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.

Super Mom

My mom was a good mother. I know, almost everybody has fond feelings toward their mother, right? After all, she is the one that carries us until we are born, feed and nurtures us, picks us up and brushes us off when we fall, and watches over us as we grow. Some moms, however, are easily overwhelmed and are generally not able to juggle all the things that come with keeping a family in order and functioning smoothly. Lucky for my siblings and I, our mother was. She was also good at giving us chances to grow as a person, whether she realized she was doing it or not, letting us try things on our own.  I remember one time in particular time when mom humored me so I could learn something for myself.

At a certain point in grade school I was a pretty avid learner of earth science. I was at an age when I was a sponge for anything and everything that explained how our world worked and how we interacted with it. I found it all extremely interesting. One day at school we learned about glass. No particular kind of glass, just glass in general. When I learned that glass came from sand that was heated in an oven, a light bulb clicked on in my brain. Bless her heart, my mom allowed me to place a cookie sheet full of sand in her kitchen oven. I don't know how hot the stove was turned up to or how long it was in there, but of course nothing happened. No doubt mom knew that nothing would happen, but she didn't tell me that. She gave me a cookie sheet and use of her oven. My dad would have just told me it wouldn't work and would have refused to let me do it. Mom most likely didn't know the type of sand used to make glass needed to be silica, and she most likely didn't know that it had to be super-heated to over 2,000 degrees to melt. It wouldn't have mattered if she had. She just knew I needed to try it for myself, and I love her for it.

When I was little I had a lot of ear trouble and I would wake frequently in the middle of the night with a raging, painful earache and cry out in the night. My mother would hear me whimpering and crying and come to me, soothe me the best she could, then take me out and put me in the recliner in the living room and bundle me in cozy blankets. She would then go to the stove and warm up my prescription ear drops. Let me tell you, the feeling of that warm, oily medicine dribbling down into my hurting ear canal was the most wonderful feeling in the universe. She would gently massage my hurting ear, making sure the healing liquid found its way to its destination. She would then put a little piece of cotton in to keep the medicine where it belonged and would make sure I was okay there before returning to her bed a few feet away there in the living room. Between the recliner and their bed was the source of heat for our little, one-bedroom house: a free-standing oil heater. When it was running and had flames dancing around inside, they shone a soothing little display of reassuring light onto the ceiling. I would fall asleep in the recliner watching the tiny light show above me, feeling like the luckiest boy in the world. Thanks, mom.

The things you remember most vividly in your life are the experiences you had that were at either end of the emotion scale--either very traumatic, or very warm and loving.  Experiences involving mom were always the good kind.

I remember another time I was overcome with love towards mom. I had done something bad--bad enough to be banished to bed without supper by dad. Mom was not going to see me end the day missing a meal. I don't remember exactly if she argued it with my dad or not, but I seem to recall a heated discussion going on in the living room. A couple hours later, as I lay there on my bed feeling sorry for myself and angry at dad, mom came in with a full plate of dinner and placed it next to me on my bed. I was facing the wall, and I turned toward the door after she left and was face to face with a plate of hot food, inches from my face. As I lay there watching the curls of steam rising from the plate I was just so overcome with love for my mom I think I started crying again. There was something in the wispy tendrils of steam that spoke to me. They spoke of love and labor and nurturing. Mom did that for me. Moms should all do that for their kids. The kids that never felt that in their lives are kids I feel sorry for. They are the ones that grow up troubled, angry, and confused.

The Growth Spurt

I had a growth spurt during the summer between 5th and 6th grade. A serious growth spurt. I think I ended up growing about 3 inches in three months. There is no way I could not have been in pain during that time. It almost makes me wince when I think of somebody going through that kind of thing. In retrospect, it may help to explain my bad joints and my lack of trust in them. When it comes to dislocating joints I am always cognizant of the possibility of it happening. It has happened often and is always very, very painful. Anyway, back to my growth spurt.

When I went back to school on the first day of sixth grade I was probably a mess. Added height, probably a voice at was starting to change, and all the inner turmoil that hormonal transition brings. I do remember at one point how is was excruciating to lie on my stomach unless I did it just right because I had some sort of puberty breast thing going on. I guess it was nature deciding whether or not it needed to be switching the boob growth gene on or leave it off. I'm sure it was during this time that my parents decided it was time to shop for a real house to separate the boys and the girls.

One interesting thing about my growth spurt was how I dominated the 6th grade games on the last day of school. Every year on the last day of school, Algona Elementary School had Game Day. There were a bunch of events structured around races and competition. Some were meant to be more fun than sporting, and some were more athletic than fun. That year I dominated them. Before 6th grade I don't think I ever won a single event. Seriously. That was even considering the fact that they were all grouped by ages and things. Before that I never won a single ribbon in any event. I made up for my prior years of incompetence and weakness on the last day of 6th grade.  I think I won first place in all but one event. When I think about it, it's not all that surprising--the news is full of people excelling with hormone therapy, right?  I didn't win them all on athletics alone though.  I remember one event where everybody had to take of their shoes before the race, and they were put into a big pile at the far end of the field.  We would race down, find our shoes and put them on, and race back.  I remember planning that one and I had some brightly colored something on my shoes that made them ultra easy to find.

