***Are you keeping our secret? Just a little more time please then feel free to tell Grandpa. Here’s why if you didn’t already know.
THAT REMINDS ME OF A STORY…
The summer before third grade Dad bought a grocery store in Roberts, a small community outside of Salem, Oregon. It was a farming community that raised hops for beer breweries. Mr. Roberts owned the hop yard and most of the people in it. Verny Panenpus, a third grade classmate, told me of a lake past his house and I knew that the first chance I had I was going to fish some new territory.
It was probably 2 miles to the lake, but with pole in hand and my trusty worms, I snuck off to the fishing hole. To my great joy the first thing I heard after crawling through the fence and down the bank, was a huge croaking sound. Now my Grandma Dickenson had told me about frogs in Wyoming, but I hadn’t ever dreamed of finding a frog on this trip.
Under a tree that had been cut down by a beaver, was the biggest, yellowest, most delicious looking bull frog I have ever seen. Unfortunately, the bull frog saw me and jumped into the water before I could sneak up on him. I did, however, catch about a dozen bluegill.
It was getting late, I’d run out of bait, and I knew it was time to go home and get my whipping. So I crawled up the bank, crawled under the fence and down the road. I had just passed Verny’s house when I saw dad’s car coming down the gravel road. I knew he was mad when he drove up. He didn’t hide mad very well. I tried to turn his attention to the string of fish I had caught, but it didn’t work. That belt and I met each other again.
It was at this time that for some reason the boys in my class started fighting with me. I would go down by the railroad tracks behind the store and catch crawdads and sculpin bullheads. Three kids, Verny and the Johnson brothers would jump me. The neighbor man, I’ve forgotten his name, pulled them off of me a number of times. It was a very unhappy time for me. If it hadn’t been for fishing and the river I don’t know what I’d done. That reminds me of a story…
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***I hope you’re still keeping our secret. Just wait until Sunday, April 29, 2012 please. No telling Grandpa! 
THAT REMINDS ME OF A STORY…
Falls City has the Lucky Mute River running through it and several small creeks. It was at this time I started fishing. Grandma and Grandpa Dickenson, my mom’s folks, lived in Falls City and Grandma helped dig worms and made a hook from a straight pin and took me down the hill to Richy Leonard’s Creek. That first trout was probably 4 inches long, but it was a trophy to me. Kitchy Cusser and I spent many days fishing the streams and the Lucky Mute River.
Trout fishing and deer hunting were the main outdoor sports then and dad, being a business person, would join other business people on opening day of the seasons. He usually only went on opening day, so if I could find where he hid his fishing gear, I would have a great selection of tackle. Every year it was the same thing, he would have a fit because his hooks, sinkers, leaders and most of everything else had been lost or broken. He would have to buy new gear.
Falls City was a saw mill town. It had Dad and Mom’s grocery store and meat market, a 5 & 10 cent store, a barber shop, several taverns, a couple of churches, two gas stations, one of which carried some fishing tackle, and then it had a big sporting goods store. I could shop for hours looking at hooks, swivels, lures, and all manner of fly poles and reels and every kind of gadget imaginable. From the first time I walked into that store I would go into my fishing trance. I, to this day, slip into my trance when seeing or passing a sporting goods store.
When not fishing, one of my favorite sojourns was to start walking East on the road to Dallas. With a gunny sack on my shoulder, I would walk the ditches along the highway looking for beer and pop bottles. Beer bottles were worth 1 penny and pop bottles were worth 2 cents. I would walk my way to the Candy Kitchen, a store on the highway that made and sold candy, pop and other necessities. I could count on finding 10 to 20 cents each trip due to all of the taverns in town.
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***Still a secret. Still don’t tell Grandpa until 4/29/12. Here’s why.
THAT REMINDS ME OF A STORY…
After the war, Mom and Dad bought a grocery store in Falls City, Oregon. They hired a live in babysitter/housekeeper because they worked full-time at the store. It was here I started my schooling.
I met my good buddy Leon Kitchen, affectionately called Kitchy Cusser. He was so named because he was almost as good as me at cussing. We would go down behind the house where we had dug a cave into a clay bank and say every cuss word we had painstakingly learned over the years. (I was 6-years-old.) At the same time we’d take turns stealing cigarettes from our dads and smoking them. We thought we were so big.
I thought my mom uncanny. After a cussing and smoking session with Kitchy Cusser, I would go back home and wash my mouth out so that mom couldn’t smell my breath. The only time she would ever check me was after a smoking session. It was many years later that my mother told me that the outdoor corner faucet had a knocking sound in the pipes when that faucet was on.
That belt she used and my butt were well acquainted. Oh well, it had probably been hours since the last spanking.
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***Still a secret from Grandpa, therefore please still keep this under wraps. You can tell him about it on 4/29/12. Here’s why.***
THAT REMINDS ME OF A STORY…
Dad was working for Weyerhaeuser before the 2nd World War and because he couldn’t enlist in the service. He took a blueprint reading class and started work at the Vancouver Ship Yards. He was made Foreman shortly after starting work. Commuting was so time-consuming, we moved to McLaughlin Heights.
I can remember a tar pit that was a short distance from our house. That pit had to be the center of gravity because no matter which direction I started out, I would end up at the pit. If I walked very fast and if it was not very hot I could put foot pints in the full length of the pit and not have any tar on my shoes. However, that wasn’t what generally happened. I would make my run and go home knowing full well I was going to get a spanking, but a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
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***Still a secret. Still don’t tell Grandpa until 4/29/12. Here’s why.
THAT REMINDS ME OF A STORY…
One day my sis and I went to get snakes and sis sent me back to the house to get a butcher knife to cut a hole in the bottle caps so the snakes could breathe. When I got out in the yard I was running and sticking the knife in the ground as I did so. I threw the knife and ran forward, cutting off my middle toe. Dr. Clark sewed the toe back on making me ready for yet another day.
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***Just remember no telling Grandpa anything about this site until after his birthday. Wait until 4/29/12 please. If you need to know why just go to the The Goal: for the grandbabies page.***
THAT REMINDS ME OF A STORY…
I was born 4/28/39 at St. Johns Hospital in Longview, Washington. One of my first memories is when I was three years old. We were living on 21st on the one hundred block in Longview.
There was a large park on the other side of the street that had lots of tall grass and the snakes were everywhere. We used to get milk in the quart bottles delivered to our front door. I would take the empty bottles across the street and fill them with snakes. I don’t remember how many snakes I could fit into one of these bottles, but I could barely get the cap on.
One day while trying to get the snakes to stay in the bottle while I got the cap on, one of the snakes bit me. My folks, being from Wyoming, had told many stories about rattle snakes and how deadly they are. I knew I was going to die. My sis, who was seven and medically informed, took me to the bedroom and started first aid, which consisted of wet towels and tears shed for me while waiting for me to kick the bucket.
I could feel my life slipping away when finally mom and dad got home and assured me that I would live to conquer another day.
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