dickssaga.com

As you’ve guessed by now, I’m doing this website by braille. You know, post something, then nothing. Well, I was trying all the menus in Word Press and found the spot where it listed who had signed up to be notified when new stories are posted. I was surprised when 48 people had signed up. Thank you, each and every one. I’ll just continue to offer up my stories and thoughts. I’m pleased that you enjoy reading them or looking at the pictures.

Dick

Spring would roll around and it would be time to put in the garden.

The little David Bradley walk behind tractor would be brought out and the hood tipped forward for the spark plug’s annual physical. Removed from the flat head Briggs engine dad would look at the plug, rub his fingers on the tip, then get out his pocket knife and scrape the contact areas. A pair of pliers would be enlisted to gap the plug with the exact distance between the two surfaces set through years of experience starting back with the Model T. The spark plug would be returned to the hole and then snugged down, stretching the threads just enough to hold it in place. It was time to “give ‘er a try”

This was not an easy task, because you had to understand and be able to operate a choke. “A choke you say?” Yes my dear readers, a choke. All the guys my age will understand what the hell a manual choke is. So…you advanced both the choke and the throttle by thumb activated cables located on the handle bars. Dangling from these same handle bars was the starter rope.

The starter rope was a nylon cord with a wooden handle on one end and a knot in the other. You had to carefully place the knot in the rounded slot, and then wind the cord around the shaft. Next you wrapped your fingers around the wooden handle and pulled with all your might. And then, if you had offended the gods, the engine would cough and send the shaft in the opposite direction ripping the wooden handle out of your fingers.

“Hey dad, can we use starter fluid or somethin’ This thing hasn’t run since last fall.”

“Run in the shop and get me the squirt can.”

Dear god I thought, not that.

I ran into the shop and found the oil squirt can. A really well built one from the 40s. Its cylinder was copper with silver bands around it and a levered pump handle. This one had one slight difference, it contained gasoline.

I walked back out and held it while dad opened the hood and took out the recently seated spark plug. One good shot of gasoline. Back went the plug. The wire twisted around the contact and the little smooth nut turned down to hold it in place.

I handed the cord to Dad. He wound the cord, put his foot on the tire, and spun the engine. Woof, cough, woof….spinnning….running…… Oh thank god it didn’t quit.

Once running, you could attach a variety of tools to drag behind it.

My dad would get the David Bradley all set up and running. He’d grab ahold of the handlebars, push the lever forward and cultivate the land. He’d wear a gray work shirt, white fedora had, blue jeans rolled up, and no shoes. He would navigate that tractor up and down the rows with a sublime look of a man satisfied with his place in the universe. He loved the feel of the fresh turned earth under his feet.

One of the things we all helped dad with was “hanging the net.” It was kind of a joke because instead of hanging a net, attaching the web to the lead and cork line, we hung an old net on a wire strung over post. This was my favorite garden vegetable, peas. By the end of summer the net would turn into a wall of green peas. I loved the peas, you could pop ‘em open and eat ‘em like candy.

We grew everything that I can imagine. We grew pumpkin, carrots, radish, beans and more things than I care to list. I had favorites. I loved the cucumbers and I loved the potatoes. I should say I logged digging the potatoes in the fall. It was like opening a present every time we dug a hill. I loved baking the potatoes either in the coals wrapped in tin foil or even in the oven. I’m here to tell you….that potato broken open fresh, slathered in home churned butter, and covered with fresh cracked dungeness crab we’re talkin’ bounty of the earth here brothers and sisters.

But the harvest time was also serious business. The men were often busy switching gear from salmon to crab and the women were canning. My aunts, Laura, June, some times Lil from Everett or May from Seattle would all wind up in the Walsh kitchen with pressure cookers and Mason and Ball jars.

Our shelves were full of canned vegetables and fruit. Dick and Laura had great purple prunes. Into the jar. They also had Bing and some type of black cherry trees. Into the jar. Everything from the garden, into the jar. Salmon, into the jar. Writing about it now, I look back in wonder. I guess thats why the hippy back to the soil movement didn’t seem so exotic to me as it seem to for other kids. Hell, I’d never left.

The culmination of the fall was our annual Thanksgiving dinner. One year it would be at the Amundson’s place, the next year at the Walsh’s place. The family would wander back from places like Thompson Falls, Montana and Queen Anne hill in Seattle. The great Stephanson Clan with a sprinkling of Walsh thrown in for spice.

Dick and Laura were ace in the kitchen and spun out meals that were both ample and delicious. All the stuff that you see in a Norman Rockwell painting plus some Seagrams 7 high balls. Kids were occasionally know to be allowed to drink watered down versions. I tried hard but I didn’t like the taste of whiskey. I guess gin hadn’t been on offer. But the one dish that graced our holidays that was very special was the vinarterta, the Icelandic celebration cake. This was always made by my gramma Disa and was her contribution to the feast.