The last day of school was always a fun day at Algona Elementary School.  It was a celebration of the last day of school and the onset of summer--all at once.

Two Lonely Children, Suddenly Parents

I believe I've already stated that my dad didn't have a very good childhood.  An only child, he was born to a couple fun-loving party people that chose to spend their time frequenting clubs where they could drink, smoke, gamble, and socialize with others. They didn't have any desire to be saddled with a child. Because of their twisted priorities, dad was raised by his grandmother (his mom's mom) in New Jersey instead. While that might have seemed fine, it apparently was not. I don't really have any idea of what he had to endure or things he might have been denied while growing up. I'm pretty sure his grandfather doled out pretty harsh punishment.  It's likely that he grew up with a chip on his shoulder knowing he wasn't wanted--I don't know. His already troubled young life was really shattered when he was 12 years old. That's when his grandmother, his guardian, protector, and nurturer, suddenly died. She was apparently all he had. At that time he was shipped off by his grandfather to Algona, where his biological "party-parents" were living--probably to the tune of, "He's your kid... Take him!" I'm assuming he and his grandpa didn't see eye to eye otherwise he would probably not have been sent away. Being stuck between two families and finding out that neither of them want you has got to be quite a mind job. Add that to what has already rocked his boat and its easy to see how he could grow up with issues. As an adolescent in the fifties, he fell into the stereotypical male lifestyle that has been romanced ever since: The slick-haired, jeans-wearing, leather-jacketed, cigarette-smoking symbol of rebelliousness that was the teenager of the day. He embraced motorcycles, hot-rods, and racing. He portrayed the rebel/loner without too much effort. After all--he was already living it.

My mom was also an only child, but her family circumstances were very different. She was born to a hard-working conservative couple. My grandpa Arlie was not a dreamer--he had a job that was one of the coveted blue-collar jobs of the time: the railroad. He was a hard-working man that was perpetually busy. It was only in his advancing years that I ever saw him idle and enjoying his favorite westerns on TV from the comfort of his recliner. He loved building things and learning how to do things if he needed to accomplish. For whatever reason, he and grandma waited quite a while before adding my mother to their lives. Maybe it was grandpa's work ethic. Maybe he just didn't have time. I don't know. I remember wondering at times that maybe my grandma just didn't know what sex was. I never did see the two of them sharing an intimate moment of any kind while I was growing up. Maybe it was a brief moment in their lives--a time when they said, "Let's get this over with." Maybe it was a case of kids getting in the way. I do know that my mom's mom came from a decent-sized family. Maybe she wasn't all that thrilled about having a big family... just like I was?  She had two sisters and a brother, all living fairly close by, so during my childhood there was always some sort of family get-together going on.

Mom wasn't raised in a religious environment, but she was raised in a household that had rules and respect. I don't know if she was ever paddled or not during her childhood. As level-headed as she has always been, she just has never struck me as the type that would have done anything to get herself in trouble to earn any kind of punishment. I'm sure my dad was though. Getting into trouble probably came naturally to him. He dished out the same method of discipline onto me that he undoubtedly received when he was growing up, and I hated him for it. Even though I came from an era when punishment was doled out without hesitation, whether it was by parent, teacher, or principal, I always hated my dad for his methods as well as his reasons. He used a wide, leather belt. He didn't whack just once or twice either, depending on his level of anger at the time he might sometimes keep going until mom hollered, "That's enough!" Just based on that there's little doubt that he was beaten during his childhood, and maybe severely--I don't know. I only knew that such a thing would never happen in my house. During Sarah's childhood she got swats every now and then, and always amounted to one swat on the butt with a hand. Not more than one, and never with a belt. I wouldn't have even considered such a thing.

Hart's Store

There were two stores to choose from back when I lived in Algona. There was the one called Gallagher's and there was Hart's.  The Gallagher's store is still there, but has been under several names and ownership since then, and is called Valley Mart now.  Hart's, however, is long gone (now the home of a restaurant called Coco Joe's), but it's the one that lives on in my memory and the one I want to talk about.

