Life in the Military

 This one took some time with a few revisions to keep from getting into too much military detail that might lose the reader.  

For those of you that were in the service it may bring back memories, both good and bad.   I tried to inject some humor from looking back at it all, but at the time some of this was not funny.  

Something the younger generation and grand kids can learn from and hopefully avoid in a peaceful world. 

February 1966 to February 1968

 

In September of 1964 I started classes at Chico State College studying agriculture.    My studying habits dissipated quickly as many of the classes reminded me of high school, which I never enjoyed and I started skipping classes.  Farm work was more interesting, since I was more the hands on type than academic.     After the first semester I dropped out.  The best thing about being a student was having the student deferment to keep me off the 1A list of the local draft board.   It wasn’t until November of 1965 when the draft board found out I was no longer a student.    I tried to get an agricultural deferment, but they did not go for that and classified me 1-A, available for military service.   In December Uncle Sam sent me an induction notice with a date to report to the military induction center in Oakland, California for a physical.    This place was like a livestock processing facility where you stripped down to your shorts, got in line and proceeded through different medical exams.   My conclusion when it was all over was if you could walk you were fit to serve.  Some people had x-rays of broken bones or some past injury, they really did not care as long as you could walk.   We returned home after this to await our fate.  Some enlisted in the Air Force or Navy for three years to avoid being drafted into the Army for two years with a high probability of going to Vietnam.   Not wanting to enlist and serve three years, I just waited and sure enough a letter arrived in January 1966 with my report date back to the induction center for another physical exam and afterward officially inducted in to the US Army.   From there we were bussed to the reception center at Fort Ord, California where we were tested for different skills, indoctrinated about military life and asked what kind of training we wanted to receive.   After a week or two we were sent to different military posts around the country for eight weeks of basic training.   I ended up at Fort Hood, Texas in the 41^st Mechanized Infantry Battalion of the Second Armored Division.  Fort Hood was as big place and had modern facilities, it was almost like living in college dorms, and even the mess halls were nice.    The daily routine was an early morning mile run, marching out to the rifle range, classes on how to maintain your M-14 rifle, how to march in formation and all the ways to do harm to the enemy.    I don’t recall much harassment from the drill sergeants.  During my 4^th week of basic training my left arm broke while doing pull ups before entering the mess hall for dinner.   The drill sergeant sent for the company medic who got me into an ambulance and off we went to the hospital.    After x-rays they discovered it was a bone cyst in my left humerus that caused the break.   I was placed on the orthopedic ward on the 3^rd floor of the hospital.   The next day the chief military surgeon, a colonel, paid me a visit to inform me my arm would require surgery and a bone graft.    After the surgery a hospital corpsman was trying to wake me up in the ICU.   I noticed a big heavy cast from my hand to my shoulder and all supported by a rope around my neck.   The cast was intended to be heavy enough to keep the humerus straight as there was no way it could be pinned.   A week or so later I was sent home for 30 days of convalescence leave.    When I returned to Fort Hood the cast was removed along with the wires that stitched up the incision that ran from my left shoulder to the elbow.   I went through a therapy program for a couple of months to regain strength in my arm.   After rehabilitation and being found fit for duty I was transferred out of the hospital to an old WWII barracks where hospital personnel lived.  I was assigned as a hospital corpsman on the orthopedic ward where I had been a patient.  It was on-the-job training and being low man on the totem pole my first assignment was taking care of bed pans used by bed ridden patients, many who had been wounded in Vietnam.   I took orders from everybody, including the head nurse, a female First Lieutenant, the senior Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO), a Sergeant First Class and all others that outranked me.  About 75% of the patients on this ward had some kind of injury from the war, mostly land mines, booby traps and a few gun shots.   It was customary that the wounded would return to the nearest military hospital closet to their home until they were well enough to go home.   Over the next few months I did a little of everything from treating bed sores, changing bed linen, taking vital signs, issuing mediations, including two beers a day to bed patients and assisting the medical staff with all kinds of procedures .   I was told the beer helped flush out the patient’s kidneys.   It was Budweiser beer which today is the last beer I would ever drink. 

Somewhere during all this I was promoted to Private First Class (PFC) where you get one stripe to wear on your uniform.    By December orders came from above for me to return to basic training at Fort Polk, Louisiana.   This place had to be the armpit of the world and made Fort Hood look like a vacation playground.   The facilities were WWII vintage and it was cold and wet in the winter.   The senior drill sergeant had special names for us that I can’t repeat here.   The barracks were drafty with little or no heat that I can remember and the bathrooms were one big room with toilets and showers, no privacy here.   Since I was a PFC they bestowed upon me the rank of acting platoon leader, but soon was demoted to a squad leader since nobody could keep in step with my stride when we marched.    We were up at 4 am and had 15 minutes to wash, get dressed, make our beds and be ready for morning formation.  For those that did not get up promptly the drill sergeant would turn their beds over for a rude awakening.  After the first week maybe four to six people couldn’t take it anymore and deserted.   Each morning we ran a mile, ate breakfast in the mess hall where no talking was allowed and then the five mile march out to the rifle range.   Lunch was usually rations or a hot meal of swill from canisters.  

Some of the most exciting times were out on the rifle range where we were provided with a warming tent that had a pot belly stove in the center.   The tent was so full of people that by the time you got near the stove the drill sergeant yelled at us to get out and let the next squad in.   We were constantly cold.  At the end of the day we had the privilege of riding back to base in trailer trucks covered by a canopy.   The front of the trailer was left open to allow the cold air to blow through the trailer for added excitement.  In many ways we wished we could have hiked back to the main post.  

After completing eight weeks of basic training we were assigned our advanced individual training (AIT) assignments.  Since most of us were draftees we had little or no say so in what kind of AIT we would receive.   It consisted of infantry, artillery, armor or becoming a medic.   Some of us were assigned to Fort Sam Houston in Austin, Texas for 10 weeks of combat medical training.    Life was much more pleasant here with little harassment from the cadre.  Each day consisted of class room instructions, watching horror films of combat casualties, practicing different medical procedures, such as dressing wounds, applying splints, IV’s, morphine and much more.   At the end of each day we were free to do as we pleased, except we had to remain on the post.   The choice of many was the beer garden for few rounds before having dinner in the mess hall.  Weekends we were able to venture off post into Austin.  

