Rev. 01/29/01
The Second Liar
Ain’t Got A Chance
Rev.1
by Bob Graham
bgraham@hawaii.rr.com
2000
@ 2000 by Bob Graham
Printed by
Graham-Cracker Press
Honolulu, Hawaii
This is dedicated to
Carol Hisako Graham
1939 - 2000
She always encouraged my writing.
My Carol
a mother
a grandmother
a wife
a lover
a friend
a companion
a businesswoman
my constant companion for over 35 years
she knew my thoughts almost before I did
she could finish my sentences
To my brothers, Chuck and Frank, who offer counterpoint and sometimes comic relief in these stories, remember — History is written by the victor, or in other words, the second liar ain’t got a chance.
Middle child: competition on one side, jealousy on the other
A major theme running through this will be the competition between Chuck, my older brother by 16 ½ months, and me.
Our family moved to Boise, Idaho when I was about six months old so most of these incidents occurred there.
My deepest thanks goes to my sister-in-law Alice, who once made the mistake of saying she enjoyed my writing. I paid her back by sending the unedited copy of this to her. She obliged by wearing out a number of red pencils before returning it. So any remaining goofs are mine alone.
1929 — 1935
1936 — 1941
1942 — 1947
1929 — 1935
My Name
I am named for my grandfather on my Daddy’s side and my middle name
comes from Mom’s brother. My grandfather Robert lived in Georgia and
fought in the Civil War. He was wounded in the Battle of Spotsylvania. My
uncle Blair, Mom’s oldest brother, grew up in Butte, Montana and attended
Swathmore College in Pennsylvania. He drowned in a lake there.
Contents
Hand on a Hot Plate
My earliest recollection was when I was about 3 years old. It was a bit traumatic. We lived in a green house “kitty-corner” from the north-east corner of the Idaho State Capital Building, I called it the “green house” because that was its color. Around the corner from our place, on the second floor, was a beauty shop where mom went from time to time. One day I saw what thought was a shiny silver plate on a table. I reached up and put my hand flat on it and discovered, very painfully, that it was a hot plate which burned my hand pretty good. I’ve been cautious of anything that looks like that ever since — lesson learned.
When we lived there, I remember there was a vacant lot on the corner. It was covered with grass, and we played there from time to time. It was there that I played with Bob Utter.
Later I met him in Seattle where he taught me to sail. Bob then was a Juvenile
Court Judge and later went on to become a Justice on the Washington State
Supreme Court. He and I have kept in touch all these years.
Contents
Girls
I have always been fascinated by girls. Not having any sisters, and, later, no daughters, this fascination has continued all my life. My granddaughters can always wrap me around their little fingers. I think they know it.
A girl, who shall be nameless to protect her privacy (if she, by chance, reads this story, only she will know), confided in me this tidbit. She told me that her earliest recollection in life was my kissing her when we both attended Sunday School in the Cradle-Roll at the First Presbyterian Church in Boise.
Boy, I started chasing girls at the ago of three.
Ah, little girls....
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Rose Buds
There were rose bushes bordering the walkway on the capitol grounds. When roses were in season, Daddy would pick a bud and wear it in the buttonhole of his lapel. Then, on the way home, he would pick a rose for mom.
One of our sons is a notorious flower thief, going all the way back to grade
school. I wonder — is this trait hereditary?
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Eclipse of the Sun, or Smoked Glass
While living at the “green house” a eclipse of the sun occurred.
I recall Daddy smoking a piece of broken window glass over a candle so we
could look up at the sun through it. I don’t remember what we saw, but
I was surely interested in his smoking the piece of glass over the candle.
Contents
Bitting Nails
I must have started bitting my finger nails when I was two or so. At the age of three it was a well entrenched habit. One of Mom’s friends tried to scare me out of it by telling me it would cause Appendicitis (what ever that was) and all sorts of medical maladies. Nothing worked.
I continued to chew my nails and live with raw red cuticles and frequently
infected nails until I was about fifty years old. What actually broke the
habit was a motorcycle accident. I broke my wrist, and no one can bite their
nails with a broken wrist because the shock of biting is too painful on the
ends of the broken bones. By the time the brake healed and the cast came
off, the habit was also broken.
Contents
Daddy’s Collar Bone
Daddy told me he was searching for something in a bottom file drawer in his office and someone pulled out one of the top drawers. When he stood up, he hit the drawer and broke his collar bone. He had his shoulder taped up and his arm in a sling for quite awhile.
From his experience I have always been extremely cautious when returning
to a standing position after kneeling or leaning over cabinets, files or
anything of that kind.
Contents
Daddy Standing on His Head
Daddy could stand on his head. He would put a pillow down on the floor, put his head on it, and rise up full length. I was impressed!
My attempt at this great feat only ended with my up-chucking my breakfast
— I didn’t try it a second time.
Contents
Chuck’s Trip Downtown
Chuck and I had tricycles. The difference was that Chuck’s was bigger — he was older. One day he rode his bike across the street, around the Capitol Building and on to downtown Boise.
How do I know? Well, he really got punished when he got home, and I was made
aware of his transgression so I wouldn’t repeat it.
Contents
Saluting
The CCC, Civilian Conservation Corp. was organized by President Franklin D. Roosevelt with the express purpose of putting young men to work during the Great Depression. In the western US they built miles and miles of trails in the forests, built innumerable camp ground, and other similar public works. They were organized very much like the Army.
When we lived at 505 Franklin, there was a CCC camp at old Fort Boise. The CCC boys, in their olive drab uniforms, had to walk by our house on their way to town.
Daddy taught us boys how to salute. We would stand out in the front yard and salute them as they walked past our house. This was great entertainment for us.
I remember one time they didn’t see us. To solve this problem I saluted
again. This time I brought my hand down so smartly that when I slapped
my leg I hit it so hard it hurt and I winced. They saw it that time
and returned my salute with broad grins.
Contents
Brotherly Love?
Each spring or summer Mom or Daddy bought each of us a gardening set. It consisted of a child’s rake, hoe and shovel.
Frank was always getting into what ever I was doing, and there were stiff penalties for using physical force to get him to leave me alone.
One day when I was five, and Frank was about a year old, I was “gardening” in a small patch of dirt next to our house, swing my hoe to turn up the dirt. Frank came crawling along right into my “garden”, and I whacked him on the head with my hoe. He let out a terrible scream, and as any head cut bleeds profusely, there was blood everywhere.
Mom came running. I don’t think she bought my story about his scrawling into my hoe.
Somewhere on Frank’s head is the scar from my hoe.
