WILDERNESS TREK 2009

The backpacking experience offered to the high school teens in our church is designed to give our teens the opportunity to experience God in the wilderness. A combination of seclusion, fatigue, trail food, tents, less comfort and electronics fasting, coupled with a spiritual emphasis of scripture, journaling, prayer and focusing upon God’s working in our life, has immense value.

The very words, “Wilderness experience” not only means being in the great outdoors, away from the normal hustle and bustle of city life, but also confronting the moments of “wilderness” in our own spiritual lives; times when we are feeling insecure, less appreciated, pressured, tempted, inadequacy or emptiness.

The treking experience of the Metro Church is designed to meet all those experiences head on. The high mountains of Oregon and Washington offer much to experience. The high country brings to life the feeling of seclusion by seeing vistas unavailable to us in our everyday lives. Snow in the summertime; mountain Goats grazing on sparse vegetation along steep hillsides; Elk keeping watch from mountain meadows and valleys teeming with cold water and green grass; Deer quietly feeding among wild flowers of all kinds and colors; Marmot and the timid Pica busy keeping watch on their territory and putting away food for the coming winter; melting glaciers and snowfields falling hundreds of feet down ancient lava, through beds of pumice, connecting together with other streams to form rivers and lakes.

God is at work in us and we take the time to experience Him at work. Distractions are minimal; everywhere we look, we see Him working in His creation. We are the Sheep of His pasture; created in His image, nestled in the hollow of His hand on the high mountains.

The experience is not always one of scenic beauty, warm sunshine and astonishing sunsets. Sometimes, the weather turns sour and becomes unfit. Such was the experience of Wilderness Trek 2009.

We were taken to the parking lot of Timberline Lodge on the south side of Mt Hood. The parking lot was half full of vehicles; many of which had brought skiers and snow boarders to the mountain to ski the Palmer Glacier. The air was crisp, wet and windy. The temperature was around 38 degrees and heavy clouds covered the mountain top; visibility was limited. The forecast called for cooler than normal temperatures with moderate precipitation and occasional sunshine.

Our destination for today was a high place above the Pacific Crest Trail 2000 called Paradise Park; a vantage point that offered beautiful views of the west side of Mt Hood towards Portland and the Oregon Coastal Mountains. We began walking in heavy fog, blowing rain and chilling temperatures, hopeful to find warmer places. The five miles of good trail took us into the bottom of Zig Zag Canyon where we crossed a raging stream from the melting Zig Zag Glacier. The wind had diminished somewhat but the temperature and cloud conditions remained. We stopped along the stream to view a nearby waterfall and take a small break.

Soon we were climbing out of the canyon for another two miles to the Paradise Park trailhead. The steady climb kept us from getting cold, but taxed our high altitude breathing and stamina, especially for us old timers! The rain never let up.

As we reached our camping area, we found the place deserted and had our pick of camp sites. The hillside was socked in with heavy fog and cloud cover. Rain continued to fall. The wind was gentle enough, but still gave us a deep chill through our wet clothes. We encouraged the teens to quickly set up their tents, get out of their wet clothes into something warm and dry, and to get inside their sleeping bags to warm up. The last thing we needed was for someone to get hurt or come down with hypothermia, which was very likely in this weather.

About four hours later, Josha Moss braved the cold, wet outdoors and began preparing a hot Pasta meal for everyone. Greg Woods, Brian Simmons and I, Mike Thomas, had hunkered down in my two-man tent discussing the events of the day and the prognosis of what was to come, when one of the teens called us to dinner. Slipping back into our wet boots and rain gear, we took our plates to Josha where she gave us a generous helping of thick meat sauce, bubbling in a pan on the single burner stove, and hot Pasta from a second single burner stove. It was a meal fit for a King! There’s something wonderful about the taste of a hot meal on a chilly evening on the first night’s stay.

The teens slowly withdrew from their warm sleeping bags to brave the cold for their share of the hot meal. As each of us finished, we began shaking and shivering from the continuing cold, wet wind. We quickly headed back to the comfort of our tents, warming beneath our sleeping bags.

Darkness soon fell and we slipped away into a deep sleep, awaking often to the sound of the wind and the heavy droplets of water upon our tent.

The next morning wasn’t much better. The sun came out for a few minutes and then was gone. Brian pumped our water container full of filtered water and we began to think about breakfast. There was no organized mealtime for breakfast, as each of us took care of our own breakfast and lunches for the entire trip. Brian used hot water to make himself a hearty hot meal from a freeze dried package of Beef Stroganoff, claiming that he needed something “substantial”. Greg made himself a freeze dried meal of scrambled eggs and meat, along with a cup of hot chocolate. I made myself a double hot coffee and had Strawberries and Cream Oatmeal for my breakfast. As the kids got up, we kept the hot water coming for their use.

