Last Day at Westlake/Merrill Gardens

Today as I taught my last class at the old folks’ home, I was struck by how deep the friendships had grown among us, without our even having noticed. 

Our elders, some areyoung enough to be my grandmother, others are old enough to be my father, unlike the one I never had. But in this room, age has dissolved, and we are all one age between us. 

Li says we are all like family sitting around this table. I know so much about each of you. We have traveled beyond the shore where student and teacher are forever divided. This is not casual garden-variety friendship. We have deepened with each other.

Sometimes I feel strange teaching my elders, but the young students I teach must think a vast gulf divides us as well, yet, we too are one. Friendship with 10-year-olds or with 90-year-olds is one thing. Unintentionally or proximity, it doesn’t matter in the end.

3/24/2007

Addendum, I took dictation and tried to keep true to participants speech and sentence structure, correcting very little, other than punctuation. I gave them a printed copy and they made further changes on their own, which I recorded.

I posted the stories and poems I could find on my hard drive, but I waited far too long to make this blog, and now many of the files are corrupt. One is just lines. As in lines. Literally. I think I got all of Madeline Bedal's stories, though one file was horribly corrupted. I posted the memoirs under client's names, rather than by the date written. You can tell from some of them that though the bulk of the work was published in April of 2005, it really spanned six months or more: including Christmas and New Years. The residency spanned from 2004 (when?) to March 24, 2007. I met with the elders once a week.

Westlake was sold. The man who hired me, Alex Chan left. The new company, Merrill Gardens began to forget to issue my paychecks, as they didn't want to pay me $75 a session. They tried to talk me down to $25 a session. But they sure charged the elders plenty per month. They didn't see the value in enrichment. Since I took dictation, and typed everything up, I was already giving Merrill Gardens loads of donated time as it was. Not to mention the long commute! It was a lot of work. So we parted company.   —Maureen Hurley 10/11/23

Eloise Waldron: picking green beans, ice cream, Fort Ord

3/23/07 My first job was picking green beans on a farm in Alliance, Ohio. I was 12. The work was so hard I only worked one day. Later I worked in an office, Spring Holzworth store. My husband to be and I worked on the same floor. One day we decided to go roller skating. I’d never been before, I thought I could roller skate, but I couldn’t even stand up. He skated with me, held me up, and a year or so later, he proposed to me. When the store was sold I was out of a job and because I was engaged, nobody would hire me. There was a rule: one job per family. I was married in alliance in the church library on October 1938. I wore a dress I made myself. It was teal blue. I wore a brown had and high heel shoes. It was a matter of money. I was 12 when the Depression struck. We always had enough to eat. We lived on a farm. People from the cities would come and pick blackberries on share. My father was worried about losing the farm.

When you asked me to describe the town I grew up in, well, I couldn’t sleep that night, I got to thinking of it and I went to my desk and found an old map with all the counties listed on it. There was my home town. I couldn’t go to sleep. Marlboro, Olio had 2 churches, 2 general stores, a grocery store, the school I went to. My uncle Jim lived next to the store. He was a twin to my grandfather who lived down the street. In school they always asked me to spell my name and I hated it. There was a peculiar mixture of names. Most folks were distantly related to us. My mother called them 6th cousins. There was a barbershop, a bar with a pool table. Next door was the ice cream parlor. My mother belonged to the Daughters of America. My dad belonged to the Mechanics. It was mostly for social life. We had 2 churches, a Christian one and a Methodist one but they didn’t believe in dancing. I liked to dance—down the red brick road to Alliance. The roads were made of brick from Alliance. There were many industries there, brick, steel—even Morgan Industries. Morgan had a mansion; he had guests from other countries so he had every room decorated in the style of each country. After my parents died, I didn’t go back. They also built airplanes there. It was a thriving city at one time.

I was baptized in a church in Alliance, Ohio. There was no baptismal font there. The font was a big tank. I was 12. We went to catechism, we learned the 23rd psalm and the 10 commandments. We had to stand up in church and answer those questions. I was baptized three times in the church font, but my sister was baptized in the creek. They came to our farm, the minister took you, put his hand over your face, and dunked you down three times.

—Eloise Waldron


I remember my uncle Jim taking us down for ice cream. The house my grandfather lived in was bought by the barber. I remember my uncle Jim, he have me lightning drops, it made my stomach ache go away. He lived in a nice house but he only lived in one room and he had a summer house out back by the garden. The rest of the house was furnished but he never lived in it. He got married a second time but she didn’t live with him. It didn’t take. She couldn’t leave here mother.

