Glad Days Long Ago
Shannon Thomas Casebeer
Copyright © 2018 Shannon T. Casebeer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-692-10976-5
ISBN-13: 978-0-692-10976-2
Many books are intended to provide escape through
a long, convoluted plot which is fully appreciated only at the conclusion. This
is not that kind of book. “Glad Days Long Ago” is an invitation to escape with
me to another place and time. This little primer is intended merely as a
pleasant stroll, to be enjoyed a few steps at a time, anytime, and often. Share
it with others who might benefit from a good leg stretching.
Glad Days Long Ago is a collection of
short stories and reminiscences. It’s an assortment of unrelated windows into
my life and time; a compilation of just over 40 pieces I’ve written over a
thirty year period. As a result, the compositions are written in variety of
styles. Beyond the fact that they are nostalgic windows into the past, my past
and the distant past, they are unrelated. The books only flow is the fact that
it reflects my life and my interests, from my childhood to the present. The
book has no plot, and no villain, other than time itself, and times
exasperating inclination to run out.
My story, although autobiographical to some
extent, is a fictional parable about youth, innocence, faith, heritage,
nostalgia, patriotism, and growing old. It contains humor, bitter sweet
reminiscences, and glimpses of a distant day when life
seemed simple, summer was perennial, and childlike faith assured tomorrows
joys.
To my beloved ancestors, and the
faith and fortitude that drove them to pursue their dreams, this innocuous
little parable is affectionately dedicated.
THE AUTHOR
INTRODUCTION
Each and every day, each and
every one of us, regardless of our circumstances, has a choice. We can squander
our time fingering old welts, second guessing past decisions, and tormenting
ourselves over the poor choices of others; or we can embrace a new day brimming
with opportunities for doing justly, loving mercy, and building foundations for
a bright new tomorrow. Time is precious. Choose wisely.
My name is Shannon Thomas Casebeer.
I was born in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California, and raised on
a little piece of paradise called Reservoir Hill. Idyllic childhoods are
mighty few and mighty far between. I was blessed. Near the top of Reservoir
Hill, on the banks of the historic South Fork ditch and overlooking the
snow-capped Sierras to the north, the coastal range to the west, the Sacramento
valley to the south, and Miller’s pear orchard to the east, were the homes of
my mom’s parents and her dad’s mother, Meda Eliza Camp Daniels.
Meda’s Husband, my great grandpa,
Asa Wilder Daniels, arrived in Placerville in 1888, purchased 40 acres on
Reservoir Hill, operated a freight service, and served for some time as Justice
of The Peace. Meda’s father, Asa Steven Camp, arrived in Hangtown with his
father, Clark, in 1849. Together they filed several claims in order to try
their hand at prospecting, and then, after accompanying his father safely home,
Asa returned to Placerville in 1854.
I have many vivid memories of
walking the tree lined lane from my home on Mosquito Road, up the hill past my
great grandma’s home and on to the home of my grandma and granddad Daniels.
Passing Great Grandma’s window I was occasionally waved down and invited inside
to warm myself by her wood range and snack on the candied figs which she’d
dried in the sun before steaming and coating with sugar.
My favorite room was the
kitchen. Even now I can close my eyes and picture it in every detail just
as it looked those long years ago. I can see the old wood range and hear the
clanking of its lids as Great Grandma painstakingly brought the range to life.
I remember how the nickel handles and black cast iron stove-top shone in the
flickering light of the coal oil lamp as she polished them with a wax covered
bread wrapper. I smell the sulfur and see the flash and flutter of the wooden
match as she lit the crumpled newspaper. I hear the cast-iron clink of the
dampers being opened and the crackling of the fire as Grandma carefully fed
kindling to the growing flame. I remember peeking in through the open dampers
at the glowing embers on the grate, watching their light dancing on the wall,
and gazing up at the warming oven in expectation of the golden brown treasures
that would soon be steaming inside. On a few occasions I recall sitting in her
lap in the old rocking chair.
The wood range would crackle and
pop pleasantly and Great Grandma would carefully unfold and read aloud from the
same little muslin book that had mesmerized my granddad as a child. Time with
Granddad was always a special treat and rarely did a summer pass without
Granddad seeing to it that the entire family enjoyed a series of camping trips
high in the Sierras, where Granddad had camped with his family all his
life.
All variety of kith and kin
accompanied us on these woodland adventures, including Granddad’s brother and
sister, and of course his mom who camped with us until age 93. As a
little girl, Great Grandma’s mom, Laura Ellen Oldfield Camp, had crossed the
plains by covered wagon, making the trek from Wisconsin to old Hangtown back in
1854, when the rut riddled boulevard west was often impassable, and Native
Americans still thrived on vast herds of migrating buffalo. Camping was in our
blood.
We camped much as the family had
for generations. Granddad had built red wooden sideboards for his 1941 Chevy,
so the little pickup was well prepared to house all the essentials of camping,
and with the addition of a canvas cover, provided snug sleeping quarters at
night. I remember well crawling from my own sleeping bag at first light
in order to join my grandparents in the cozy bed of the old Chevy. I remember
Granddad’s beaming smile and mass of disheveled gray hair as he peeked from
under the covers. I recall how snug and warm it felt crawling under that down
comforter after kicking off my moccasins on the tailgate, the feel and smell of
the canvas cover rustling in the mountain air, and gazing at stars through
silhouetted pines.
Once the fire was lit, Sis and I
would dress quickly and join the rest of the family, warming our backsides at a
stone lined campfire and anticipating the smell of coffee brewing in the
graniteware coffee pot and the aroma of pancakes and bacon sizzling on Great
Grandma’s griddle. Stellar Blue Jays called from the canopy of old growth
pines. The welcome sun cascaded down through the lush boughs of evergreen. Off in
the distance rainbow trout snatched Mayflies from the cobalt blue surface of the
pristine mountain lake. And my mind’s eye envisioned my granddad’s granddad
crossing the country by covered wagon long ago when Indians roamed these
hills.
Such were the days of my childhood,
when life seemed simple, summer was perennial, and childlike faith assured
tomorrows joys. Treasure your memories; keep them fresh, and never take
them for granted. Even our memories can fade with the harsh glare of
time.
GRANDDAD’S
TENT
We did lots of camping when I was a kid. We camped in an old canvas tent. I
remember the sound as it flapped in the wind. I remember its feel and its
scent. I remember the sound of warm rain on its roof and the comfort it
offered each night. I recall how I felt looking out at the stars by the
campfire’s flickering light, the feel of my pillow at the end of the day when
my shoulders were pink from the sun, my grandmother’s kiss as she tucked us in
bed after our prayers were done. First thing in the morning the fire was lit.
Great Grandma brought graniteware dishes. There were golden brown hotcakes for
breakfast of course, and for supper fried tatters and fishes. Each day we’d go
swimming and play in the sand. My granddad would take us all hiking. Sis and I
watched as he whittled a cane, and the stick horses more to our liking. We’d
sit by the fire in the late afternoon. I’d sit in my grandmothers’ lap. Dad
would go fishing. My momma would read, and Granddad enjoyed a good nap. Later
on in the evening, when supper was done, there was coffee from a graniteware
pot, delicious marshmallows we roasted on sticks, and dried figs that my great
grandma brought. I remember the feel of hot sand on bare feet, and melon seeds
stuck to my chin, the stories of camping trips long, long ago, and the way that
my granddad would grin. How the decades fast have flown; how quickly reached,
September. How bitter sweet the joys we’ve known. How precious to remember. How
bright the wide and starry skies. How fleeting, lives long spent. How like the
stars, my granddad’s eyes, and life ephemeral, much like Granddads’
tent.
FROLICKING
WITH IMPUNITY
When I was a little fellow, my
dad and granddad went in together and purchased a Caterpillar. It was a dandy little
farm tractor; a 1929, with a blade and disc, a spring-tooth harrow, and
everything one might need to till the ground. In order to start the thing, you
had to hand crank it, just like a Model T Ford.
When I got older, my granddad had emphysema and lost his breath easily,
so I used to turn the crank for him, which made me feel very important
indeed.
When they first brought the
little tractor home, Dad, determined to make good use of his investment, tilled
up every square inch of our acreage that was remotely susceptible, some that
weren’t, one row of the neighbors parsnips, and several of Mom’s flower beds
too! And then he seeded and fertilized
it exceedingly well, and waited for the spring rains.
By mid May, we had a luxurious
stand of four foot high grass. By June,
the seed heads were bursting with extravagant amounts of pollen, and having
never experienced such a formidable forest of grass on the property before, we
kids saw an opportunity for adventure.
We ran like a gaggle of crazed
turkeys through that lush forest, turning flip-flops and doo-dads, and creating
lavish clouds of yellow pollen that filled the air and clogged our eyes and
ears and noses and every orifice of our youthful, naive anatomies with thick,
noxious goo. When I could no longer breathe, or see, or enjoy our antics with
impunity, I felt my way home to Mother.
And I assumed a fetal position on our couch, and I squirmed and rocked
and moaned inconsolably, and the membranes of my little eyes turned hemorrhoid
blue, and filled with fluid, and they itched like poison ivy on mosquito bites,
and eventually lie panting and pulsating on my cheeks, like little Vienna
sausages, in torment. And I’ve never really enjoyed pollen from that day to
this, or frolicking in the high grass, or Vienna sausages either for that
matter.
ALL SOUND INVESTMENTS
When Sis and I were kids, we occasionally
pooled our resources in order to acquire some toy or trinket of mutual
interest, which was otherwise unaffordable. In this way we acquired yoyos,
super balls, balsawood air planes, and other essentials of youth. These
acquisitions were often initiated by Sis, who would offer to invest the entire
contents of her piggy bank if I would do likewise. I was generally hesitant
because, as the result of these negotiations, I would frequently contribute
three or four dollars which I’d earned twenty-five cents at a time by mowing
lawns, while Sis would contributed the entire amount of seventeen cents, which
she’d discovered under a sofa cushion. Nonetheless, these arrangements were
unquestionably fair and equitable, in concept, and on looking back were all
sound investments.
SCHOOL DAYS
Do
you remember school days
Back
when life was simple,
Before
you suffered razor burn
Or
ever popped a pimple?
Cap
guns, sling shots,
Genuine
leather chaps,
Davy
Crocket, Bowie knives,
Coon
skin caps?
Go
carts, Hula hoops,
Tree
forts built by Dad,
Airplanes
made from Balsawood,
Or
the national yo-yo fad?
Dress
up from Mom’s rag drawer
With
the whole darn gang,
Kool-Aid,
Fizzies tablets,
And
Ice cold Tang?
School
bus rides & field trips,
Sack
lunches leaking jelly,
Gym
suits, locker rooms,
Wet
sneakers getting smelly!
Walking
back to Hawking Street
With
skateboards that we made,
The
deafening noise of steel wheels
Careening
down the grade?
Spin
the bottle, snipe hunts,
Moonlit
skinny dippin’,
Before
you’d ever sniffed a beer
And
never thought of sippin’?
Lessons
at the city pool,
Your
instructor and your crush,
Flip-flops,
cutoffs,
Snow
cones turned to slush?
Going
steady, friendship rings,
Chewing
gum scented kisses,
Checking
out every girl in sight,
Just
looking for the Misses?
Camping
trips & horseback rides,
Fishing
trips with Dad,
Endless
fun and bar none,
The
best darn days we ever had?
DIFFERENT
PATHS & DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVES
As a little boy I became very
ill. My mom and dad loaded me into the old Chevy and took me to the
doctor. A spinal tap determined that I had Poliomyelitis. Following the
diagnosis, I spent several terrifying weeks confined to a hospital ward at
Kaiser Hospital in Vallejo, California. There I saw other children
struggling with the crippling disease. Some were in braces. Some were confined
to iron lungs. Some never walked again. Some never left the facility.
Some died.
One night, all alone in my room
and scared half to death, I began praying as only a terrified child can pray. I
prayed and cried until I fell asleep. Several days later the doctor had
good news. My symptoms were gone. They were free to take me home. As I left the
hospital, hand in hand with Mom and Dad that day, I began a path that has led
me to this day. Some days my faith is just as strong as the day I left that
hospital. Other days not so much, but from that day to this I’ve set out each
day to walk the path I’m given, in the light I’m given. On my very best days, I
share that light with others. Each of us walks a different path, revealed
in a different light. As a result, we each have different perspectives,
different convictions, and varying points of view. We need to show each other a
little compassion and cut each other some slack.
I remember when I first got sick,
my folks bundling me up in the old Chevy for the two mile trip to town. I
remember Doctors Bliss and Elliot and the spinal tap that verified the
prognosis. I remember being terrified and held down, and screaming
“Daddy, Daddy!” at the top of my lungs, and the sound of a scuffle outside my
door as they tried to restrain my father.
I was only four, but I remember well the other kids in the ward with me
in the hospital. I remember incubators, braces, buckets of ice, and being
haunted for years by the horrific thought of spending my entire life in an iron
lung. I remember missing Mom and Dad and praying like I'd never prayed
before, from that moment to this day, for anyone who suffers such a fate.
I remember tugging my cowboy
boots on and walking out of that hospital with Mom and Dad. And I remember
being very, very thankful. I remember sitting in the bright sunshine back home
on Reservoir Hill and pondering the whole experience over and over. And I
remember all through school befriending other boys and girls who walked funny
or talked funny or for whatever reason didn’t quite fit in. And it warms my
heart to this very day when I see folks accepted for who they are.
GRAPE JELLY &
BANANNA CREAM
When I was in elementary school our bus
stop was at the intersection of Meadow Lane and Mosquito road. Our bus was old
number 3, and our bus driver was Mr. Vanalstien. On the south side of the
intersection was a home with a brick and daffodil lined circle drive. It
was a tight circle, and the arriving school bus generally careened around it at
a pretty good clip. We children awaited the bus under a large, spreading
oak, and at the base of the oak was our bench. I’d built the very basic
bench myself by sawing two six inch cuts off an eight foot long 1” by 12” and
nailing them to the remaining board about one foot in from each end. In
doing so, I’d created, quite unintentionally, a state of the art catapult.
