Over the years I’ve heard many musicians and actors state they’ve done their best shows when they felt fear and nervousness going into the gig. Those emotions take you straight to the here-and-now of the moment. Your concentration level is high and you put your best effort into your performance. If I had the talent, at the time, I’d have been a star that first night playing bass, I was scared to death.
Although, I only had a week to practice on the bass, I did fairly well considering the fact that one year earlier; I’d never picked up an instrument in my life. Pat covered my back, though. He turned the bass level up on his guitar and filled in the parts where I went weak.
After Cousin Joe and Boots left the band and Roger and I replaced them, it became a whole new ballgame. The sound was totally different and took some getting used to.
Roger was a far better guitarist than Cousin Joe. Not only was he technically superior, he was humble, friendly, and had stage presence.
I was no Boots on the bass, but that first weekend went well, all in all. It was a whole new band with a new sound and the folks danced and really enjoyed it.
The following Monday I had to return the rented amplifier. It was a sad thing that my first real business transaction in my new adult-like life had to turn as sour as it did. I couldn’t have been more careful with that amp than if I had been holding a nest of hummingbird eggs.
The man did a quick inspection, went right to a very small tear in the vinyl on the back of this used amp, and then charged me five dollars for damages. I was mad! I knew I needed my own equipment, and fast.
Pat drove me into town to the music store where he usually did his business and introduced me to the owner, Ray.
Ray was your typical salesman. He was a middle-aged man with big white teeth and a Cheshire cat smile.
Pat explained our situation to him and Ray seemed to drop any age worries he may have had, and set out to sell me some stuff.
Ray had a used Fender MusicMaster bass on the rack and a brand new Fender Bassman 10 amplifier and that combo looked like the perfect setup for an amateur bass player in transition from a six-string guitar. Pat helped me negotiate terms of payment (there went his silver tongue of his again) and we walked out of Ray’s store that day with my new equipment.
I went into Music West every week after that and made the agreed payment until my debt was paid. It was done solely out of the money I made on weekends playing in the band, and I was very proud that I stood up to the plate and paid it off, on time, with my own money.
I spent a lot of time with Roger, at his place, learning songs he wanted to do. I learned some great instrumentals from him like ‘Night Train’, ‘Walk Don’t Run’, and “Chicken Pickin’”. We would play on into the night until his wife ran me out.
Roger’s wife, Penny, was a very troubled woman. She would show up every weekend, but she did it more to watch over Roger than to enjoy him. Your first, second, and third impression of her was: She was a B****. It became clear years later; she was just very mentally disturbed.
Roger had a friend and fellow lead guitarist named Mike who got along better than anyone else could with Penny. He tagged along on weekends and kept her company while Roger and we played. That arrangement went well for a few months until one night Roger informed us that he had a shift change at work and could no longer be a part of the band. He recommended Mike as his replacement. We hated to see him go.
Mike was into “The Beetles”, “The Ventures”, and other sixties and seventies music.
He showed up on his first night and played well. The only problem was, we were trying to hear pure country, and he was playing more of a sixties pop style. There was a twinge of concern in the private conversations that weekend, but by the next week; Mike had taken what we done together, and, in Pats words, “He broke it down to the nuts and bolts and put it all back together to fit.”
Mike’s lead breaks became a time for us to drift into his brilliance. Sometimes we’d struggle to get back into our own parts.
He became a fast and forever friend of mine. Mike is one of the nicest and most giving men you’d ever meet in you life.
I was learning the bass at what seemed more on an hourly basis rather then daily or weekly. The music became more and more alive to me and my ability and confidence grew. I continued to learn from Pat on the guitar (finger pickin’ and such) and sometimes shared it with Mike, and describe the way I was hearing a particular song. He always had an open mind and I felt like a peer more than just a snot-nosed kid learning to play the guitar and bass.
The time came when our stint at the Eagles was over. It had been more than six months of steady and evolving work. We needed a new job to take the band to, so Pat put his silver tongue to work.
The laws had just been changed to allow dancing in taverns, thus bringing about a boom in country music, in our neck of the woods anyway. Prior to that change, dancing was only allowed in certain lodges and night clubs. The work opportunities became plentiful.
Pat contacted the owner of a local tavern and assured him we could bring in a lot of customers. He told him we weren’t that expensive, and the beer and good times would flow. The owner agreed to give us a try and see where it went. We packed up our equipment, from the Eagles lodge, and moved on to new scenery.
Kings Valley Tavern:
Kings Valley Tavern was not a stand-alone building. It was the northern half of what was the local store and gas station.
It was a fairly large and old building that replaced the old store that burned down early last century. The floors throughout the building were just planks. If I remember right they were rough sawn 2 X 10’s. They would treat the floor with motor oil every now and again. The southern side of the building was the store side.
The store was very antique. Going there was like stepping back to the early years of the twentieth century. In my memory, I can still see the old wood-framed glass candy display case and the old antique cash register.
The bar was long, straight and extended more than half the length of the tavern. There were pock marks on the old wood floor from the years of the logger’s corked boots as they came in for a cold one after a hard days work. There was no stage, but there was sufficient room for a dance floor in the rear of the place.
I made a make-shift poster letting people know that music was coming to our wide-spot-in-the-road, and taped them to the windows of the store and tavern.
It was just a Saturday night deal and, when we showed up, we didn’t realize how much this place wasn’t ready for us. We had to beg and borrow extension cords just to turn on our amps. There was a dangling wire from the ceiling with a single light fixture with an incandescent light bulb hanging over us (which we unscrewed; we were looking for mood and affect). The people came in, danced, had a great time, the tavern made money and they were very happy with the first night. We assessed what we needed to do to make it into more of a ‘night life scene’.
That week we got busy. I found some low watt incandescent colored light bulbs that we could put in our only pseudo-stage’s light source (the dangling wire). Pat and I built some speaker enclosures for our new Bogen PA system, and Mike upgraded to a Fender Twin Reverb amp.
The word got around about our music and by that next Saturday, we were ready. We packed 'em in like sardines. It was wild.
There’s a huge difference between the clubs, lodges, and the beer taverns. The clubs and lodges were mundane and reserved, whereas the beer taverns were very lively. People could just cut loose and have fun. The downside of that was that the fun could turn to violence at the drop of a beer glass.
You never really worried about that sort of nonsense at a lodge because the people were restrained by the rules.
We were lucky. Kings Valley Tavern was fun, exciting, and, for the most part, people behaved themselves. We packed 'em in every Saturday night and they filled the dance floor. They loved us and we loved them. We shook that place so much that Ivan the bartender had to take a hammer, on the breaks, and pound the nails back into the floor.
One time Ivan brought me up a coffee cup full of beer and sat it on my amp; he was trying to be discrete. I drank it and later he brought up a pitcher and sat it there. I poured my beers and joined the party. We were way out in the sticks, and we never got caught.
Mike and I can tell you: of all the years we’ve worked together, the somewhat big names we backed up, the fancy places we played, and all the lighting and sound technology that we could ever hope for, Kings Valley Tavern holds the deepest place in our musician hearts. And always will!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Music Faded and the Dance Ended --- Part 1 (The Rudiments)
How can something so important to someone just seem to vanish from their conscience thought? --I’m talking about an actual gift given by God. Well,--He gave me --Love.
Don’t get me wrong, I have not lost love. I will always have love for my Lord, my wife, my kids, my dogs (same thing), family, friends, and mostly everything else. But, I seem to have blocked out the one thing that defined me as a person for most of my life. It was a passion that poured out of me during the early and most impressionable years of my life. God gave me the gift of music.
I know the love of music is a gift to all, but to have the music flow from your heart, through your soul, then into and out of your hands, straight to the hearts and souls of others, is a gift like no other. I am a musician. Well, I used to be.
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I was 15 years old when it all came together. First, I had the unexpected pleasure of tagging along with my oldest brother Raymond and my older cousin Buck on a weekend out. We managed to come up with the supplies we needed for the weekend and a place to stay, thanks to my friend Kelly Plunkett, who we picked up hitchhiking that day.
Kelly’s dad owned the store, a house, and a cabin in Burnt Woods. Kelly’s dad let us have the cabin all to ourselves for the weekend. Wow! This was heart-pounding fun.
The cabin was very rustic. It had vaulted ceilings, a loft bedroom, living room, TV, kitchen, bathroom, but sadly, --no action. We got bored real quick and decided to go to Harlan –yeah, like there was any action in Harlan. Harlan is a very small community nestled deep in the coast range that’s very unassuming, but there is a campground there. Camping was more our style so that’s where we decided to go.
We pulled into the campground in Buck’s two-toned metal-flake green ‘56’ Chevy. The mag wheels glistened in the moonlight. The 8 track was blaring out the Manfred Mann song, “Quinn the Eskimo”. Yep –It was all cool --I was cool! --Here I am hanging out with Buck and Raymond on a party weekend. I finally made it; I'm one of the big boys now.
Once we settled down a little bit, we realized there were two local girls camping there, too. We invited them over, and I am forever grateful that they came. I fell in love for the first time in my life. I fell head over heels for the younger of the two sisters. Mickey was her nick-name. I got to experience the passion of a first kiss that night, and the awesomeness of ‘making out’. Yes Sir, I went from a boy to a young man that night.
(No, there was no sex).
I only bring this up because it was pivotal to all that followed.
Although I never saw her again, the time I spent with her was a major turning point in my life. She brought out the part within me that made me pine for the love and affection of a woman….
Enter country music:
My oldest brother Raymond was home on leave from the Army that summer. He had brought with him a cassette tape of Charley Pride (Best of Charley Pride, volume II) he bought at the PX. The album featured “Kiss an Angel Good Morning” which was on the top 40 list at the time, and was a great song, but there were others that had the raw emotion that I was feeling at the time; I couldn’t get enough. The rest of that summer was bitter-sweet and I fumbled my way through it best I could.
Some time later on, I rode my bicycle up to my friend Ted’s house and there, on the porch, sat a huge man with a well-groomed beard, playing a guitar and singing country western songs. This man was a top-notched guitar player and singer. He could flat-pick and finger-pick with the best of them. His vocals were exceptional. His voice was deep, rich, and resonated with total control. Most of all, he sang and played from his heart. He was in his mid-to-late twenties and I wholeheartedly believe, had he been in the right place at the right time, he would be a household name to every country music fan out there. His name was Patric Kasner. --I didn’t even make it to the front door; I just grabbed up a chair and sat and listened to him until he was finished.
Pat had just gotten married to one of Ted’s sisters and bought a small ranch right across the river.
Every weekend was family weekend at Ted’s and Pat would usually be there. I spent almost every one of those days up at Ted’s listening to and getting to know Pat.
Art is an expression of the soul and Pat was an artist. Having grown up with a poet father, an artist mother, and being an artist myself, I knew in my heart I found my new medium. I needed to learn to play the guitar.
I asked my mother for a guitar for Christmas that year and asked Pat if he’d teach me. I received the guitar I asked for, and Pat began teaching me around mid January the following year.
Me –n- Pat:
Pat was ten years my elder and I looked up to him in many ways. Not only was he an accomplished musician, there wasn’t a task that he wouldn’t take on, and do well with, whatever it was he tried. He used to refer to himself as a Jack of all Trades, Master of None. I never fully understood the true meaning of that cliché until recently.
When I first showed up at Pat’s place, he was outside working on his ranch. He said something like, “Charley! I’m not quite ready to sit down and play yet, but if you come over here and help me with this, we can get started on the lessons after.”
It was funny how that seemed to happen every time I went up there. But, I learned how to work, to love my work, and to pour my heart and soul into my work. Pat became my best friend and mentor. We did many things together.