Years later when I was teaching down in Marysville, the Rorick family, who had come from Blaine, brought me a vinarterta at Christmas. Ya know its kinda difficult to be a hard ass teacher with tears in your eyes.

Altered reality and me

I never really understood deeply the concept of a different reality. I’ve always pretty much been of the opinion that you look around and what you see is fact. You weigh up information that comes to you for its validity and truth, and if others are presented with the same information, you will come up with the same facts. People simply don’t take away the same things from information and experiences.

I’ve run into this a lot while traveling. I’ll be experiencing something new and different and be thrilled by it. Others, doing the same thing will be appalled. For example that time in a fancy hotel in the north of Japan on the island of Hokkaido. I had to go to the toilet. I mean, I had to go to the toilet now. The meter had left orange and was headed toward red.

I guess I need to back up a second here. I was there to speak at a conference and was being hosted by a civic group. We had been provided formal Japanese clothing for the occasion. Perhaps for the only time in my life I was at the forefront of fashion. I started by pulling over this full body cotton tee-shirt. Next came a heavy wool vestment that looked like a priest’s gown and finally a sort of suit jacket over it. No pants under.

It was thus festooned I went in search of relief. Now I don’t read Japanese but I figured it was the room where the men were entering and leaving. I went in, pulled open a stall door and was aghast! Someone has taken the toilet. And this was a fancy hotel too. I went to the next stall, nada. Now here I was processing a lot of information. Men were going in and out of the same stalls I had found wanting and seemed perfectly at ease. Could, perhaps, the fault be with me for not recognizing the true nature of that trough in the floor? I entertained the idea. Must be. I went back in.

Driven by need as much as certainty of course of action, I proceeded. The Japanese, ever to be stereotyped as clever, put a sink into the top of the toilet supply tank. Great use of space I thought. I deposited my new camera in the sink so as to be safe. With more hope than conviction I figured out how to use this new device.

Ahhhhhhhhh, thats over. I stood, and satisfied I had survived another day on the road I flushed the toilet. Now, to get maximum use of the water supply, before the water in the reservoir was replaced, it was used to wash your hands. In my case, it was used to shower my camera. The camera worked no more forever.

But, I guess this is not exactly to the point. Its more like two reactions to the same experience. I thought it was funny and love to tell the story. Other people might find the experience horrible and a reason to suspect the Japanese, but after the physical discomfort was gone, I considered it another great travel experience.

No, the sort of altered reality I’m talking about is the fundamental beliefs upon which a person orders their life. The most obvious example would be an atheist and a christian. A true christian believes that Christ is alive and will taken them to heaven if they meet a certain criteria. They believe it. It is their reality. Atheists, on the other hand, demand more facts.

So, this is the same explanation that I have for myself for the current political situation. I could not understand how any sane person could support our stable genius. In some people’s mind, he is a great and wonderful person. The mere fact that he was elected gives him standing. It makes you long for the days of the divine right of kings.

There must be some dynamic struggle that exists between hard wired tribal behaviors and logic and intellect. The tribal instinct of “defend at all cost” outweighs the facts. They feel compelled to support their tribal leader. What they see as gallant defense of their tribal leader, the rest of us see a hypocrisy.

I can understand their reluctance to confront the facts. Its hard to question what you’ve always held to be true. I suppose you can’t think of things in a totally new way until you have an overwhelming need and no place to turn except your brains. Kind of like me looking for a toilet in Sapporo.

The Bowling Alley

I peddled my bike up town past Royals and the National Bank of Commerce. There, next to Ray Montoure’s Standard station and across from Johnny and Nina’s Breiford Ford dealership proudly stood Blaine’s very own bowling alley.

By todays standards, it was a modest establishment. That being said, it provided a great center of entertainment for our community. It seems to me they had about eight lanes that were hand set. There were always a number of pin setters, but I think the king of the pin setters may have been Bobby Johnson’s friend Eddie.

Now I’ve always heard that commercial fishing is considered by many to be a high risk occupation. If that’s true, and I would certainly agree, it must pale to the life of a pin setter. I mean, there was a pair of brothers from out on the Sweet Road that could send that ball down the alley with deadly effect. Often pins shattered. It sort of reminded me of those “age of sail” battles when cannon balls would send splinters flying to impale the poor sailors.

So, as I watched I fought for some standard by which I might accurately fore tell the life expectancy of a pin setter. Failing to find an objective criteria, I fell back on “Not very damned long.” In addition, they wanted you to step lively. I mean yeah, you can’t keep the bowlers waiting, but still, that looked perilously close to actual work. I wandered back to watch the pool players.

