Here is the beginning of Chapter 1 of my father's memoire.
Chapter
1
In
the Beginning
It
is said that the active memory of a child begins at the age of four or
five. That may be true; nevertheless,
there are many early memories buried deep in the subconscious. As a matter of fact, I “remember” the moment
of my birth.
Before
you say that is ridiculous and toss this aside, allow me to explain. I do not actively remember; however, between
preschool age and about ten, I often experienced a very vivid nightmare. It was always the same—I would “wake” and
become aware that I was in a very small and confining space. It was rather like a tiny igloo expect that it
was soft, warm, and snug. It pressed at
me, however, and I would suddenly have an overpowering urge to escape. Almost in panic I would struggle against the
resilience that enfolded me, desperate to find a way out.
With
all my being I wanted desperately to go back into that soft and safe warmth,
but I always knew that I could not. No
doubt that was when old Doc Drisdel smacked me on the bottom and I drew my
first breath, then expelled it in a howling wail of protest in that lamp-lit
farmhouse bedroom on a cold and blustery night in the Ozark hills. It was sometime in the early hours of March
3rds, 1922, when I was first stuck with the world and it with me.
My
earliest active memory goes back to when I was about two and a half years
old. The family album has an old
snapshot of my older brother Richard and me with Dad’s best friend “Skinney”
Neill. In that faded old photograph,
Richard—typically solemn faced—is in a clean Sunday outfit. Both he and Skinny are looking at me who, in
dirty rompers and with a very dirty face, is grinning into the camera.
We
were at Grandpa Stanley’s house beside his country store in Bona,
Missouri. While Mother was dealing with
Richard, I wandered out to a flower bed along the side of the store building
where my grandmother had planted something called “elephant’s ear.” I had been shown by Skinny that if you broke
off a triangular leaf from the plant, bruised it gently between thumb and
forefinger, then blew at the point the stem was broken off, the leaf could be
inflated like the belly of a frog. I had
been playing in the flower bed and attempting to duplicate Skinny’s feat. In the process I made a very dirty mess of
both my grey rompers and myself. Another
snapshot taken later the same day during an automobile ride shows that I
cleaned up very respectably.
In
1925 when I was three years old, my father decided to shake the red dust of the
Ozark hills off his feet and seek his fortune elsewhere. He was destined to do that two or three times
during his long lifetime; however, he always eventually returned to his roots
in Dade County in the Ozarks.
With
whatever money he could scrape together, Dad bought a new 1925 Chevrolet
touring car and equipped it to head for the far Pacific Northwest. One of Dad’s sisters, Aunt Macy, and her
husband lived in Vancouver, Washington, and they had written that times were
good there and there were jobs to be had in the lumber industry.
Dad
and Mother planned carefully because money was scare as hen’s teeth. It would be a long and arduous trip over many
virtually unimproved roads. There were a
few paved highways in 1925 but the Interstate freeway system was still more than
forty years in the future.
I
remember that Dad built a wooden supplies cupboard that he mounted on the left
running board of the Chevrolet. The Chev
was a big touring car with a canvas top and very large wood-spoked whells to
handle the rough roads and mud that we would inevitably have to negotiate. The car was, I believe, dark green and I
remember my father painted the wooden cupboard balck. He also bought a lean-to tent that could be
pitched beside the car. It had a flap
that attached to the car top. We would
camp beside the road for the most part because motels did not exist then except
for occasional primitive “tourist cabins” at infrequent locations.
There
were five of us on the trip—Dad, Mother, Richard, me, and an orphaned teenage
cousin, Lewis Hayward, who would live with us in Vancouver and go to Vancouver
High School. Richard and Lewis rode in
the back seat, squeezed in with the bedding.
I alternated between sitting with them and sitting on my mother’s lap in
front or between her and dad.
Although
I was only three at the time, I remember two events during that long trip quite
clearly. One is that somewhere (it could
have been Eastern Colorado) we encountered a severe sand storm. Dad had forseen that possibility and had
included in our gear two pairs of driver’s goggles. The car had no side curtains; therefore, Mother
put a blanket or quilt over we three boys in the back seat to keep some of the
dust and sand off. Occasionally she
would keep her eyes closed awhile and give us the goggles so we could take
turns sticking out or heads to see the sandstorm. Being the little one, I did not get to see
much of it and probably just fell asleep under the quilt.
My
other clear memory of that trip is probably quite typical of the trivia that
will stink in the mind of a small child.
We had stopped in a small town somewhere in Wyoming to get
gasoline. While my father was getting
the tank filled and going to the outhouse, my mother held me on her lap in the
front seat of the car. I remember looking
across a desert-like area toward some low cliffs in the distance. They caught my attention because they had an
ominous appearance. To me they looked
like a row of skulls along the horizon.
I shivered, snuggled down in my mother’s arms, and was glad when we
drove on down the road away from there.
A
quarter of a century later when I was driving between Seattle and Wichita on
the same route I stopped in Opal, Wyoming, for gasoline. There on the horizon were my skull-like
cliffs just as I remembered them. I am
quite sure that it was the same filling station but the outhouse had been
replaced by ten by restrooms inside.
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