—Eloise Waldron

My husband was drafted and sent to California. I came to California in 1945, the war was over but he was still in the army, at Fort Ord. We came out by train, 3 days and 3 nights. I remember seeing palm trees in the fog. We were here three months living in a canvas motel in Pacific Grove. A tent house with sheets for walls!. It was so warm here by comparison, I never wore a coat. We eventually moved across the street to an all wooden house. We later bought a house in San Lorenzo. He had no job but the bank gave us a loan. My husband changed jobs every year and a half. That’s what gave me gray hair. So when the kids were 11 & 14, I decided to get a job. I worked for the department of employment in San Jose. I planned on coming here to Fremont when I knew I could no longer maintain my home I moved here. I’ve been here 5 years. 

—Eloise Waldron

Leslie Foster: childhood jobs, government jobs

I was born, in 1920 in Pasco, Washington, near the Columbia River, where the Snake River and the Yakima River empties into it. My first job was on the farm. In 1934, I worked in a service station for a dollar a day. I was 14. In those days that was a lot of money—many men were unemployed. That’s all they got. It was a full service station. In those days you were literally pumping gas with a hand pump. You pumped and pumped until the gas filled a glass cylinder with little marks on it: you counted: a gallon, two gallons—then you pumped that into the car.

After that job—that was between 8th grade and my freshman year—I finished high school. See, one of my best friend’s father owned a steam laundry and they needed wood fires to make the steam. That’s how we got into the wood business. Mr. McIlraith took all the wood we couldn’t sell to regular customers. I worked for 25 cents a cord of wood. The wood was essentially free, we paid 50 cents loading fee to the lumber company.

And on top of that fee, there was a $2.38 shipping fee to ship a freight carload of wood from Klikitat, Washington. Each carload held some 18 to 21 cords. We had three days to unload the car or pay demoorage charges. So we worked fast to unload it. We did this job year round. That’s why we stayed out of school for two or three years. Sometimes I went to school only 2 or 3 days a week. But I still did my homework. I worked at home too.

I was making 25 cents a cord and the rest went into the pot, back into the business. It was waste wood from Douglas fir trees, that nobody else wanted. What they call “first cut” logs, where they trimmed off the bark. It came in 16-inch lengths. Sometimes it was so heavy and wet, it took the three of us to lift off those slabs. Those slabs were considered waste wood in those days and we were able to get it for free. The wood was always the first cut off the logs and it was always heavy and wet. It came from the mountains of south central Washington. Later on, I would take some of that wood home to our farm and we’d stack it in rigs, and then sell it later as dry wood for $6.50 a cord.

I wasn’t financially able to go to college but my friends went. So I bought the business. We started with a ’29 Chevrolet truck. It cost $75. Mr McIlwaith loaned the money to us. That $75 truck was essentially what we started the business with. We were three boys: Bill Mcilraith, Curtis Hall and “Duke” Anthony. Sometimes we’d unload 18-20 cords of wood in a day. We’d start early in the morning and we’d worked until nightfall. This was real desert country, sometimes it got up to 120° in the summertime. You had to be careful of the heat. Sometimes little slivers of wood would come off and you’d be itching like crazy in that heat. We were sweaty and itchy, keeping clean was a problem.

Bill McIlraith—his father owned the US Laundry, the other boy was Robert—we called him “Duke” I don’t know why—he was a goofy guy. He later worked for the Northern Pacific railroad, for years. I went by my middle name, Fenton. Bill is still alive and we call each other every month or two. He’s my age, 87. One of the fellows, Curtis, is dead. I ran that business after they left for school. Bill’s father paid us each 25 cents a cord. It kept us going.

One of our best customers was a Chinese family who ran a laundry. The flat irons were heated up on cast iron stoves and they were also used to heat the beds at night. They lived in a small compound near the railroad tracks. The father of this Chinese family came here as a coolie. One of Mr. Howe’s sons became a top notch cameraman. Wong Howe was a famous Chinese camera man in Hollywood, he went to school with my oldest brother. There was a story about him in Collier’s Magazine or the Saturday Evening Post. I remember one time he came to town, he arrived in a Dusenberg, and he parked it right in front of the Liberty Theater.