After completing this 10 week course I was assigned to Fort Stewart, Georgia as a medic with the ambulance section of the hospital that provided medical rescue support for the training of helicopter pilots.   Fort Stewart was the biggest military reservation east of the Mississippi River consisting of pine forests, swamps and surrounded by small farming towns.  This place was hot and humid.  Every afternoon thunder storms would develop breaking the humidy build up, then it would all start again.   We lived in a mental ward of an old WWII hospital with no air conditioning.   The non-commissioned officer (NCO) in charge of us was a Sergeant First Class named Sergeant Farley.   He had 27 years of service, including a veteran of WWII and Korea.  I suspect he may had a drinking problem, as he told us to come to his office any time if we had a problem where he had a bottle in a desk drawer.   As long as we kept the barracks fairly clean Sergeant Farley never inspected it and even allowed us to have beer after work hours in the barracks.  All he asked of us was to follow his weekly work schedule.   It showed our assignments where we were required to go to the motor pool every morning, get our ambulance, convoy with a military fire truck and a flight control truck out to a staging field where helicopter flight training took place.   Two medics were assigned to each ambulance, one as the driver, the other as the attendant.  There would be six to eight staging fields operating at once with up to 100 helicopters flying.  Most accidents were fatal where fire was the end result and usually no survivors.   The ambulance was required to park alongside the fire truck during operations.   If there was an accident a horn would be sounded by the flight control truck and the ambulance would follow the fire truck to the scene of the crash.  The days were hot and there was not much for us to do.  A helicopter would bring canisters of hot food out to the staging field for lunch.  Usually the bugs were so bad it was hard to swallow anything without a bug going down with it.   It was tempting in the afternoons to lay down in beds in back of the ambulance and take a nap.  This happened once during a drill, the horn was sounded and off went the fire truck with no ambulance following.   The flight officer in charge, a major, came to the ambulance and told the two of us to stand at attention the rest of the afternoon in front of the ambulance—not fun.   After work hours most of us went to the Post Exchange, better known as the PX to buy beer and spend time in our barracks playing poker before dinner.   All our meals were served in the hospital dining hall and the food was not that bad, since officers and doctors ate there too. 

With only eight months of active service remaining I was promoted to Specialist 4 (equivalent to a corporal).   Most of the medics on this unit were draftees and had over a year of active duty to serve and a few received orders to go to Vietnam for a year of duty.   The Army had a weekly newspaper, the Army Times that Sergeant Farley would share with us.  The paper had a death list of those that had died in Vietnam over that week.   One afternoon he informed us that one of our medics, which we all had known was on the list after only two weeks in Vietnam.   It was a sobering experience.

During my last month of active duty the US Navy ship, the USS Pueblo was seized off of North Korea.  There were rumors I might get extended and my beer consumption increased.    Finally I was down to my last week with no threat of being extended.  My last assignment was to visit the company First Sergeant, the top NCO.   He tried to get me to reenlist, telling me I could be promoted to Specialist 5 (equivalent to a sergeant) if I signed up for three more years.  I was not interested and few days later was officially discharged from active duty and on my way home.

 

P.S.

Looking back on what happened to my arm it may have saved my life from not having enough time in my two year tour of duty to go to Vietnam.    It was known that during combat the radio man and the medic were usually the first to be shot at with high probability of being killed or wounded.   

After two years of active duty I still had four years of reserve duty, which included two years of active reserves and two years of inactive reserves.   I only received one notice to report to Fort Carson, Colorado for two weeks of training exercises in the summer of 1968 and that was followed with another notice that it was cancelled.   I never heard any more from my reserve units and was honorably discharged February 1970.

The End of the Road

 I got to digging back through some of my writings and found this one that might fit what is happening today.  It is fiction and the introduction explains how it reflects on people I have known, religion, politics and a changing world.  Some of you may have seen this before.   Attached is the Introduction and Chapter 1.  There is more if you find this enjoyable.  

This story is based on people and events that I encountered while working for the Forest Service from 1969 to 1995 in remote communities of Alaska, California and Oregon. It is a fictitious story, but comprises many experiences I witnessed with friends and others I have associated with over those years. In many ways my own story is incorporated into this. After leaving the Forest Service in 1995, I did consider being a caretaker on some remote place, until I met my second wife and my life changed for the better.

Even as a child traveling with my parents I would notice isolated places,

such as old abandoned farmhouses and wonder what the story was with

those places. Life in the big city and the maddening crowds never did appeal to me and I found solace in remote communities, but there was a certain amount of loneliness. Life has a way of bringing change and like most of us I went through the cycle with a failed marriage, job burn out and a few less than perfect moves. In general, it has been an education from the University of Life, but for some of us, who did not make the grade, or find proper counseling it ended in disaster or tragedy. The story location is eastern Oregon, made up of high desert country, scattered mountain ranges and remote communities. This area is larger than most of New England with a population of less than 2 people per square mile. What drives a person to end up here, besides the cheap price of real estate? In some ways this land represents many of the people living here. Desolate souls who don’t fit into the mainstream of society. People running away from something, maybe life itself. Many are single men who suffer from the

ills of society, divorce, mid-life crisis, war, mental disorders or depression.

Then there are the artists and writers coming into this country to find

solitude to achieve their great masterpieces. Whatever their reasons for ending up here, many of these people have come to resemble this land with weathered faces, missing teeth, some with unkempt hair and others with very little. The ranchers and loggers that originally settled this land are slowly disappearing because of environmental issues and economic hardships. Good paying jobs are few and far between, but there are seasonal jobs available, fighting wild fires or working on farms and ranches in the summer. A critical factor is the lack of medical professionals to cover this vast area, making people more dependent on each other for advice on how to cope with their physical and mental ills, and a changing world, or how to avoid it all and live in a state of denial. Most therapy sessions are held in the local tavern.

It is an unfair world and with age it becomes clear that change is inevitable and the words normal and perfect slowly fade from our vocabulary. Too much reality can drive us into insanity, so at times it becomes necessary to escape into fiction and tell about the ways life might have been. It’s a big job to come up with the details between the start and the finish, but at least we can write our own ending.

                                          The End of the Road

                                                  Chapter One

                                                       Winter

A cold wind was blowing across the desolate landscape of eastern Oregon, as a light snow began to fall.  Mark, along with his old dog Jack, retreated into the cabin with another log for the woodstove.  He had just finished feeding the horses as the sun was setting.  It was the middle of December, the days were short and the temperature ranged between a low of zero to a high of 30 degrees.  He turned on the propane stove to heat up some coffee and relax before cooking some kind of dinner.  After feeding Jack, Mark sat in his favorite chair with a cup of coffee, and listened to the radio.  He concluded tomorrow would be a good day to go to town for supplies as there was not much in the refrigerator, except some leftover beans, a half loaf of bread, peanut butter, a few beers and some old wilted lettuce.  The cupboards did not have much either, a couple cans of beans, a can of soup, a box of oatmeal, some spices, and dog food.  

Mark was a caretaker on a remote 3,200 acre high elevation ranch used as summer pasture for cattle, but some horses remained here during the winter.  The topography of the ranch was made up of open meadows feeding into seasonal creeks.  There were patches of fir and pine trees scattered between the meadows with an understory of sage and rabbit brush.  His principle duties included feeding ten horses twice a day during the winter months, making sure the water system worked, and maintaining some outbuildings and equipment.  In addition he was required to keep bad critters and bad people, especially trespassers, away.  The three mile road leading off the ranch to the county road had a gate on it, but had a history of having the lock cut off and people venturing onto the place to do as they pleased.  He was compensated with free housing, a one ton four wheel drive pickup truck with a diesel fuel tank in the bed, and $500 per month.  The four room cabin that he called home was located on the upper ranch facilities consisting of two barns, an equipment shed, a wood shed, corrals and a large water tank with a wind-mill.  The only electric power source was a diesel generator.  The ranch manager and his foreman lived on the lower ranch complex in the valley, where the cattle were kept during the winter and the alfalfa fields were located.  During the spring and summer he could earn an additional $10 dollars an hour maintaining and operating equipment.  This usually involved working in the alfalfa fields, doing road maintenance or working in the shop.  He also acted as a fire guard during times of high fire danger in the summer and was responsible for maintaining and operating a 600 gallon fire pumper at the high elevation ranch.  