Like many things in life, I am not a great pool player. I do get the general concept and on rare occasion I’ve sunk a two bank shot, but good, no. I can send the cue ball off hopefully in search of prey, but too often it simply wanders with a mind of its own. Mind you, my spatially

enhanced mind could plot the intended route of march and intended victims with brilliant accuracy but my fine twitch muscles failed to deliver the refined stroke that would grant me a glorious victory. 

It is because I have a rare survival instinct that I knew one would never, ever, play pool against Eddie the king of the pin setters. He had the athletic ability and knowledge of the physics of inertia, mass, force and kineses that would quickly empty my pockets of the money I’d just gotten at Thrifty Foods for my beer and pop bottles.

I wandered over to the snack bar and sat on a stool, starting a conversation with Jennifer Chapman’s grandmother. I ordered up a Coke and she poured the syrup in and added the carbonated water. She explained to me how the syrup, water, and temperature all had to be within a certain range. Further, the Coke representative has singled them out for being a particularly fine example of the fountain employee’s art.

Jennifer Chapman’s grandparent owned the bowling alley and her mom worked there. In a brilliant piece of marketing, Jennifer’s mom must have decided that she needed to create her own future customers. To facilitate this, she set up the Blaine Junior Bowling League. 

The Junior Bowling League was the reason I was there that day. Mrs. Chapman was going to give us free lessons, and when it came to free, I was all in.

Now setting out to bowl is not as simple as it might seem. First you had to find a pair of shoes that would fit. I could find the right width, but it seemed like there was always extra room fore and aft so my foot world drift. I got my pair of shoes and wandered off to the bathroom where I stuffed toilet paper in the bow to limit my foots movement inside the shoe to less than half an inch. That done, I admired the multi-colored leather panels that made up the shoe. I guess they tried to make them too ugly to wear but cool enough to bowl in. 

Next came the ball. These represented a massive weight at the end of a young kids arm, but with some work there might be hope of sending the ball down range to devastating effect. In my case devastating effect was not going to be very fast.

Completely outfitted, we sat attentively as Jennifer’s mom explained the fine art of bowling.

“I’m gonna teach you how to spot bowl. Now they didn’t put those little arrowhead marks on the alley just for style. You use those to help you know how to deliver the ball. 

I looked at the marks on the floor, considering how to use them. 

She stood there with the ball poised in front of her, elbows in tight to the side looking down the alley.

“This is called the four step approach. you don’t want to hit the head pin ‘cause it’ll give you a split. You need to curl the ball between the one and the tree pin, what we call the pocket.”

I watched as she did this with pretty darned good accuracy. 

We were all shepherded to an open space off to the right in front of the door where we did dry run after dry run of the four step approach. Finally the magic moment arrived and we all got to use the real ball on the real alley.

Now here was real danger and you quickly learned not to stand directly behind any of the nascent bowlers. The ball it seems could be released backwards as well as forward. It could also be delivered with the same trajectory as a mortar round with a high arc to land with a thump on the alley, leaving a small dent in the surface. I prayed mine would head off in the right direction. It did.

I actually was able to pay attention and before long most of us were able to approximate what bowling should look like. 

Then came the scoring. None of this fancy stuff like today where the scorebook is kept on some computer and lights flash and everyone knows whats going on. Nope, it was paper, pencil and basic math. You actually had to know some math and if you made a mistake it was quickly pointed out. I was in pretty good shape after having played cribbage with my dad since I could hold cards in my hand.

The spot bowling seemed to make sense to me and I was able to bowl with enough consistency that I actually enjoyed it. I guess I probably averaged around 130, which for a kid wasn’t too bad. However years later, as I tried to succeed in college, it sort of hampered me.

You could take all sorts of classes for PE credit at Skagit Valley College. I saw bowling and thought heck, I know how to spot bowl, Jennifer’s mom taught me. So, I signed up. The first day of bowling was my finest hour bowling. I rolled a 200 game. The only problem was, you were graded on progress and it was all down hill from there. I did manage to attend all the classes and do what was asked so I got a B and was thrilled with that. 

I think the last time I ever bowled was when I was at Western and Bobby Dolan came down to see Becky and I. We went bowling at that alley on State Street. Unlike me, Bobby was an athlete, he could play basketball with an intensity and drive that left me lagging far behind. He had taken up bowling and figured he’s do the same with a bowling ball as he’d done with a basketball. But, I had a secret, Jennifer’s mom had taught me how to spot bowl.

I take some pride in the knowledge that my little town of Blaine never contended for the crown of moral superiority in Whatcom County. It allowed us a freedom not universally available in the county.

For me, when it came to moral superiority, I was happy to cede the field to the fine farm folk to the east of us. They toiled in their fields and tended their herds in the calm certainty that only the proud descendants of the reformation could enjoy.

