First Christmas in Peoh point

Nancy or Cynthia asked about the first Christmases when I was a child---was I ever a child? Gee---I don't know if I was ever a child---but I guess that means when I was an urchin, a member of the Mohar family living on a farm in a community called Peoh Point.
Well--ummm---.We were told that if we were good we wouldn't get a piece of coal in the sock---.and if you got a piece of coal you might have been a bad boy--so the sock would also be empty--not even an orange or some hard candy, So it was a motive to be nice at all times because Santa Claus was real-- it wasn't a fake if both parents insisted that he'd come if you were good.
It's been a long time ago for me but I do recall one or two Christmases as a child.
One morning when it was very near zero outside and there was about a foot of new snow, we were told that Santa Claus came but since we didn't have a fireplace chimney, he had to have sneaked in the house some other way--it was all so mysterious, My mother said, "Look--look"! and she went to a window and scraped away the frost---, "There --there --look---there's sleigh tracks in front of the house where Santa's sled must have landed then took off to the next farm home. Sure en ough there were imprints in the snow and plenty of evidence that Santa didn't miss us like he missed so many other times as we were growing up.
We all got a new pair of socks and in the socks was some hard candy and a walnut or two and and orange. Oranges were so very scarce to us. The candy was shaped in some cases like a piece of coal and each time you reached in the sock for another piece of candy , you were worried that this time it would be a piece of coal. But in all the sins I committed as a child, I guess they weren't bad enough to earn a piece of coal---surely if I did get a piece of coal I would have been ridiculed by my other saintly brothers and sisters--that would be the worst part.
In this Christmas Morning, there was a stranger among us--- but it was hardly Santa, but dressed in what looked like an old silk sock pulled over the head and speaking very different language--, This Santa's not look alike, said he was a Santa helper, and asked spefically for my sister Ann--to come forward and look into the sack. We were all aghast ---( I have to say I became skeptical) . So Ann who was just a maybe three years old , went forth and looked into the sack. With more urging to investigate further, she reached into the sack. The package was stuck a bit, so she began to yank --then got help from a familiar looking hand. Ah Ah, here's proof I thought about the myth of Santa.That wasn't Santa's Hand!!
The package was just wrapped in ordinary paper--not a ribbon or with any color. Soo, with the package destroyed, there in was an almost life sized doll with rolling eyes and a voice which cried "MAMMA"-if you tipped the doll forward and backward. Sure enough, Ann knew there was a Santa. The doll represented a mother's love on a special day. It took quite a bit of the family money to get this doll.
So that was one of the Christmas days I remember at our home on the prairie---( not a prairie really--but in the mountains).
Later as we all became older , we exchanged presents of some sort. The best present of all was the food my mother made which was always a long day and night's labor to concoct.
WE always would have butchered a pig when the weather got cold. My mother would save the pigs feet and ears for this special day. She would clean and clean the feet. I remember the gross performance especially when she would be able to take the toes off with a quick flip of a sharp knife. The boiling water helped loosen the toes---I mean the hoofs---which were inedible at all--never. Then she would separate the knuckles and boiled all this for hours in a big pot.She would add seasoning which was moslty Garlic and onions and salt. IN the mean time she would be kneading and kneading--making big round Pizza like dough. Then she would make it into a roll about the size of a big cigar---much bigger--. Then she would cut them into marsh mallow size pieces and place them in a pan. There would be a dozen or more pans --maybe even more--lots and lots. The work never ceased. Then into the oven to bake these bread bicuits the size of a Marshmallow. . Her work bench was the Kitchen table and by now crowded with stuff.
The odor of the pigs feed cooking and the garlicky aroma filled the whole house with a festive air. It had be a fun day coming to warrant this much work.
The next chore which some of us volunteered to help was to break up the marsh mallow sized biscuits into a great big kettle--a pot--a big pot. The pot would be over flowing. IN another area Ma would have the meat grinder fastened to the table, She would be busy grinding poppyseed--these were very tiny seeds which when crushed and ground would produce an oily tasty substance. When the seeds were all processed she would add that to the pile of little pieces of bread--then spread with sugar and raisins and I can't think of anything else--then she would have a kettle of boiling water to pour over all the bread pieces and other stuff, mixing it all up with a wooden spoon till now it was about half size in the pot. It was turning out to be a poppy seed pudding which was a traditional food back in Slovakia where her family originated. A lid was placed on top to seal the aromas and to allow it to steep till next morning,
That done, she then would place on the table and everywhere any kind of dish we had into which she ladled the Pig's feet concoction--there is a name I may not be able to print for that --it is a Slovakian word--"Joolitza"---the 'j' has to be sounded like 'zhoolitsta'. It is a pigs' foot gelatin. NOW before you urp, you must know that the Jello you buy is made from this same stuff--and you like it don't you? but I know it all has to taste like candy, doesn't it?
Now with all this work done, every one was 'fasting' because of religious reasons. My mother told us too that on the very stroke of midnight, if you went out into the barn the cattle will all be talking to each other---yes that's true--I mean it was true that my Mother said it was true. She had a lot of Gypsy folklore to tell and some of it would scare the gypsies I think.
So, we would all be going to bed. Now in the mean time, Daddy would hardly be doing a thing--Ma said he was too clumbsy in the Kitchen--so he would be playing his accordion and we would be hopping around doing the polkas as Ma cooked this great big bunch of stuff.
Okay--it was late --really late and we would go to sleep in the icy cold upstairs. WE were really short of good warm blankets so we spread old coats over us to help us from freezing stiff.
Morning came. I don't remember any prayers except my Mother would make the sign of the cross on the loaf of bread cooked that same work day. She would NEVER allow anyone to 'poke' a blade into a loaf of bread. It was the same as poking the blade into Jesus side--so even today I would never stick a knife blade into a loaf of bread. I can feel how it must have felt for Jesus.
Everyone would be at the table and he would have selected a plate of "ZHoolitsa"--with a slice of fresh bread---now is the time to add pepper and salt . The Zhoolitsa was cold now, The fat would be on top and even though it is said to be unhealthy to eat fat, we did.It was food not fat--food. And tasty too with the garlic and onion flavor. Now in this island of gelatin, there was a morsel which also was very tasty--part of the knuckles. Now before you gag, you might also have bought a jar of "Pickled pigs feet" and savored them--like I do. Well--see?
After the Zhoolitsa was done, the real treat came when Ma would bring the now cold Poppyseed pudding to the table. We were allowed to eat all we wanted and we did. The raisins now were so good. We also were allowed to douse this dish with real cold cream--which was thickened by the cold weather.
We had this traditional dish for every winter I lived --for New Years too--. One other thing, on New years eve right at the stroke of Midnight, Daddy would take the old 40-60 winchester to the door and shoot one round off toward the mountain--"for good luck sake", he said.
As I said, we had this traditional food until we got a new member in the family who was an anglo for sure--who only ate meat and potatoes--. Once when Ma presented him with a bowl of this Poppyseed pudding , he ended the whole tradition with ridicule. So Ma just quit making this type foods and I miss it at every Chrismas and New Years days . I should try to make for myself a traditional meal. I wonder if the other ethnics up in Roslyn and Cle Elum still have this dish. I do know every body enjoys another traditional dish and that is "Pig in a blanket".

Nancy's birthday Nov. 10th

Like snoopy would say, "It was a cold and stormy night" ---not really, though when it was "time" for Nancy's arrival. The stork was winging toward our house and the alarm was to go "NOW!"--so as always there is a worry about having to perform the job myself in the car, we headed out down that same bumpy back road and through the neighbors front yard--this was a short cut however it almost could be used as an Army tank trap or course for training.
We drove by the place where we named Cynthia and on to the hospital in sunnyside. You know, things sorta went blank for me--I recall waiting forthe news in the waiting room. Then the doctor appeared and he made a thumbs up signal but it didn't register that Nancy was a girl--we didn't and couldn't choose.
When I saw Nancy in the crib in the birthing room --through the glass, I could hardly believe that Mickey could carry such a load in her stomach all that time--but only mothers know about that.
Naming Nancy was done with out my input. It came down to the wire when the nurse asked for the name and Mom had to come up with a name quick. I am in total agreement with Mom and the selection--sometimes I kinda abused her name by calling her "Nancykadancy".
Then MOm was released after a period of time making sure all was normal and well. MOm came out with the baby and we got into the car. Mom peeled back the baby blanket and I looked at Nancy, She looked kinda crumpled up and her head was sorta squeezed somehow in the birthing canal. I thought--oooh maybe we have a problem. I told Mom, "I think we'll be keeping this one a long time".
Of course Babies are just that--babies and they have to grow. In a few days things began to change and she resembled me quite a bit. I always worried about that--I wanted my kids to be as beautiful as their mother--.So far that was the normal trend--the others were quite pretty--ask me I know how to pick 'em.Four for four was the score. How about that?
That date was almost on my birthday--. On November 10th. Gee the years have gone by so fast I can't tell you her age--maybe it's just as well.

Gopher poison worries

I need to tell about some of the dangers of using poison underground to kill gophers.
In the spring time it was our practice to culivate the fields of alfalfa which envigorated the alfalfa growth it seemed and also killed the first weed which sprouted. For lots of reasons better left alon at this time.
I would use what we called "Spring toothed Harrow. It would sink into the ground a few insches or more and the spring action would loosen the soil and dig out the first sprouted weeds and seeds. Also it would level the gpoher hills down so it was easier and better for mowing.
The sprig tines would sink deep enough to uncover dead gopher bodies which now are shriveled and dried out. The bodies were killed by the pooson and in all cases the gopher had a pouch fup of the BB sized poisoned millet. The millet was treated so that it wouldn't sprout I think.
One morning when I was busy cultivting my little dog name Taffy was out following the tractor. She usually rode the tractor with me and we were inseperable. When I saw a mouse running, I'd point at it and she would jump off and catch the mouse.
This morning was different. When she was following the tractor I noticed that she was walking erratically--really strange. I jumped to the right conclusion--that she was really chewing on a dead gopher and ingested some of the millet poison. I stopped the tractor and picked her up and she went into a convulsion right in my arms--she was a total charlie horse--stiff. I put the tractor in high gear and when I ran into the hous ei yelled to call the VET quick. He said, "Bring her down we'll put her to sleep" --Holy cow --I was losing a very fvorite pet. I rushed down to the vet who was waiting and I though that it was the end. He did put her to sleep because strychnine causes such conviulsions and causes the heart beat to go wild. It was in the nick of time. He gave her a shot in the leg and she went limp--out like a light. I still though that my dog was dead. The Vet told me to go homw and come back in the morning. I did just tha. I was greeted by the gog which was almost normal but when I touched her it was like an electric shock. The Vet aid, "Don;t do that or I'll keep her another night". I wondered why, and he told me what the effects of stychnine was. She would still be touchy for days. And she was.
There was anothe time like this. but I'll save it for another paragraph.