The next morning Mark was up early to feed the horses, break the ice in the water trough and make sure the windmill was operating properly.  By 8 am he and Jack were in the truck and headed into town.  There were some patches of snow and ice on the roads, so the going was slow.  His first stop before going into town would be at the ranch headquarters to fill the fuel tank on the truck, pick up some feed grain for the horses and check in with Sam, the ranch manager.

Usually once a week Mark would drive the 10 miles into the small town

of Mountain Valley, population 150. It consisted of a combination grocery and hardware store, a gas station, post office, small library, elementary school, a church and a tavern that also served as a restaurant with a limited menu of sandwiches, burgers and the soup of the day, which in most cases was the same as yesterday’s.  The volunteer fire department had one fire truck kept in an old garage next to the tavern.  Monthly meetings involved starting the truck, testing the pump and afterwards adjourning to the tavern.  The fire chief was a retired logger named George, who was also the pastor for the local church.  He had received his endorsement in ministry from a correspondence course recommended to him years ago by Jim and Jean, owners of the tavern, shortly after the previous pastor skipped town taking church funds and George’s wife.  Some aging logging equipment stood among the tall weeds next to George’s house, mute testament to his thinking that some day he would return to the woods as a contract logger as he had done 15 years earlier. But now he got only a few log hauling jobs during the year with his old log truck.    

Most residents here were older retired people, some societal misfits and a few people that actually worked.  Almost everybody drove an old pickup truck with a dog or two in the back, along with few empty beer cans.  Most of the houses in town were heated by wood and the yards had firewood stacked or piled in them along with a few vehicles, including some that no longer functioned.  In addition, there were a couple of travel trailers parked on the sides of some houses, serving as a spare bedroom or home for relatives, such as the mother-in-law.  The only law enforcement would be an occasional visit by a deputy sheriff whenever there was a disagreement at the tavern or when somebody drove off the road or died for whatever reason.  It was a very conservative and anti-government community even through most people here received some form of government assistance, such as social security, VA benefits, federal pension, or some kind of public welfare.  The only person that voiced a liberal viewpoint out loud was the librarian, a middle aged single woman named Gail, who worked two days a week when the community library was opened.  Sometimes she would socialize at the tavern after work and argue with some of the good old boys about politics, telling them how narrow minded they were about their views on social and environmental issues.  She would remind many of them that their education never went much beyond high school and their travels did not go much further than the county line.  In general a good time was had by all and to show no ill feelings toward her they would offer her a beer.  

When in town Mark always made a point of having a late lunch and a beer or two after doing his weekly shopping and picking up his mail at the post office.  At the tavern he usually ran into his circle of friends, all about his age.  There was Bob, a retired Forest Service employee, who wanted to do nothing more then hunt, fish, drink beer and talk about how bad his ex-wife had been.  Then there was Randy, a disabled Vietnam vet with emotional problems, who was still fighting the war.  Sometimes a recluse by the name of Harold showed up, who never said much and lived alone on some remote property where he had a mining claim.  He was a grizzly looking big fellow with long hair and a beard.  There was a younger guy by the name of Ted, who did a little of everything from cutting timber, seasonal farm work and fire fighting.  He was probably one of the most sensible people in town.  His wife was one of the teachers at the local school.  The owners of the J & J Tavern & Restaurant, Jim and Jean, were an older couple. Jean did most of the cooking while Jim waited on tables, served the beer and tried to maintain the peace between customers .  When Jim could not keep peace in the place, Jean would come out from the kitchen threatening bodily harm with a frying pan.  In most cases it worked.

Mark usually timed his trip to town on one of the two days a week the library was open. He enjoyed reading, and usually chose a stack of books to take home to fill the long winter nights. Talking to the librarian was a side benefit. Gail seemed to listen to him and would respond in an intelligent manner, which was a lot more than the guys at the tavern did.  She lived in John Day and commuted on the days the library was open, bringing a new supply of books from the main county library where she worked three days a week.  

It was mid-afternoon when Mark left the tavern and started the trip back home with Jack in the passenger seat, a box of groceries on the floor and some horse feed in the pickup bed.  It was snowing as Mark drove out of town and up the county road toward the ranch.  He arrived at the cabin as the snow was coming down harder. By the time he unloaded the truck, started a fire, put the groceries away and fed Jack, he couldn’t see 10 feet beyond the front door. There is always a lonely feeling coming home to an empty cold house, especially in a remote place like this.  He put his hat and heavy jacket on to go out and feed the horses and start the generator before it turned dark.  While walking back to the horse barn he noticed the windmill was turning, but the pump was not working.  He thought to himself that the gear on the shaft must have become loose again and figured he would work on it tomorrow if the snow let up.

Mark found contentment in his secluded environment, especially in the winter when he had time to read and perform the simple tasks of  life.  There was no TV reception here, but Mark could tune into a few radio channels in order to learn what the outside world was doing.  A cell phone was his only way to communicate with the people in his world whenever he could get good reception, which usually involved going up the hill behind the cabin.   

Mark had a history of a failed marriage, a home in Portland and a demanding job as a heavy equipment mechanic with a construction firm that did highway jobs all around the Pacific Northwest. It involved much traveling, living out of motels and eating restaurant food.  The long hours and traveling got the best of him and at the age of 55 he called it quits. He wanted to be in a more rural setting, living in a small community like one which he had enjoyed seeing during his off times on the job. It reminded him of his younger days before his marriage, when he worked seasonally as a fire fighter for the Forest Service in the Wallowa Mountains of northeastern Oregon.  It was a carefree life style that lasted for three summers, while he attended college and did odd jobs during the winter months.  He met his wife while going to college studying industrial equipment technology. This care- free life came to an end as they settled down in the suburbs of Portland, where his wife was a special education teacher. Eventually her love of the city and his of the country led to a parting of the ways.

 When Mark and his wife decided to divorce, they sold the Portland house, paid off the remaining mortgage and a few other outstanding bills, which left him only an old car and about $2500.   He found the caretaking job in the classified ads and was hired based on his mechanical skills.  He loaded up his belongings and Jack the dog in the car and headed for eastern Oregon, in hopes of never returning to Portland or the rat race again.  

Now he was about to turn 60 with no health care insurance, no pension and a broken down car, the same one that got him here five years ago.  Mark avoided any thoughts of his future and lived for the here and now.   He could look forward to social security at 62 and Medicare at 65, but figured he would stay put as a caretaker. Besides, he had no other place to go.   