But in 1939, I caught pneumonia (there were no antibiotics in those days) and when I got out of the hospital, and the day following my release from thee hospital, I took the civil service exam. The competition was so fierce that 100 people took the test for one job. I took two tests: city clerk and rural mail carrier. Well, I passed with high marks and I got the job, For two years I carried the mail through sleet and snow—sometimes the mail boxes would be frozen shut. It was a great job. I had a car which was great at Christmas when the mail got too heavy to carry—that was when all the catalogues came out: Sears Roebuck, Mongomery Ward. I’d hire the guy who delivered wood for me to help me out. I had a 32 mile route. I did it for two years before I went into the Navy.

The 21st of May, 1942 was the day I left home. That was the day I entered the Navy. I was trained in San Diego. I went to Texas, to the A&M College where I was trained in electronics. In those days RADAR was a secret word. I was an apprentice seaman for longer than anyone else in the Navy. The Navy paid my tuition—or I should say the training was courtesy of the Navy.

I came to Treasure Island for 3 months training in radio material. We copied diagrams in our notebooks that never left our side. The schematics of radar was so secret that at night the Navy held onto our copybooks. They kept them locked up in a safe. I left SF to go to Bremerton shipyards in Washington to go to the Prince William—an escort carrier. I was 22 when I went into the Navy. I met my wife on a train but that’s another story. — Leslie Foster, 3/2/07  

Melba Call

One of my first government jobs was when I was a guide for the State home teachers for the blind. I drove someone who was known as the Helen Keller of Alaska, I drove her around for 3 months. My older sister worked in the county welfare office, they supervised the job, she loaned me her car. I was 18 at the time. It wasn’t much of a job but it was appreciated. This woman was an Eskimo who was abandoned by her tribe—it was because she was blind from rickets or beriberi. It was a custom of the tribe to abandon someone who was a burden. She wasn’t always blind for she could remember colors: the green of the grass and the red of the sun and so forth, When I met her, she was totally blind but she was educated in many Washington schools, she taught Braille and typing, she taught piano, she was very self sufficient. She used to stand in front of a mirror to put on her make up. That was how she was trained to put it on. In front of a mirror!

Her name was Melba Call, she was in her 30s. Call was the name of the missionary family that found her, took her in and raised her. She taught me a lot about observation during those three months. I drove her to the homes of her clients. I would take her to the door and I’d introduce her. She was employed as a state home teacher for the blind. She would go into the home and teach the women to become self reliant, she’d teach them to get around in their own homes, to cook, and sew. She taught Braille, she made them self-sufficient. She had gone to a special school for the blind in Massachusetts, That’s where she got the name, Helen Keller of the North. I drove her 50 60 miles in each direction. They were all on scattered farms. It was just a sideline in my life It taught me to see because I was her vision. She was very inquisitive. One time she came down to San Rafael to get a seeing eye dog. Hers had been killed.

As we drive along the back roads, she’d ask me to describe in detail whatever it was I saw. We drove up through the Yakima Valley, there’d be cliffs on one side, orchards and farmland, we were driving along the shoulder of the valley the river below. At a certain point several hundred feet above the river this was wide open country. We’d see Mt. Ranier, Mt. Adams covered with snow. and I’d describe them to her. It taught me a great deal about observation. This was prior to the war. She looked Japanese, like the Ainu of the north, some people were so conditioned by the hostility between Japan and America, they were hostile to her, an Eskimo native. But she would overcome it like she overcame her blindness. ­

–Leslie Fenton Foster

Jim Bryant: THE KING & ME & other stories

THE KING & ME

My wife and I were on a tour which included several days in Bankok. Our guide took us to a typical Thai restaurant for tourists with Thai dancers, there was an elaborate banquet, etc. We got to the restaurant about 6 O’Clock and were seated, It had partitions with railings to separate the groups. Our guide sent us a Happy Dinner card. Hell, I thought I was in Belgium. He told us the king and queen of Sweden were sitting in the cubicle about 10 feet from to me. I’d never been that close to a king before. The dancers had taken off their wrist corsages and placed them on the king’s table. The king and queen left with their bodyguards. We were the last ones to leave from our group so when we were leaving, we passed by the king’s table, so I picked up one of the corsages and presented it to my wife. And I said, this is from the King and me!