Hart's had the right amount of "hometown feel" to it. It was the kind of store that you see in old magazines, old movies, and hear about at family reunions. You would open the door that swung on squeaky hinges, and a little bell hanging over the door that would signal your arrival. You would walk across the squeaky wooden floor, worn smooth by many years of foot traffic, and moments later, if they weren't already present, either Mr. or Mrs. Hart would come through the door at the back to greet you. The back wall of the store actually separated the storefront from their home. I can remember many times walking in and seeing the door open to their living room; Mr. Hart seated in his easy chair, watching the television. He would rise and come into the store, greeting his customers warmly, no matter how young they were. Hart's was not a big store--actually, it was pretty small. It had the usual things a little store should have. Because of the size of Algona, the Hart's knew everybody, and would greet you by name.  When you walked into that tiny store you felt like you belonged there. That feeling is what separated it from the store across the street--that and the glass case full of candy! When one of us kids went into Hart's with money in our dirty, little hands, Mr. or Mrs. Hart would stand patiently while we eagerly surveyed the mass of cheap, eye-level treats that stood before us. The delicious choices of sweet goodness were separated from us by glass, sometimes already smudged by little fingers that had pointed out their desired treat with reverence.

I was very active on my bicycle during those years. I was always on the hunt for bottles during my ride, and every time I would find a glass pop bottle lying in the weeds (which was often because it was before plastic bottles) I would pedal my bicycle down to Hart's to exchange it for cash hat I would then use for a treat. There were many days I would spend pedaling my way up and down the roads of the little town and its surrounding areas, carefully scouring the tall grasses and ditches for glass pop bottles to take to Hart's for cash. The small, standard-sized bottles netted me 5¢ each, while the large bottles were good for 10¢ each. That was big money in those days. Taking bottles to Hart's for cash was my introduction to capitalism. That was where I learned that if I used my own money I could buy the things that my mom and dad would not usually let me buy. That wonderful little store was where I had my first taste of many things, like Hostess products, candy bars, Coca Cola and other treats that contributed to my growing body--things I would have never gotten at home.

The Big Fire

[Note: I'm not going to follow any chronological order in this blog.  I'm going to skip around in my life events.  This is the first "non-Algona" post.  There will be many others.]

One time something big happened in downtown Auburn.

I was in the Auburn Avenue Theater one Saturday night watching Evel Knievel (the one with George Hamilton as Evel for crying out loud). I think I may have been in there with my brother Don. Suddenly, the movie stopped and the lights came on, subjecting everyone to sudden blindness.  Amid the mumbling, booing, and other noises that erupted, a voice started apologizing to us for the inconvenience.  The person went on to tell us that we needed to exit the building right away and we would be able to get a free movie pass as we left. As we joined the grumbling masses and wandered out into the night, Mr. Mullendore, the giant, imposing man that owned the theater was outside the door handing out the passes as we squeezed through the doors. I got my movie pass, but I wasn't really paying that much attention to Mr. Mullendore or the passes--I was looking at the activity at the corner. Main Street was blocked off by police with lights flashing. Nelson Jewelry was on the corner, and only a tiny little business (whose name escapes me) separated the Auburn Avenue Theater from them. When I poked my head around the corner I saw fire trucks spraying water on a fully-engulfed fire at the end of the block. This was huge and exciting beyond belief to a young boy! I looked back toward the theater and saw that Mr. Mullendore had moved away from the door but was still handing out passes. I saw an opportunity and we went back into the throng of outstretched arms twice more, scoring coveted free passes each time. My greed satisfied, I couldn't wait to get down the street to where the action was going on.

Imagine my surprise when we got down to the end of the block and found that it was The Value Store--Auburn's five-and-dime variety store--was fully engulfed in fire. My grandma Dot (Dorothy, but everyone called her Dot) worked at that store! It was Saturday night, so all the stores were closed, but I remember worrying about Grandma because that was her job. We watched the fire activity from various vantage points with wide, unblinking eyes for quite a while before it finally got dull and we reluctantly headed for home. What a story we had to tell the rest of the family!

Being a paperboy, I was out in the wee hours the next morning doing my Sunday morning work, but this time all I could think about was the fire the previous night. The more I thought about it the more I couldn't wait to pay it a visit to the scene so I could see how bad it looked in the daylight. My route took me all the way from L Street (at the east end of Auburn to Auburn Way (also known as C Street), which was only a block from the big fire. By the time I got there the sky was beginning to lighten. I was surprised at the fact that the whole place was deserted, and the only thing there to keep people out was a ring of the yellow "DO NOT CROSS" tape around it. Naturally, being the kind of person I am, I just had to explore.