By February, the winter dragged on, with the same old routine.  The daily chores of feeding the horses, keeping the water system from freezing up, and moving firewood from the shed to the cabin began to get wearisome. The weekly trips to town were the only break in the monotony.  When the snow got deeper than a foot he found a little excitement when he would have to start up the old Cat bulldozer and plow snow from the road.  Then there were a few really cold days when it was a full-time job just to keep the cabin warm in order to keep body and soul together.  One night in late February, there was a commotion in the horse barn.  It woke Mark and Jack started barking.  Mark suspected a cougar, so he grabbed his 12 gauge shotgun and a flashlight.  He and Jack headed out into the freezing night, but saw nothing.  He fired off a couple of shells to scare off whatever might be out there.  The horses were all accounted for, so he returned to the cabin, put another log in the stove and went back to bed.  Sure enough the next morning he spotted cougar tracks in the snow around the barn while feeding the horses. 

  

His cell phone rang just as he finished his morning chores. It was Harold, asking for help getting his truck unstuck. He had driven off the Forest Service road leading to his mining claim.  Mark had never been to Harold’s place, but had a rough idea where it was located and kind of looked forward to seeing it.  He told Harold he could be there within the hour.  Mark loaded up a tow chain and he and Jack headed out.  It took them about 30 minutes to reach the road Harold was on and Mark noticed a set of tracks going up-hill on the road.  The snow was about eight to ten inches deep and Mark had to put the truck into four wheel drive to get up the road.  In another ten minutes he saw Harold’s truck off the side of the road stuck in the ditch.  Mark was able to hook the chain to the front of his truck and pull Harold’s vehicle back onto the road.  Since Mark’s truck was much bigger than Harold’s, they decided to let Mark lead the way another mile up to where the claim was.  There was a gate on the road leading a quarter of a mile down to the claim next to a creek.  A sign on the gate said, “Trespassers will be shot and if they survive they will be shot again.”  Harold’s camp was not much, just an old trailer with a blue tarp on it and a sickly green cast from the mildew clinging to the sides.  There was a crude shed next to it with propane tanks, firewood and few other items that looked mostly like junk.  A  broken-down dump truck with jack stands holding up the rear axle was parked nearby with garbage piled in the back. Mark could see why there was no woman in Harold’s life.  Harold invited Mark into the trailer for some coffee, but Mark excused himself, saying he had to get back to the ranch. After seeing the outside of the place he really had no desire to see the inside.  Back at the ranch Mark concluded his old cabin looked fairly good, after all.

A week had past and Mark was down to his last tank of propane, which was used for the stove, hot water heater and refrigerator.  A trip to the big city of John Day was in order to fill the tanks, do some serious shopping at the Safeway where the produce was a little fresher than at the local general store. Maybe it was time to visit Gail. It was a 50 mile drive and took about an hour with good road conditions.  Since the weather forecast was showing no major storms Mark decided to make the trip tomorrow, which was Friday, knowing Gail would be working in the John Day library.  The next day Mark had the empty tanks strapped down in the bed of the truck and he and Jack were on their way.  By 10 o’clock they arrived in John Day, got the tanks filled and did the grocery shopping.  Mark went into the library a little before noon thinking he might ask Gail out for lunch, but she was not there.  He was told by the librarian on duty that Gail had taken the day off to go to Bend for the weekend. His imagination went wild for a moment, and he wondered if there was a special man in her life. But he forced those thoughts aside, started the drive home and planned to stop at the tavern to visit whomever might be there and have a beer along with a sandwich. 

It was 3 o’clock when he got to the tavern.  There were Bob and George  discussing how the United Nations wanted to take over the country by taking away all private property rights and forcing everyone to move to the cities.  Mark tried to ignore the discussion as George turned to him asking why he never went to church.  He replied that he had a hard time dealing with organized religion (even while thinking privately that George’s church was not very organized).  About this time Jean came out from the kitchen, sternly telling George that he should spend more time preaching the word of the Bible and less time talking politics.  At this, George excused himself quickly, saying he had to go home, a run-down shingled two-story house with sagging roof and rusting array of logging equipment located just behind the tavern. He said he needed to prepare a sermon for Sunday services.

 Then Bob, now by himself at the bar, offered to buy Mark a beer and launched into a bitter re-telling of how his ex-wife had ruined his views on religion.  Bob lived in a small house on the edge of town and usually got most his exercise by walking from home to the tavern.  After having a couple of beers and a sandwich, Mark had had enough, and told Bob he needed to get back to the ranch.  Out of politeness, he asked Bob if he wanted a ride home since he passed by Bob’s house. At that very moment Randy, the Vietnam vet, entered the tavern all stressed out about how he could not get any sleep due to flash backs about some battle during the war.  Bob thanked Mark for offering him a ride home, but said he wanted to buy Randy a beer and hopefully settle his nerves.  Randy lived alone in a single wide trailer in town and survived off a limited disability from the VA and a small amount of Social Security earned for the ten years he was able to work at various jobs.  The nearest VA clinic was in Bend, a three hour ride away, and Randy never had much energy to drive that distance unless somebody would offer him a lift there, so he resorted to telling his problems to the guys in the tavern.  George was a Vietnam vet also, but never cared to talk about his experiences and always advised Randy to seek help in a spiritual way.  George said the VA was just another government agency that did very little for the vets and was wasting taxpayers’ money like most of the government programs did.  George did receive Social Security for the 25 plus years he worked in logging and for his early days of working for the Forest Service as a seasonal fire fighter.  Now George was 68, missing most of his teeth, had very little hair and had never really recovered from his wife running off with the previous pastor thirteen years earlier. For a few years after that he took anti-depressants to save himself from going off the deep end and putting a gun to his head, as happened often for many in these parts.  Finally, religion  with its ideas of forgiveness and salvation, plus the caring of the tavern owners Jim and Jean saved him, and being a pastor made him feel worth something again.  Jean and Jim had provided him with comfort, food and much beer during those hard times.  As a last resort Jean got George to see a doctor in John Day, who prescribed the anti-depressants.  That was the last time George had seen a doctor for anything. 

Back at the ranch, Mark was busy with his regular chores, plus preparing for spring by cleaning out the horse barn while letting the horses graze in the nearby meadow.  It was March, the snow was gone at the lower elevations of the ranch and the afternoons were mostly sunny.  Mark took a break this warm afternoon and went to town.  He had books to return to the library and mail to pick up at the post office.  Wilbur the postmaster saw Mark and asked if he had seen Harold lately, since his mail had not been picked up in over a month.  This alarmed Mark, so he went over to the tavern to see if anybody there had seen Harold.  Jim and Bob were at the bar and said they had not seen him in awhile either and mentioned others in the town had commented  about his absence.  Bob said he had no idea where Harold’s place was. Mark replied, “I do, Bob, why don’t you come with me and let’s see if he is there.”   It took them about an hour to come to the closed gate leading to Harold’s place.  Here they parked the truck and walked on down the narrow road hoping they would not surprise Harold and get shot at.  As they came into the clearing above his place they yelled out his name, but there was no reply.  They could see Harold’s pickup truck, but no trailer, then they realized it had burned down.  It was completely incinerated—all that was left was a pile of charred debris and ash. There was no sign of Harold. Bob and Mark knew they should not disturb the scene pending the sheriff’s investigation, so assuming the worst, all they could do was go back to town and call the authorities. They returned to the tavern and reported what they had found to the sheriff over the phone.  A few others had gathered in the tavern by now, including George, who said they should have a church service for Harold, even though he never came to church.  Bob made a comment that Harold usually just sat at the end of the bar, drank his beer and said very little to anybody, so maybe we should all have a beer, be quiet and remember Harold sitting at the end of the bar and call it a day.  All agreed and the beer was served.   