Cynthia was scared of air planes

While I am thinking about Cynthia , it brings to mind the time I flew over the house.Wait till I explain a little.
The AIRCRAFT APPLICATORS and I had a little dispute over the size of the acreage he just sprayed.They charged by the acre --and zoom there goes some more charges. So I went to the airport and talked to Nelson who was a pilot in the Guard ( a Colonel) but had a business of applying insecticides on fields. In this case it was an alfalfa field. WE had an aerial map to compare known acreages but we couldn't agree. So he said," Let's go see". "Hop in the plane and you can even drive"--Ha! dirve? But I did have enough confidence in myself to believe I could actually fly that Cub PLane.
I sat in the front seat. The engine whirled and we were taxi ing down the run way. I was watching every one of his moves and also watched the position of the tail and flaps to get aquainted with the plane in case he challenged me to fly--for the first time ever.How many guys are like that?
We were airborne. I was all dressed up in a nice clean suntan sort of suit. I was beginning to worry about sir sickness--but by golly I was holding out pretty well.
Finally we reached our farm and we made a few passes over the acreage in question. Then I asked Nelson to make a dive over our house. Outside the kids were playing--I could see them. We dove really close to the light pole and I threw out my cap and hollered and whistled. They had no idea I was in the plane. They wondered who the dickens was the goofy pilot who was scaring the kids.
Then I told Gene, the pilot, to get back as quick as he could because I was about to erupt. We climbed back up and suddenly he swooped low again because we were in the airlane of the daily flights of that day to Spokane. Gene was a wise well informed pilot I could see.
But that last swoop was "it"!! I quickly pulled out my clean bandana and I urped it all up--That morning for breakfast I ate heartily of Cantaloupe and I filled that bandana up . It was a savior as far as messing the front seat up with urpings.
THe result of the swooping over the house scared Cynthia so bad that when ever a plane would fly near the house she'd run into the house. I somehow couldn't explain to her that it was my cap she recovered and ME in that plane yelling my greetings to them.
Speaking of being affected by airplanes--it goes back to when my brother John gave us a collie pup. It had Australian Shepard sheep dog markings and a long collie nose. I didn't want another dog of that type but John had a big litter of odd pups and he gave it to one of the girls for a Birthday present--how do you refuse a birthday present? She turned out to be a really goofy dog. When Chink would be digging after a gopher she'd be cheering him on and jumping up biting the dirt he was tossing with his paw. He'd dig down deep enough to hide his body till he got the gopher. FiFi was the name of the collie--I wondered how she was ever named that. Imagine me hollering for "FIFI" out in the field. She was so very unruly.
Once I had to give the dog worm medicine. I saw signs that she had an infestation of worms-it is a common occurance in pups and can really be deadly and ugly for all to see--including the dog. When you give the dog worm medicine a person has to watch to see if the medication is effective--you do that by observing the pile after she unloads, to see if there are worms being expelled. In this case I went over to see the pile--( you know what I mean I'll bet) and sure enough she was eliminating worms in great numbers. BUT also I noticed that she had been eating too much sand and dirt from sheering Chink on while he dug holes seeking to eat a gopher ( he loved to eat gophers).The odor of the poop was terrible even out in a field!! So FIFI was now an active goofy dog which somehow tried to calch an airplane when it flew over. She had a special trail through the alfalfa to run after a plane which flew over. I asked sometimes, what would she do if she caught one?
I'll tell of gophers and Chink. When Chink was a pup I'd take him out in the fields where I would set traps to catch gophers which populated the fields in really great numbers. Trapping then was the only way to eliminate gophers which could cut down a new planting of trees. They would chew the new roots to kill the tree . The root looked like carrot and as sharp as a pencil.
We later learned to poison them by injecting underground with a machine which made a burrow. It was pulled by a tractor. Poisoned carrots were first used dropped into the tunnel which when it crossed a gophers domain, the gopher would wonder which other gopher is entering his domain--They are territorial animals. The gopher would follow the new tunnel and find the poisoned carrots which to them is a delicacy--later we used poisoned millet ( a grain the size of a bb) . The poison had a sweet smell and attracted the gopher which then caried a pouch full to his den--.IN the mean time the poison would get into his blood stream and finally kill him. It was a successful mass eleimination of the field of rodents
But before some one invented that method trapping was the normal way of eliminating a gopher infestation . They multiplied like rabbits and it was an impossible job to rid all of them.
When I would set a trap, Chink was very interested and watched me. I would leave the trap which I marked with a stake in the ground. I bought hundreds of traps in those days.
The next morning I would go check my traps and find the trap on th ground with no gopher--but there was a telltale piece of gopher meat or fur on the trap . Chink would go out to check the traps and eat them before I could have the pleasure of counting all the gophers I caught.
I'll tell more in another story about gophers.

the day Cyunthia was born

Of course I kept worrying about when the 'time' would come so I hovered around the house as much as farm work would provide. I think we were harvesting alfalfa seed --even this late in the year.
All of a sudden it was TIME to go. I think we still had the Belair Chev then, and now I wonder who stayed at home with the kids--was it Lois" or was that a school day? see, my memory is a bit dim on this, but I do remember we took the bumpy short cut through the neighbors property and their Yard--.I had to be careful about hitting the bumps in the road.
We finally got on a county road which was good gravel and was heading toward Sunnyside hospital through a lot of farm steads. We still didn't have a name for Cynthia--I told this story so many times, I wonder if I am repeating myself--yes I am--it is indelibly implanted in my mind.
IN those days there was a womens club made up of farm wives--of all names they called it the "Cy_CO " club. I guess that was a 'run' on words for the fun of it. They made stuff like doilies and Afgahns etc--it was a sewing circle I guess-- that best describes it--or a gossip club.
Anyway we drove right by the ladies house who started the club Her name was Cynthia Copeland. The name was in large black letters on the mail box--and we drove slowly by enough to see it stand out . It was almost automatic, that we would name the girl "Cynthia"--Just like that--I don't remember if we had a masculine name or not at that time because in those days there was no way to know if the baby would be a boy or girl. I thinks it's best to be surprised.
So the birth went off uneventfully I guess--y'see, I didn't dare to watch--I didn't see ANY of the kids born. I think I would have been traumatized. I think it would "cure me".
So, when we brought Cynthia home I thought she looked like Ike Eisenhower the president--bald and all. We have some--a lot --of baby pictures to prove it too.
Cynthia had a good appetite and I remember her digging into the bowl which was the last part of Gramma's Meat ball concoction--she stood up on the chair and reached over with the big spoon in her hand and was scooping out the remnants of the meat balls concoction. See , I call it a 'concoction' because it was a one dish meal--with bread of course.
I gotta add this--I always prayed that my family would be all musically inclined so the time came for Cynthia to learn an accordion. So I enrolled her in a school of accordion and she was really doing fine. Then it came time to graduate into a larger accordion. I knew a neighbor whose daughter quit and he wanted to get rid of the accordion. So one day he asked me to bale his hay. I had to do it at night because I had other farm work to do in the day. Ii was a hot day and in the evening it was cool enough to go down to the field in a shirtsleeves. The field was bigger than I thought and I worked all night to finish the field and I was frozen stiff by the time the last bale was dropped. Anyway, Gramma got worried and came down to the field as I was wrapping up. She had a jacket for me I think because I drove the tractor home to have a breakfast at last.
NOW rather than to take money, I settled as payment for that baling job taking his accordion as full and final payment--a couple hunderd dollars.
CYnthia played several months and in concerts held by the Teacher. I was soo proud and also a bit jealous that she was playing better than I could play.
Then the world ended--that accordion world--Cynthia quit. Pow--I was shot and still in a fit of remorse because Cynthia is very very musically talened in spite of her name--Ha! she has a beautiful voice-to go along with an accordion--like Joan Castle on Lawrence Welks show---ask her to sing--go ahead.
So Cynthia , when you read this, operate on my heart strings and cure the longing I have to hear you again play the accordion. On bended knee--I ask--no I am at the type writer--and I am too old now to kneel--. If you do play me, get me a bath towel for my tears.
BUT with all that said, she, Cynthia is and was a hard working intelligent girl and I couldn't have ever thought of a better name than CINTYDOLL. Read the story where she drove my old army truck when we were picking up baled hay. She could hardly see over the steering wheel and standing on th seat. What a girl.

Mickey's Picture

Be sure when you read these stories to go to some of the very first stories, namely the one titled "The Kissing Tree". You'll see a picture of Mickey. I was re-reading some of my stories the other day and saw that picture and fell in love all over again, she was so beautiful. Still is.

Halloween Tricks and Kerosene

When Halloween came to our place, we didn't have any tricks or treats. The only thing we ever did that I can remember was to get a piece of carbite chalk and drawing a big pumpkin on the screen door on the front of the house, a jack-o-lantern with eyes.

We heard about the neighbor kids getting together and taking the wheels off a buggy and putting it on top of a barn and reassembling it up there, and the old farmer coming out and seeing his buggy up on top of his barn. I can tell you there were probably some cuss words said.

They also would move an out house away from the hole so when you walked out of it you'd fall in the hole.

That'd have to be done by kids with lots of time on their hands. I never got involved in that. I was too nice a boy (well, a nice boy at least, the 'too' is kind of questionable).

Having kerosene lamps maximized and minimized the days and the nights. The lamp would be sat on the table for eating. We didn't sit up late reading, it would have been wasteful of the light. We were early to bed and early to rise. But it was because kerosene cost 25 cents a gallon and would last about a month. The main use for kerosene was for the lantern kept out in the barn, hung on a nail, which would help you see while you did the night time milking. You still couldn't see much, and you'd need to feel around a bit, but so long as you knew where the cow teats were, where the manure was, and which end it came out of so you could steer clear from it, you would be ok! Kerosene was kept corked with a potato.