Following breakfast, the four of us gathered inside my tent, a brief respite from the wind and rain, to make plans for the day. The outlook appeared bleak to remain on this mountain. Most of our clothes were wet and the cold, overcast conditions continued to pound us. We decided to try to find a spot where cell phone coverage could get us in contact with our pick-up drivers and attempt a rendezvous at the Ramona Falls Trailhead parking lot for an evening pick-up. Brian and I took a walk along the trail to a vantage point out of the trees where we once camped during a previous trip with my daughter and her friend. The “no service” warning was steady and the prognosis appeared bleak. About to give up, the signal indicated 5 bars and I quickly made two calls; the first to Sue Tester, mother of one of our senior teen girls, Lindsay. Leaving her a message, I made the second, which was answered by Dawn, the wife of our driver, Mark Doberenz. I gave her the message as quickly as possible and she understood. No sooner than completing the calls, my phone signal went away and I saw again, the words “no service” on my IPhone. We thought it ironic that in our time of need, God came through for us once again!

We returned to camp and rousted the sleepy kids, telling them to get up and dress for the hike off the mountain. They needed to finish breakfast and then break camp; packing tents, sleeping bags and all they brought.

Water continued to drop from the treetops as we packed our backpacks. We joked with each other about having to carry an additional 5 pounds of water off the mountain in the form of soaked clothes and tents! At one point during the packing, the clouds cleared a view of Mt Hood and we quickly took advantage of it. Greg lined us up and snapped a couple of pictures before the clouds moved back in and obscured the view.

Soon on our way we stopped along a particular outcropping long enough to check cell phone service and get my messages. The only one I wanted was verification that our drivers would be waiting for us at the Ramona Falls Trailhead. Sue had left me a message assuring us they would meet us at the pick-up point this very evening. Reassured, we continued our downward descent along the Paradise Park Loop Trail and connected with the Pacific Crest Trail.

I was hopeful that one particular point of interest would be visible to the kids and we could drop our packs and enjoy the scenery. As we approached the overlook, we were pleased to be able to see snowmelt from McNeil Glacier cascading down the rugged lava gorge, producing waterfalls one after another. The canyon was deep and dropped off perhaps 2000 feet or more. I led the way to an outcropping; a “tooth of time”, down over the edge of the cliff and watched as the kids peered over the edge to see yet another amazing waterfall far below.

Off in the distance was another canyon, cut deep into the ancient lava beds; melt-off from the Sandy Glacier. These two streams, plus a few other small ones farther down the trail would come together and become the headwaters of the Sandy River. We were a little anxious about this stream, not knowing what to expect, as we had to cross it down below. The kids enjoyed the time relaxing on the “tooth”, having lunch, laughing and taking pictures. This was the first time we had real fun this whole trip! The sun was shining and warming the rocks; everyone was enjoying being warm for a change! About the time we started to leave, the clouds cleared the way for a good view of Mt Hood, dotted with snowfields and glaciers. It was near perfect, for a short time.

Continuing on down the trail, we approached the wide Sandy River wash-out, perhaps 100 yards across and followed the Cairns and trail flags to a location where we could cross the narrow river on a roughly made footbridge of three small logs and a few rocks. Bridges across the Sandy never survive the winter snowmelt when the high water clears away everything left behind from the previous year. This bridge was a welcome sight. I waited on the opposite side as each one carefully crossed the makeshift foot bridge. This location was about 4 miles from Paradise and about half a mile from Ramona Falls.

Ramona Falls was spectacular as always; a scenic waterfall, unlike any other we’ve ever seen, cascading down Basalt Lava chunks, creating a large mural of living water that many people photograph or watch. We dropped our packs and soaked in the view, taking photos and enjoying this beautiful creation.

It was 3 ½ miles to the Ramona Falls Trailhead parking lot. The walk was through cool forests and along the clear stream that was once Ramona Falls. The high, solid rock cliffs along the opposite side were unique. We found it impossible to photograph them and make the pictures come close to what our eyes saw. Nothing can ever take the place of the human eye; the clarity, the depth, the sharpness and the magnificence cannot be matched by any camera.

Again we crossed the Sandy River, much wider and more water this time, but upon a nice foot log with a matching hand rail to hang onto. About half a mile from the parking lot we were met by our drivers and Brian Simmons, who had gone on before our group to drop his pack and come back to assist anyone who needed help. We had made good time.

It was good to drop our packs into the trailer and sit down on soft car seats! We had taken 6 hours to make the 8 mile trip from Paradise Park. Everyone was ready to stop at a nearby “greasy spoon” and dive into a big, juicy hamburger with a stack of fries and a big cola…..and so we did!