On the morning in question, half a dozen of our neighborhood gang were
milling around innocently in expectation of the arrival of old #3 which was
running uncharacteristically late. My lunch bag, containing a banana, a
peanut butter & jelly sandwich, and some graham crackers, was placed on the
far end of the bench for easy retrieval upon the bus’s arrival.
At the sudden sound of squalling tires in the
gravel, we kids scrambled to collect our gear and form a line. Unbeknownst
to us, Mr. Vanalstein was ill, and our driver today was a substitute and
entirely unfamiliar with our route. Approaching our circle drive wide and
hot, the bus’s front tire unexpectedly clipped one end of our bench. My
lunch was launched like a rocket, scattering and sifting its contents as its
orbit took it up through the oak canopy and well into the hemisphere, before it
descended amid the squeals of delighted children, in the form of an aromatic
shower of graham cracker crumbs, peanut butter clumps, and a fine spray of
grape jelly and banana cream. The large, flat surface of the 1” by 12”
proceeded to smack the side of the bus, at mach speed and with incredible
force, resulting in a resounding clap of thunder, much like a full-fledged sonic
boom, and ringing the entire school bus like a bell! The horrorstricken
driver hesitantly opened the door, his eyes wide as fruit jar lids, and I’m
confident he’d soiled himself. The vast majority of the bus’s occupants
burst simultaneously into a mixed chorus of inconsolable sobbing and hysterical
and convulsive laughter, which continued fitfully until we arrived some fifteen
minutes later at our school. I’m quite confident that many of those
children remember and celebrate that event to this very day, and that others
are on the mend and receiving counseling.
ONCE UPON A TIME…
The last weekend of the month was to feature
the annual Bartlett Pear festival in Placerville. Besides all the usual
pear, apple, and produce exhibits, there was to be a horseshoe pitching contest
and a dance at the fairgrounds. We made a day of it. By the time the dance
began late that evening, I’d had just about all the fun I could stand. My plan
was to peek in, size up the festivities, and head home. Several of my toes were
beginning to complain about my new boots, but I was fascinated by the prospect
of trying out my new western footwear on the dance floor. Just as I was
preparing to leave, I locked eyes with the prettiest little red-haired girl
that I’d ever seen. She and several other young ladies were eyeing me
coyly from across the dance floor, and their combined effect was more than
sufficient to impair the best judgment of any naive ten-year-old, new boots and
all.
I bought a mug of cider and an extravagantly
buttered and roasted ear of corn, and observed the festivities from a safe
distance, gleefully fantasizing about my prospects. Enthusiastic doesn’t begin
to describe my state. I was exhilarated to the point of apoplexy! After
finishing my refreshments, I licked my fingers, sleeve groomed my nose, and
took my place alongside the other expectant onlookers in hopes of an
opportunity to join in the fun. I didn’t have long to wait. After a
few minutes, the four young ladies whom I’d observed earlier began working
their way around the floor, sizing up and critiquing the crowd of would-be
dance partners. One by one they’d scrutinize the humiliated observers and point
out their shortcomings, just as though they were considering plucked poultry on
market day. “What about this one?” One would ask, and the others
would offer criticisms, “too short, too tall, or too skinny!”
The most vocal, and unquestioned leader of the
pack was, of course, the little red-haired girl. She had the reddest
hair, the thickest freckles, and the most luxurious get-along that I’d ever
seen, and as she approached I held my breath and felt for all the world like
the ugly duckling in a gaggle of ungainly geese.
With the rest of the pack following closely and
grinning with anticipation, the little red-haired girl stepped up boldly,
looked me over briefly, and then stared intently into my face. I stared
at my feet for a moment, bracing for rejection, and then swallowed hard and
returned her gaze. “Dance?” she asked enthusiastically, and offered a
soft, thin, freckled hand. My head was swimming, my heart pounded, and I
was dangerously light-headed from holding my breath! I grabbed her hand,
we took our place in a newly formed square, bowed to our partner, and the
fiddle began to play. My new boots proved to be a bit of a challenge. The high
tops were initially bothersome, and it was some time before I grew accustomed
to the dizzying altitude afforded by the two inch under-slung heels; but
persistence paid off, and eventually I was able to negotiate the room with a
jaunty gait reminiscent of a hatchling colt!
That little red-headed temptress whizzed
tirelessly and elegantly around the room, frock flying and pigtails trailing,
and I galloped happily at her side like a gangly pup, thoroughly enraptured, in
a state of perfect bliss! We’d allemande right, and allemande left, and do-si-do
squares and circles around that crowded complex for the better part of an hour,
and all at once I became aware that my poor feet were throbbing madly in those
new boots; and several of my toes were clearly in tremendous distress! Just then, the little red-haired girl veered
hard to starboard, and we promenaded through the back door of that crowded
dance floor and out into the dark emptiness of the dimly moonlit parking lot
beyond. A thousand breathtaking possibilities flooded my mind and
weakened both my knees. And then, as I wrapped my arms around that warm, moist,
gingham-clad form, and her sweet, cider-scented breath filled my nostrils, the
stillness was suddenly shattered by a bloodcurdling screech!
“Come along this minute Mariah! It’s time to
head home.” “Coming Ma.” My new acquaintance bellered back, straightening her
frock and gazing into my eyes. “You live on Mosquito Road, right? “Yep!” I responded, surprised by her sagacity. “So you’re familiar with Meadow Lane, right?”
“Absolutely!” “Well then,” she continued, sketching in the sand with her toe,
“We live at the Kinney place.” “I know the place,” I replied, grinning
sheepishly. “Well”, she said, “If you was to happen by our gate around lunch
time tomorrow, you’d likely catch me out in the yard, swingin’.”
Suffice it to say, shortly after noon on the
following day, my schedule, after considerable rearrangement, brought me to the
front gate of the Kinney residence on Meadow Lane. The Kinney home was a rustic
affair, terraced into a steep, rocky bank. There was a small, well-tended
plot of ground where the family evidently attempted to produce vegetables. A
veritable web of clotheslines surrounded the weathered house, each one waving a
generous variety of well-worn linens and badly frayed overalls. In the
yard, a Yorkshire sow spread herself contentedly in the luxurious sun, as a
gaggle of diaper clad toddlers mingled with the old sow’s litter and played
king of the mountain on an overturned washtub. The porch was home to a
threadbare sofa, and half a dozen bantam chickens sunned and preened themselves
along the railing. There were youngsters of every conceivable size and shape,
everywhere. Mariah is evidently one of a baker’s dozen.
As promised, Mariah waved broadly and
dismounted her swing as I approached. She introduced me to several of her
siblings and suggested I meet her Ma. Mrs. Kinney was cordial enough; but her
no nonsense demeanor and unblinking, head to toe assessment of me clearly
suggested that I was expected to be on my very best behavior, or there’d be
consequences. Having met the needs of cordiality and etiquette, Mariah
suggested a walk to the creek to check on some straying siblings. Her brother, Stephen, and sister, Lizzy,
joined our ranks, and we got underway. The Kinney home was terraced into the
side of a deep ravine, and at the bottom of the ravine was an immense
blackberry patch. The tangled thicket achieved six to eight feet in
height and sprawled for sixty feet across the gully and as far as the eye could
see up and down the ravine. A wet weather stream meandered through the
middle, and here and there Ponderosa pines pierced the dense canopy of briars, competing
for the sunshine and littering the ravine floor with a luxurious carpet of dry
needles. Several of the evergreens sported tree-forts assembled from lumber and
old tin roofing the children had salvaged from the wreckage of an abandoned
barn. A network of paths tunneled through the briars and Manzanita
bushes, connecting the forts with each other and the outer banks.
The balmy fall afternoon was almost
summer-like; and between the sounds of children at play, frogs sang from the
creek bank, and a pair of mourning doves cooed a melancholy refrain in the
distance. A well-traveled trail formed several switchbacks during its
decent down the steep bank and ended abruptly at a small clearing just inside
the thicket.
From this point on, the four of us would have
to crawl on our hands and knees. Earlier in the season, our efforts might have
been rewarded with a bounty of juicy blackberries. The berries were long
gone, but the sharp thorns remained, camouflaged by the thick purple foliage of
an extended Indian summer. Despite our best efforts, the thorns snatched
at our clothes and periodically resulted in a screech and a grimace, as a
determined thorn found its mark and pierced somebody’s hide.
As we approached a large bull-pine in the
middle of a manzanita thicket, a half-dozen more neighborhood kids paused and
observed our approach, first with suspicion and then delight. Mariah is
evidently highly prized by the youngsters for her ability to spin a terrifying
yarn. The youngsters considered this unanticipated intrusion a real
treat, and several little ones latched onto her skirt as we entered their
hideout. “Tell us a story Mariah, please!” “Tell us about the ghosts!”
Mariah smiled broadly, collapsing onto the bed of needles at the foot of the
towering pine. Then, motioning for me to join her, she began her tale.
“Once upon a time, there was a spooky ol’ ghost dressed all in black.”
That’s as far as she got. One of the children was curious and had a
question. “If ghosts are just spirit,” she asked musingly, “why do they
need clothes at all?” “Good question,” admitted Mariah contemplatively.
This line of interrogation piqued the other
children’s curiosity, resulting in several additional questions. “If
ghosts wear clothes,” asked another, “do they have to warsh ‘em? Do ghosts get
ring around the collar?” This resulted in an outburst of exuberant laughter,
exacerbated by youthful enthusiasm. A freckle faced boy perked up, and
his face shone with recognition of his opportunity to participate. “I
wonder,” he said, grinning with anticipation, “If ghosts get lint in their
belly-buttons.” “Ghosts don’t have bellybuttons silly!” chimed a pair of twins
in unison, and the entire hollow rang with squeals of laughter.
In the middle of this jocularity, the briars
rustled and in stepped several more denim clad juveniles, who’d evidently
overheard the ruckus from across the hollow and come to investigate the cause
of all the merriment. They seemed to sense the jovial mood of the assembly
immediately. One little boy sprawled on the ground, rested his chin on
his hands, and offered a yarn of his own. “You should have seen what happened
at our house! There’s a big ol’ snapping
turtle in our pond. The Skinner’s cow was standing belly deep, coolin’ off the
other day, when that ol’ snapper swum up and bit the end right out of one of
her spickets!” The kids all groaned and grabbed their chests. The
response was spontaneous and only served to encourage the storyteller. “Before
we could get a tourniquet on her,” he continued, “that old cow leaked out three
buckets of buttermilk!” “Oh, go on,” said Mariah. “That ain’t nothin’!”
chimed in another. “We had a big ol’ wolf trap set at our pond, tryin’ to catch
a darned ol’ coon. One of them big snappers got caught by the neck.
Before we could drag him out and give ‘im what for, that rascal chewed
his head off and got clean away! A couple of days later he come draggin’
up the hill, fit as a fiddle and carryin’ his head in his mouth!”
At that moment a distant “Helluuu,” echoed from
across the hollow. “Skedaddle,” whispered Mariah, and the entire assembly
vanished into the thicket. Questioning Stephen, I was enlightened. Evidently
the serenity of the neighborhood is periodically disturbed by a gang of
roughnecks from Hocking Street. “Hurry
up!” whispered Mariah, and she headed up the trail toward home.
As we reached the edge of the briar patch, the
Hocking Street crowd was fast approaching. I figured this was all in good
fun, but I had the impression there was an element of real risk in these
maneuvers. Mariah and her siblings seemed anxious to get out of sight. We were
still a hundred yards from the Kinney place at the top of the hill when we
rounded a bend and the trail forked. “This way,” panted Stephen as he took
the right fork. Seconds later the four of us stood humped over and
gasping for breath at the door of a ramshackle, old outhouse. At the
sound of hurried footsteps close behind, we crowded into the tiny refuge, and
Stephen bolted the door. It was pitch black inside. The atmosphere was
close and stifling, and the odor was exceedingly unpleasant! I
desperately wanted to hold my breath, but we were all breathing too heavily for
that. I stepped up on the business seat to help ease the crowding, and
Lizzy braced herself against the door.
As I stood up on the bench, my head hit a rafter,
the heat was oppressive, I was all but smothered in a veil of cobwebs, and an
indignant wasp buzzed threateningly around my ears! I started to speak to
Mariah, but she pressed her finger against my lips and whispered, “Hush.”
Her finger was only against my lips for an instant, but somehow her touch
left me warm all over. As I stood straddling that outhouse seat and
crouching to avoid that pesky wasp my face was just inches from the top of
Mariah’s head. I could feel the warmth from her body and smell her long,
lustrous hair. In an effort to steady myself on my perch, I put my sweaty hand
on Mariah’s shoulder, and she ever so gently placed her hand on mine. I held my
breath, my pulse quickened, and the band of ruffians arrived outside the door.
There were muffled voices and stifled chuckling, and then in unison they
counted “one, two, three,” and leaned heavily into the side of that board and
batten john. Our fragile refuge listed dangerously to starboard, that
ornery wasp planted his rapier-like stinger deep into the lobe of my ear, and
both my feet, new boots and all, slipped into that big black hole!
Seconds later, Stephen threw open the outhouse
door; the Hocking Street gang let out with war whoops as they disappeared down
the path, and the blinding light of day rushed in on a sad and sorry spectacle.
That dreadful abyss had engulfed me right up to my armpits. My ribcage
was stuck tight as a cork in its terrible jaws, and a powerful aroma brought
evidence; I was stuck knee-deep in that holes contents. Abandon hope, all
ye who enter here! The bowels of the beast made a hideous sucking sound as the
Kinney kids laboriously extricated me from my predicament. My clenched toes
clung desperately to my left boot, and that godless pit claimed the other.