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Chinese Vegetable Truck
The river bottom land, south of the Boise River on the west side of Capital Boulevard was a patchwork of vegetable plots. These plots were farmed by Chinese families who supplied the vegetable eaten by Boiseians. The Chinese peddled their produce from trucks that made definite routes through town.
The farmer that Mom bought from was Mr. Fong. He would stop his truck in the alley behind our house, roll up the canvas sides and sound his horn — “ahoooga ahoooga!” Mom and all the other women in the block would go out to see what he had. Chuck and I would swarm all over his truck. We didn’t have a car, so the opportunity to sit in the driver’s seat and pretend to drive was a great thrill.
Two things stand out — the odometer on Mr. Fong’s truck was stuck
at 505, and our address was 505 Franklin. The second was that on New
Years Mr. Fong gave Mom a small box of candied ginger — to this day
I love candied ginger.
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Pocket Knife
When I was about five my grandparents in Butte, Montana sent me a pocket knife. It was a shiny silver one commemorating some event — but it was mine. I learned by experience (cutting my fingers, of course) what to do and what not to do with a pocket knife. Some lessons were quite painful. I have carried a pocket knife with me ever since. How else would a boy (or a girl) sharpen a pencil, make a slingshot, carve a chain, or defend one’s self against dragons, ghosts and ghouls, or just do a thousand and one things for which a knife is needed.
Rod asked me to buy pocket knifes for each of his children on their eighth birthday. So I tried writing down a few simple rules, passing on some of the painful lessons I learned:
My Knife
* NEVER, NEVER, NEVER run with
an open knife in your hand!
* A sharp knife is a safe knife; learn how
to sharpen it
* ALWAYS cut away from
yourself.
* Hand a knife to someone else by the blade.
* Never point a knife at anyone.
* A knife is not a screw driver or an ice pick
-
don’t pry, bend or twist
with it.
* A knife is a serious tool, not a toy, so
take good care of it:
- Don’t cut or rub the edge
on to a hard surface
like a rock.
- Don’t throw a knife.
- Don’t stick a knife into
the ground.
Still, some of his sons have had to learn exactly the same lessons I did
— the hard way. If you get cut, don’t blame the knife.
Contents
Okra, Oysters and Cornbread
My Daddy, being from Georgia, enjoyed southern food, and Mom learned to cook it. He particularly loved Cornbread and Okra, a taste I have tried to pass on to my sons.
One day when I was five, he brought home a quart of shucked Oysters. I remember when Mom opened the cardboard container, there was a small, bright red crab in with the Oysters.
Mom made an Oyster Stew with them and I immediately fell in love with the
flavor — I love oysters fried, stewed, “Rockerfeller-ed”,
or on the half shell. But my favorite thing is to pick them off the rocks,
open and eat them right on the spot.
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1936 — 1941
4 Grade Schools, 1 Jr Hi, 3 High Schools-Why?
One of my granddaughters was talking to me about her concern over changing grade schools. She was amazed when I told her I went to four different elementary schools in Boise — Whittier, Central, Lowell and, finally, Washington (built in 1900) where I finished the sixth grade. Then I attended one Junior High (there was only one in Boise when I grew up), three high schools, Boise High (also was the only one in Boise), Dorsey High in Los Angles and Butte Public High in Butte, Montana where I graduated, to the great relief of Mom.
Why did I go to so many schools? We didn’t own a home, so we rented. When we rented a different home, we usually had to change schools — not a big deal. We made new friends, found new places to play, and explored a new part of town.
Why three high schools? I started at Boise High and went there a year and
a half. I must admit that I drove Mom nuts — I was a monster. So I went
to live in Los Angeles with my aunt and uncle. That only lasted one semester
— like I said, I was a monster. That summer, while I was watching for
forest fires up on Mt. Baldy, Mom moved to Butte to help my grandmother take
care of my grandfather who was quite ill at the time. That’s how
I ended up graduating from Butte Public High School.
Contents
Ink Well
When I went to school, we all used straight pens, and each desk had an ink well filled with black ink in the upper right corner. An ink well is a round cup, about an inch and a half in diameter with a hinged lid. They were mounted in the desk flush with the top. We didn’t use them until about the third grade when we learned penmanship, but all desks had them.
In the first grade a girl with long blonde ringlets sat in front of me. Her
ringlets always hung down on my desk. One day — don’t ask me why
— I opened the ink well and very methodically dipped the end of each
ringlet in the ink. I thought it looked quite nice, but my teacher,
the little girl’s mom and my mom didn’t agree — boy, I really
caught it!
Contents
What is in a Cornerstone?
I don’t know everything that is in a cornerstone, but I do know my name
is in the cornerstone of Boise Jr. High School. I was in the First Grade
when the Boise Junior High School was built. Every kid in the school district
had to sign their name on a paper list. All lists were placed in the cornerstone,
and the cornerstone placed in the corner of the school foundation during
a ceremony all of us attended.
Contents
Mumps - For all My Brothers
When I was in the First Grade I caught the Mumps. What a bummer! But I got to stay home from school and from church. The only drawback was that I was quarantined in my room so I wouldn’t spread the disease.
When the family left for church I saw my chance. I sneaked into the kitchen and looked in the ice box (we didn’t have a new-fangled refrigerator). Mom had made green Jell-O and put it in to set. I got a spoon and ate as much of the cool, but not set, Jell-O as I felt I could get away with without Mom’s noticing any was missing. And then I sneaked back to bed.
Of course, what I really did was contaminate the whole bowl of Jell-O and
pass the mumps along to my brothers. Chuck, Frank — now
you know how you got the mumps.
Contents
Electricity and Scissors
Mom did a lot of sewing. Her sewing machine was always set up with projects she was working on stacked around it. There was an electric cord hanging down from the ceiling that provided power for the machine.
I was in the 2nd grade and always admired her sewing scissors. They were much better than any other scissors in the house, smooth working and very sharp.
One day, after school I was fooling around Mom’s sewing machine. Without
thinking I picked up her scissors and cut the electric cord hanging down
from the ceiling — FLASH, ZZZAP, SHOCK !! I stood there,
rooted to the spot. Smoke curled up from the cord, and Mom’s precious
scissors had a half moon shape about a quarter of an inch across burned out
of both blades. It is an understatement to say that Mom was not very happy
about my ruining her best scissors — and I have never done that again.
Contents
The Scar on My Knee
There is a major scar across my right knee. Many of my grandkids have commented on it and asked how I got it.
When I was in the second grade, Chuck and I attended Central Grade School. We walked to school. The city had just finished graveling State Street; gravel was scattered over fresh tar.
