Hermann Lacher

 Hermann Johannes Lacher. September 18, 1915 - March 15, 1994. My Father.

Dad was born in Hofgeismar, a small town just outside Kassel, Germany. He was a teenager during the great depression, which may have been more depressing in Germany than in the US. Among other things, they produced The Socialist Party chaired by Adolf Hitler.

Dad graduated from a Gymnasium school, the "college track" for German students, more or less equivalent to our high school + 2 years of college. He became an exchange student to the University of Georgia where (1) he achieved a Master's in History and (2) married my Mom, Sarah Rhodes. These two milestones made it possible for Dad to obtain a resident visa and work toward (3) US Citizenship.

To switch from a student visa to a resident, the first step was marrying Mom, then drive to Miami, jump over to Cuba, and re-enter the US with a new permission slip facilitated by having a US citizen spouse. This was about 1938 ... when it was increasingly clear that returning to the Vaterland was not a good idea.

Dad had two brothers and four sisters still residing in Germany (along with his parents, "Grossvater und Grossmutter") whom I never met until 1950. I was too young to appreciate the nuances, but it was a difficult time for the Lacher side of the family. My uncle Fritz was conscripted into the German army and took shrapnel to his knee on the Russian front (permanent disability, but survived!). I recall from about 1945 for 10 years or so we would pack up goody boxes with coffee and pecans for Christmas in Germany. 

In the early 1940s, Dad entered the US Army Air Corp and was stationed in Bermuda where he taught language skills (French, German) to US air crews flying missions behind enemy lines. I can only imagine how it was for Dad's parents (my grandparents) to have sons fighting on opposite sides of WW II.

In the early 50s, the Lacher grandparents visited us. The high point of that, for me, was when Grossvater stripped down to nichts and slipped on his swim trunks ... on a crowded Daytona Beach - girls aghast, boys snickering in admiration.

After the war and a brief stint working for Noland Company (a hardware chain in Montgomery) Dad landed with Scott Foresman & Co, a textbook publisher. He was a travelling sales/editor with an 8 state territory (Louisiana to Virginia and the rest of the south). Travel was by company car. He worked at that for many years, made lasting friends at universities and colleges all over the south. Plus, the company car was usually new and upscale.

Dad passed away unexpectedly while visiting his sister in Kassel, a few klicks from where he was born. Mom and sister Ellen went over to settle things, but were unable to bring back the ashes ... due to that infamous German red tape. A few weeks later, Mom found a beat-up package delivered to the front porch by UPS. It was Dad. The end.

Lake Wellbrook

 I think it was the summer of 1955, a few months before I could legally drive a car. Or maybe 1956. Someone, I think Jere Huggins, was acquainted with Doug Welch who wanted to develop a farm lake into a place where locals could have a beach experience. Several of us - Jerry, Doug Ross, maybe RJ Richardson and Jimmy Carlisle, were given the huge opportunity to be the lifeguards at this new beach. It was like a bolt from above. Summer jobs were scarce, and fun summer jobs only a phantasy. 

Reality hit when we showed up and Doug handed out the pick axes. The "beach" needed sand, roads, dressing rooms, restrooms with running water. Some people with actual skills were working on the buildings. Our job was digging the ditches for water and other plumbing. Water came from a farm well some distance away. 

In case you didn't know, digging ditches is hard. The hardpan red clay would take about 2 inches of a pick when hit from overhead. The June weather was hot and humid. I'm  a swimmer, I thought. I lift weights, I thought. I can muscle through this, I thought. Turned out I could, for maybe 15 minutes before needing a break. We learned the difference between boys and men that day. There was an African-American man in charge of the ditches. He could swing that pick for hours at a time. Us boys could not.

Eventually the ditches were dug, the dressing house completed, and Lake Wellbrook opened for business. We were now Lifeguards! People came. Girls in bikinis were there. Families too. The lifeguard aspect was actually needed occasionally, usually when a small one toddled out too far and couldn't bob back to solid footing. All in all, it was a great summer. Except for when Doug's sister flipped a car upside down into that little creek in Princeton. But that's another story.

Google maps informs me that Lake Wellbrook is now a developed housing community. No wonder I can't find anything when I visit back in Athens.