Now, to be fair, we were not with out our combined moral compass. We had a great tradition of diversity of faith. In Blaine, change the block, change the church. We had ‘em all. All the good old Baptist this and Methodist that. Throw in the Catholics and Unitarians and you’ve got it from right to left. But, for the most part it was religion that got along perfectly well with its neighbors.

We also had taverns, probably the most famous was Bill’s. As you all know, lets say it together, “It’s where Loretta Lynn got her start.” OK, we have that out of the way.

Uptown were the Pastime, Border Town, Wagon Wheel, the “Intro” and others. Art Lawrenson owned the Intro, more formally known as the International. Art was acquainted with everyone in town a friends with most. My brother Larry used to like to hang out there.  To a certain extent where you drank said a bit about you. 

Dad and mom’s tavern was the Crossroads. Mom cooked there and dad would stop by for a cold beer after work. He’d be joined by other guys from the Packers as well as their friends that knew when they’d be there.

Dad would play drums at the Crossroads on Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons. They played all the old songs that the Canadians love. And down they would come across the border.

Driven south by a strong Canadian dollar, the Canucks would wash up on our beach starting on Friday night. Saturday and Sunday Kenny Dolan and the men in blue, more like old west gun slingers than modern day cops, would patrol the taverns and keep things under control.

Once in a while some liquored up guest would decide he was going to “kick some cop’s ass.” This never turned out well for them. Oh, our boys took their lumps along the way, they earned every dime they were paid. We were lucky to have ‘em.

It was the summer of ’65 and I was working for Big Ed Johnson at the Shell station across from Don’s Snack Bar. Gary Gibbons was also working there that summer. It was a good way to fill in the days between commercial salmon fishing openings. 

I think by today’s standards, our operations at the station might seem a bit sketchy. People couldn’t cross the border with a pistol. They’d be sent back to us. We’d put a tag on the trigger guard and put the gun in the storage compartment under the cigarette machine.

Next door the family owning the theater had suffered through the decline of attendance due to the rise of television. It pleased me that porn was available for them because it was a way the family could prosper. And prosper they did for every Sunday there was a bumper crop seeing the matinee. 

As it was Sunday, and it was in the afternoon. It did not conflict with church for our neighbors to the east. I always smiled when I’d watch a man drive up, get out of his car and pull his hat down and walk toward the door of the theater, hay still clinging to his cuffs.

My sister and brother in law Harv once went down to Bellingham to a place they called the Arena to watch a Dean Martin concert. Part of Dean’s act was to carry around a glass with ice and colored water looking like whiskey, and a cigarette.

Dean sat there and looked at the crowd and said, “Ya know, I hear there’s this town north of here called Lynden where people are afraid to have sex standing up.”

The crowd responded with a few harrumphes and more than a few titters.

Dean took a sip of his whiskey, savored it and said “Yeah, they’re afraid they might get arrested for dancing.”

If you live long enough and pay attention you start to see connections. I looked at some of these connections and got to thinking about unexpected consequences. I think you need to be real careful about telling people what to do or not do.

I always remember the class below mine at Blaine had been called “The Unteachables” by a teacher. Instead of sucking it up, and cracking the books, the class gloried in their new sobriquet. In some cases with their new nick they in fact became unteachable.

I think the same thing applies when you start yakking about sin. If yer up there in the pulpit, leaning over and looking at the folks in the pews and telling them all about sex and sin, yer gonna start making some folks curious. The more sinful you make it, the more exciting it seems and folks want to try some of that.

I worked with a fella who had been the principal at Lynden High School. Second semester of the school year there was always an unexplained number of gals transferring from the other school in town.

Blaine was tolerant about porn, religion, and sexual preference. Folks just never talked about it. There seemed to be an understanding that people were all trying to make their way through life and some had more issues than others.

The entire traffic crossing the border at Blaine went right down our main street that summer. A slice of it pulled into Big Ed’s Shell to fuel up. I saw a lot, late at night…but I didn’t care, it was all interesting. It was fun. It made you grin.

It was the last summer I ever spent in Blaine. I seemed to be busy every hour of every day with some damned thing. A lot of it pure foolishness. A lot of it worried about college in the fall. My grades hadn’t exactly been Boone and Crockett at dear old Blaine High and I hoped I wouldn’t fail out.

That summer was long and magical but eventually fall rolled around. By the grace of God and an open enrollment policy I was off to Skagit Valley College in Mount Vernon. I enjoyed the new school where people didn’t already know how dumb I was. I was determined to fool ‘em and I did.

“Hey mom, da ya suppose it would be alright if I joined Cub Scouts.”

