I think it was about 1942 and we were living in Thermalito. My mother had just brought home my baby brother from the maternity home in Yuba City. My father was still home and had not yet been drafted into the Army. We had a small house with a couple of acres of land where my father was raising some pigs. I think that my father knew that it would only be a few weeks before he was drafted so he was arranging his affairs and that meant harvesting the pigs. To prepare for that my father decided to build a smoke house for the meat. I remember handing him nails as he built the smoke house. I think it was building that smoke house that got me interested in building because it has been a part of my life ever since. The other thing that I remember is that my father had a group of friends and relatives over to help with the butchering. I over heard some of them saying that some of the pigs were very small and too young to have butchered. I don't know why, but for some reason that statement has stuck with me for all these years. I think it was because these people were contradicting my father's decision. Even at my young age I think I had a strong family loyalty that has continued to be a major part of my character.
I think it was about 1943 when my father finally go his draft notice. We were living in Wasco in a shack that has since fallen down. It faced the alley that was dirt. Even the main street out front was not paved. When my father told the family that he had been drafted, he sat me down and told me that until he returned that, "I would be the man of the house". He told me that I should sit in his chair at the dinner table, which I did. I had no idea what it meant to be "man of the house", but I tried the best that I could to live up to his trust. What do you think would be the impact on a child who was just about 4 years old, but that is what happened. While my father was in the service, we did not hear much from him, but we carried on the best that we could. When the War was over in the Pacific, fathers of kids in the area started returning home on the basis of how may dependants that they had. Since my father had 3, he did not come home until later. The night that he came home, we were all at the dinner table with me in his chair and I saw his head pass the kitchen window so I knew he was home. I ran to the door to let him in. For some reason, he knocked on his own door and I opened it. I looked up at him and said in my strongest voice, "I guess you know that I am in kindergarten now." Why I said that I do not know, but that is what I said. My father went directly to my mother and gave her a big kiss. When he did that my younger brother started to cry. He had no idea who the person was since he was only about a year old when he was drafted. My father opened his bag and took out some chocolate. This was the first time that I ever tasted chocolate. He gave my mother a string of real pearls. I don't know what ever happened to that string of pearls after all these years.
I think it was about 1944 when my mother and I got on the Greyhound bus in Wasco to meet her mother's family who were camped under the Merced River bridge on highway 99. My father was in the Sea Bees' some where in the Pacific. The Greyhound bus followed 99 thru all the towns and stopped at some to let off and pick up travelers. By the time we got to the Merced River bridge on highway 99, it was dark and the driver stopped the bus just after going over he bridge and let me and my mother off. Do you think that you could get a bus driver to do something like that today? We got our bags and walked across highway 99 and went down the steep bank. My grandmother met us holding a Coleman lantern and showed us the way down the bank to where they were camped under the bridge. The whole family was picking peaches and living under the bridge. It was a good place because they could catch fish to eat and use the water in the river to wash. The next day, I investigated the Merced River with one of my cousins. There was a woman there who was wearing blue bib overalls who looked at first like a man. She pulled out her pocket knife and made me a whistle out of a branch of Willow. It was like magic and I will never forget that occasion. I have made similar whistles myself for my own kids and I think they were equally impressed too.
I think that it was about 1946 when my father and my uncle Bill took me fishing in Tulare Lake. We stopped along the way to sane minnows for bait for Crappie. The week before, my father had been fishing in a big ditch that flowed into or out of Tulare Lake and caught all kinds of fish. We were poor Okies and fished for food not sport. This time we had driven up from Wasco and did not catch a single fish. We fished with cane poles. I did not know of anyone who owned a rod and reel. The truth of it is that if the fish are biting, you can catch more fish with a cane pole than any fancy rod and reel. I hear now that there isn't any Tulare Lake any more. It has been drained for farm land and the water used for irrigation. I am sad about that, but progress is progress and more people can now be fed than could have been fed if we still had Tulare Lake. Life is not perfect, but it seems to have gotten better for most over time.
