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??