“I’ll talk to your dad, but I don’t see why not. We should be able to swing it.”

“Swing it” meant that they had to money to pay whatever it cost without me wandering up and down old highway 99 with a gunny sack looking for beer and pop bottles.

Dad got home, cleaned up and we sat around the dinner table. After we were well into the meal my request for Cub Scouts went up the chain of command to my dad. Mom told dad what she knew about Cub Scouts.

“Lillian had Gordy in Cub Scouts, said it was a pretty good deal.”

Dad considered what his role in this whole thing might be and decided it wouldn’t involve him at all.

“Yeah, it’ll be ok I guess.”

At this point dad put one of his massive hands on the table with one finger pointed at me.

“Dicky, either you do or your don’t.”

Now this Yoda-like statement may make no sense to you at all, but it made perfect sense to me. It mean that if you were going to do something, don’t make a hash of it. Do it right. 

Phone calls were made, information gathered and a road trip planned for later in the week.

So, it was with some excitement that I got into our little brown ’52 Ford with my dad. We were headed out near California Creek to Al Freeman’s place. Apparently he was the head man of the small blue army. My dad had on his Filson jacket instead of his plaid jacket befitting the importance of this trip.

In truth, for me, this was big stuff. When we crossed Dakota Creek I didn’t even try and look to see what was happening at the shipyard, my eyes were trying to see the words to the Oath. I had to get it right or my career would be jinxed from the start.

I was about to take an oath. This was of no small importance. I have to say it was weighing heavily on me. The first part, the part that terrified me, was not remembering. It wasn’t that long, but could I perform under pressure. The second part was the meaning. It was serious stuff, it meant you had to man  up.

So, we got there, off to the left of the California Creek bridge where it goes off there toward where Ted McAllister lived. Well, within a hundred meters give or take.

We went up to the back porch and I knocked. It was my deal, so I figured I’d better step up.

The screen door opened, and a big hand reached out, a matching one grabbed it and shook it.

“Hi Bob.”

“Hi Al.”

“Who’s this fella?”

“Dicky.”

Most business in our community got done over a pot of coffee and this was no exception. We sat at the kitchen table as dad and Al engaged in companionable conversation as only people who had known each other for a long time can enjoy. 

I was not the first boy to sit in that kitchen, both his own and the lads who wanted to be cubbies. So, Mr. Freeman had a finely tuned sense of when a wiggling kids couldn’t wait any longer.

“Well, Robert, looks like we’ve got someone here who wants to be a Cub.”

“Yup, his idea.”

“Has he memorized the Scout Oath?”

Two sets of eyes looked at me curiously and I slid off my chair and raised my hand in the cub scout salute. I knew the hand thing, two fingers up, two folded held by the thumb. I was ready and knew there wasn’t a moment to lose.

“On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”

“Easy there Dicky, let me stand up and get the form. We’ll fill it out and then you can do the oath.”

So, with the form filled out, and my dad standing at my side, I did the Scout Oath and became the newest member of pack 25, Blaine, Washington.

With some trepidation I told my mom I was going to need a Cub Scout shirt.

“I figured as much.”

“New” was a luxury we didn’t always experience growing up. The Stephanson and Walsh clans had 12 families between them. The result was I had 28 first cousins. Generally someone in the family had what you needed. In this case my cousin Gordy Pullar down in Bellingham had a serviceable shirt. I had to wait until someone was going down there to get it, but eventually it arrived. (Some of you might know Gordy, he went on to get a PhD and taught at U Alaska).

Sometimes you get lucky when you get used stuff. Like when you buy a skiff and they throw in all the extra lines and a couple crab pots. In my case my new shirt was old school cotton and heavy. It felt good wearing it. The new ones were some polyester blend that felt like crap wearing them, they slid all over your body. Mom carefully removed the patches and put them in a cigar box for when I advanced through the ranks.

It wasn’t long before I received my orders. I was assigned to Den 2, Doris Deirks and Lela Hawkins’ command. The assignment pleased my mom ‘cause she knew ‘em. Hawkins lived across the street from the Unitarian Church and Dierks lived near the school at the north end of the old railroad grade.

We met after school once a week. On Cub Scout day I’d proudly wear my uniform. The meetings normally involved working on requirements or doing a craft project.  About a half hour trying to keep us organized, an effort a bit like herding cats, and our Den Moms would throw up their hands and point outside. We’d tear around outside whooping and hollering until it was time for the ritual bonding of eating cup cakes together.

 I was pretty proud when one after another those patches were sewn on my comfortable cotton Scout shirt. Maybe not as fast as other kids, but with Mrs. Hawkins and Mrs. Dierks checking those requirements and documenting each step we all moved forward.