Pat served our country in the U.S. Navy as a Sea Bee and was very experienced in operating heavy equipment. He bought a dozer and started an excavating business. He pushed around a lot of dirt and gravel for a living. The work was always there, but when it came to collecting the money owed him, the money didn't always come in. He finally sold out and went to work cat-logging for a local gyppo logging outfit. I became his chocker setter. I don’t remember what I was paid, but I loved that job!
While Pat was taking a turn of logs to the landing and I was presetting the chokers, we would both be composing limericks, trying to outdo each other in wit. I got a few good ones in, but he usually outwitted me. The days went by too fast. We sure got a lot of logs out though, and we had a lot of fun and laughs doing it.
Pat was very intense in his personality, in that, he was very confident in himself and would watch and learn very quickly. It never took him too long to get the picture. I remember a time when he picked me up one morning and took me to a neighbors place to help out with shearing their sheep. I got paid to stomp the wool while Pat helped the shearer tend to the shearing of the flock. Looking back, I know he was there to figure out how to do it himself. As stated earlier, Pat was a Jack of all Trades, Master of None (emphasis on the ‘Master of None”); it came time for Pat’s sheep to be sheared. Shearing sheep is a skill that takes some time to master, but this time it came down to just Pat and me.
I showed up early that morning and we went right to work putting the sheep in the barn. We corralled them in one area with another holding area on hand for after they were sheared. Then, there was a trough with medicated solution in it, on the floor, for them to walk through once their hooves were trimmed and delousing could occur while they were on their way out the barn door (multitasking). We were all set. Pat had all the necessary equipment to get the job done –equipment doesn’t make the man (to be touched on later in this narrative).
Pat fired up the shears and I grabbed a ram or a ewe and pitched it out of the corral gate to Pat. He took the knowledge that he received from the one day he had watched a professional shearer do his job and proceeded removing the wool from the sheep. Once completed, he chunked the critter into the holding area we had set up. One after another we sheared his sheep.
If you have ever been in a closed barn, on a warm day, in the middle of shoulder-to-shoulder, wooly, sheep, the stench of lanolin, the flies, the heat and the sweat, then you’d know that it is almost a relief to take a break, jump into the wool bag and stomp down the removed wool (pieces of flesh and all).
After all this work the sheep were finally sheared. We then set about the process of clipping the rot off of their hooves (which, by the way, smelled like decaying flesh). I held back the urge to gag because I didn’t want to appear to be a wuss in front of my hero. –He probably felt the same, with the exception; a hero is not supposed to be a wuss.
We drove the sheep through the trough, patted them with pesticide, and dabbed them with purple dye so we knew which ones were done, then sent them out of the barn and into the pasture to do what ‘field maggots’ do (eat, poop, and just be stupid).
When our work was done, Pat and I kicked back on his shaded porch, had cold drinks, played a little music, and bragged to his wife Charlene about what a good job we did.
We sat there and looked out over the pasture and watched those pathetic creatures that now looked like a bunch of Michelin Tire Men with flat tires, gaping bloody wounds, and purple splotches.
But, what the heck, the sheep survived the ordeal, Pat made a little money on the wool, and we had a kick-ass time. We did well. That’s what it was all about. And, I got my guitar lesson.
They say ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained”, Pat and I took on many like-projects and learned and gained our way through all of them without a single casualty.
Pat and I were inseparable; we formed an almost telepathic way of communication. The type of communication between us, and our band, brings me back to the main subject:
The Music:
From day one, Pat seemed to instinctively know the best teaching method. He put his own ego aside and brought himself down to my level and did not even so much as strum a chord while I was there. He drew a diagram of the fret board, described each string’s note, and showed me how to tune the guitar. It was like –come back when you got that down. I went home and studied with steeled determination. I wanted to know everything about what I had just learned by the following week.
I showed up at Pat’s a week later, and by God, I knew my way around the neck of that guitar; I just didn’t know how to make any music with it. Pat, seeing that I was more that just willing to try this, knew I could start learning chords.
He taught me C, F, and G to start with. I went home and practiced until my fingers couldn’t handle it any more. I learned the chords, but I couldn’t change between them very fast. The next week Pat taught me some transitional runs that would put my fingers in a better and easier position to change the chords on time. I figured it out after another week. Then, it was time to put what I had learned into a real song.
The next lesson involved timing, beat counts, chord patterns, and strumming techniques in 4/4 and 3/4 time. The first song I learned was the old Engelbert Humperdinck song: ‘Please Release Me’. It was played in three chords and was simple in the beat count and chord pattern. Before long I was playing it! Pat picked up his guitar, sang it, and played a little lead along with me.
The more I learned, the more I wanted to learn. I played until my fingers literally bled. They were black-and-blue with cuts from the guitar strings. It hurt so bad I tried to put bandages on them, but I needed to feel what I was doing, so I took them off. My family got real tired of hearing me playing ‘Please Release me’ all day and all night.
In the middle of the night, one night, I was under the covers in my bed practicing. I was trying to play real quiet-like so as to not wake anyone up, when I heard my mother stomping across the floor toward my bedroom. I felt like I had just got caught under my covers with a flashlight and the lingerie section of the Montgomery Ward catalogue. I was busted! In a nurturing way, she calmly said, “PUT THE DAMN THING AWAY AND GO TO SLEEP!”
Pat and I went through his songbook and worked out many songs with similar cord patterns. He showed me other chords and how to transpose a song from one key to another. My determination never ceased and by June or July we had enough songs worked out to where we could go down to the local bar and play a few hours of music for tips-out-the-hat. I think we made 15 or 20 bucks each. That made me much more eager to learn.
I believe I had a hand in rekindling Pat’s love of performance in song, because, by that fall he put a band together and arranged a Friday and Saturday night gig at the Eagles lodge in Corvallis.
The job was a two month commitment and he managed to get his old drummer to play and found a lead guitarist and a bass player. Pat played rhythm guitar and sang lead vocals. He called the band: The New Country Ramblers (I know, but it was the early seventies and it was a take-off from his last band’s name).
The lead player’s name was Joe (we always referred to him as ‘Cousin Joe’) and the bass player went by the nickname ‘Boots’.
Cousin Joe was mediocre at best with both vocals and the ability to play the guitar, but he was a ‘country star’ in his own mind. He would show up with sunglasses on a winter night and he would be sporting his highly-glossed white patent leather shoes. He was low on talent and high on ego.
Boots, on the other hand, was real in his heart. He had a sense of humor that wouldn’t quit and could thump that bass real fine. He was an older man, --tall, thin, and had a huge handlebar mustache. He would lodge his cigarette in his ear while playing a song and dance around like an idiot. He was a clown and always had something funny to say. He became a good friend.
Pat arranged for me to come in and play with the band as a second rhythm guitarist. I was under-aged and not a paid member so I don’t know how he pulled that off, but knowing his personality and his silver tongue, it probably wasn’t too big a deal for him.
I had just entered a world that was still years out of my reach, but for some reason, I settled in just fine. I loved the music, the people, the dancing, the dim colored lights, the smoke, the clinking of the glasses, the din of the patron’s conversations, and of course: the short-skirted waitresses.
Pat kept me close enough to him on stage to help me learn the songs. He would turn toward me at times to let me see his fingers on the fret board to show me where the changes were going to be. During breaks he’d teach me the chords and patterns of the complicated songs we were going to do on the next set.
I learned many new chords and patterns and how to feel the changes coming. I learned how to play songs, on the fly, that I’d never ever heard before. The music started to come from a place within. It’s impossible to describe.
After the two months were over, the lodge wanted us to stay on longer. Cousin Joe and Boots had other commitments and couldn’t play. Pat wanted to keep the job so he went ahead and booked it. Pat contacted a local guitar player named Roger to play lead guitar, but still needed to find a bass player. He looked at me and said, “I think you’re ready to do this.”
Huh?
Pat borrowed a bass from the neighbor and had me come up to his house to get started. He had already shown me the basic bass runs when he first taught me the chords on the guitar. He went over a few walking patterns with me and then turned me loose. I went home and practiced like I always did (sorry Mom).
I arranged the rental of an amp, and then, that following Friday night, at the age of sixteen, I became a paid and working bass player in a four-piece country-western band.
Don’t get me wrong, I have not lost love. I will always have love for my Lord, my wife, my kids, my dogs (same thing), family, friends, and mostly everything else. But, I seem to have blocked out the one thing that defined me as a person for most of my life. It was a passion that poured out of me during the early and most impressionable years of my life. God gave me the gift of music.
I know the love of music is a gift to all, but to have the music flow from your heart, through your soul, then into and out of your hands, straight to the hearts and souls of others, is a gift like no other. I am a musician. Well, I used to be.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was 15 years old when it all came together. First, I had the unexpected pleasure of tagging along with my oldest brother Raymond and my older cousin Buck on a weekend out. We managed to come up with the supplies we needed for the weekend and a place to stay, thanks to my friend Kelly Plunkett, who we picked up hitchhiking that day.
Kelly’s dad owned the store, a house, and a cabin in Burnt Woods. Kelly’s dad let us have the cabin all to ourselves for the weekend. Wow! This was heart-pounding fun.
The cabin was very rustic. It had vaulted ceilings, a loft bedroom, living room, TV, kitchen, bathroom, but sadly, --no action. We got bored real quick and decided to go to Harlan –yeah, like there was any action in Harlan. Harlan is a very small community nestled deep in the coast range that’s very unassuming, but there is a campground there. Camping was more our style so that’s where we decided to go.
We pulled into the campground in Buck’s two-toned metal-flake green ‘56’ Chevy. The mag wheels glistened in the moonlight. The 8 track was blaring out the Manfred Mann song, “Quinn the Eskimo”. Yep –It was all cool --I was cool! --Here I am hanging out with Buck and Raymond on a party weekend. I finally made it; I'm one of the big boys now.
Once we settled down a little bit, we realized there were two local girls camping there, too. We invited them over, and I am forever grateful that they came. I fell in love for the first time in my life. I fell head over heels for the younger of the two sisters. Mickey was her nick-name. I got to experience the passion of a first kiss that night, and the awesomeness of ‘making out’. Yes Sir, I went from a boy to a young man that night.
(No, there was no sex).
I only bring this up because it was pivotal to all that followed.
Although I never saw her again, the time I spent with her was a major turning point in my life. She brought out the part within me that made me pine for the love and affection of a woman….
Enter country music:
My oldest brother Raymond was home on leave from the Army that summer. He had brought with him a cassette tape of Charley Pride (Best of Charley Pride, volume II) he bought at the PX. The album featured “Kiss an Angel Good Morning” which was on the top 40 list at the time, and was a great song, but there were others that had the raw emotion that I was feeling at the time; I couldn’t get enough. The rest of that summer was bitter-sweet and I fumbled my way through it best I could.
Some time later on, I rode my bicycle up to my friend Ted’s house and there, on the porch, sat a huge man with a well-groomed beard, playing a guitar and singing country western songs. This man was a top-notched guitar player and singer. He could flat-pick and finger-pick with the best of them. His vocals were exceptional. His voice was deep, rich, and resonated with total control. Most of all, he sang and played from his heart. He was in his mid-to-late twenties and I wholeheartedly believe, had he been in the right place at the right time, he would be a household name to every country music fan out there. His name was Patric Kasner. --I didn’t even make it to the front door; I just grabbed up a chair and sat and listened to him until he was finished.
Pat had just gotten married to one of Ted’s sisters and bought a small ranch right across the river.
Every weekend was family weekend at Ted’s and Pat would usually be there. I spent almost every one of those days up at Ted’s listening to and getting to know Pat.
Art is an expression of the soul and Pat was an artist. Having grown up with a poet father, an artist mother, and being an artist myself, I knew in my heart I found my new medium. I needed to learn to play the guitar.
I asked my mother for a guitar for Christmas that year and asked Pat if he’d teach me. I received the guitar I asked for, and Pat began teaching me around mid January the following year.