Sitting around our table, Greg asked each of us to take the time to try to figure out why the trip turned out like it did. Our expectations before the hike were visions of planned, structured personal time with God, scripture reading and reflection. Because of the extreme weather conditions at Paradise Park, our expectations were never realized. Perhaps God had other plans for us. Perhaps He protected us from something that could have happened had our own plans been realized! Perhaps it wasn’t God at all; perhaps it was other forces at work in us. Whatever it was, we now have time to reflect and ask ourselves, “Why?”

We’ve already seen several ways that God has been at work in us. One of the most impacting was that we had returned in time to comfort our Brother in the Lord, and his two kids, who had lost a wife and Mother unexpectedly. When I told Greg about our Brother, he said, “That’s it! That’s why we’re back so soon!” Perhaps it was.

Mike Thomas

PLEASANT VIEW SCHOOL, forever young!

To this day, memories of my grade school days still linger in remote patches of my mind. Various thoughts come and go as if a random roll of the dice brings up another nearly forgotten memory. I do enjoy those moments because my grade school experience was good. We were all farm kids, bussed in from all directions and taught by teachers of all types; most were very nice to us.

That old yellow school bus turned around in our lane. We always had time to run out and get on when it pulled up. The Kings lived further down the road but it was steep, narrow and unfriendly for vehicles like our school bus. They would have to ride or walk up that old steep hill every day.

Pleasant View had a Dining Room in which we ate our sack lunches. The school provided milk and an occasional treat of some kind. I will never forget those little glass bottles of milk with the paper lid that was easy to pull off. Once in a while we had ice cream! We always had fun sitting around the dining tables on benches, talking and laughing and cutting up as if we had good sense!

We are all "Baby Boomers". Some have passed on from this life into the next. As I look at the old school photo, faces of my friends are forever frozen in time. I haven’t seen them since 1960, except one. So, to me, they are all forever young, just like I remember them!

The Old Ice House

is probably gone; torn down or abandoned by now; not much use for those today. Most folks have means of making their own ice in their own homes. As a kid growing up in NW Arkansas, my folks used to make weekend trips to Ozark to buy groceries and ice for our Ice Box. Refrigerators were expensive in those days, but without electricity we wouldn’t get one for a few more years yet.

The Ice Box was an insulated wooden cabinet with two or three compartments; upper, where the lid opened the top to allow a block of ice to be stored in the metal lined compartment, and a lower, also lined with metal where food needing refrigeration was placed. This device was the predecessor to modern day refrigerators that use Freon to make the cooling work.

The old Ice Box worked by a process of “cold air falling”. With the upper compartment filled with ice, the closed door chilled the air and trapped in the cold, which fell from the top to the bottom compartment through slots, cooling milk, eggs, cheese and other foodstuff.

The chunk of ice in the top section never lasted long and would be completely melted in a few days.

I loved seeing the ice men at work cutting out blocks of ice! They would bring out a large, square chunk from the freezer; about 3 feet cubed, hung from an elevated rail with giant tongs and drop it near the dock. It would go skidding along the old wood slab flooring. They would then take an ice pick and start jabbing holes in the ice block in a straight line. This would break off a chunk of ice about 12 inches thick by 3 feet long. Depending upon how much Dad wanted they would cut it again.

I loved watching the ice chips flake off in the sunlight as the ice pick fell. I never thought much about where the ice came from; I just assumed it came from a room somewhere.

Also, ice tongs were very cool!

MILKING COWS

Growing up on a farm provided us with many opportunities. Even the State slogan said it, “Arkansas, Land of Opportunity”!

Although we didn’t have much, we always had enough. The way I see it, the difference between “poor” and “dirt poor” is simply ‘the dirt’! If you were dirt poor….. YOU DIDN’T HAVE ANY! Well, we had 360 acres of Arkansas dirt under our feet…. More than we needed! We seldom had two nickels to rub together, but we had land!

We also had plenty of MILK! We milked Cows until we were blue in the face! Didn’t we, Pat?? Fresh milk EVERY day! We drank milk like nobody’s business! When we couldn’t drink any more, Dad started paying us 2 cents a glass to drink it! We thought we were in BIG MONEY! Ha! We still didn’t have two nickels to rub together…..but we had lots of pennies!

NOW I KNOW.......

So my letter from the United States Department of the Interior simply said, “We could not get your reservation request to work using any of the alternate start dates and/or alternate camps”. It was signed by “Dan” of the National Park Service, Mount Rainier National Park, Tahoma Woods, Star Route, Ashford, Washington 98304.

This is my second year in a row to try for group camping rights on a particular section of the Wonderland Trail. The first time I ever tried to do this, we were approved! It was a Slam-Dunk! Two failures kind of put the “summertime overcrowding” into perspective.

