Moving Out and Visiting

"When I turn 18 I'm going to get an apartment."

Those words were spoken and repeated many times during my teenage years.  Probably sometimes during periods of frustration, and other times just a boasting "mark my words" sort of promise to anyone listening.
In retrospect, that's not quite what happened. I joined the Air Force.

While some people might think I nipped any chance I had of ever having any personal freedom at all right in the bud, I don't agree. Joining the military was my ticket out. I needed to get out of my parents' household, and I needed to do it as soon as I could pull it off. There is no way the average 18-year old kid is ever ready to live on their own. They don't have income, skills, knowledge, or sensibilities needed to juggle the day-to-day things that come with being a responsible head-of-household. I don't know about now, but back then it wasn't taught anywhere other than in the home--if even there. Schools didn't teach real life skills. All of these things--and more--are lessons that I learned while on my own in the Air Force. They were not always easy, and I didn't always make the right choices.  Nevertheless, I learned.

I was only one day into my new military career when I questioned my choice and wondered what the hell I had done. I suddenly felt very alone, and in a strange, hostile environment. Fortunately, I got over it quickly.  When it came time for me to visit home for the first time I couldn't wait to go. A month at home! Well, by the time my visit home was nearly over I was ready to go back to my other life. While I was welcomed home by everyone with open arms, it didn't take long for things to change.  Slowly over time I again began to feel the restrictions and lack of freedom that drove me away to begin with. There was a subtle feeling of resentment I began to get from dad, like I was in the way, doing nothing but freeloading.  The welcome was eroding.  I couldn't wait to leave by the time my departure date arrived.  There was one time a few years later when I visited home and I actually cut my trip short by over a week for that very reason. I wanted to go back to the familiar comfortable place back where I was stationed. Again, I wanted out of their house.

That was when it occurred to me:  I wasn't returning home for a visit--I was just visiting someone's home.

The Red-haired Girl

At some time in my adult life it became apparent to me that I had a certain affinity for redheads. Ladies with flaming red hair tend to catch my attention like no other. My gaze sometimes borders on leering I'm sure, but I can't help it. I think that it probably has something to do with a girl I went to school with way back when.

See? How could I resist her?

From first through sixth grade, Brenda Lewis was in all of my classes. There was something about her that I fell in love with. She was not a very outgoing girl, but she wasn't really a shy girl either.  She was always in clothing that looked to be homemade or maybe second-hand, but she was always very well put together.   She was always very well groomed, and her pretty red hair always shone. That tells you that she was a girl that was being raised with good sense and practical values. She had such a cute smile! Like me, she started wearing glasses all of a sudden, and like me, her glasses were goofy looking. Unlike mine, however, hers were stylish. I think what made us goofy-looking was that we were little kids wearing glasses. I know for a fact that I made fun of her glasses because that's what boys do. Who was I to poke fun? After all, I had them too. She had a toothy grin and the cutest dimples! I can still see her face. I seem to recall one of her front teeth having a chip in it. She probably played hard like I did. I had a serious crush on her and I'll bet she never knew.  I'm sure I punched her and pinched her and made fun of her like all boys in love do.

Moving away from Algona after 6th grade caused me to completely lose touch with all of my old classmates from Algona.  They all attended Olympic Junior High School a the south end of Auburn while I attended Cascade at the north end.  We didn't have ways to stay connected with each other like we do now.  Brenda moved more than once during that time and ended up leaving the area completely.  I tried to find her many times over the years--usually when reunion time came, but never had any luck.  It's much harder with women because of the fact that they adopt their husband's name when they marry.  Now during the quest for fellow graduates of the Class of 1974 at Auburn for our 40-year reunion, we have Facebook in our corner rooting for us.  Finally, after all these years, Brenda has been found!  We haven't met each other yet but have yakked several times via computer.  Her beautiful red hair has been replaced by gray, and my once-brown hair is close behind.

Inside we're still the same little kids we were over 40 years ago!

Camping

Washington State is a great place to live if you like to go camping, and we did our share. My family went camping quite a bit when I was little. It got us out of our little bitty house and into the expansive outdoors.  And it was free. That probably played a significant part in it.  Because my mom's parents were avid campers we were able to kind of slide into the camping world easily with little help from them.  They helped us out with things like having the necessary supplies and equipment, setting up the campsite, getting firewood, building the fire, cooking... All those things you take for granted when it comes to camping.

When we first began to go camping it was just our family and our limited camping equipment. Early on we only had a big canvas tent--probably military surplus. It was the standard military color of olive drab green, so it's very possible. I don't think we even had sleeping bags in the early days--just lots of blankets. As we got older, our camping equipment got a little better. At one point we bought a tent-trailer. It was small, light, and a lot less trouble to set up than a tent. Because everyone was getting older and took up more space might have been another reason. We had a small pup tent that was our supplemental family shelter. I used it every time, and I think Don was usually out there we me as well. It was like the "big boys" annex.

Camping occasionally caused us grief.  The sunburns, mosquitoes, cuts, scrapes... Those sorts of things.  I remember one time I was exploring near our camp that caused me some grief that was a little out of the ordinary.  I think I was pretty young--say, 8 or 10.  I was walking along on top of a dead log that was laying on the ground, and when I got near the end my foot fell through.  It was apparently the home a a pretty good-sized nest of bees or yellow-jackets or something.  I was immediately enveloped by them and was stung multiple times as I ran screaming blindly through the woods.  Luckily, I'm not allergic to such things.  There was one time when me and Don were on the other side of the river we were camped next to.  I don't know what we were doing, but Denis apparently wanted to join us.  The trouble was, Denis was very, very young.  I heard a holler and looked over to see him tumbling down the river end-over-end in the shallow, fast-moving water.  I ran out into the river and grabbed him with no trouble.

There was a lot of exploring to do when we got to a new campsite. That was always my favorite time.  I loved to go running off all directions to learn what kind of interesting features and terrain our new temporary home had.  We always camped near a river, so that was usually the first thing we investigated.  Trails, fallen logs, rivers--I loved exploring it all.

Another reason to go exploring was to get out of the way of setting up the tent. That was one of two things that always got under dad's skin. He had no patience at all when it came to setting up tents or stringing lights around the the Christmas tree.  I liked (and still do) camping a lot but I grew to really hate getting everything ready beforehand and putting it all away afterward. I think dad is to blame for that. He was always surly when it came to that kind of task-oriented stuff. It either rubbed off on me or I'm just the same way because of heredity. I don't like prep work or cleanup.

In later years, motorcycles were added into the camping thing.  Our family ended up with 3 50cc Honda Minitrails, and we loved to go tearing around on those.  I'm sure we pestered mom and dad to death with our, "Can we go riding now?  How about now? Can we go yet?" talk.  Those were fun times.

Musical Awakenings

When I was growing up there were times when a strange restlessness would hit me. I would get a strange feeling almost like I was missing or forgetting something--or like I was in the wrong place. I wasn't aware enough to know what it was. I was just a kid after all. What did I know? I hadn't lived life yet.  I had no experiences to gauge anything by.  I was growing up in a generation where a huge amount was changing and cultural upheaval was taking place, and I only got to witness snippets of it in newspapers and on TV.  It was fragmented information, and no doubt hugely biased and slanted, depending on the source.  I got to hear parental mumblings about it all the time when the news came on TV. I was in a place where I thought, "if my dad hates it, it must be good!"  One time (I was probably late junior high or early high school age) our family came out of Massey's grocery store and there was a young guy out there that had hair well past his shoulders. My dad chuckled and said something like, "How'd you like to have hair like that?"  I answered no, but my mind screamed yes.

Music had smacked me upside the head early in life.  I watched the shows like American Bandstand and Where the Action Is on the television each day. I was a kid that wanted to be 'where the action was' myself.  Although I felt like I was missing something and felt the world was passing me by, at that point in my life I had no idea what or where 'the world' even was or how to get there. All I knew was that there was cool stuff going on down on the beaches of California, and that would have been good enough for me. I would feel a kind of a stirring when certain songs came on. Everyone does, right? A few of my favorites were, To Sir, With Love, California Dreamin', These Times, They Are a Changin'.