Now in Blaine, there were many proud Cub Scout dens, each with their own history and legend. Mostly, they operated independently, but every so often they would come together in the basement of the Congregational Church for the great gathering, the Pack meeting.

I sit her now thinking of the pure innocence of those times. Watching the shadow play of the doctor removing a string of hot dogs from the patients stomach. Dens getting to hammer the bell for every scout in attendance. An activity sending glee into every kid and suffering to every parent. Calling the scouts to get their badges of rank and achievement. Learning about the connection between work and reward. It was pretty damned good stuff.

The Scout year had two giant events. One was the trip to the Fire Mountain Boy Scout camp at Silver Lake and the other was the Blue and Gold dinner. 

For the Cub Scouts, Fire Mountain was a two night weekend event. We’d camp on the east side of the lake with all the dining and important buildings on the west side of the lake. This meant that three times a day we would run around the end of the lake to get in line for chow. The first time I ate there I tried to explain to the man in charge that cocoa should be made with milk, not water. He wasn’t interested. If I wanted real food, I’d have to wait for the Blue and Gold dinner.

The Blue and Gold dinner was pot luck. The long row of tables shoved together with white table cloths joining them together strained to hold the cornucopia of food. Moms were all proud of their kitchen and what it produced. Moms spent time cooking. It was labor intensive and did not include a phone call for take out. The Blue and Gold dinner had it all, scalloped potatoes, mashed potatoes, ham, salmon, baked beans, fresh cut beans and enough desserts to make every kid’s tummy feel insanely packed. Most times headed home from the dinner I’d fall asleep in the car and need to be dragged in to bed.

As part of our operational training for Cub Scouts, we had to go through water training. This was not a training that was easily available in Blaine. It required a drive down to the YWCA in Bellingham. Here, the brave cubbies of Blaine learned to do the crawl, back stroke, breast stroke, scissor kick and all the rest. Every kid in town knew how to swim. It was part of our DNA and Cub Scout swim lessons put the finishing touch on what Birch Bay and Dakota Creek got started.

In my life, there are people who have gained the status of “Legendary Hero.” In some cases such as Jimmy Ness saving our sorry butts when a car went out of control, it occurred in once moment of brilliance. But, in Marty Baker’s dads case, it was for his seemingly endless supply of good humor when it came to hauling pollywogs back and forth to the YWCA.

He had a split window VW Bug. Into this car he would put his boys, Jimmy Anderson, Dicky Walsh, and a player to be named later. The poor man would endure ninety nine bottles of bear on the wall, John Jacob Jingle heimer Schmidt and Hang Down your Head Tom Dooley in surround sound at the threshold of pain for the entire trip while shifting gears in a hopelessly underpowered car. Tonight Martin, I’ll dust off the 12 year old scotch and pour a couple fingers over rocks and drink your memory.

As I remember it we had very good instruction, mostly members of the swim team from up at the college. Once I asked the teacher what his name was. He said “Minor English.” I swear to god I thought it was his name until I was in college when …..well, you know…light bulbs and all.

The kids who were going into Boy Scouts went into Webelo Cubs. I attended a couple of Boy Scout meetings but figured I’d be more at home in the Sea Scouts. Technically it was Sea Explorers but we all called it Sea Scouts. Some day I may write a bit more about that, but not today.

I don’t recall much of what the girls had going on. The farm kids seemed to like 4H, but there were also groups like Camp Fire Girls and Girl Scouts and for the older girls Rainbow. I think Sue may have been in Rainbow. But we were blessed by caring adults like Martin Baker who was the Scout Master, Howard Benjamin who was our Sea Scout skipper and all the other organizations and the leaders of all the other groups.

George McDonald Fraser OBE FRSL: The Flashman Series

This is a rare genre of literature, historical comedy fiction. 

Flashman is a bounder and a cad with the background of Victorian England, Roughly the second half of the 1800s. Flashy ends up from the American West to the Kyber Pass. 

Must read: Flashman

Bernard Cornwell, OBE: The Richard Sharpe Series

his series traces the life of Richard Sharp from an orphanage in London to the Battle of Waterloo. Its a really good read and a great way to learn about Wellington’s campaigns.

Patric O’Brien: The Jack Aubrey-Steven Maturin Series

This series is centered around the British Navy during the Napoleonic Era. The series intertwines the lives of Aubrey and his particular friend and Naval Surgeon Steven Maturin. Its a curious chronicle about their lives and relationships with each other, their wives and children as well as the sailors or the Royal Navy. 

Recommendation: Best read in front of the fire with a brandy on a cool fall afternoon.

Ruth Downie:  The Gaius Petreius Ruso Series

This is a great series that starts with Ruso with the Roman Legion in England. The land is filled with tribes like the Catuvellauni and Icini. Ruso, full time doctor for the Roman Legand and default murder detective falls in love with an English native. The clash of culture is fun as his new wife looks at Roman culture from a flawlessly logical perspective.