Fortunately my uncanny organizational skills have already created two contingency plans to take the teens backpacking. Plan “B” is to do a stretch of trail from White Pass Washington, Southbound along the PCT and jumping off to take Lily Basin Trail to the end. Plan “C” is to do a stretch of the Timberline Trail, about half way around Mt Hood, Oregon.

The hard part will be getting in shape!! Wait! Isn’t “ROUND” a shape??

MULBERRY, ARKANSAS

As a kid growing up in the 1950’s, Arkansas had a lot to offer. The drive from our country farm to the “big city” was about 25 miles down a dirt road and a narrow bridge across the Mulberry River. The hot summer months dried everything; thick dust fogged the road as cars passed by. Roadside bushes and trees would sit covered in fine Arkansas powder until the next hard rain fell.

Dad drove an old pickup with a cattle rack on the back. He would let us kids ride in the back when we went into town. I doubt Mom liked it much but we loved it! We often stepped up on the first rail; hanging on tightly to the top rail, chest and head above the cab of the truck, wind in our faces; hanging on for dear life! Mom didn’t like it when we hit the blacktop highway, where Dad could get up more speed. We didn’t stay up there long at those speeds, either. We couldn’t get our breath! Not only that, but to get hit in the face by a June Bug or a Bee at those speeds wasn’t much fun!

Can you imagine that kind of event happening TODAY?? WOW! Cell phones would be dialing 9-1-1 and reporting irresponsible parents to the Cops in a heartbeat!! CSD would show up and haul off the kids; parents would be cited and put on probation and all kinds of newspapers would write about it!

Sometimes Dad would stop by the old Millsap place on the highway and buy us a Watermelon to take home. We enjoyed stopping there and exploring around while the grownups talked. Mrs. Millsap was a First Grade Teacher at Pleasant View School where we attended. She was very nice. I will never forget her. She was a short, round lady with yellow hair, and most always had a smile on her face. Her and Mrs. Addy were my favorite teachers growing up. Mrs. Addy taught second grade.

I wish I had a picture of 1950’s Mulberry to show you, but I only have one taken in the 1940's, although the only thing that changed were the CARS. The whole town wasn’t 2 blocks long. Towards the end of town there was something in the middle of the street….. I can’t remember exactly what it was. Perhaps a large marker, or a statue…. Whatever it was, it was a natural place to make a U-TURN and head back the other direction to park on the other side of the street. The old stores looked like something out of Western days; General Stores, where you could find most anything you need…..nothing like today, of course! There was a Dime Store that sold stuff for as little as a Penny. Us kids were dirt poor and seldom HAD a Penny! But we liked going in there and looking at stuff. Mom once said that she didn’t mind taking us 4 boys into stores with her because we wouldn’t touch anything…..we just looked. (Have you seen kids in stores doing THAT today??)

Mulberry is where Dad would take us sometimes to get our hair cut by a real barber! We grew up with Burr haircuts so it wasn’t hard for him to give them to us at home. But once in a while he took us into “Gene and Shorty’s Barber Shop” to get us trimmed up proper, I suppose. One day he had Gene and Shorty give us Mohawks! Mom wasn’t too impressed but we kept them all summer long. It made it harder for us boys to play “Cowboys and Indians” because Cowboys don’t HAVE Mohawks! I don’t recall, but I suppose we just played “Indians” that summer!

But one of the coolest things to see in Mulberry…..and we usually ALWAYS saw him ….was the Cowboy! I wish I could recall his name, but I can’t. He was a grown man but with a mind of a 9-year old kid, so they say. He was all dressed up in a cowboy outfit; jeans, shirt, boots, hat and scarf. He looked a lot like the old cowboy pictures of Roy Rogers! Maybe that’s who he was trying to look like! He also wore two big guns in a holster on his hips. The holster was all blinged up with sequins, leather strings and baubles that shined in the sunlight! It was quite impressive to us cowboy-type boys! The two big shiny guns were only Cap Guns, but they looked very cool to us! Jimmie (I’ll call him Jimmie because I don’t remember his real name, and besides, this is my story), would always go around town, in and out of each business to say hello to everybody. Everyone knew him by name and greeted him when he entered and said goodbye when he left. He was like an icon, a fixture in a little one horse town with nothing else going on. Every day, so they say, he would make his rounds, greeting people.

I recall one day that stands out in my mind more so than others. Dad had some banking business to do so we were standing in the Bank when “Jimmie” came through the door; sunlight shining through the big glass door behind him in. He walked in like he owned the place, waving and smiling and greeting everybody he knew; bowlegged and cowboy suit and all. His Spurs jingled as he walked and his cowboy hat was tipped back on his head in a relaxed sort of way. He made his rounds and then headed out the door.

Can you imagine that kind of event happening TODAY?? WOW! Cell phones would be dialing 9-1-1, Swat Cops would be screaming up with guns drawn….and bank employees would be face on the floor praying to live through it all!