It was eerily quiet, due to the fact that it was early Sunday morning. I parked my bicycle a little ways away and made my way past the barriers and into the small single door that led from the rear corner of the store out to the parking lot. Inside that door was the cash register that grandma Dot was always working at when I would pop in and say hi to her. The jar that used to display a GIVE label on the outside of it had burst, and even though a little voice in my head told me it was wrong, I pocketed the change that lay there among the shards of blackened glass. Most of the store ceiling was gone, and everything inside was charred black. Along the back wall was the former home of several fish aquariums. I stepped carefully through the rubble and broken glass, my steps making crunching noises that sounded overly loud in the deathly silent surroundings. All the aquariums were broken--no doubt from the extreme heat, and my gaze fell to the floor in front of them. There, among the broken glass and charred rubble were the many goldfish that, only the day before, had been happily swimming around in their tanks, waiting for someone to come into the store and buy them. I stared at their lifeless eyes and felt so sad. Their shiny, orange bodies were a stark contrast to their black surroundings, emphasizing the tragedy that took their lives. I was shocked strangely mesmerized by the destruction around me. There was hardly anything that had survived. I remember noticing the BB's that were everywhere, released from the confines as their containers had burned away. I walked all around the store digesting all of it, comparing what I was seeing with how it looked before. I was creeped out and excited at the same time. It was as if the slow, careful footsteps that crunched as I negotiated my way around the store echoed to the world that I was an intruder. "Police! Come, there's somebody here that shouldn't be! Police!"

When all these wild thoughts and feelings of unease got the best of me I hurried back out the door to my bicycle. As I pedaled away and I was once more relaxed, I went the long way back around the block by way of the theater I was at the night before. Riding my bicycle down the sidewalk in front of the stores, I ducked under the yellow tape and carefully rolled my bicycle up to the front of the gaping, blackened storefront that had once been The Value Store. Inside the front window a wet, dirty box containing a new, small reel-to-reel tape recorder that had only the day before proudly been on display in the large front window. I looked up and down the empty street. I quickly grabbed it and stuffed it into the empty canvas paper delivery bag across my handlebars. As I pedaled away I kept looking back, probably wistfully, and probably out of guilt for violating the sanctity of the final resting place of all those poor goldfish. Or maybe because I was now a looter.

They never did rebuild The Value Store, opting instead to tear it down and turn it into a parking lot. Grandma never did work again after that either. I can still see those goldfish and the memory of it all comes flooding back. I sure had a lot of fun with that reel-to-reel tape recorder though.

Dahlias and Heating Oil

When I was little, the house next door that my grandma and grandpa lived in was huge. Everything about it was cavernous and roomy to a small child. There was so much open space it was like a mansion to me. They even had stairs going up to the attic, and the attic was all finished and enclosed. Instead of the roof pitch going all the way down to the floor the sides of the room had short walls. Those attic walls consisted of a series of cabinet doors that ran the length of the room, and were used for storage. We kids LOVED to play in the attic. It was like it was built just for kids to have fun in. I know now that the house was nowhere near as big as I perceived it to be back then because it's still standing and I've been by it several times since childhood. It looks extremely tiny now. Sadly, it also looks pretty neglected--a far, far cry from the condition my grandparents kept it in. Back in the day it was neat as a pin. Grandma kept the inside spotless, and grandpa was responsible for the outside. He was very detail-oriented, and very resourceful as well. He built a flagpole for his front yard, and he even kept that nice and well-maintained. Every year he would laboriously lower it to the ground (with my dads help) and repaint the entire thing--even the copper-painted toilet float he had mounted on the very top. The way my dad explained it, they had some kind of rope and pulley system they used, and it actually extended through the garage wall near the top, allowing them to lower and raise the pole whenever the wanted to. He was just as fastidious when it came to keeping shrubs and trees trimmed. He had a big holly tree out front near the flagpole that he kept lovingly trimmed to a nice, uniform shape. When Christmas time rolled around, he festooned it with strings of lights. Between our houses was a big garden, and that was grandma's pride and joy. I believe it was half vegetables and half flowers. Dahlias were her favorite, and she grew some big ones. I always remember her talking about her dahlias. I don't recall any boasting about vegetables, but I'm sure there must have been vegetables grown in the garden too. As good as the dark, rich soil in Algona is, it would have almost been a crime to not have veggies growing. I just remember her always talking about her dahlias.

Both of our Algona homes had oil heat, and both were supplied by the same source: An above-ground storage tank. There was an attached room on the south of grandpa's garage that housed it. It was a huge tank. At least to kids it was anyway. The room was dismal at best--the shiny, hard-packed dirt floor lit by a single naked light bulb that hung down from the ceiling. The whole room smelled strongly of heating oil, some of which emanated into the garage area as well. The smell of oil that enveloped you when you walked into it gave you the impression that the dirt floor was totally impregnated with oil that had leaked from the tank or from its lines and fittings over the years. The room was not off limits to anyone--most likely because there was really nothing in there other than the oil storage tank--and therefore was not locked. I remember one time I dared a neighbor, David, to take all his clothes off in there (I think the dare game is something all kids do). I'm pretty sure there was no incentive or any particular reason for him to do it. I'm sure there was at least one other of my siblings involved--probably Don. Well, we all ducked into that dark, oil-smelling room and, sure enough, he took all his clothes off just like I dared him to do.  He had just finished and was standing there completely naked when all of a sudden, the door swung open blinding us all.  David stood frozen, facing the door and bathed directly by the beam of daylight.
"What are you kids... Oh!"
My grandma, with a shocked and surprised look on her face, backed up and closed the door. David hurriedly got dressed and we all scooted out of there. Grandma never brought it up to anyone. I guess she really didn't know what to do about such a thing. We never heard another peep about it.