I think it was about 1947 over the 4th of July. We were camped on the beach at Morro Bay. I never stayed in a motel or hotel until about 1957. We always camped when we were away from home. My father and my uncle Bill had good luck fishing and caught several large Ling Cod, so we had plenty to eat. My mother only fixed fish one way and that was rolled in cornmeal and fried in lard. I still think about how good we ate those days on the beach. On the second day we were there, my cousin flew over from Bakersfield in his new Taylorcraft airplane. He landed in a hay field near the beach and took all the kids for a ride. We circled the giant Morro Rock and the family camped on the beach. I was strapped in sitting on a parachute so that I could see out. As we flew, I had a steering wheel right in front of me that went in and out and turned right and left as by magic. For many years after wards, I have thought about how that could have happened. It was not until many years latter that I found out that the wheel my cousin was turning was connected to the one in front of me. It is amazing how an event like that can stick in your mind for all those years. I now own my own Supercub and the mystery is solved.
I think that it was about 1948 when I had my best day at cotton picking one Saturday. When school was on, I could only pick cotton after school and on Saturdays. This one Saturday I had "good" cotton and it was paying 3.5 cents a pound. You got paid at each sack weigh up so you could see how you were doing. I like the feel of that money in my pocket and was very motivated to pick as much as I could. I knew that I could pick more cotton than anyone near my age. I guess that I was a lot more competitive than I thought. On that day, I picked 200# of cotton and went home with $7.00 in my pocket. That was a lot of money for an 8 year old and I took it directly to my savings account at Bank of America in Wasco, Ca.
I think it was about 1952 and we were living on a farm in Northern California where there were a lot of Pheasants. We were poor and a Pheasant meant a good meal. My father had purchase a "new" 1949 Chevy a few years back. I don't know where he got the money. He saw a group of Pheasants a short distance up the road from the house and figured that he could get close enough to shoot if he drove up in the car. My uncle had loaned my father his automatic Browning shotgun and my father took it in the car and went up to get a Pheasant. We heard two shots and my father came back a short time later with a Pheasant and a story to tell. It seems that he shot a hole in the top of his car! After shooting the Pheasant, he layed the gun against the seat and reached in with his finger to set the safety. When he did that his finger hit the trigger. He good friend was giving my father a bad time about shooting the hole in the roof of his car when one day my father was over at his friend;s house. He had just gotten a new shot gun and wanted to show it to my father. Wouldn't you know it. When he started to hand the shot gun to my father, it went off and shot a hole in the roof of his house. Seems his older sons had been using the shotgun and left it loaded in the closet.
I think it was about 1956 when I had a chance to do some duck hunting with my uncle Bill on Lake Buenavista in Kern County. We got started out before day light. We put in our boat in a small canal that dumped into the Lake. My uncle was the only person who I knew who had both a boat with an outboard motor. He was just as poor as us, but some how he always had good hunting and fishing equipment. We had along one of Bill's good friends J.T. who I heard had played professional baseball, but I did not know for what team. It was a cold morning when we got underway. I was sitting up in the front of the boat and my uncle was at the rear steering the boat along. All of a sudden the motor stopped! I looked back and saw that we had "lost" the motor overboard. I could see bubbles coming up about 25' behind the boat. The boat gradually came to a stop and my uncle started paddling back to where the bubbles were coming up. Just about that time J.T. had his close off and was jumping into the water. Before I realized what was happening, his arm came up out of the water holding the motor. Just as fast as it appeared it disappeared again. It is one thing to lift a weight in water, but it is another when it clears the water. J.T. shook the water off his face and told us that he was going down again for motor and wanted someone to grab it when it came up. In another minute, J.T. had the motor up again and my uncle Bill grabbed it. We then paddles over to the side of the canal and got the motor out on land. We had along a Coleman stove that my uncle Bill planned to use to make hot coffee. We dried off the motor the best that we could and tried to restart it, but it would not start...They took out the spark plug and dried it out with the stove and finally got the motor started. If this had been anyone but my uncle Bill, they would have packed up and gone home, but not my uncle. We went on out into Lake Buenavista and were able shoot two male Mallards. I'll never forget that trip. Like Tulare Lake, there is no longer a Lake Buenavista. Progress again?