I was running across the street on my way to school and tripped, falling on my knees on the fresh crushed gravel. Sitting up, I looked at my right knee — it didn’t bleed much, just one drop, but I could see the bone and I screamed. A man across the street heard me and came running. He looked at my knee and just picked me up and took me home. Mom had a friend take us to St. Lukes Hospital. The doctor told me I’d be okay, but he would have to put me to sleep to clean out all the leave and gravel. I woke up sicker than I’d ever been, the result of the gas he gave me. My knee was bandaged with a splint under the knee to keep me from bending it.
If I remember correctly, they sent me home the next day. The doctor told me NOT to bend my knee — it would pull the stitches, and he would have to sew it up again. That was enough to make me not try to bend it. He stopped by the house every day — that was when doctors still made house calls — to see how I was doing. About the third day he pulled out the drain that he had sewn in. Boy that really hurt.
The next day, after the doctor took out the drain, my knee felt better, and I tried bending it a bit — it felt good. So I just kept bending it from time to time. Suddenly I heard a snap followed by a sharp pain. I’d broken the splint and torn the stitches.
I stopped bending it immediately. But the next day the doctor looked at his broken splint and torn stitches and was a bit upset. He told Mom and me that because of what I did, I would end up with a big scar.
My knee finally healed, but I do have a big scar just as the doctor said,
not a thin line as the doctor tried to make.
Contents
Crooked Nose
My grandkids look at me and say, “Grandpa, why is your nose crooked?” and I tell them “Why? Well, little Dorothy Haworth broke my nose when I was in the 2nd grade”.
I was kneeling on the rail of her porch watching some kids play and she came
up behind me and gave me a push — straight down, face first on the sidewalk.
And since theen my nose has been a little crooked.
Contents
Daddy Suffers a Stroke
The summer between my second and third grade, Daddy suffered a stroke while on a business trip to eastern Idaho. This had a major effect on everyone in the family. And looking back, I’m sure it was hardest on Mom — she now had to raise and support three young boys. I can only view it with the eyes of a very young third grade boy. It was a turning point and changed the style of living for all of us.
Mom tried to nurse Daddy and take care of us boys. But finally the strain became too much, and she collapsed. We three boys were sent to the Children’s Home, where we stayed for a month or two — exactly how long I’m not sure.
The Children’s Home was a much feared institution. We boys had seen the children from there marching to and from church each Sunday, all dressed in the same blue coveralls. The “kid gossip” about the Home was frightening — all kinds of tales. When we got there, we had to surrender all our clothes and don their “uniform” of blue coveralls. Frank, still a baby was put in with all the other babies while Chuck and I were put in with all the other kids. All the boys slept in a large dormitory. It was a fearful change.
The main topic of kid conversation was adoption. I insisted that Mom would come and get us, but the other kids said we would be adopted. The misinformation, passed as fact, was frightening.
As I recall, we were taken as a group to the Saturday matinee. We were also all taken to see the rodeo at the Idaho State Fair.
The end of summer came, and one day we were all returned to Mom. We
were now living in a smaller house on Fort Street but going to the same school,
Central.
Contents
Electricity - what not to do
The cord to a lamp was frayed, and the copper wire was broken. I decided to repair it, and Mom said, “Okay.” So, with my pocket knife, I cut off the insulation of the frayed wire and twisted all the wires together. I took a roll of friction tape and wrapped everything so it looked neat. Then I proceeded to plug the cord into a socket — blinding flash, cloud of smoke ,and all the lights in the house went out. Wow!
Mom had to call an electrician to undo my handy work. I followed him around like a little puppy, asking all kinds of questions. And I did learn a lot. He explained to me how the wires had to be separate — the fact that I hadn’t done it is what caused the “flash.” He showed me how to connect the wires to a plug. The cord was shorter now, but it would work. Then he went on to show me how to repair a fuse, a trick that isn’t needed any more.
That day I learned enough to become the repairman of the family, and maybe
it started me on the road to being an Electrical Engineer.
Contents
I learned to swim
I learned to swim. I love the water, surfing, sailing, fishing — anything to do with the water — guess you would call me a hydromaniac. What is unique about this is that I am the only one of us three boys who swims and enjoys the water.
As children we were forbidden to go near the water. Mom’s brother Blair drowned while attending college at Swathmore, Pennsylvania. Mom’s reaction to this tragedy was for everyone to avoid the water. On the other hand, Grandma’s reaction to losing a son in this manner was that she felt everyone should learn to swim. These were totally different reactions, each understandable — but I lived with Mom.
So my learning to swim was over Mom’s strong objections. I managed this feat was by sneaking down to the YMCA and taking swimming lessons. First step was I had to forge Mom’s signature on the application just to get started. Then I had to make sure I really dried my hair after each class so Mom wouldn’t find out.
Finally I swam the length of the pool and was awarded my certificate.
Proudly I took it home and presented it to Mom. I “caught heck”
for it, but she had to accept the fact that I could swim.
Contents
Cats and Water Don’t Mix
Many people had told me that cats don’t like water, but sometimes I need to learn things the hard way. A neighbor had a large fish pond with beautiful water lilies growing in it. And it was the home for a whole school of gold fish.
One day I was kneeling down at the side of the pond watching the fish. Another neighbors cat came wandering by and started to look too. It made a few passes with its paw at some of the fish. I felt very protective about the fish so picked up the cat, held it out as far as I could and dropped it — right into the pond.
It let out a screech. I swear it seemed like it didn’t even touch the water, and, like a streak, clawed its way up my pant leg, my sweater, my head and kept going.
Needless to say, I’ve never again picked on a cat — they’re
too smart.
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Signature
I sold newspapers, the “Capital News”, on the corner each afternoon. One day the newspaper needed some special work done, and they offered the job to us paper boys. I signed up for the work as I could always use some extra money.
At that time I was going through a period in which I tried signing my name in different ways to see what I liked best. When I signed up for the work, I used one the my experimental signatures.
After the work was done, we all went to get our paychecks. I didn’t have one! Shocked, I asked where my check was. Finally, after what seemed like hours, they said the only check that hadn’t been picked up was one for a “Fobert Graham.” It took a lot of talking to finally convince them that I was he. So I had to wait again while they wrote a new check for me and had it authorized.
I immediately quit playing with my signature — it has remained the same
since that day.
Contents
Be Careful Walking Between Cars
By not being observant I came close to ruining my knee. As I stepped between two cars parked at the curb the front car started to back up, and I felt pressure on my knee — someone YELLED and the car stopped. It moved forward, releasing my knee.