Rural Life

Growing up in Algona, in the sixties was good.

I think it was mostly because we as a society hadn't yet adopted the level of concern, distrust, and overprotective child-coddling that came in later years. Nobody thought twice about kicking their kids out the door and telling them to not come back until mealtime or bedtime. We just didn't have the worry then.

The fact that we lived in a little rural town with lots of room to play just added to it. We had empty grassy areas, empty roads, and storm water ditches to play in. The grassy fields that seemed to be everywhere were home to garter snakes and all sorts of interesting things. There were also pheasants that would scare the hell out of us when they flew up in our faces an instant before we might inadvertently step on them. In the warmer months the ditches that lined the little roads would dry completely up, providing the ultimate place to play as a kid. The tall grasses would be matted down by our play, and warmed by the sun provided a perfect lining for forts and other hidey-holes that we would come up with. Blackberry bushes grew everywhere too, and they always grow in big clumps and mounds.  As kids, we learned that they were almost hollow underneath, providing us with secretive places to play. We had to make tunnels into them and avoid the dangerous thorns that covered every inch of the bushes and vine, but that made the forts all that more special. The underside of the bush mounds were bare and skeletal. There was nothing there but dry, crinkly blackberry leaves that had fallen from the plant, covering dirt, and punctuated with thick, dry, thorn-laden stalks growing out of the ground like miniature trees in an eerie forest. When we created our places of refuge we would bring dried grasses in to line the ground, and carefully break off all the thorns of those huge, vertical stalks that we might accidentally get caught on, making our little fortress even more enjoyable.

Yeah, spending childhood in a rural setting where exploration and creativity is your daily job is something that is being experienced less and less these days.  With the onset of apartments, television, computers, and video games, children all over the world are missing out on the joys we had.  The age of self-exploration than many of us were able to experience growing up in a small town shaped us and allowed us to learn and wonder about things ourselves instead of just watching someone else's perception of it unfold before our jaded eyes on a small, electronic screen.

Like all old people say, "Life was good then."

Earthquake!

One morning in 1965 I was on my way to school with my brother, Don. We always walked to school.  It was only about 6 or 7 blocks, the majority of which was on the interurban road that ran under the power lines. We hadn't even gotten to the interurban road itself when there was suddenly a deep rumbling and the surrounding world took on a life of its own. The ground started rising and dipping like someone shaking a long rug.  The telephone poles all started swaying wildly back and forth, with the electric lines going up and down.

EARTHQUAKE!

We stopped, frozen, not knowing what was going on. We were scared!  Just then an older boy, Pete LaCoss (whom I knew fairly well), came running around the corner from the interurban and towards us as fast as he could go.

"It's an earthquake!" He yelled as he ran past us, "Run!"

We had no idea what to do so we followed him.  We didn't know what we were running from or where we were running to. After all, an earthquake is not exactly a common occurrence.  We ran to the house at the end of our street and huddled in the shelter of their front porch. After what seemed like forever, the ground finally stopped shaking and we crept out from our hiding place.  We were only a short block from our house, and probably should have went back home, but I don't think we did. I'm pretty sure we continued on to school. As a kid, you don't really think of ripple effects and stuff  like whether or not anything happened at your own home. Home is our sanctuary--our rock. I will always be there. Nothing is ever going to happen to our home, so we wouldn't give it another thought. No, instead I'm pretty sure I went into exploration mode.  I believe that if we would have gone back home mom would not have sent us to school.  After all, the interurban trail was lined with high-tension power lines.  Of course we kids didn't think of that.  Lucky for us, there were no downed lines.

I remember as I walked past Gallagher's Market I saw the man inside "wading" knee-deep through aisles choked with canned goods. It looked like everything on all the shelves was now in a heap on the floor. When the elementary school came into view I could see that the big metal smokestack on top had toppled and was lying on its side. The school was made of brick like most schools seemed to be at the time, and I'm sure there was brick damage. I can't remember if school was cancelled that day or not. I'm sure it was. I don't recall anything newsworthy from home, so I guess nothing major was damaged there. I wish I could remember more about it because it was one of the most memorable experiences of my life.

Oh, and nothing of any consequence happened at home.  Everything was fine.  Even the above-ground car ramp we had at home was okay, which is saying a lot considering it had a car on top of it at the time!