I was born in Morris, Illinois, population 6000, where everybody knew everybody. Everybody was related too. When we got married and had kids, I wanted them to know what small town living was like. One Christmas my family went back to Morris and the best day to buy suits is the day after Christmas. So I went down to Skloot’s (sp) Mens’ Store. My brother-n-law took me down to look at mens’ suits. Like I said, it was a town where everybody knew everybody. I couldn’t decide between three suits. All I needed was one for work. But I couldn’t decide. So there we were talking to Harry Skloot and he said to me, “Jim, why don’t you take those three suits down to your wife—she was with my sister-in-law— and let her decide. She’ll know which one looks best on you.” Just like that. He didn’t ask me for money or anything. Now that’s what I mean by small town. Reminds me of another small town story: One time I had a meeting in Bakersfield—I worked for PG&E—and there was only one taxi for all the passengers getting off the plane and they were all going different directions. No one was going my way. So they put everybody in cabs and the taxi man said, “See that cab over there by the fence” Take it yourself and drive yourself downtown. I’ll come and pick it up later.” And so I did.

—Jim Bryant


When I was a teenager I worked in a sandwich shop and I got ten cents an hour. This was in the 1930s. I fried hamburgers and they were good ones too and they cost ten cents. The milkshakes were ten cents too and they were the good ones with real ice cream. I saved my money and went off to college in Rolla< MO, 450 miles away. Now that was far for an 18 year old going off to college for the first time. I like to say I was born with the ability to make like into an opportunity and so I did. It was a state school, it was cheap and had a good reputation. I studied engineering but the draft board was breathing down my neck. Luckily I was exempted because of school. I eventually joined the Navy and the Navy sent me to Aimes, Iowa. They had a big college there where they trained officers. They called us officers ninety-day-wonders. I was a lieutenant, junior grade. I never had to dodge bullets in the Navy. But I nearly got killed in my home town. That was pure irony. Just west of Morris, I worked in a munitions factory in Joliette. They poured TNT there. It looked like hard taffy. We poured it into shells packed them into wooden boxes, and shipped them out on the train. One night there was a huge BOOM! And a hole in the ground two stories deep where the train loading dock used to be. Over 90 men were killed—some—there were only thumbs left. I look for the significance in things I was really ready to go back to college. I was earning a dollar an hour so I was rich! I did what I was supposed to do. I got good grades. I became an engineer—and yesterday I couldn’t even spell it. I got a BS in Electrical Engineering. That’s how I got my job at PG&E. They took me because of my title but you know, I’ve never worked with electricity. It seems I was in perpetual training. I never heard any bullet or any war action, but the munitions plant where they poured TNT into shells was right at my back door. Until the plant blew up that night—my dad worked there—everybody worked there—it didn’t occur to me how dangerous it was. When we went to work we had to change into company clothes. No zippers or buttons. It was probably a spark that set it off. I was the luckiest guy. My shift was the day shift. I’ll be 85 in a couple of days… 

—Jim Bryant (to be continued…)

Beth Spence: Peterborough, Canada, and Colbourg

I did a lot of walking when I was a child—in the little town of Peterborough, Canada. From our little town we’d walk up to Norwood to an old broken down cabin and pick lilacs from the lilac bushes and we supplied all the neighbors with flowers. We’d walk along the track to Birnham’s Woods.

In spring we’d all walk to Birnham’s Woods and pick the flowers, but they’d usually be dead by the time we got home. I remember there were these bare circles where nothing would grow—they were made by the falling hot train ashes. And of course, we thought they were fairy rings. We had such silly notions as children. Where did we get them? We’d have to walk around the rings backwards three times and make a wish. I don’t think any of our wishes ever came true.

One thing I do remember was that all the men gathered along the railroad tracks. In those days there was no fear of strangers, not like now. It was during the Depression. They were all out looking for work. The westerners all came east and the easterners all came west looking for work, but there was no work to be had anywhere.

In winter, going the other direction, we used to play down by the river, the banks had such interesting rocks and trees that froze in such fantastic shapes and we decided that it was like Russia. There was one particular place near the river where my cousin and I liked to play. The rocks really looked like castles. I called my cousin Sylvia Tatania, the snow queen. We’d play there for hours. One time we really got a real bawling out because we stayed out after dark. On the way home, we used to try and hitch a ride on the farmers with their sleighs. But when we’d run towards them, they’d see us coming and they’d race away. They didn’t want us to get on.