GROWING UP IN GOOD, OLD
PLACERVILLE
Long ago, when I was young,
I lived on Reservoir Hill,
On the family’s forty acres,
Outside of Placerville.
I’ve traveled far and traveled wide,
But few things match the joy,
Of memories of Placerville,
When I was a little boy;
Recollections of the neighborhood,
Of cherished childhood friends,
Youthful adventures long ago;
What joy they bring revisited again;
Innocent romance, holding hands,
Days of carefree bliss,
Palms caressing as we walked,
The naïve delight of a chewing gum scented
kiss;
Sweet eternal summers,
Crowding in a car,
For picnics on the riverbank,
Sprawled in the pleasant sands at Chili Bar;
Splendid weekend outings,
What happy times we had,
Tenting, campfires, sleeping out,
Horseback rides, and fishing trips with Dad;
Weekend excursions to the lake,
Highway 50’s passing cars,
Windshield wipers slapping time
To the radio in that old Ford of ours;
Invigorating winters,
The old town all aglow,
The bell tower bedight in strings of light,
And familiar storefronts glistening in the
snow.
I’ve traveled in the Yucatan,
Seen sunsets from Tulum,
Admired the beach at Xel-Ha,
And enjoyed a moonlit swim in the lagoon.
I’ve strolled the streets of Edinburgh,
Of Dublin and Quebec,
Climbed Dunn’s River Falls in Jamaica
And gotten mighty wet.
I’ve traveled Canada by rail,
Seen San Francisco’s sights,
Sipped tea at Ghirardelli Square,
And marveled at a sky alive with kites.
Still, no other place enthralls,
No memory more excites,
Than memories of Placerville
And Placerville’s delights.
I have no fonder memory,
And probably never will,
Than those cherished childhood memories
Of growing up in good, old Placerville.
WENTWORTH SPRINGS
My dad and I had lots of favorite fishing holes
when I was a kid. We fished numerous lakes and streams all around the Crystal
Basin area. Some were a short distance
from home and easily accessed. Others were a bit of a challenge to reach. Some
trips took only a few hours. Others were
overnighters. Often it was just Dad and me. Some trips were part of weeklong
extravaganzas with lots of family and friends. Sometimes we bait fished from
the bank with worms or salmon eggs. Sometimes we hauled the boat in and trolled
the lakes with Ford Fenders and all variety of bright, shiny lures. Sometimes
we fished on opening day, shoulder to shoulder with hordes of other fisherman,
discarding their trash, cranking up their radios, and generally creating havoc.
Sometimes we escaped the crowds and fly fished the high Sierras, in streams of
sparkling snowmelt amid bright granite boulders.
Above six thousand feet, the encroachment of
man and civilization was only an ugly threat. Here the majestic Sierras
maintained their timeless reign in unmolested grandeur. God was in his heaven,
and for those familiar with the Sierras there’s very little doubt that this is
it. On this particular trip, this unspoiled wilderness was our
destination. An hour or two on the road would bring us to an innocuous
little lake on the edge of the nearly impenetrable stronghold of what many
believe is God’s finest work. Just shy of seven thousand feet, Loon Lake
perches luminously at an elevation where even the hardiest conifer must stop in
wonder and admire the heights to which some peaks aspire.
Leaving our home on Reservoir Hill, just
outside Placerville, this day’s travel would take us northeast into the
furthermost reaches of Mosquito Road. Crossing the intimidating little
suspension bridge across the south fork of the American River, we would
negotiate the steep switchbacks up the hill, past the old home of the goat
doctor, through the rural settlement of Mosquito, past Slate Mountain and the
logging operation at Pino Grande, and arrive eventually at Onion Valley Road.
From here we would proceed eastward, past Robb’s Peak, and, ascending a
rugged granite trail along Gerle Creek, arrive at long last at Wentworth
Springs. Beyond this odiferous little mineral spring, Gerle Creek gurgles,
splashes and meanders lazily from its’ snow-fed headwaters high in a desolate
but awe-inspiring landscape of pristine granite, stunted conifers, and a hardy
little perennial lovingly referred to as mountain misery.
It was coming up fast on sunset as we arrived
at Wentworth Springs. Of course, it would never do to visit a mineral spring
and not sample the vintage, so, cleaning the mud from the chipped graniteware
dipper thoughtfully supplied for just that purpose, I dipped up a generous
ladleful, briefly inhaled its boiled-egg-like aroma, and gallantly gulped ‘er
down! Suffice it to say, I would not recommend this to a friend. If
you’re absolutely determined to try this delicate bouquet for yourself, by all
means, do not inhale.
Finding the rustic and extremely weathered
facilities cobwebbed, vandalized, and fast succumbing to the ravages of time,
we determined to setup camp on the outskirts of the tin roofed ruins, in a
pleasant meadow a short distance from the creek. This little meadow was
unlike anything I’d ever encountered. The luxurious grasses were all
cropped off neatly, just as though a persnickety team of ornamental
horticulturalists immaculately maintained the entire environment. Elephantine
granite boulders stood as sentinels, curious bands of chipmunks scurried among
the conifers, and, captured on the mirror like surface of the immaculate little
stream, the white granite summit of the Sierras themselves glowed radiantly in
the pastel hues of sunset. I circled stones and began a campfire,
unpacked our gear, and hurried back to fireside as detail turned to silhouette
and darkness settled in.
Approximately a mile east of our location,
beyond a series of granite peaks, are the headwaters of Gerle Creek and Loon
Lake. Barely a dozen miles beyond that, as the crow flies, occupying an
ancient crater is Bigler Lake, initially christened Lake Bonpland, and known to
Lake Valley’s native inhabitants as Tahoe, which translates as “Big Water” in
the Washoe dialect, or “Grasshopper Soup” if you prefer Mr. Twain’s
embellishment. Stretching between here and Tahoe is Desolation Valley, a
vast expanse of inaccessible canyons, impenetrable vegetation, flawless, jewel
like waters, and sheer granite precipices, piercing the wispy cumulus and vying
for the stars. Barely two dozen miles from here, on the eastern shore of
Tahoe, is Nevada, home of Carson Valley, Fort Churchill, and Virginia City.
Early, and I mean mighty early the following
morning, as the milky translucence of early dawn spilled into the pristine
meadow, Dad and I collected our gear and set out to do some fly fishing. The fly pole was a long, flimsy, dried cane
affair comprised of three sections for easy transport and painstakingly
lubricated by applying the metal couplings to the oily area at the sides of
one’s nose. Thus lubricated, they slipped snugly into place achieving a
combined length of about six feet. Applying colorful hairs and feather
fragments to a tiny hook, and then fastening them securely with a wrapped and
knotted thread created lures. The lures, or flies, were created in a variety of
shapes and colors designed to achieve the look of assorted species of floating
insects. The trick was to maintain an adequate selection as to afford something
suitable to the season and the appetite of the fish.
Walking to the stream bank and carefully
releasing a sufficient amount of line, Dad began dexterously whipping and
extending the line until its reach was sufficient to deftly insert the fly on
the glassy surface above a babbling riffle at a distance of about ten feet.
No more had the little feather fandango hit the
water, than the entire surface erupted into a frenzy of flying spray and
furiously flapping fish! A gorgeous Rainbow trout had struck ravenously
at the little impostor, and, in so doing, had embedded that barbed hook deeply
into its red-gilled jaw. After several minutes of allowing the leviathan
to fight and tire, Dad reeled him gradually ashore, hoisted him into the crisp
morning air, grinned broadly and exclaimed, “Okay, now you try!” Within
minutes I’d caught my first fish. Within ten minutes, I’d enjoyed success
beyond my wildest dreams. Half an hour later, between the two of us, we’d
landed a dozen dandy trout. From that day forward, fly-fishing’s been my
favorite vice.
Following breakfast at Wentworth Springs, we
packed our gear, cleaned the campsite, and proceeded up the creek. Any
semblance of a road quickly peters out just beyond the spring, and we advanced
cautiously through Gerle Creek’s rugged chasm. Arriving eventually at
Loon Lake, we came upon a substantial block dam.
Noting that a comparatively small dam at that
juncture in the canyon’s geography would result in a substantially larger lake,
and that a nearby solid granite bluff would provide ample building materials,
someone had invested a great deal of time. Painstakingly boring from the
top of the massive granite bluff, with hand held steel bits and mallets; holes
were drilled, filled with water, and left to freeze in the frigid mountain air.
The expanding ice fractures the bluff face resulting in granite blocks
about the size of large steamer trunks.
These blocks were then fitted laboriously into
place to create a remarkably solid barrier in the stream bottom. Layer
upon layer of these hand-quarried stones were placed, and had already succeeded
in raising the lake level in excess of fifteen feet. This remarkable
accomplishment had achieved a substantial increase in the surface area and
volume of this previously natural reservoir. Large areas of previously
barren granite now provided habitat to periwinkles, minnows, and trout.
We made our way to the edge of a granite
precipice about sixty feet from the shore of the pristine lake. The outcropping
provided a welcome windbreak, while the elevation offered a commanding view of
the northern half of the reservoir. Gradually the wind, which had been
considerable during much of the afternoon, dissipated to a whisper and then a
hush. The lake’s surface became still as glass, reflecting a glimmering image
of the pine lined shore and the snowcapped range beyond.
Dad assembled his pole, briefly scrutinized his
tin of flies, and, selecting a royal coachman, he nimbly secured the lure to
his line. Several agile broadcasts introduced an amount of line into the air,
which was sufficient to deliver his black-winged impostor some twenty feet
across the shimmering lake. There it settled noiselessly onto the glassy
surface; the trailing line settled silently behind, and Dad readied himself at
his pole. Tension built, and we watched and waited impatiently. We stood
silently for some time, shivering with the cold and the building anticipation.
A pair of waterfowl rose serenely from the far shore, a lone frog called
plaintively in the distance, and all at once the lake surface literally
exploded! An enormous German Brown trout erupted suddenly from the
shadowy depths, snatching Dad’s offering with a ravenous fervor, briefly
launching all twenty inches of its dark undulating form out of the water and
into the sparkling spray.
Dad tugged sufficiently to set the barbed hook,
the trout took line, and the competition was on! The pole bowed
repeatedly, dangerously near its breaking point, as Dad frantically worked his
reel. Too little tension and the wily trout would dislodge the hook and
quickly dart away; too much and the tiny conduit, which currently coupled these
combatants, would strain and snap and quickly end the match.
After several animated moments, the indomitable
trout made one last dash, fifty feet down the shoreline, in an all-out effort
to dislodge the tenacious hook. Dad fought desperately to stay on his
feet, stumbling over logs and rocks, in a frantic effort to pursue his
determined prey. The spirited trout maintained this gallant effort for a
full ten minutes, testing Dad’s skill, and countering his efforts at each and
every turn, but eventually the valiant effort took its toll. Twelve minutes
into the contest the strain on the cane pole lessened, the taught line eased,
and minutes later the exhausted trout lay, dorsal fanning, panting on the
beach. Dad quickly ended the gallant fishes struggle, drew his blade and
prepared him for the fire. Within moments I’d taken up my own post,
assembled my pole, and nimbly applied my newly acquired craft. Despite my
best efforts, darkness found me skunked.
I gathered wood and prepared a roaring fire.
Darkness settled; the moon came out, and the stars exploded like sparks from a
windblown fire. Lingering long that evening, by the light of glowing embers, I
marveled at my blessings and that multitude of stars and the incomprehensible
complexity of life.
GONE FISHIN’
I enjoyed many fishing trips
In bygone days with Dad.
And I treasure every memory
Of the happy times we had.
We fished the Crystal Basin,
Ice House Dam, and Union Valley.
We’d fish till we were tuckered out,
And then old Dad would rally.
We fished all day at Gerle Creek,
From Wentworth Springs to Loon,
Lost track of time and stumbled back
Assisted by the moon,
High in the Sierras
Where the peaks rise up forever,
As though the fleecy clouds above,
Their summits would dissever.
We only had one motor bike
Back when we was thrifty,
So both of us rode double
On my Dad’s old Honda 50.
We fished above the timberline,
Amid grey granite boulders,
Way back before we had a bike,
And I rode on Daddy’s shoulders.
We spent cold nights at Wright’s Lake too,
Sheltered by the trees,
And marveling at the antics
Of the Jeepers’ Jamborees;
Fly fished in Desolation,
Among its pristine lakes,
With blistered toes and sunburned nose,
Smiling despite the aches.
We outsmarted fish at upper Blue,
With snowdrifts all around,
And mosquitoes buzzing in our ears
Till they made a roaring sound;
Trudged through Mountain Misery
Till our shoes were black as tar,
Trolled all day with the Evinrude
And smeared Zemacol by the jar!
We’ve luncheoned on the running board
Of Dad’s old Chevy truck,
Shared cold coffee and stale crackers,
And counted it as luck,
Returned to camp with limits filled
And feasted on the trout,
And returned with creels empty
And for supper went without.
I cherish every memory,
But when all is said and done,
It’s not about the fishing,
But a father and his son.
It’s about an inconceivable bond,
An indestructible tie
That will be my greatest joy in life
Until the day I die.
Thank you God for memories
Of the happy times we’ve known.
Thanks for all my blessings
And the kindness that you’ve shown.
Thanks for the very best childhood
That a fellow ever had.
But thank you most of all dear Lord
For my ol' dad.