I shudder to think about it even today. LOOK before you step between
cars, make sure no one is about to move.
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“Jack” My Dog
I wanted a dog. I mean I REALLY wanted a dog. I would stop and pet any dog anywhere.
One day I was bringing bread and sweet rolls home from the bakery, and a little black and white dog came running up to me, wagging his tail. He was so friendly. Without even a second thought, I called to him, and he followed. When he would stop, I would reach in the bag I was carrying, break off a small piece of sweet roll and feed it to him. This continued all the way home.
That evening I convinced Mom that “Jack” just followed me home.
I promised with a solemn oath that I would always take care of him,
and she wouldn’t have to do anything — I sold her. And
that’s the story of how I got my dog, my faithful companion for years.
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Do Rabbits Bite?
Uncle Carl and Aunt Zelda lived out in South Boise. Some times on Sunday we would get on the bus and ride out to their place. He raised rabbits — yes, to eat. Now I didn’t know anything about rabbits. I asked my cousin Louise if I could pet one. Her response was, “Sure, just stick your finger through the wire and pet it’s nose.”
I did as suggested. It must have thought my finger was some kind of carrot, or it was in a bad mood or was just defending its territory because it immediately chomped down on my finger. I yelled and jerked my hand back with blood streaming from my finger.
I don’t stick my fingers in animal cages now — I know better.
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Lead Soldiers
Lead soldiers were the “in” thing when I was growing up. Kids all over town had them.
The process of making them was quite simple. Basically, you melted lead and poured it into the molds. A minute later, you opened the mold, took out the newly made soldier, trimmed off the extra lead, and when cool painted them.
Of course, there was a lot of detail in that process. There are a number of ways to melt the lead. Most of us used an electric heater that came with a ladle. The kit we started with usually included one or more molds.
The initiation into this brotherhood of “lead soldier makers” was burned fingers. After burning your fingers enough times, you learned how to judge the correct temperature needed to produce good models.
And then there was the preparation of the molds — smoking them with a candle so the lead would flow into all the crevices. Also, you needed to know at what point all the lead had hardened.
Finally, you had to know how to trim the excess lead to be recycled and what kind of paint was needed.
Different kids had different molds. So there was a lively exchange of lead soldiers all over town.
Each of us selected a country for our army of lead soldiers — Chuck chose Germany; I chose Finland. We painted our soldier to tell them apart. Then we’d create huge holes in the dirt of the back yard, complete with tunnels, roads, trenches — all of the facilities our armies would need.
This play occupied us for hours on end, and we learned a lot of different
skills in the process.
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Railroad Trestle
For sometime after Daddy had a stroke, he was convalescing at the County Hospital. It was located west of the County Fairgrounds up on the Bench about four miles from town. Chuck and I, together or just by ourselves, would periodically visit him there.
There were a number of ways to get there including hitch hiking. My favorite was walking the railroad tracks. Freight trains came into Boise from the west down a steep grade made by a cut in the Bench. The path followed a long sweeping turn so you could hear but not see a train as it approached. At the bottom of the grade a train crossed the Boise River over a trestle bridge. As I recall, there were either three or four spans in the bridge. The end of each span was supported by a concrete pier twenty feet or so high, sunk in the river bed.
It was “spooky,” crossing the river on the railroad trestle — what would one do if a train came? Would we have time to get to the closest concrete pier and climb down off the track to the safety of the pier below? The railroad ties on the bridge were set close together, about six or inches apart — close enough so you wouldn’t fall through but wide enough so you couldn’t run. You had to constantly watch where you put your feet. In addition, the water rushing past, twenty feet below, that you could see between the ties added to “spookiness.”
Why I liked to take that route is something I can’t answer today. It
may have been the thrill of walking the “spooky” railroad trestle
or the opportunity to explore the cottonwood grove on the other side in which
a lot of wildlife lived.
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Roller Skates
Before learning to ride a bike, my primary means of transportation was roller skates. These were steel wheeled skates, not the in-line skates of today. The skates I’m talking about were adjustable in length. They strapped around your ankle and had an adjustable toe clamp that you squeezed in with a skate key to hook over the sole of your shoe. All adjustments to these skates were made with this skate key, and all of us carried a key on a grubby string around our necks. The lore of how to maintain skates and how to adjust them was known to all kids.
We went everywhere on our skates. Of course, we raced on them, and skinned knees and hands were the badge of a skater in this age group.
Steel skates on concrete sidewalks are loud — very loud. This noise frequently would upset adults. At times we exploited this racket.
The Idaho State Capital building is an imposing structure. When I was a kid, there was no air conditioning. Ventilation of the offices in the basement was provided by a deep dry moat around the building. The concrete sides of the moat were quite steep but you could walk up them, if you were careful and didn’t slip.
In the summer, the basement office windows were kept open to provide some relief from the heat. Several of us, with skates on, would get at the top at one end of the trench, hanging on to the rail that guarded the trench. Then, one after the other, we’d let go, speed down the steep slope of the trench on our skates and race, full speed, to the other end, rip off our skates, and scamper up the other end of the trench — all before the guards came out to catch us.
I’m sure the roar of our steel skates on concrete in the confines of
the moat was deafening to those working in their offices — but to us
it was great fun!
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“Hate” Foods
One day at diner Chuck announced that canned corn made him sick and if he ate it he would throw up. I listened intently to the ensuing discussion between Chuck and Mom. Finally she gave in and said he no longer would have to eat canned corn.
Well, that was interesting. So I assumed that meant I could have a “hate” food. Chuck had a corner on canned corn — what could I have?
After much thought I finally decided on mine. At the next dinner, I proclaimed that canned peas made me sick. The ensuing battle between Mom and me lasted longer and was more heated than Chuck’s battle, but finally I prevailed — I no longer had to eat canned peas.
So what does this story have to do “with the price of eggs in China”?
Well, now my sons will know, as will my grandkids, why I don’t
“buy” food likes and dislikes. And why I insist they eat a minimum
of two bites of everything.
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Model Airplanes
One of my hobbies was building model airplanes. They came in kits with plans and the outline of all the pieces printed on sheets of thin balsa wood. The building process was quit laborious and time consuming. First, the scale plans had to be laid out and taped to a large flat board. Then wax paper was laid over the plan. This was to keep the balsa pieces from sticking to the paper plan when they were glued together on it. The whole process of building the skeleton took hours and hours — plenty of time to fill a rainy Sunday afternoon.
After the skeleton of the wings, fuselage and tail pieces where complete, they were covered with the appropriate color of rice paper. Glue was applied to the edges and the paper stretched tightly over the piece and held in place until the glue dried.