Dad Steps Up

I was almost an adult when I noticed that there was only 6 months between my parents' anniversary and my birthday. It just never mattered enough for me to do the math I guess. Maybe my mom actually told me--I can't remember really. Either way, it didn't matter--I just found it interesting.

In a manner of speaking, I was the reason for my brothers' and sisters' existence. Had my mom not become pregnant they may never have stayed together, who knows? I was born one month after my dad's 18th birthday, and 2 weeks after my mom's 17th. I'm sure mom's parents were very displeased about the whole thing, but you have to at least consider that because they were young when it all took place it could have turned out very differently than it did. Given dad's broken childhood he could have easily opted to just shrug his shoulders and move on, or "duck and hide" so to speak. I'd like to think instead that his lack of a good childhood was actually the reason he didn't. He must have had a burning desire to actually have a family that behaved as a family. I'm glad that he stepped up to the plate and took responsibility for what had happened because the two of them eventually did end up creating a pretty good family.  There was only one sure-fire way to instantly have enough income and insurance to cover your family:  Join the military.  That's what he did.  He did four years in the Air Force, all served at Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina.  He managed to get our family off to a decent start.

I've never known anyone that had parents that are both only children like mine are. That meant that me and my brothers and sisters are completely without of aunts or uncles. It's the same with cousins--we have no first cousins. It seems weird to have so many members of the family (almost all of which are from mom's side) and have no cousins, aunts, or uncles. Maybe that fact as played a part in installing this sense of independence that myself and my siblings all seem to possess. None of us seem to be the least bit concerned about what any others of us are ever doing. Even though most of us live in the same area we seldom see each other. While it seems weird to me when compared to other families, I'm totally okay with it. I like my privacy.

Kindergarten

The beginning of my school years had quite an impact to me. For over five years I knew but one life--my family. I had spent my entire life up to that point in the company of my grandparents, my parents, and my siblings, and nobody else.

Suddenly I found myself torn away from home for several hours a day. I had an "awakening" by the name of kindergarten. I was amazed, bewildered, and overwhelmed by what was before me. All of a sudden I found myself surrounded by others like me! I was instantly in love with all aspects of kindergarten. One of my favorite times was nap time. I still remember the feeling I got when I lay down on my nap rug. My rug! It was bought by my mom for me, and was instantly ferried off to spend the year with me at school, untouchable by my brothers or sisters. Each time I lay down I gazed lovingly at my multicolor-striped nap rug, and an overwhelming feeling of warmth and coziness enveloped me as I fell asleep. My whole life since, I have always had a rush of warm feelings every time I happen to see one of them in a store or somewhere. I'm instantly transported back to a happy time half a century ago, to a love affair I had with kindergarten.

Another thing I really liked was playing house. I think it was partly because I got to interact with girls, but it was also because of all the great things there were to play with. See, at home everything around a child is big. All our household things are made for adults. Suddenly, here I was surrounded by chairs, tables, utensils, and all sorts of things that were all kid-sized! I couldn't get enough of it.

When it was art time I remember being in love with the large-sized crayons--all so perfect and all of them unbroken or ruined by negligent siblings! I couldn't get enough of kindergarten. I think it must have been the happiest year of my entire life.

Forced into Music

All of us kids were forced into music. I was first of course, and it all started after mom and dad bought a used, silver alto saxophone. It had been dropped at some point in its life and created a slight mismatch that caused two or three of the biggest pads to not quite line up right. It was a mostly a non-issue really because it only affected the two or three lowest notes that it would play, and they were hardly ever used. Besides, it was cheap. Although dad's motives were golden I'm sure, I have to laugh when I remember what he told me when he bought it. "If you get good at it you can play in taverns and you can make a lot of money!" he'd say. I'm sure he meant it in the best way and only wanted me to succeed, but that was the only thing he could relate to apparently. He was not a worldly man. He also was not a tavern man. I'm not sure where he got that notion from. He probably overheard it somewhere. Anyway, there was one flaw in their saxophone plan: Schools (at least our school district) do not start a beginning student on a saxophone. Instead, they require them to play a clarinet for two years. Why? Well, the clarinet is actually harder to play. It's keys are mostly two-part, consisting of a hole that your finger has to cover, as well as a ring around it that has to be depressed at the same time. It's also a lot more restrictive as far as airflow goes, requiring more practice to get tones instead of squeaks and squawks. The good thing about a clarinet was that it is much smaller and lighter, which is always a good thing when you're a diminutive fifth-grader. So theoretically, when it comes time to switch over and play the saxophone you have the techniques down and you can go for the volume and fingering speed.

Theoretically.