Well…..those days could only happen in THOSE days.

LOST IN THE 50’S

Being a Codger Boomer, I must confess that, in my opinion there’s no music like 50’s music! To pin it down even closer, I’m drawn to the late 50’s music, from 55 and forward. Ahhhh, those were the days, my friend! (Oops …… 1960’s sneaking in).

Everything musical from Doo Wap to Bop Sha-bop meant a lot to me I suppose. I was almost 10 when it started for me. Music can make quite an impact upon a young mind. Even though I went to bed early in those days, I still heard Bill Hailey and The Comets “Rockin’ around the Clock Tonight”. Being nearly Hillbilly, I loved “The Ballad of Davy Crockett” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas”. Those were good’uns to sing along with! I remember my friend and I singing along (in our deepest 8 or 9 year old voices we could muster) “16 Tons”, as we rode the school bus to Ozark to get our (I think Polio) vaccinations. Ahhhh, those were the days, my friend! (Oops …… 1960’s sneaking in again!)

How could we EVER forget those songs that taught us more than 3rd Period English Class EVER COULD?? Songs that said, “Be Bop A Lula”, “Ooooooh Wah, Oooooh Wah Why Do Fools Fall in Love?”, “Dip Da Dip Da Dit Dit” and “Boogady Boogady Shoop”, just made the English language come ALIVE!

There are so many more…..too many to count. Great songs of the 1950’s! Great music of our times! I don’t hear it much on the radio anymore. There was a station here in Portland that used to be dedicated to 50’s music. Unfortunately, they succumbed to the next generation and moved on to more modern music, like the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. It’s okay…..but nothing like the REAL music!

So what is your favorite kind of music? What’s your era??

Goat Rocks Dreaming

So Brian comes up to me this morning and said he was thinking. Being eager to tell him what I was thinking, I interrupted him and said I was thinking about an alternate trail to take the teens if Rainier didn’t work out. I said, “How about the back side of Goat Rocks starting at White Pass?” Brian said that’s exactly what he was thinking about! So there you are! We think alike even though he’s much smarter than me!

So “Plan B” is to start at White Pass, Washington and hike South on the Pacific Crest Trail, making our way over the top of Old Snowy Mountain and connecting with Lily Basin Trail, hiking to the trailhead on the North end. Campsites are plentiful and will give us an opportunity to camp, once again, below Hawkeye Point and see all the sights of 2 years ago plus some! Brian, you HAVE to be on this one!

So, if The Wonderland Trail application is rejected we will proceed to Plan B and do the PCT from White Pass!

It’s a WIN WIN !! I like it!

Wonderland Trail Dreaming

There’s no doubt that the Northwest has an abundance of great backpacking and hiking trails. The range of difficulty goes from “wheelchair accessible” trails to “Cardiac Hill – Call 911” trails. I love hiking. Getting out and about is a balm for the soul, for sure! Backpacking is tougher but more rewarding because you can stay out overnight or several overnights. Watching the sun set from a warm evening campfire is indescribable. To arise before the sun comes up and watch the light descend upon low valley clouds and fog, lighting up the protruding peaks, glowing snowfields in shades of yellow and orange as the darkness is chased away by morning, is a living painting! I am convinced that some of most awesome sunrises will never be repeated. I vow to never again let the kids sleep through those!

I made application to the US Forest Service a few days ago trying to secure our place on a very popular trail --- The Wonderland Trail on Mt. Rainier, Washington. Mine is only one of perhaps 700 applications submitted for their review. I wish to take 11 people with me for 4 days along 15 to 20 miles on the east side, skirting Little Tahoma, the hunchback on Mt Rainier. It is a beautiful trail with wonderful sights, group camping and an abundance of water and wildlife.

The way it works, every group submits an application to secure the group campsites (which are the only places a group of 12 can legally camp) beginning March 15. Every entry between March 15 and April 1 will be looked over in random order by the US Forest Service personnel, who decide which group gets the “draw”. I faxed in my request on the 15th hoping for a best chance. My application last year was not one selected, so we went to the Wallowa Mountains in Eastern Oregon.

So today, I am in the waiting period, wondering if my group will be selected. I am taking 8 or 9 teenagers and 3 or 4 adults, as we are limited to parties of 12 in the Wilderness areas.

It’s exciting to wait and think about the possibilities of spending an August week in the Mt Rainier National Park. But it’s soooooo hard to wait and see!

Chiggers!!

My, how I HATED those creatures!

Growing up in the South has its good points. Warm summers (except for the HOT days) made going to the Lake or River to play in the water so much fun!

There were some little things, however, that weren’t much fun! And I do mean LITTLE! Who amongst us has ever REALLY seen a CHIGGER?? Maybe I should ask, “Who amongst us even KNOWS what a CHIGGER IS??? Well, I suspect a good Southern boy would raise his hand about now.