LONG SPENT FIRES
Sometimes when the moon is full and the
campfire flickers low, a sudden spark lights up the dark, rekindling thoughts
of long, long ago. And my mind recalls a distant day as bright embers stir the
fire, days of youthful romance, wistful dreams and old desire; days when
mountain meadows were lush and green and fair, when cowboys combed the hills
for strays and the sound of clanking cowbells filled the air; when men donned
slickers and hit the trail, despite inclement weather, when canvas tents were
lamp lit and smelled of kerosene and well oiled leather. I can almost see old
Hangtown, when her streets were dust or mud, when her storefronts smelled of
weathered wood, and gold was in our blood. In my mind, I walk her boardwalks
past the Hangman’s Tree Saloon, and I cross the street at Cary House, and dine
there on the balcony, by the moon. From my perch I see the Round Tent as it
juts into the street, with horses nosing wooden troughs. I can almost smell
molasses as they eat. And across from that, the Bell Tower, with its well-known
promenade, and Main Street’s old, rut riddled course, past the Court House,
widening for the grade. How the old days call me back, rekindling old desires,
revisiting youthful romance, and stirring coals of long spent fires. Dear God,
preserve our memories of dear folks on Reservoir Hill, and grant me many
fireside dreams of moonlit nights in good old Placerville.
SOMETIMES IN THE
EVENING
Sometimes in the evening, when the sun is
sinking low, the pines are silhouetted, and I’ve nowhere else to go. I remember good ol’ Placerville in the distant
days of yore, and I’d very nearly sell my soul to walk its streets once more. When
its avenues were dusty and its storefronts weathered wood, when the girls were
thin and lusty and the Ivy House still stood; when Main Street ran a rutted
course and blooms were yet a bud, the only ride to town a horse, and gold was
in our blood. When the Hangman’s Tree served nickel beer and the Cary House was
new, lamp-lit saloons exuded cheer and frosty mugs of brew. The three mile house
was always full, and Tahoe, days away, and folks who stopped at Hangtown almost
always came to stay. Father in Heaven, hear my prayer. Dear God, please grant
my plea; if I could just awaken there, and time could set me free, if once more
I could stroll its streets and once more breathe its air, I know there’s souls aplenty
Lord, who could benefit from prayer.
HANGTOWN,
1849 aka PLACERVILLE
The sun was high, the humidity
low, and the air hung heavy with the scent of manzanita, the drone of insects,
and the obnoxious screech of valley jays. We trudged on with determination all
day long and right at dusk we reached the crest of a pine-covered ridge. “Over
the mountains of the moon, down the valley of the shadow, ride, boldly ride,
the shade replied, if you seek for Eldorado.” So says ol’ Edgar Allan,
and Lord knows Poe is well acquainted with shadows. There below, basking in the
last red rays of the rapidly setting sun, lay the storied metropolis of
Hangtown.
A small tormented creek meandered
through a series of deep, pine-lined ravines, and clinging tenaciously to each
bank, at close intervals and in no apparent order, squatted several dozen shake
roofed structures reminiscent of the clapboard shanties that graced the Irish
community back home. In addition to the rustic, wooden framed structures were
numerous log cabins, and on the periphery of the settlement, lining Main Street
on either side, an endless sea of tents glowed hospitably from the lamplight
within. The oak scented smoke of countless campfires hung thick in the
motionless evening air, and the entire hollow twinkled in the light of
countless lamps and flickering candles. Laughter and jocularity rose
spasmodically from a number of well lit gatherings down below, and a melancholy
rendition of “Little Annie Laurie,” scratched out hesitantly on a pair of
slightly flat fiddles, rose plaintively from a massive canvas covered structure
in the center of the scene.
We eventually found access to the
main street and proceeded slowly and deliberately in the waning light until we
reached a large open area in front of the crowded tent. This was
evidently the heart of downtown. Main Street, lined on each side with false
storefronts, dropped in a gentle grade from the east, widening and splitting as
it approached a long row of canvas covered shops. At the east end of this
row of shops stood a bell tower as high as any building in town. Main
Street proceeded west, past a number of dimly lit but well patronized saloons,
and Center Street led quickly toward a row of barns and stables which faced the
rear of the shops to their south and hung precariously over the banks of scenic
Hangtown Creek to the north.
I COULD
ALMOST HEAR THE STARS
Twilight arrived early that
evening. The storm abated, and despite occasional flurries the moon shone down
at intervals through a partly cloudy sky, lending an eerie translucence to the
scene and casting curious shadows on the glimmering snow. The breathtaking
beauty of the mountains once more overcame me. The magnificent ponderosa
pines leaned and swayed precariously, each bow hanging heavy, laden with a
mantel of white. The air was still and silent with only the occasional
pop of an overburdened limb disturbing the quiet as it echoed from the canyon
beyond. Smoke boiled and billowed from a forest of stovepipes, and the
sound of kindling being chopped rang at intervals from a series of locations
and echoed from the ravine. I stood for a long time, shivering and staring
awestruck across the snow-covered Sierras. I’ve never experienced air
fresher, shadows deeper, or a scene so extraordinarily quiet and
pristine. You’ll laugh and think I’m crazy, but it seemed as though I
could almost hear the stars.
On the afternoon of the fifth
day, a bitter north wind whipped down from the high country. The storm returned
with a vengeance, and the temperature dropped to around thirty degrees. I
pulled my chair closer to the potbellied stove and poured myself some coffee
from the gray graniteware pot. As twilight approached, I sat staring out the
window and listening to the moan of the howling wind as it tore at the shingles
and rattled the chimney cap. I could hear the hiss of sleet as it began
filling the ruts and hoof prints in the muddy street, and icicles began to form
and hung in profusion from the eaves. The sleet came down fitfully against the
window, and periodically a gust of wind would find its way down the stovepipe
and the old cast iron heater would belch smoke from around its dampers and red
hot lid.
After a while the rough plank
roof began dripping and leaking like a sieve, and one by one a strategically
placed company of pots and kettles joined in a chorus of plinks, plops, and
piddles as they filled quickly with their captured leakage and began splashing
rhythmically on the floor. Clearing a spot on the frosted windowpane, I squinted
and peered outside. The snow was coming down in earnest now, and the street was
entirely abandoned with the exception of a few hardy souls on the boardwalk by
the bell tower. I warmed a blanket for myself, kicked back in my chair, and
leaned against the wall. The stove dampers were wide open, and I remember
watching the firelight dancing on the wall. Then the cobwebs came, and darkness
took me in.
MOSQUITO
BRIDGE
Mosquito Road winds along ridge top and ravine and eventually crosses a lava-strewn
flat. Here in the midst of pine needle covered hillsides of red clay and
granite, some ancient, unrecorded volcanic action has created an unlikely
landscape of unearthly geological formations and conglomerated lava. In
the middle of this desolate and unlikely location, for some reason known only
to them, a handful of Chinese immigrants have established a unique and isolated
community. Here these peculiar, standoffish Argonauts prepare their
ceremonial teas and enjoy the euphoric contents of their noxious clay pipes
beyond the scrutiny of a disapproving society and with little fear of
interruption. Finding the occupants entirely sociable, we struck up a
conversation and visited for about an hour. And then, our lightly steeped libations
consumed and the need for cordiality satisfied, we climbed back in the wagon
and with hames bells jingling, continued on our way.
Reaching the summit of a pine
covered ridge, we rested the mules briefly and then began our cautious decent
into the rugged canyon of the American River’s renowned south fork. The
already treacherous thoroughfare soon lost all semblance of a road and
gradually took on the unmistakable characteristics of a dry creek bed.
Arriving eventually at the foot of a thickly wooded hill, we rode
apprehensively to the edge of a deep precipice and stared in awe. At this point
the prehistoric gorge was spanned defiantly by a picturesque but unnerving
little suspension bridge. Constructed of gigantic, rough sawn timbers,
and suspended by equally impressive cables, the primitive little conduit
proceeded courageously out into thin air, and then extended precariously at a
dizzying height, over a tumultuous rush of rampaging fury. The river was
running high with the frigid runoff from the mountains generous and rapidly
melting snow pack, and the reverberations of its unbridled onslaught resulted
in a primal roar that literally shook the bridge. The midpoint of this
remarkable swinging bridge afforded a spectacular vista of the riverbed some thirty
feet below.
Beneath us, the gut wrenching
force of the rampaging river boiled and bounded through a series of violently
rolling rapids and unique cylindrical formations which long eons of gradual
erosion had carved into the solid granite base. The road, supported by an
outcropping of granite whose overhang provided home to a community of tiny bats,
swung immediately to the left at the opposite side of the gorge.
Below us the restless current intermittently exhibited a fleeting streak of
silver as a rainbow trout would erupt from the surface in a frenzied attempt to
surmount the foaming falls. Irrigated by the rising mists, lush growths
of moss clung tenaciously to the rugged bluffs, and here and there a maidenhair
fern found a hold and spread luxuriously in the canyons filtered light. Here in
this unexpected haven we parked the rig and spread a quilt for
lunch. Steller’s jays piped from the canopy of oaks, and as the summer sun
shone intermittently from behind a wispy sea of cumulus clouds, the mist that
rose from the tumultuous rapids below periodically burst into a brilliant
rainbow.
The temperature warmed into the
low eighties, and we sprawled on our blanket and absorbed the summer sun.
Following a long, leisurely lunch, we proceeded across the swinging bridge and
began our laborious ascent. The narrow trail ascended the cliff face in a
series of narrow switchbacks, which zigzagged back and forth in a gradual climb
and periodically afforded an unobstructed view, almost perpendicularly from the
trails edge one hundred feet to the boulder-buffeted torrent below. Negotiating
the barely maneuverable switchbacks, we eventually approached the top of a
pine-covered ridge. The distant roar of the river dissipated and grew
silent, replaced by the chattering of the gregarious nuthatches and chickadees
which darted in and out of the cone clad bows that hung in profusion from the
pine and Douglas fir. Gradually the incessant drone of insects and the
familiar but indescribable sound of the breeze in the towering evergreens
lulled us into a drowsiness which left us nodding and semiconscious in the
gently rocking wagon. The mules set their own casual pace, occasionally
addressing a persistent fly with a leisurely swish of their tails, and pausing
briefly from time to time to brose on a tempting morsel along the way.
A RUSH IS
A RUSH
1859 sounded a sweet note in old
Hangtown’s colorful history. As California’s neighbor to the east, Nevada
had benefited as easterners poured through the arid, inhospitable country in
route to California and its gold. Now the tables turned. Some 100
miles from the Sacramento Valley the remote and previously benign outpost of
Virginia City, Nevada all at once exploded on the scene. With the discovery of
silver, Nevada’s Comstock Lode began drawing a new generation of Argonauts.
They came from far and wide enticed once again by fame, fortune, and
unprecedented wealth. Placerville would once again benefit by its
fortuitous location. Hangtown had prospered previously as people poured
into El Dorado County for its gold. They
now found themselves strategically located along California’s route to Virginia
City’s booming Comstock Lode. The tenacious little city in the ravine
would now find the traffic flow reversed, but a rush is a rush. Hangtown’s boom
was back.
The lure of the Comstock
represented an irresistible draw to spectators, prospectors, and speculators of
every conceivable kind. Starry-eyed optimists were drawn out of southern
California in droves, and the route of choice was the Placerville stage
road. Old Hangtown was fast becoming civilized. The city fathers
were passing a new ordinance every week. We knew we’d reached a new level
of sophistication when they posted an ordinance which prohibited a feller from
relieving hisself in the street. The idea, though well received, soon
proved impractical and was later amended to apply to Main Street only.
That was a relief! Finally they whittled her down just right by adding
the clause, “during business hours”. By
1860 traffic through old Hangtown was thicker than flatlanders at a water
rights revolt. You literally risked your life to cross the street. During
the summer the dust was so deep it was like walking through sifted flour, and
when it rained the mud holes could claim a horse.
It took a good forty-five minutes
to drive the length of our booming metropolis, and very few managed the
dust-choked travail without stopping in town for a foaming mug of beer. Many
colorful saloons graced our clapboard community with each establishment much
like the next. The floors were strewn with numerous and sundry containers
strategically placed for the purpose of capturing leakage, and a company of
tarnished brass cuspidors stood at the ready along the base of a well polished
and ornate bar. Coal oil lamps flickered determinedly from within their
soot-choked chimneys, and the atmosphere was permeated with a thick cloud of
noxious smoke which belched from the dampers of well stoked wood heaters and
countless cheap cigars. Against the rear wall of the establishment a
humidity-ravaged piano bravely plinked out a barely recognizable medley of
Irish tavern tunes in competition with an unsympathetic chorus of clanking
utensils and beverage induced jocularity.
A
PRECIOUS YELLER SPECK
We’d been painstakingly, and I
mean mighty painstakingly, paddling our boat up the American River for about a
week. At last we came to the fabled fork
in the road. In this case it was a fork in the river. To the left,
the south fork of the American River continued its tenacious climb into the
foothills and the majestic Sierras beyond; Gods’ country to those who know it
best. That way was Coloma, Sutter’s mill, and, just north of Hangtown,
that hole at Chili Bar. Most of the traffic was headed in that
direction. The water was muddy, the competition fierce, and we’d soon run
out of supplies.
To the right lay an innocuous
little tributary by the name of Webber Creek, or crick if you prefer the local
jargon. The sun was shining; there was reasonably clean water for
drinking, and a nice quiet place to pan for gold and camp. The biggest
advantage of this little branch is the indisputable fact that we’re already
here. Sometimes your best bet is to set your cap and take your shot and
claim the duck that drops.
There were three grizzled
prospectors here who insisted they’d welcome a little fresh blood in camp.
Fifty yards upstream they said, were several holes just begging to show
some color. We were bone tired, blistered, sore, and ringing wet. This’ll do.
The three gentlemen currently
occupying this claim are probably in their thirties or forties. They’re a
sight to behold. These rugged individualists don’t encumber themselves with
many rules, but they have one creed that many follow religiously: live and let
live. They expect people to stay out of their business, and they’re more
than glad to reciprocate and stay out of yours. They’re ready, willing,
and able, to defend their freedom passionately. Respect their rights and
they’ll give you the shirt off their back, threaten their freedoms, and you’ve
drawn a formidable foe.