Truth is, I was never much of a "practice" guy. Anyone that knows anything about music knows that music requires practice if you want to become good at it. Lots of practice. Me--I had to be practically beat with a steel pipe before I'd practice my clarinet or saxophone. It also doesn't help when you're the oldest of five kids, live in a little one-bedroom shack, and there is no chance for privacy. Zero. That didn't help given that I found practicing to be embarrassing.  Being raised in that little bitty house probably has a lot to do with me always wanting to get away and be by myself. Anyway, when we first found out about the school district's reluctance to allow a new student to play a saxophone, my parents were caught off guard. We had no money for a clarinet. As I mentioned earlier, music classes started in fifth grade. Because there was no formal music class at Algona Elementary School, the district created a sort of combined once a week class that combined music hopefuls from Algona and the neighboring elementary school in Pacific. There were only about half a dozen of us combined. Every Thursday, the instructor would stop by our school and pick us up in his car and drive us to music class in Pacific. His name was Burke Sower, and he was a very tall, gangly man, with a bald head and deep-set eyes under a pronounced forehead. He was a very striking man in his black suit and tie, much like a funeral director. He was a very nice man and I respected him.  It was he that lent me a clarinet (a beautiful, all-metal one of his own) to play during those early times before I was able to have a clarinet of my own.

As much as I hated practicing, I enjoyed all the things that being a band member exposed me to.  As members of marching band we played at all the football games and marched formations during halftime shows.  We also marched in lots of parades.  Concert band was our chance to be polished and allow the band instructor to be proud of his teaching.  My favorite was pep band.  That was what we called it when we played from the bleachers during basketball games.  It was fun, laid-back, and festive.

The parental music thing didn't stop with me. All of us kids were required to play an instrument. Don played drums, Jackie played a baritone clarinet, Denis played trumpet, and Denise played flute. I was the only one that had to endure the humiliation of practicing in our little Algona house though. When me moved to Auburn after I finished the 6th grade we had a much bigger house that even had a basement to practice in. My folks even upgraded my saxophone after a couple years. They paid a visit to a music store in Tacoma that was going out of business and bought me a brand-new Bundy alto saxophone. maybe they thought it would give me incentive. Maybe the old one was actually holding me back. I don't remember. None of it really worked to make me any more than a marginal player. Of all five of us kids, Denis was really the only one with any talent to go farther with his music. He had the gift.  The problem was it didn't interest him. He received additional lessons from one of our music teachers at the time (who had a jazz background) and ended up playing pretty well because of it. In addition to the school marching band and all the other regular things that happen when you're in high school band class, Don and Denis were both in a non-school related group called The Black Watch marching band. They had lots of competitions and marched and played in quite a few parades.

I don't really know a lot about my siblings' activities during high school because I was away in the Air Force, but I believe we all mothballed our music instruments when we finished high school. I actually donated my saxophone to the Auburn High School music department in later years. I knew I was never going to use it again, and it wasn't a very good one that someone would have paid much money for.  It also needed some routine maintenance. All those reasons coupled with the fact that there are a lot of budding musicians out there with no money for an instrument of their own made me decide to donate it. I also remember times when I was in school and someone would forget their own instrument at home and needed one to play for one day. The music department had a bunch of "secondary" instruments people could use if the needed to.  I took my daughter with me when I donated it so she could experience a little philanthropy.  The music teacher was beside himself.  It may as well have been a solid gold alto saxophone to him.

As much as I hated being forced into music as a kid, I'm glad we were.  It created a lot of great experiences and taught things that were very different from regular school classes.

The Layout of the Family

I was born in the Air Force hospital on McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma on May 29th, 1956. I like to joke that they tore it down after I was born because they couldn't take a chance of anything like that ever happening again. The truth is, they really did tear it down. They consolidated with Madigan Hospital at Fort Lewis army base right next door to save money. My dad was in Spring Lake, North Carolina when I was born, stationed at Pope Air Force Base. Mom flew us over to live with him after I was born, and I spent the first three years of my life there. I don't remember any of that of course, but there are lots of pictures of the place, of me, and of my dad (mom took most of the pictures). We had a dog named Tippy who was a lab mix I believe. I had a sandbox to play in, and due to the large amount of warm months, wore little or no clothing most of the time.

I'm the oldest of five kids, and have two brothers and two sisters. I was officially named Rick right on my birth certificate. They figured I would be called Rick instead of Richard anyway, so why bother naming me with a longer, fancy name nobody would ever use? Because of it, I've been asked my whole life, "Is it Richard?" when someone was looking my name up or inputting it into something. I had one idiot teacher actually turn and look at me and ask, "Are you sure?" (No, dumbass, let me call my mommie and check!) My dad said I was named after a guy in a Hot Rod magazine (he even showed it to me once--the guy really did have my whole name), but I'm pretty sure he (or they) chose my name because all the initials were the same as my dad's were.