A few minutes later Gail entered the tavern and asked Jim what was going on with all the people here.  He explained about the situation with Harold, and Gail commented how sad, and now she understood why he was late with returning some books.  She noticed Mark and moved in his direction and said, “hi stranger and by the way you have some overdue books also”.   He replied how they were in the truck, but got sidetracked into going out to Harold’s place.  Then Gail said, “hey, I was told you were in the John Day library last month looking for me”.  Mark replied, “yeah, I had to get some propane then was going to ask you out to lunch but you were gone”.  She said , “ I had to go see my mother in Bend, who has been sick”.   Mark thought to himself, maybe there is no man in her life.

It was getting late and Gail said she had to get on the road and get home, but could have a bite to eat before going.  Mark said, let me buy you dinner, and they found a table near the back of the dining room, since the bar area was noisy with the crowd discussing and mourning the tragedy with Harold.  While they ate their dinner, Mark explained what him and Bob had seen at Harold’s, talked about what he had been doing on the ranch and the coming of spring.  Gail said she sure would like to see the place whenever she had a chance, but now had to get going as it was getting dark.  They said their goodbyes and Mark also started back to the ranch.   

Written by: Mike Burke

855 Wildflower Lane

Oakland, OR 97462

Email: farmhand.mike@gmail.com

Edited by: Celia Scott

Same address as above

Learning to Drive

It was in a 1949 red Ford pickup truck that I first learned to drive at the age of 15 while living in Willows, California in 1960.   Under the supervision of my mother she would let me drive it to the dump with a load of garbage.   It had a three speed manual transmission and the big challenge was letting the clutch out without killing the engine.  It took about two or three trips to the dump and a few lessons around the driveway to master this.   

Every spring my dad would have two or three large trucks filled with rice seed parked in the driveway of our home.  The seed had to be soaked in water by sprinklers for a day or two before it could be dispersed by plane over the flooded rice fields.   It was necessary to have the seed heavy enough by presoaking to make it sink to the ground and not float on the water.   When it came time to drive the trucks to the landing strip south of town, he would have me drive a truck while he would drive one and mom would drive the car to bring us back home.   These trucks had five main gears and two speed axles for a total of 10 speeds.  It was all done under the trial and error method as I don’t remember too many instructions from my dad.   All I remember him saying is, “just follow me.”   He must have thought if I can drive the old Ford pickup I should be able to handle these trucks.   At the time this was done under a learner’s permit and considered a driving lesson under your parent’s supervision, except nobody was in the truck with me.  

By the age of 16, I passed the driving test and received my license.  A  day later while driving the family car to town I failed to make a complete stop at the stop sign at the junction of Villa and Sycamore Streets.  After making a left hand turn I noticed a California Highway Patrol car with the red light on behind me.   I pulled over and the officer asked to see my license.   He noticed I had just received the license and issued me a citation that required a visit to the local judge.   My dad went along with me to the court house.   As we sat in the office of the judge my dad and the judge got to talking about things that had nothing to do with my citation.    I don’t recall what was said between them, but it could have been about duck hunting, farming or local politics.   No fine was paid and nothing was ever said to me about it.  I learned later my dad had made a few appearances with the judge about driving under influence of too many beers.   Back in those days it was required by the officers of the law to visit a doctor in the hospital to determine if you were intoxicated.   The doctor usually on call and my dad were friends and that doctor was known for his own enjoyment of alcoholic beverages.   This doctor would tell the officer, “This man is not under the influence,” and the case was closed.   Maybe my dad would buy the good doctor a beer afterwards.

About 25 years later while driving back home on Highway 101 from a school function north of Gold Beach, Oregon I was pulled over by the Oregon State Police for speeding.    The officer informed me I was going 10 miles over the posted speed limit of 65 mph and had the option to pay the fine of $105 by mail or make a court appearance and plead for a lesser amount.  I went to court and pleaded guilty hoping to get a reduced amount since $105 was a lot of money in those days with a young family.   The judge noticed no previous violations on my driving record and he said, “Let’s keep it that way,” and asked if I could pay a $20 fine, which I said, “yes your honor,” and no violation was recorded.   

Looking Back for Tomorrow

 Except for an occasional visit with neighbors or a trip to the store, this computer has become our primary connection to the outside world where we can share our thoughts and experiences.   Attached is a short essay we can all relate to and ponder.

Map collecting has been a hobby of mine ever since my school days.   Remember those state maps you could get at the gas station back in the 1950’s and 60’s for free?   I still have some, plus maps from National Geographic, National Forests, Parks and my share of atlases.    Now we have Google Maps and Google Earth to find all those places we want to explore.    With no place to go these days I  can travel back in time by sitting and looking at the computer screen in search of  where we traveled, backpacked and worked over the years.    Some of those places are hard to find, especially the many forest roads I have traveled and trails I have hiked.   Some of those roads are no longer maintained, the clear cut units we used as landmarks are now second growth forests, some are over 40 years old and many places, including wildness areas, have been burned.   The natural topography is still there, the streams, the ridges and the mountain peaks, but not the way we remember them due to fires that have altered the landscape.   

In midst of a world-wide pandemic, a changing climate, political chaos and an unknown economic future we don’t know what is down the road of life.    There are no maps charting the future course.   History can be our greatest teacher as we look back in time and learn from our mistakes.    Humanity has survived two world wars, the Spanish flu of 1918-19 and the Great Depression of the last century.    The great question is did humanity make the right choices after all those events?  Were they good only in the short-term and harmful in the long-term?  

Hopefully we all survive this crisis and become more understanding of each other, our environment, and develop an economy that is more sustainable for future generations.    The natural world is constantly changing and we better adjust no matter how much we think we can change Mother Nature.    We have tried for generations with little success, causing more harm than good.  Who knows what the future has in store for mankind?   One thing for sure, I don’t think we will see those free maps at the gas station ever again.  

The Logging Fire

                                         Gold Beach Ranger District

                                            Siskiyou National Forest

 

South Coast Lumber Company had been given a deadline to start road preparation work for dust abatement along their haul route from the North Lobster Timber Sale.   This work consisted of watering and grading Forest Service gravel roads prior to the application of dust oil.   On the deadline date in the summer of 1979, I drove up to the sale area to see if they were in compliance with this contract requirement.    As I drove the haul route there was a grader and water truck working on the roads.   I drove into the unit where they were yarding and loading trucks, parked and began filling out a Timber Sale Inspection Report to document that the Purchaser was in compliance with the dust abatement provision of the contract.    As I was writing a log truck driver came up to my truck saying” You better come and take a look at this.”   We walked to the edge of the road where we could look downhill into the clear-cut unit that was being yarded.    There was smoke coming from the bottom of the ravine in this V shape unit with a road around two sides of it.   Soon after that the rigging crew blew one long whistle to shut down the operation as the fire was spreading uphill through down logs toward the landing.   The landing crew took down the two guy lines anchoring the mobile yarder and drove it along with the loader out of harm’s way.   The rigging crew took fire tools from the fire truck and pulled hose from the reel in an attempt to extinguish the fire, but it was moving fast up both slopes.   I called in the fire over the radio to the District fire management people and a few minutes later they called back informing me that an air tanker had been dispatched from Medford and would arrive in 20 minutes.   The next radio call I received was from a local logger, Shirley Laird, asking if I wanted his helicopter to dump water on the fire and I replied,” Yes”.  Later I was reprimanded by the District Administrative Assistant for this as there was no pre-rental agreement between Laird and the Forest Service.   Since I verbally hired Laird as an authorized Forest Officer the Forest Service was obliged to pay at $600/hour (don’t remember the final billing).   My reply to the Administrative Assistant was “I would do it all again under the circumstances”.   He was not pleased with my reply.