Last summer, I was in Peterborough visiting my sister—she’s 89. She doesn’t walk much—except down by the river—and mostly from bench to bench. Me, I’m a walker. When I was young, I walked for miles and miles and thought nothing of it. If I could walk better today, I’d still walk for miles and miles. I loved it when I was miles from home. In those days, you could go anywhere. It was such a wonderful place to grow up.

—Beth Spence


Cobourg was on Lake Ontario, a lovely beach resort. There was my sister, my friend, and my brother—he was 7 years younger than me. It was a real carful. We lived about 35 miles from the lake. We’d pack up our picnic bags and swimming suits, and if we god there with any less that three flat tires, it was a miracle, and poor old Dad, he’d have to take the tire off, and fix it. He’d have to find some water to find the leak. They were inner tubes. The roads were rough. They weren’t paved, come to think of it, they were probably made of gravel. It was out in the wilds. No such thing as a gas station out there. You were really on your own. This was during the 1920s. We were standing around waiting for him to finish. I’m sure that none of us helped.… we all stood around the road kicking rocks. And I’m sure we were all whining, “How much longer is it going to be….”

One of those things I remember was the water toboggan ride. You paid 25 cents for the afternoon. The lake was like ice. We were tough. There was a pavilion, a beautiful boardwalk. It was a long journey. It didn’t get dark until 9:30 that far north so we tried to get home before dark, It made me wonder where did Dad get the water to find the holes in the inner tube. But it was all wonderful. I guess we had flat tires on the way home too but I don’t remember it. Going to the lake was a very tiring event. But it sure was fun.

—Beth Spence


WEDDING DRESSES

My husband to be was stationed in the Hebrides—he was a commanding officer at a radar station. I was in Farnborough, a small town close to Aldershot in Surry, south of London. When the war was over, we decided to get married. We had to have the banns read beforehand. We didn’t even go to church. The minister stood up in church and asked, “Does anyone have an objection to these two getting married?” No one knew us, so no one objected. I saw my husband the day before the wedding and before leaving, he said, “I’ll see you at 10:30. I said, “No, the wedding is at 10, not 10:30!” It was a pretty little Methodist church—small—not many marriages: the people gawked.

I was going to be married in my uniform (I was a sargeant in the Canadian Womens’ Corps) but a friend said: “Borrow my dress.” After the war, there wasn’t a lot to choose from. Women loaned their wedding dresses. If I’d only waited, because the next wedding was Margaret Lockwood’s. She loaned out her dress. She was a famous movie star. I could’ve been married in her lace dress. 

My friend Jerri said,” I’ll make the bridesmaids’ dresses. In the department store we found some organdy netting. We bought yards and yards of it. The dresses were plain with three-quarter sleeves and full skirts. There was no lace or decorations. She made hats with three pom-poms on them. We decided we didn’t want white bridesmaids’ gowns so we dyed two of them pink and one green. It was the first wedding after the war was over so people were excited. 

The jeweler loaned us pearl necklaces and the florist brought us sweet peas. The organist was on her sickbed but she got up to play, she had to pump the bellows. The cook made sandwiches for us. It sounds a little silly now but it was very pretty with pink and green bread—to match the dresses. They were probably filled with Spam, come to think of it. Our wedding cake was pretty with three tiers held up by pillars. 

Some friends came from Canada. It was a June wedding—the war was just over. It was quite an occasion in that small town. The officers showed up in their Sam Browns and their sticks. They looked quite handsome. My husband was in the airforce, they didn’t wear Sam Browns. So for our honeymoon we went off to London and then we went to Perensey, to a shingle beach…I looked for shingles and there weren’t any. Just round rocks. 

The end of a lovely honeymoon, he went back to Scotland and I went to Farnborough. I was a court stenographer for the Court’s Marshall. I was one of the first women to enlist in the army. I just wanted to get out of Peterborough. It was an interesting life. I met my husband in Kingston, where we were trained. I wanted desperately to get to England, which I did, and I got married there. 

I’d gone to school in Canada. I was a qualified secretary so I knew shorthand. There were some interesting cases, some stupid ones. After the war was over, there was a lot of celebrating and rioting. One time an officer took a tankard from a pub, and for that he was dishonorably discharged, for a bit of foolishness. Imagine going through the war and then being dishonorably discharged for that? A waste of time—men getting two years in prison for rioting in the streets after the war was over. The reason why they rioted was because they weren’t getting home fast enough. They had to wait two more years before they were sent home. 