A “Chigger” (that’s its Southern name) is very tiny, who’s bite is worse than its bark! Anytime you venture into the grass, especially taller grass, or even lay down on the grass to enjoy the sunshine, you can always count on the mysterious “Chigger” feeding on you! Then for the next two or three days you sit around scratching like an old dog!

To look at one you need to look very hard. The best way to see one is through a magnification lens. The first thing you will notice is that they are “red” in color. I don’t know if that’s because they are blood-suckers or not, but they sure can bite!!

Chiggers are a lot like “No See-ums” in the Northwest, except for the No See’s can fly and they are black. Both of them are nasty little creatures; pretty much sharing the same value as a Seed Tick! Makes you wonder why God created such creatures!

The Big Rock

For poor folks, simple things are very meaningful and memorable. Long time memories of far away places are as sweet fragrances to smell for years! In my mind’s eye, I can see plainly the things I want to recall. Pleasant thoughts permeate my mind as I recollect my memories and put them together as a scrapbook of things worth keeping.

The Big Rock on the Mulberry River in Arkansas was one of those memorable places. I can still recall the screams, the laughter and the joys of little brown bodies jumping from a large flat rock into the green water of the Mulberry River. All of us splashing around and having the time of our lives! Hearing shouts of “Watch this!” or “Look at me!” as we showed off to Mom and Dad smiling from the Big Rock.

We didn’t mind the snakes much, but they were there. The Cotton Mouth’s and the Water Moccasin’s were plentiful, alright, but we didn’t seem to mind much…..unless we SAW one swimming amongst us!!! Then it was different!!

I remember sitting in the screened-in area in the Big Rock Cabin to escape bugs and weather while we ate our picnic lunch of Spam sandwiches and potato chips! Ahhhhh, those were the days, my friend!

Going to the Big Rock after a hard days’ work of making gravel, or mowing our several acres of yard, or working in the garden trying to get it ready for growing our winter supply of food, was a treat! There was always a lot of hard work to do around the farm. I suppose Dad had the same problem getting us motivated to work as any other Dad today. The threat of discipline was our motivation, however. That seems to be the main difference with today’s kids as there isn’t much of that! But, there was, also, “treats and rewards” for a job well done. Looking back I believe my Dad enjoyed going to the Big Rock as much as we did! He always let Mom get everything together; clothes, shoes, everything, and food. If we were going to spend the night somewhere, she packed for that, too. I’m certain it was a lot of work for Mom, but we kids appreciated it so much!

The inner tubes we played in were a lot of fun. Going underwater to see who could hold his breath the longest was always challenged. One of us couldn’t wait to pick up a couple of river rocks while everyone was under water, so he could smash them together and make a loud clicking noise that hurt our ears! But we laughed about it and kept doing it, too!

We fished and swam and picnicked as often as we could. We were much too young to go there on our own; not to mention that it might be too dangerous. The Big Rock was a simple place at the end of a rough dirt road, a very large flat, Sandstone rock that could easily hold two dozen people or more. It became our playground! Good times. Good memories. Looking back, those days were more simple times than today; when one could find treasure in trash and invent games that had not yet been invented.

Mike Thomas,
Reminiscer

SPRING WATER

It was very dark as I crossed the short field and slipped through the barbed wire fence. The old worn out flashlight I carried was shining but the weak batteries were dimming the light. Ahead of me loomed the Pine forest, marking the way to the old spring. As I eased into the tall Pines, the thick canopy blotted out the stars in the night sky and seemed to make the night even darker. The hair on my head felt like it stood straight up as I eased into the ominous woods and headed down the old wagon trail to the spring.

It was a quiet evening as we sat on the steps in back of our old home in Northwest Arkansas, watching a million stars shine in the night sky. It was one of those rare evenings when Dad was home. Thinking back, it must have been a Saturday evening as he was usually away during the week working in the mountains as a Pipeliner. I was probably 8 years old at the time; still a little afraid of the dark, yet always trying to tell myself I wasn’t. Dad and Mom were sitting together on the steps as I came outside. I can’t remember what was being talked about, but Dad made the comment that he would like to have a fresh cup of coffee. It must have been Mom who said she would make some, but I recall that Dad wanted it made from spring water.

I can’t remember if it was a challenge or not, but I do recall volunteering to go to the spring and bring back a bucket of water. It must have been for a “nickel”, a “dime” or a “quarter”; why else would I have volunteered? I do recall asking if I could take a light. I’m glad he said okay because I would not have been able to go in pitch blackness. There was no way I could save face and stay home, even if I had changed my mind! A real man would do the hard things! I was growing up! So grabbing the flashlight and bucket, I put on my brave face and set out into the night.