I could either cut through Boyd Dingman’s place to get down to the Eagles Hall or peddle my bike a half block to the Sweet Road and coast down the hill and turn left into its parking area, normally stomping on my brake to make the back wheel of my bike lock up and spin sideways. There I’d find dad either checking the boiler or upstairs in the tiny bar area having a beer with one of the members. Both dad and mom were in the Eagles and it was pretty much the center of their social life, in addition to the 20-40 club where they played pinocle.

Dad rarely put on a suit to attend Unitarian Church in town with the rest of the family because his religion revealed itself more by watching the bees flying in and out of their hives on a warm summer morning than turning the pages of a book in which he had little interest. He did however put on a suit to attend the formal meetings of the Fraternal Order of Eagles. He took the Eagles seriously and spend countless evenings memorizing the words to its rituals. He’d say “Dicky, take this book and correct me when I make a mistake.”

The ritual was filled with words like integrity, honor, equality, and character. Dad would look at me and tell me that a man was only as good as his word. These were deeply held beliefs and he and nearly all the men and women of our town believed them. 

I think one of the greatest disappointments he ever had was when he wanted to sponsor an African-American Airman from out at the base at Birch Bay to be a member only to be told it wasn’t possible. This word came from the national headquarters. It had embarrassed him to the point where he nearly quit. He had never heard of such a stupid thing.

But dad wasn’t alone in his feelings. The folks in Blaine were amazingly tolerant. One of the bankers down at the National Bank of Commerce preferences ran toward his own gender. Everybody knew it, nobody cared. The man was honest, a good banker, and a fine man to have in town.

We had a couple of teachers  that today would be called gay or lesbian. Again, everyone knew, nobody cared. They kept their preferences to themselves and no one wanted to make a fuss. It was a very practical and honest approach to something that never seemed to be an issue in our town. 

The town’s social life revolved around the Masons, the Eagles, and clubs like the 20-40 club where a rotating game of pinocle was played for years. My brother Larry, who was deaf mute was an active member of the Junior Chamber of Commerce. These organizations made our town a community, not just a place where people lived. 

Television was slow to come to our part of the world. Dorothy Bullitt had bought KRSC and renamed it KING, channel 5 in 1948. In 1952 a friend of dad and mom, Dar Springsted opened a television store uptown. Dad had a good season fishing and that fall Dar showed up at our house with his station wagon. Inside was our new Hallicrafter’s television.

First the four spindly black legs were brought in and set up. On top of the legs was a turntable of sorts upon which the blonde box holding the CRT was housed. Then outside an antenna had to be erected with the wires brought into the house. The wires were a flat ribbon like affair so they could easily be slid under a window sill. When all was set Dar turned on the television with dad outside with a plumbers wrench to twist the antenna to line up with the signal coming from Queen Anne Hill in Seattle. The picture wasn’t exactly crystal clear, but you could watch it, and the audio was good. It wasn’t until the Vancouver stations got going that we had a good consistent signal.

It wasn’t long before people were enjoying shows like I Love Lucy and the Honeymooners. People could sit in their living rooms in the evening and enjoy the new form of entertainment.

The core foundation of the Eagles, Masons and other clubs kept going for a long time. Eventually however television started to kill both the movie theaters and the clubs. When the “old guard” started to die off, so did the clubs. Younger people weren’t much interested. They found their entertainment with Dick Clark and American Bandstand and Warner Brother’s Maverick. The better television got the more the clubs died. 

The death of these clubs was a loss to the sense of community enjoyed in towns all across the country. Words like honor, integrity, and equality eventually became a bit malleable.

Now, as I listen to some of the politicians, and the people who support them, I’m sad that they didn’t have to help their dad with the ritual and thereby learn the meaning of those words. Sad because our community held people to those standards regardless of their preferences. Sad because there was a time when a person’s word meant something. I’m glad I lived during a time when it was important. I’m glad I lived in Blaine during that time.

Crabbin’

Years ago dad and uncle Ken had an automotive repair business at our place on the outskirts of town. They’d built a huge garage that could fit four cars in at a time. Well, before I was born they closed the business and dad went back to fishing. Mom always said they closed the business because she quit doing the books. Life lesson here, if yer getting your books done for free, keep yer mouth shut and let her know she’s a goddess.

Dad had a little trunk cabin boat which he gill netted in the summer and crab fished in the winter. Although it was dads job, we all had a hand in getting it done. Gill netting, I started out filling needles while dad hung net or mended it. Later on I was taught how to hang a net and that was added to my jobs. 