I didn't know of anyone my age then that cared about the new music anywhere near as much as I did.  I was so into the music I couldn't get enough. It felt like a new, exciting hobby. It was like an awakening in me. I wanted to learn, listen, and absorb everything about the new, hip music that was taking the country by storm. When all this started, I was still a kid, pulling Tonka trucks behind me with strings, making them do peel-outs in the dust and dirt.  The difference was, I was holding an AM radio in one hand while I was doing it, listening to music on KOL or KJR. When mom would go into town for shopping I would plead with her to stop at the music store in Auburn so I could get the latest version of the KOL top 40. I monitored the rise and fall of the songs from week to week, and I knew them all. I lived them.  When we moved to Auburn I never missed one of those Top 40 leaflets.  I wish I had them all now.

Do Se Do and Promenade!

I have never been a fan of any kind of dancing. Okay, that's not quite accurate.  I do like slow dancing, but I don't consider it dancing really.  To me, slow dancing is like holding your partner with feeling and absorbing them--being one with them--and shuffling your feet while you're doing it.  Come to think of it, it's more like a moving hug.  I guess I'd just as soon throw the shuffling out of the equation and just get down to the hug part.  Drift off and just let it all go.

Back to the story.

In 4th grade we were subjected to the ritual of square dancing. Apparently our teacher, Mr. Alspaugh, was a square dancer.  He knew the dance, and he knew how to announce (or whatever they call the musical chanting they do that sounds like an auctioneer.)  I say we were subjected to it because I don't think it was a choice with many of us kids at that age--especially boys.  I pretended to hate it like all the members of the "girls are icky" fan club did at the time, however, I was a fan of girls. When the subject of classroom square dancing first came up I was excited. Touching girls! I remember being so nervous about having to be close to them.  It never really got easier for me either. Even though I knew all the girls very well, as far as interaction went I didn't have anything other than the usual classroom activities.  (Trying to catch glimpses of panties while on the playground equipment didn't really count, although that was one of my favorite things.)   Now we got to not only touch them, but hold them! Okay, not holding them really--I mean the ways that square dancers hold: Do-Se-Do's, promenades, and all that stuff that's exclusive to square dancing. Basically, I got to touch and hold them briefly.  Still, briefly counted!

What we actually did with our dancing I don't remember exactly. I think we ended up doing some kind of public exhibition or recital thing one evening for our families.  Square dancing was a fun part of grade school.  It was something I would never would have done had I not been forced, but I'm glad I was.  Thanks, Mr. Alspaugh.

A Little Mother's Day Trauma

Traumatic experiences stick with you throughout your life. No matter how old you get they never go away. It's as if a traumatic event in your childhood places a bookmark in your memories. A dark and indelible bookmark. I've had a few, but I think this is the earliest one I can remember.

During one of my early years in grade school--like possibly 2nd grade--we had a class project:  We grew a watermelon plant. Each of us had our own little square light yellow and white Smith Brothers Dairy milk carton, trimmed down so it was about 2 inches tall. They were all neatly lined up in the window of our classroom, each with our names proudly written on them. The idea of the project was to create a plant that we grew from a seed, nurturing and caring for them ourselves to give to our mom on Mother's Day.

We had lovingly placed a watermelon seed into the rich, dark brown Algona dirt just as we had been shown by the teacher. Every day we gave our plant a little water and a little love.  And every day we dreamed excitedly of that special day when a sprout would appear. When little buds of green finally made their tentative appearance we could scarcely contain our excitement! I just knew that my little baby plant was the best, as I'm sure every other kid did about their own plant.

At last, the day had arrived: Mother's Day!

It was finally time to present the gift to my mother. I was so proud and excited--I could hardly wait to see the look on her face when I gave it to her! I walked the several blocks I had to walk each day, carefully cradling my mother's gift of life that I had so lovingly raised from a seedling. I was probably less than 100 feet from home when I tripped and fell--scattering my precious gift all over the edge of the road. I was devastated. I cried and cried, walking the rest of the way into the yard and into the house, still crying. Through all the blubbering and the tears, mom managed to coax the events of the tragedy from me. I led her to it, where she scooped it all up and put it back into its carton as best she could.

Thank goodness mothers are so good at picking up the pieces.

Playing Outside

Bicycle storage and laundry

Socializing!

I'm sure mom loved the non-winter months when she could kick us out of the house all day long so she could get things done.  She worked hard at maintaining her family. Between diaper washing, cooking, cleaning, and fixing us when we were wounded (which was often), she had a full-time job, so even when it was raining we had plenty of playtime outside. There were places there where we could play to a certain extent even when it was raining. Before we all came along, my grandpa built a structure in the yard for entertaining. I guess there were often family get-togethers and cookouts, so he built a special place for those social times. It was a big, rectangular concrete pad, open on all four sides, and had a regular pitched roof with cedar shake shingles on it. It was constructed of small, round, hand-smoothed logs, and it made a fun thing to play under when it was nasty out. I remember jumping up and swinging on the framework all the time too. I was pretty small then, and it seemed pretty big to us.  It was also where the laundry was hung to dry all year long. Who had a dryer?

The amazing car ramp

Another thing we had a great time with was our car ramp. It was a work of art, built by my dad and grandpa out of really beefy lumber they picked up at the dump one day. I think the planks were a full four inches thick, and I believe they were a foot wide. The ramp was built to drive a car up on top of, so you know it was plenty beefy. I think each of the sides that the tires drove on was two planks wide, so there was plenty of room. It was tall enough for an adult to work easily under a car without stooping over too much. It was heaven-sent when it comes to playing. It was a bicycle magnet! I can't count the number of times I fell off that ramp. It was used constantly by us. We would ride our bicycles fast enough to make it all the way up, but sometimes we'd misjudge and not quite make it, and end up falling off the side, landing in a tangled heap with our bicycle. The opposite happened too. Misjudging the speed wasn't really the cause, but missing the brakes in time would occasionally cause one of us to go all the way off the back side of the ramps. As high up as they were, it usually caused considerable pain when that happened. I can recall falling off sideways while turning around on the top too. Very painful.

Valentines and 6th Graders

When I was elementary school there was no such thing as "politically correct" or treading lightly to keep from offending anyone. Jewish? Too bad--schools celebrated Christmas. It was the mainstream holiday and the mainstream "one size fits all" set of beliefs. Everyone at school was exposed to it whether it was their flavor or not.  I generally enjoyed all the holiday-related things that took place in grade school, but one of my favorite experiences with a holiday at school was Valentines Day, and specifically in grade 6.

6th grade was the year that girls were becoming very, very important to me, and I became fixated on them.  I was changing and had a lot of things going on in my head, and to complicate it even further, the girls were changing too.  I know they had the same changes of inner confusion and turmoil going on that the boys did, along with physical changes that were more obviously more apparent.  But it wasn't all about the girls that had developing boobs, it was deeper than that.  Even though most of them were the same girls that had been in the same classes with me for all the previous years (small towns are like that), it was different in 6th grade.  I think both sexes became a little more... hmm... respectful?  Shy?  There was an strange element that came into being with puberty.  It's as if a couple of our adjustment sliders got moved.  Innocence went down.  Confidence went down.  Awkwardness went way up.  We may have already had awkwardness, but as pre-puberty children we were blissfully unaware of it.  All of these things happened at varying degrees and we found ourselves in unfamiliar territory.  For kids that had older siblings, or even aunts and uncles, the transition was probably a lot less problematic.  For the oldest kid with parents that had no siblings like myself, the road was pretty rocky.  I became painfully aware of everything around me.

Valentines Day was celebrated every year of our schooling, but it became different in 6th grade.  At least to me it did.  It had a completely different feel to it.  Our classroom was equipped with a set of "mailboxes" for valentines to be placed in--one for each of us, with our name lovingly written on it. All the students were encouraged (required?) to participate by the teacher, Mrs. Davis. I think the boxes only had slots in them so nobody could see who had more or less than somebody else did. I loved the whole idea of it, and I was filled with excitement over the whole thing.  The selection of the valentines themselves was probably done by mom on a shopping trip.  After all, what did I know about valentines?  I remember spending a lot of time making sure that everybody got one, and that nobody was denied.  I remember the nervous excitement of putting them all into their respective mail slots--waiting until the perfect time so I could do it without anyone watching.  I got such a feeling of warmth and goodness when I shyly slid valentines into each of those slots, picturing in my my mind the same warm feeling of warmth by the recipients as they opened them and read the token little cards. I got an especially warm feeling putting the valentines into the girls' mailboxes of course. It was a pretty important event for someone that was as shy around girls as I was. Of course it was a very passive thing, but in my own little mind I was really reaching out.  When it came to Valentine's Day and we got to open our mailboxes, it was as if every valentine was designed, printed, folded, and filled out specifically for me.  The handwriting was written to me.  The valentine was meant for me.  At that moment I felt almost as if I were the only one receiving a valentine from the sender.