I think it was about 1943 when my father finally go his draft notice. We were living in Wasco in a shack that has since fallen down. It faced the alley that was dirt. Even the main street out front was not paved. When my father told the family that he had been drafted, he sat me down and told me that until he returned that, "I would be the man of the house". He told me that I should sit in his chair at the dinner table, which I did. I had no idea what it meant to be "man of the house", but I tried the best that I could to live up to his trust. What do you think would be the impact on a child who was just about 4 years old, but that is what happened. While my father was in the service, we did not hear much from him, but we carried on the best that we could. When the War was over in the Pacific, fathers of kids in the area started returning home on the basis of how may dependants that they had. Since my father had 3, he did not come home until later. The night that he came home, we were all at the dinner table with me in his chair and I saw his head pass the kitchen window so I knew he was home. I ran to the door to let him in. For some reason, he knocked on his own door and I opened it. I looked up at him and said in my strongest voice, "I guess you know that I am in kindergarten now." Why I said that I do not know, but that is what I said. My father went directly to my mother and gave her a big kiss. When he did that my younger brother started to cry. He had no idea who the person was since he was only about a year old when he was drafted. My father opened his bag and took out some chocolate. This was the first time that I ever tasted chocolate. He gave my mother a string of real pearls. I don't know what ever happened to that string of pearls after all these years.
I think it was about 1944 when my mother and I got on the Greyhound bus in Wasco to meet her mother's family who were camped under the Merced River bridge on highway 99. My father was in the Sea Bees' some where in the Pacific. The Greyhound bus followed 99 thru all the towns and stopped at some to let off and pick up travelers. By the time we got to the Merced River bridge on highway 99, it was dark and the driver stopped the bus just after going over he bridge and let me and my mother off. Do you think that you could get a bus driver to do something like that today? We got our bags and walked across highway 99 and went down the steep bank. My grandmother met us holding a Coleman lantern and showed us the way down the bank to where they were camped under the bridge. The whole family was picking peaches and living under the bridge. It was a good place because they could catch fish to eat and use the water in the river to wash. The next day, I investigated the Merced River with one of my cousins. There was a woman there who was wearing blue bib overalls who looked at first like a man. She pulled out her pocket knife and made me a whistle out of a branch of Willow. It was like magic and I will never forget that occasion. I have made similar whistles myself for my own kids and I think they were equally impressed too.
I think that it was about 1946 when my father and my uncle Bill took me fishing in Tulare Lake. We stopped along the way to sane minnows for bait for Crappie. The week before, my father had been fishing in a big ditch that flowed into or out of Tulare Lake and caught all kinds of fish. We were poor Okies and fished for food not sport. This time we had driven up from Wasco and did not catch a single fish. We fished with cane poles. I did not know of anyone who owned a rod and reel. The truth of it is that if the fish are biting, you can catch more fish with a cane pole than any fancy rod and reel. I hear now that there isn't any Tulare Lake any more. It has been drained for farm land and the water used for irrigation. I am sad about that, but progress is progress and more people can now be fed than could have been fed if we still had Tulare Lake. Life is not perfect, but it seems to have gotten better for most over time.