—Beth Spence

I think the sad thing is that we weren’t born old. The young, they don’t understand what it’s like being old—not just the youngsters today—when any of us were young.

—Beth Spence

The older you get, the more understanding we get. The older we get the more knowledge we have. Knowledge is understanding and acceptance. —Lael Sorensen

Don’t we all have regrets… —Beth Spence

The things we didn’t do…—Lael

The things of omission are worse that the things of commission. At least you remember and enjoyed them. Things of commission, I mean. Once there was a blind man going along the way. Instead of helping him, I did nothing. Some sins of omission, you can’t forget, they stay with you and haunt you. —Beth

A lot of the sins of omission are due to hubris —Lael

Having 4 kids in tow, I made a quick decision not to help him. I should’ve stopped but I didn’t. Boy, that still bothers me to this day and that was over 50 years ago. —Beth

We often do things in a hurry. If you are in a hurry, you do the best you can. … It’s funny.

Your heart is where you grow up, no matter where you’ve been. I remember one girl got off in the most godforsaken place, and when the bus stopped in this most godforsaken place I’d ever seen, she was so excited. Home is where the heart is. —Lael Sorensen

When you’re young, you can work your way through things. The wind beneath your wings…takes us to such strange places. —Beth Spence.  3/17/06

It’s funny how the church was the center of our lives. Most social functions happened at the church hall. In our case it was the church basement, with only one stairway. We’d have a Christmas party with a Christmas tree lit with candles on it. To think what could’ve happened if they caught fire. There was no running water in the basement so they’d run a hose down to the basement and created a makeshift kitchen. They’d have a wonderful time at those parties. There were probably no more than 100 people in the congregation. St. Mark’s Church was only a couple of blocks from our house. It helped that Dad was an organist and choir director so we were the big cheeses. Mother was quite involved with putting on church functions too. The only time in my life I ever got a spanking was in church. I kept running up the aisle to sit with Dad who was playing hymns on the organ. 

—Beth Spence

Paul Craibille: My Cattleac, I remember the dustbowl, Hunting squirrels, Church

I had what I called a “cattle hack.” It was spelled with two ts. It was a pick-up truck, so that made it a cattlehak. I actually had calf in it once. A friend of mine wanted to take it to the sale…

I read an article one time in Readers Digest, how the big trucking companies never changed their oil, they just recycled it. That sounded reasonable to me so I never changed my oil. At 30,000 miles I had to have a valve job, and at 35,000 miles I needed a ring job… I found out the hard way, you really do have to change the oil. The sulfur in the gasoline corrodes the engine parts and after 30,000 miles my engine was pretty corroded.

I was on a dirt road in Nevada I was out in the desert, north of the gypsum mill, east of Susanville when the car broke down. It was interesting out there. There was an old hotel there, it was vacant, so they made it into a house of ill repute but the women of the town decided to take matters into their own hands, they went out and burned it down. That was the end of that old hotel. There was a ghost town called Eagleville in Surprise Valley, in Modoc Country, where there are many dry lakes.

There was another old hotel there, and there was one guy living in that hotel for free. He had one room with a stove in it, he was living in it rent free. The rest of the rooms were inhabitable, the roof had fallen in. This was in the 50s. But then everything changed, it got built up. Out of Jamesville, there’s a grade, the first thing you saw was a pond with beavers in it. Then it leveled out. I was hunting out there. It started to snow. All the hunters got out because of the snow but I had 4-wheel drive, we drive down the road, and it was snowing so hard that the deer couldn’t run. And we all got our bucks that year. A few years later, I went back up there and it was all houses.

I was on a dirt road in Nevada I was out in the desert, north of the gypsum mill, east of Susanville when the car broke down. I’d turn it a little and it’d turn a lot. Then I heard a funny noise. It sounds like I have a flat tire. I go out and it was fine. But when I got on the highway, it did it again. So I pulled into a gas station in Susanville, the mechanic had gone home for the weekend. It was a long weekend. That’s when I bought my ’55 truck…turns out the kingpin had come out. What color was my truck? I got a green one. It’s the worst color, it’s just like back it absorbs heat. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter. I got a green truck. I didn’t know it at the time. I found out the hard way.