It was a very special time.

Fist of Anger

[this was posted in a previous blog some time ago but I thought it warranted being reposted]

At some point in my life it became a hard and fast rule in my mind to not listen to my dad. I think it came from the following story. I honestly think that he thought he was giving good advice most of the time, but this particular time it became painfully clear to me that he was not. This stand out moment came to me one time when I was junior high school age.

All my life I remember hearing the same shitty thing from my dad when myself and one of my siblings would get into an argument, or one of my brothers or sisters would get into an argument with each other.  "Punch him in the mouth!" the wise ol' man would say. He thought he was being funny and smart. Some of the times it was probably his way of saying not to bother him because he was doing important "dad" stuff like reading the paper or taking a nap on the couch. Other times he would give a half grin when he would say it, so I'm pretty sure he was pleased with his witty way of parenting. Then one day it happened.

I was out in the back yard, and I don't remember exactly what was going on but I apparently got pretty mad at Don. For a split second it came to me like one of those scenes from a movie. Metaphorically speaking, there, on my shoulder, appeared a little devil version of my dad. "Hit him! Punch him in the mouth!" Came suddenly into my mind. Without thinking twice, I plowed my fist into Dons face.

I knew the instant it happened--the split second it happened--that it was horribly wrong. I had just pasted my own brother in the face. Why? Because my dad told me to. For years he told me to. I have never felt so remorseful about something in my life as I did that moment. It was as if dad was driving my fist, and dad was Don... both at the same time. It was anger, it was retaliation, it was "Get out of my head and LEAVE ME ALONE!" It was not meant for my brother. He was the innocent victim of some sort of strange, welling anger that rose within me. An anger that was directed at my dad but found Don instead.

I stood helplessly as he screamed and mom came running. When i told her what had happened and why, I think she was more than a little dumbstruck. I think she understood it--and couldn't believe it--both at the same time. She tended to Don's face and sent me to my room to lie down--I thought it was to await dads wrath when he got home. As I lay there with this horrible tumble of emotions spilling around in my head, I made up my mind on one thing: That was the last time I heeded my dad on anything.

That night nothing was ever said to me... By him or anyone.  It seems to me that a parent should have had a discussion about it--however awkward it would have been. A serious debriefing to talk about how wrong it was to have been saying that sort of thing to us kids all those years. Not him. He never could believe he was less than our superior. I continued to pretend I was listening to him when he spoke his mind, but I promptly ignored it immediately afterward.

I'm so sorry, Don.

Learning and English

As I became older and the school years came and went, so did my desire for school learning. I found myself resenting the structure, the requirements, and the differing subjects that were hurled my way. My grades were not bad, but could have been considerably better. As more than one of my report cards so eloquently put it, "He's a bright student, but he doesn't apply himself." Another thing that was a familiar sight in my records was, "...disturbs his neighbors." I have always found it hard to focus on things I was told to focus on--partly because I was told to focus on it.  However, give me something that I wanted to focus on or wanted to learn and it consumed me. One of those things came to be my love of reading. I was read to at a very young age, and it apparently sparked something within me. Reading allowed me to escape, to dream, to explore, to wonder, and to experience things through others' eyes and words. I read a lot back then. I was one of those kids that might be caught by a parent while reading under the covers with a flashlight late into the night. Reading stories really broadened my mind and made me think and analyze things. Reading others' viewpoints, ideas, and perspectives really helped me to question things.  I became a skeptic, a thinker, and random assembler of multiple fragments of thought.

When I was in my junior high years English was the only academic subject that came to me naturally. No matter what the specific subject, if it fell under the broad category we call English I seemed to always do well at it. Maybe it has something to do with me being the oldest of the five kids and having things explained to me in greater detail than I might otherwise had I been a later arrival in the family. Spelling, sentence structure, punctuation--all of those things have always been something that have come fairly easily to me.  I would like to credit Mrs. Emerson at Cascade Junior High School for actually reading to us in class.  It was she that first exposed me to classic literature, reading Charles Dickens' Great Expectations aloud to the class.

The desire to write that I've had in recent years makes me wish I had expanded my learning even more. It would have come in handy many times over. After all, I have enjoyed blogging and stuff like that for several years now. I have to believe I would be so much better at it had I studied harder. Isn't that always the case though? Story of my life. I do a great job at what has to be done, but not much more than that. I sometimes think I'm an above average achiever at being ordinary.

Being a Paperboy

Being a paperboy wasn't just about the regular income it provided.  During Christmas I had this little thing I would do. I would go and buy a couple boxes of Christmas cards and fill them all out. Then some early evening I would go around and ring each doorbell or knock on each door to deliver them personally. I wouldn't just leave them if nobody answered. I wanted to deliver them face-to-face in hopes I might get a tip. In lots of cases it worked. The typical exchange would just be me identifying myself, something like this:
  "Hello, I'm Rick, your News Tribune paperboy, and I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas."
In many cases I would get something like, "Oh that's so sweet! Just a minute..." and they would disappear inside and come back with money. I made out pretty good during that annual ritual. There were a few customers that gave me something special regardless, like one customer that gave me a 3-pound box of Russell Stover chocolates every year.

Collecting was something that I had to do monthly and I didn't care for it. It would have been fine if everyone would have paid me the first time out, but there were always people that weren't home or didn't have the money the night I stopped by. I did like getting out and about actually doing it though because it was always after dinner instead of the afternoon time when I delivered their papers, and I could do it at my speed.  One evening when I was out collecting I cut between a couple of houses to jump over to the next street instead of going all the way to the end of the block.  In doing so I got a unexpected bonus. There, in a brightly-lit bedroom window facing the driveway, was a girl standing naked! Of course I stopped and gazed, totally flabbergasted at what I was seeing. No curtains drawn and only a couple of feet from the window, she was apparently trying on a bunch of nighties or something, because she kept at it for several minutes. What I really found interesting was when I noticed that I knew her. She was one year older than me and played clarinet in band class. Well, as you might imagine, I never looked at her quite the same after that night!

Sunday mornings were vastly different than any other delivery day. First of all, it was an early morning delivery. All the other days of the week were afternoon deliveries. That meant I had to actually set an alarm and get up in the wee hours. Secondly, the papers on Sunday were huge. They arrived at my little delivery stand in the alley (a small, wooden open-front structure provided by the paper company) at some time during the wee hours of the morning in multiple bundles. There was the main news portion, and in addition was the bundles of ad circulars (or "inserts" as we paperboys called them) and I had to marry them all together into one fat paper. Sundays were sufficiently oversized enough that I couldn't fit them all in my carrier bag like I could on other days. That prompted me to buy a cart to put them all in, and I would anchor that to my bicycle and pull it behind me like a trailer.

Sunday morning deliveries meant I was out in pretty cold conditions some days. I remember one time on a particularly cold winter morning warming my hands up under the stream of warm air coming out of a laundromat exhaust. Sunday mornings also gave me time to do things I shouldn't do. After my papers were all delivered I would sometimes roam the town looking for something interesting. That usually meant doing something I shouldn't be doing or going somewhere I shouldn't be going. The city was practically closed on a Sunday morning. No cars to speak of, and no people or activity anywhere. I remember browsing through stuff in front of our local grocery store on a few of those mornings. Apparently, a lot of things were routinely left outside each night. Maybe they just didn't have room or things were too heavy or whatever. Bins full of heavy things like pumpkins, presto logs, or things like that. I remember one morning finding a bunch of Raid Yard Guard bug spray left out, ripe for the picking. I found out that they had some sort of high-powered spray that shot out for quite a distance, and I ended up grabbing one or two of them and riding around shooting stuff with it. I was in borderline juvenile delinquent mode I guess. I found one cafe on the west end of Main Street that was open on Sunday mornings and I would stop by there and play their coin-operated games from time to time. That was my first experience with a pinball machine. They also had a cool helicopter game that you could fly around inside of a glass case. It was mounted on an axle and it flew in circles while you were controlling the movement with two joysticks, hitting pegs for points as you went around and around.

Those were fun times. I was operating solo and enjoying it--nobody following me, watching me, or monitoring my actions. In most cases I was back home before anyone even got out of bed.