BB Gun

When we were kids, Donald and I traded the .22 we had bought from the Roseburg kids for 50 cents to Albert Bozich, my cousin, for a BB gun. The BB gun had already been used a lot and the stock was broken off, but it was our only chance of having a BB gun like our brother John had. BB's cost money, and when you bought a nickel's worth, you might get 100-200 BB's in a small container. We ran out of BB's and we discovered that tiny rocks (about the size of the BB) would work just as well firing out of the gun. However the rocks not being symmetrically perfect it was a slightly erratic shot. For passing time away while Ma was cooking we would find enough rocks to bring in the house and we thought, well BB guns can't kill birds so these rocks can't do much damage. Donald and I had a challenge to see who could stand the sting from the gun. The only thing we would allow to be shot was the bare foot (we were mostly bare footed anyhow). I was a better shot than Donald and he'd yell a little bit.

I can remember like it was yesterday, sitting on the floor holding my knee up, my bare foot ready for him to shoot out, looking through my toes at the barrel of the BB gun. He fired and it missed my foot and hit me right next to the eye!

That was the end of that experiment!

I don't know exactly what happened to that BB gun. It probably got thrown down the well. If the new owner of the house were to dig up the well, he'd probably find it.

I think I was crazier for guns than Donald was. My mother always told a story about 'killaself' and I wondered what she was talking about. Apparently when I was a little boy I would bang a little cap pistol into my head and say "Killaself! Killaself!" I don't know what I was thinking - just a kid I guess!

A Dick Tracy story told about a prisoner in a cell asking for a large potato. They gave it to him and he carved a replica of a gun. He asked for iodine and poured it on the potato and used that to scare the guard into escaping. I was always intrigued by guns, even from the old Dick Tracy columns.

WWII Oral History

I've finally been asked to provide an oral history of my experiences during WWII. In the past visits Kelley came over and set up a camera for me to sit in front of, trying to remember as best I could in chronological order (but most likely not) my experiences. There are many stories in between words that are not able to be put to words, so a readers (or listeners) imagination will need to serve them well. If you hear Oliver North's war stories you know the hazards of war. Some cameramen have actually taken some pretty vivid scenes and it makes me regret that I did not have a video camera with me, although I probably would have been shot in the head using it because I would have been concentrating on getting a shot instead of not exposing myself.

So, this enabled me to get some sort of closure to repeat my history for others to hear during a time when I am not here. I fully appreciate my grand daughter's interest and time in doing this. We also have a project of 16mm film from when I came home up until video cameras became more fancy. Someday I want to set up my projector for the old film and not necessarily edit, but transfer to DVD for use in the future.

Well, this answers the question "What have you been doing lately?" I've been providing an oral account of my history.

1st time climbing Mt. Peoh

I was asked about the first time I ever climbed Mt. Peoh-- the mountain by my old home where I was born.
First I must tell you that it is the most prominent of the mountains on the south side of Cle Elum--. It was supposed to have been named after an Indian Chief---I never met him although I am almost old enough to have known him. Also the name Cle Elum is supposed to be an Indian word for rushing river. This mountain wouldn't be able to compete with the altitudes of the Alps although parts of the face is almost as difficult to scale as the Matterhorn. That's my personal view.
You might not know that Croatia and Slovenia are situated in very mountainous country. Close to the Alps. Hiking and climbing is a favorite pastine of the people there. But really not for me--I can't claim the DNA of a mountain climber, although my Uncle could--.He had a yen to climb that mountain every time he visited our place which is right at the foot of this big rock.
My uncles name was Anton(Tony) Kauzlaurich. He was married to my aunt who was my father's sister named Julianna--we called her Teta Yoola. And Tony Kauzlarich was mostly known by his nick name of "Stovrak". Now in the translation of that nick name ,I can hardly beileve it to be true--My Uncle was a docile handsome man like a movie star actually. The nick name means that he has the wrath of a hundred devils. Sto -vrak--. I never ever heard anyone dare to call him by his nick name.
So on one of the visits, he said " Ve klime it mountain" . My brother John was 3 years older than I am and was very willing to go--and I wanted the experience too. BUT I was just somewheres about 7 years old--. I don't know the exact date but I do know that Uncle Stovrak had a brand new 1928 model A ford. I would have been 6 years old at that date--and my aunt and uncle made frequent visits to show off the shiny spotless Model "A".
With no lunch and no water, and no other climbing gear and I am most likely to have been bare footed, we hiked to the base of the mountain and began scaling the big rocks one by one. Now and then a rock would tumble down and crash into the trees below. The mountain became steeper and steeper and now it was a life or death matter. Looking down at the old farm scared me to death and about half way up I froze in place when I thought I would fall backwards and to my death like those tumbling rocks. Uncle Tony now, comforted me and John teased me for being a chicken. One rock and another . I mean these rocks were as big as a pickup truck--and each one had to be scaled. Often times a foot would become wedged in the crevices of a rock and that was a reason to bawl. I can't remember becoming thirsty but that had to have been a problem and there was no water in sight and we didn't bring any at all. We did stop at the spring at the base of the mountain for a last big drink of icy mountain spring water.
There were several routes which could have been taken to be an easier climb. I had no opinion on which route. But Stovrak, picked a route where there were now a few trees. It was easier to grab a limb or a bush now for stability. I don't know how much moisture I lost by crying but finally we came to the top. It was like climbing over a wall--very steep and a slip on this last foot of travel would have been a fatal error. It was over. And I was so happy to be now out of danger and in the pangs of thirst and hunger. Looking all that distance down on the old farm--thousands of feet--I don't know the exact elevation. But to me is was the top of the world. We could see for miles both ways almost to Ellensburg. We were over looking the cities of South Cle Elum and the whole city of Cle Elum--we could also see the lakes and the mines in the opposite direction.
Now --how to get down? I worried about how will we unclimb that mountain--I mean--do we have to go over that last rock wall? and maybe tumble down like a rock?
No. The decision was made to go down the easy way--down the back and side of the mountain following forest service trails and old deer runs and to where there was a spring and water to drink to quench our thirsts.
I will try to post a picture of my Uncle Stovrak. You will see that he is the dead ringer for Tom Selec. The movie star.
I climbed that mountain face again sometime later with better equipment--I mean lunch and water. and shoes. I have also been to the top many times going the easy route . I hunted every rock and rill and forest. I knew where every spring was running. I loved mountin water. I would lay down on my belly and like an animal I would drink right from the flowing water. I could also see tiny bugs and tiny worms so that I could avoid them. I didn't worry about e coli in those days. We all knew that wild animals would walk through these creeks and even deficate in the water and urinate --but water in the mountains purifies after it runs over the rocks for ahwile. Thirst has no bounds.
Now the mountain has been desecrated. How? by the power line over the base of it for the first thing, then hauling rocks off the face, then people have begun to populate areas where we once hunted. Building resort homes, I think..To make matters worse, now there are No trespassing signs all over--it is closed for me to go any place where I once was free to go hunting for grouse or deer or elk. I wanted to own that mountain--to preserve it--but I didn't have a dime to buy any part of it. In my heart, it is MINE.
ON the peak right where we made it over the top, they have built a communications tower. Prior to that was a forest service lookout station. From that position the whole valley was scrutinized for the tiniest smoke arising from a potential forest fire. I was a nesessity, I know that, but still it disturbed my tranquility.
I wont ever be able to climb that mountain again but I think I would know where every small rill of water emerged. UNLESS there were no trespassing signs in the way.

Chewing tobacco--ugh stay away

Once we were visitingthe Mike Cassassa place.
Mike and his wife were very very Italian and made wine and the best cheeses,
Mike chewed a tobacco from a yellow package. He would stuff a great big 'chaw' in his mouth and seem very elated at the taste. Then he would chew and stuff the wad somewhere in his mouth--under his lips I guess finally needing to spit the juice out. He was remarkably accurate at what ever he aimed the spit. It seemed he could spit and hit a fly at 20 feet distance. Y'know, I envied that ability and when I'd have raisins to eat I'd pretend I was chewing like Mike and waste some of my sweet raisin juice on a target--usually a fly.
When we visited Mike's place for some reason or other, we were taken to the root cellar. I saw three packages of this chewing tobacco in the back of the cellar , and when no one was looking I helped myself ( God was watching and the devil too) to a package of tobacco. Wow now I could learn to chew and spit like Mike can.
It came time to get on the old truck--a flat bed 1927 Chevrolt truck--to go home. When no one was looking, I sneaked a big 'chaw' into my mouth and boarded the truck. We stood up at the back of the cab holding onto the back board for stability.
I chewed my wad hurriedly to get some juice to spit off the side of the truck trying to maybe hit a squirrel or a stump--- anything for practice. Mike was able to even swallow some of this juice. BUT, I didn't intentionally try to swallow the readily made excess juices. BUT I absorbed some of the deadly nicotine through the tissues in my mouth and it wasn't long till I was very ill and dizzy. When we drove into the yard, no one had any idea what was wrong with me. I was dying-- or felt like it and it would be better I thought if I did die. I went to the outhouse and heaved and urped and again I learned that tobacco was a poison. But why is it that others could with stand it? was I a freak? I think I dumped the rest of the package into the out house hole. I couldn't confess to any one about this particular theft for which I was immediately punished, but y'know what? it was one of the sins I confessed when I became a real Catholic over seas. Yes I was finally absolved. The punishment was life long.
There was another tobacco chewing person I can never forget. He was the owner manager of the Thorp water powered mill. It was where we most often took wheat down to have made into flour and Farina --. One winter day, we loaded the sleigh up with about 6 sacks of out own wheat. John drove the mules with Donald and me going along for the sleigh ride about 20 miles away from home. That's a day of nothing but cold misery you can bet..On Ice and snow.
When we got to the mill and John asked the miller to do the grinding, the old man took us to his tiny office. In one corner was a large pot bellied stove which was a very welcomed item. We hugged the stove to regain our body warmth while the miller ground the wheat. At one point he entered the office and asked if we'd like him to make for us , some FARINA--gee, we never heard of it so we agreed and he filled a sack which is now a cereal--it was new to us.
Looking at the office walls, the old calendar and the stove itself, it was readily known that this man was a tobacco chewer. Every inch--even the ceilings were spotted with tobacco juice--the stove too. He most likely killed flies with his spit. We could also smell an odor of burning scalding spit on the hot stove. Ugh!
We made it home at dark, and we told our mother about the miller who chewed and spat, then in our minds we conjured up the ugly thought that what and where did he spit as he was grinding the wheat? Nobody knows.