I put 96,000 miles in it. I put it up for sale in the paper. But when people called up and I said 96,000 miles, it was click! They’d hang up. I wanted to sell that truck so I took out the speedometer, ran it backwards and put it back to 50k miles—it wasn’t illegal in those days. And a mechanic bought it right away. Then Gene Bride bought it. He painted it red. One day I pulled into the gas station where I used to go, and I was shocked: there’s my truck. The mechanic said no, It’s a one-owner truck. It was owned by Gene Bride I said, well, I sold it to the fellah. See that trailer hitch? I made it myself. And the mirrors too

On Highway 299 going from Redding to Modoc County, there’s a flat mountain, and a road that rises up a pretty steep grade, with cliffs. You’d look down on the Pitt River mills and you’d look out. There are fence guards strung all along the banks that deflect falling rocks. You always hoped that no rocks were going to fall on you as you went up the grade. It’s funny, I sometimes dream about that place, and every time I dream about it, I dream that I forgot my hunting buddy and I’d have to go back for him past the falling rocks and get him.

— Paul Craibille


DUSTBOWL

I remember the dustbowl,
I remember the Iowa drought
I remember looking up at the sun one day
and it was red as a fireball.
That was when they had those dust storms
high up in the sky blowing for miles & miles

—Paul Craibille



When my father died in 1930, my mother had 8 kids at home, one had died and the county gave us only $30 a month to live on, which wasn’t enough to feed 8 kids, so my mother took in washing and ironing for a living. I remember my older sisters ironing for 2-3 hours a day. So hunting was a necessity. We kids went barefoot all summer in southern Iowa—except for in the woods. I was a good hunter. When it came to hunting I had a secret advantage from all the other boys, I had a slingshot and I used crabapples for ammunition. I kept my secret from all the other boys but they had more fun than me because they could go out with girls. I only had overalls. 

In the woods, the squirrels would jump from limb to limb but they’d wait for the right time to jump. They’d wait for when the wind was right so they could glide from limb to limb. But we’d shoot at them with crabapples, they’d tale off in a hurry and then they’d fall too short and miss their limb and they’d land on the ground. And then we’d run after them and scoop them up. Those squirrels made it to the dinner table, fried. Everything was fried in those days. Rabbits too.

I did have a shotgun too but ammunition was expensive so didn’t use it as much. I made every shot count. One time I was out walking in the woods and a rabbit popped up his head right in front of me. Well it was a reflex. So I just shot him in the head. Then I heard behind me a clomp, clomp down the hill and there was the commissioner with the game warden looking pretty angry. I didn’t have my license on me because I didn’t have a wallet. I didn’t even own a wallet. He took our names down and checked us out.

One time it snowed and a powder snow covered the field. We noticed rabbits jumping up out of the snow to see where they were and then they’d run under the snow, so we began to chase them. After about 3 jumps the were tired so we just picked them up. Soon we had so many, we found some and strung them up and we were dragging all these rabbits through the snow like a plow. Soon we had 50 rabbits between us. We tried to give away rabbits but nobody wanted them. Nothing went to waste in our family. So my mother canned them and later made them into mince meat pies. The best I ever tasted. Wild rabbits were the best because they fed on all kinds of wild of things. Not like domestic rabbits. They’re bland because they’re fed alfalfa.

We lived on the edge of town. So we’d hop over the fence and we’d be in the woods. There were two 80-acre fields and the rest of it was woods in Chariton, southern Iowa A Burlington railroad engineer owned most of it. He’d built a castle there. Every room had a fireplace at each end. The roof was a sea of chimneys. They had a moat, even an arboretum. A 9-hole golf course and a circular driveway that was so big, it went form 12th to 14th street. He had 28 houses. He planted locust trees. But he lost his money in the crash and committed suicide…..so we’d go hunting there….

—Paul Craibille


Hellfire and brimstone. We all met through the church. The length of skirts went down during the depression and up during the war. Flappers were short in the ‘20s… I was baptized twice in one day. My twin sister hadn’t been baptized and our mother wanted us to be baptized together. Maybe the first time didn’t take.

—Paul Craibille

Chuck Peake: I grew up in Chanute during the Depression

I was married to my first wife for 37 years. I met her at a church social in Kansas City. I was 17, her name was Penny. There was a lake outside Kansas City, Lake Waukomas. It probably helped that I had my own car, a Model A Ford. They were all black, but I had mine painted gray. It stood out. We went for a ride in my car. I had that car 13 years. We got married at the Methodist Church. We had one boy and three girls.