Becoming a Paperboy

I've already shared a few of my enterprising ways in previous blog posts--how I learned at a pretty young age that if I were to ever get something I wanted for myself I was going to have to do something to earn it. There wasn't much money to go around in our family, and the family values we all shared were not going to just hand it out anyway.

When we moved to Auburn I became a paperboy. It was a perfect fit for me.  I loved riding my bicycle, the town was completely flat with sidewalks throughout, I loved getting away from the family, and I wanted money.  Being a paperboy taught me about managing time and money, responsibility, interaction with people, and other important life skills.  I had customers I loved and customers I hated, and it taught me how to get along with them both.  Apparently, my success with doing it rubbed off on my siblings because at least two of them got paper routes when they got older as well.  As a matter of fact, Jackie was the Auburn Globe News' first female paper carrier, and got herself a mention in their paper for it.  Denis used to deliver his on his unicycle from time to time, and I believe he got his picture in the paper for it.

I took on a route for the Seattle Times at first. I did that route for a year before switching to the Tacoma News Tribune, and I did that paper for another three years, stopping only because I was old enough to get a "real" job.  My paper route was in a older, more established part of Auburn, so a lot of them were older people, having lived in their homes for many years. I don't remember exactly where my first paper route ran, but my long-running News Tribune route was between Main Street and 4th street southeast, and from Auburn Way to M street. That was 4 blocks one way and 12 blocks the other. I didn't have a huge number of customers--I believe it was just under 40. A usual day was from 30 minutes to an hour to do the whole route.

Being a paperboy for any length of time is a feat, let alone doing it for four years. Living in an area that gets rain so many days of the year can test your ability or desire to cope. You have to keep yourself dry, comfortable, and healthy, and above all, you have to keep he newspapers dry and in good shape. Customers don't care how nasty it is outside, they are paying for a product that they expect will be delivered to them on time, in good condition, and placed in a safe place. I took my paper route seriously and would try to do a good job. I respected the wishes of the people that didn't want me riding on their grass or wanted their paper placed in a specific spot.  If it was raining I always tried to put the paper in a good place to keep it dry, like inside their storm door. If it was windy I made sure to tuck the loose edge of the paper under the doormat so it wouldn't blow all over.

Our Motorcycle Family - Part 2

As I got a little better, I was given the opportunity to ride dad's bike. To my young eyes, it was a huge monster.  I couldn't touch the ground, it was loud, and it was powerful. I don't know who besides my dad and I were there, but one time we were out riding somewhere near the Stuck River in Auburn and came to a long semi-steep section of gravel road a lot of other riders were having fun on.  I don't remember if dad asked me if I wanted to climb in on his S90 or if he told me to, but the fact remains: I did it.  Well, almost. I was young and couldn't touch the ground while on it, but I could easily touch the foot pegs and controls.
(I've already related this event in a past post on another blog, but it basically went like this:)
At the bottom of the hill he held it running while I climbed on.  All the other riders stayed off to the side, watching and giving the next rider their attention and respect as riders do.  He gave me instructions as he held me up.  He knew I could ride it, but this hill unfolding before me was a monster to my young eyes.
  "Keep your foot down on the gearshift so a rock doesn't knock it into neutral," he said, adding, "just hold the gas wide open and keep it straight."
My eyes were probably big as saucers.  I'm sure all the guys on the hill (I'm thinking there were a dozen or so) were focused on my 'rite of passage' on dads motorcycle.
  "Ready?" he asked.  I nodded nervously.  "Okay, here we go!"
He steadied me as I let out the clutch and gave it gas.  As I started going he let go and hollered, "hold it open!"
I held it open all right, and for a little while I did pretty good, but I picked up speed, and with that speed came some fishtailing, and pretty soon I was going from side to side, and finally crashed.  I was crying like crazy as the closest guys helped me up and picked the bike up.  Dad caught up with me, laughing.  Probably somewhat proud at how far I had went before crashing.  Me, I was overwhelmed by everything.  It was huge.  I think I got whoops and hollers from the guys out there that day.

Posing for my picture

As I got older I was able to ride on my own, and would be occasionally be granted permission to ride on our dirt track during the day when dad was at work.  It's odd to think that I would be out there blasting around the track crazily with no helmet and no adult in sight.  I remember our policeman, Rick Baird, would occasionally stop and watch me go around and around as he had his lunch in his cop car.

Dad's 100cc Bultaco Lobito

There became a time when my dad's S90 was not good enough for him or he just wanted something completely different.  When that notion hit him he bought himself a brand new Bultaco Lobito 100.  It was different than what I was used to.  Way different.  Instead of a vroom sound, it made a sharp crackling, "ying, ying, ying" sound, sort of like a chainsaw but different.  Powerful sounding.  It was unmuffled, and the crackle the exhaust made actually hurt my ears a little.  Besides the different sound of it, it had it's foot controls reversed.  Instead of shifting with my left foot and braking with my right, it was the other way around.  It was also crazy fast.  Unlike anything I had ever ridden.  It scared the hell out of me.  I did eventually get comfortable on it, but still respected it immensely.  I would occasionally get permission to take it over to the Interurban trail and ride it between Algona and Auburn.  No helmet, no supervision.  It's a wonder I didn't kill myself.

Our Motorcycle Family - Part 1

At some point during my childhood dad became heavily into motorcycles. Actually, he was always a car and motorcycle guy. As a stereotypical rebellious teenager, he was a guy that grew up in the era when the hot setup was transplanting a Cadillac V8 into an old Ford and painting it primer-black. He had a love for anything like that.

Dad giving the family a ride

In those days there weren't too many varieties of motorcycles available. There was, of course, Harley-Davidson, and there were the British bikes too--like BSA, Triumph, Norton, Matchless, and others. All of these were great bikes but were all expensive. At least to a family our size it was. They were also all fairly big and unwieldy to smaller, more inexperienced riders. It was no wonder then that when the invasion of new, small, Japanese motorcycles hit the U.S. he was all over it. From the time he bought his first full-size Honda 50 we always had motorcycles around. He started a little business on the side that he used to be able buy his own parts at wholesale. All the things that he went through often, like gaskets, cables, and other this were made a lot more affordable to him that way. He also did a lot of wheeling and dealing on bikes at were repairable, fixing them and either selling them or keeping them for our own family enjoyment. Small Hondas became his new hobby.

Dad's pride and joy Honda S90

His personal dirt bike was a Honda S90, lovingly modified to outperform most any other one of its size. I remember him sitting in his chair watching TV while hand-polishing engine internals. He even went so far as to send the camshaft to a small company in California after finding out that they could put a custom race grind on it. It was not unusual for him to have his motorcycle in the house while he worked on it.

We were able to ride a lot back then.  The only people that wore helmets in those days were racers.  There were no advocacy groups bent on trying to tell the public what was best for them. With no helmets and not much in the way of laws we could go riding up and down the streets if we wanted--license or not.  At least in Algona we could. We were fortunate that we didn't have to though.  We had a field on our property, and it became a motorcycle track.  I started out riding an old Honda 55 that my dad had.  With a bike that size I didn't need anyone to help me get going.  While it was a full-sized motorcycle, it had a step-through design, so it was the "girls bike" equivalent of a motorcycle.  It was my stepping stone to riding a real motorcycle.

The Algona Hillclimb

Algona was a town that was almost as if it were drawn in small scale. The length of the city blocks were smaller than those found in a standard town, as was the width of the roads. The tar-and-gravel roads were lined with ditches to allow storm water to run off them. Algona was way too small to have storm drains or sewers, but it was big enough to have a library, a city hall, one policeman (with car of course), a gas station, and two little stores. That's about the extent of it. It was a sleepy little town. The was no State Route 167 separating the valley into two parts back then. There was also no frontage road at that time. It came along later, no doubt put in place to parallel the freeway for business and traffic flow reasons. Before the freeway went in, all the roads that ran east and west were limited only by railroad tracks. The way a traveler went through the valley back then was either on the West Valley Highway or the East Valley Highway, which were both right at the bottom of their respective hill. That meant that anyone wanting to travel north or south in anything even closely resembling a speedy manner had to first travel to one of those two highways. With Algona being on the west side of the valley, it pretty much meant that the West Valley Highway was our speed road of choice.