These three colorful characters
are the living personification of freedom itself. They’re dressed in
tattered pants with suspenders or a wide leather belt. Their shirts are
long-sleeved red wool affairs, patched at the elbows with whatever they have on
hand. Their pants are loose at the waist, and the legs are either cuffed or
tucked into the top of rough leather boots that cover their calves right up to
their worn-out knees. Their hair and beards are wild as the rugged country they
inhabit, and what little of their faces you’re likely to see, are chapped and
weathered and rough as their leather boots. They carry a deliciously rank
tobacco pipe and a dandy Colt revolver. They know how to use them, and they
fire them both up every day. They have one or more knives that they
sharpen religiously on the sides of their leather boots. They’re sharp as
a razor and used for pealing everything from pears to opossum. They can
stick them an inch deep in a pine stump from twenty paces away. They practice
with them daily, and they’re willing and able to stick them in more than a
stump. Having said all that, these three guys are the most gregarious, amicable;
easy to get along with rascals I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
These guys have been camped out
here on the banks of Webber Crick until they’re almost indistinguishable from
their environment. They’ve thrown together a pretty good-sized log
lean-to, with a dirt floor and a roof of limbs from Ponderosa pine. The
thing leaks like a sieve, but it filters the sun and the wind. They each carry
a soft leather pouch of some kind, about the size of a tobacco pouch, and
they’re not the least bit hesitant to show us that each of these pouches
contains yellow dust. One of these guys called me over and says, “Come
here Bud, and I’ll give you a peek at the varmint that’s causin’ the fuss.”
Into the palm of my hand, he
pours about a thimbleful of these tiny little specks, most of them no bigger
than a grain of salt. “There the little critters are.” he says, “There’s
about forty bucks worth in this little poke, and that represents busting my
butt every day, and wading belly deep in this crick for over a month.” That’s
all it took to give me the bug real bad! I grabbed my pan and began a
frantic search.
About half a mile upstream, are
about fifty men working claims. They’ve graduated from their pan
swirling, and they’re tearing the country up pretty good with Long Toms and
sluices. That kind of setup takes rip-sawn planks, which are luxuries we
don’t have and can’t afford. Between them and us, are several little
waterfalls. The fall closest to us is down in this little hollow with a
twenty-foot embankment all around, slippery as heck and entirely shaded from
the sun. Bull pine and scrub oak lean precariously from their bare root wads on
the eroded banks, and brush, briars, and pesky snakes lurk in tangled profusion
at the water’s edge. This area is shaded all day long, and once you’re
wet, there’s no warming up.
The oldest of the three
prospectors is Zachary. Zachary still has the gold bug, but his gold
fever had been tempered by his years and several months of cold, filthy,
backbreaking labor. He offered to give me a quick lesson in the use of
this ubiquitous, little pan. If I’d had the patent on this pan, none of
this manual labor would have been necessary at all. There are probably
more than one hundred thousand miners wading the hills and hollows in search of
this infernal, illusive dust, and every single soul has a pan! If I could
have sold them for a buck a piece, I’d never have to drive a mule again.
Anyway, Zachary and I waded out
about knee deep into the ice-cold water below the falls. He reached down
and turned over two or three good-sized boulders and brought out a big panful
of the sand and gravel that lay beneath those rocks. “The gold is heavy,”
he says, “and it’ll settle into the low spots at the bottom.” Zachary
raked out all the bigger rocks and gravel with his grizzly like paw, and then
began tipping that pan until he had the water swirling in a counterclockwise
motion. He continued swirling that water, and once in awhile he’d stop and pick
out the bigger rocks, always watching for anything that shines. He kept
that up for about ten minutes, all hunkered over and knee deep in the crick.
At last he groaned and straightened up, and handed me the pan. At
this point the pan has about a teacupful of sand left in the bottom. “Take
the pan,” he says, “Fill it with water; careful now, and don’t spill it.
Now swirl it real easy, just the way I was doin’, and tip it toward you
just the slightest little bit. Pretty quick you’ll have a little line of
black sand along the upper edge of that skiff of gravel.” Sure enough, in
a couple of minutes, with every swirl I made, a little skiff of jet-black sand
fell in place right at the top of the gravel.
“Now,” he says, “you just keep
swirling that gentle like, and watch that line of black sand; and pretty quick
if the good Lord’s willin’, the sun will shine on a little speck of color.”
Well, between the cold water, the nervousness, and the jaw clenching
excitement, my teeth were chattering, and I was shivering to beat the band; but
I watched that black sand and gently swirled my pan. All at once there
was a little yeller speck! Before I could stop that water from swirling,
it was gone. I swirled some more, and there it was again. I stopped
real careful and showed the pan to Zachary.
Zachary’s leathery face broke out
in mighty contagious grin! “Thar she blows!” he says! “Just fish that
rascal out of there and put it in something safe. Finish that pan, and dig
yourself another. If we had some quick,” he says, “a little drop would
collect the flakes into one little cluster. We ain’t got no quick,” he says,
“so you’ll have to just use your fingers and fish ‘em out. It’s probably
just as well,” he says. “That mercury will fog up your memory and addle your
brain.”
I collected that precious yeller
speck right on the tip of my water-wrinkled finger and headed out like I’d
struck the mother lode! You’d of thought it was the wonder of the age. We
muddied that crick for the rest of the day, till the sun went down, the fog
rolled in, and the frogs began to sing. My toes were frozen, my fingers
wrinkled, and my back too crooked to stand, but there sure enough was gold in
them thar hills!
THE
LIVING PERSONIFICATION OF POWER ITSELF
On May 10th, 1869, the Central
Pacific Railroad, who’d been diligently laying track from the west, and the
Union Pacific, who’d been performing the same arduous task from the east,
connected tracks at Promontory Point Utah signaling the completion of the
Transcontinental Railroad.
Without question, as those golden
spikes were driven into that last tie at Promontory Point, America’s manifest
destiny was achieved. East was symbolically and literally joined to west, and
the vast expanse of America’s celebrated Republic truly became one nation
indivisible.
Equally impressive, as the
thoroughfare itself, were its remarkable locomotives. Everything about a steam locomotive is
awe-inspiring. The low moan of the engine, the earthy smell of burning fuel,
hot steel, and well-oiled brass, and the rise and fall of the undulating rails
are an endless source of wonder for me.
A swiftly passing locomotive brings to mind a living, breathing
creature. To me, a steam locomotive,
belching smoke and billowing clouds of steam, is the living personification of
power itself. There’s no other sound in the whole wide world like the sound of
a distant train, with its rhythmic rumble and the whistle’s mournful wail. It’s a little like the call of migrating
geese as their primordial cries grow faint, and they follow their leader along
an ancient path.
Chugging through the Sierras
aboard a steam locomotive was reminiscent of riding an iron-wheeled wheelbarrow
down a cobblestone street, only more gut wrenching and exhilaratingly
perilous! The old cabs were cramped at
best. The heat off the boiler and firebox was enough to wilt the feathers off a
wooden Indian, and you could fry an egg on any surface of the cab. The
engineers were hard-pressed to turn around without banging their head on
something; and most of the time the cab was full of smoke and cinders, and the
floor pitched and rolled till a fellow was doing well to find his feet.
They rarely made headway for more
than an hour without needing to stop for something. If the engine wasn’t low on wood, she was
running low on water. There were little wood yards scattered all along the way,
and anyplace that had access to water boasted a gigantic barrel-like water
tower at a sufficient height to deliver water to the thirsty boilers. This process was rarely accomplished without
soaking your boots and pants which was mighty invigorating high in the
Sierras. The survey teams worked
diligently to avoid grades in excess of 4%, but were rarely ever successful,
and failing brakes were an ever-present concern. Steam locomotives make real good time when
their brakes fail on a hill; that’s about the only time. Most were outfitted
with cowcatchers, but I don’t recall one ever catching a cow.
Occasionally, constellations of
toxic, black smoke and carnivorous sparks would inundate the cab. The fragrance
of scorched overalls and singed whiskers would permeate the atmosphere, and the
place would erupt in flailing arms as folks sang and danced and swatted
smoldering cinders.
The only things more colorful
than the engines themselves were the fellows who manned the throttles and made
‘em go. If you had the good fortune to be invited into the cab, you got
acquainted with the engineer and the fireman. You could tell which was which
because the fireman had only smudges of soot where his eyebrows used to be. My
favorites were Zeek & Zak. One spoke
only Irish brogue, the other only German, and you rarely caught their drift
unless they were cussing. Zeek was
fastidious! He kept a wire brush hanging
from his belt and a big bucket of stove-black near the firewall. He kept that
whole engine polished up like Grandma’s parlor stove.
The petcocks and grease fittings
were all made of brass or copper, and Zeek shined them all up till they gleamed
like a freshly minted penny! He was adamant about keeping the fire door
spit-shined velvet black, and every time he got ‘er done, Zak let fly with a
chaw of tobaccy. The projectile
expectorate would splash and splatter, a wisp of steam would arise from the
stained and affronted surface, the cab would light up with profanity, and Zak
would swab his chin and bust up laughing! He antagonized poor Zeek at every
turn. It fell to Zeek to stoke the fire,
and that entailed trips to the tender to bring back firewood. The tender was
directly behind and downwind of the engine of course, and that made ol’ Zeek a
mighty tempting target! Zak had sworn a
blood oath to holler, “hot solder!” before he spat, and he done his best; but
he generally hollered after! Zeek invariably came back thoroughly disgusted and
sleeve-grooming his ears.
HANGTOWN CRICK
It was many and many a year ago along an old
stagecoach road a gold camp flourished in the snow in the heart of the mother
lode. Soon the whole place went to heck, and loath to call a truce; they
stretched a couple careless necks with a crudely fashioned noose. So the gold
camp grew in infamy. Notoriety done the trick! And soon the little ditch was
known as historic Hangtown crick. The camp was christened Hangtown too, filling
folks with dread, and far and wide her legend grew as the lawless place them
fellas wound up dead! Soon folks rushed in from shore to shore to pan the muddy
street, with Hangtown renowned for evermore as the place to come to see them
swingin’ feet. The city fathers deemed it wise to spread the gold camp’s fame.
Soon gold aplenty became the prize and emptying tourists pockets became the
game. When delicate womenfolk arrived, the name Hangtown give ‘em grief; so a
brand new name was soon contrived in the hope it might provide the men relief.
Ravine City was considered, but the womenfolk groaned still, so at last the
city fathers changed the name to Placerville. The little metropolis grew and
grew, and the townsfolk, being thrifty, began providing gasoline to the
motorists they could lure from highway 50. Flatlanders now are welcome despite
what you may hear, and we very rarely hang one. With ropes now coiled, we count
each tourist dear. So if you’d like to live on beans out west where skies are
sunny, check out Old Hangtown by all means, and just to play it safe bring lots
of money.
THE TALENT SHOW
Or,
WHY I DON’T DO TALENT
SHOWS NO MORE!
My buddy and I had taken a load of freight over
to a little gold camp in the foothills. The mule throwed a shoe, so we were
running late and decided to call it a day and spend the night. The mining camp had a dandy, little community
theatre, and, in hopes of killing some time that evening, the folks were
throwing an impromptu talent show. There was a fifty dollar prize for first
place, so all the miners were filing through doin’ jigs, flip flops, &
such, and telling all manner of outrageous, longwinded whoppers that had never
failed to bust up Ma & Pa back home. My buddy insisted that if I was to read
a page or two from my journal they’d be mesmerized. I did, and they weren’t! So, after two or
three minutes of dead silence and growing humiliation, I was staring at my feet
in mortification; when I noticed that one of my brogans was untied and fixin’
to fall off. I immediately hoisted my foot up on the high lectern and began
lacing my shoe. Well, folks began to marvel at my flexibility and dexterity,
and some fellow in the front row asked if I could wrap my leg plumb around my
neck! I assured him I could not, and
another old guy wagered ten bucks I was mistaken.
Confident of some easy cash, I hauled off and
swung my right leg for my left shoulder with all the determination I could
muster. My loosed brogan flew off, and
my big toe became deeply embedded in my left ear right up to the second
knuckle. Instantly, my leg muscles cramped
up, in a bunch, and my back went into spasm! Just when I figured things
couldn’t get no worse, the frayed cuff of my overalls began tickling my nose,
and I went into fits and convulsions of violent sneezing! This sneezing persisted and grew in intensity
until a particularly virulent sneeze went directly down my pants leg, turning
my pockets wrong side out and instantaneously inflating my long johns! Reacting quickly, the horrified stage manager
immediately dropped the curtain, cracking me on the cranium and knocking me
colder than a dogcatcher’s heart! About
forty five minutes later, I come to in the local hoosegow, serving a three to
six week sentence for vagrancy, disturbing the peace, and indecent exposure.
That concluded my stage career. And this
concludes my dream.
Excerpt from, “OBIE, THE CAMP ACCOUNT”
One cool, blustery day in early March, we were
busying ourselves with our usual mule grooming chores. Lidge was checking out an old mule’s teeth,
and I was around back fixin’ to curry out her tail. Dad had just outfitted the
old gal with a shiny new set of steel shoes. All at once her ears came down,
her hind end kind of bunched up, and a hind foot came snatching out and rung my
shinbone like a bell! I collapsed to the ground, frantically rubbing my
throbbing ankle, and desperately fighting my inclination to besmirch that
mule’s pedigree; and Lidge grinned at me like I was just off the boat! “I
figured you knowed better than that,” he says with his lips curled back and his
teeth all catching sunlight. “When an ol’ mule’s hind end puckers up that a
way, you best drop and roll.” “I thought
that’s what ya done in case of fire,” I responded, dusting my drawers and
struggling to find my feet. “When an ol’
mule behaves that a way,” Lidge chuckled, offering me a hand up, “you can
reckon she is fixin’ to fire!”