Finally, the completed sections could be assembled together to made the complete plane. And everyone would admire the creation.
The real fun was to fly the plane. The power was provided by a long rubber band inside the plane — one end anchored down by the tail and the other end attached to the center of the propeller. Getting it to fly entailed winding and winding and winding the propeller until the rubber band was very tight.
When the propeller was released, it would spin furiously, long enough to get the plane airborne and fly for a short time. What a sight!
The ensuing crash — it never landed smoothly — invariably resulted in some form of damage requiring repair before it could be flown again.
After the fun of flying the plane wore off and the disfiguring repairs spoiled its beauty, it would be prepared for its final flight. It would invariably take place from the roof of the garage. After winding the propeller tight, I would run a line of airplane glue across the wings, down the fuselage and across the tail. Then, lighting a match, I would touch the flame to the very inflammable glue and release the propeller — the sight of a flaming airplane making its last flight was spectacular.
And no, I never burned the garage down — I was lucky. But I wouldn’t
recommend anyone’s playing with something flammable like that.
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Learning to Ride a Bike
Learning to ride a bike is a rite of passage for all kid, and I was no exception. The first time I tried, I crashed very hard and didn’t try again for a year or so.
Finally the necessity of having a bike in order to have a paper route drove me to try again. This time I succeeded.
During the process I made a remarkable discovery. If I looked at something, I hit it — look at a telephone pole, run right smack into it; look at a tree same thing. But as long as I remembered that, I could avoid any obstacle by NOT looking at it. I could look at a two inch space between a couple of puddles and go through totally dry, my friends soaked.
Later I discovered that this “look at it, hit it” phenomena carried over to other things. A skiing lesson: one tree way over to the left — you guessed it, I slowly was pulled way over to the side and climbed that darn tree.
Forty years later when I bought my first motorcycle a friend rode it over to my house in the evening. He told me how to start it, how to shift gears, how to brake, and he left me to learn the rest.
The next morning I got up and was determined to master this machine. I started it, I remembered that; put it in gear, remembered that; eased out the clutch and started out of our driveway. Across the street was a lamp post for a street light — looked at it and almost lost the whole thing right then and there. The forty year old memory flashed — I averted my eyes and missed the lamp post by inches.
Don’t let anyone tell you that riding a motorcycle is like riding a
bike — it isn’t. And it isn’t like driving a car. There
is a hand-foot coordination that doesn’t exist with a bike or a car.
There’s an acceleration force and a speed that is totally different.
But I found my “look at it, hit it” theory worked FOR me
— I could thread very narrow spaces by focusing on them and miss objects
by looking slightly to the side — it became a reflex.
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No Brakes
I borrowed a friends bike to get started on a paper route. Then, from my profits I bought an old Hawthorn hard-tired bike. The only problem was that it didn’t have any brakes.
By experimenting, I found I could stop it by rubbing the sole of my shoe on the tire with the front fender off. This worked pretty slick — front wheel brakes. And I got quite skillful, putting my shoe against the front fork and applying just the right amount of pressure. I even bragged about it.
One day I paid the price — too much pressure and my foot jammed into the front fork. The wheel locked, and I just flipped over on my back in the middle of the street.
My back was all scratched, and I was dazed. I believe Chuck helped me home. Mom took one look at me and set to work, getting my shirt off, cleaning the dirt and gravel off my back. In those days there were two choices of antiseptic to put on a wound — Mercurochrome (which some didn’t think did much good) and Tincture of Iodine (which was considered the best) but it stung “like heck”. Mom chose Iodine. I’m sure everyone for a mile around could hear me when Mom put that stuff on my back.
Next day, I went down to the bike shop to get the parts needed to repair
the brake. I was forbidden to ride until it had brakes.
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Mulberry Trees
In the back of a vacant lot a block or so from our house were two huge mulberry trees. All of the kids in the neighborhood congregated there. We dug trenches, built forts, engaged in clod fights — pull up a clump of long cheat grass, swing it in a wide arc and let go. It would have a trajectory like a mortar shell and could drop almost straight down into a deep trench, right down the back of someone's shirt. Great, dirty fun!
When the mullberies were ripe we would climb the tree, work way out on the
big broad limbs reaching for ripe mullberries. Most of our hot summer
days would be spent way up in the tree. Only coming down for meals
-- and to try to wash the almost indelable deep red stain off our fingers,
hands and lips.
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The End of the BB Gun Wars
Chuck had a Daisy Pump BB gun. The pump was fast — all you had to do was pump it and you were ready for another shot. My gun was a Red Ryder Carbine. You had to cock the lever to get anther shot. But it had more power than the Daisy — it stung more when I hit someone.
The rules of BB Gun warfare were simple — any part of the body from the neck down was fair game.
Chuck and I were engaged in a major battle one day. I was protected by a small tree. The trunk was only about six inches across which really gave very little protection. My arms and shoulders were exposed when I tried to take a shot or my rear stuck out. I was getting “nailed” constantly.
Chuck, on the other hand, was behind the corner of the house. His exposure was very limited; I couldn’t get a good shot at all. He had the tactical advantage.
Finally, in desperation I cocked my trusty Roy Ryder and aimed for the corner of the house, waiting for Chuck to appear to take his next shot. He poked his head around, and I immediately shot. You can see the BB travel when you fire it, and I knew it was going to hit him in the face even before it hit. He yelled, grabbed his face and fell to the ground. I ran to him, scared of the damage I’d done. Finally he uncovered his face and there, an inch or so below his eye, was a real red welt.
It was an illegal shot — that we both knew. We agreed right then and there that this game could get too dangerous. So the end came to the BB Gun Wars.
We also mutually agreed that we would not tell Mom of my transgression. To
do so could have ended in total disarmament.
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Sauerkraut
An old German couple lived up the street from us. The lady told Mom how simple it was to make Sauerkraut. Basically, it is fermented cabbage.
So Mom got into it in a big way that summer. She chopped and chopped the cabbage, and layered with what ever ingredients the recipe called for, in a large earthenware crock. Finally she tied cheese cloth over the top of the crock to keep insects out.
I slept on the screened porch and I was to be the guardian of the treasured crock — Mom just slid it under my bed.
Day by day, as the fermentation process converted Cabbage into Sauerkraut the back porch took on a riper and riper aroma. What a way to sleep!
I was very glad when mom’s experiment was over, and it is a wonder that
I still like Sauerkraut.
