WRITER'S CORNER: Short wave radios and frogging

By Helen Jourdain Schultz

April 04, 2008 02:12 pm

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Short wave radios and “frogging” for food:
The autobiography of Helen Jourdain Schultz

Helen Jourdain Schultz knows she had led an interesting life. “I made it so,” is her simple explanation. The autobiography of this Niagara Falls native details her life as a pilot, ham radio operator, inventor and traveler. It shares her many adventures and memories and ends at her current age, 85, with her volunteer efforts at the local senior citizens center, where she plays songs on the organ or the harmonica as a self-taught musician. Her autobiography will be among those by local senior writers to be presented to the Niagara Falls Public Library during an open house April 26 hosted by the Friends of the Local History Department. An abridged version of her autobiography follows:

By Helen Jourdain Schultz

My name is Helen Jourdain Schultz, born April 27,1922, in the LaSalle section of Niagara Falls.
My mother, Helen Susan Shank, was from Pennsylvania and brought to a Buffalo Catholic orphanage. Mother was in the orphanage until she was a teenager at which time she left. She was taught dressmaking and the orphanage sent her and others to people’s homes to sew. I’m sure any money made went to the orphanage. She also worked in the kitchen of the orphanage — they were so good to the kids, letting them put rags on their feet to polish the floors. When Christmas came, she used to look out the windows and see people bringing toys and food.
My father, Charles Eugene Jourdain, was from Swormsville, N.Y. They were farmers. He had two sisters and two brothers.
My parents were already 45 years old when I was born. (Later in my life) mother told a neighbor and I overheard, that she thought she was going through the change of life and instead it was me. Father was tall, always in work clothes. He was a Catholic but never went to church — all of us went, though. Mother was of German descent, but a good Catholic and even my father saw that we went to church. “Don’t’ do as I do, do as I say” was father’s credo.
My parents had a big garden and sold vegetables. I was tied to a tree with a clothesline so I wouldn’t fall into the creek. They called me ‘Honey,” except when I was bad and then it was Helen! I helped sell vegetables — way over on Cayuga — I was a good huckster. I took orders from people.
We had a huge Queen Ann black cherry tree, the top cherries were huge and at one time, father was way up to the top and he fell in the creek. So from then on, I was the one to climb up and I was scared. He’d say, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
In the fields by the Love Canal, the grass was really high. We were probably “froggin,” and I lost sight of him (my father). I was yelling, “Pa, Pa, where are you?” When I saw him, I ran to him and again, in his pleasant voice, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, I’m right here!” Frogging was a great way for us to get money, 90 cents a pound for legs and of course, we had our fill. Went house to house selling them, sold (them) to Roslyn, a restaurant right on Buffalo Avenue opposite the 88th Street bridge.
Bootleggers unpacked right outside our house and Pa left the basement window open and they threw their empty wooden crates in the window and we used the wood for heat.
In 1936, I was in the 8th grade attending St. John De LaSalle Catholic Church on Buffalo Avenue and 86th Street. In the middle of the night, my Dad woke me up (in the winter) at 3 a.m., shaking me, “Helen, Helen, wake up, I think the church is on fire!” I jumped up. “Can I go down and see it?” I woke up Mother, they didn’t’ go, but I did. The firemen were there, all local volunteers, with their one truck which was kept on Cayuga Drive. The hydrants were frozen so they couldn’t get them working. By the time the hydrants were opened, the church was completely on fire and the school below had excessive water damage.
My mother cried so and I was just a curious little kid who stood in the cold, dark night, freezing and fascinated by the lights, the flames and so sad that my beloved St. John’s was destroyed. Father Doyle was so brave. Ran into the church and rescued the Blessed Sacrament. His bathrobe caught fire but he was not injured. Surely our Savior’s intervention!
I also had my own short-wave station. After my father built our house next door, we rented the other one and the people had a short wave set in their fruit cellar and I used to listen outside the window to hear the programs. I made up my mind then (at 10 years old) that I was going to have one of my own, and I did. I had this when in my early 30’s and equipment was high in price. I got some from a Catholic priest (the church on Falls Street). We did repairs on his TV set and he explained to me how it worked and sold me his old equipment — got it for a few hundred dollars. He was happy that I was interested and helped me out. I bought a microphone and the key. I hooked it all up in my home (which I had built by my brother in 1952). I had it right in my living room on my desk, which is still there. The priest was a licensed operator and gave me the first test to see if I could use the key to do the code on the air. He gave me a few questions and I passed and he sent them in. I was only able to do the Morse code - practiced until I worked up to speed. Then I had to go to Buffalo for speaking on the air, but flunked — too many men talking. I was the only female there. Went home and practiced and went back in a month and passed — still have postcard and license — a big “PASSED” on the postcard they sent me. I also owned a little blue parakeet and he used to listen to me say “Roger, Roger” and I named him that. It was so interesting to others, I would be talking and they would hear me. I talked to so many people — Alaska, Guantanamo Bay, all over the country. We talked about weather, ourselves, our family and just exchanged ideas. Equipment I had when I decided to stop broadcasting, I gave to the Boy Scouts. “KC 2QJ were the call numbers.
Another adventure — I and Mona, my girlfriend, were just returning home in her canoe on the Little River to her dock when we heard a scream; it was Gloria Dean screaming, “Help, help!” Rather than dump the canoe, we got to the dock. I was in the rear of the canoe. I jumped out and Gloria’s niece, I think about 3 years old, had fallen into the boat slip. I could see the little hand and was going down for the third time, so reached under the water (on my knees on the dock) and caught her by her tiny, tiny wrist and pulled her out. Then I dumped her upside down by her ankles to get some of the water out. I found out she was a Spangler girl and Gloria was babysitting her and, like all kids will do, she ran off and fell into the water — this water was deep and swift.
Now for the rest of the story, five years or so ago, I was volunteering at the Senior Center Building in LaSalle. This lady said, “Aren’t you Helen Jourdain?”
“Yes,” I said, I was.
“I’m the little girl you saved many years ago from the Little Niagara River, I’m Bonnie Spangler.”
What a blessing in my life to see a great ending.

Adapted from an autobiography as told to and written by Elaine Brown of Wheatfield, who leads a writers class to help seniors record their life stories.

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