I cautiously resumed my enterprise, keeping an
eye peeled for any further sign of insubordination and flinching with every
twitch, while the ol’ mule eyed me with a good deal of self-satisfaction; and
periodically swished her tail and defiantly stomped a foot by way of testing my
reflexes and expressing her indignation.
Later that afternoon, I had finished my chores
and was down at the stable, contemplating the cosmos and mining for nasal nuggets,
when here came Mariah… To be continued in
2019, Lord willing.
MEMORIES
I remember sitting by a crackling fire high in
the Sierra Nevada’s and listening to the ill-tempered Jerseys filing past with
their cowbells clanking, their babies bawling, and the old bull curling his lip
and looking for work. I remember standing on the rough plank sidewalk outside
the Ivy House, inhaling the aroma of grilled ribs sizzling over manzanita
coals, and watching the massive freight wagons lumber by with harness
squeaking, hames bells jingling, and the iron-clad rims of hickory-spoked wheels
smashing the gravel to dust beneath their cumbersome tonnage of crocks of
butter and barrels of fragrant cheese. I remember believing that my whole life
would be a long and wondrous adventure.
And it was.
LITTLE FORDS AND
WEATHERED WOOD
If I could turn the clock back
And live my life once more,
I believe I’d take a slower pace,
Not hurry like before.
I’d spend my life in Placerville,
When the Ivy House still stood,
When the whole town smelled of doughnuts,
Little Fords and weathered wood;
When school was taught with chalk on slate,
Each hour marked by a bell,
Luncheon served from paper bags,
And a pint of milk was swell;
When horse and buggy still raised dust
And little Fords were few,
When little girls weren’t exempt from lust,
But little boys had no clue;
When belts were worn with shirts tucked in,
And Pomade clogged our comb,
When we took our best girl to the dance, and
Palms caressed while walking sweethearts home.
I know it’s just a silly dream.
I know it can’t come true.
I know it just sounds foolish now
To share it here with you.
But my wish for every one of us
Is that we’ll live each minute,
Treasure every hour of life
And every loved one in it.
Hold tight to your memories
Of those days when life was good,
When Main Street smelled of doughnuts,
Little Fords, and weathered wood.
GLAD DAYS LONG AGO
I remember sitting on Reservoir Hill
While watching storm clouds grow
And listening to the windswept pines
As their branches filled with snow;
The sense of silence building
Till it muffled every sound,
But the gentle rush of snowflakes
As they blanketed the ground;
The American River canyon
In the fogbank down below,
And off in the distance Placerville
With street lights all aglow.
Just
down the hill was Granddad’s home,
And the warmth inherent in it.
If only time were malleable,
I’d be there in a minute.
I see my grandma at the stove
With all the family there,
My granddad’s sweet, mischievous grin,
His white and wispy hair;
The glimmer of the window panes
And the old dog at the gate,
Shaking the snow from his wiry coat
And wondering why I’m late.
Dear God, preserve our memories
Of glad days long ago,
Of happy lamp lit gatherings
And Hangtown in the snow;
Of all the precious loved ones
Who lived and loved but brief.
May blessings grace our days, dear Lord,
And hope dispel old grief.
May faith assure tomorrow’s joys
Despite the winds that chill
And each night bring us dreams of youth,
Old friends and Placerville.
SUNSETS
I remember Ferris wheels
And sharing cotton candy,
Walking barefoot hand in hand
Along a beach that’s sandy,
Afternoons on inner tubes
With sunshine on my shoulders,
And the smell of roasting hotdogs
As a stone lined campfire smolders.
I remember sleeping on air mattresses gone
flat, Ballgames in the meadow,
And the cracking of a bat;
Kool-Aid on the running board
Of Granddad’s little Ford,
And popcorn at the theater
With that gal that I adored.
I remember horseback rides
And summertime romances,
Chewing gum scented kisses,
And long, slow dances,
Moonlit walks with pretty girls
In soft gingham dresses,
Thoughtful talks on country roads,
And warm, moist caresses;
And I recall the dawning
Of an inescapable truth,
And reconciliation as the sun set on my youth.
SORROW SLIPS AWAY
Soft through the pines
The summer breeze is blowing
Sweet, solemn music to me.
Lightly through my mind
Old memories are flowing,
Tender thoughts of what life used to be;
Souls called away,
Golden days amid the tall grass;
Laughter lingers deep in my heart;
Pleasant moments shared,
Vibrant dreams of youth are ageless.
Hope unites though time may bid us part.
Shadows of time,
When the hours passed in moments,
Tender moments priceless to recall;
Futures to share,
Happy destinies awaiting,
Summer slipping gently into fall.
Seasons quickly pass.
Our memories turn to treasure,
God’s gift to those who remain.
Sorrow slips away,
While our hearts preserve life’s pleasure.
Grief fades while joy we retain.
NEATH CALIFORNIA SKIES
Asa Camp was a pioneer and a relative of mine.
Great Great Grandpa crossed the plains, back in ’49. The trail west was rugged
and the wild Sierras high. The golden prize was elusive, but Asa was determined
to try. The plains were fraught with peril and the road west took a toll. But
at last they reached the summit of a steep and piney knoll. Down below was
Hangtown, the end of a weary road; the mythical El Dorado, heart of the Mother
Lode. There, Asa Camp would spend his youth. There, he’d wed a wife. There,
he’d father children through a long, industrious life. But first he made a
second trip in 1854. He knew the long, rut riddled route. He’d made the trek
before. This time he brought the Oldfield’s west, in this saga that I’m
tellin’. And when their daughter came of age, he married Laura Ellen. They raised
four daughters and a son in Hangtown through the years. They buried Ella on the
hill and persevered through tears. His hands were hard and callused. His smile was
warm as toast. He didn’t treasure company, but he was a gracious host. He mined
the rugged south fork and lived on Reservoir Hill, panning gold, hauling
freight, and ruling home and hearth with an iron will. There, his children
married. Each lived their life with zest. And Great Great Grandpa loved them
all, but Asa loved the wild Sierras best. He cherished every blessing neath the
California skies. His life was spent in gratitude, and he died with the wild
Sierras in his eyes.
BY MY SIDE
In nineteen hundred and eighty-two the misses
and I were wed. I remember the youthful smiles we wore. I recall what the
preacher said. I recall how Mom and Dad looked on and how they beamed with
pride, my dad's handshake and my mamma's hug as I left with my new bride. Our
whole lives lay before us as God merged us two as one. He blessed us with our
Cassie and with Jared our precious son. We've had our peaks where spirits
soared and valleys where hopes would fall, but we've held on tight to Jesus and
each other through it all. Through joy beyond description, through loss no
heart could bear, when no other soul can lift me up, my Robin is always there.
Whatever fate befalls me, in my heart will faith abide, for I know I have the
Lord above and my Robbie by my side.
THE OLD HOUSE
We built a house in '82 of pine and fir and
Elmer's glue; and a finer crew I never had. We built it all just me and Dad. I
drew the plans the best I could for a country home all made of wood. I planned
it grand as it could be and still be built by Dad and me. Footings and all, we
dug by hand. We laid it out just like I planned. All the foundation, the floor,
and the rest, we'd hammer and figure, and hammer and rest. We did all the
plumbing and wiring and such. My
blisters had blisters from working so much. We built trusses till my fingers
were numb. Dad never once cussed when he hammered his thumb. We both worked
together; and when there was doubt we got out the books, and we figured it out.
We never once fought, disagreed, or got mad. There's no better crew than my old
dad. We worked as a team from fall until fall. We stained all the siding and
Sheet rocked each wall. We shingled the roof and we hung every door. We worked
all we could and a little bit more. We worked in the rain and the cold and the
heat. When Mom brought our lunches we'd stop and we'd eat. She'd brag on our
job and we'd brag a bit too. We were both pretty proud and I'm sure Mom knew. I
remember the year that I worked with my dad. I remember the work and the fun
that we had. I remember the heat and the rainy weather. I remember the time
that we shared together. The old house is a journal of bygone years, penned
with joy and smudged by tears, through all that assails a man and wife who’ve
pledged to live a faithful life. I thank the Lord for His help from above, for
all of my blessings, a home full of love, and the very best crew that a guy
ever had. Thanks a lot, Lord, for Mom and Dad.
THE BIG PARADE
I was driving my dad’s old pickup, which was
holding together reasonably well, all things considered. We were midway down Main Street when we were
suddenly accosted by a hellacious clanking, much like the commotion one might
hear while dragging an unruly regiment of empty paint cans down the street.
Dismounting Dad’s gaily primered jitney and dropping to my hands and knees amid
a rapidly growing crowd of concerned citizens, I peered into the oil soaked
underbelly and discovered the rusty old muffler had broken free of the tailpipe
and was dragging unceremoniously on the pavement. The entire apparatus being much too hot for
removal or repair, I climbed back aboard ol’ Blue and continued noisily on my
way, in the company of several excitedly barking terriers. Frenzied youngsters sleeve groomed noses and
frantically waved their flags. Young mothers jostled grocery bags and reined in
squirming toddlers. White whiskered old soldiers fondled pocket watches, doffed
their campaign hats and tearfully saluted. Townsfolk of every conceivable age
and ethnicity lined the boulevard, clearly moved and cheering enthusiastically. And the festive occasion is fondly remembered
and celebrated to this very day, though it’s safe to say not a single soul
knows why.
BROCCOLI A La MODE
Twelve inches of snow may sound
real plain,
If you live in Alaska, or up in
Maine,
But here where the Ozark breezes
blow,
When we get twelve inches, that’s a
lot of snow!
Our ponds freeze up till our duck,
old Ferd,
Must envy the migrating geese we’ve
heard.
Not even the dog will venture out.
He hides in his bed and buries his
snout.
I don’t go to work. There’s just no
use.
Twelve inches of snow is a fine
excuse.
I sit in my rocker by the fire’s
glow,
And sip my coffee and watch it
snow.
Our short leafed pines each bare
their lode,
Like stalks of broccoli, A La Mode.
And our old house looks mighty nice
With every eave all trimmed with
ice.
The roof and the deck sport a
mantle of white,
While windows glimmer with the oil
lamps light.
They cancel school, so the kids
sleep late,
And the Misses and I just think
that’s great!
When we’re finally up, the kids are
fed.
They bundle up and grab their sled.
Then both head out through the
Ozark hills,
For a fun filled day of slips and
spills.
If anything makes the Misses sore,
It’s tracking snow on the kitchen
floor,
And hour after hour those piles get
higher,
Of wet clothes drying by the
crackling fire.
Eventually both the kids are done.
They’ve had their fill of snow and
fun.
Their haggard hineys hit the
ground,
By the fireside, where wet boots
abound!
We sit by the fire and warm our feet,
While the Misses pauses to bake a
treat.
By the time we’ve found dry
underwear,
The smell of hot goodies fills the
air.
We’re sprawled by the window,
gazing out,
And wondering, what’s the fuss
about?
The misses is praying for the sun
to show,
But the kids and I sure love the
snow.
FREEZER BURN
One summer it was mighty hot!
It got up to a hundred and four!
The kids took shelter in the cattle
tank.
They couldn’t take no more!
When finally those rascals had
enough,
At last I saw MY chance.
The kids swarmed down the hill to
play,
And I stripped my shirt and pants.
I sprawled out in that water tank,
With my prospects looking better,
Till those darn kids came screaming
back,
In hopes of getting wetter.
“We’re going to get some ice-cream,
Dad.”
I heard those yahoos yelling.
“You kids track up your mom’s clean
floors,
And you better believe, I’m
telling!”
I made those yahoos wait outside,
While I went to get their treat.
My birthday suit was wringing wet,
But at least I had clean feet.
I opened wide the freezer door
And leaned in for the rocky road.
You’ve probably guessed what
happened next.
Its then my folly showed.
I blush to tell what happened next.
I feel so darned inferior.
That freezer door came slamming
shut,
And froze tight to my bare
posterior!
The kids got tickled, but they
thawed me loose.
I’m tickled that’s all they done.
It would have been just like those
two
To dial up nine-one-one.
THE GOODIES
Late
one autumn evening,
All
the leaves were shades of brown,
And
the pines were silhouetted
By
the moonlight beaming down.
There
was barely just a breath of breeze.
The
woods were cool and still.
And
I was outside listening
For
the fall’s last whippoorwill.
As
I came around the corner
Of
the house, out on the deck,
All
at once I went to grinning,
As
I stopped and craned my neck.
I
peeked in through the window,
Where
the Misses was at work,
And
I recognized the duty
That
the little boy in me could never shirk.
She
had finished baking goodies
And
was standing at the sink.
She
was reaching for the dipper,
Just
to get herself a drink,
When
without a bit if warning,
not
the slightest telltale trace,
I
sprang up at the window
To
confront her face to face.
Well
it must have been horrendous
Just
to see me glaring in,
With
the darkness casting shadows
On
my haunting moonlit grin,
Cause
it wasn’t but a second
Till
her color went real poor,
And
her knees collapsed beneath her,
And
I heard her hit the floor.
Our
old dog turned and tucked his tail
And
lit off for the shed.
And
I figured it was likely
That’s
where I would make my bed.
Well
you can’t even imagine
How
I felt, there all alone.
Just
the thought of going in the house
Struck
terror to the bone.
I
figured she’d be coming to.
I
was certain she’d be hacked.
I
wouldn’t get a goody.
I
knew that for a fact.
I
peeked in through the doorway,
And
she latched onto my ear.
I
took a terrible beating.
The
price I paid was dear.
I
was quick to holler “Uncle!”
Or
it’s likely I’d be dead!
I
was right about the goodies,
And
its bone chillin’ cold in the shed.