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Sand Creek
Sand Creek came out of the foothills and crossed the north end of Boise on its way to empty into the Boise River. I knew the upper end where it came out of the foothills north of Boise very well, and I had followed it up stream to springs where it started. At the edge of the foothills it slowed in several ponds full of frogs and tadpoles. There was quicksand around one of the ponds, and that’s where I learned how to get out of the stuff.
From the edge of the foothills, Sand Creek was channeled into a narrow deep flume to keep it from overflowing its banks. The flume was forbidding, dark, swift and too deep to climb out. All of my friends and I speculated about what would happen if you fell into it.
One day curiosity got the better of me. Climbing down into the flume I started wading down stream. It took hours — the flume was basically the same for miles, narrow with vertical wooden sides. The only break was where it went under a road. There it was dark, dank, with lots of spider webs — “spooky”! Finally, after miles and miles, it opened up into a large swamp full of frogs.
After playing there a bit I decided I should get home. I was hungry, and I had my paper route to do. So, rather than try to walk up stream in the flume, I decided to hike straight home.
I hadn’t gone more than a block or so when a State Patrol car pulled up beside me. The officer asked who I was - I told him - he told me to get in the car - I did - he told me I was in BIG trouble.
Someone had seen me climb down into the flume and told Mom. She called the police. The police, fearing the worst, were all out searching the flume for my body.
Yes, I really caught it when the officer turned me over to Mom.
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Crystal Set Radios
Growing up in the 30’s, crystal set radios were the “in” thing. All you needed was a source of wire to wind a tuning coil, a pair of earphones and a piece of galena crystal, usually mounted in a small cylinder of lead. There were all kinds of direction about how to make such a radio in “Boy’s Life” and other magazines.
I scrounged old electric coils and necessary insulators from service stations and junk yards. My tuning coils were wound on round Quaker Oats containers — had to eat a lot of Quaker Oats for breakfast. The crystal was the only thing I had to buy. I think is cost me twenty-five cents (remember, you could buy a bottle of Coke for a nickel in those days).
Later, my grandparents sent me a chunk of galena oar from Butte, Montana, so I had a ready supply of crystals. All I had to do was break off a piece of the ore. Mounting it in lead involved melting the lead, pouring some in the bottom of an old shotgun shell and sticking the crystal into the lead while it was still molten. It took a few burned fingers to get it right.
Later I found that I didn’t need the crystal — the oxide on the surface of an old razor blade would also work.
The aerial for my radio was a long wire which I ran from the porch to the top of the garage.
A key piece of the radio was a small piece of wire we called a “cat whisker” that you used to touch the crystal with. When you got the right spot, the sound came in loud and clear.
At night I would spend hours listening to “Jack Armstrong, the All-American
Boy” and the remote stations I could pick up on my crystal set —
Salt Lake City, Denver, and some stations in Mexico right across the Texas
border. What dreams I dreamt of these far away places.
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1942 — 1947
Spy!
Chuck had arrived at that adolescent age in which girls weren’t just important, they were everything! I wasn’t at that stage and couldn’t fathom Chuck’s fascination with the opposite sex. As I saw it, my mission in life was to antagonize Chuck to the max and, boy, was I good at it. This was an ideal opportunity, one that couldn’t be bypassed.
Our house had a root cellar where potatoes and things of that nature were kept. It was also where the phone line came into the house. I had a pair of earphones that I used with my crystal set radio. By attaching alligator clips to the earphones wire I found I could clip them on to the terminal where the phone line came in. And lo and behold, I could hear the conversation loud and clear.
Waiting for Chuck to call his current girl friend, I would quietly lift the door going down to the cellar, and ease it closed behind me. In the very dim light I’d find the phone terminals and clip my earphones across them. Now I could eavesdrop on Chuck’s mushy conversation.
Upon listening my fill, I would sneak back up stairs. Then after waiting an appropriate amount of time after Chuck got off the phone (which could take hours) I would confront him with a verbatim account of his conversation.
Taunts of this nature would almost always escalate into some form of confrontation, and a raging battle would ensue.
Can’t younger brothers be terrors?
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Scout Camp
The highlight of each year was a week or two at Boy Scout Camp. It was held at Payette Lake a hundred miles north of Boise.
Chuck and I were quite active in Boy Scouts. We belonged to Troop 33 which met at the First Presbyterian Church. Scouts kept us out of trouble — most of time.
The second year I went to Scout Camp I qualified as a Life Guard. During swimming sessions we were stationed on the dock that led out from the water edge, on the raft moored out a ways from the end of the dock, and in small whale boats we rowed.
Being a Life Guard had its “perks” — we had access to the whale boats in the evening. While we were not allowed outside of the perimeter of the camp there were no such restrictions on the water.
The boats allowed us to row out to Cougar Island and camp over night there. We would row out in the evening using two whale boats and our conversation would invariably get us spooked.
It was rumored that Payette Lake contained an aquatic monster similar to the Louche Ness Monster. Late one evening as we were rowing out, we saw, in the gloom of late dusk, a two humped monster swimming parallel to us, about fifty yards to the side. It was clearly silhouetted against the reflection of the evening sky on the water. We were petrified! We rowed faster but couldn’t escape. It didn’t seem to be aggressive so we finally talked our courage up and changed course to investigate the dreaded monster. Upon drawing close we discovered it was two Beaver, swimming one behind the other — so much for our monster.
But that night on Cougar Island we started talking about how the island got its name. Again we were giving each other the chills. Suddenly there was a screech — then another, and another. We were petrified, afraid to go to sleep. The screeching continued all night long and we huddled together for protection. The first rays of dawn broke, and we saw the “screecher” — hawks diving to catch large moths.
Early one evening we decided to row the several miles over to Girl Scout
Camp, located on the other side of a peninsula. It was a long row,
but we were welcomed with a lot of laughter and giggles. We did accomplish
what we set out to do — we introduced the idea of the two camps having
a party. Of course, official permission and details had to be worked
out by the respective Commissioners, but we broke the ice. The party
did materialize, and that’s where I learned to dance.
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Swimming
I was at home in the water — it was and is my element. But Chuck had a real fear of water.
The first swimming period at camp was devoted to determining the swimming skills of each Scout. They were then classified, indicating where they could go in the swimming area. To do this, each had to jump off the end of the dock and swim to the stern of a boat manned by the lifeguards.
Everyone could swim a few strokes, so this method worked quite well. But Chuck was in the line, and I knew he couldn’t swim a stroke. When it came his turn he told the leaders he couldn’t, but they insisted he try. He argued, but they insisted. Then, to my surprise, he stepped off the end of the dock — and sank like a rock. They had to go in and bring him to the surface. I never told him, but I was proud of him — it took guts to do what he did.