Me –n- Pat:
Pat was ten years my elder and I looked up to him in many ways. Not only was he an accomplished musician, there wasn’t a task that he wouldn’t take on, and do well with, whatever it was he tried. He used to refer to himself as a Jack of all Trades, Master of None. I never fully understood the true meaning of that cliché until recently.
When I first showed up at Pat’s place, he was outside working on his ranch. He said something like, “Charley! I’m not quite ready to sit down and play yet, but if you come over here and help me with this, we can get started on the lessons after.”
It was funny how that seemed to happen every time I went up there. But, I learned how to work, to love my work, and to pour my heart and soul into my work. Pat became my best friend and mentor. We did many things together.
Pat served our country in the U.S. Navy as a Sea Bee and was very experienced in operating heavy equipment. He bought a dozer and started an excavating business. He pushed around a lot of dirt and gravel for a living. The work was always there, but when it came to collecting the money owed him, the money didn't always come in. He finally sold out and went to work cat-logging for a local gyppo logging outfit. I became his chocker setter. I don’t remember what I was paid, but I loved that job!
While Pat was taking a turn of logs to the landing and I was presetting the chokers, we would both be composing limericks, trying to outdo each other in wit. I got a few good ones in, but he usually outwitted me. The days went by too fast. We sure got a lot of logs out though, and we had a lot of fun and laughs doing it.
Pat was very intense in his personality, in that, he was very confident in himself and would watch and learn very quickly. It never took him too long to get the picture. I remember a time when he picked me up one morning and took me to a neighbors place to help out with shearing their sheep. I got paid to stomp the wool while Pat helped the shearer tend to the shearing of the flock. Looking back, I know he was there to figure out how to do it himself. As stated earlier, Pat was a Jack of all Trades, Master of None (emphasis on the ‘Master of None”); it came time for Pat’s sheep to be sheared. Shearing sheep is a skill that takes some time to master, but this time it came down to just Pat and me.
I showed up early that morning and we went right to work putting the sheep in the barn. We corralled them in one area with another holding area on hand for after they were sheared. Then, there was a trough with medicated solution in it, on the floor, for them to walk through once their hooves were trimmed and delousing could occur while they were on their way out the barn door (multitasking). We were all set. Pat had all the necessary equipment to get the job done –equipment doesn’t make the man (to be touched on later in this narrative).
Pat fired up the shears and I grabbed a ram or a ewe and pitched it out of the corral gate to Pat. He took the knowledge that he received from the one day he had watched a professional shearer do his job and proceeded removing the wool from the sheep. Once completed, he chunked the critter into the holding area we had set up. One after another we sheared his sheep.
If you have ever been in a closed barn, on a warm day, in the middle of shoulder-to-shoulder, wooly, sheep, the stench of lanolin, the flies, the heat and the sweat, then you’d know that it is almost a relief to take a break, jump into the wool bag and stomp down the removed wool (pieces of flesh and all).
After all this work the sheep were finally sheared. We then set about the process of clipping the rot off of their hooves (which, by the way, smelled like decaying flesh). I held back the urge to gag because I didn’t want to appear to be a wuss in front of my hero. –He probably felt the same, with the exception; a hero is not supposed to be a wuss.
We drove the sheep through the trough, patted them with pesticide, and dabbed them with purple dye so we knew which ones were done, then sent them out of the barn and into the pasture to do what ‘field maggots’ do (eat, poop, and just be stupid).
When our work was done, Pat and I kicked back on his shaded porch, had cold drinks, played a little music, and bragged to his wife Charlene about what a good job we did.
We sat there and looked out over the pasture and watched those pathetic creatures that now looked like a bunch of Michelin Tire Men with flat tires, gaping bloody wounds, and purple splotches.
But, what the heck, the sheep survived the ordeal, Pat made a little money on the wool, and we had a kick-ass time. We did well. That’s what it was all about. And, I got my guitar lesson.
They say ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained”, Pat and I took on many like-projects and learned and gained our way through all of them without a single casualty.
Pat and I were inseparable; we formed an almost telepathic way of communication. The type of communication between us, and our band, brings me back to the main subject:
The Music:
From day one, Pat seemed to instinctively know the best teaching method. He put his own ego aside and brought himself down to my level and did not even so much as strum a chord while I was there. He drew a diagram of the fret board, described each string’s note, and showed me how to tune the guitar. It was like –come back when you got that down. I went home and studied with steeled determination. I wanted to know everything about what I had just learned by the following week.
I showed up at Pat’s a week later, and by God, I knew my way around the neck of that guitar; I just didn’t know how to make any music with it. Pat, seeing that I was more that just willing to try this, knew I could start learning chords.
He taught me C, F, and G to start with. I went home and practiced until my fingers couldn’t handle it any more. I learned the chords, but I couldn’t change between them very fast. The next week Pat taught me some transitional runs that would put my fingers in a better and easier position to change the chords on time. I figured it out after another week. Then, it was time to put what I had learned into a real song.
The next lesson involved timing, beat counts, chord patterns, and strumming techniques in 4/4 and 3/4 time. The first song I learned was the old Engelbert Humperdinck song: ‘Please Release Me’. It was played in three chords and was simple in the beat count and chord pattern. Before long I was playing it! Pat picked up his guitar, sang it, and played a little lead along with me.
The more I learned, the more I wanted to learn. I played until my fingers literally bled. They were black-and-blue with cuts from the guitar strings. It hurt so bad I tried to put bandages on them, but I needed to feel what I was doing, so I took them off. My family got real tired of hearing me playing ‘Please Release me’ all day and all night.
In the middle of the night, one night, I was under the covers in my bed practicing. I was trying to play real quiet-like so as to not wake anyone up, when I heard my mother stomping across the floor toward my bedroom. I felt like I had just got caught under my covers with a flashlight and the lingerie section of the Montgomery Ward catalogue. I was busted! In a nurturing way, she calmly said, “PUT THE DAMN THING AWAY AND GO TO SLEEP!”
Pat and I went through his songbook and worked out many songs with similar cord patterns. He showed me other chords and how to transpose a song from one key to another. My determination never ceased and by June or July we had enough songs worked out to where we could go down to the local bar and play a few hours of music for tips-out-the-hat. I think we made 15 or 20 bucks each. That made me much more eager to learn.
I believe I had a hand in rekindling Pat’s love of performance in song, because, by that fall he put a band together and arranged a Friday and Saturday night gig at the Eagles lodge in Corvallis.
The job was a two month commitment and he managed to get his old drummer to play and found a lead guitarist and a bass player. Pat played rhythm guitar and sang lead vocals. He called the band: The New Country Ramblers (I know, but it was the early seventies and it was a take-off from his last band’s name).
The lead player’s name was Joe (we always referred to him as ‘Cousin Joe’) and the bass player went by the nickname ‘Boots’.
Cousin Joe was mediocre at best with both vocals and the ability to play the guitar, but he was a ‘country star’ in his own mind. He would show up with sunglasses on a winter night and he would be sporting his highly-glossed white patent leather shoes. He was low on talent and high on ego.
Boots, on the other hand, was real in his heart. He had a sense of humor that wouldn’t quit and could thump that bass real fine. He was an older man, --tall, thin, and had a huge handlebar mustache. He would lodge his cigarette in his ear while playing a song and dance around like an idiot. He was a clown and always had something funny to say. He became a good friend.
Pat arranged for me to come in and play with the band as a second rhythm guitarist. I was under-aged and not a paid member so I don’t know how he pulled that off, but knowing his personality and his silver tongue, it probably wasn’t too big a deal for him.
I had just entered a world that was still years out of my reach, but for some reason, I settled in just fine. I loved the music, the people, the dancing, the dim colored lights, the smoke, the clinking of the glasses, the din of the patron’s conversations, and of course: the short-skirted waitresses.
Pat kept me close enough to him on stage to help me learn the songs. He would turn toward me at times to let me see his fingers on the fret board to show me where the changes were going to be. During breaks he’d teach me the chords and patterns of the complicated songs we were going to do on the next set.
I learned many new chords and patterns and how to feel the changes coming. I learned how to play songs, on the fly, that I’d never ever heard before. The music started to come from a place within. It’s impossible to describe.
After the two months were over, the lodge wanted us to stay on longer. Cousin Joe and Boots had other commitments and couldn’t play. Pat wanted to keep the job so he went ahead and booked it. Pat contacted a local guitar player named Roger to play lead guitar, but still needed to find a bass player. He looked at me and said, “I think you’re ready to do this.”
Huh?
Pat borrowed a bass from the neighbor and had me come up to his house to get started. He had already shown me the basic bass runs when he first taught me the chords on the guitar. He went over a few walking patterns with me and then turned me loose. I went home and practiced like I always did (sorry Mom).
I arranged the rental of an amp, and then, that following Friday night, at the age of sixteen, I became a paid and working bass player in a four-piece country-western band.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I Love Ghost Towns
When I was a kid I would lay if front of an old black-and-white television set. We had maybe two channels that would come in just barely enough to watch. When the wind blew, one of us would have to go outside and turn the antenna to get the signal back. The screen was always ‘snowy’ and would have ‘ghost’ images.
As I laid there at night, I would watch old westerns, one after another. I became fascinated with ghost towns. You could see the empty buildings from the unkempt dirt streets with the tumbleweeds rolling to the other side of town. There was something about the emptiness of a ‘once thriving community’ to the now, utter desolation. I always thought; someday I’ll go to a real ghost town!
Several years ago I stumbled across a book of Oregon ‘Ghost Towns’. I was surprised to find that the community I grew up in and the one that I live in now (4 miles away) were listed as ‘ghost towns’ (Hoskins & Kings Valley, Oregon). How can that be? I ain’t no ghost! But, then again, I used to watch The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits, too; so who knows? The point is: There is history behind wherever it is you live.
I could do some research and find the history of Fort Hoskins (a Cavalry era military fort), and tell you what’s been written. But, from what I understand, it was established to maintain peace between the Siletz Indians and the settlers coming in from the Applegate Trail, settling land disputes, and securing the boundaries of the reservation. (Don’t quote me on that! I got a ‘D’ in History. It would have been an ‘F’ if my history teacher could have stood seeing me in his class for another semester). In class, I would scuff the floor with the heels of my shoes and stare out the window.
After the fort was disbanded, the Franz family bought the old fort property and built a sawmill in Hoskins. It then became a logging community.
As the years went by, the logging activity went further upstream on the Luckiamute River toward the Siletz Valley Basin.
In 1919 the Valley & Siletz Railroad was established for the transportation of lumber. It meandered its way from the town of Independence to Valsetz.
The town of Valsetz was a ‘company town’ owned by the local sawmill and named from the combination of the words: ‘Valley’ and ‘Siletz’. It was a thriving community for a number of years with a population reaching 1200 or so, at one point.
The V&S railroad was the most economic way to transport lumber (and passengers in the very early days) because Valsetz was located deep in the coastal range of Oregon.
The railroad company would fire up the engine around 4:00 AM in Independence (in the Willamette Valley) and then travel the 40, or so, miles to Valsetz. They would pass by Pedee first, then Kings Valley, then Hoskins (where the railroad shops were located), and switch out the boxcars at Valsetz. On the way back they would switch out cars at the Moser mill in Kings Valley and the mill in Pedee and then end the day back in Independence, connecting with the Southern Pacific Line.
One time, my friend Alan and I contacted the Superintendent of the V&S railroad to get permission to ride the caboose for the day. It was granted and we set out early one morning for our adventure. As a teenager it was easier to stay up until 3:00 AM then it was to get up at that time. We showed up at the railroad station (very tired) and boarded the caboose.