STUFF I MISS
There’s no sense denying it; there’s lots of
stuff I miss: like dancing till I’m soaking wet, and parting, with a cola scented
kiss, seemingly endless summers, exploring the creek with my ‘coon, snipe
hunts with the neighbor kids beneath a
harvest moon, sending away for plastic toys with cereal box tops I’d saved,
weekend trips to Tahoe before the roads were paved, knowing that my momma’s hug
cured problems great and small, be it new math or little girls who didn’t
return my call, picnics up to Wentworth Springs, Aunt Macie’s chili beans,
sliding down granite boulders till I wore out all my jeans, our very first
horse, old Patches, her canter in a race, her powerful strides beneath me with
the wind upon my face, dear friends in the neighborhood, hot Jello from a cup,
our faithful dog, ol’ Rebel, when he was just a pup, marshmallows on graham
crackers and chocolate galore, roasting on a campfire, while watering mouths
anticipated more, swimming high Sierra streams in snowmelt bright and blue,
palms caressing while professing love forever true, holding Great-Grandmother’s
hands, her blue, pulsating veins, marveling at her heritage, her youthful joys
and unimaginable pains, Momma’s hugs, and Dad’s handshakes, the belief they’d
live forever. Thank God for eternal bonds not even death can sever, those days
when both our kids were home and each new day brought joy, the moment that the
Doc announced, “Your wife is fine. Your baby is a boy!”, holding our precious
daughter, swaddled all in pink, showing her off to Mom and Dad, and relishing
my father’s blissful wink, the day my little girl was wed, walking her down the
aisle, that first Christmas with our son-in-law, and my daughter’s blushing
smile, youthful romance, carefree years, first embraces, kissing away my
bride’s elated tears. Thank you, God, for memories and the innocence of youth.
Thanks for hope, and faith, and love, and incontestable truth. Thank you for
your blessings, Lord, through everything I’ve done. May my life reflect thy
mercy Lord, and each day find me following your Son.
CALVINS’ ACCOUNT
HOUSTON, MISSOURI 1890
With the exception of family records, when my
great grandfather, Calvin Casebeer, passed away in 1907, his memories of the
Civil War passed with him. Had Calvin
been interviewed, we might have read the following:
A quarter century ago, a ragged group of tired
old soldiers met at the home of Wilmer Mclean near the Appomattox courthouse;
and Robert E. Lee read and signed a document written in General Grant’s own
hand, whereby all agreed that all confederate troops were free to return home
“without the taint of treason.” The
Civil War was over, the Union whole, and the nation at last at peace.
This year being the twenty-fifth anniversary of
that hallowed event, we’ve assembled today at a humble but well kept residence
just outside Houston, Missouri for the purpose of visiting a genuine veteran of
that horrific conflict. Around
midmorning Mrs. Casebeer accompanied her husband down the front steps of their
Ozark Mountain home and into the shade.
Mr. Casebeer is small in stature, uncommonly affable, and solid as
seasoned hickory, with sharp, unblinking eyes. I shook his hand and our
interview began. “To begin with, Mr. Casebeer, why don’t you tell us a little
about yourself?”
Mr. Casebeer adjusted his galluses, pushed the
brow of his straw hat back from his face, gave a gravelly but pleasant chuckle,
and began to fill us in. “Well, my name
is Calvin Casebeer, and I was born back in the spring of 1838 in Defiance,
Ohio. Cassie and I were married in ’62,
our son, Lewis, was born in ’63, and over the next twenty years we were blessed
with eleven children. We buried two of ‘em back in Ohio, and then in ‘85, soon
after laying little Eva to rest, the rest of us pulled up stakes and made
tracks for the Ozark Mountains of south central Missouri hoping for a fresh start. The last five years or so I’ve been traveling
the hills and hollers of the Ozarks spreading the gospel and relying on the
goodness of others. We’re poor as church
mice, and the misses is darn near thin as a rail, but the Lord’s been good; and
all the kids are thriving.”
“I’m certain our readers will be pleased to
hear that you’re doing well, Mr. Casebeer.
What else can you tell us about your family history?” “Well, Sir,” said
Calvin, leaning into his walking stick and smoothing his long, gray whiskers,
“my great, great, granddad, along with his brother and his folks, arrived on
the shores of Pennsylvania back in the autumn of 1724. My great great great granddad, Johann
Kasebier, kept a journal on the voyage over, and word has it that journal
exists to this very day in the castle archives back in Germany.”
“Johann passed away shortly after their arrival
in this country, and the family had a mighty hard time of it back in the
colonies. My great granddad, John Casebeer, was a soldier in the militia during
the Revolutionary War and served in the Continental Army with Captain
Davidson’s division out of Bedford, Pennsylvania. I’m mighty proud of my family, and I’m mighty
proud that when my time came, I did my part to keep this God fearing country
whole and free.”
“Well, Calvin, may I call you Calvin?” “Yes, Sir.” “Calvin, what do you remember
today about your service to this country during the Civil War?” “Plenty!” answered Calvin, tucking his shirt
in and puffing up just a tad. “I remember every bit of it like it was
yesterday.” With that, Mr. Casebeer blotted his forehead with a kerchief and
began the following yarn. “Following the siege at Fort Sumter, back in ’61,
Governor Morton ordered that a camp for volunteers be set up back in Fort
Wayne, Indiana, and my brother John and I caught the stage and headed out. I
wasn’t but 23 and took the whole grievous adventure for a lark.”
“We spent a week or so there at Fort Wayne bivouacked
with other boys from all over the country. They rousted us out at first light
on the morning of the 22nd of November and, following a physical exam, we all
gathered on the square where Mayor Randall addressed the regiment and presented
us with a crisp, new flag. Once the
sermonizing had petered out, they swore us all in as members of the Indiana
44th Infantry with these questions: Do you solemnly promise to love this flag?
We says yes, Sir. Do you promise to
honor it? Yes, Sir! Do you promise to
obey it? Yes, Sir! Do you promise to
sustain and defend it, even unto death?
Yes, Sir! I, then, in this
presence and before these witnesses, solemnly join you to the American flag,
and what we have now joined together let not Jeff Davis or his minions put
asunder. Then they paraded us through town.
Folks were waving and hollering and carrying on something fierce, and we
all figured we were mighty fine!”
“Then we set off marching, and marching, and
marching, and we kept on marching till hell wouldn’t have it! For the first few months we didn’t fight
anything but hunger, frostbite, fatigue, and the measles. It seemed like it snowed all through
November, December, and January. Most of
us were cold and soaked and sick. You’ve
never seen such misery in your life.
Then, about mid February, we marched through the snow to Fort Donelson,
and that’s when all hell broke loose!”
“Colonel Reed marched our outfit to the foot of
a good-sized hill, infested with Rebs and swarmin’ like a beehive. We formed ranks at the bottom; the order was
given to advance double quick, and we ducked our heads and charged like hell
cheering and shooting into a hail of bullets. Nearing the top of the hill, the
confederates dove for cover in their entrenchments with us right on their
heels. Shells were falling, sabers
flashing, and most of us drawing blood for the very first time. You can’t even imagine, unless you were
there. Once the Rebs were dug in good and returning fire in earnest, General
Grant himself gave the order to fall back to the brow of the hill. We dug in there on the hill that night, cold,
wet, and hungry; retrieving the dead and listening to the cries of the
wounded. The following morning the enemy
surrendered, and we searched the hill for our fallen comrades. Two of the 44th were missing, thirty-four were
wounded, and seven were found frozen to the ground in their blood-soaked
uniforms.”
“After that came another world of marching
through hell and the Battles of Shiloh and Stone River. During the night of
June 10, news reached our encampment of the fall of Vicksburg and of General
Lee being routed real bad at Gettysburg.
We figured for certain the war was all but finished. That was one of the
few good nights I remember from the whole campaign. By September of 1863, the
Rebs had withdrawn all the way back to the northwest corner of Georgia’s
confederate heartland. The Confederacy
had its back against the wall. Dug in
along the west branch of Chickamauga Crick, those tenacious Rebs were bristled
like a bulldog with a bone!”
“September 19 found us bivouacked at the ol’
Poe place, just northwest of the crick.
The battle had been arduous, and we’d been rode hard and put up
wet. Later that evening, a commotion in
the confederate encampment across the crick signaled the arrival of the Rebel’s
reinforcements. The arrival of Longstreet and his company marked a considerable
change in the mix. Leaders on both sides
immediately began rethinking tomorrow’s battle.
For ol’ Bill Rosencrans and Braxton Bragg this was in one sense just
your typical garden-variety chess game.
Each of them would engage his men in a time-honored confrontation
attacking, retreating, and maneuvering, in an effort to sweep the board. But these pawns weren’t inanimate chess
pieces; this was flesh and blood, and before noon the next day the Chickamauga
was running red with it!”
“Occasional skirmishes continued through the
night as each side exchanged potshots at the muzzle flashes of the other. Then, around mid-morning of September 20, the
action began in earnest! For several
hours the Federal troops successfully turned back the confederate advances;
wave after wave was repelled and driven back to the crick. Just prior to noon, the confederate forces,
along with Longstreet’s reinforcements, began a concentrated assault on the
Union front. At some point during this conflict, perceiving an imminent threat
to Thomas’s forces to the north, old Rosencrans reassigned Woods’s division to
address the threat. As those reassigned
troops pulled back to assist Thomas, the effect was like pulling your finger
from a dike! Within moments, the punctured federal lines busted open like a
saturated earthen dam, and the wall of Rebs swept over everything in their
path.”
“The Battle of Chickamauga was about the
bloodiest of the war, and the casualties were overwhelming. The 44th Indiana Infantry
only had three men killed, but ten were unaccounted for, and fifty-nine were badly
shot up. My brother and I were counted with the wounded. John had been run over by a runaway chuck
wagon, and I’d been shot through the leg.
The field hospitals had performed amputations, patchwork, and temporary
fixes until their medical supplies were exhausted, and then they clenched their
teeth and proceeded without them.”
“Field hospitals during the Civil War were
easily recognizable, from some distance, by their enveloping clouds of
blowflies, the agonizing moans from tent after tent of dying and demoralized
men, and the sickening stench from pungent piles of putrefying feet. Sanitation was abominable; disease was rampant
and medical care mortifyingly crude. Advances in the dispersion of death and
dismemberment having been vastly improved since the Mexican/American conflict,
.58 caliber Minni balls, now administered through rifled muskets, could be
dispatched from three or four hundred yards away with great precision and
unprecedented effect. Shattered bones
were generally the result. For want of
disinfectant, the best hope of preventing infection, gangrene, and an
excruciating death was immediate amputation.
Surgical kits bore a striking resemblance to carpenters’ tool kits;
surgical saws were the instrument of choice, and the slang “sawbones” for field
surgeon struck terror in the hearts of battle hardened veterans.”
“Following the Battle of Chickamauga, the
trafficking of dead and dying soldiers from points north and south was slow and
steady, and the pitiful laments of the injured rose from the wagons in a low
guttural moan that for many was only answered in the thralls of death. By the
afternoon of the 20th, John and I were in the back of a wagon on our way to a
field hospital. We slept, best we could, shielding our eyes from the glaring
sun and our ears from the sounds of agony and despair. Even in sleep the scenes of battle repeated
in my mind, and my consciousness reeled from the stench of death and war. War has always been an enigma to me. It’s an
irreconcilable amalgamation of glory and Godlessness.”
“Even now after my baptism of fire and a near
death experience, I view war with a strange mix of abhorrence and wonder. It’s as though, despite its revulsion and
abomination, war has some redeeming quality. I can tell you this about war; if
war possesses any redeeming qualities, they’re not apparent out on the
battlefield where gallant young men are killing and being killed. The redeeming qualities of war are pretty
illusive to those who observe its horrid stench first hand. War’s finer facets,
in order to be fully appreciated, must be polished, politicized, and refined by
some well-bred, manicured, articulate gentleman back home. Back home the less
desirable aspects of war may be overlooked.
One may sip their brandy, smile benevolently, and observe, ‘Ain’t war
inspiring’.”
“Clearly America’s collective conscience, as
reflected by our chosen leaders, requires constant scrutiny and
surveillance. Even in a democracy of,
by, and for the people, justice and equality are only as perfect as the
conscience of that people. Even
America’s grand and glorious democratic republic reflects not only our goodness
but our greed. Freedom is not a
privilege to be taken lightly. Freedom
is a right and a responsibility, a perishable torch to be diligently tended and
faithfully passed along. Freedom burns
within our hearts, ignited by the founding fathers, and it falls to us to keep
that flame alive. America’s most trusted and time-honored institutions are only
as righteous as the hearts of our citizens; our most godly leaders are only as
just as the collective conscience of their constituents, and the most telling
measure of a nation’s heart is the compassion and the unity of its people.”
“In the case of the Civil War, both sides
sought peace. The North was bound by
the patriot’s sense of E Pluribus Unum, and the South was bound by home and
hearth and their ancestral way of life.
Few would argue that either was served by war. Death and destruction may quell revolt, but
they rarely result in peace. Don’t get
me wrong. I realize that freedom requires commitment; commitment requires
perseverance, and perseverance requires the will to act. When freedom and just causes are threatened,
honorable men respond. But surely war is
the last resort of those who know its grief.
Surely for reasonable people there’s a better way. Freedom is every heart’s desire and every
just government’s goal, but it’s a mighty illusive concept when you’re at war.
Freedom is nearly impossible when you don’t have peace.”
“So what, in your opinion, Mr. Casebeer, is our
best hope for peace?” “Well, Sir,”
Calvin responded, briefly removing his hat and running a red bandanna over his
wispy, white hair, “The American ideals of liberty and justice were forged in
the fires of scripture and tempered by the ages. Since its inception, our
Republic has emerged slowly but steadily from the world’s history of bigotry,
racism, and intolerance, toward a more just, merciful, and compassionate
society; a society in which people of every conceivable faith and ethnicity can
join together and find peace, acceptance, common purpose, and strength through that
diversity, and in so doing form a government of, by, and for a people, unified
by their diverse faiths and their mutual pursuit of liberty and justice for
all. My ancestors immigrated to this country from Ireland, England, Scotland,
and Germany, and I’m mighty proud of my family and my heritage. America’s
greatest strength is diversity. Celebrate diversity, and the natural result is
peace.”