I think Mom was worried about my safety while I was gone. Actually, I was worried about my safety, too! The trip to the spring was about a quarter mile. It was covered over with leaves and twigs that fell from the Oak Trees. Somehow I managed to partially fill the bucket in spite of all my goose bumps, raised hair and glancing around in all directions with every noise I heard. I also managed to make it back home without running, tripping or spilling my prized possession.

Mom and Dad were still sitting on the back porch, right where I had left them. I handed Mom the bucket and told them about my adventure, except for the being scared part, of course! After sitting for a moment, I headed off to bed. I doubt if Mom actually made Dad any coffee from that dingy, leaf-filled bucket of fresh spring water. I’m certain the whole adventure was about seeing if I was too scared to go off by myself into the woods at night. I think Dad was impressed that I actually did it!

As my hair began to lie down and the goose bumps go away, I remember being glad to be home, in my own bed.

Mike Thomas

MAKING GRAVEL

In the 1950's, growing up on a mountain on 360 acres of land full of wild fruits, nuts and berries, natural springs and where hunting and farming was plentiful; where one could, and we did, raise, harvest or kill most anything we needed to sustain us. An occasional trip into town would provide us with the “staples” like flour, sugar, coffee, etc.

We had all the farm animals we needed. We planted a huge garden full of everything we wanted. In the wild, we could find Blackberries, Muskedines, Plums, Mulberries, Black Halls, Hickory Nuts, and Black Walnuts. We hunted and ate Squirrel, Rabbit, and birds. We would have the occasional winter Deer hanging in the breezeway for several meals.

So to say we were poor folks was not entirely true, even though we seldom had two nickels to rub together (Buffalo Nickels in those days). Being ‘po folks had its merits. We found ourselves being frugal with what we did have; “waste not, want not” would be the kinds of words coming from our Granny’s mouth. But being poor also meant we couldn’t always go and buy everything we wanted.

Making gravel comes to mind as I reminisce in my rocking chair today. There’s no doubt that the old farm grew Sandstone Rock in abundance! Why, we could hardly plow a new field without carrying and stacking enough rocks to make a fence around it! Also, what does a Dad do with 4 boys full of energy? “Hey!! Let’s make GRAVEL!!” Being a pipeline welder and having all the tools one needed for that trade, Dad would bring out the Ball-Pein (or Ball-Peen) Hammers, set us down in the middle of our Lane, in a low spot that needed gravel and bring us a pile of rocks! The Sandstone was easy enough to break up as we smashed and bashed our way through the pile, venting emotions and working up appetites! With no TV, Game Boys, videos or other electronic games to detract us, we managed to produce something that only a Dad could appreciate! Looking at the opening scenes of "O Brother, Where art thou?", takes me back to the good old days of child labor in the Lane. The only thing different, besides our age, was the cool, striped clothing and the chains. I suppose we were too poor to afford chains!

Mike Thomas
Survivor of
The Good Old Days

Whatever happened to “The Fuller Brush Man”?

As a kid growing up on the old farm in Arkansas, the Fuller Brush man was as local as most anyone! In those days, (and I’m trying not to mention that this was the 50’s) everyone had to make a living doing something. Dad was a pipeline welder and traveled a lot; gone most every week and occasionally coming home on weekends just in time to give us the swat we deserved. Grandpa did some farming, although, Mom says he was a very lazy man and would go out of his way to NOT do something, even for himself!

Mom worked hard around that old farm; nothing was easy and she had to contend with all of it! It was seldom that we had company. Most of our neighbors were busy trying to put beans on the table and there wasn't much time for visiting! It was usually during the most inopportune times that the Fuller Brush Man would come around; the traveling salesman selling goods of all kinds, door to door, country farmhouse to country farmhouse.

Although this man had (or could get) most anything you would want, the one thing we actually lacked was the money to BUY anything! I suppose Mom hated to confront these high powered salesmen, like most of us today, too!

Our old house set off the main road (should I say the “main DIRT road”. Our driveway was called a “lane”, as it was fairly long, but visible from the road. Somehow Mom knew when the Fuller Brush Man was coming! He would probably stop and open our gate, then drive his old klunker down our lane to get to our house. Mom somehow always knew when he was approaching! Perhaps it was the barking hound dogs! Anyway, she would grab us kids and have us be quiet as we hid somewhere. The old house only had a screen door on it; no locks or anything. One could see all the way to “outside” if you looked.

So as the Fuller Brush Man drove down our lane, Mom would gather us kids like chickens and head us off into a closet somewhere, while the man knocked and knocked on our door. Mom made us be very quiet and still so as not to let on that we was home or anything! Eventually he got tired of knocking and left; then we came out and peered down the Lane just to make sure he was gone!

Then Mom would smile; satisfied that she fooled the Fuller Brush Man once again.

