The wood pile, cats, and carrying wood

Dad had access to rough cut and planed lumber and to split wood for our wood-burning stove.

I loved the planed boards. It was mostly 2x4 mill ends. Dad had a large pile in a storage shed south and east of the house. I decided to build a tunnel into the pile and, board by board, opened up a large cavity inside the pile. Dad was not aware of the cavity. He was, however, pleased with the size of the pile he had accumulated. During the winter, we removed boards from the pile, cut them up, and burned them. There came a point when the huge cavity inside the board pile was exposed and Dad realized that we might not have enough wood to make it through the winter. I got a good talking-to and he began to once again haul wood home.

We raised cats. Well, it seemed like we did. There were always many around. One particular spring a large litter was born. We had great fun with them and part of the fun was using the planed boards to make a play area. We built little houses, elevated walkways, and everything we could think of. It was great fun.

When we did not have the mill ends, we had split wood. My Uncle Art could carry a huge armload from the wood pile to the wood box. Occasionally, I was asked to carry some and it was always a great imposition on me but I would do it. On one occasion, a piece had several wood worms of some kind on it. They were ugly, wiggly things and I dropped that particular piece on the way. Later, Dad made me pick it up and carry it to the wood box. Not sure what I learned that day.

1952 Gifts

Christmases and birthdays were pretty simple events. Most of the time I wished they did not happen because we were so poor. But there were some great gifts too.

I will always be grateful for two gifts from my Uncle Jim. One was a wind-up grader and the other was a chemistry set.

The wind-up grader was amazing. I can remember taking it down beyond the swings in the front yard and watching in amazement as it moved along and smoothed the dust. The blade would adjust up and down and rotated too!!

Of course and unfortunately, the inner-workings of the grader became my focus. I very carefully took it apart. I remember noting how each bracket connected as I had every intention of putting it back together. By the time I got to the spring and transmission it was too late - there was no going back.

The chemistry set gave just a hint of what could be done through chemistry. I could read most of the manual and conducted many of the tests therein. Finally though, I lost interest due to the limitation of not being able to make explosives.

I did get a beautiful red wagon. If you read a story about this type of toy then you have read my story. I could load it up and empty it out and play and play and play. Among my favorite pleasures was hauling my little sister about and watching the tracks in the deep dust.

The only gift I have a memory of giving was a comb to Uncle Jim. I was so embarrassed and it hurt deeply. I can only assume that I realized what he had given me and wanted to give back equally.

Learning to ride a bike

Learning to ride a bike was among the most difficult of tasks. My cousin Catharine generously ran along beside me for try after try after try. I remember being in tears several times and being encouraged to try again until I finally succeeded. I was quite pleased to have done this and, to this day, can get on a bike and ride.

That was it.

Cleaning the well

Many of my memories are of traumatic events and this one was no different. Along with our outhouses hundreds of feet away from our house we had wells hundreds of feet from the house. I once had the task of carrying water from our new well. I was given a two gallon bucket which I filled at the well (without falling in) and toted home. Because of the relatively heavy weight of the two gallon bucket of water (compared to a six year old), there was a lot of slop and the bucket was very nearly half empty (or full depending on your level of depression) by the time I covered the couple hundred feet. I think that was the only time I was sent for water.

But that is not what this post is about. There comes a time when a well needs to be cleaned and the one near my uncle Art's house was in need of cleaning (I think this is where we got our water also and its not being cleanable was probably why we got our well mentioned above). There was much trash in the bottom of Art's well including the base of a broken bottle. It was place perfectly so that as I walked along the wet grassy slope, I slipped and fell on it. The muscle on my right thumb was cut to the bone. Blood was shooting everywhere. Someone finally arrived with a towel (the wrong cloth for a bleeding limb but that is another story) and wrapped my hand. This time it was 17 miles to the closest town and another 25 miles to a town with a doctor available. The stitches were unbelievably painful and I remember being told to be quiet. I imagine that the pain was mostly in my mind as I am quite sensitive to pain even today.

Hornets

I had a couple run-ins with bees. I was allergic to the stings into my twenties. The first was not related to a stinging but the second was.

I was riding a horse between my house and Ruben and Geutrid's (where I fell off the freight sled into the snow and where I went occasionally to sip milk directly from the cows and where I got my hair cuts). In less than a second an oncoming black dot slammed into my forehead and literally knocked me off the horse. I had a small tear in my flesh from the impact.