The interior of the caboose was rustic. It had a wood-planked floor with dingy wood-paneled walls and ceiling. There was wood a stove near the middle of the port side of the car and a neatly-stacked rick of firewood to the right of it. On top of the stove there was an antique wide-bottom coffee pot. At the leading end of the caboose sat a solid old wood table and two chairs where the brakemen’s old fashioned metal lunch boxes were placed. The door at the rear of the car led to a small porch where the brake wheel was. There were ladders in the middle of both sides of the caboose that led up to the observation turret where the brakemen would watch for wheel problems with the cars and other such problems. I don't remember a time when, at a crossing, the brakemen wouldn't be at their posts, watching diligently, and waving a 'neighborly wave' as the train passed by.
There were two seats on each side of the turret facing both directions, forward and aft. (The caboose would be set off on a side track and go back in the same orientation it went up in). There was a warm and welcoming feeling about the caboose and the men that worked for the railroad.
We helped get the woodstove fired up and settled in for our ride. Once the empty boxcars were hooked up, then the caboose, we were on our way to Valsetz.
The train chugged its way up the coast range toward the Siletz valley basin in the dark hours of the morning. If I remember right, this was when I fell in love with the sunrise.
As the darkness slowly turned to daylight, one of the brakemen snoozed in the seat of his side of the turret. I brought him a hot cup of coffee and he let me take the brakeman's post for a time. From the seat of the turret, I watched the cars twist and wind their way up Luckiamute River valley. I was a railroad brakeman for a day. I even waved at the folks stopped at the crossings.
I would hear the engineer sound the horns at the crossings, hear the clickety-clack clickety-clack sound of the steel wheels rolling over the rails, and feel the sway of the train as it made its way to our destination. Just as the brakeman, It all made my eyelids heavy, as well.
The train eventually slowed to a stop at the mill in Valsetz. Alan and I hopped off of the caboose and headed for the general store/post office on Main Street.
There, I bought a bottle of ‘Nesbitz Orange Soda’ for 10 cents (3 cent deposit) and a nickel candy bar. Alan got a candy bar and a bottle of Cream Soda (I could never figure out why anyone would ever drink that stuff). We sat on the old wood porch of the store, enjoying our treats, giggling like teenaged idiots, and waiting for the train crew to make their return trip.
After the railcars were switched, the crew set off on their way back to the valley. The engineer slowed the train so we could board the caboose and we were on our way back home.
As we neared Hoskins, all I could think of was jumping off the moving train and walking home. I was very bored by this time, but this was our day trip and I stuck to it all the way back to Independence. It was a long 12 and a half hour day.
There are many stories I could share about this railroad and the times I remember about it.
In the 1980’s, Boise Cascade (the owner of the Valsetz mill and town at the time) decided to close down.
Internet research will tell you that the mill was shut down due to the depletion of old-growth timber. Bull$h!t!!!....The mill in Valsetz was a veneer mill (the plywood walls in you home could have came from Valsetz). You could turn any straight log from whatever size down to a 4” peeler core without retooling (when pressure treated, they make great fence posts). I don’t know the particulars but, it’s my opinion that the very secluded nature of Valsetz and the cost of operating and maintaining the railroad was the main reason. The company couldn’t turn the profit they needed and that had to have been the basis for their decision.
Anyway, between the early to late eighties the mill, town, and railroad became all but just a memory. The mill was burned to the ground, the town razed, the railroad was pulled up, sold for scrap, and the railroad’s right-of-way property sold off.
Even the log pond where huge German Brown Trout were caught by local anglers was drained and now there is almost nothing left.
My friend Ted and I were in a conversation the other day about the old days, then got together and took a drive up the old railroad grade to what used to be the town of Valsetz. I had to print out maps and satellite images from Google Maps to get our bearings right. We found the foundation of an old storage building, asphalt chunks from the sawmill lot, and remnants of the old dam. That was about it! The trees growing up where Main Street used to be would be peeled at the mill today, if it was still there.
If you didn’t know where you were going or what you were looking for, you’d never know there was ever a town there at all.
Other than the Holy Spirit, a ghost to me today, is but a memory of a lost loved one and the dreams of an era past.
click on image to enlarge
V&S Railroad Caboose (painted with Boise Cascade green & white)
As I laid there at night, I would watch old westerns, one after another. I became fascinated with ghost towns. You could see the empty buildings from the unkempt dirt streets with the tumbleweeds rolling to the other side of town. There was something about the emptiness of a ‘once thriving community’ to the now, utter desolation. I always thought; someday I’ll go to a real ghost town!
Several years ago I stumbled across a book of Oregon ‘Ghost Towns’. I was surprised to find that the community I grew up in and the one that I live in now (4 miles away) were listed as ‘ghost towns’ (Hoskins & Kings Valley, Oregon). How can that be? I ain’t no ghost! But, then again, I used to watch The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits, too; so who knows? The point is: There is history behind wherever it is you live.
I could do some research and find the history of Fort Hoskins (a Cavalry era military fort), and tell you what’s been written. But, from what I understand, it was established to maintain peace between the Siletz Indians and the settlers coming in from the Applegate Trail, settling land disputes, and securing the boundaries of the reservation. (Don’t quote me on that! I got a ‘D’ in History. It would have been an ‘F’ if my history teacher could have stood seeing me in his class for another semester). In class, I would scuff the floor with the heels of my shoes and stare out the window.
After the fort was disbanded, the Franz family bought the old fort property and built a sawmill in Hoskins. It then became a logging community.
As the years went by, the logging activity went further upstream on the Luckiamute River toward the Siletz Valley Basin.
In 1919 the Valley & Siletz Railroad was established for the transportation of lumber. It meandered its way from the town of Independence to Valsetz.
The town of Valsetz was a ‘company town’ owned by the local sawmill and named from the combination of the words: ‘Valley’ and ‘Siletz’. It was a thriving community for a number of years with a population reaching 1200 or so, at one point.
The V&S railroad was the most economic way to transport lumber (and passengers in the very early days) because Valsetz was located deep in the coastal range of Oregon.
The railroad company would fire up the engine around 4:00 AM in Independence (in the Willamette Valley) and then travel the 40, or so, miles to Valsetz. They would pass by Pedee first, then Kings Valley, then Hoskins (where the railroad shops were located), and switch out the boxcars at Valsetz. On the way back they would switch out cars at the Moser mill in Kings Valley and the mill in Pedee and then end the day back in Independence, connecting with the Southern Pacific Line.
One time, my friend Alan and I contacted the Superintendent of the V&S railroad to get permission to ride the caboose for the day. It was granted and we set out early one morning for our adventure. As a teenager it was easier to stay up until 3:00 AM then it was to get up at that time. We showed up at the railroad station (very tired) and boarded the caboose.
The interior of the caboose was rustic. It had a wood-planked floor with dingy wood-paneled walls and ceiling. There was wood a stove near the middle of the port side of the car and a neatly-stacked rick of firewood to the right of it. On top of the stove there was an antique wide-bottom coffee pot. At the leading end of the caboose sat a solid old wood table and two chairs where the brakemen’s old fashioned metal lunch boxes were placed. The door at the rear of the car led to a small porch where the brake wheel was. There were ladders in the middle of both sides of the caboose that led up to the observation turret where the brakemen would watch for wheel problems with the cars and other such problems. I don't remember a time when, at a crossing, the brakemen wouldn't be at their posts, watching diligently, and waving a 'neighborly wave' as the train passed by.
There were two seats on each side of the turret facing both directions, forward and aft. (The caboose would be set off on a side track and go back in the same orientation it went up in). There was a warm and welcoming feeling about the caboose and the men that worked for the railroad.
We helped get the woodstove fired up and settled in for our ride. Once the empty boxcars were hooked up, then the caboose, we were on our way to Valsetz.
The train chugged its way up the coast range toward the Siletz valley basin in the dark hours of the morning. If I remember right, this was when I fell in love with the sunrise.
As the darkness slowly turned to daylight, one of the brakemen snoozed in the seat of his side of the turret. I brought him a hot cup of coffee and he let me take the brakeman's post for a time. From the seat of the turret, I watched the cars twist and wind their way up Luckiamute River valley. I was a railroad brakeman for a day. I even waved at the folks stopped at the crossings.
I would hear the engineer sound the horns at the crossings, hear the clickety-clack clickety-clack sound of the steel wheels rolling over the rails, and feel the sway of the train as it made its way to our destination. Just as the brakeman, It all made my eyelids heavy, as well.
The train eventually slowed to a stop at the mill in Valsetz. Alan and I hopped off of the caboose and headed for the general store/post office on Main Street.
There, I bought a bottle of ‘Nesbitz Orange Soda’ for 10 cents (3 cent deposit) and a nickel candy bar. Alan got a candy bar and a bottle of Cream Soda (I could never figure out why anyone would ever drink that stuff). We sat on the old wood porch of the store, enjoying our treats, giggling like teenaged idiots, and waiting for the train crew to make their return trip.
After the railcars were switched, the crew set off on their way back to the valley. The engineer slowed the train so we could board the caboose and we were on our way back home.
As we neared Hoskins, all I could think of was jumping off the moving train and walking home. I was very bored by this time, but this was our day trip and I stuck to it all the way back to Independence. It was a long 12 and a half hour day.
There are many stories I could share about this railroad and the times I remember about it.
In the 1980’s, Boise Cascade (the owner of the Valsetz mill and town at the time) decided to close down.
Internet research will tell you that the mill was shut down due to the depletion of old-growth timber. Bull$h!t!!!....The mill in Valsetz was a veneer mill (the plywood walls in you home could have came from Valsetz). You could turn any straight log from whatever size down to a 4” peeler core without retooling (when pressure treated, they make great fence posts). I don’t know the particulars but, it’s my opinion that the very secluded nature of Valsetz and the cost of operating and maintaining the railroad was the main reason. The company couldn’t turn the profit they needed and that had to have been the basis for their decision.
Anyway, between the early to late eighties the mill, town, and railroad became all but just a memory. The mill was burned to the ground, the town razed, the railroad was pulled up, sold for scrap, and the railroad’s right-of-way property sold off.
Even the log pond where huge German Brown Trout were caught by local anglers was drained and now there is almost nothing left.
My friend Ted and I were in a conversation the other day about the old days, then got together and took a drive up the old railroad grade to what used to be the town of Valsetz. I had to print out maps and satellite images from Google Maps to get our bearings right. We found the foundation of an old storage building, asphalt chunks from the sawmill lot, and remnants of the old dam. That was about it! The trees growing up where Main Street used to be would be peeled at the mill today, if it was still there.
If you didn’t know where you were going or what you were looking for, you’d never know there was ever a town there at all.
Other than the Holy Spirit, a ghost to me today, is but a memory of a lost loved one and the dreams of an era past.
click on image to enlarge
V&S Railroad Caboose (painted with Boise Cascade green & white)
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Too Far
My wife stayed home from work yesterday and I needed to get out of the house so I went off to take some pictures of a bridge that I want to do an oil painting of (picture attached). I’d like to try to get a sepia effect with it, on a large canvas. On the way there, I stopped by my best friend’s house (Ted from Skippin’ Rocks Part1) to BS a little bit, to kill some time, and enjoy my “much deserved” freedom. He decided to tag along.
After I got the shots of the bridge that I wanted, we decided to take a drive (he needed some freedom, too). We headed up a nearby logging road to a place my friends and I used to refer to as “Too Far.” It got that name because hippies that tried to start a commune there had put up a sign to let their other smelly hippie friends know they passed the spur road that led to the shacks they built for their inane social experiment.
These hippies were very stupid! They built plywood shacks on four-foot stilts. There was no insulation whatsoever, just single plywood walls. They contracted Ted’s dad to ‘punch out’ a pond with his humongous International TD-18 bulldozer. He told them it will never hold water. Believe me; he knew what he was talking about. They ignored his advice and paid him to do it anyway. Sure enough, it didn’t hold water for years.