After I drove my truck away to a safe distance, I looked back to see the fuel truck was still parked by the unit.  With all personnel busy moving equipment and trying to fight the fire I ran back and drove the truck to a safer location.   The air tanker arrived and dumped the fire retardant, which only slowed the advanced of the fire as it was now spreading spot fires in the adjacent standing forest.   Laird’s helicopter was unable to suppress the fire either, as it was consuming all the down timber in the 20 acre unit.   The logging crew had to leave the unit for their own safety.  Their 500 gallon fire truck parked along the road on the back side of the unit was destroyed by the fire.  Within an hour the Forest Service fire crew arrived and took over management of the fire.  I was told to return to the station. 

Over the next few days the Forest Service assembled an investigative team, made up of management people from adjacent Forests (Rogue River and Umpqua Forests) and was headed up by the Siskiyou Forest Timber Staff Officer.  This team was to determine if the Purchaser was negligent in starting this fire.    If they were found to be negligent South Coast Lumber would have to pay 100% of the fire suppression costs.   The logging crew and I were the primary subjects of this investigation.   A week before the fire I performed a fire inspection of this operation and all fire precautionary requirements were in compliance with the contract.   This was all documented on a Fire Inspection form, including an agreement that any smoking by the logging crew was only allowed in vehicles.  This form was signed by me and the logging supervisor, who happened to be a son of the owner of South Coast Lumber.    One requirement of the fire precautionary provisions of the contract is that any moving cable blocks on the ground had to have a 10 foot radius clearing of all vegetative debris along with a shovel and 5 gallon water pump can nearby.  These can emit sparks when cable in going through them at a high rate of speed.    Since the tail block on this operation was just below the road on the back side of the unit it was easy to inspect and was found to be in compliance.   During my interview with the investigative team I was questioned twice on the logger’s compliance with clearing around the tail block.   As documented I repeated they had been in compliance and that the fire had started at the bottom of the unit, not at the tail block.   They started to question me a third time on this subject, and my patience was becoming thin.  I replied.” I am tired of repeating myself” and got up and left the building before doing something foolish.   The team leader told the interviewer questioning me enough had been said.   It was learned later that one of the choker setters had been smoking in the unit, but said he made sure he had extinguished his cigarette in the dirt.  Others on the rigging crew said they had seen sparks coming from the carriage when the yarding cable was moving through it.  In the end there was no definite proof of what started the fire and it could have been sparks or hot metal coming off a frozen sheave in the carriage.    

The fire was contained in a few days after consuming 40 acres, including the 20 acre clear cut unit and 20 acres of adjacent forest.   Since it was considered an operational fire South Coast Lumber and the Forest Service split the suppression costs and I still had a job.  

The Gardening Story

 Gardening has always been a big part of my life.  Of all the places I have lived I would scratch out some kind of garden plot.   When we lived in Greenville, California we purchased a 7 horse power Troy-Built rototiller in 1977, to till a fenced garden plot that was next to the old ranch house we rented.   After moving into a government house on the Gold Beach Ranger Station in 1979 the tiller came with us, but we were not allowed to develop a garden plot since the station was on the National Historical Register as it had been constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corp or CCC.   A few month after our arrival some friends let us garden on their property outside of town.   In 1981 we bought our first house on two acres along Hunter Creek, two miles south of Gold Beach.    Here we had a big garden, chickens, a sheep for wool, a goat for milk and a fixer-upper house with all its never ending repair projects.   As if I did not have enough to do, there were weekends I helped neighbors and friends with tilling their gardens.   In the fall of 1986 my wife and two children moved to Eugene where she attended the University of Oregon.   In 1988 I was offered a job with the Forest Service in Cottage Grove to be closer to family and rented a house on Lynx Hollow Road where I developed a small garden.    Shortly thereafter the Gold Beach house was sold.  In 1990 my wife and I went our separate ways with a divorce and in order to have my children live with me on a part-time basis I bought a small house in Eugene in 1991 where they were attending school.   Here I developed a blueberry patch that the neighbors and a few homeless people enjoyed who were living in the nearby ash tree swamp along Amazon Creek in South Eugene.  

When I left the Forest Service in March of 1995 a co-worker, who had an artistic talent for drawing, made me a cartoon advertisement which included my phone number and a sketch of me and my dog Jack rototilling.  I hung the poster up at the Oasis Market on Willamette Street in Eugene and the phone started ringing with job offers.   People started telling their friends and neighbors of my rototilling service and at times the phone was ringing off the hook.   Some of those people asked if I would do other work, such as pruning, hauling garden soil, hauling yard debris, building fences, painting, repairing lawn mowers or other power equipment.  There was one woman who wanted me to teach her husband how to do gardening work.   He seemed to be more content watching TV and drinking beer.  Another woman with a plot at a community garden hired me to rototill after dark by the headlights of her pickup.    Then there was the woman with many cats on leashes in her back yard that would hire me once a year to haul a pallet of cat food from a store in North Eugene and help her unload it in her garage.   One of the most colorful clients was an older woman that was always in her bathrobe that wanted to be called Grandma.   I did a variety of work for her from rototilling, cutting blackberries and removing a Willow tree that had fallen in her yard.   When it came time to pay me she would always add a large bonus from a big roll of cash she had in her house.    I tried to refuse the extra money, but she would reply, “never argue with Grandma”.  There was a woman who wanted to sell me her 8 horse power Troy-Built tiller at a cheap price and I bought it thinking it might come in handy when the other one broke down.     All my equipment was hauled around Eugene and Springfield in my old rusty 1975 Ford pickup.    The bolts holding the bed to the frame were so badly rusted out I feared losing it all on some busy intersection, luckily it never happened.

In 1997 I bought a DR Brush mower and took on brush and high grass mowing jobs, many located in the hills south of Eugene.   Some of these elegant homes had acreage with forest land and private driveways in need of vegetation clearing.   A few of these land owners asked me to estimate the value of their timber.   After deducting logging costs from the market value of the logs and adding the expense for cleaning up the mess or logging slash there was little return to the land owners. 

One of the better paying jobs was with the University of Oregon Housing Department that would hire me to do chainsaw work on hazard trees and brush mowing around houses they owned east of the campus.   There was no bidding required.  The housing manger would call me, show me what had to be done and paid me whatever I billed them, no questions asked.    