At Rube's we had a meal on their porch once. The yellow-jackets were thick. Rube put out some bee traps he had made by placing a funnel shaped screen into the top of a jar or can. He placed some raw meat into the jar and set the screen in place. The bees would go after the meat and not be able to find their way out of the container.

The most dramatic encounter took me to a near-death experience. My wonderful little sister and I were out in our small back yard. There was some recent tree-fall (wind probably). We came upon a mad buzzing in the ground (the tree had apparently disturbed a bald-headed hornets nest). As I moved forward, the ground came up to meet me. I have no memory of the next several hours so have no idea how I got from the back yard to the house to the doctor 17 miles away. He was busy with a patient so I sat for a long time in the waiting room. Finally, he took me into the area where he could give me some attention (do those rooms have a name?) and began pulling out stingers. Mom told me he had reported removing over 200 stingers.

I have a great deal of respect for hornets and yellow-jackets even today.

100 thousand acre wood

Christopher Robin and Laura Ingles Wilder had nothing on me when it comes to stories in the big woods. It is a beautiful and very large woods.

The funniest story (looking back) was my venture into the deep woods (well, actually my exit from them as I can't remember how I got into them). Something invited me to try to get home - possibly hunger. I found a primitive road (a path that a vehicle could travel but obviously had not for some time) and followed it. As I came up over a rise I could see cattle in the road. This was quite disconcerting as I did not like cattle. The evidence gained from a quick review of my situation made it clear that I would have to travel through the woods to get home as there was no way around these cows on the path.

I have no idea how I did it but I instinctively turned to my left and went through the barbed wire. After a few minutes the forest opened and I could see the mill pond where my Dad worked as a pond monkey. I did not see him and was not looking for him as I worked my way through the under section of the mill - filled with moving belts and who knows what else. Fearless, I traveled on until I was through the mill and now on the other side of the mill pond.

Unknown to me, Dad had seen me and had made his way across the pond on the logs. As I started up the side of the pond wall he suddenly grabbed me, picked me up, and said suddenly and loudly "What are you doing here?" My being startled is the last part of that memory.

In the forest were very tall trees. One in particular, just south of my Uncle Art's house, stood above nearly all of the others. It had bark so thick that it was more than the width of my shoe and there was a kind of natural trail up the trunk to the lowest limbs which were surely many feet off the ground. I decided to climb the tree to see what the world looked like from up there. I climbed until I was exhausted and stopped to rest. Upon becoming still, I realized that the tree was swaying in the wind. What a beautiful feeling. Like nothing I have felt since.

As Dad was driving us somewhere one day he spotted a badger and stopped and got out of the pickup to shoot it. I assume now that this animal had been after our chickens or something because it would not have been like Dad to kill for fun. In fact, in his later years when getting meat for the table was no longer a requirement, he hunted with a camera and had the rifle and pistol for protection. I remember that he shot the badger and it started towards us. He shot again and again. He was a good enough shot that I am sure he hit it several times - even with the relatively inaccurate 45 on a target that small. His final shot was taken when the badger was just a few feet from him and its momentum carried it to his boot. He was shaking. I soon realized that the badger would have done great damage to Dad had it reached him alive.

I have always wanted to own a 1948 Dodge Powerwagon. They are for sale today on the internet. This particular vehicle was our way into the woods in the areas that were being logged. I got to tag along once and I learned to love compound low gear as one has time to get a good look at the woods without expending any effort.

I also took a wild ride on a small caterpillar. We were traveling into the woods west of the saw mill which was west of our house (remember that my front yard was logically north of my 1952 house). I think it would have been a D6 or bigger. Anyway, as we were moving forward we started across a small tree which was laying in our path. The farther we got onto the log the higher the front of the cat pointed. We were well past 45 degrees when the cat finally passed its center point at which time we slammed down to the ground.

The balance of the 1952 winter stories

I will use this post to collect any stories that I do not have elsewhere. If I update it, I will move it to the new date.

I do not remember any winter before the 1952 era - probably because I was so young at its start (three or so years old).