Ted and I reminisced about that page in our history and laughed about the hippie’s first winter. It was around ‘71’ or ‘72’. The temperatures were below zero and the snowfall was far above normal for our area. I remember seeing the stupid hippie’s Volvos parked at the bottom of the logging road. It was at least a two-mile hike up-hill to their commune. I laughed my ass off. Ted told me that he and a friend had to take an old military deuce-and-a-half to get up the hill to get their belongings out of there. They moved back to California where they belonged before they even lived here a year. Good riddins!
The reason I bring this up is: That waterless pond became an exciting weekend pastime for us. Imagine a skateboarder’s park on a larger scale.
The first time I had fun there was when my friends and I invited our high school English teacher out to go for the “36-mile Ride”. We got on our dirt bikes and rode miles of logging roads ending up at Too Far. There we played for hours. The waterless pond was around 600’ by 300’ and probably 40’ deep. The banks were near 90°. I was banking the upper edge and saw what I knew, at the time, was unavoidable. There was a rock about twice the size of a football right in my path. I was in no position to steer away from it, and I hit it straight on. I went over my handlebars and tumbled to the bottom of the pond. I was less hurt than humuliated. Still, that is one of the most fun and memorable days of my life.
I think it was around 1975 when I bought a black ‘63’ Pontiac station wagon off of a neighbor for $150 (I named her ‘Blacky’). It had a 6 banger and a 3 speed transmission (on-the-tree gear shift) and red interior. I had more fun with that car then any other, EVER!
There was a local swimming hole on the Luckiamute River that was very popular back in the 70’s. There was a field separating it from the highway. Someone had cut a water bar through the middle of it (drainage ditch). One side of the water bar was like a ramp. In the wintertime it gets very wet up here and real muddy. I would take Blacky and get a real good run down the rock road leading to the swimming hole, then veer off into the field and hit the water bar and get air. I would spin the steering wheel to one side or other, and when I hit the ground I would spin 360’s, sometimes more than two. I can’t describe how fun that was.
Then one day I took Blacky up to Too Far. The alder saplings had grown in the bottom of this waterless pond to nearly eight to ten feet high. The trunks were probably two inches in diameter. The banks of the pond were still barren, though. I got the fastest run I could get at the banks and rode it all the way around the pond. I would near the bottom and brake, hard turn, and slide side-ways. The right-side of ole Blacky plowed into the saplings and the whole car would rise up on two wheels. That was COOL! I kept playing until I broke a motor-mount and the fan tore a chunk out my radiator and Blacky overheated. I limped my way out of Too Far and coasted down the hill to the main road. I walked home from there.
I don’t remember what ever happened with Blacky but, she was a great car!
Watching the guy on that video from my last post reminded me of the fun I used to have on both two and four wheels.
*****************************************************************************
Wildwood Bridge Nov. 21, 2008
After I got the shots of the bridge that I wanted, we decided to take a drive (he needed some freedom, too). We headed up a nearby logging road to a place my friends and I used to refer to as “Too Far.” It got that name because hippies that tried to start a commune there had put up a sign to let their other smelly hippie friends know they passed the spur road that led to the shacks they built for their inane social experiment.
These hippies were very stupid! They built plywood shacks on four-foot stilts. There was no insulation whatsoever, just single plywood walls. They contracted Ted’s dad to ‘punch out’ a pond with his humongous International TD-18 bulldozer. He told them it will never hold water. Believe me; he knew what he was talking about. They ignored his advice and paid him to do it anyway. Sure enough, it didn’t hold water for years.
Ted and I reminisced about that page in our history and laughed about the hippie’s first winter. It was around ‘71’ or ‘72’. The temperatures were below zero and the snowfall was far above normal for our area. I remember seeing the stupid hippie’s Volvos parked at the bottom of the logging road. It was at least a two-mile hike up-hill to their commune. I laughed my ass off. Ted told me that he and a friend had to take an old military deuce-and-a-half to get up the hill to get their belongings out of there. They moved back to California where they belonged before they even lived here a year. Good riddins!
The reason I bring this up is: That waterless pond became an exciting weekend pastime for us. Imagine a skateboarder’s park on a larger scale.
The first time I had fun there was when my friends and I invited our high school English teacher out to go for the “36-mile Ride”. We got on our dirt bikes and rode miles of logging roads ending up at Too Far. There we played for hours. The waterless pond was around 600’ by 300’ and probably 40’ deep. The banks were near 90°. I was banking the upper edge and saw what I knew, at the time, was unavoidable. There was a rock about twice the size of a football right in my path. I was in no position to steer away from it, and I hit it straight on. I went over my handlebars and tumbled to the bottom of the pond. I was less hurt than humuliated. Still, that is one of the most fun and memorable days of my life.
I think it was around 1975 when I bought a black ‘63’ Pontiac station wagon off of a neighbor for $150 (I named her ‘Blacky’). It had a 6 banger and a 3 speed transmission (on-the-tree gear shift) and red interior. I had more fun with that car then any other, EVER!
There was a local swimming hole on the Luckiamute River that was very popular back in the 70’s. There was a field separating it from the highway. Someone had cut a water bar through the middle of it (drainage ditch). One side of the water bar was like a ramp. In the wintertime it gets very wet up here and real muddy. I would take Blacky and get a real good run down the rock road leading to the swimming hole, then veer off into the field and hit the water bar and get air. I would spin the steering wheel to one side or other, and when I hit the ground I would spin 360’s, sometimes more than two. I can’t describe how fun that was.
Then one day I took Blacky up to Too Far. The alder saplings had grown in the bottom of this waterless pond to nearly eight to ten feet high. The trunks were probably two inches in diameter. The banks of the pond were still barren, though. I got the fastest run I could get at the banks and rode it all the way around the pond. I would near the bottom and brake, hard turn, and slide side-ways. The right-side of ole Blacky plowed into the saplings and the whole car would rise up on two wheels. That was COOL! I kept playing until I broke a motor-mount and the fan tore a chunk out my radiator and Blacky overheated. I limped my way out of Too Far and coasted down the hill to the main road. I walked home from there.
I don’t remember what ever happened with Blacky but, she was a great car!
Watching the guy on that video from my last post reminded me of the fun I used to have on both two and four wheels.
*****************************************************************************
Wildwood Bridge Nov. 21, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
I Hate Chick Flicks! (A Valentine Message)
Have you ever been in a situation where something was going on in your life that was as great as it could be and you thought to yourself; wouldn’t it be cool if they were making a movie out of this?
Maybe I’m only one of a few that has ever had that thought cross their mind. My wife Sam (Samantha) tells me I’m narcissistic; maybe that explains it. But, needless to say, there have been many episodes in my life that I thought were fun, loving, or interesting enough to be put on film.
The other night I was sitting at my computer killing space aliens or some other bad guys, when I heard this; “wah wah wah wah wah wah” (kinda like Charlie Brown’s teacher in the old ‘Peanuts’ cartoons).
It turned out to be Sam talking to me (which is weird because she usually talks to the dogs in that ‘normal’ voice and I get the OTHER VOICE!!!!). After being smacked up-side the head with the TV remote, I turned my attention to where it should’ve been, Sam.
Sam said, “There’s a movie on the Hallmark channel with Reba McEntire called ‘Forever Love’, hun.”
I turned around and focused on the TV. I needed to watch this because the song 'Forever Love' became ‘our song’ after Sam and I met ten years ago in a ‘Yahoo Chat Room'.
Back then there must’ve been only nineteen or so rooms and it wasn’t too hard to find her again. Over the next several months of chatting together, we fell deeply in love. She was, and is, an amazing woman! I’ve never felt as intense of feelings of love in my life.
Sam lived in Texas and me, in Oregon, so we were more then two thousand miles apart. We would talk on the phone for hours. Our phone bills were ridiculous!
When Reba came out with the song, “Forever Love,” Sam decided it was reminiscent of our relationship; it then became ‘our song’. She once sang it to me over the phone. It was beautiful (Sam is the only reason I know how to spell the word 'beautiful').
I flew down to Texas to finally get together with her. I don’t why I didn’t have a stroke or a heart attack. The excitement was extreme, to say the least.
At the airport in Austin, Sam sat in the lobby not knowing she could go to the concourse to greet me. There was a fat ugly man with a rose that kept eying her. She worried about him and that he was really me and that I had lied to her. She was scared.
I was up at the concourse waiting for her. I went to the bar thinking she might be there having a beer. I thought she was a no-show so I gave up and decided to call my travel agent for a return flight, but I headed out to have a smoke first. There, in the lobby, was Sam. We kissed that first kiss, then left.
We spent a great week together. We spent the first night in a log cabin in Wimberley, near the creek. We drove to the Alamo and visited the River Walk. We spent the week all over the Hill Country of Texas. It was a sad day when I had to return to Oregon.
Sometimes life throws little curve balls, some bigger than others. Shortly after my trip to be with her, Sam was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her world had changed and she tried to push a lot of us out of it. Our relationship ended as we knew it. We kept in moderate touch after that and after a couple of years, God himself smiled on us and gave Sam a clean bill of health and we back to our love affair.
Sam moved up to Oregon on September 13, 2001 and we were married May 4, 2002. We’ve spent many nights dancing and singing to each other in our living room. She is the love of my life.
There was a part in the movie where Reba’s character and her husband were dancing and singing to each other in their living room to ‘our song’. The tears welled up and it’s been on my mind ever since. It was a cut-n-paste straight out of our love and our lives.
Now if y'all 'll excuse me; I'm gonna go watch ‘You’ve Got Mail’. *sniff sniff*
Maybe I’m only one of a few that has ever had that thought cross their mind. My wife Sam (Samantha) tells me I’m narcissistic; maybe that explains it. But, needless to say, there have been many episodes in my life that I thought were fun, loving, or interesting enough to be put on film.
The other night I was sitting at my computer killing space aliens or some other bad guys, when I heard this; “wah wah wah wah wah wah” (kinda like Charlie Brown’s teacher in the old ‘Peanuts’ cartoons).
It turned out to be Sam talking to me (which is weird because she usually talks to the dogs in that ‘normal’ voice and I get the OTHER VOICE!!!!). After being smacked up-side the head with the TV remote, I turned my attention to where it should’ve been, Sam.
Sam said, “There’s a movie on the Hallmark channel with Reba McEntire called ‘Forever Love’, hun.”
I turned around and focused on the TV. I needed to watch this because the song 'Forever Love' became ‘our song’ after Sam and I met ten years ago in a ‘Yahoo Chat Room'.
Back then there must’ve been only nineteen or so rooms and it wasn’t too hard to find her again. Over the next several months of chatting together, we fell deeply in love. She was, and is, an amazing woman! I’ve never felt as intense of feelings of love in my life.
Sam lived in Texas and me, in Oregon, so we were more then two thousand miles apart. We would talk on the phone for hours. Our phone bills were ridiculous!
When Reba came out with the song, “Forever Love,” Sam decided it was reminiscent of our relationship; it then became ‘our song’. She once sang it to me over the phone. It was beautiful (Sam is the only reason I know how to spell the word 'beautiful').
I flew down to Texas to finally get together with her. I don’t why I didn’t have a stroke or a heart attack. The excitement was extreme, to say the least.
At the airport in Austin, Sam sat in the lobby not knowing she could go to the concourse to greet me. There was a fat ugly man with a rose that kept eying her. She worried about him and that he was really me and that I had lied to her. She was scared.
I was up at the concourse waiting for her. I went to the bar thinking she might be there having a beer. I thought she was a no-show so I gave up and decided to call my travel agent for a return flight, but I headed out to have a smoke first. There, in the lobby, was Sam. We kissed that first kiss, then left.
We spent a great week together. We spent the first night in a log cabin in Wimberley, near the creek. We drove to the Alamo and visited the River Walk. We spent the week all over the Hill Country of Texas. It was a sad day when I had to return to Oregon.