Most of this gardening work was seasonal from March into June and by fall the phone calls were far and few between.   In the fall of 1996 I enrolled at Lane Community College and studied Agricultural and Industrial Equipment Technology taking courses over four terms in electrical systems, hydraulics, welding and engine repair.   Except for a welding class two nights a week all other classes started at 7am and were out by noon giving me the afternoons to schedule any calls for work. 

Under an apprenticeship program with this class it landed me a seasonal job from June through September from 1996 to 2000 as a mechanic and equipment operator on a grass seed farm near Harrisburg.    Whenever summer rains shut down operations on the farm for a few days I would catch up on a few gardening jobs in and around Eugene. 

In November of 1997 I met Celia, who was working for the Olum Child Care Center at the University of Oregon.   By the spring of 1998 she was helping me with gardening jobs on weekends and enrolled in the OSU Master Gardeners Program.   Thereafter she became a partner and the brains of the outfit we called C & M Gardening Service, a business registered with the Oregon Secretary of State which we operated together until we moved to our property outside of Oakland, Oregon in 2006 when we officially retired.   By the way we also got married in October of 2000 and bought a house in Cottage Grove.

Willows 1947-66

Hot summer days, long dusty roads and a passing pickup truck were the familiar scene in the country side surrounding Willows.    It was usually a farmer going to town to buy parts for a broken down piece of farm equipment or more fuel for the tractor and probably a cold beer too.    Summers here were hot and usually in the triple digits by afternoon.   The foot hills west of town were brown and susceptible to wild fires.   In the summer of 1960, with the north wind blowing a power line failure ignited a range fire burning up livestock, miles of fences and ranch buildings in the hills all the way to the south county line.  As kids we either stayed in the air conditioned house, outside under the sprinklers or at the community pool during the summer.   It was so hot the flies didn’t even fly during the day.  At night when it cooled down into the 90’s the bugs were out in full force.  The only creatures that gained weight were the spiders, some as big as our hand.   My mother was not fond of living here and would say, “the next stop after Willows is Hell”.    After leaving the University of California at Davis in 1947, my dad took a job in Willows with the Production Credit Association, a farm loan company.    There was just the three of us then, including myself at the age of three.  All my other five siblings were born in Willows.   We originally lived in a small two bedroom house on Villa Street, just on the west side of town.    With a growing family dad built a large adobe house on 10 acres out of town in 1952, along County Road H.  Over time dad became a field representative for the California Rice Grower’s Cooperative and eventually got into rice farming himself.  During my teenage years my summers were spent working for my dad and another farmer, when my dad did not have enough for me to do.  The work consisted of irrigating crops, operating farm equipment, and maintaining it.    Much of what I learned was by the trial and error method. 

By late fall the rain would arrive and for the rice farmers who had not harvested all their crop they were in for a muddy ordeal whenever the weather permitted them to return to their fields.   Soon thereafter the ducks and geese would arrive from the North Country, darkening the skies as they settled on the unharvested rice fields of the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge purposely planted to keep them from eating the farmers’ rice.   When duck season opened the hunters would gather along the railroad tracts adjacent to the refuge or in nearby fields to shot their limit as the birds would leave the Refuge.  It sounded like a war zone at times and would continue into the winter.  My dad had an equipment shop and 150 acres of rice just northwest of the refuge.  He had constructed a couple of blinds made out of redwood lumber and placed them in some levies where hunters could conceal themselves while hunting.   Every year we would look forward to the arrival of Great Uncle Dan from San Francisco and going hunting with him.  There were more ducks and geese in our home freezer than I care to remember. 

Winters were wet and foggy.  The Sacramento Valley was famous for the Tule fog, so dense at times the geese would land in the streets of Willows unable to navigate the skies.   Highway 99, a two lane highway was known as Blood Alley for all the head on collisions during this time and even when the weather was clear.  People drove like there was no tomorrow.     

In the spring time the hills were green, farmers were plowing their fields in preparation for planting and the weather was pleasant with occasional showers.   A few of us kids from grammar school would ride our bikes six miles out to the hills and fish in Willow Creek on a sheep ranch, where the rancher caught us trespassing as he spotted our camp fire used to cook the fish.    He let us stay, but told us to ask for permission next time at his house down the highway.  About five miles east of town were the gravel pits, where the county road department had extracted gravel for paving roads leaving many large pits that filled with water over time.   Some of the pits were used as the county dump where we would make the monthly garbage run.   Everything you could imagine was thrown in there and burned.   Some of the gravel pit ponds were a popular fishing hole for us kids.    

The business section of Willows, along Highway 99, consisted of auto dealerships, farm equipment companies, part stores, and fuel and fertilizer distributers.   Willows had a Sears, J.C. Penny’s and a Southern Pacific passenger train depot, which all disappeared by the late 1950’s.    The town had a couple of grocery stores, schools, a movie theater, bowling alley and its fair share of drinking establishments.  One that remains is a stand up bar that was called “Rabbitt’s” where people could drive up, park their vehicle, order a beer or soda and drink at a standup bar.   As a kid working with my dad I can remember him stopping there for a beer and buying me a soda.  In all my travels since I have never seen anything like it.   It has relocated off Highway 99 and is now called “The Last Stand Bar and Grill”. 

In 1966 Uncle Sam drafted me into the Army.  A few years later Interstate 5 was constructed west of town and the businesses along old Highway 99 faded away as motels, gas stations, fast food joints and restaurants sprang up west of town to serve the Interstate traffic.   The freeway is less than a quarter of a mile west of our old adobe house.  While I was in the service my dad got out of the farming business due to financial problems, sold the 10 acres with the house and moved to Stockton.    After the Army I could have returned to Willows and worked for a friend of my dad who was a rice farmer, but my interest was in forestry.   Looking back it was a good decision not to return to Willows.   

Today the adobe house is still there, surrounded by a housing subdivision on what is now called Humboldt Avenue.  All you can see of the place from the freeway is all the green trees around the house, just like in the early days when pioneers on horses could see the willow trees adjacent to a pond that was an oasis in the arid valley plains that is now called Willows. 

The Paper War

 After spending 25 years working for the government, the most annoying task was dealing with all the paper work. In the beginning of my government career, I was assigned a mail basket where I received my time sheet every two weeks, or a letter from management on policy or conduct. The most I would receive was maybe 2 pieces of paper per week. By the time I completed my 25 years, I lost count of what I was receiving PER DAY, including both hard copies and e-mail. On the average it would take me an HOUR per day to go through all the incoming stuff. Much of it was junk mail - personnel items dealing with minorities, updated or revised manual supplements that I had nothing to do with, notices on upcoming meetings, surveys on some issue of the day, conduct in the coffee room, or the need for more money to keep coffee in the pot, etc, etc, etc. Other items of more importance, included notices of due dates for some kind of report required from me, a drafted letter from my supervisor wanting my input, or some form in need of having the blanks filled-in. 

It was a daily challenge to keep ahead of it all. A lot of this stuff became so overwhelming, that I would ignore some of it. Much of it ended up in the waste basket. Some of the items required by a certain date were never completed, and never missed by those making the request. One of the most amusing forms was the Negative Report. The actual instructions for this report said, "if there is nothing to report use this". I had a good time with this form... Even the bi-weekly attendance report, required at the end of each pay period became a challenge.