My first real memory of winter is a singular one. I know now that we were moving from a sawed lumber shelled, sawdust filled, very warm but small cabin by one sawmill to the sawmill where I lived until the beginning of second grade. I assume that the first sawmill closed and the other was a competitor which won. Maybe the mill simply moved?

That first memory is short and sudden. I was riding a freight sled which contained our furniture. I ventured near the tail-end. The caterpillar operator shifted gears, the jerk disconnected me from the sled, and I was suddenly looking up at Dad from a hole in the snow in the road. I am sure I complained but he told me to just get up and catch up with the sled. I rolled over, got into the track of the treads, ran and he pulled me up over the distance and back onto the sled. I have tried several times to get back to that mill but have never succeeded. I have pictures and it is a beautiful place.

I have no order for the next few memories. One memory is of a winter with much snow (I would guess the same one as the coyotes). I dug tunnels in the snow in the yard and loved it. However, as the spring came and the snow began to disappear, Dad's feet regularly plunged through the less solidly frozen snow and waist deep into my tunnels. He laughed about it, for which I was glad.

I would guess that it was this same cold winter that my sister nearly froze and I got some frostbite in my feet. We were sledding on a nice hill a few hundred feet from the house. Dark came like a hammer and the temperature plummeted. My sweet little sister was so tired that she begged me to drag her on the sled so I helped her on and drug the sled home. She could barley move by the time we got home. Mom and Dad gave good instruction that in weather that cold everyone needs to keep moving. I am glad she lived. I am sad that my feet have hurt in the cold every since.

My final and favorite memory of winter before 2nd grade is of one with little snow. I was lamenting, crying, very sad, when the snow began to disappear so soon. My darling little sister said "Don't worry Bobby, there will be other winters." What a sweetheart. That is who she is. We had lots of adventures over the years.

One vote for handgun lock-boxes

I was quite stupid as a child. Curiosity certainly should have killed me. You will know that when you see the history of my first dozen years.

I don't think us rednecks had lock-boxes though they may have been invented by 1952. So, it is easy to imagine that a young boy who's family and neighbors regularly used revolvers and rifles would have little fear of them (it was several years before I learned to respect them).

My adventure on this day (with parents away for a time) was to see what happened when a 45 caliber bullet was covered with tissue, soaked in lighter fluid, and ignited. The first time, nothing happened so I decided that I would have to stand over it and continually soak it with lighter fluid. I got it roaring and it did fire. I literally saw the bullet move forward a few feet and I have no idea where the casing went.

I was not any smarter ten years later. My attempts to make a cannon from Dad's black powder failed. Sometime after that I finally grew up.

Parents, please lock up all explosives and chemicals to protect those who simply do not consider what can go wrong. Since I never heard a word from my parents I assume that they were totally unaware of what I had done. Please do not be unaware.

First grade in the country

I attended K-8 school comprised of about 20 children for the full 1st grade while in my 1952 location.

I said K-8 because I was only five when I started school and was not socialized at all. I had the run of a 10,000 acre back yard and did mostly what I wanted. I found the older kids to be quite tough to deal with however.

Mostly what I wanted except that on the first day of school I changed my mind about wanting to not sit down when Mr. Huff said to. One outburst of "My Mom does not make me sit down" brought a paddle across my young behind. That combined with quickly hand drawn pictures of my burning behind drawn by the older kids reshaped my future quite quickly.

These older kids were able to drive Mr. Huff away. I was not aware of the cause until later but they got credit for it. When we finally got a teacher again (I keep thinking Mrs. Ashley and her son Harvey) they were mean as ever. They made a female shaped snowman which brought her complaints to the red-necked school board. I am surprised that they did anything - there must have been a couple decent men among them. The snowman was quickly destroyed and school went on.

On the day that Mr. Huff did not show up we went home. Without thinking, I ate my lunch. When lunch-time came Mom made me sit at the table while she and Dad and my little sister (3 years younger) ate. I never did figure out the lesson there but I assume it was that we lived one sandwich away from hunger.

Mrs. Ashley grew a garden. On the last day of school she shared it with us. I don't remember eating melons before that and they were delicious. I ate and ate and ate. On the long walk home I vomited and vomited and vomited. There were times when I could not stand up. To this day I can not eat melon of any kind. Were these two events pre-cursors to my eating disorder?