There was a motorcycle hill climb directly west of our house and extending steeply up the hill from the far side of West Valley Highway. I don't know if someone actually put it in with a bulldozer or it just evolved into a formidable climbing hill from the amount of riders that churned their knobbies through it over the years. On any given evening it was not unusual to hear the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine laboring up the loose gravel hill. Because there was no freeway or major traffic flow, the valley was very quiet back then, and sound traveled through it unimpeded. When dad would hear some activity at the hill climb he would go out and fire up is S90 and head over to see what was going on. While I'm sure he climbed the hill plenty of times, I think he preferred to just rub elbows with fellow riders. I think his general way of doing things was, if someone was not good at riding and unable to climb the hill, he would show them "how it was done" and go at it. If the riders were experienced, he was the type to hang back and watch. I'm kind of the same way. If you can show off, go for it. If not, watch and maybe learn something.

My First Girlfriend

I had my first "girlfriend" was some time during 5th or 6th grade. Debbie Stearns was her name, and to this day I don't know why we were together. I have a feeling it was more of a dare than anything. I believe my peers goaded me into it, like, "C'mon, you have to have a girlfriend!" I was not comfortable holding hands, but yet there I was--probably for the sake of others--holding hands with this girl I had mixed feelings for.

She was a very nice girl, and pretty too.  I also remember her as being one of the earliest in the school to develop boobs. Maybe that had something to do with the whole thing.  It wouldn't surprise me. Being in 6th grade meant there were a lot of puberty things being tumbled around inside me I'm sure. I probably stared and girls a lot, probably made rude comments just to be funny, and probably took liberties when I felt reckless.  For example, I remember getting into trouble one time for snapping a girl's bra strap.  Being the oldest kid in the family meant I had to learn how to interact with the opposite sex all by myself, and I know I bumbled badly. I was typical clueless adolescent boy.

I was an outgoing kid when there were multiple people around me (kind of in 'show-off' mode), but one-on-one was where I fell apart. Not only was I insecure, I also had no idea of what to say, what to do, or how things are supposed to progress. I had no idea about any of it, nor did I have anyone to ask--certainly not my parents! That's probably why I had so many missed opportunities during the course of my life. When it comes to girls and women I never got any confidence until I was probably 40 or 45 years old, and it was like I was just whacked over the head with the sudden feeling of being comfortable around women. Funny how that works. I got it when I couldn't use it, but couldn't find it anywhere within when I really needed it.

It really is true when they say, "If I only knew then what I know now..."

Crowdophobia

I remember once back when I was really young, we went to a custom car show in Seattle. I don't remember if it was the whole family or just the oldest kids or what. It was a very memorable experience for me because I got to see a lot of very famous cars up close and personal--close enough to touch. The Monkeemobile, the car from the original Batman TV series, both cars from The Munsters TV show (The Dragula and the Munster's Coach) to name a few.

It was very crowded there, and at one point something odd happened that concerned me at the time. I don't know if my dad got ill or almost fainted or what, but we had to go off to the side or back into a corner of the room away from everybody for a while. My mom explained to me that he gets that way in heavy crowds. I remember thinking how strange that was. Well guess what? I understand it now because it affects me too. All it takes is to be in a really thick crowd of people where I'm trying to move but can't. It will build slowly, and I will start to get anxious. I'll find myself looking for any exit from the chaos I can find. I'm sure if I stuck with the fray long enough the color would drain from my face, I'd get sweaty, and would probably faint or something. I've actually had it happen to where I went back the direction I came because it was the lesser distance, essentially giving up on my original destination.  It's very unnerving. It can't be claustrophobia because I have no fear of confined spaces. I can be in a loosely packed crowd with no problem, or in a crowd where I'm not in any real hurry to get through it. It's just crowds that I can't get through when I want to that are the problem. When it occurs to me that I'm being herded, fenced, or restrained somehow, it escalates.  It's very weird. I looked it up on the Internet and found that there are several "phobia's" that have to do with crowds.

Apparently, I have one of them... Passed on from my dad.

My History of History

When I was in school, I found history to be the most boring, monotonous, uninteresting subject in the whole curriculum. Well, other than math that is... I don't know if it was the fact that my mind was telling me, "It already happened--why are we still dwelling on it?" or maybe it was just poorly taught, but I hated it. World history or U.S. history--it didn't matter. I hated them both. The only time I found history classes to be mildly interesting was when we got to see movies in class. I've always liked seeing movies in school, or anywhere for that matter. I like to immerse myself in them. Anyway, as I was saying, I did a 180° switch on history. You know what caused me to switch?

Travel.

When I left home and started wandering around the country and the world, the subject of history "clicked" into place. There have been times when I've stood in a place where something of historical importance took place and my mind just started reeling. I've actually experienced an almost vertigo feeling as I would imagine the events unfolding right where I stood. Many times I experienced a feeling of awe as I stood where great people have stood, knowing they were people or events that changed the world. Now I love history. All I needed was to be where the history took place.

It's easy to tell when other people love it, too--the passion is evident when they are explaining it to other people. I had an instructor at Green River Community College that was smitten with history from the early area we know now as the British Isles. When he explained the finer details of the life and times of the Saxons, the Celts or the Picts, you could see and feel the passion he had for it. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he could speak Gaelic.  He was that into it. Why? Because he wanted to. He had a desire that was probably fueled by the very same thing: Being there and feeling the history around you as you stood and gazed upon a ruined structured that once stood proudly. When I stand among things like that, I feel it too.

Throughout most of life there are usually no "do-overs". When you miss out on opportunities, they seldom present you with a second chance. Fortunately, with learning and knowledge that is not the case. You can soak up the things you missed with renewed vigor. Unlike when we were students, we as adults have the ability to pursue hobbies, interests, dreams, and goals at any speed we desire.  Go travel.

Experience history.

My First Job

I got my very first real job when I was young and still living in Algona.

Mom always had a chore list for us kids.  It had a place on the refrigerator, and we were supposed to read and adhere to the chore or chores next to our name.  I hated doing those chores.  I think we did get an allowance for doing them and I'm going to guess it was a quarter.  I'm not talking about chores this time though.  I'm talking about the first time someone outside the family tasked me with a responsibility and paid me for doing it.

It was way up at the north end of town at a small bank, probably 8 or 10 blocks away. It was actually a local branch of a big bank chain--I think Seattle First National Bank.  It was really nothing more than a glorified mobile home sitting in a nice parking lot. The parking lot was all new asphalt with plenty of curbing and dotted with islands of beauty bark that contained greenery. It was my job to go there every Saturday (or maybe it was Sunday--I cant remember) and water all those little islands of plant life. I can't remember if they contained flowers, shrubs, or what, but I took my job very seriously. I had to uncoil their giant water hose and snake it all around the lot, give everything a sufficient drenching, then wind the hose up when I was finished. That job netted me $10 cash a month. I was so proud! It was very exciting to actually earn pay regularly like that--much different than just working a chore list at home and getting an allowance.

That was also my first bank account.

Little Roads and Marshes

The small, one-bedroom house I grew up in sat on my grandparents' property, right next to their house. Our house was the house that grandpa and grandma and mom lived in during the time he was building their current house. Grandpa Arlie built both of the houses himself, and he called them the "big house" and the "little house." They were on the corner of 5th and Chicago Blvd, but only the big house remains now. Many of the streets in Algona were of the tar & gravel variety. There were no curbs, and most of the roads in town were small enough that they weren't even striped. Our street was one of those.

Across the little road from us was where the Garcia family had a big blueberry farm. They had two kids, John and Marie, that were in the same age range as my brothers and sisters were, so we played together often. Having a blueberry farm right across the street from us meant there was yet another interesting place for kids to play. I'm sure their parents expressed displeasure more than once about us kids running through the neat rows of towering (to little kids) blueberry bushes.

There was a electric company access road that ran north and south through our little town of Algona, and the back length of the Garcia's blueberry farm bordered it. It was called the interurban road then, but has since been turned into a paved bicycle trail called the Interurban Trail. back then it was nothing more than a meandering, poorly-maintained dirt road that consisted mainly of twin tracks that vehicle tires had worn into the grass-covered ground. It was sprinkled liberally with dips, holes, bumps, and puddles. Running parallel to it was a set of railroad tracks running higher up on an elevated bed. Between those two there was an almost endless potential for exploration and fun. Things like exploring the sloping side of the railroad bed for snails and doing things along the train tracks that we weren't supposed to do. You know, like placing things on the rails for trains to flatten or searching for loose spikes to pull out of the rail bed. In the area that ran between the interurban road and the train tracks was a varied landscape of grasses, bushes, and marshes. One time we found a raft that someone had lovingly crafted out of short lengths of creosote-covered telephone poles. They were joined together with old lumber that spanned their width, and attached with old, rusty railroad spikes. We had a great time pushing that raft around in the marshes with poles in the manner of Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn.