In order to keep my sanity, I would utilized a sense of humor at times. Since my primary job dealt with contract administration, I had to document all agreements, contract changes, acceptance of contractual work, and notices of non-compliance. This was documented on a form called the Inspection Report. This form produced four copies, one of which would end up in the head office. Once or twice a year, I would make out an Inspection Report describing some kind of enormous contractual change, or a list of major infractions on a particular contract, none of which ever happened. About half of these I never got any response on. Of the others, I would receive a phone call from the head office wanting to know what's going on. I would inform them that I was just checking to see if they were reading these things.

Mike Burke

Eugene, Oregon

The Wedding-Oct 7, 2000

 

THE  WEDDING  OF 

Celia Scott & Mike Burke

When:  4 PM   October 7, 2000    (Subject to change without notice)

Where:   Cloverdale Chapel & Meetinghouse   -   2.5 Miles east of Creswell on Cloverdale Road at the corner of Danstrom and Rogers Road.

How:   Quick & Simple  (If Mike has any say in it)

Reception:   Behind the Chapel -  Chips, dip and cake will be provided.   If you hanker for anything else - bring it!

Attire:   Men:  clean pair of jeans, shirt, and shoes or boots, no mud please.   Ladies:  the  same  goes for you, or fancy dress ok too.

Seating:   Anywhere you want.   (Back pew reserved for Mike, in case of feeling faint)

No gifts please,  we've already got enough stuff.  

                   

Tree Planting

 Another story from my days in Orleans for your reading enjoyment on a wet day. (First rain here in 14 days)  This might bring back memories for some of you old tree planters.

My first couple of winters (1971-72) on the Orleans Ranger District of the Six Rivers National Forest involved working on a tree planting crew for about a month.    It was not our favorite job since it was usually wet, cold and miserable working conditions.   There were six of us, including a young forester who was the foreman.    We were expected to plant 500 trees/day/man.   We had to wear rain gear most days and it didn’t seem to matter as we got wet anyhow from rain dripping down our necks or from the sweat of our bodies.   The tool of the trade was a hoedad, a long handled tool with a long straight blade used to make the hole to stick the tree seedling into.  It was also used for grubbing out a planting site when necessary.    After arriving on the job site and loading up our tree bags strapped to our waist, we proceeded to space ourselves about 10 feet apart and began planting trees.   The forester would return to the truck on days it was raining.  This did not sit right with one of the older crew members, a log scaler who went back to the truck and told the forester in a threatening manner that we are all here to plant trees, rain or shine!  The forester reluctantly joined us.  At noon we all retreated back to the truck, consumed our lunches, loaded up our tree bags and resumed where we left off.  

The units that were assigned to us were plantations that had been previously planted, but the survival rate was poor and plantation surveys showed these units inadequately stocked.   The newly logged and burned clear-cut units were put up for bid for tree planting contactors, where they could usually plant a thousand trees/day/man.   Contractors were assigned a Forest Service inspector, who delivered the tree seedlings from a freezer unit on the station to the job site and followed the tree planters inspecting a certain percentage of the planted trees for proper spacing, poor planting practices, better known as a J or L root and how well the trees were compacted in the ground.   For a week I was assigned as an inspector to a contracting company with the name of:  J & L Root Company.   This crew was made up of ex-convicts, who had been in a state conservation camp operated by the California Division of Forestry.   Whenever I came across a poorly planted tree it was reported to the crew foreman, who in an untactful manner informed the member of the crew responsible for this.   At times I thought some of the crew members might resort to their old ways and do me some harm.   At the end of the day we all went our separate ways, the crew back to their camp and me back to Orleans, thankful to have survived another day.

Recluse, Wyoming

 After leaving the Forest Service in 1995 I did a variety of seasonal jobs, such as working for a property management company in Eugene and working for myself as a landscape/gardener.  I also took classes at Lane Community College studying agricultural and industrial equipment technology.  This course of study landed me a seasonal job on a grass seed farm as a mechanic and equipment operator for five summers from 1996 to 2000 near Harrisburg, about 20 miles north of Eugene.   Winter was a slow time of year for me and my thoughts would wander off to moving out of the big city to some rural environment.   Eugene was not my favorite place to live with all the traffic, neighborhood excitement, and also my two children had moved away to attend college.  Now there was just me and my dog Jack.

I subscribed to the Caretaker Gazette, a monthly listing of caretaker jobs offered mostly in the western part of the U.S. and some in other countries.   Many of these jobs involved working on remote farms or ranches.  I did apply to a couple of ads, both in Washington State.  One was on a small farm in southwest Washington, which did offer me an interview, which I turned down hoping for something better.  The second one was on a large ranch in the eastern Cascades of Washington where there was a house offered in return for watching the place while the owners went south.   I never received a response after applying for this job.  As time passed I looked forward to the monthly editions in hopes of finding Shangri-La.    Then I noticed a caretaker job being offered on a remote ranch near Recluse, Wyoming.   I looked on a map to see Recluse was located in the northeast corner of Wyoming and had a population of 10.   The average temperature in January is 20 above and can get down to 40 below.    About this time in my life I met Celia and life took a change for the better.    A few years ago we took a look at Recluse on Google Earth to see a small store with a Post Office, a few scattered buildings, some machinery looking in disrepair and a desolate flat landscape of no trees.    Thank God Celia came into my life.   Where would I be today without her?

The Bachelor Diet

 Another short story from days gone by for a little humor and an escape from the here and now.  Forest Service in Orleans and others Districts from 1969-95.  

Back in the days of working in those far off remote places, such as Orleans, in northwestern California, Hamburger Helper was the food of choice for us single men.    We would stock up during those monthly grocery shopping trips to the big city, usually at the Arcata Safeway, clearing the shelf of this prized product.   In addition, we would buy 10 or more pounds of hamburger and I don’t remember any of the lean stuff.    When a pound of hamburger was in the frying pan it would produce an inch of grease or more.   There was no need for cooking oil.   After adding the box of Hamburger Helper ingredients it could all be consumed right from the skillet, saving from having to wash more dishes.    

Other items that were purchased to round out the diet, including cold cuts, usually bologna, cheese, white bread, apples and cookies for those lunches out in the woods.   Bacon, eggs, cereal and milk for breakfast.   A few canned goods and potatoes for those times when the main dish of Hamburger Helper was depleted.   Due to a limited budget steaks and pork chops were rarely purchased.   On some weekend occasions eating at the Samoa Cook House outside of Arcata was a real treat.  

The beverage of choice was beer and at times a little wine.   Most of the wine was in gallon jugs with no need for a cork screw.   Quality was not a consideration back then.  During the wet winters in Orleans there would be slides along Highway 96 leading to the outside world, cutting off traffic for a week at a time.   The local store would run low on basic items, including beer and wine.  It was not good, as panic set in.

After getting together with my first wife, she introduced me to whole grains, fresh produce, chicken and brought a new word into my vocabulary, “Organic.”   I must give her credit for saving me from doom.   I feel lucky to have made it this far.