One of our favorite games at recess was anti-anti-over. Each team stood on the opposite side of a building. A turn started when one team threw a ball over the roof. The receiving team's goal was to carry the ball back to the other side without being tagged. I must have had at least one successful contribution because I painfully remember one of the older kids (Mickey L) kicking me in the pants of my arrogant little body as I lorded it over him.

This was the place that I first found out how long a second was. The older kids were in a discussion with the teacher about something to do with time. S/he offered a prize to the student who could come closest to estimating a minute. We all stood together and on her word started counting seconds. I finished my counting and sat down. This same Mickey L was the last standing and I thought he was really dumb as he more than doubled my estimate. When he sat down, the teacher announced that he had stood for 54 seconds. I got the idea then that life was going to be about twice as long as I hoped from that point on.

Our trip home took us along an old logging road then through the corner of a small cattle ranch. Occasionally there were cattle in this corner. On this trip home there was a bull in the corner with the cows. For some reason, I decided to get down on all fours and snort and moo - which irritated the bull. With my back to him I was not aware that he was coming at me. One of my classmates announced the fact and I started like a track star in the blocks toward the fence. I just barley made it through the barbed wire before the bull came to a snorting stop a yard or so from the fence.

The trip to school was made through the ranch and along the old logging road, of course. Every day, we walked together except one when I was running a little late. Well, a lot late because I could not catch up with the other kids. This left me alone to walk past the ranch. The snow was deep enough that the rut we walked in made the snow shoulder level on me. For some reason the cattle dog decided to terrorize me from eye level. I remember a lot of growling and snarling and fangs and then remember waking by the school's stove without hat, gloves, and coat and unable to do much but sit. And I remember hearing a rifle shot and knowing that that dog was dead. Bob 1, nature -1. I have never had much appreciation for dogs since.

Our teacher had us prepare a play for the parents. I used to remember what my part was and will edit this when I recall it. I do remember that I, though very afraid, enjoyed the production very much.

Near the end of the year, we took a bus trip to a park (about 30 miles away). I had lots of fun but met another of my fears there. My class mates eventually convinced me to climb the ladder of a slide that was so tall that I could not convince myself to go down it. There was the usual struggle when one child is holding up the line. Finally, someone rescued me and life moved on. A foot or two can make a big difference in perception. I say that because we had a slide at the schoolyard that was nearly as high. We would wax it with our sandwich wrappers to the point where we would slide off in a flash and it was great fun.

One of my darkest days ever occurred during first grade and to this day I do not understand why it happened. Behind the school was a forest and one day the whole class decided to take a journey into the woods. They insisted that I go along. From then on, anyone's insisting that I go along raised a red flag.

Another sad day was Valentines's Day. We had a school assignment to do a report on Valentine's Day. I had no idea what it was. Mom did her best to help me but we had no resources - not one book in the house. Mom remembered the poem "Roses are Red..." and helped me write it onto the paper. I was so embarrassed at our receiving a C grade that I buried the paper so she would never see it.

My last view of the one room school house for several years was as we drove by (at the beginning of second grade) while moving to another place where Dad could get work. As a young father I returned to that neighborhood and school several times trying to sort it all out. Other than a few very dark minutes this building and playground was a brilliant part of my life. I attended highschool with most of the then second through fourth graders and there was some dark feelings between us.

Bob drives the pickup

Yes, this is the same Bob that is said to have taken his crib apart at under two years old.

In our 1952 yard was my Dad's new, red International pickup. In those days, thieves and robbers were prosecuted by a very local jury so Dad was able to leave the keys in the pickup without much worry. Come to think of it, our rough lumber front door probably did not have a lock of any kind - and, as mentioned earlier, our relative poverty probably left us with little that anyone would want.

With the door shut having the keys in the car was apparently not much of a concern for my parents. Little did they know. I somehow managed to get the door open. From there it was a small climb to the bench seat. And from there, a short reach to the post where the keys dangled. I had seen Dad start the pickup many times since my position was on the bench seat between Mom and Dad. I leaned forward and with the pickup in first gear turned and held the key. The starter engaged the flywheel. The flywheel turned the standard transmission gears. The transmission gears turned the drive-shaft which turned the wheels. And Bob was off on an adventure through the front yard. I guess I got bored before driving over the short cliff to the west of the house. I can remember Dad's wonder at how the pickup got where it was. Of course, I had no idea how that happened.