Sometimes life throws little curve balls, some bigger than others. Shortly after my trip to be with her, Sam was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her world had changed and she tried to push a lot of us out of it. Our relationship ended as we knew it. We kept in moderate touch after that and after a couple of years, God himself smiled on us and gave Sam a clean bill of health and we back to our love affair.
Sam moved up to Oregon on September 13, 2001 and we were married May 4, 2002. We’ve spent many nights dancing and singing to each other in our living room. She is the love of my life.
There was a part in the movie where Reba’s character and her husband were dancing and singing to each other in their living room to ‘our song’. The tears welled up and it’s been on my mind ever since. It was a cut-n-paste straight out of our love and our lives.
Now if y'all 'll excuse me; I'm gonna go watch ‘You’ve Got Mail’. *sniff sniff*
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
O’er The Falls….In a Barrel!
After being laid-off from my job last year, my wife and I decided to go to Alabama to look for work. Why Alabama? … It’s the South! … My wife, Samantha (Sam) moved up from the south almost five years ago, and would love to go back. She has never adjusted to the Northwest climate. Sam spent nearly 14 years in Texas, after being raised in New York. She has a New York attitude with a strong Texas southern drawl. She is only five feet, four inches tall and weighs only 119 lbs, but with that New York attitude and that Southern accent, she can intimidate a Sumo Wrestler! Living with her for around five years, I have learned what NOT to do, and when NOT to do it….well, at least on some of the major things.
Being a middle aged man, I’ve spent a lot of time in introspection, learning about my quirks, idiosyncrasies, shortcomings, and whatnot. One thing that I know about myself is: if it’s moving, and I’m in it, if it has a steering wheel and a brake pedal, then I have to be in control over it. This road trip was about to bring these control issues to the forefront and give me the opportunity to face one of my fears head on.
Sam and I spent weeks preparing for this trip. I studied the route on Google Maps® for hours. I printed out close-ups of the major intersections along the way, so I was sure this drive would go smoothly. Time was limited, so we decided to buy a canopy for her truck, throw a mattress in the back, and drive in shifts. When the day finally came, we packed our clothes, loaded up a cooler full of food, and another with beer, and then at six o’clock on a Saturday morning, we were on our way to Alabama.
I took the first shift driving because I usually get up early and I wanted to be east of the Cascades before the traffic got heavy. Sam crawled into the back of the truck and snoozed while I drove. Somewhere in the middle of the Columbia River Gorge, the traffic got more than just heavy; it was bumper to bumper at seventy five miles an hour. For the first time in my life, I had a panic attack! Great! ... We’re not even out-of-state, I’m at the wheel, and I’m already scared to death! I pulled off of the interstate at the next exit and found a gas station. While filling up, I told Sam about what I’d just experienced and that she would have to drive for a while, so I could calm down a bit. “Yer just a little tittie baby,” she said teasingly with that ‘cute’ southern drawl.
I’m not one to start drinking that early but with my exceedingly high blood pressure, and heart rate, combined with being in the passenger seat, I had to slam down a few of those beers from the cooler to settle down. Somewhere in Idaho I got tired, then crawled into the back of the truck and went to sleep.
During the transition from deep sleep to consciousness, there is a dream world. It was there, where I was at home, secure, and in my own bed, and then slowly reality took over and I woke up. It was dark, fairly cool, and I didn’t have a clue as to where I was. “It’s yer turn to drive, Baby; I’m ‘tarred,’” Sam said with that ‘Southern’ drawl.
“Where are we?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
“Goin’ that way” she said, in a ‘tarred’ kind of way.
We were about a hundred miles into Wyoming, heading east, when I took over. I planned on being in Nebraska before daylight. The traffic was light, but that was to be expected at three o’clock in the morning. I drove past old towns that I had only heard of in western movies, and old country western songs. This would be cool if it wasn’t dark and I could see them, I thought to myself.
We left the interstate in Lincoln, Nebraska, as planned. Sam had already gotten up at the last stop for gasoline. We were taking the back roads directly east to connect with interstate twenty-nine south. It was there, in Iowa, where I had Sam take over.
It was midday, very hot, and I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep if I had to. I stayed up front and rode with Sam. When Sam drives, she drives “balls-out,” testing the limits of her truck, the road, and my fear of crashing into a planet at thirty-four thousand miles per hour. I glanced over at the speedometer, “Aren’t ya goin’ a bit fast, Hun?” I dared to ask.
“Nine yer fine, ten yer mine,” she replied with an old cliché that I had never heard before.
After miles of dodging in and out of traffic at what seemed to be two-hundred-fifty miles an hour, reminiscent of the police chases seen on the network news channels, Sam looked over to me and yelled, “Knock that off!”
“What?” I replied, thinking, what the hell?
“Holdin’ on t’ that thing like that!” she said with that ‘slightly annoying’ Southern drawl.
I looked up at my hand that was holding the handle on the windshield post. My knuckles were white from tightly gripping it out of shear stress and absolute fear. At the next rest stop, I had a few more beers, from the cooler, to lower my exceedingly high blood pressure and heart rate.
With a road map and the Google Maps® print-outs in hand, I helped navigate us through Kansas City. It was a major city, and not fun to drive through. Little did we know; it was going to get progressively worse. St. Louis was a nightmare. The map of the freeway intersections looked like a bunch of night-crawlers in a tuna can on a fishin’ trip. On paper it looked somewhat straight forward, but on the ground it was far different. I tried to tell Sam where the exits were by the map, but she just grew that much more frustrated and then finally ignored me altogether. I was sure we had taken the wrong exit, but every time I tried to point it out…she …um…lovingly said, “SHUT-UP!”
“Hey! ...get off my ass!” I finally snapped back, feeling a bit cocky; being a man, my navigational skills are highly tuned.
Of course, she turned out to be right and we were on the right road to Nashville after all. I decided that I’d better shut up like she said.
Nashville, Tennessee, was bigger yet. It was a real challenge, so I followed the written directions to the tee and watched the map very closely. For some strange reason, something didn’t feel right. I was convinced that we were not on the right highway and finally convinced Sam to find a convenience store, so I could buy a city map.
It was upwards of midnight on Sunday night, and the area was very dark. It was the bad part of town. The store had bars on the bullet-proof glass windows, and a secure walk-up window, much like a drive-up teller window at a bank. There was a scary looking man outside of the store near the window. He was trying to carry on a conversation with me while I was asking the teller….err…I mean…cashier, for a map. Reluctant to take cash out of my pocket, I went ahead and paid for the map and then hurriedly headed for the truck. Sam, seeing what was happening, brought the truck around, and I quickly got in. We took off like suspects in a bank robbery get-away. It turned out that we were on the right road in the first place, which made Sam none too happy.
As soon as we were out of the Nashville city limits, Sam pulled off of the freeway for gas, coffee, and a bathroom break. Before leaving she said, “Y’all git yer happy ass in the back! You need to git some sleep…NOW!”
Sensing her anger and frustration, I complied. At this point I had been up for more than twenty four hours and was not in very good shape attitude-wise either. She took off like a bullet, and I knew that sleeping was not an option for me.
At the Alabama state line, there stands a rocket. It’s there because Huntsville, Alabama, is known for the U.S. Space and Rocket Center. I thought it was there because we flew into Alabama at rocket-speed and we just happened to catch up with one.
If you’ve ever been to Alabama, then you’d know the condition of their highways and how they drive. ‘Insanity,’ comes to mind as the best description.
Here I was, in the back of our truck without a seatbelt, airbag, or even a windshield post handle to hold onto. An intense feeling of helplessness came over me. We were moving at a rate of what seemed to be at least ninety miles an hour. Sam was passing trucks from left to right. There was road construction in the works and the freeway had one lane that was paved, the other was not, and was full of potholes. There was an abrupt edge in between the lanes. Every time she would change lanes, I would be thrown to the other side of the mattress. My face and hands were smooched up against the front window of the canopy like a Garfield® window ornament, hoping to get her attention. I wouldn’t dare pound on the window out of fear of shocking her at this speed, and the fear of getting my butt kicked. With every mile, my blood pressure and heart rate went up a notch. No amount of beer was going to bring it down this time. I felt as though I was put into a barrel against my will and sent over Niagara Falls. I could feel myself falling and knew the crash at the bottom was only a matter of time. I took all of the blankets and pillows and bunched them up against the front of the pickup bed, curled into a fetal position, and then braced for impact. When Sam finally let off of the gas and decelerated to around Mach II, I thought, maybe I would get to live another day.
We came to a stop in the parking lot of a truck-stop. While I was climbing out of the back, Sam was already outside of the truck. “Bluh bluh bluh bluh…bluh….bluh,” she mumbled, then crawled into the back of the truck and then went right to sleep.
I stood there in stunned amazement thinking, was I in the back of the truck at ninety miles an hour, with her asleep at the wheel? After several moments, I regained my composure, and then waddled into the truck-stop. After a hot cup of coffee and a change of breeches, I was ready to take on the last leg of our journey.
We arrived in Huntsville at four o’clock early Monday morning. I found a motel with vacancies and went to the counter to get a room. “Y’all want smokin’ or non-smokin’?” the man asked.
Grrrr….that’s right! … Everyone talks ‘like that’ down here!
Sam and I spent a little more than a week in and around Huntsville. We looked for work and a possible place to live. We met some terrific people and had a great time. We drove several miles together without even crashing! I may have even been able to resolve some of my control issues, but -- you can stand anywhere in Huntsville, Alabama, and throw a rock. Chances are you would hit a rocket scientist or some sort of pointy-headed engineer with it. My question is: -- Why can’t they design a simple transportation system that doesn’t cause my blood pressure and heart rate to ‘skyrocket?’
Having not found what we were looking for in Alabama, we turned back and made it home safely. I may have not been cured of my control issues, but I learned a few things about what NOT to do along the way: when Sam is driving, do NOT touch the windshield post handle for any reason. Do NOT look at the speedometer under any circumstances. Do NOT ride in the back where there is no seatbelt or airbag, and, for God’s sake, y’all, keep yer mouth shut!
Being a middle aged man, I’ve spent a lot of time in introspection, learning about my quirks, idiosyncrasies, shortcomings, and whatnot. One thing that I know about myself is: if it’s moving, and I’m in it, if it has a steering wheel and a brake pedal, then I have to be in control over it. This road trip was about to bring these control issues to the forefront and give me the opportunity to face one of my fears head on.
Sam and I spent weeks preparing for this trip. I studied the route on Google Maps® for hours. I printed out close-ups of the major intersections along the way, so I was sure this drive would go smoothly. Time was limited, so we decided to buy a canopy for her truck, throw a mattress in the back, and drive in shifts. When the day finally came, we packed our clothes, loaded up a cooler full of food, and another with beer, and then at six o’clock on a Saturday morning, we were on our way to Alabama.
I took the first shift driving because I usually get up early and I wanted to be east of the Cascades before the traffic got heavy. Sam crawled into the back of the truck and snoozed while I drove. Somewhere in the middle of the Columbia River Gorge, the traffic got more than just heavy; it was bumper to bumper at seventy five miles an hour. For the first time in my life, I had a panic attack! Great! ... We’re not even out-of-state, I’m at the wheel, and I’m already scared to death! I pulled off of the interstate at the next exit and found a gas station. While filling up, I told Sam about what I’d just experienced and that she would have to drive for a while, so I could calm down a bit. “Yer just a little tittie baby,” she said teasingly with that ‘cute’ southern drawl.
I’m not one to start drinking that early but with my exceedingly high blood pressure, and heart rate, combined with being in the passenger seat, I had to slam down a few of those beers from the cooler to settle down. Somewhere in Idaho I got tired, then crawled into the back of the truck and went to sleep.