Don was born just a year and a half after I was, at the hospital in Cape Fear, North Carolina. For some odd reason he was named after dad's dad. What's odd about that fact was that my dad did not like his father, so why my new brother was named after Grandpa Don is beyond me. Maybe that had something to do with Don never seeming to get much respect from my dad while we were growing up. As long as I can remember Don has always been subjected to a kind of "second class" treatment. His nickname for Don when we were little was "fat bastard." He seemed to think that was a pretty witty nickname. He called him that all the time when he was in a good mood, thinking it was apparently pretty funny. I didn't get it--calling a son that was just as thin as the rest of us in the family were--"fat bastard". We were all slim.

Jackie was born number three, and was born at the Army hospital at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Like me, she was named with the slang version of her name right on her birth certificate. If she were named Jacqueline she would have just been called Jackie, right? I remember Jackie as always being a free-spirited girl that was always trying imaginative clothing combinations. She has always had an exceptional amount of creativity when it comes to unique styles and decorations.

After Jackie came Denis. He was named after our dad, and again--I don't know why. Dad's first name is Robert, and he hated his name (or so I had heard on more than one occasion). So what does he do? He goes and names his kid the same as he. To reinforce the notion that he doesn't like his first name, they chose to call him by his middle name, Denis, instead. Weird. Denis was always the "ham" in the family. When a camera came out, there was Denis. He became adept at performing for people for laughs as he grew up. He was our family comedian, though his style was mainly of slapstick and one-liner humor (my style is more the deeper, cynical, dry humor variety).

Denise is the youngest. She came along almost three years after Denis arrived. I don't know if she was an accident or not, but I'd like to think she was not.  I'd like to think that they were giving it one last try for another girl to even out the sexes in their brood, even if they ran the risk of upsetting it even further should another boy have come along. Denise was instantly dad's favorite--but in retrospect I got the impression she was more like his pet. I think he was always at his best with little kids because he didn't know how to relate to anyone old enough to actually have a conversation with him. As we kids got older, rules and restrictions slowly eased or fell away completely.  By the time Denise came along she didn't even have a bedtime.

The Blind Boy

When I was young I was apparently half blind and didn't know it. Nor did my folks know it. It's possible they just didn't know the signs of somebody that can't see, but I think it had more to do with how many other dirty faces were in our family.  They were busy with all of us. None of that really mattered though because my teacher knew what to look for, and he understood what was going on. It probably had a lot to do with me squinting to see the blackboard, so it wasn't really rocket science. It was probably inevitable that I would need glasses really--after all, both mom and dad needed them. Mom was the one with the worst eyesight of the two, and I followed her in that direction.

I was dragged to the eye doctor and submitted to the usual battery of testing. I have no idea as to the dialogue that was exchanged between my more and the eye doctor, but I'm sure it was something like, "The glasses won't be ready for two weeks but we can lend him a red-tipped white cane to use in the meantime."

To say my improvement in eyesight with my new glasses was dramatic would be an understatement. I don't remember what went through my head when I first put them on because that was a long, long time ago, but I do remember 'wow' over and over. I distinctly remember being full of wonder and amazement at what I could see and how far away I could see. The individual trees that lined the top of the hill in the Algona distance were individually visible instead of just a stripe of shaded color. Everything was so SHARP! I was just astounded. It was truly like I had been blind all my life and I could suddenly see everything for the first time. I was rediscovering the world, only this time everything in the world was equipped with crisp lines and distinct edges. When something like eyesight goes away slowly you don't really notice it, but when you play "catch-up" all at once the difference is nothing short of startling.  I remember not wanting to go to sleep that night for fear it might go away while I slept.

There was one downside to getting new glasses though. I went from a cute little kid to an awkward-looking geek. My permanent teeth were coming in, and my overbite was very pronounced. Back in those days there weren't a lot of styles of glasses to choose from to begin with, and when you limited your choices down even further to those that will fit a little kid and were durable enough for one, there was only one style: Ugly. The good news was I could see.

EVERYTHING.

What's in a Name?

I should have been Rick Higuera.

No, I was not raised by foster parents--my parents are my real parents. The truth is, my grandfather apparently did not like his last name. It must have stank of ethnicity to him. Maybe he was teased and tormented by kids and sick of the segregation that existed in California as he was growing up. Whatever the reason, he decided to change his last name to something "generic" and more American-sounding, and he chose Williams.

During my younger years I never gave it a second thought, but as I got older I grew to dislike my last name. It had nothing to do with my heritage. It had to do with how it rolled off the tongue when I said it out loud. It's hard not to say it without sounding like I'm slurring. The only people that I ever routinely hear pronounce it correctly are those with British accents, and because I live nowhere near Great Britain I hear very few of those. The British add the required accentuation to the "L" sound when they say it. My poor tongue does not do the double L crisply. I think I would much rather have the last name I was denied. Rick Higuera. Yeah. Or maybe Ricky Higuera. It sounds like a baseball player doesn't it? Although it sounds funny to me when I say it aloud or see it written, that really should have been my last name.

The more I think about it the more I like it.