I think dad would have liked me to know how to mend net, but truthfully, I never sorted it out. When dad or Ron would do it it amazed me. They would have their pocket knife in one hand while the other pulled the net out so they could figure the pattern, then the knife would flash, cutting away the bits that needed to go before the mending would work out properly.  To this day I consider myself a failure in the commercial fishing world because I failed this exam.

The first part of hanging a gill net was making the lead line. This involved weaving a small line back and forth through a pattern. Next  you would melt the lead with a blow torch. Finally you would pour the liquid lead in the mold and presto, another length of lead line. 

Dad’s family wasn’t Icelandic. My grandfather, John James Walsh was off the boat from the midlands of England. It was an area called the “Potteries,” seven small villages known together as Stoke On Trent. It was called the “Potteries because its where all the famous English china was made. During the industrial revolution, the dippers, men and women who would dip the pottery in the glaze would die like flies because of the lead in the glaze. Plumbism as it’s more formally known.

Perhaps we wanted a tradition from the old country, death by lead poisoning. Its the same reason painters all used to get goofy after a dozen years, lead in the paint. We’re slow to learn, we kept the lead in gasoline for years after it removed it from paint.

Dad would sit on a special little bench that had a space hollowed out that was the exact space you needed to hang the cork line. Eventually both lead and cork lines would be hung and the net would be ready to fish.

Crab pots were a bit more complicated. There were a couple of jigs upon which you put the cut and rounded metal tubes. Then all of the parts had to be welded together. Following this the metal was wrapped tight with lengths of rubber inner tube. It was one of my jobs to take my wagon from station to station to see if they had any inner tubes I could have. Then we used stainless steel wire to weave the net top, bottom, sides, and the two cone shaped entrances.

Remember the auto repair garage? Well, all this took place in that garage. It was not a coat of many colors, but rather a space with many temperatures. Heat was provided by a 55 gallon drum heater. I’m sure there must be an algorithm for how quickly the heat fell as you stepped away from the stove, but you generally only felt it on the side of your face when knitting pots.

It was a multipurpose heater. Sister Sue and I would bring brown sugar and butter out from the house and dad would core a couple of apples and pour in the brown sugar and butter mix, then push it down in the coals of the heater. After what seemed like a terribly long time dad would reach in and pull out the apples. We’d fish out the spoons from our pocket and dig in. Ummmhummmm, match that you five star restaurant.

In the summer, the gill net would provided salmon. We’d celebrate the fishing season with a huge salmon bar b que over at the Packers. Dad and Uncle Dick would be in charge of the salmon pit. It would have pipes driven into the ground with open oar locks pushed into their tops. Then a huge metal mesh was placed over the oar locks and the salmon were arranged on top. A second iron mesh was then wired over the top of the salmon so they could be flipped over when the time came. By this time the hot coals that had become ordained to be the perfect temperature. In addition to the salmon, steamer clams were wrapped in seaweed and placed in a trench around the edge of the fire. When they would pop open we’d drag them out with a rake, dipped in drawn butter, and eaten as an hors d’oeuvre.

The women would bring out the huge bowls of potato salad, cole slaw, baked beans and garlic toast. The glasses were filled with either Olympia or Rainier beer. We considered ourselves above Rhinelander beer.

The kids would be restricted to soft drinks with enough sugar to guarantee many a dentist’s retirement fund.

During crab season, dad would bring home a couple of dozen of the largest crabs he’s caught that day. He had a huge cauldron sized pot that he’d fill with water and heat over a fire he made in the driveway. The crab would meet a rather dreadful end, but that was before my new gained sensitivity and godliness. 

In the house, news paper would have been spread over a couple of card tables. Bowls of melted butter would grace the table. That long french bread slathered with butter and garlic was kept warm in its foil. Cole slaw filled out the menu and we’d dig in.

Now eating crab at the Walsh house would never have been sanctioned by the elements of the carriage trade. A dozen crab halves would be dumped in the center of the table. Hands would flash out seeking the ones with the biggest, juiciest, most succulent legs. Each diner was equipped with crab crackers, two long rods, joined at the top that you used to crack crab legs. 

Everyone had their own technique to eat crab. Mine was to gather a small pile of crab meat, stabbing anyone in the back of the hand if they reached over to snatch some of my  hard earned pile of crab meat. Once I had a goodly amount, it would be into the drawn butter and then into my mouth, random drops of butter making my chin glisten. But, as sublime as this might be, the best was yet to come.

The best was the next morning when mom made cream crab on toast. Huge chunks of crab meat in a white sauce poured over toast made from fresh home made bread. Gonna be a name dropper here, but I’ve tried a Waldorf salad, at the Waldorf Astoria in New York the city. Gotta say, they’re in the minors when you’re talkin’ food here. The best food ever to cover a plate was mom’s cream crab on toast.