Electrical Jealousy

There was a boy in my 6th grade class that I found myself insanely jealous of. I can't remember his name, and he isn't in our 6th grade class picture, so maybe he was only there half a year--I can't remember. I just remember he was very, very smart and I grew weary of the attention he was getting, even though he earned it.

He kept coming in with these ridiculously-cool projects that had everyone--even the teacher--in awe. I call them electronic projects, but that's not accurate. More like electrical projects. Electronic things like transistors and things like that were not something the common man had his hands on yet in those days. In his experiments and projects he used coils, dry-cell batteries, switches, lights, and all sorts of things to demonstrate electricity to us. It wasn't like he had his father or someone building his projects either. He knew everything about them inside-out.  I do remember one thing he had that was built using a small cardboard box.  He had a round switch on top with a black knob on it.  On the top of the box were some wires and a small pattern of 3 thumbtacks.  When he would click the switch back and forth a bright, blue spark would jump across the thumbtacks.  He had the battery and coil that generated it all inside.  It was cool.

One time in an apparent fit of jealousy I opened the cupboard where he kept his stuff and I placed a pair of scissors across the two terminals of one of his dry-cell batteries. I did it to short it out and drain it of voltage. I must have thought that if he didn't have a battery to power his inventions he wouldn't be able to impress his classmates with his genius. Anyway, nobody told me to do it, nor did I ever tell anyone that I did it.

You know what? It's one of a small number of things that I have done that have never left me alone. My conscience has never let me forget that act of wrongdoing for my own pathetic gain. It will haunt me the rest of my life because I can't fix it. I can't apologize to him. I doubt those tall dry-cell batteries he used were cheap.

The Sting Ray

Due to my dad being so enamored with all things wheeled, when it came time for any of us kids to be old enough to use a vehicle we were provided with one. I had a beautiful tricycle at the earliest opportunity, as did all my brothers and sisters when they were old enough.  Some may have been hand-me-downs.  I don't remember all the details.

The early sixties were a time of many, many changes as everyone knows. One of those changes had nothing whatsoever to do with socioeconomic climate or freedom to the people--it was a style thing. A style thing that a kid could relate to.  That was when the bicycles came out with "banana seats" and high-rise handlebars. I think Schwinn was the company that first introduced the public to the phenomenon. They called them Sting Ray bicycles. from that point on, the term "Stingray" became synonymous with any bicycle that had the long, narrow seat and the high handlebars--whether it had the accompanying sissy bar backrest or not. For many families, a Schwinn bicycle was a little extravagant. We were such a family.  That doesn't mean we were left out though.  One day (I don't remember if it was any sort of special occasion or not) my brother Don and I both received brand new stingray bikes. They were not the genuine article of course--they were store brand bicycles from our local Western Auto store in downtown Auburn. I think they were both maroon with a white seat but I'm not sure. Don's might have been a different color. I just know that mine was maroon.

I loved that bike so much! Suddenly, I was no longer a pedestrian. I had wheels under me! From that day on it was not as easy as it had been to call us when it was time to eat or go to bed. We could be right there at the house or several blocks away--you just never knew. It didn't take too long before rules came into play. "Tell me where you're going before you leave" was one that got drilled into us over and over. True to my nature, I got in trouble for breaking it over and over. It's easy tell mom where you're going if you know where you're going, but many times my destinations evolved from somewhere else. Incrementally, I'd find myself further and further from home just because one thing led to another which led to another, etc. I've always fallen victim to the "Ooo, shiny things!" and I would have to go investigate. I got in trouble a lot during my childhood, and I no doubt caused my siblings to get into trouble several times too.  I learned to ride wheelies like a pro--one time riding 4 1/2 blocks!  Okay, Algona had small blocks, but still--that's a long way to go on the back wheel.  I must have been pretty proud for it to have stuck in my mind all these years.

I had that bicycle for a lot of years. It covered every inch of Algona, and when we moved to Auburn, it took me everywhere in town there too.  It was the vehicle for my economic freedom too, delivering newspapers around town for years.  I lost lots of blood because of that bicycle--learning lessons of physics and stupidity along the way.  It got repaired, painted, and altered many times over.  I had it so long and used it so much that every single part of it had been replaced at one time or another--even the pedal crank bearings.  Who rides a bicycle often enough to wear out the bearings in a pedal crank?  I do.  I became a pretty good bicycle mechanic.  I wonder what the numbers might have said if it would have had an odometer on it?  In the end what was left of the bike looked nothing like it's original self.

But oh, the stories it could tell.

Toys and Christmas

We grew up with lots of toys and interesting things to occupy ourselves. I think that was largely due to dad trying to make up for what he grew up without.

On Christmas morning it was always hard to tell him from one of the kids. He was always right down in the middle of the action, playing with the Tonka trucks or riding one of the tricycles around in circles in our little house. I don't know for sure, but I think it's safe to assume that my parents both went all-out on Christmas. We weren't spoiled either--we were taught that we respected our things and treated them with care.  We also learned that we were lucky because there were a lot of kids out there in the world that didn't get nice things. We were taught to always pick up our toys (although in a house that size we really had to anyway), and if they were outside toys, we had to make sure they were gathered up and put in their proper place every night before we came in. I learned to treasure my things because I knew if anything happened to them I would not get a replacement.

I don't know if we had the "latest & greatest" or not, but my memory tells us we did. I'm basing that on our TV watching during the time. Marketing then was what we saw on our network television shows--all three of them. Marketing to children was just getting underway at that time, and I'm sure our Saturday morning cartoons were peppered with ads touting everything from Mattel, Marx, Hasbro, and everything else. One of the big things then were all the Mattel sets that they sold that used Plastigoop. They were comprised of a master cooker called a Thingmaker, and a series of little metal molds you poured the stuff in. After heating it for the prescribed time, you removed the molds (carefully, they were hot!) and popped your little rubbery creations out. The whole thing was a lot of fun, which is apparently why we ended up getting new refills of the brightly-colored goop and additional mold sets over the years. I'm sure we had them all. Creepy Crawlers, Fun Flowers, Creeple People, and more. If those rubbery things weren't cool enough, then they came out with the Incredible Edibles. Suddenly, there were things you shouldn't eat but could!  And of course, we did. Who knows what kind of crap we put in our bodies back then with stuff like that and the EasyBake oven creations.

Yep, with all us kids, and between Christmases and birthdays, we had no shortage of Tonkas, Barbies, board games, plastic model kits, and anything else you could think of.

The Bully Mentality

All through school when I would see someone getting picked on and bullied, made fun of, or talked about behind their back, I was just as guilty as the instigators.  Although I wasn't an active participant, I didn't do anything to stop it.  I was riding the wave of energy along with the ones who started it. It was like a shark feeding frenzy or crowd riot mentality. Yes, I admit that I took part in some of those sorts of things when they were going on. I hate myself for it. There have been some of those incidents that have caused me a lot of tossing and turning over the years. Many times I've wrestled with those things--wondering why I wasn't the one that stepped forth and stopped what was going on. All it takes is one voice to turn the tide and make people stop and think. I picture a small crowd of people taunting, ridiculing someone over and over, and when the crowd has had enough they move on, laughing and joking about their conquest. I would be the one that laughed nervously with them because I was too afraid not to, and then looking back over my shoulder as we walked away, hating what I had just seen. I think I had a huge amount of empathy but had no idea what to do with it.

Allen Adams, wherever you are, I am so sorry for the shit that everybody put you through. I understand you came from a poor family, but you didn't deserve constant ridicule over it. Jenny? Yes, you were a big girl, but that doesn't mean you deserved to be picked on for it. You probably had the same warm memories of life growing up that anyone else had. The first time you successfully rode a bicycle, the first time a puppy licked your nose, or the first time you blew the seeds from a dandelion. Kids can be cruel, and I'm truly ashamed to admit that have taken a part in some of it.

I was the recipient of bullying myself.  I don't recall how many times, but it doesn't matter. It only takes one comment by someone to make you withdraw into yourself. As plain as day, I can remember Don Nicks in high school calling me bucky beaver one time within earshot of a fairly large group. Having always been self-conscious of my overbite to begin with, that comment alone drove a hot spike of hatred and resentment into me. I immediately withdrew, sullen and hurt. I will never forgive him for it. I've tried but it just won't go away. I saw him at our last reunion 10 years ago and the same seething anger welled up inside me.  All because of one single comment. I endured other things too, but they tended to be more generic, like related to wearing glasses or being skinny. Those comments weren't nearly as damaging. To me. To someone else, it may have hit them just as hard as that one comment hit me.