During the transition from deep sleep to consciousness, there is a dream world. It was there, where I was at home, secure, and in my own bed, and then slowly reality took over and I woke up. It was dark, fairly cool, and I didn’t have a clue as to where I was. “It’s yer turn to drive, Baby; I’m ‘tarred,’” Sam said with that ‘Southern’ drawl.
“Where are we?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
“Goin’ that way” she said, in a ‘tarred’ kind of way.
We were about a hundred miles into Wyoming, heading east, when I took over. I planned on being in Nebraska before daylight. The traffic was light, but that was to be expected at three o’clock in the morning. I drove past old towns that I had only heard of in western movies, and old country western songs. This would be cool if it wasn’t dark and I could see them, I thought to myself.
We left the interstate in Lincoln, Nebraska, as planned. Sam had already gotten up at the last stop for gasoline. We were taking the back roads directly east to connect with interstate twenty-nine south. It was there, in Iowa, where I had Sam take over.
It was midday, very hot, and I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep if I had to. I stayed up front and rode with Sam. When Sam drives, she drives “balls-out,” testing the limits of her truck, the road, and my fear of crashing into a planet at thirty-four thousand miles per hour. I glanced over at the speedometer, “Aren’t ya goin’ a bit fast, Hun?” I dared to ask.
“Nine yer fine, ten yer mine,” she replied with an old cliché that I had never heard before.
After miles of dodging in and out of traffic at what seemed to be two-hundred-fifty miles an hour, reminiscent of the police chases seen on the network news channels, Sam looked over to me and yelled, “Knock that off!”
“What?” I replied, thinking, what the hell?
“Holdin’ on t’ that thing like that!” she said with that ‘slightly annoying’ Southern drawl.
I looked up at my hand that was holding the handle on the windshield post. My knuckles were white from tightly gripping it out of shear stress and absolute fear. At the next rest stop, I had a few more beers, from the cooler, to lower my exceedingly high blood pressure and heart rate.
With a road map and the Google Maps® print-outs in hand, I helped navigate us through Kansas City. It was a major city, and not fun to drive through. Little did we know; it was going to get progressively worse. St. Louis was a nightmare. The map of the freeway intersections looked like a bunch of night-crawlers in a tuna can on a fishin’ trip. On paper it looked somewhat straight forward, but on the ground it was far different. I tried to tell Sam where the exits were by the map, but she just grew that much more frustrated and then finally ignored me altogether. I was sure we had taken the wrong exit, but every time I tried to point it out…she …um…lovingly said, “SHUT-UP!”
“Hey! ...get off my ass!” I finally snapped back, feeling a bit cocky; being a man, my navigational skills are highly tuned.
Of course, she turned out to be right and we were on the right road to Nashville after all. I decided that I’d better shut up like she said.
Nashville, Tennessee, was bigger yet. It was a real challenge, so I followed the written directions to the tee and watched the map very closely. For some strange reason, something didn’t feel right. I was convinced that we were not on the right highway and finally convinced Sam to find a convenience store, so I could buy a city map.
It was upwards of midnight on Sunday night, and the area was very dark. It was the bad part of town. The store had bars on the bullet-proof glass windows, and a secure walk-up window, much like a drive-up teller window at a bank. There was a scary looking man outside of the store near the window. He was trying to carry on a conversation with me while I was asking the teller….err…I mean…cashier, for a map. Reluctant to take cash out of my pocket, I went ahead and paid for the map and then hurriedly headed for the truck. Sam, seeing what was happening, brought the truck around, and I quickly got in. We took off like suspects in a bank robbery get-away. It turned out that we were on the right road in the first place, which made Sam none too happy.
As soon as we were out of the Nashville city limits, Sam pulled off of the freeway for gas, coffee, and a bathroom break. Before leaving she said, “Y’all git yer happy ass in the back! You need to git some sleep…NOW!”
Sensing her anger and frustration, I complied. At this point I had been up for more than twenty four hours and was not in very good shape attitude-wise either. She took off like a bullet, and I knew that sleeping was not an option for me.
At the Alabama state line, there stands a rocket. It’s there because Huntsville, Alabama, is known for the U.S. Space and Rocket Center. I thought it was there because we flew into Alabama at rocket-speed and we just happened to catch up with one.
If you’ve ever been to Alabama, then you’d know the condition of their highways and how they drive. ‘Insanity,’ comes to mind as the best description.
Here I was, in the back of our truck without a seatbelt, airbag, or even a windshield post handle to hold onto. An intense feeling of helplessness came over me. We were moving at a rate of what seemed to be at least ninety miles an hour. Sam was passing trucks from left to right. There was road construction in the works and the freeway had one lane that was paved, the other was not, and was full of potholes. There was an abrupt edge in between the lanes. Every time she would change lanes, I would be thrown to the other side of the mattress. My face and hands were smooched up against the front window of the canopy like a Garfield® window ornament, hoping to get her attention. I wouldn’t dare pound on the window out of fear of shocking her at this speed, and the fear of getting my butt kicked. With every mile, my blood pressure and heart rate went up a notch. No amount of beer was going to bring it down this time. I felt as though I was put into a barrel against my will and sent over Niagara Falls. I could feel myself falling and knew the crash at the bottom was only a matter of time. I took all of the blankets and pillows and bunched them up against the front of the pickup bed, curled into a fetal position, and then braced for impact. When Sam finally let off of the gas and decelerated to around Mach II, I thought, maybe I would get to live another day.
We came to a stop in the parking lot of a truck-stop. While I was climbing out of the back, Sam was already outside of the truck. “Bluh bluh bluh bluh…bluh….bluh,” she mumbled, then crawled into the back of the truck and then went right to sleep.
I stood there in stunned amazement thinking, was I in the back of the truck at ninety miles an hour, with her asleep at the wheel? After several moments, I regained my composure, and then waddled into the truck-stop. After a hot cup of coffee and a change of breeches, I was ready to take on the last leg of our journey.
We arrived in Huntsville at four o’clock early Monday morning. I found a motel with vacancies and went to the counter to get a room. “Y’all want smokin’ or non-smokin’?” the man asked.
Grrrr….that’s right! … Everyone talks ‘like that’ down here!
Sam and I spent a little more than a week in and around Huntsville. We looked for work and a possible place to live. We met some terrific people and had a great time. We drove several miles together without even crashing! I may have even been able to resolve some of my control issues, but -- you can stand anywhere in Huntsville, Alabama, and throw a rock. Chances are you would hit a rocket scientist or some sort of pointy-headed engineer with it. My question is: -- Why can’t they design a simple transportation system that doesn’t cause my blood pressure and heart rate to ‘skyrocket?’
Having not found what we were looking for in Alabama, we turned back and made it home safely. I may have not been cured of my control issues, but I learned a few things about what NOT to do along the way: when Sam is driving, do NOT touch the windshield post handle for any reason. Do NOT look at the speedometer under any circumstances. Do NOT ride in the back where there is no seatbelt or airbag, and, for God’s sake, y’all, keep yer mouth shut!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Ode to an old Time Poet
It’s been years since my father passed on. It was only since my English composition class, in the spring term of 2006 that I’d even considered the wonderfully descriptive poetry that he had written over the years. It was almost overwhelming how many of the words, the lyrics, the poetry, had come to the forefront of my consciousness in the few weeks that followed my first assignments.
My dad’s poetry was very rhythmic, and one poem in particular seemed to haunt me. It was my favorite poem that my dad had written. He wrote it shortly after he found his father (my grandpa) peacefully laying at rest in his bed. My father’s poem “A Son’s Farewell to an Old Time Logger” has beautiful voice, meter, and rhyme, but also needs to be put into an historical perspective.
It was the early 1960’s when my grandfather died. He followed my grandma by only a short period of time. He was a healthy man with a skip in his step right up until the day he died. My family had always assumed that he died of a broken heart. He loved my grandmother dearly.
Grandpa was a very large man of the time. He was over six feet tall and towered over all of the other men; to me he was a grey-headed “Paul Bunyan.” I was only a child at the time and my recollection of him is vague at best. I remember an older neighbor telling me that when he was a kid, he’d seen my grandpa with lanterns in hand, hiking the railroad tracks, in the wee hours of the morning, whistling, while on his way to work.
I later learned that grandpa had bought a cabin built on old “donkey” sled for six dollars (two large logs that the donkey was mounted to), but stayed at home with grandma because she didn’t want to be alone.
It was at least five miles from grandpa’s place to “Camp Walker” where he worked as a logger. He and his partner would take their “misery whip” (cross-cut saw) and they would “fell and buck” (cut into logs) trees all day long.
Logging in the early days of the twentieth century was a far cry from the modern methods of today. Some of the processes are the same, but the rigging and the lingo has changed over the years.
In those days, steam engines powered our economy. Trains, rivers, and flumes were the only practical way of transporting the logs to the saw mill (as a child, my father severely broke his arm while playing around a log flume).
The railroad companies would build “spurs” off of the main track to allow the timber companies to transport their logs to mills. The train engines were a gear driven type of steam locomotive that were called, “shays.” After the area was logged, the spurs would then be taken up and moved to the next location. The trestles (bridges) would be removed of the ties and then the creosote-soaked pilings, struts, and beams were just left behind.
The process of bringing the timber from where they were cut into logs, to the site (landing) where they were loaded onto the “logging cars,” was similar to what they call “high lead” logging, today. Rather than a huge steel tower attached to a large machine operating several cable drums, referred to as the “yarder;” the yarders of yesteryear consisted of a “rigged spar tree” and a steam powered “donkey.”
The donkey was the early concept of today’s yarder, and its operation was basically the same. There were three cable drums: “main-line,” “haul-back,” and “hay-wire.” The main-line was the largest cable of the three and was used to pull the logs to the landing. The purpose of the haul-back was to pull the main-line to the logs. The hay-wire was multi-purposed, and in relation the other lines; it pulled the haul-back line through the “corner” and “tail” blocks (pulleys), that allowed the haul-back to pull the main-line away from the donkey and to the logs. The hay-wire would also be used to assist in rigging the spar tree.
When the landing was established and the railroad spur finished, the donkey would be brought in and secured to the ground. The spar tree would be selected by strategic location and strength. The “hook tender” would don his climbing gear and begin the task of preparing the tree. With spikes strapped to the instep of his corked boots, a harness, strap, spools of hay-wire, smaller blocks, an axe and a small crosscut saw, the hook tender would ascend the tree “bumping knots” on his way up (chopping off the limbs). Near the top, the tree would then be cut off and then it was ready to rig.
As mentioned earlier, the hay-wire was multi-purposed. It was designed to be used for lay-out and do any task too heavy for the crew to do.
The “bull-block’ was a very large pulley (sometimes weighing as much as two tons). The bull-block was the pulley that the main-line ran through. After the main-line was threaded over the sheave of the bull-block, the hay-wire would be used to hoist the bull-block into place at the top of the spar tree. Guy wires were secured at the top to hold the spar tree steady. Below the bull-block they would place a block for the haul-back line. Then more guy lines were placed at the middle of the spar (buckle guys) to further stabilize the tree. They were almost ready for logging at this point.
At the end of the main-line they connected the “butt riggin’.” The butt riggin was a term for the large “bead-like” swivels that were used to connect the chokers (cables that were wrapped around the logs). They sometimes referred to them as “jewelry,” resembling a very large necklace.
Once the hay-wire pulled the haul-back through the corner block, then tail block, it would then be connected to the butt riggin’. As soon as the communication link was established, they were ready to log.
As with all steam engines, the boiler pressure needed to be watched closely. If the pressure was too high, it needed to be released. With steam locomotives, the pressure was released via a whistle. The whistle on a locomotive signaled warnings at crossings, among other things such as pressure relief; the whistle on a donkey was used for pressure relief, also, but most importantly, operational directions.