I think it was about 1947 over the 4th of July. We were camped on the beach at Morro Bay. I never stayed in a motel or hotel until about 1957. We always camped when we were away from home. My father and my uncle Bill had good luck fishing and caught several large Ling Cod, so we had plenty to eat. My mother only fixed fish one way and that was rolled in cornmeal and fried in lard. I still think about how good we ate those days on the beach. On the second day we were there, my cousin flew over from Bakersfield in his new Taylorcraft airplane. He landed in a hay field near the beach and took all the kids for a ride. We circled the giant Morro Rock and the family camped on the beach. I was strapped in sitting on a parachute so that I could see out. As we flew, I had a steering wheel right in front of me that went in and out and turned right and left as by magic. For many years after wards, I have thought about how that could have happened. It was not until many years latter that I found out that the wheel my cousin was turning was connected to the one in front of me. It is amazing how an event like that can stick in your mind for all those years. I now own my own Supercub and the mystery is solved.
I think that it was about 1948 when I had my best day at cotton picking one Saturday. When school was on, I could only pick cotton after school and on Saturdays. This one Saturday I had "good" cotton and it was paying 3.5 cents a pound. You got paid at each sack weigh up so you could see how you were doing. I like the feel of that money in my pocket and was very motivated to pick as much as I could. I knew that I could pick more cotton than anyone near my age. I guess that I was a lot more competitive than I thought. On that day, I picked 200# of cotton and went home with $7.00 in my pocket. That was a lot of money for an 8 year old and I took it directly to my savings account at Bank of America in Wasco, Ca.
I think it was about 1952 and we were living on a farm in Northern California where there were a lot of Pheasants. We were poor and a Pheasant meant a good meal. My father had purchase a "new" 1949 Chevy a few years back. I don't know where he got the money. He saw a group of Pheasants a short distance up the road from the house and figured that he could get close enough to shoot if he drove up in the car. My uncle had loaned my father his automatic Browning shotgun and my father took it in the car and went up to get a Pheasant. We heard two shots and my father came back a short time later with a Pheasant and a story to tell. It seems that he shot a hole in the top of his car! After shooting the Pheasant, he layed the gun against the seat and reached in with his finger to set the safety. When he did that his finger hit the trigger. He good friend was giving my father a bad time about shooting the hole in the roof of his car when one day my father was over at his friend;s house. He had just gotten a new shot gun and wanted to show it to my father. Wouldn't you know it. When he started to hand the shot gun to my father, it went off and shot a hole in the roof of his house. Seems his older sons had been using the shotgun and left it loaded in the closet.
I think it was about 1956 when I had a chance to do some duck hunting with my uncle Bill on Lake Buenavista in Kern County. We got started out before day light. We put in our boat in a small canal that dumped into the Lake. My uncle was the only person who I knew who had both a boat with an outboard motor. He was just as poor as us, but some how he always had good hunting and fishing equipment. We had along one of Bill's good friends J.T. who I heard had played professional baseball, but I did not know for what team. It was a cold morning when we got underway. I was sitting up in the front of the boat and my uncle was at the rear steering the boat along. All of a sudden the motor stopped! I looked back and saw that we had "lost" the motor overboard. I could see bubbles coming up about 25' behind the boat. The boat gradually came to a stop and my uncle started paddling back to where the bubbles were coming up. Just about that time J.T. had his close off and was jumping into the water. Before I realized what was happening, his arm came up out of the water holding the motor. Just as fast as it appeared it disappeared again. It is one thing to lift a weight in water, but it is another when it clears the water. J.T. shook the water off his face and told us that he was going down again for motor and wanted someone to grab it when it came up. In another minute, J.T. had the motor up again and my uncle Bill grabbed it. We then paddles over to the side of the canal and got the motor out on land. We had along a Coleman stove that my uncle Bill planned to use to make hot coffee. We dried off the motor the best that we could and tried to restart it, but it would not start...They took out the spark plug and dried it out with the stove and finally got the motor started. If this had been anyone but my uncle Bill, they would have packed up and gone home, but not my uncle. We went on out into Lake Buenavista and were able shoot two male Mallards. I'll never forget that trip. Like Tulare Lake, there is no longer a Lake Buenavista. Progress again?