Chuck was a leader in our Scout Troop, but he never got beyond the rank of Second Class — you had to swim to make First Class.
West Point had a similar requirement — you had to be able to swim to
graduate. He made it, but, like I said before, it took a lot of guts to face
a fear of the water when you can’t swim. And he finally made Star
Scout.
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Working with Wood
Working with wood is something I enjoy, something I find very relaxing.
This probably really started when I stopped by the home of one of the Boy Scout leaders. He was a Judge, and I needed him to sign something. His wife said he was down in the basement and told me to go on down.
There was quite a roar coming from the basement, and, as I got to the bottom step I could see wood chips flying. When he saw me, he turned off the machine he was using.
I asked what it was, and he explained it was a wood lathe. He showed
me how it worked and showed me the different tools he used with the lathe.
Then he switched the power on and let me turn a piece of wood —
it was so easy. And the smell of fresh cut wood was like perfume to
me.
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Telescope
The stars and planets fascinated me, so I decided to build a telescope. The library had a number of books on astronomy and telescopes. After reading many of them, I settled on building a regular refractor telescope.
The main tube of my telescope was to be a cardboard tube eight feet long that I found. It had been used as the center support on which to roll a rug. A cardboard mailing tube that could slide in and out of the main tube would be the adjustable section. It had a screw-on metal cap, and I had a small magnifying glass that I could mount on it for an eye-piece.
After school I stopped at an Opticians shop and explained what I needed — a plain eyeglass lense with about a hundred inch focal length. He found an old one. Now that would be my object lense.
Putting everything together required a lot of “jury rigging” but I finally got it to work. I propped my long unwieldy tube up on a fence and squinted through the eyepiece. After much sliding in and out of the bottom tube I finally got it to focus on a tree — it was upside down. Now I remembered what I’d read at the library. But for an astronomical telescope, the upside down image didn’t make any difference.
Making some measurements, I finally calculated that I had a about a 500 power telescope — wow!
That night I took it out to look at the stars. It took forever to find
Saturn but when I finally did, seeing the rings was a real thrill.
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“One Eyed” Jack
The bond between a boy and his dog is very tight. My dog Jack was a car chaser. One day the inevitable happened — Jack got hit by a car.
I heard the screech of brakes, the yelp of a dog and ran outside to see what had happened. Finally I found Jack — his head was bloody. A neighbor helped us and took Mom and me to the Vet, with me holding Jack.
The Veterinarian recommended that we put Jack to sleep. He explained that it was impossible to save his eye. I was inconsolable — there was no way that I was going to allow them to put Jack to sleep.
The Vet finally said that he could remove the damaged eye and sew up the empty socket. He told me that, other than being blind in one eye Jack should be okay. It would cost me twenty dollars which I agreed to pay out of my paper route earnings.
Jack recovered from his confrontation with the car, but it still didn’t stop him from chasing them.
At times, his infirmity led to comic results. I’d whistle at him, he
would turn his good eye around to look at me and walk right into a tree.
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Kid Pranks
Harrison Blvd. in the north end of Boise was a wide street with a grass median separating the lanes. It was a main through street for traffic going to and from the north end. This made it ideal for pranks we used to pull in the evening. These were mainly summer activities when we didn’t have homework to keep us out of trouble.
One prank was to stretch a length of very thin copper wire across the street with the ends fastened to trees. We would then hang several sheets of newspaper on the wire.
Cars traveled quite fast on Harrison and when their head lights picked up a large sheet of paper just hanging in the air, they would usually come to a screeching stop, get out, investigate and then, angrily, rip it all down. We would be on one side, hiding in the bushes, trying to keep from laughing out loud — that’s where we learned many of our swear words.
Another prank involved getting a large bunch of kids together. Half would be stationed on the median, half on the parking strip on the other side of the street. Then we would unroll a long length of toilet paper across the street and pretend it was a rope that we were pulling across the street. Again, cars would come to a screeching stop, we’d drop our toilet paper “rope” and run away in all directions, laughing.
The police didn’t think our pranks were very funny. Periodically
they would come by, turn on their flashing red light, and we would
run like rabbits.
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Working in a Drug Store
At about the age of fifteen I began looking for a part time job that would pay better than my paper route. I got a job working at Potter’s Drug Store, owned by Mr. Potter.
My hours were two hours after school each day and half a day Saturday. And, of course, I got all the dirty work — washing windows, washing bottles, bottling horse medicine, bottling cough syrup, stocking shelves — but also I learned a lot.
One of the druggists that worked there was Earl McConnell. He had known my dad. Earl was continually pulling pranks on me. I was dusting shelves one day, and I read the label on a bottle I picked up — Nitroglycerine! Very gingerly I carried it over to Earl and asked him if it was real. He took it, read the label, and told me I had to be very careful handling it. He handed it back to me and fumbled so I dropped it — I just about died as it hit the floor. He had a hard time stopping laughing. Then explained to me what it really was — heart medicine.
From time to time Earl would pick up a bottle, bring it over where I was
working and tell me to smell it. It was always a mistake for me to
fall for it, but I did. One time he did it, and I ended up on the floor
— it was a bottle of ether!
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Sweet Tooth
Candy — I love candy, I have a real sweet tooth, and some of my grandkids have inherited it.
One of the advantages of working at the drugstore was that Christmas candy was purchased in wholesale lots and came in large boxes. One of my jobs was to bag that candy into small bags for sale. This was like having a “fox guard the hen house.” I probably ate up a good bit of the profit from Christmas candy, but I enjoyed it.
Another one of my jobs at the drugstore was to one pack all shipments that came in and check it against the invoice. One day I opening a box of what looked like pebbles. I had just finished reading an article about the how unscrupulous suppliers had shipped rocks in place of legitimate merchandise. Aha — these guys are trying the same thing. Immediately I went to the owner, Mr. Potter, and told him I thought some dealer had tried to pass on rocks as real merchandise. He came back and looked at the open box, picked up a couple of pieces, studied them intently, stuck one in his mouth, chewed it up and walked off without a word. I was left standing there with “egg on my face” — I’d never seen “rock candy” before.
It has been fun introducing “rock candy” to my sons and
grandkids.
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Flying
One of my dreams was to fly. I read every book and magazine I could find about airplanes, and I joined the Civil Air Patrol Cadets. From time to time we flew as Observers with CAP Pilots. A major reason for taking the job at Potter’s Drug was to earn enough to pay for flying lessons.