With that, Mr. Casebeer smiled warmly, parted
by offering the unfailingly compassionate hand of true Christian fellowship,
and Mrs. Casebeer assisted him back to the house. And I collected my scribbled notes and came
away enlightened.
OL’ CALVIN
Ol’ Calvin was a preacher, though he never had
a church, and he seldom ever faced a crowd to preach. Great-Grandpa combed the Ozarks on a big old
dappled horse, in search of every soul that he could reach. Calvin kept a Bible
and he read it every day. He searched for words of comfort he could give. He
seldom spoke of judgment, and he seldom spoke of death. He preached that folks
might know the Lord and live. The folks could hear him coming when he traveled
down their lane. Great-Grandpa always whistled as he rode. Folks always came
out smiling, and that made him mighty proud. They were always glad to see him,
and it showed. He’d share his tales of Grandma, all the kids and folks back
home, and what he’d done that week to serve the Lord; but mostly Calvin
listened, because Calvin really cared. He would listen by the hour and not be
bored. Sometimes they’d kill a chicken when they heard ol’ Calvin come. He
shared a bunch of suppers on the road.
He carried little with him but his Bible and the Lord. He reaped the
seeds of kindness that he sewed. Ol’
Calvin raised a big, ol’ beard to shade him from the sun. As he grew old, his
beard grew long and gray. He’d part it in the middle when he sat down to a
meal, and it framed his weathered face when he would pray: “Thank you, Lord,
for these good folks and for each gift we share. Thank you for your Son and for
His touch. Thank you for your promise and for your tender care. Thank you that
you love us each so much.” Calvin loved the Ozarks, all God’s people, and his Lord.
He never looked for faults; he looked for grace. His sermon was the life he
lived, his message “God is love,” and the love of God beamed brightly from his
face.
WHEN FELLOWSHIP IS
STRAINED
When there’s little we agree on
And our fellowship is strained;
When the nightly news makes tatters
Of the few bonds that remained;
When we just can’t seem to get along,
Although Lord knows we’ve tried,
Then remember those who sacrificed.
Remember those who died.
Remember all the gallant souls
Who’ve fought to keep us free.
Remember how they bravely paid
The price for liberty.
Remember those who risked it all
That freedom’s bell might ring.
Remember those who bravely rose
And gambled everything.
Take a moment to count the cost
Our veterans proudly paid.
Consider their dedication,
And the sacrifice they made.
“Then” if you think it noble
To slander all they’ve built,
Then trample on our gallant flag
Without a shred of guilt.
But if you honor sacrifice
And those who choose to serve,
If you’re prepared to join our ranks
And show a little nerve,
Forget your petty grievances,
And do not be deceived.
Our greatest strength is unity.
Together there’s no goal we can’t achieve.
TATTERED STARS
Her stripes were worn and faded;
Her fabric, torn and frayed.
Tattered stars hung loosely now,
Weakened by old battles, and decayed.
Still, she hung with dignity,
Despite her ragged state.
Her very fabric promised hope
Although the hour was late.
Just then, as dawn was breaking,
Came a rustling in the trees,
A disturbance in the morning mist,
And a cool, refreshing breeze.
With the flash of nearby lightening,
Pulses quickened by the thrill,
While meadows shook with thunder
And a deluge took the hill.
With that, Old Glory caught the wind,
Unfurled, as if to march.
Despite the hail that tore her hems,
She took the field
And stretched out stiff as starch.
And those who saw this marveled
And recalled Old Glory’s youth.
And hearts filled with compassion,
Quickened by old loyalties and truth.
And every soul saluted,
While new hope replaced old fears,
And each heart pledged allegiance,
And sealed their pledge
With gratitude and tears.
HANGTOWN TOUGH
We headed for Hangtown in ‘49
But never showed till ‘50.
Between us we had nary a dime.
Suffice it to say, we was thrifty!
The Sierra Nevadas are god-awful high!
And the dang trail rugged at best.
Ma took one look and groaned, “Oh my!
We should have stayed home with the rest!”
The creek ain’t iced up all the time.
August heat is quick to thaw it.
It’s just for wading. That's the crime.
If there’s gold, I never saw it.
The housing in Hangtown leaves much to desire.
That’s the case everywhere we went.
But there ain’t much Ma and me require,
And we had a luxurious tent!
The tent’s mighty cozy,
Though lacking for room,
With a dirt floor infested with mice
Damp as the dickens and cold as a tomb.
The first year I froze to death twice!
The wood stove was nice if ya sat on the lid.
A bonfire would be better I’m thinkin’.
When it dropped below thirty as often it did,
It froze finials right off of the Franklin!
Flatlanders are welcome despite what you hear.
You won’t hang. I can’t even conceive it!
We’ve oodles of room
And we’re known for our beer.
Bring plenty of cash, and please leave it.
If you’ve got a hankerin’ for livin’ on beans,
Out west where it’s generally sunny,
Then check out the gold camps and by all means,
Visit Hangtown and bring lots of money!
NEATH SKIES OF CHINA
BLUE
I spent the best years of my life,
Up on Reservoir Hill,
On Great Grandpas’ 40 acres
Outside of Placerville.
My days were unfailingly happy,
My disappointments few,
Amid fields of golden poppies,
Neath skies of china blue.
I’ve hiked manzanita covered hills,
And orchards lush with pears,
With pear juice dripping from my chin
Till it washed away all cares.
Jackrabbits hid in ambush
Along each dusty trail,
The only other sound, the call
Of California quail.
Blackberries were my quarry,
Beneath the summer skies,
Drenched with homemade ice cream, &
Wrapped in the golden crust of Grandma’s pies.
Adventures with the neighbor kids
Were led by our pet raccoon,
With summer nights spent beneath the stars,
Lit by a flickering campfire and the moon.
Holidays meant Granddad’s house,
With kinfolk by the dozens,
And Great-Grandma sharing memories
To entertain the cousins.
She’d share her tales of days gone by,
With eyes welled up with joy,
Recalling memories from her youth,
Back when even Grandpa was a boy.
And I soaked up each and every word,
And treasured every
minute,
Memorizing every face,
And each expression in it
Praying that my loved ones lives
Would stand the test of years,
And facing disillusionment
As reality tempered innocence with tears.
Now I too am a granddad,
With memories of my own,
Sharing tales from long ago
Of precious souls I’ve known.
I’ve cherished each and every day,
Through every joy and tear,
And I wouldn’t change a single thing.
I relish every year.
But oh to be a child once more,
And live on Reservoir Hill,
And face each day with childlike faith,
And walk once more the streets of Placerville.
REMINISCENCE
When our hopes and dreams grow faded
And we miss the friends, who cared,
And old times are consecrated
By the golden hours we’ve shared;
When the streets we tread so long ago
Come back to haunt our dreams,
And we treasure those we used to know
And conjure up old schemes;
When old associates fill our heart
And refresh our weary mind,
And we feel as one though miles apart
And old woes wax sublime;
When our flesh at best contains us
And we’re far from hearth and friend,
May fond memories then sustain us
Till we meet at last again.
UP ON THE HILL
Up on the hill where the pines grow dense,
Where the fields are green and the sky immense,
Scatter one day my last remains,
To be drawn in the earth by the gentle rains.
Gladly did I tread this place,
With the gentle breeze upon my face,
A faithful dog for company,
And benevolent sun beaming down on me.
Thank the Lord for the time we had,
When rest was blessed and toil was glad,
When joyous hearts rejoiced in truth,
And we shared our hopes and dreams and youth.
Look to the heavens bright and blessed.
See me satisfied, caressed.
Know at last I’m free from care.
My dust is here, but my spirit there.
SIERRA SPRING
Stark and leafless branches are festooned with
buds of spring, while robins dot the greening fields and unseen crickets sing;
evergreen branches dripping ice, bright droplets melting snow, while rivers
crest their muddy banks and tributaries flow. Up above the timberline, granite
boulders shed fresh sand, that's carried by the snow-melt to create new spits
of land. Spring's elixir swells the branches of sapling sprigs and shrubs,
while momma bear slips her winters den to emerge with wrestling cubs; the sigh
of old-growth evergreens as evening breezes shift, trout feeding at the
sparkling edge of an ice-flows lazy drift; the roaring of a waterfall as
rainbow mists waft by, and the primordial cry of eagles and their circles in
the sky. There amid bright granite peaks, that's the heaven my spirit seeks;
lazy sweeps on the gentle breeze, at one with stars and streams and trees; high
in the Sierras where the winds blow free, and peace prevails eternally.
WRAP IT UP
Reminiscing now from this lofty vantage point,
I’ve been blessed with a first rate life, with only a few regrets. As a young
man life afforded me all variety of opportunities. Those that I pursued I
occasionally regretted the next day. The rest I regret now.
During the golden days of youth I tended to
envision time as a vast, unlimited resource. Time it seemed was an
inexhaustible sea. Now in the autumn of
my life each hour is increasingly precious, and I thirst for each minute as it
drips away from an alarmingly finite pool.
Some days my old brain burns bright as pitch
& pine knots, and other days it lays there quiet like and smolders. When it
comes to my memory, I much prefer my memory of my memory. My memory today is
not like I remember.
Looking back, our lives whiz by before we know
what hit us. We spend our first thirty
years thinking about our future, the second thirty thinking about our past, and
our last year’s wondering what the hell we were thinking.
The older I get, the more adamant I become in
my belief that we should start out old and grow younger every year. On each
successive anniversary of our birth, we could assemble all our friends and
family for a truly heartfelt celebration, and joyously remove one candle from
our cake. What could be better than spending our twilight years with the
carefree hearts of children, when life seemed simple, summer was perennial, and
childlike faith assured tomorrows joys?
FINDING HOPE
Do not lament a moment past, a fleeting moment
made to share. Do not feel it lost in passing, for to be past, it need be
there. And in existing only seconds, its donation, subtly paid, enriches life
and heart and soul with vast impressions it has made. Foolish is the heart that
lives one moment and its passing grieves, for in the volume of our lives each
page must turn to reveal new leaves. Each second gives us priceless life; it
also gives us age. Take care my friend, as chapters end, don’t stop to mourn
the page. Read on and on. Each second counts. Each chapter grows more fine. And
often as not what we fear is lost is ahead just one more line.
FINDING PEACE
When those about us languish in a sullen sea of
doubt, and the whole world seems in anguish, and hope nowhere about; it’s then
faith burns most brightly with conviction’s brilliant glow, while fears retreat
contritely, vanquished by the confidence we know. For our hope is not in inner
strength nor conceit at honors won; our valor not doomed to fail at length; our
victory not contingent on what we’ve done. Our joy is not reliant on some
gallantry we’ve shown. We’ve no need to be compliant to some distant
impropriety we’ve known. For our strength is in humility, not some valiant
course we’ve trod, but in simply doing justly, loving mercy, serving God.
FINDING JOY
Most of us pursue happiness through an all
consuming quest to attain one thing that others will covet. That’s our nature. It’s inherent in our robes
of flesh. We seek to validate who we are by proudly displaying what we’ve
obtained. That one thing may be a grandiose house, a pretentious spouse, or all
variety of shiny, superfluous possessions. Failing in this pursuit, our
happiness remains elusive. Even when we’re successful, our satisfaction is
generally fleeting. If your goal is
happiness, make that one thing an optimistic attitude. Invest in a winning attitude,
and earn dividends with every smile. If you can develop an attitude that others
will admire, success is certain and happiness guaranteed. If your goal is
happiness, set out every day to do something that will make you smile
tomorrow.
Am I happy?
Why, I’m happy as a bug on the bow of a boat! Have you ever watched a grasshopper at the
bow of a boat, when the old steamer is churning along at a good clip, the hull
is pounding the cobalt blue water into a fine spray, and the shore is sailing by,
and that old grasshopper is clinging to the railing for dear life, his little
antennae are trailing in the wind, his molars are all catching sunlight, his
eyes are glazed over and glistening in grateful satisfaction, and the tobacco
juice is streaming from the corners of his mouth and collecting in his whiskers
and his ears? Now that’s happy!
Each and every day, each and every one of us,
regardless of our circumstances, has a choice. We can squander our time
fingering old welts, second guessing past decisions, and tormenting ourselves
over the poor choices of others, or we can embrace a new day brimming with
opportunities for doing justly, loving mercy, and building foundations for a
bright new tomorrow. Time is precious. Choose wisely.
Thanks for your patience.
Thanks for your time.
Thanks for your kind attention.
INDEX
Introduction
Granddads’
Tent
Frolicking
With Impunity
All
Sound Investments
School
Days
Different
Paths & Different Perspectives
Grape
Jelly & Banana Cream
Once
Upon A Time…
Growing
Up In Good, Old Placerville
Wentworth
Springs
Gone
Fishin’
Long
Spent Fires
Sometimes
In The Evening
Hangtown
1849, aka Placerville
I
Could Almost Hear The Stars
Mosquito
Bridge
A Rush
Is A Rush
A
Precious Yeller Speck
The
Living Personification Of Power Itself
Hangtown
Crick
The
Talent Show
Excerpt
“Obie, The Camp Account”
Memories
Little
Fords and Weathered Wood
Glad
Days Long Ago
Sunsets
Sorrow
Slips Away
Neath
California Skies
By My
Side
The
Old House
The
Big Parade
Broccoli
A La Mode
Freezer
Burn
The Goodies
Stuff
I Miss
Calvin’s
Account
Ol’
Calvin
When
Fellowship Is Strained
Tattered
Stars
Hangtown
Tough
Neath
Skies of China Blue
Reminiscence
Up On
The Hill
Sierra
Spring
Wrap
It Up
Finding
Hope
Finding
Peace
Finding
Joy