Nancy asked if I ever tried smoking

Nancy asked if I ever tried to learn to smoke.
Yes I tried. It was a 'learning process' I saw all the old men smoking--some smoked pipes --some smoked cigars and some rolled their own. It looked like something a 'man' had to learn to be a man.
Daddy smoked when he could--that is even a nickels worth of Bull Durham was expensive in those day--you got a small bag of groundup tobacco and the paper was in a little packet glued to the bag. My Dad would hold a paper tween his left fingers and made a trough into which to pour a dab of this ground tobacco. Then with a bit of acrobatic skill he could roll the paper into a cigaret form and to prevent the paper from unraveling. he'd lick the paper an that was the ingredient to stick the papers together. Then he'd twist the ends to prevent a little loss of this precisous stuff from falling out. Inserting it in between his lips he was able to strike a match on the seat of his pants--he'd lift a leg to cause the denim to be like sand paper and the match would light. He's hold the burning match in a cupped hand taking the lit match to his cigaret end --this cupping would prevent the match from being extinguished. The twisted end ot the rolled cigaret was like a fuse to a fire cracker.Then with a draft from a puff or two the tobacco was lit. Ah !! such enjoyment to puff and puff like a locomotive at the station. Sometimes --no--more often he'd take a mouth ful of smoke and bloww it out his nose like a mad bull in the funnies. It looked like a lot of fun.
So why not do the same as Daddy? We rolled up newspapers and lit the end . The taste was horrible and the smoke wasn't like tabocco smoke. With a little more experimentation we sneaked coffee and rolled someup into a cigaret to smoke. Right in front of Daddy and Ma too!! but my mother didn't think that was so bad, she had brothers and a father too who smoked. It was how a man was growing up. So the next experiment was to find dried up sunflower leaves and crush them into a powder that resembled Bull Durham. When that burned it had a sweet taste which lasted forever on your tongue.
When we visited the neighbors they also would experiment with learning to smoke. And wouldn't you guess that there was no limit on what would serve as tobacco--hear this!! dried Horse manure--yes, it's finely ground vegetable fibers now and "purified".It wasn't suitable for smoking I learned. Are you urping yet?
The neighbor boys folks had a hired man named Bill Nelson. He smoked real tobacco. He would buy a whole carton of Granger tobacco which must have been made by the Bull Durham company because the tobacco came in very similar little bags.
When we'd visit the neighbor boys, we'd often hide in the empty irrigation canals to try out the tobacco. They'd steal a bag from the upstairs room where Bill Nelson roomed. We'd smoke and I had to finally give up because of the burnt tongue taste which lasted for days. I could see why smoking is a crutch to lean on when you wanted to diet--nothing tasted like food--it always was 'burnt tongue".
Once at a Grange dance which we tried always to attend, One of the boys, somehow bought a pack of rreal cigarettes--they were called "KOOLS". They had a menthol taste and a little bit better taste with better results if your nose was plugged up.The menthol served as a nasal decongestant. It did more for me at least.To smoke in a school in those days was a crime but at the dances and Grange meeting that rule didn't apply. So the place to be trying this pack of cigaretes was down in the men's room which was under the stage. I remember Charlie Newton smoking as if a veteran at it--and Fred too and Bob Roseburg--and I don't remember Donald being there. Or Junior Roseburg--maybe they were excluded from our "smoker's club' because they were two years younger than I was. I wasn't the ring leader by any means and did not have money to contribute to this but because it was on a dare basis, I did try smoking. I don't remember my folks ever admonishing us for trying.
I made corn cob pipes and I made a pipe out of elder berry brush. I also found many used old clay pipes at the old Bednar farm after the Bednars nearly all died off and left the place. Smoking was the 'thing to do' and pipes were a fashion. I was never ever though, a great fan of smoking and I absolutely abhored women to smoke--and here's one reason which stuck in my mind--/
In the old days my Dad couldn't afford a license on the car to go to town so he'd alaways take the back streets as soon as he entered town and would park out side of nearly the limits, by the rail road track. Now in those days Cle Elum was famous for its string of Whore houses on Railroad street. There were lots of rumors about the street of houses and why and how come they were allowed. No use telling those rumors here.
Well as we drove pass some of the houses there'd be a lady (?) in the window all dolled up with heavy red lips and other make up beckoning passers by for business. I didn't know beans about them. But those women smoked and I found out later their trade. So I felt that if a woman smoked she was beckoning.Soliciting--so I hated to see women smoke and it was a requirement and my most important behavioral traits when thinking of a marriagable mate. So I shied away from women who smoked--really.
So as time went on, I left home to work in a saw mill. I thought that smoking a pipe was the cat's meow so I bought a cheap pipe and a can of tobacco. My buddy JIm Graves and his brother Chuck smoked heavily/ I couldn't hack the cigaret route and the pipe might be better. But the hot smoke coming out of the stem hit my tender tongue and burned it and also made the ugly taste of burnt flesh. It also compelled me to spit so often I was losing weight I think.
So I just quit for ever and became an obnoxious tobacco hater--so much that my brother in law told me "Why don't you get on a soap box" -- ,hearing that I then toned down my rhetoric agaist smoking and as you know now today there are laws which I am in favor of but I didn't contribute a bit toward to cause the banning of smoking in nearly all places.
BUT I must say the most --the very most--experiment was when Donald and I found a brand new unwrapped and banded cigar in the trash which Daddy hauled from the restaraunts in town. WE had a teepee made of burlap out in the yard for a play house. We had a kerosene wick burning in the middle. Then we unwrapped the cigar and with a pocket knife we spilt it ever so carefully to not cheat the other one out of a cigar. Then over the kerosene wick, we lit the cigars and began to puff puff puff-to make a big flame. It wasn't long till I had a couple brothers on the other side of the flame--I was sick beyond words. Somehow Donald wasn't as sick. I made it to the creek and laid there with my hands and face in the cool water--and urping violently feeling as green as the tree leaves. MY older brother John came by and just laughed a big horse laugh as I lay there in my death throes. I was able to make it from there to lay in the sun on a wood box. The illness lasted for three days. I was cured. I knew that tobacco was a poison. Later Donald used it to worm hogs--yes some tobacco in the feed and the pigs would poop out any worms it had in the intestinal tract. The pigs then grew faster. So yes, Tobacco is a poison.
When I went to the army, soldiers were given cigarets free, but I sold mine when I got my ration. Over seas cigarets was like having gold--for trading to civilians. I bartered for other items.
I am now happy the anti smoking laws have passed. I discourage the use of tobacco --except for worming pigs.

Sandra will be 60 on August 4th wow

Yes it's true, Sandra will be 60 years old tomorrow!!! I can't believe it. I tell my kids I am feeling sorry for them and they ask why Dad? and my response is, "You all are getting older than me". Gee to think I am going on 87 myself. I am so very lucky to have had this life. There were so many times when I thought I had breathed my last breath. The army--I was in the Infantry you know and was in the midst of front line war--often in no man's land--that's being on duty between the lines. How did I ever ever make it?. I guess it is attributed to the many "Hail Marys" I learned from the front line Priest , Father Hanley--the catechism he taught me.

So Sandra now nearly is retirement age . I'm proud of her. We didn't have much money for higher education but we were able to afford a business school course. She lived with my brother in law George and Sue in Vancouver for maybe 6 months attending the business school. Then she came home and worked in a local bank.

She applied for work here in Yakima and found a job at Merrill Lynch. She went from there to another Stock broker and from there to be manager of Dain Rausch stock broker office. So it is with pride I commend her for lifting herself above the ordinary.

Maybe she'll read this portion of my blog--Happy Birthday Sandra.

Have I told you about her name selection? And the day she was born? Well here goes.

It was time to go!! We had to drive all the way to Yakima from Grandview and I worried about getting there in time. We went to the St Elizabeth Catholic Hospital and checked in. She was on an upper floor in a room with another 'birthing person'. I was having a visit from Chuck Graves for 'support' and we were just killing time walking around and around the hospital awaiting word of the birth. How would we know? if we didn't keep checking at the desk.
At last the attendant said it had been happening all the time I was visiting with Chuck. I couldn't send him away could I? No so he stayed as a best friend and support. Would I faint maybe? Ha!
I came into the room not yet knowing if it was a boy or girl. If it was a boy it would be named after me--that was a forgone conclusion --if it was a girl , it would be Norma Jean--but I rejected the Norma Jean name because I had a date or two with a girl name Norma Jean. It wasn't all that bad a name, but I didn't want to recall those 'old dates' each time I called my little girl.
The lady in the next bed--I think she was the wife of Henry Stotsenberg--the famed used car dealer in town. She admired Sandra's 'olive skin' ..Yes Sandra did have an "olive" skin taking after my skin and ethnicity I guess-. The lady suggested that Sandra should be named---hear this---CORDELIA--. That's as bad as Esmirelda--. WE went thru a litany of names and selected Sandra for no other reason than it was the 'right' name for her--Sandra Norma--wouldn't you guess.
When I walked into the room , I saw the bundle in her mothers arms and her mother began to cry--she said, sobbing, "It's a girl". She did all she could to have a healthy little baby. We were blessed.This was part of my hopes and prayers when I was on Anzio, praying that someday to have a family and be free. My life was shaping up to be a good one. I made the right choices.
In choosing names for our kids I always tried to fore see the probabilities of teasing in school. And we succeded in that except Toni had a tease or two--Toni--baloney--that's the usual moniker that goes with that name.

I just recalled another aspect to these days in waiting. I was warned by one of Mickey's relative who were some what anti Catholic, that I had better have the money to pay the hospital on the spot or I wouldn't be able to take the Baby homer. That sounded a bit cruel and off color but I couldn't take a chance on an arguement at the checkout desk.
So I went out with the combine and sought job after job doing harvesting peas and beans to collect enough money to have to settle at the Hospital. I didn't have good credit at those days being just out of the army and whatever we bought was with cash--except Sears and Wards gave me credit for furniture and appliances.WE kept those payments up on time--but it was a different story now regarding paying the hospital.
It was as hot a summer as it is at this time. I worked long and hard taking care of the irrigation and the combining jobs. Then it came time.
I went to check out at the desk and I was pleased and surprised when the girl asked,"How do you want to pay for this?". The bill came to about $150, Imagine that. So it wasn't at all like the anti Catholic aunt had warned me. The Hospital was the most benevolent there was and in these late days they had to fold because of the large debt because of the services to the poor and non payers.
It was always opened to the poor. The bums and hungry could always go to the back door and get a lunch, one bum told me. It was a late as in the 90s when I picked up a hitch hiker in Grandview. I asked where he wanted to be let off ( he rode in the back of the pickup) and he said, "Drop me off at the Hospital--I need a lunch".