Saturday afternoons I would hitch hike out to the Flying Feather Airport. It was located west of Boise on the road to Horseshoe Bend, up on the first Bench north of the river. Bill Woods owned the Flying Feather. Bill was an old bush pilot who made a living flying into the remote back country of Idaho. The stories he told were the real history of flying in Idaho.
Each lesson was for one hour. The thrill of flying was the high point of every week. Usually we flew a Piper J3 with only room for a student sitting behind the instructor — once in awhile, a Piper J5 which could seat 3 and had more power. And then, on rare occasions, we flew a Fleet 16B. This was Canada’s equivalent of the US’s Stearman, a hot bi-wing plane excellent for aerobatics.
This was a whole new learning experience, far different from school. In addition to class room work, air time taught a hand/foot coordination and the results could be felt physically immediately. As an example, if you pulled back on the stick you went up. But climbing required more power, so you had to push the throttle forward to give the engine more fuel. If you didn’t the plane would slow down below flying speed, and it would stall.
There were hundreds of simple things that needed to be learned and repeated until each was a reflex action.
From the air, the earth stretches out like map. West of the Mississippi the land is organized into one mile by one mile squares called Sections. The borders of the Sections are obvious from the air — they are fence lines or roads. In the western US these Section borders make it easy to fly North or South or East or West and is called “flying the Section lines.”
Another skill, taught by constant practice was, keeping in mind where to set the plane down in an emergency. It was important to keep in mind a cleared field within gliding distance, which way the plowed furrows ran; the direction of the wind on the ground from trees, dust, smoke; and the location of power and phone lines. This awareness would be tested at least once each lesson — the instructor would reach over, pull the throttle back to the idle position and announce, “Your engine just quit.” The job was to maneuver the plane down to the field you needed to have in mind, approaching into the wind, clearing any power lines, etc. At the last minute the instructor would push the throttle forward, and off you’d go, climbing back up in the air.
Finally Bill Woods told me I was about ready to solo. So I got all the necessary papers ready, and got my flight physical exam. On May 9, 1945, after a short check ride, Bill climbed out of the plane and told me go “shoot landings” for an hour.
Boy, the plane sure felt different with only one person in it and I had a
great time flying the pattern in the air from takeoff, climb to 500 feet,
circle back, and then glide in and land. Finally Bill walked out of
the office and waved me down. I taxied back to the flight line, cut
off the ignition, got out and tied the plane down and walked back to the
office with a bit of a swagger — I was now a pilot. I had soloed
on my sixteenth birthday!
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Learning to Drive - A Rite of Passage
Everyone celebrated my solo in the office at the airport. In the conversation I mentioned to Bill that I didn’t know how to drive a car. He nearly exploded! “I can’t have a student that can’t drive,” he exclaimed. He told one of the older student pilots to take me in Bill’s own Buick out on the back runway and teach me how to drive.
So I learned to drive a car that same day.
We didn’t own a car, so that was my only experience driving before I went up to Montana to work for the US Forest Service that summer.
In the Yaak Forest District there were two Ranger Stations. The main one was Sylvanite RS and the other was Upper Ford RS, about twenty miles north.
Supplies, equipment and different material was frequently transported from Sylvanite to Upper Ford. One day the Alternate Ranger asked me if I could drive, “Sure,” said I. “Well, take the ton and half truck up to Upper Ford.”
The ton and a half was a pretty good sized truck, the largest truck we had at the Ranger Station. Some how I got it started and into some gear, and slowly drove it out of station on to the dirt road leading up the Yaak River. I didn’t dare shift it out of the gear I started in until I was a half mile or so away. Then I stopped and learned where the gears were and taught myself how to shift. By the time I got to Upper Ford, I convinced myself I was a petty good driver — ignorance is bliss. Over the next month I did a lot of the driving, all on single track, narrow dirt roads.
I still love driving mountain roads.
That fall, back in Boise I had to find another job. After quite a bit of searching, I landed a job at the Owyhee hotel parking garage. I worked there three nights a week, parking cars in the garages. This required parking cars very close to each other to get the maximum cars parked. My boss told me the number of cars I was expected to park there.
A one night I parked one more than the maximum and was almost fired. I had put one car up on the grease rack lift and then parked another car under it. My boss was not impressed.
Working in the parking garage taught me how to move cars at very close
quarters.
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Scottish Connection
The history of Clan Graham has always fascinated me. For years I have enjoyed reading about Scottish history and where the clan fits into it.
When Daddy died I was living in Los Angeles with my aunt and uncle. All I knew was that my dad was buried at Cloverdale Memorial Park up on the Bench.
Several years later, after Mom moved back to Boise, she told me she was planning to purchase a marker for Daddy’s grave . She showed me the different markers that could be put on the grave and asked me what my preference was. One of the markers had a arch of Laurel over the name. I explained that Laurel was the plant badge of the Clan Graham, and it would be appropriate.
Mom is buried next to Daddy and both markers have the arch of Laurel.
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A Cousin’s Postscript
Bob,
You surely knew what you were doing when you didn't send that to book me for editing before printing!! I sure could have addddddded a lottt to it!! You almost made yourself out to be an innocent angel.
The way I remember the story is — for some reason I was left with your mother for child sitting me. I am sure Elizabeth and Esther weren't there. You were living on State St. then. I can still see the house and shed out back. Dear sweet Franklin (forever the pest; I mean tease) turned the hose on us and we ran into the shed to escape. However the water was still spraying in around the cracks in the shed. You were trying to protect me, I guess (probably the only time you ever were protective of me, you usually were the one doing the teasing), and you kissed me on the cheek. My dress was soaked. Your mother took me in the house and locked you boys outside and took my dress off and ironed it trying to dry it out. She had to pull the shades down as you and Frank were trying to peek in the windows.
Want some more stories? How about when we were on the farm and you three came down for a couple weeks to give your poor mother a rest. She sure needed it, but it was pure H--- for me. I lost all respect for Chuck then when he shoved me into the irrigation ditch.
Or how about the time you got me higher than a kite. The first time I had ever gotten that way. When I got home I thought for sure I was never going to live until morning. The bed rolled and rocked and I was so sick. I was sleeping on the porch bedroom we had and in order to get to the bathroom I would have had to pass by Dad and Mother's bedroom so I just toughed it out.
You ever repeat these stories tho and I will never speak to you again! (To protect the innocent)
Incidentally, I think you are wrong when you said you are named for your mother's brother Blair. Your great-grandmother who married my great-grandfather Parsons was a Blair - Nancy Blair Came. I think that is where the name originated.
L....... — 8/28/2000