Chicken dinner

Because of our relative poverty Mom worked to produce much of our means through gardening, rabbits, pigs, and chickens. The chickens and rabbits were raised in buildings made for them on what I will call the east yard (90 degrees clockwise from the front yard which is relative north). The pens were south of the driveway (if you will allow a dirt road to be called a driveway) and a short distance (less than 100 feet) from the front door.

I remember the spring that a box of chicks arrived (from Sears) in the mail. A couple chicks were dead but another couple dozen were alive and well. I wonder if it was Easter - I don't know. Dad hooked up an electric warming light (I guess we did have electricity) and the chicks grew into chickens in short order. Oh, and a rooster or two. Dad had built a tiny chicken house from 2x4 and what I remember as bristol board and similar to peg board but with no holes.

One of my regular jobs was to gather eggs. I did this frequently and, since we did not seem to eat the 10 or so eggs every day, I assume that Mom sold/traded most of them.

After many days of gathering eggs, the rooster (a required fixture in a productive hen house) began to resent my presence. He would scurry around me making lots of noise. He was nearly half my height and growing. There came a point when I feared going into the pen but I did it anyway - reason unknown since I was quite a chicken myself. After many days of complaining to my parents, this rooster made my life easy by jumping onto my shoulders and pecking many small injuries into my head. I remember covering my eyes with my arm. I do not remember how I got him off my shoulders. I don't remember actually arriving back at the house door. But I do remember the delicious chicken dinner. Bob 1, nature -1.

My pet chipmunk

As a little guy I had a very soft heart. In our 1952 era home, we had a swing in the trees in the front yard. The long-needled pines were either B&B or home to many birds and squirrels.

This particular day I came across an injured chipmunk. You may have seen the tiny furry creatures in light brown fur with yellowish coloring on their backs. It occured to me that helping this disadvantaged animal was in its best interest and that I might, through this kind act, make a friend for life.

My first clue should have been the great effort the chipmunk put into avoiding me. Instead, the fact that it could not climb but a few inches up the tree spurred me on. Had it told me in the beginning that it would bite if I picked it up I might have left it alone or put it out of its misery. Instead, I wound up running into the house with a painful puncture wound, a little blood, and a new life view. Little did I realize that this event was preparation for raising teenagers. Come to think of it, that is the kind of a teenager I was. Karma, karma, karma. And, Bob -1, nature 1.

A night during the winter of 1952

This story was so interesting to a work-mate that he told it to his granddaughter so I begin with it.

Winter is my favorite season but this one (give or take a year) was especially cold and had more snow than any my young (6 year old) mind remembers. One needs a geographical/social setting to really comprehend it. Our "house" during this 1952 period was two old machine shops shoved together. The main building contained the entry and kitchen, (an add-on, I think, because of a step down into the main living area), and the living/family room and my parent's sleeping area. At one point, Dad sheetrocked their sleeping area but the balance was rough lumber. If we had electricity it was in just the one main room.

The living/family room contained a wood stove which Dad would start each morning and to which my sister and I were drawn like matter heading for a black hole (to use a modern metaphor) on the cold mornings. I stress the adjective cold. The night I remember was so cold that I could hardly see through the ice on the window in our bedroom. My sister and I were in bunk-beds in the tiny second building. We could each look out the window and I am sure that on most moon-lit nights it was a pleasant sight. But, on this particular night the ugliest, hungriest, meanest bunch of coyotes appeared outside that window. I think they would have been glad to eat us and I kid you not. We were scared breathless by the terrible snarles we could hear and the vicious fangs we could see through the ice.

I suspect that we may have screamed and that Dad may have gone out with his trusty 45 and scared them off - I don't remember. But I do remember the terror one young boy and girl felt during a winter night in 1952.

Friends and Family

A dear daughter (aren't they all) suggested that I begin my memoirs and an associate at work suggested the same so I am going to see if blogging can be organized in a historical way.

I had developed a CD for the family containing some notes of my first 6 years but find that route difficult to maintain. Possibly, this will work better. A big advantage I see is being able to create content in the order that it comes to mind and let the search function support the access. I may do some indexing? A big disadvantage may be the public nature of much of the information though, at 60+, I am becoming less sensitive to that.

My first post will be about the night I was discussing with my work-mate and will progress from there.