Mike Thomas
Old Guy

MARBLES.......A thing of the past?

As I recall grade school was fun. I suppose many of the not-so-fun memories have been suppressed, but I’m okay with that! Everyone likes to remember only the best anyway; I’m no different. One of my fondest recollections was the days of “shootin’ doogies” (pronounced dew -gies). Now if you know what a “doogie” is, I’m certain the word congers up some old memories of your past. Perhaps you had a favorite doogie; I know I did!

Another way to say all this is to simply say, playing marbles. Yes, marbles. This was a favorite game of many of us as we grew up through grade school. Things are much different today and marbles are pretty much history. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen kids playing marbles……probably in grade school, more than 50 years ago! Where has the time gone??

But for the sake of reminiscing, let’s go back in time and play a game. A small group of five or six of us would head out to an obscure corner of the playground, away from the runners and scufflers, so we had some privacy, then clean off a small area of the ground; removing the twigs, rocks, grass, leaves and any other obstruction. One of us would then draw a perfect circle in the dirt. This was our circle of play. The group would determine how many players would play at a time; perhaps three or 4, at the most. Each player would put three or four marbles into the circle. Each player would take turns shooting his marble; first, from the line, into the mass of marbles within the circle, trying to knock one out of the circle; much like shooting Pool. We all had our own method of shooting. My favorite method was to cradle the marble between the tip of my right index finger and the first knuckle of my thumb. The back of the hand had to lie on the dirt. For our first shot, the knuckle of the index finger was positioned directly on the line as the starting point. The tip of the thumb to the first knuckle was restrained by the second, or middle finger. Mustering my strength, I would use much effort to push my thumb against the middle finger; at the same time my middle finger would not allow my thumb to move!

With a burst of movement, I would quickly release my thumb, which shot the marble forward towards my target. It’s amazing how much force you can generate and really get that doogie moving! The doogie would rocket forward; hit the target squarely in the middle (assuming all went according to the plan). The target would then be propelled forward, hopefully leaving the circle! If it did, I kept the opponent’s marble, FOR KEEPS…..if we played for keeps. Sometimes we didn’t, but it was more fun if we did!

Another way I sometimes shot was to cradle the marble within the inside of my right index finger, curling it around the marble, with my thumb being restrained behind my middle finger, as in the first example. My knuckles would be down on the ground to steady the hand, I suppose. With a burst of energy, I would release my thumb, thus, propelling the marble forward.

Sometimes, we would allow the “over-sized” marbles to play. They were much larger marbles and difficult to hold, so they could also be rolled, as in bowling. However, the starting point was from the line and the knuckle could not cross the line without penalty! A penalty would generally mean “losing your marble”. Sound familiar??

The word “Marble” meant any type of round, glass or steel) ball, about one half inch in diameter. They could either be “solids” (a single solid color), a “Cat’s Eye” (which looked like a Cat’s EYEBALL, or even one with the textured swirl of real marble. “Steelies” were of similar physical size, but nothing more than a stainless steel ball bearing. They were more difficult to launch, but their weight could knock ‘em out! They were not always allowed in the game.

Assuming we knocked our target marble from within the circle, we would get a second shot, as a bonus. Wherever our doogie landed, that’s where we made our next shot. If we had landed outside the circle, we would then shoot from the line again. More times than not, the circle was large enough that capturing another’s doogie meant having a nice, hard packed dirt field, and some serious speed on takeoff! Ideally, hitting another’s marble dead center would tend to stop our own from traveling too far after impact, again, much like in shooting pool. Real planning could mean our second shot was within inches of another doogie, which greatly improved our chances of more wins. The game would continue as we kept shooting until we missed! Once we missed, we let our doogie remain where it stopped, hoping no one would pick it off for himself, and waited until everyone had a turn before it was ours again.

I remember keeping my marbles in an old tobacco sack. In those days, loose tobacco came in a small sack, or pouch with a pull string top that closed. The tobacco would be opened by the smoker, who rolled his own. One of his hands would hold the thin cigarette paper, forming a trough, into which he poured a small amount of tobacco from his sack.. Once he had the right amount poured into the paper trough, he would hold one string in his other hand and lift the sack to his mouth, biting down on the other string. As he pulled the string, the sack would close. Tobacco sacks made great marble sacks! Some kids had a small leather pouch to keep their marbles in. Those were very cool! We never carried all of our marbles around with us, just about enough to fill a tea cup, or so; and just enough to show the kids we COULD win once in a while!

When the game ended, our hope was that we walked away with more marbles than we brought with us! Trading marbles was also good. If my sack was running low, I could always pull out my favorite marble; that especially unusual marble and start the trading! If not…….well, tomorrow was another day; another chance to win!

You didn't BELIEVE all that BALONY (BOLOGNA) about my relatives.......... DID YOU??