A wire would be strung from the whistle lever to a tree or a stump. The man that was responsible for the communications between the yarder engineer and the men “down in the hole” (choker setters and the “riggin’ slinger”) was the “whistle punk.”
The riggin’ slinger was the lead man “in the hole” (hooking logs). He would use hand gestures and signals to the whistle punk. And the whistle punk would toot the steam whistle in a specified series of toots that told the yarder engineer what to do.
• Four quick toots: Slack the main-line
• Three toots: Ahead on the main-line*
• Three toots followed by three more: Ahead on the main-line (but --slowly)
• Two toots: “skin ‘er back” (pull on the haul-back, bring back the main line)
• Two toots followed by two more: same as above but --slowly
• Two toots followed by three: Standin’ tight line (pick the butt riggin’ straight up)
• Three toots followed by two: Runnin’ tight line (pull and lift, pick em up over the stumps and go!)
• One toot: STOP! (the most important whistle blast of all)
• A seemingly long series of whistle blasts: MAN DOWN!!!
• Log- stilled: release the pressure, shut it down and go home.
As advanced as our communications systems are; most of these signals are still being used in “High Lead” logging operations today.
A very dear cousin of mine once told me, “When you get fir needles in your blood, they never go away.” There is a great deal of tradition and pride in the hearts of loggers.
After being tucked away in a drawer for many years, the voice of my father can once again be heard in this heartfelt goodbye poem to his father, my grandpa.
******************************************
‘A Son’s Farewell to an Old Time Logger’
--Bus Dickason--
That heart so warm, so strong, so true,
No longer throbs within your chest
But I’ll have memories of you
‘til my soul too has gone to rest.
Of how through miles of wilderness,
My arm supported in a sling,
you bore me with such gentleness
Your fledgling bird with broken wing.
Though pain and panic at the start,
Brought forth my frightened childish tears
While nestled near that stalwart heart
Of death itself I had no fears.
I hold your cold and lifeless hand,
Once firm and warm, now thin and pale.
In memory once more we stand
Along a faint, familiar trail.
The barren hillsides lived anew,
We viewed the green and silent wood
And saw how tall the saplings grew
Where once the steaming yarder stood.
A rusted Bull-block lying near
Where rambling, thorny briars entwine
Its sheave which had in yesteryear
Whirled freely with the singing line.
Among the ferns and moss I found
Oil bottles each with rotted thong
Where once you worked and heard no sound
Except your shining crosscut’s song
Bright soots of yellow hillside clay
Outlined the path of roadbed scars
Where once the broad-stacked smoking shay
Had shuttled strings of logging cars.
It seemed as though you heard again
That long-stilled donkey’s whistle blast
I realized this must have been
Your farewell to an era past.
Such phases measure life of man
One segment finished, one begun,
We crossed the tie-less trestle span
Toward the setting Autumn sun,
I stretched my step to match your stride
Mere words my joy could not define
My young heart swelled with love and pride
The greatest dad on Earth was mine.
I clasp your shoulder once again
In life so broad, so firm, so brave
I grasp it gently now as then
That dreary day at Mother’s grave.
I sought to comfort if I could
To let you know I shared your cross
As we with other mourners stood
To face our greatest tragic loss
So valiantly you fought to hide
The grief, the pain, the anguished tears
For fate had claimed from you the bride
You’d loved those many, many years
You struggled as the strongest tries
A shattered spirit to control
And yet your tired tear-flooded eyes
Revealed a bleak, heartbroken soul
I touch your silent waxen brow
Brush back a tousled snow white lock
No other sound around us now
Save muffled ticking of a clock
With heart still full of love and pride
So grateful for the paths we’ve trod
Reluctantly I leave your side
Goodbye, dear one, rest well with God
My dad’s poetry was very rhythmic, and one poem in particular seemed to haunt me. It was my favorite poem that my dad had written. He wrote it shortly after he found his father (my grandpa) peacefully laying at rest in his bed. My father’s poem “A Son’s Farewell to an Old Time Logger” has beautiful voice, meter, and rhyme, but also needs to be put into an historical perspective.
It was the early 1960’s when my grandfather died. He followed my grandma by only a short period of time. He was a healthy man with a skip in his step right up until the day he died. My family had always assumed that he died of a broken heart. He loved my grandmother dearly.
Grandpa was a very large man of the time. He was over six feet tall and towered over all of the other men; to me he was a grey-headed “Paul Bunyan.” I was only a child at the time and my recollection of him is vague at best. I remember an older neighbor telling me that when he was a kid, he’d seen my grandpa with lanterns in hand, hiking the railroad tracks, in the wee hours of the morning, whistling, while on his way to work.
I later learned that grandpa had bought a cabin built on old “donkey” sled for six dollars (two large logs that the donkey was mounted to), but stayed at home with grandma because she didn’t want to be alone.
It was at least five miles from grandpa’s place to “Camp Walker” where he worked as a logger. He and his partner would take their “misery whip” (cross-cut saw) and they would “fell and buck” (cut into logs) trees all day long.
Logging in the early days of the twentieth century was a far cry from the modern methods of today. Some of the processes are the same, but the rigging and the lingo has changed over the years.
In those days, steam engines powered our economy. Trains, rivers, and flumes were the only practical way of transporting the logs to the saw mill (as a child, my father severely broke his arm while playing around a log flume).
The railroad companies would build “spurs” off of the main track to allow the timber companies to transport their logs to mills. The train engines were a gear driven type of steam locomotive that were called, “shays.” After the area was logged, the spurs would then be taken up and moved to the next location. The trestles (bridges) would be removed of the ties and then the creosote-soaked pilings, struts, and beams were just left behind.
The process of bringing the timber from where they were cut into logs, to the site (landing) where they were loaded onto the “logging cars,” was similar to what they call “high lead” logging, today. Rather than a huge steel tower attached to a large machine operating several cable drums, referred to as the “yarder;” the yarders of yesteryear consisted of a “rigged spar tree” and a steam powered “donkey.”
The donkey was the early concept of today’s yarder, and its operation was basically the same. There were three cable drums: “main-line,” “haul-back,” and “hay-wire.” The main-line was the largest cable of the three and was used to pull the logs to the landing. The purpose of the haul-back was to pull the main-line to the logs. The hay-wire was multi-purposed, and in relation the other lines; it pulled the haul-back line through the “corner” and “tail” blocks (pulleys), that allowed the haul-back to pull the main-line away from the donkey and to the logs. The hay-wire would also be used to assist in rigging the spar tree.
When the landing was established and the railroad spur finished, the donkey would be brought in and secured to the ground. The spar tree would be selected by strategic location and strength. The “hook tender” would don his climbing gear and begin the task of preparing the tree. With spikes strapped to the instep of his corked boots, a harness, strap, spools of hay-wire, smaller blocks, an axe and a small crosscut saw, the hook tender would ascend the tree “bumping knots” on his way up (chopping off the limbs). Near the top, the tree would then be cut off and then it was ready to rig.
As mentioned earlier, the hay-wire was multi-purposed. It was designed to be used for lay-out and do any task too heavy for the crew to do.
The “bull-block’ was a very large pulley (sometimes weighing as much as two tons). The bull-block was the pulley that the main-line ran through. After the main-line was threaded over the sheave of the bull-block, the hay-wire would be used to hoist the bull-block into place at the top of the spar tree. Guy wires were secured at the top to hold the spar tree steady. Below the bull-block they would place a block for the haul-back line. Then more guy lines were placed at the middle of the spar (buckle guys) to further stabilize the tree. They were almost ready for logging at this point.
At the end of the main-line they connected the “butt riggin’.” The butt riggin was a term for the large “bead-like” swivels that were used to connect the chokers (cables that were wrapped around the logs). They sometimes referred to them as “jewelry,” resembling a very large necklace.
Once the hay-wire pulled the haul-back through the corner block, then tail block, it would then be connected to the butt riggin’. As soon as the communication link was established, they were ready to log.
As with all steam engines, the boiler pressure needed to be watched closely. If the pressure was too high, it needed to be released. With steam locomotives, the pressure was released via a whistle. The whistle on a locomotive signaled warnings at crossings, among other things such as pressure relief; the whistle on a donkey was used for pressure relief, also, but most importantly, operational directions.
A wire would be strung from the whistle lever to a tree or a stump. The man that was responsible for the communications between the yarder engineer and the men “down in the hole” (choker setters and the “riggin’ slinger”) was the “whistle punk.”
The riggin’ slinger was the lead man “in the hole” (hooking logs). He would use hand gestures and signals to the whistle punk. And the whistle punk would toot the steam whistle in a specified series of toots that told the yarder engineer what to do.
• Four quick toots: Slack the main-line
• Three toots: Ahead on the main-line*
• Three toots followed by three more: Ahead on the main-line (but --slowly)
• Two toots: “skin ‘er back” (pull on the haul-back, bring back the main line)
• Two toots followed by two more: same as above but --slowly
• Two toots followed by three: Standin’ tight line (pick the butt riggin’ straight up)
• Three toots followed by two: Runnin’ tight line (pull and lift, pick em up over the stumps and go!)
• One toot: STOP! (the most important whistle blast of all)
• A seemingly long series of whistle blasts: MAN DOWN!!!
• Log- stilled: release the pressure, shut it down and go home.
As advanced as our communications systems are; most of these signals are still being used in “High Lead” logging operations today.
A very dear cousin of mine once told me, “When you get fir needles in your blood, they never go away.” There is a great deal of tradition and pride in the hearts of loggers.
After being tucked away in a drawer for many years, the voice of my father can once again be heard in this heartfelt goodbye poem to his father, my grandpa.
******************************************
‘A Son’s Farewell to an Old Time Logger’
--Bus Dickason--
That heart so warm, so strong, so true,
No longer throbs within your chest
But I’ll have memories of you
‘til my soul too has gone to rest.
Of how through miles of wilderness,
My arm supported in a sling,
you bore me with such gentleness
Your fledgling bird with broken wing.
Though pain and panic at the start,
Brought forth my frightened childish tears
While nestled near that stalwart heart
Of death itself I had no fears.
I hold your cold and lifeless hand,
Once firm and warm, now thin and pale.
In memory once more we stand
Along a faint, familiar trail.
The barren hillsides lived anew,
We viewed the green and silent wood
And saw how tall the saplings grew
Where once the steaming yarder stood.
A rusted Bull-block lying near
Where rambling, thorny briars entwine
Its sheave which had in yesteryear
Whirled freely with the singing line.
Among the ferns and moss I found
Oil bottles each with rotted thong
Where once you worked and heard no sound
Except your shining crosscut’s song
Bright soots of yellow hillside clay
Outlined the path of roadbed scars
Where once the broad-stacked smoking shay
Had shuttled strings of logging cars.
It seemed as though you heard again
That long-stilled donkey’s whistle blast
I realized this must have been
Your farewell to an era past.
Such phases measure life of man
One segment finished, one begun,
We crossed the tie-less trestle span
Toward the setting Autumn sun,
I stretched my step to match your stride
Mere words my joy could not define
My young heart swelled with love and pride
The greatest dad on Earth was mine.
I clasp your shoulder once again
In life so broad, so firm, so brave
I grasp it gently now as then
That dreary day at Mother’s grave.
I sought to comfort if I could
To let you know I shared your cross
As we with other mourners stood
To face our greatest tragic loss
So valiantly you fought to hide
The grief, the pain, the anguished tears
For fate had claimed from you the bride
You’d loved those many, many years
You struggled as the strongest tries
A shattered spirit to control
And yet your tired tear-flooded eyes
Revealed a bleak, heartbroken soul
I touch your silent waxen brow
Brush back a tousled snow white lock
No other sound around us now
Save muffled ticking of a clock
With heart still full of love and pride
So grateful for the paths we’ve trod
Reluctantly I leave your side
Goodbye, dear one, rest well with God
Monday, December 10, 2007
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