I grew up in Chanute during the Depression. All the kids, if they wanted any money to buy a bicycle, or go out on a date, they had to get a job. There weren’t many jobs. I had two jobs, two paper routes: one morning and one evening route: the Chanute tribune and The Kansas City Star. It took me two hours to do my morning route. And two hours to do my evening route. I had 160 customers, I had to collect money from them too. Most of the people in town would pay up, but some of the ones out in the country, wouldn’t, or couldn’t. It was during the Depression, many folks had no money at all. It came out of our pockets if they didn’t pay up.

They say I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, only it turned into brass. My grandfather was a multi-millionaire but he lost it all during the Depression. It leveled the playing field. I eventually did collect the paper money from all my customers. I made $30 a month. When I began my route, I was 12, I was a little short guy, and ornery too! I rode my bicycle. I’d put the bag over my shoulder and I’d criss-cross the bags. My route was divided into two parts. I’d deliver half of the newspapers, I’d stash the other half and when I was done with the first half, I’d finish the second half. A lot of people didn’t have any money at all in those days. I was pretty lucky to have two jobs.

In those days, gas was 7 and a half cents a gallon. Pretty expensive in those days. I bought a car, a Model A Ford. It cost me $75. Boy you know it, that was a lot of money in those days. It took me at least a couple of years to save up for it. It was a 2-door sedan. In those days everything was bought used. I was a little used myself. What was so funny, was that it was 1937, my mother bought a brand new 1937 ford sedan for $750 and most of the time it wouldn’t run. A brand new car that wouldn’t run worth a dam. One time it died right in the middle of the road. She’d call me to come get her and I’d pick her up in my old Mode A ford.I had that car until 1960. My mother pretty much gave up on her car and drove my car while I was in the Navy. I finally sold it and bought a newer car but I missed it. She never did get that ’37 Ford to run right.

When my first wife died, I came to California to go to work for Aero General, they made space and airplane engines. I met someone in Sacramento. I married that gal in the 1960s, but that didn’t last very long so I fired her. She said she loved me but she didn’t. We called it quits after 6 years. Then, I met this gal here (Lael). I bought a place in Grass Valley on Highway 20. Most of the time we rented it out. I still have the place, it’s a big house, in the valley.

I worked at Tinsley Laboratories in Berkeley. But I lived in Sacra-tomato. I had a Cadillac, A '53 with the fins. I put 700,000 miles on it driving down to Berkeley. It didn’t need much by way of repairs. It just kept going and going like the energizer bunny. At Tinsley I helped build telescopes. I was a manager there. Tinsley was known for its telescopes. They built the one for Mt. Palomar, Mauna Kea, Mt. Hamilton. They built some pretty exotic lenses.

Then I was with Autodesk. When I joined them, there were only 38 people in the entire company. My job was to get things going in other countries. Eventually I had 150 people working for me. I told them I’d get them going but I was leaving—and so I did. They got worldwide they didn’t need me anymore. I retired and I still have stock in that company I helped build. 

—Chuck Peake


I was in the Navy 7 years, I was damned glad to get out of it. I went to midshipman school at Notre Dame in Indiana. I ended up a lieutenant. I was on a ship that came out of Washington, it was WW II, right after Pearl Harbor. I went all over the world. We were in Guam, Saipan, Tinjin—all over those islands. In China, we went 8 miles up the river before we got to shore, but we had to stay on the ship. We couldn’t get off. I did get to Beijing but I didn’t get to see Taiwan. It was cold as the dickens and we were all too busy, we had to pick up some sailors up there stranded by the war. It was 1945, we knew the war was over because the Japanese were pulling out. You could tell the war was almost over. All those invasions. My last invasion was Okinawa. I got discharged in Oakland. All my family was from Kansas City and Missouri. My family came out here, my sister came first. Her husband was a doctor in the Navy. They lived in San Mateo. I lived in Redwood City. We used to call it Deadwood City. I’ve lived all over. I was in the Navy on a ship for 5 years. At the end, they didn’t know what to do with me, so they let me go. I got along fine in the Navy but I didn’t like Navy life. My last stop was Northern China. 

 —Chuck Peake