Nancy asked about the time she danced on the ceiling

Nancy asked about dancing on the ceiling---yes it's true she danced on the ceiling more than once. She was a little girl then--I mean a few years old --in that era maybe even in diapers.
I would pick her up and hoist her feet to the ceiling where she would dance . I can vaguely remember her patent leather shiny black shoes and white stockings. Tapping on the ceiling. These events happened often --just for entertainment and fatherly fun.
At that time I had built a big new room addition --we had 7 foot ceilings which made it practical for dancing on the ceiling.

But I had to be careful. This brings to mind a time I am not happy about. We were visiting Mickey's family. They lived in a tiny one room house in very poor surroundings. The house was cement block about 16 X 32. The family was still very young. In the middle of the room was a single light fixture. It was an inexpensive set up with a glass shade. I was in a playful mood with Sandra and I lifted her up over my head for a thrill and to my sorrow, I bumped her head on the light fixture. I guess I even busted the bulb--CRASH! I was so embarrassed and ashamed and full of remorse at the instance. So I vowed I'd be more watchful and careful any time I'd think of lifting the kids up over head for a thrill . I see many father's do this with their off spring and I worry about the child being injured in some way. Sooo--father's don' do dat'.

some one asked about my old army truck

MY old army truck --a beginning of farming for me.
This story has to go back to nearly boyhood. My brother John was a frugal person and saved everything too. He bgan saving money in a can and lorded it over us from time to time. We didn't have a dime saved but wanted to earn. So Donald and I found an old saw, (John wouldn't let us use his saw) . We cut down a tree and made wood for our first money. We did earn a little picking potatoes for the neighbor Roseburgs. The pay was like 2and 1/2 cents a part sack.
The first cord of wood though went to John to trade for the old guitar that Uncle Matt gave him--for a cord of wood. The guitar started a competition on who would learn the most chords faster and better--that's another story however.
The first real money I remember that John made was wood cutting. He also was an avid trapper and was a ble to do the skinning in professional; manner. He sold the furs to a Seattle buyer.The other job was for the mink farm up the road a half mile. The Matt Leyde mink farm. John earned $20 a month.
This is a little aside from the subject matter but one day, we noticed smoke rising from the woods on the side of Mount Peoh. So we knew that it would spread if unattended. We heroically loaded up shovels and axes and other tools and forgetting water for our selves , we drove up the trail on the 1927 Chev truck to as near to the fire as we could go. The fire was started by an accidental toss of a match by the sheep herder who was herding a big band of sheep on the hills. He didn't admit it but we knew there was no other way a fire could have started--there were no lighting strikes at all on that hot day.
WE tried to put out the fire which was spreading faster than we could douse it. The hopes were that the Forest Service lookoput would report this fire from the lookout which was only a mile away on top of the highest hill.
The Forest service came in full force and relieved us-- They had water for our thirst and sandwiches too. They also had better tools for us to use.
As a result we were put on the payroll . That was a welcomed amount of money for my savings. I don't remember the amount. John was old enough to ask for a job with the forest service and was accepted. That left open the job at the Mink farm which was handed down to me now at a dollar a day for 10 hour days. I walked to work. I ate at home but I milked and helped do the haying etc. These were the years that Donald had to be bed ridden to recover as best as possible from his bout with Rheumatic fever. That's another story to tell later.
So saving money became more or less a competition with John having the greatest start and advantage being 3 years older than I. No one really knew how much John had stashed away but it was a growing amount. John kept it a secret. He had private ambitions.
That summer I worked 90 days and saved $90. I put it all in the bank then withdrew $10 to buy school clothes and returned to high school.
As you know, there was a war brewing and in fact going on in Europe. I had to sign up for the draft. After I graduated from High school in the spring of 1942, I sought work which would actually pay me wages. I found work at the Snoqualmie Mill at about $6.00 a day with board in their bunk house. Jim Graves and I were close buddies working together on the green chain which sorted lumber after it left the saws. It was very hard work and required a really good set of leather gloves and plenty of salt tablets and water to prevent heat stroke.
We heard a report that the Unions in Seattle were begging for welder's helpers in the Lake Washington ship Yards. One day we just quit on the job and like Johnny Paychek sang,
"Take this job and shove it". That wasn't the appropriate thing to do I later found out.
WE got jobs as welders helpers at $11.00 dollars a day. Imagine that and they also taught us to be come welders. I was really happy about that.
The draft was on our tails. so we tried to enlist in the Airforce or the Navy and or the Coast guard or merchant marines and for some reason we couldn't enlist. The reason was really that too many persons were choosing these services for the same reason we wanted . The chance of survival was better. I called it the "soft services" --I wanted to avoid the Infantry as much as possible.That's where the casualties were the highest and living that life was very miserable.
The pay was elevated to $50 per month, When John went in after the Forest service he was paid only $20 per month. John asked to be an MP and he went right to guarding and other MP duties on the Gate at Fort Lewis in near Tacoma. I visited him a few times.
So my number was getting close to being called. The only chance now to get in the Navy or the Airforce or Coast Guard was to Volunteer for the draft--that is to ask the draft board to send you in the service right away. The Department issued an incentive for volunteering--that you had the choice of services if you volunteered. So when we reported for the exams in Fort Lewis, we were standing in line naked as a jay bird awaiting a doctors physical . The Sargeant in charge counted down --one two, three, four, five--every fifth person was asked to step out of line and was given the opportunity to choose the service into which he would enlist. I was number three. So there went my last chance for the Navy etc.
Before being shipped out I arranged with my mother to have my pay sent to a joint bank account. I had my mother do it because Daddy didn't write English so well. I asked the army paymaster to send all but about $5 which I might need for myself to my mother whom I entrusted to deposit in our account. She could usre it if she'd want to.
I sent any other amounts like when I'd sell my ration or cigarettes or even when I liberated about $250 from the germans or sell some other thing, which I would ask the company clerk to send home. At the last final months I became a Sargeant which paid more and I was paid more for combat pay and medals--I think my last checks were something like $105 a month.
The accumulation amounted to a little more that $2000 --plus the $300 which was called "mustering out "pay. Along with that they pinned a pin in the lapel which someone called the "Ruptured duck".--It's an eagle really--.
I had a stash of money started. So did John who had to stay in Germany as occupation troops. He also had a similar arrangement with my mother and a bank account. This was wise because there was no guarantee we'd return home--- both had life insurance policies listing the loved ones as beneficiaries.
Why I got the truck? As it was, Donald and Daddy farmed to gether and they were doing really fine on the war economy. Donald blossomed into a full fledged farmer. He took over mostly and learned to raise chickens and pigs. He worried about our mother whose arms were getting too arthritic from milking 25 cows--Let's not leave Daddy out of this now. He was a workhorse too. He didn't milk to my mothers satisfaction though--that's another story.
One day when our mother was having a terrible time with her arms, Donald found a cattle buyer and sold the entire herd of cows. Just like that. Now Mom could rest her arms. She was very upset when the truck left the yard, but Donald handed her the biggest check she'd ever seen. But Ma was put out that she "Didn't have nuthin' to do now". Donald late 'fixed that" he gave her a bunch of sheep. And that's another story.
So farming was tough after the war. Prices for farm products went to pot. Daddy was afraid of the partner ship with Donald because his name was on all the notes as back up for Donald. The crop was hauled down to a cellar in Thorp on two old delapidated trucks--the 1927 and another I think 1935 chev truck.
Donald's farming practice needed a truck. As it is , I didn't know what I wanted to do after the army. I was having trouble adjusting and very reluctant to spend any of the money I had in the bank. I always wanted to 'go to Hollywood'--that's another story.
So after I had a promise that if I bought an army surplus truck I would be paid back from the proceeds of that years' potatoe crop. Ah Ha!--Then I'd seek my fortune in Hollywood. Imagine that.
I signed up for War surplus material and got monthly reports on the offerings at Mt Rainier Army ordinance depot near Tacoma. It listed every thing in surpus. From Caterpillars and steam shovels to jeeps and trucks.
Daddy, Donald and I took a trip there and selected a GMC artillery tractor with only 16,000 mile on it. The price was $1208. and a few cents. I had a cashier's check made our for a little more and they didn't have change--I got the change years later.
I drove the truck home. It drove so well I was pleased. The truck had too short a wheelbase for a Farm truck so Donald who was to be the owner eventually, took the truck down to Ellensburg to a machine shop and tractor dealer, Rathbuns, if I remember correctly, and for $160.00 he had the frame lengthened to be able to hold an 18 foot bed. IN that day that was the longest truck bed.
I drove the truck home and was greatly disappointed to find that the drive shaft at 82 inches, was too long to withstand speeds over 25 Miles perhour--It went into a shimmy. So I turned around and went back to complain. They immediately tried to take out the imbalances but it didn't work. You had to drive under the vibration or speed up to get over the super sonic speed which allowed doing 35 mph. That was the worst part of having that truck.
WE hurriedly made a bed and hauled a load of hay to Roslyn. Then Donald found a potatoe buyer to buy his potatoes hauled directly to the produce row in Seattle.
I have to backup and say that Donald and Daddy's crop brought them each $87. dollars clear so the promise to buy the truck was hopeless. I then had to bite the bullet and own a truck.
Donald also built a cellar that summer to hold his potatoes for winter sale. I helped both John and Donald during those years of adjustment without asking for any pay. I survived working on the farm and a few odd jobs with the truck and I also made use of the Veterans Administration's unemployment program--we called it the Fifty Two Twenty Club". A program I needed and was thankful for which gave a Vet $20 a week if he couldn't find a job. Since I owned a truck and made a few bucks I had to report it weekly. That disqualified me for the $20 for that week. So I helped John clear his land on Indian John HIll where the Free way went thru rendering the cleared land almost useless to farm. I also helped John cut logs out of his land. At this time I have to say, that John was in most need for a catrerpillar. Donald bought one $1650.00 and we agreed to share 3 ways--Donald was good that way and did this out of charity--he paid cash for it. John benefitted from the tractor and I ran the dozer for no pay. John later backed out of his share of the Cat. His job was done. We forgave him. There's a big story that has to be left untold about all this.
Now Donald need a potatoe sorter. I still had some cash left, I bought a small potatoe sorter to use that winter. All the labor was donated as it is on farms, John and Daddy and my mother and I sorted a load, Donald was the main boss seeing that each potatoe weighed a certain amount and shape. Also finally weighing each sack at a 100 pound exactly ot a hair more. Every sack was placed on the truck untill we had a ten ton load. The next morning I'd get up really early and Mom would cook a breakfast and I'd take the load about 100 miles over to Seattles produce row where I'd unload a few sacks at different docks. Some times I'd take a part load over to Tacoma. I wouldn't eat all day and my stomach would cramp. Once in Tacoma, at producec row, I saw an apple box half full of ripend bananas. I asked the attendant what they are going to do with those bananas and he said. " Take 'em --help yerself" and boy did I!! I brought bananas home and that was my day's meal.
I was able to keep the money I made hauling to Seattle. I got like $4.50 a ton. I saved it and saved it. I now was able to recover some of the money I paid for the truck. The truck however seemed to become comunity property. Anyone could use if if they pleased.
When we moved to Grandview, the truck was used to move the machinery down. It could haul the great big 35 caterpillar --dozer blade and all.
I used the truck to earn money for survival hauling potatoes out of the field for neighbors, In those days many trucks couldn't make it in the sandy ground but my front wheel drive crawled anywhere. The irony is that I wasn't paid more than the others who had to have a tractor pulling it along in the tough places. I hauled the biggest loads and there was 'shock and awe' at the potatoe warehouses when I'd come in. The shock and awe was because there were less break times in between loads for the ladies on the sorter.
Buying tires for the truck was a big expense. I could never buy as new set----it took 10 tires and they should all be even sized because of the 6x6 driven wheels.
I would never have spent the money for the truck if it hadn't been for Donald's need for the truck. Thereby I owe Donald for that start in farming. The truck and the army savings was the key to my own success and in helping Donald too.
My little girls also drove that truck to help me in the fields. Sandra steered it for me when I was picking rocks. Maybe she'll remember it too. And of course Cynthia also drove it helping me load hay in the fields . The army jeep also was used in similar fashion. Sandra might remember how to take the top off the transmission of the jeep when the shift lever wold skip the rails thereby rendering the transmission useless. It would stall often till I found another transmission and transfer case. I miss those jeeps and I must say the old 6x6 army truck which I sold finally to a restorer name Adams here locally.He offered $1500 for it which was a sum I couldn't refuse. Some day he said he's take me for a last ride in it. Did I say, "LAST RIDE?"
Remind me to tell about the time the caterpillar almost slid off the truck bed.