Even though that seems to be what kids do, it still doesn't make it right.  I don't think it happens in every country in the world.  I believe it's one of the ripple effects of our capitalist society and culture.  People achieve a level of status based on their places in our society.  Their job, their house, what kind of car they drive, or how nice their clothes are--are all directly related to what kind of function they perform or what kind of position they have.  It ends up trickling down to the kids.  Kids don't understand anything other than what's right in front of their noses. They don't consider what may cause someone to look or behave differently, nor do they consider what their actions may cause later on down the road. They just haven't been alive enough to learn cause and effect about such things.  As adults, we may not even realize we're doing it when we make an off-hand comment about the crappy car someone is driving, or the dumpy house or neighborhood they live in.  We may comment to someone about somebody, saying something like, "He was lucky to even get that job," implying that they were stupid or inept. Our kids hear. Our kids remember. They repeat what they hear to someone at school and it sets the whole thing in motion.

A Few Friends

Because there was so much activity at home and so many places to play right there where I lived I didn't venture out to other kids' houses much. At a young age our world is still pretty small. I had school friends in Algona that I would visit from time to time as I got older though.

All the way down at the west end of 5th avenue was Steve Wakefield's house. He had a serious rope swing in his backyard that hung beneath a giant willow tree. The rope was one of those thick ones that was probably an inch in diameter. There was a small shed in his back yard way off to one side, and he would climb up onto the roof of that shed to launch from. That swing would arc you all the way across the entire back yard, and pretty high into the air too. I was only there a time or two and never got enough guts to do the rooftop swing like he did. Even his sister did it, which obviously impressed me greatly. He wasn't that good of a friend at the time, so I didn't go over there often enough to overcome my trepidation of climbing up on the shed for the rope swing.

There was a tomboyish girl named Cindy Hawthorne that I would visit a couple blocks north on Celery Street. Her mom would let us buy Popsicles when the ice cream truck went by. Those were good times.  I recall she also had some sort of a tree house too.  Let me tell you, it doesn't get much better than cute tomboys, tree houses, and ice cream trucks in the summer. Needless to say, I visited her as often as I could that summer.

Gale Mosher was the class "bad boy" when I was in school. He was the youngest of a big family (I think he had 6 siblings), and because his dad was bedridden with polio he could get away with practically anything. I envied him so much because of the stuff he got away with! He was always doing something that was cutting edge in those days, probably getting plenty of ideas and supplies from his older siblings. For example, dying a big blond splotch on the front of his hair--hair that was longer than everyone else's was at the time.  He also wore a metal name bracelet when nobody else did. He had all sorts of seemingly cool things going on. He was a rebel and I wished I could do some of the things he could do. It didn't really occur to me at the time how broken his home was, and he had a definite lack of discipline and structure. I heard that after we finished high school Gale lost his life trying to hop a freight train in Auburn.  I think he was 19.

Scouting

At some time during my 5th grade year I joined the Boy Scouts. I have no idea how it came about--whether it was through school, a friend, or what. Because we didn't have a lot of money in the family, the list of my Boy Scout-related items was pretty short. I wasn't able to have much of anything special as far as being a scout went. I felt lucky just to have the official Boy Scout shirt and neck neck scarf that I had.  I remember that I made the scarf slide out of a piece of wood all by myself, and I was pretty proud of that.  When my birthday came around that year, I received an official Boy Scout Handbook.  I loved that book! It was so full of cool stuff--I read and re-read it over and over. Then the following Christmas I was given a genuine Boy Scout knife as a gift. I treasured that knife. It was one of my most cherished possessions. As a matter of fact, I still have it.

I attended meetings weekly I think, and in most cases I walked to and from them. It was one of my earliest recollections of me being independent and going off to some sort of a function on my own. It was during one of those nights of walking to a scout meeting that I smoked my first cigarette (stolen from my dad of course).

Our scoutmaster was not quite the usual scoutmaster. Like most scout troops, the scoutmaster was the father of one of the boys in the troop, and like most scoutmasters, he was probably somewhat reluctantly recruited.  I'm sure the level of knowledge and commitment varies greatly among scoutmasters, and probably depends a lot on whether or not they volunteered or were somewhat coaxed or coerced into taking the job. I don't know exactly where ours fell among the general ranks of scoutmasters across the country, but I think it was pretty low on the scale. A good example of this was during our one and only weekend camp out and I saw him start a campfire . He made the perfect ring of rocks and inside that he had stacked a perfect, textbook-quality arrangement of firewood just like the official handbook showed in one of its many illustrations.

That's when he deviated from the official scouting handbook.

He got out a can of spray paint, doused the entire arrangement with paint and threw a match into it, creating a nice WHOOSH as that perfect fire began roaring.

I remember that outing taking place some time during he fall because it was kind of cool and wet, with weather that was less than favorable for camping. We had a fancy feast lined up for our Saturday night meal--one that we gleaned from the manual of course. I don't remember if we had to bring the food items with us or the scoutmaster provided them, but the meal consisted of some kind of beef cut into cubes, a potato, and some sort of vegetable. Following the Handbook or the scoutmaster, we each created our own culinary masterpiece, carefully arranged within its own little cocoon of aluminum foil, which we then sealed tightly and placed within the campfire ring. When it was time to eat, I couldn't wait. I was both hungry and excited--knowing that mine would be the best ever! Well, as I recall, most of the food was both scorched and under-cooked, and mine was no exception. I got quite the stomachache from it. I don't remember much else from the outing other than a nature walk, but I do remember being very happy when I got back home to a warm house with good food.

Food Royalty

It's funny how you see things, measure things, or perceive things when you're young. Based on what you observe, you may categorize something a certain way just based on the person that is using it.

Take dad for example.

Every time we ever had fish for dinner, my dad got something else. He always got cubed steak for dinner instead. Whenever we would sit at the table with our fish, there would be dad--eating his cubed steak. As I got older it became more and more noticeable. It was as if he were royalty. He was an island of beef among our ordinary, humdrum sea of fish. We were eating peasant food. I grew envious as the years went by, wishing that I could have the cubed steak instead of dad. Why should he get the good stuff while we were denied the pleasure?

What I didn't know then that cubed steak is usually some of the worst, crappiest beef that the meat department had left from their usual butcher tasks. It may have been plenty flavorful, sure, but was so tough it bordered on inedible until it was run through whatever the machine is that pulverized it and made it edible. Little did I know then that we were the royalty. We were eating the best during those meals. All those times mom was providing us with a nourishing meal, while at the same time keeping harmony within the household.  Dad just wouldn't eat fish. I pity him for his narrow range of acceptable foods. For example, his choice at a Mexican restaurant was always nachos. That was the only thing he would eat. The rest scared him. He was that way with anything ethnic. He only wanted meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. That was it.  If he went to a restaurant (which was itself an extremely rare occasion) and didn't get a vegetable on his plate we would never hear the end of it.  It wouldn't matter if we were at the restaurant with him or not--he would talk about that event for a long time afterwards.

When I went off on my own into the Air Force, my taste buds were never so happy. Of the branches of our military service, I've heard that the Air Force feeds their people the best of them all.  I believe it. My previously narrow range of food was suddenly flung wide. The plethora of foods was like nothing I had ever seen before. I saw, I tried, I asked questions, I learned. I ate things I had never eaten, tried things I didn't even know existed, and loved almost every single bit of it. There is a wide world of foods and flavors out there for us to try.

Do I thank Dad and his royal cubed steak for focusing me on it, or the Air Force for opening my eyes?  I think both.

The Walk of Cakes

Like many kids, I always had a good time when my grade school had a carnival. The various booths with games and prizes were lots of fun. It was also fun because we always knew multiple people at the event. Classmates, teachers, parents--there was always someone familiar.

One carnival in particular stands out in my mind. It was the year I won the cake walk. Twice!

