby community, I noticed a small group of people gathered to the side of the road
near one of the many overpasses in the area. Traffic had slowed and as I passed the group I rolled down
my window to have a close look.
It appeared that someone may be injured, so being the magnanimous person that I am I pulled over to see if
I could offer assistance.
"What's goin' on? Is someone hurt?"
"No. No one hurt. My daughter's cat is caught down in that drain."
A little girl was standing over a grate in the street, looking up at me and pointing down. "My a kitty is down
there!"
Down in the drain? Poor thing. I recall being disappointed that I had wasted my time stopping for a cat that
was stranded in a culvert. I shrugged it off and turned to leave. As I did I looked back over my shoulder
and could see that the little girl was calling to her kitty and her mother was standing over her with her hand
on the little girl's shoulders.
Phil Schmidt is a famous landmark in the Chicago area, and people drive from miles around to enjoy their
frog legs, perch, and fried chicken. Phil Schmidt has a most unusual decor: black and pink. The walls are
black, painted with pink roses -- at least that is the way I remember it. I also have read recently that after
nearly 100 years, Phil Schmidt finally closed its doors. Whatever, Phil Schmidt was a great place to eat, and I
was very much looking forward to some good food and good fellowship. The best part was the food, but
coming a close second was that fact that it was free.
I seated myself behind the wheel and started my car. Before pulling away, however, I looked over the dash
at the little girl who was on her knees, calling into the drain. I could see that she was crying, and her
mother was doing the best he could to comfort the little girl. I turned off the engine.
I knew that if I got involved I stood a good chance of being late to dinner, but since I am one to usually
arrive very early, and since I had left early I figured I had a few minutes to at least see if there was anything
I could do. I had plenty of time.
As I stood over the drain cover I could definitely hear a kitten crying down in the drain somewhere. A
kitten, not a cat. "How old is your cat?" I asked the little girl.
"He's just a kitten." The mother added that the little girl had just acquired the kitten a few days before. She
had been outside playing the kitten and it had fallen into the culvert through the drain grate.
I knelt to see what I could surmise further. It was already dark outside and even darker down the drain.
"Anybody got a flashlight?" No one had a flashlight handy, but I did have one in my car. I retrieved my
flashlight, returned to the grate, and I peered into the darkness. I couldn't see a thing. The drain hole itself
couldn't have been more than a foot and a half in diameter -- much too small for me to crawl down, but I
couldn't crawl down anyway: I was wearing my best suit. And even if I could fit into the drain hole itself, how
would I maneuver once I reached the bottom? No, there was just no way that I would be able to help out
this little kitty.
"Where does the drain lead?" I asked.
After a little investigation I discovered that the culvert emptied into a large ditch on the other side of the
road and railroad track which ran parallel to the road, about 50 feet away. When I arrived to the culvert
opening I could see that it was about three feet in diameter. I peered into the darkness. From the ditch I
could only see a few feet, and from there I could not hear the kitten. But somewhere in the darkness was
this little girl's kitty, and who was going to crawl into that sewer to retrieve it?
I may or may not mind crawling into an open ditch or climbing a tree to save a dog or a kitten, but I was not
getting into a culvert that is only three feet in diameter. I suffer from claustrophobia. I could never do it.
And crawl 50 feet? In the wet and filth of a sewer? In the cold and with a nice, warm, and friendly night at
Phil Schmidt only a few minutes away? Nope. No way.
I never made it to Phil Schmidt that night. Instead, I found myself in the ditch just past the railroad tracks
staring into a three-foot diameter culvert that emanated from the direction of the drain cover where little
girl had lost her kitten. I have done a lot of things in my life. Some stupid, some smart, some brave, and
some cowardly, and some just downright dumb. Once, when I was a kid I took a dare from a friend and
crawled through the culvert under the driveway of our house, a distance of about 10 feet. I had been
terrified to go in, and was mortified when I came out. That evening years ago in Highland, Indiana, I was
staring at the end of a narrow culvert, contemplating crawling a few dozen feet through sewage and stench
in search of a kitten that I didn't know would even still be there if and when I arrived. What would be the
chances that I would find the thing, and if I found it would it allow me to catch it? And above all else, will I
make it back out alive? And what about Phil Schmidt? Gosh! What was I doing?