Toni all dressed up

I guess it was a Birthday about to be celebrated. I got out my trusty 16 mm movie cameras for the occasion and Mom dressed the girls up in their best. It was about the time we were building an addition to the house. The mason was erecting a chimney and we opted to have him add a black to the mortar for decorative effect. All that black stuff was left on the patio by the bricks for the mason to continue work tomorrow.
Mom said, "Go outside and play but stay --I mean STAY --away from those bricks and other stuff.
The time came to have the celebration--the cake and presents etc. I went outside to take a few candid shots of the girls in their finery. If only you could see the movies now!! Toni got into the soot which was used for coloring the mortar and no matter how she tried to wipe it off, it got worse. I must transfer those precious pictures to a CD so everyone could see these two girls --One is blackened for sure.
Someday I will set up the camera and other equipment to transfer all this 16 and 8mm motion pictures on a cd.
Help!!!

Sandra and Me hunting pheasants

IN the fall time when Pheasant season opened I was one of the first in the field. I liked to shoot pheasants on the fly. And to watch the dog set a bird. I remember once when hunting Sandra asked to go along. Mom dressed her up real well--I remember her green coat.
We were out in a wheat field which was already harvested. I also had raked the straw so that I could bale it when the dew went off.
We weren't having very good luck scaring up a pheasant and we strolled along slowly. Then Sandra said, "Dad, I'll bet if I kicked at that windrow of straw there'll be a pheasant in it". Now realize there was many windrows in the straw field. I chuckled to myself and weighed the chances of a rooster to be in that windrow ahead of us --how many chances would there be? So I told Sandra to "go ahead kick that windrow". She went over and cocked her leg back and let go a healthy kick to lift a forkfull of straw. You wont believe it and I wouldn't if I didn't see it--I was there!! a nice big rooster flew out and I was so stunned I missed it!!
That was and will be a most fond memory.

Cynthia driving the 6x6 army truck

Farm girls get into the act too.
It was always a hard chore to get the baled hay off the fields and into a stack so the new hay could grow. This meant that each bale had to be lifted onto a truck or wagon or sled to be taken to the stack ,Hopefully I could make a sale of the hay in the field relieving myself of the most dreaded work of hauling baled hay.
On this day, I asked Cynthia to drive the truck--which was my army rig made into a farm truck. It had very slow gears and could crawl which is the right speed for picking up bales of hay.
I had a bale pickup attached to the truck bed.The truck had to be driven accurately to straddle a bale and elevate it to the level of the truck bed and higher as needed. I instructed Cynthia how to drive. Take into consideration that she was just not even a teenager at the time. Hardly tall enough to look out over the steering wheel. As the stack on the truck grew taller it was harder to yell down the steering directions: go left go right--- so she wouldn't miss an opportunity to lift a bale. Thus it was more hazardous too to jump off if I had to take control of the truck. The field was large enough so that there was no real need for drastic maneuvering. Cynthia was able every time to drive the truck so as to pick up the bale without busting it. Breaking a bale was a waste of money.
So Cynthia qualified as a farm laborer and didn't get paid an iota--that is --no money.
The girls also were required to thin apples and to weed beans. THey also worked off the farm for other farmers. Get them to tell about picking Currents and picking asparagus. They know the drugery of farm work and the pay scale.
The other girls also did work in a similar manner. That's farm life.

another 'dog story' requested by Cynthia

Whoooeee! this is a funny story about Jimmie and another hunting dog name JOE.
Once we visited Duane and Hazel in Oregon. Duane worked for his brother there temporarily building a house. Sandra was just a baby. We drove down in a wintery day in the Bel Air chevrolet. We stayed overnight cooped up in their little trailer house. We were hardy and could live through anything it seems.
Duanes brother had a good looking hunting dog which just had a litter of puppies. I selected one that had the best markings of a 'setter'. White with brownish splotches in the coat. For some reason I name it JOE.
It was th most unruly and untrained dog I ever had. It wouldn't mind any command it seems. It loved to ride in the jeep an go with me in the fields when I changed sprinklers. If it set a bird, that is a pheasant, Joe would flush it and try to catch it. That dog would follow a chick pheasant through the alfalfa as fast as the bird could fly. When the bird landed the dog would be there and kill it to eat it on the spot. I could not break that dog and I still didn't want to destroy it or give it to the pound. Hunting with that dog resulted in all the birds being flushed out of range of the shotgun.The day would be lost period. Once I was so angered I shot at the dog--but the dog was out of range. I felt foolish but a little better. All this and I kept that dog because I became attached to it. He had his good qualities too. It would ride on the hood of the jeep. Once when I was going out to change sprinkler I rounded a corner a bit too fast and the dog couldn't hang on to the windshield which was folded down on the hood. The dog slid off the jeep and the rear wheel injured him somewhat. He got back on the jeep as if nothing happened.
It was a usual thing for a few brothers in law to come down to hunt jack rabbits out in the sage bruch. This was before any of the the other lands around us was developed. We had a good supply of Jack rabbits although now they are completely eliminated.
I took Jimmie and Duane and John Sak out to hunt. We had .22 rifles only. The dog rode in between me ( I was driving) and Duane in the other front seat. You wont believe this:--in this scenario we were on Indian land near Toppenish out in the sage brush trying to scare up a rabbit. I saw one rabbit jump into a sage bush. I stopped the jeep and got out. I sneaked up to the bush and jumped on the rabbit. Who needs a gun?. I caught it alive. Yes, That's true.
After we felt it was time to return home, we came upon a scene which was a car off the road into the water . The car was part yet on the road. So I offered the Indian male to pull the car out of the water. He had a girl friend and in their amorous moment lost control of the car. I pulled and pulled with no results. John Sak ordered the Indian girl to "Get on the Jeep for weight"--and by golly that did the trick. John didn't realize he was maligning a fat Indian girl--it was her weight that did it.
That was one day hunting with the dog on the jeep.
Another day, we went closer to home where there was un developed sage brush land and some jack rabbits. We weren't doing so well. The dog was very very anxious and was always trying to jump off the jeep. I knew that is he jumped off we'd lose him for sure .He'd chase a rabbit or a bird into timbuktoo.
WE were cruising along in low gear when I heard a scream from Jimmie and a curse and more obscenities. I stopped the jeep and the dog jumped off to finish unloading a gravy like mess. Joe was begging all this time to get off to relieve himself. He was in standing position between Duane and me and lifted his tail and the gravy covered Jimmie's arm and pant leg. and all over the seats. WE all(but Jimmie) nearly died from laughter. I had to lean on the jeep for support and my belly was hurting from laughter. As I laughed I'd reach down for a handful of sand to try to sop up the mess sprinkling the dry sand all over the painted spots. It took many handfulls . Luckily we were near an irrigation canal where Jimmie was able to wash.
I named that dog "JOE" and I don't know why. Later I got another brother in law whose name was Joe. My dog met with a disaster during the winter when we were snowed in. The only rig we had which would make it throught the snow was my 6x6 army truck.
I made it to the driveway with Joe running alongside doing his bad habit of chasing cars and just always being obnoxious. As I made a left to get on the main road way and not wanting to lose momentum, I felt a thud. Joe was running in the easiest place --the ruts of the front wheels--the rear boggies ran over him./
He died instantly. There was no way I could save him. His body was crushed. He met his waterloo.
When I want to tell stories about Jimmie, I always mention the name of the dog "JOE, and the time we hunted jack rabbits.

Cynthia asks "why did I name my hunting dog "CHINK"?"