As with almost every carnival that is school-related, it relied heavily on donations. For the cake walk they solicited cakes from parents or whoever could (or would) make one and donate it. This particular year there was a really great array of cakes. There was at least one big table covered with them. I got in on the very first run of the cake walk. I don't know if they are all like this or not (I've never really studied cake walking from a multicultural standpoint), but it was basically a game of musical chairs with cakes for prizes. As the music played and people went around the circle of chairs, one by one they were eliminated when the music stopped. I was the last one able to plop my butt into a chair. I won! The very first round of the cake walk, and I had my choice of every cake there was to choose from! Well of course I chose the very best, greatest-looking--the cake of all cakes--there was to choose out of the myriad of cakes. I still remember it.  It was a light green cake with fantastic decorating all over it in the form of pink and gray elephants, and even had the shiny chrome-looking ball sprinkles here and there. It was a work of art! I was so proud as I presented it to my mom and we put it in the car.

The carnival was still young so back into the mix of activities I went. A couple hours later (I'm guessing--what do kids know about time?) we were just about to leave and I paid another visit to the cake walk room to see if anything was still going on. They were just about to start the very last round. There was one lopsided, obviously homemade, cake sitting there all by itself, forlorn and pathetic-looking. I entered the last round, not really caring whether I won because I had already gleaned the finest cake ever in the entire history of cakedom from the prize table earlier in the day. I did it because it was about all that was left as he carnival wound down. Guess what? Yep, I won again! I'm sure I briefly considered a career in cake-walking at that moment.  I obviously had a rare talent for it.  I happily collected that lonely, chocolate cake and left. I couldn't believe my luck. I never won anything, and that day I had won two cake walks!

Later that day after the family had eaten dinner we considered the cakes that stood there.  The winnings from the day stared at me in the form of two cakes.  In reality I only saw one cake on the counter:  that fantastic-looking work of art that was my first cake win--the one that it seemed almost sinful to spoil by carving into it.  It was the obvious choice.  Reluctantly, the knife cut a wedge of it and I carried it to the table.  It was horrible. The most tasteless, dried-out piece of crap ever.  I couldn't believe it.  How could it be?  I think there was a general agreement of everyone at home that tried it.  The youngest of us probably didn't care because it was all about the elephants on the outside of it anyway.  When we cut into that misshapen chocolate-iced cake that was sitting there playing second fiddle, I found it to be the best-tasting, most moist (grammar alert!), most fantastic cake I had ever eaten.  It was what I dreamed the first cake would have tasted like!

Okay, I may be exaggerating. The point is, I learned that day that things are not always as they seem. Just because something looks good at first glance doesn't mean its a good choice or the right choice. It could be a thin covering of goodness that is disguising something vile and horrible.  Good life lesson.

The Potato Stand

One of my best buddies in grade school was Jay Easterby. He was a funny, outgoing kid, and the two of us together were trouble. We got into trouble a lot. I'm sure we earned each other more than a handful of stern comments from teachers during our many years as friends. Jay lived alongside West Valley Highway, at the edge of Algona--almost in Pacific. For me to go visit him was not a small undertaking. Not only was it quite a ways away, but it was also a very busy road, and there were no sidewalks. The speed limit was much faster back then, too. I believe it was 50 mph along the whole stretch.  Because his house was set in against a hillside, Jay had a lot of interesting terrain around at his house.  He had trails and little cliffs and dirt walls we could climb on. All of these were things that I didn't have.

One day we were out on the highway on our bikes. I don't know where we were going. When we were riding on that road we had to constantly be aware of traffic and would always switch sides when we heard a car or truck coming. At one point a big, stake bed truck went by, loaded with boxes of vegetables.
  "Wouldn't it be neat if those boxes fell off that truck?" I said to Jay as we pedaled.
  "Yeah!" He replied back excitedly.

Just then, as if on cue, a box fell off the back, hitting the side of the road and scattering potatoes all over the place. We looked at each other dumbfounded. We looked at the truck and watched in disbelief as it kept going. We couldn't believe our luck! Hurriedly, we gathered up all the spilled items and put them back into what was left of the box. We suddenly had a lot of nice red potatoes.

We decided we were going to set up a stand alongside the road. It worked for lemonade stands, right? It should work for potatoes too. After all, everybody loves potatoes! We set up our stash of new found produce riches alongside the road there and made a sign. Obviously, we had no idea what potatoes sold for because not a single car ever stopped. We marked it down over and over again only to be shunned by every car that went by. We didn't make a dime that day but it was fun and kept us out of trouble. I'm sure I ended up taking a bunch of them home with me.  It was too good a deal to just throw away.

I still can't believe how I hoped out loud for something and then watched it happen right before my very eyes like that. I was powerful there for a minute!

Mowing the Field

My parents had a curious thing they made me and Don do every year: Mow our field.  By hand. To top it off, it was to pay for new boots that we didn't even want. I guess it was an example of earning our keep and teaching us that you don't get something for nothing.

The field that adjoined our property was about 1/4 acre, and it was covered with the typical tall grasses that grew wild in Algona. It was quite an undertaking for two young boys, and we had to do it with hand-held sickles. To say it was grueling wouldn't be accurate, though it was somewhat. It was more of a case of just being tedious. Kids that age don't do "tedious" very well.  All it takes is for a plane to fly over or to find a garter snake and goodbye focus.  When we started it looked like the job was impossible. It seemed that no matter how long we slaved away at it or how hard we swung those sickles we never seemed any closer to the finish. Every day we went out there to start swinging those sharp, steel tools it felt like we were just starting--like we didn't do anything the previous day. Lucky for us the grasses were a lot thicker at the end we started on, because it got much faster and easier as we went.

I don't recall how long it took us to do it--I think it was about a week. I know we had to do it at least two years, and I'm guessing three. As I said, it was to pay for our "annual" pair of boots. I was not a fan of boots. I grew up in the day when certain brands of tennis shoes were being hyped on TV. I wanted Keds, or Red Ball Jets ("Kid run faster and jump higher with Red Ball Jets!") or anything other than Red Wing boots. To my parents, they were the only thing that we couldn't wear out I think. Nowadays there are tons of companies making boots, but in those days we didn't have close to as many choices as we do now.  Everything available was made in the USA then.  Even though Red Wing boots were relatively expensive (and still are), they believed they were the most bang for their buck. Even so, I doubt we ever got a full year of wear out of a pair of boots. We were kids... We were growing like weeds! Obviously, summer was our "adjustment" time.  During summer we could go barefoot or wear cheap flip-flops (or thongs as they were in those days). If we could still fit into the boots from last fall, fine--we had choices.

I know giving us that huge task taught us the value of hard work and earning, but I sure hated it at the time.

Abandoned

One evening the whole family piled into the car and went to Southcenter Mall. I believe it was close to Christmas so there were probably things that someone had to buy. As I've probably already mentioned, I loved to go off and be by myself--to explore without being hindered by someone else that might slow me down, or tattle on something I did or didn't do. This particular time I was apparently a little older--I'm guessing maybe 11 or 12--and was granted permission to go off on my own. I probably cited the excuse of wanting to shop for someone. I was told to "be back here at..." and was given the required time.

Well, I was late. I don't know how late, but I was late and I knew it.

When I got to the prearranged meeting place I knew I was going to hear about it. I knew I was in trouble. Instead, I got there and there was nobody there. I hadn't even considered that as a possibility.  I stopped and looked around, wondering if they were nearby and I had the meeting place a little off. Nope. I was worried and scared, and I remember my mind going a thousand miles an hour. I thought, "maybe they're all out in the car waiting for me." I knew if that were the case I was really going to hear about it, because dad wouldn't have to keep his voice down like he would have if we were still inside the mall in public view. I hurriedly walked out to where we parked, expecting the worst. What I didn't expect was what I found:

The car was gone.

I knew I had the right row, but I looked around just in case. Nothing. Like a whipped puppy, I walked back up to the sidewalk that ringed the mall and stood, looking out at the rows of cars in the parking lot. I had no idea what to do. Instead of waiting for me and chewing me out, my dad thought it would be funny or teach me a lesson and he took everyone out to the car and left me there alone. I had been abandoned. I went back inside and looked around, wondering what to do. I came back outside and stood again. I don't think I had ever felt so helpless in my life as I did right then. I wasn't crying outside, but I was surely crying inside. Out of the blue they pulled up to the curb in front of me. Surprised and relieved, I opened the door and got into the car. My hurt turned to anger and resentment as dad proceeded to unleash on me. Apparently, what they had done is move the car to a spot far enough away that I wouldn't see them and they all sat and had a good laugh at my expense. If they could have seen my face knew what was going on inside my head they wouldn't have been laughing.

That event was and still is one of the most traumatic things that has ever happened to me, and I never forgot it.