Well, there was nothing else to do, I had no other choice, so in I crawled. It was every bit as bad as I had
imagined. The bottom of the culvert was wet, and paved with rocks and trash and pieces of broken glass; it
was cold and dark with a nice carpet of molded and rotted leaves; and the air was stale and musty. The
flashlight worked well enough so that I could see, but basically I had to crawl along on my belly; my clothes
were soaking in the water and I was getting thoroughly cold. Inch by inch I crawled along, stopping every
now and then to listen for anything. I figured that down in the hole sounds should travel well, and I could
hear a sound. At first it was a low rumble, but then it began to expand. The low rumble became a loud
rumble and the ground began to vibrate. The vibration turned into a shaking and then a violent shaking,
and then all heck broke loose. Whatever was happening, I was being tossed about inside this culvert like a
pea inside a can. It must be a train! I must be underneath the tracks! Oh, my God! I'm gonna die!
The train took about five minutes to pass, and as it moved past the vibration slowed until the ground was
calm again, but I wasn't. Now I know well the feeling of "shaken but not stirred." Anyway, I was still alive
and in one piece, but quite literally "shaken." I had been on my way to dinner, but there I was trapped
inside a three foot diameter culvert, dressed in my best three-piece suit, which was now thoroughly
ruined. I resumed my trek. I was concerned now, and just a bit discouraged. Could I possibly keep going?
What was I doing here? The girl's mother had agreed to stand over the drain and yell down to me now and
again to give me some idea of how far along I was. I had figured that 50 feet might take at least 30 minutes,
maybe more. Actually, nearly 45 minutes elapsed before I began to hear the lady yelling down from above
and through the culvert. "Hey, you! You okay down there?"
Yes I was okay; could they still hear the kitty? No, they hadn't heard the kitten in a while. I continued the
arduous trek in the direction of the voices, shining the light in front of me. On I went for another few
minutes or so until, what's this ahead I see? Could it be? Yes, I think it is! Right in front of me about 10
feet crouched close to the bottom of the culvert was a tiny, fluffy, ball of jet black fur. It never moved or
appeared afraid as I approached. I called up that I could see the kitten. I crawled along side, and as I did so
the little creature stayed where it was. I slid past without touching it, my face mere inches away. As I
scooted alongside, the little guy’s eyes grew wide, and as I peered into its scared, little eyes, it opened its
mouth wide and exhaled a couple of faint, pale squeaks. I pulled my arms up and gently cupped the scared,
little creature in my hands. The purring commenced immediately as I pulled it to my face. He was warm to
the touch, but the poor thing itself was shaking, trembling. I was lying on my back, thoroughly soaked,
freezing, but I at last had the stranded kitten in my possession.
I held the kitten to my cheek as I backed out of the culvert. Before doing so I took a good look around,
shining the light further into the hole. Not seeing anything else, I began the return trip. I couldn’t turn
around, so I had to crawl backwards. Going out took what seemed like an eternity, and the kitten purred all
the way out. When I finally reached the end and exited the hole, the time was well past that when everyone
was expected at Phil Schmidt.
I knelt in the ditch on both knees, kitten cupped in my hands. Snow had begun to fall and the temperature
had dipped. Looking about me I found myself lying in the ditch with its mud and water and filth, broken
bottles and cans, my clothes soaked through and smeared with mud and leaves and filth. I had scraped
arms, cut hands, wet feet, and ruined clothes. Wistfully it occurred to me that everyone was at Phil
Schmidt's enjoying a dinner of wonderful fresh-baked rolls and baked potatoes; grilled perch and fried frog-
legs. They would undoubtedly be wondering where I was. I had lost my chance to enjoy a beautiful and free
meal at a fancy restaurant. I would not be surprising my coworkers with my beautiful suit. I would have to
drive back to Cedar Lake and dine alone -- probably beans.
I did have something else, though. Yes, I did have that little black ball of fur. I crawled to my feet and
crossing the tracks met the little girl at the edge of the road who, throughout the entire ordeal, had held up
bravely and with a steady disposition. As for me I was thoroughly exhausted, anxious to return home to a
warm bath and a bowl of beans.
And as for the kitten? For him, everything was just peachy. From the time I arrived to pick him up until the
time that I deposited him into the arms of his very happy and grateful little owner, he had never once
stopped purring.
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Oak in my journal, or email me one of your own stories.
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