This might take some time.
I was an avid bird hunter when I was young. I hunted upland birds ever since I was able to shoot a shotgun. It is very difficult to hunt without a bird dog or any kind of dog whether trained well or not. In the beginning we just used our farm dogs.They would run out of shotgun range and flush a pheasant which angered any one --that's me. I longed for a good hunting dog but could never afford to buy one just to keep for hunting. It's cruel and unusual punishment to keep a dog on a chain or in a pen. It's against my make up. So I hunted with any dog and tried to keep up. One little cocker spaniel given to us by our neighbor was a very good tracker but ran too far ahead--Neverthe less I run to keep up. Once I got 4 birds in a few hours. I had to give one bird away.
When we first moved to Grandview and established some sort of farm, a neighbor name Olsen had a litter of cocker spaniels. He gave one ( a female) to us. It was a very friendly little dog with a very good nose for birds.She was also untrained and therefore would flush the bird too early for a good shot. She rode in the jeep and also went out in the fields with me to change water and sprinklers. The reason we named her "Pickles" is beyond me. I think it was th families input. I didn't have anything to do with it.
Once during hunting season a neighbor( Jack Meiners) called me to ask if I lost a dog--. I didn't have a dog to lose at the time--except Pickles. He said it was a fine looking breed--an English pointer ( female). Another hunter lost her and it came to his doorstep for refuge. A week past and I finally went over to see the dog. I opened the pickup door and she jumped in as if it was her home. Now I had an English pointer and I named her "Fanny". She was a good hunter but untrained.
As is always the case, she came into heat and I didn't want just any breed male to get to her. I located a Hop farmer who had a registered Canadian Pointer. He allowed her to be bred by his pointer. She had a litter of three or four. She licked the guts out of one little pup in a natural cleaning. Dogs always lick their young but she was too serious at the belly button and emptied the guts. So now I had three pups to give away. I kept one. I gave one to Jimmie , my brother in law and one to another brother inlaw Duane Cavin.Having a litter of pups is no easy matter. I kept one and I name him CHINK. Because I sorta baptised him to be a hunter.
When hunting season approached I took him out with Jimmie and Duane to hunt Pheasants. The mother Fanny and Chink hunted and sniffed out a rooster. I shot--maybe missed--. Then Chink came to me in a fright--he was 'gun shy'. He would get behind me and actually shiver and hug me with his front legs locked around me. I would beat him off with the butt of my shotgun till he calmed down. He went back out with Fanny and hunted .The hugging scene happened time after time. Now I had a real problem. Others would take the dog to the pound, but I kept him. I had faith in him.
During the next year when we were out in the alfalfa field changing sprinklers, I took my .22 revolver with me. When Chink would set a bird, I would drop the sprinkler pipe and walk over quietly and flush out the bird. Then I would shoot the pistol. I broke the dog of gun shyness that way.
When hunting season came around I went out in the field with Chink to get our first bird. He set a bird. I went over to his point and flushed the Pheasant. We were lucky it was a rooster. I shot and the bird fell, Chink ran over to it and retrieved it. He had a natural bred instinct to bring that bird to me. He tasted it pretty well though. So I had a hunting dog.
The sad thing about all this is I had to choose which dog to keep. Fanny or Chink. Also I had the really sad time sending Pickles away . I paid Jimmie a few bucks to take her to the pound or where ever. Gee, I am about to cry over that even at this writing. Now I had to find a home for Fanny--that was a real traumatic time for me. It hasppened this way. The man we bought whole milk from lived o=near the place where ai picked up Fanny in the first place. One day when he delivered milk, ai asked if he would take Fanny as his own dog. He agreed and I never saw Fanny again.
My brother's in law all learned to hunt with Chink. If you clicked the shotgun he was ready to go. Larry and Jimmie and Duane and more othere relatives would come down to hunt. Once Danny Gefre bought a new shotgun and wanted to hunt. We went down into the alfalfa field and Chink set a bird. It flushed on its own and I was such a good shot I hit the bird squarely in the middle--it almost was in two parts. Chink loved the taste of that bird.
A the years went by, Chink developed a really bad case of arthritis. He could hardly walk. Yet when you clicked shotgun he was alive!! But he couldn't jump into the jeep so we had to lift him in and lift him out. I took him to the vet one day because he was stuck under the house whimpering and actually crying. I crawled under the house with a gunny sack. I put him on the sack and dragge him out. I took him to the Vet. The vet gave Chink a shot of maybe steroids--when I came home he jumped out ot=f the pickuo and ran around the house like a new dog. But that didn't last long.
It was on a hot september day when I missed Chink. He now had to drag his hind legs to move from place to place. IN those days we didn't have a road--just a dusty sandy trail. I followed his trail up to my brother's house where I lost the trail. I heard my neighbir down in his orchard shouting so I thought that Chink might be there. I went home. I advertised over th radio but I got no results until the ditch rider asked where was my dog? I asked why? and he said the crew buried a huge dog up at Donalds house. Chink had ventured that far and needed a drink of water . He got into the canal and couldn't get back out in his lame condition,. He drowned. I uncovered the grave to see if it really was Chink. I knew that his paw was mis shaped because a cow stepped on his leg and broke it while I milked our only cow, I heard the bone snap. I took the dog to the vet who put him in a cast for months--the result was that his paw was mis shaped. When I saw the paw, I just sighed a sigh of relief--it wasn't a prayer but similar to "Rest in Peace ole buddy".
Before I close this I have to tell about Chink and his bout with a Pocupine. Yes we had them even there in the desert. I bought a can of ether and tried to sedate Chink but there was no use. I worked and worked and got most of the quills out.Some were way down in his throat. He was breathing heavily and when he opened his mouth I had enough time--as little as you could imagine--to grab the needle with a pair of pliers. It took hours to rid him of most of the quills. Some how the others worked all th way up through his skull. Why it didn't kill him I'll never know. I had many other porcupine incidents when I was younger.

Forefingers and Scars

Nancy had to get stiches in her finger after a pruning mishap yesterday, which stirred up a couple of memories.

You'll remember the admonishment about using scissors, or running with a pair of them, and you'll know that the scissors made for school kids use are made blunt. Also parents are very cautious about buying pocket knives for the boys, but I got around that buy sneaking out Mom's big butcher knife to carve wood.

Once in grade school we had a 'run' on making an airplane--mine was the best no doubt--but I used Bob Roseburgs small pen knife--it was razor sharp. I slipped and cut my finger (nearly off) but there was no school nurse and I don't remember how I bandaged it. There was no way or nowhere to go. I have a permanent scar and also I cut some of the tendons. Now and then if I hit the finger over that scar my finger will tingle and go dead momentarily.

For some reason that forefinger gets the most abuse. Here's another story, ready? Once when we had a lot of rabbits in the barn, I witnessed two buck rabbits fighting to the death. I wanted to help stop it and played no favors to which one I wanted to win--no doubt it was one of those natural bouts for superiority in the bunch of females. So I grabbed one rabbit by a hind leg which gave the other aggressor an advantage for a split second. He jumped up and bit my forefinger--I mean with his rabbit teeth--they are rodents you know and have really sharp front teeth. He sunk the teeth clear through the finger and wouldn't let go. I whipped him till he opened his jaws and dropped off. I have that scar too on that same finger. It is amazing that we had no particular medication for bites and scrapes and cuts. Today it seems that there are more diseases that threaten us.

That scar was cut off once again by my own negligence. I was carving wood and slipped. The new cut didn't obliterate the old rabbit bite but lessened it. I still have that souvenir.

Restoring Cars

I was asked to talk about my hobby of restoring cars...

"We" bought this old 1923 Chev from Lee Pays for $3.00. It sat in the back yard for a long time till I had the idea of running it again. I made the body out of sheet metal we found at the dump. You'll notice I had a rumble seat for a passenger. Tires were hard to get and I had all different kinds. Once a tire blew off and the tire kept on rolling down the lane past the house.

I could outrun the neighbor boy who sported a model T Ford stripped down. I fashioned a speedometer which showed 60 MPH going down hill. I used this (Donald was there too) for other reasons like going for the cows. Once I got stuck way up in the hills. One front wheel was off the ground and rear opposite wheel was in the air, so we were imobilized. It took work to get it back to earth. I followed the cows and let them get ahead then goose the bug till I got to the cows. The brakes were only back wheel brakes so it was necessary now to cut a cookie and spin to a stop like an Indy racer.

I wanted to keep this Bug but Donald lost it in a poker game when he played poker with some of those left behind escaping the draft. I have fond memories of this Bug. It took some scrap sheet metal - old roofing and some wood and nails. I made a frame of old boards and used an axe to shape the structural frame. You can call it the fuselage. I used the cycle bar off two old mowers for the back end which shaped it like an airplane. If only I would have had a welder and torch in those days. So it has also been a hobby to restore old cars.

The last one is this Kaiser. You can see the advance design this car had, which 'sunk' the sales. Kaiser quit in 1954. You can research Kaiser to learn about this man and his many factories. I may sell it before completion--if I can. I am getting worn down at nearly 87.

Why am I a gun nut? a gun collector?

Nancy asked why and how come I like guns.
It can't be an inherited trait because Daddy never hunted almot never and hated war having heard of rumors of war all the time while a growing up in Lokve Croatia--. World War one was started in Sarajevo when the King was assasinated. Up till then there was "war talk" and it was not long after being invaded the last time by Turkey. Daddy told of atrocities committed by Turks. So he had a built in abhorance to war--and that means the use of guns. They were made for killing people. BUT I saw him kill pigs and animals. A way of life
On my mother's side though all of her brothers were avid hunters and marksmen.They, nearly all, brothers had a few guns. Now and then Grampa Bednar, a little guy maybe only 5 feet tall, brought a box of .22 short shells for John . They would go out side and practice shooting at a target they'd placed on the door of the shop. When we--now you see that I use "we"--that means Donald and I would try to get a close up look at them shooting, my grandfather would tell us to to go " Do something" and he'd add the words as if he had a mouth ful, "You chicken shits"--. So we'd hide in the wood shed and peek thruogh the cracks to watch Grampa coddle John--with a half hug--I didn't know then that John was my half brother--that's why the different treatment--John was "the" one in the family. I resented to high heaven my Grampa calling me a 'chicken shit'.And as I said he knew very little English and his pronunciation of chicken shit was as if he had been chewing chicken shit--.
So my mother allowed John to send for a new .22 from the catologue which was a Springfield single shot bolt action. Once in a great while John would let me shoot a shot and you had better NEVER touch that gun when he wasn't there or else!! I vowed then as now, that I could own any gun I could afford and want. I made guns that looked real out of wood. When the neighbor boys would come over we'd play "cops and robbers" running in and out of the barn and hollering, "I got ya".
Also my Dad made a gun for me after begging him. He went to the Elder berry bush which still exists and cut out a piece between limbs. The elder Berry stem is hollow--with a corky center which he bored out with another stick until the bore was smooth. Then with his knife he whittled a slot about 4 inches long and smoothed the edges to lessen friction. Into this slot he place a bent twig which was like a spring. He had to find a certain piece of brush which could withstand the 180 degree bend. Then He whittled out an arrow--there's a name for this type of arrow, a 'bolt'----these were like darts with the front whittled to a point. Now placing these darts( one at a time) down the barrel and squeezing the spring ( the bent twig) then letting go the dart would fly out of the barrel to make a flight of up to twenty feet. How about that? Once I made one for the grandkids to see what one was like, when we had a reunion there at the old place.
The neighbor boys ( Roseburgs, Bob an Junior) were more affluent. They some how acquired a beat up .22 and after they finished using it now having a new Remington single shot.22, they sold the gun to me--for .50 ccents--I have to say "US" here too because Donald had access to anything I had automatically. It wasn't the same relationship we had with John and we could not understand the preferential treatment--ever. Till as lagte a high school.
This .22 , a Page Lewis, was made when shells were loaded with black powder which is very corrosive if the gun and bore was not cleaned regulary. The result from many rounds fired caused the chamber to corrode so that when a shell was fired if became a rivet and expanded so that the ejector wouldn't eject. All this made hunting for grouse more like using a blackpowder muzzle loader. After shooting a shot, you would then have to extract the casing with a pocket knife and I later used a rod made of wire and as a black powder gun, rammed the casing out and reloaded. Once we ( see? "WE")( because Donald was always at my side).I was two years older than he was therefore more 'mature' y'know. We got 4 blue grouse that day !!Yes! Our mother was so proud of us and she made a great big kettle of Grouse stew. That paid for the .18 cents the box of shells cost. It was a rare event that we ever got another box . Ma would admonish us--"Now listen!!, no more chipmunks".
Johns really first gun was an air rifle--a lever action which he rarely let us shoot.He was so stingy that way lording over us his preferential treatment. We never knew that Ma was just filling a void since John's real father died in a mysterious circumstance--maybe what I know is not really true so I wont expand on that.
John and I also buddied a lot. I remember once when John shot at a very great distance at a Blue jay in the top of a very tall Pine tree. By golly he hit the Blue Jay and it tumbled to eath still flopping and seemingly dying. I wanted to pick it up and John being 'boss' said , "No No let it die right there." BUT--the bird recovered its senses and flew off. I had one over on John for a moment.
I really don't know what ever happened to that BB gun, but we acquired a BB gun from the cousins in Roslyn. It had a broken stock but it fired as well as Johns BB gun. We had no money for bbs so our enginuity told us that small rocks would do the same as BBs. We did that --but they were very inaccurate. Once we dared to shoot each other to feel the sting. We didn't consider a BB gun to be dangerous.
In the kitchen while Ma cooked on the stove we'd aim at each others bare foot taking turns. Now it was Donald's turn and he fired a small rock at my bare foot which I held up for a better target. He missed the foot and the rock just missed my left eye. We never did that again. We learned. At least I did. You see -I always say, "WE".
I remember now that we traded that worn out .22 to my cousins for th bb gun. I have since wondered who finally owns that gun and I'd like to have it back--just for nostalgias sake. I did finally buy my Uncles almost new Page Lewis .22 for $2.oo and John bought his damascussed barrel double barreled shotgun for $5.00. I still have that .22 and have hunted rabbits and squirrels with it and bagged many a grouse with it. Being new the ejector which is a unique design works well. I have altered the sights many times to improve my accuracy and that brings up another story.
The peep sight was becoming the rage and it seems every one was changing his gun to use 'peep sights'. So I attempted all kinds of sights on the .22. One final attempt was really the last one--here's why.
I made a rear sight out of a Washinton state tax token--they are collector's item now and the first tax on purchases--a token was worth 1/10 of a cent. I attached the sight to the rear of the bolt and then fired it to establish accuracy. Later the gun was hung on the nails in the kitchen beneath John's Springfield. I was so proud to have a gun up there and to be on an equal status as John.
The next morning we were all milling around in the kitchen waitng for our 'pecking order' to get the basin to warm water and to wash. Ma was cooking breakfast and making lunches. I was admiring my .22 and had to fondle my work of art before I got the wash basin. I aimed at a post way way down in the field--aiming thru a window. I pulled the bolt back which cocked the firing pin--I pulled the trigger--and guess what---I left a round in the chamber--. BANG!! and the house was still. I expected Daddy and Ma both to jump on me and whip the tar outa me for such a dumb trick. We were to NEVER EVER to have a gun loaded like that--but somehow I did it --wouldn't you know it was me? The black sheep of the family? But I didn't get a word out of Daddy or Ma. But Daddy went up to the window and placed his finger on the perfect hole. He was thinking of the costly repair. Then Daddy said, ( remember he spoke gluttural English)"Norrrman, next tine yoo shoot troo da voot" ( next time shoot thru the wood.
This isn't the only time though a shot was fired in the kitchen. John used Daddy's single shot Meridian 12 guage shotgun for hunting rabbits in the winter. He was sitting in the kitchen with the gun in his lap and talking to Ma hoping to have her say that it was okay to go out and hunt for rabbits. John always sought an okay from Ma and she always encouraged him.
So John loaded a round in the chamber and snapped the shotgun shut. This time there was a firing pin mal function and the round went off spraying the kitchen with buckshot and digging a great big trench in the floor a few feet from the barrel. Luckily the barrel was aimed down. There was not a word said--but that shotgun got traded off at Quilicos SPORTING GOODS or at Perry's second hand store. I think we got the WINCHESTER PUMP in trade which was worn out and there's another story about that gun.
John's mis fortune sorta absolved me of my mishap even though it was at different time frame.
Daddy owned a Nickel plated .32 revolver which we sneaked a look at now an then. Luckily he hid his Ammo for it. There were a lot of sad memories regarding that weapon. I wonder where it went.
In answer to Nancy's question about how I became such a lover of guns. I like the mechanisms and marvel at the ingenuity used in the opperational firing. I realized the danger early when I saw the butchering of pigs and cows and goats and sometimes a dog would go wild with worm infestation--Daddy had to shoot them. Ma too was fully capable of shooting. I bought for her a .410 shotgun for her defense while she lived alone after Daddy died. I later took out the firing pins so she couldn't really use it to kill.
When I went in the Army, I was first placed in a platoon of musicians who were also taking infantry training. I thought I had it over some of the city boys. I cleaned my first rifle which was a 1917 Enfield. I got gigged because it was too well oiled. I was appalled. So we had to wash off in soap and water all the oil. They wanted it dry. The inspection was done with usually a clean white glove to detect dust ot oils. I found that to be a stupid requirement. It didn't happen on the front lines where it really counted to have a smooth working action. In your kit for rifle cleaning was a supply of oil.
I stumbled over all kinds of german and Italian fire arms. Also while in France I saw a lot of French guns which I had to pass up. I did send a few weapons home. I was allowed to come home with one weapon on board the ship when we were returning so I 'farmed out' two pistols. When we went through customs I made sure I got my other pistols from those who helped me. One GI who carried one pistol had won $3000 in a crap game and asked me to be his body guard. I didn't want to be involved so I declined.I didn't need the money he offered. For half maybe I would have taken the job.
In my souvenirs is one prize. I got it on the first day of the break out from ANZIO. I took refuge in a German dugout and they had left all their weapons in disassembled fashion. Scattered. I grabbed three P38 and strapped them on my belt. I got chewed out for that so I gave two away. The next day one was gone--the Lieutenant I gave it to, was killed in friendly fire--two spit fires ( English) strafed his column and he was killed in his Jeep--many others--a sad day when we learned of that incident which we watched happening only a few 100 yds away across a small knoll. We cheered because we too thought they were staffing German retreating forces.
So when we got to Rome on June 4th ( which is two days before the Normandy landing)--the order came down that there'd be no foriegn weapons allowed. I had to keep this souvenir so I broke down the pistol and I surrounded it with a bunch of medals I took from a pile of Italian decorations. This was to thwart an image of a pistol if exrayed. I made a strong wooden box and wrapped it with telephone wire. It came home in about 3 months or more. I got a letter when we were in France that my "Pooshka" (pistol) came home. Others were gigged because their packages resembled a pistol. I tried that trick again but I got caught trying to send a pistol which would fit in a watch pocket. I was called to see the commander and he gave me a verbal lashing because it was his signature I had to have in order to send the box of souvenirs. We were near Strasburg in a town named OBERHAUSBERGEN-at that time preparing for the winter fight in the Vosges.
Once some one from our platoon was to be selected for R&R in England. We drew straws. The winner gave his chance to a small guy name Mc Pherson. He had a brogue in his speech and he begged us to let him go to visit relatives is Scotland. My brother John was now in England at a replacment camp (we called it a 'repl depo') and those personell were called 'repl depo commandos'.
I asked Mc Pherson to do me the favor of taking my Luger which I "liberated" from a Captain in southern --to take to John. Also I added the little watchpocket sized revolver I looted. I made a nice package and he departed for his R&R. He took the R&R seriously and never came back till the war was over with. The MPs brought him back to our unit under guard. They put him in a stockade with other laggards. I heard about it and his where abouts so I somehow got a jeep driver to take me there to "visit' him. When we got to the block wired fence we could see a bunch having a gabbfest in the middle of the yard. I hollered throught the block wire, 'HEY MAC"--and he came running to the block wired fence. When he got close I reached through the wire and I grabbed him by the neck--my favorite hold--and I asked using GI language, what he did with my guns--because I knew that John hadn't gotten them because we wrote letters back and forth. I almost choked him and gave him enough air to tell me. " THE f---- MPS took them from me--honest" . So I let him go knowing that the drunken bum sold them for a pretty penny to finance his Awol. Now some one owns that Luger for which action I was awarded the Bronze star for Valor.
As the years went by as a married farmer there was no money to buy guns except when I was offered one at a really low price. The girls bought a rifle for me from their proceed of pears they picked off the ground after a big windstorm--They sold the pears and bought a Swiss straight pull army rifle from Montgomery or Sears. The price was $17. or $19.oo. It's worth a lot more now. At that time the swiss government was changing arms --it was bought new for about $700.
The stash of old weapons grew and now that I am almost 87 I am still a gun nut but worried now what will happen to the collection. That goes for my other stuff I've collected. Max Benitz, a legislator friend was a gun collector and before he died he told me that buying old guns was beter than buying gold. So now, do I have a treasure of gold?