From the Dust

NSP Correspondents, NSP Meditations

(A short memoir written by my father, Karl Love, that appeared in Citadel of the Spirit. It is the beginning of my coming-to-Oregon story.)

Dust everywhere, choking, necessitating a wet rag over the nose to breathe, became the first memories for my brother and me, ages three and four. Our young mother had died painfully from dust pneumonia December 23rd, two days before Christmas, 1934. Our Dad was left to manage anguish with whatever dignity a young father could assemble. Hard times attacked the old virtues–thrift, grit, willingness to work any job–did not make any difference.

Of course, my four-year-old mind, body noted none of this. I did see, taste, feel the dust. My family and its numerous extensions settled the Dalhart, Texas area during the late 19th century. They ranched, rail-roaded, chicken farmed, worked long hours on Northern Texas’s sage-choked land. Ignorant farming methods practiced throughout the vast prairies from Mexico to Canada injured the thinly-topped soil. Droughts with winds would sweep away the good earth. Dirt and dust clouds formed blankets so thick they darkened the sun at midday and left misery in their wakes. Yet people endured, muttered darkly as they watched Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska pass overhead.

Driven off the land, with scarce work to do that paid, many banded together, moved from town to town, including our father. He took us from Aunt and Uncle to Aunt and Uncle—leave us behind, join up with other men to search for work. My first distinct memory formed seated in an old car, tracing marks on a black dash board in thick layers of yellow dust. We were going to our grandfather’s home in Dalhart, an orange and black, Rock-Island house set beside railroad tracks. Not long in any place the uprooting occurred often.

Within two years Dad drifted to Eastern Oregon, found work in a lumber yard in Pendleton. Soon he met a young woman who had moved to Pendleton from Nebraska. She and her two brothers were among the thousand thousands scrambling for jobs. Our mom-to-be found work as a waitress where she met Dad. It was 1937.

Oregon had been battered by the economic depression. Wages from three to five dollars a day were common. Families doubled up tried to unite their scattered sons, daughters, elderly parents, grandparents. Our family did the same. During the summer of 1937 Father sent for his two sons, ages five and six, to join him and his new wife in Pendleton. Our grandmother and a 14-year old Aunt escorted us to Oregon on a train. The one enduring memory of that three-day journey from northern Texas to Eastern Oregon: how many soldiers aboard. Looking back from now its plain the USA was girding for war. No one on that train knew that then, especially two young boys living among constant change.

Pendleton, Oregon, small in size, tucked itself into brown hills, reflected Oregon communities. Predominantly “white folks” lived in this northeastern corner of Oregon. 1862’s gold rush launched Pendleton, spawned its sister, Umatilla City, and brought ranchers, farmers to the surrounding lush grasslands. Water—rights to it—have always been important to the area.

To two boys from north Texas’s aridness Pendleton’s rains, though infrequent, seemed sent from heaven. Times were tough in 1937 Oregon. Yet people made do. Food, shelter, clothing came to most Oregonians—prosperity beyond this to a chosen few. None of this bothered children then or now—their concerns excluded day-to-day survival. What mattered? Beginning school was first. Small-town Pendleton had no preschool or kindergarten. Reading began from day one in first grade. Students divided along ability levels naturally into groups with colorful bird names: cardinals, blue jays, blue birds, robins. Everyone knew who ruled supreme, and teacher’s voice tones said it all. Also each winter day every student lined up to receive a tablespoonful of cod liver oil. Not much time was wasted on self-esteem lessons. You learned if you could.

Our father toiled every weekday stacking lumber, shoveling coal, driving delivery trucks- all to provide for his family who now numbered a new infant son. For nearly four years this migrant family from the Dust Bowl thrived. It ended abruptly. Dad came home early one Monday morning from work complaining of intense abdominal pain. Surgery for a bowel obstruction ended sadly. Dad died that Thursday night, but not before he had his eight year old and nine year old sons promise him we would stay with our new mother and our two year old new brother. Weepingly we promised.

We took Dad home to Texas after having a funeral in Pendleton where many young couples and friends attended. The train ride back to Dalhart dulled what feelings we had left—Dad, 30 years hard scrabbling, a refugee from national disastrous economics had done his best. His young widow took her three sons to heart, did her best with all she knew from life. I know what dust to dust means.

Meditations with a Porter

NSP Meditations

I’ve got a porter to accompany me as my thoughts meander.

I found six choice cuts of beaverwood this morning. I still don’t know what to do with my collection. Get a rig and tour it around Oregon? Can you make a living selling beaverwood?

In a couple of weeks I will launch a new book, in serialized form, a memoir of my growing up in Oregon City called Pioneer Pride. It will be offered exclusively on the blog in 500-700 word installments that will appear a couple times a week. The book should run to about 35,000 words. I will invite readers to purchase the book from my web site. It’s an untested business model for me, but I want my writing about my hometown out there and this seemed like the most feasible method.

I keep encountering a shaggy black dog on the beach in the mornings.nHe apparently lives in one of the nearby beachfront homes and rises early for a sandy stroll without its owner. He’s obviously having a grand time by himself.

I have nothing but disgust for the primary system that chooses candidates for the Presidency. Why has this farcical process continued and Iowa and New Hampshire have this absurdly outsized influence on electoral politics? And to think this was a reform to overthrow the smoke-filled rooms and the party bosses! There has to be a better way. There is. A set of regional primaries staggered over several months. Simple .

I feel like taking a train trip but don’t know where to go.

My return to the construction job has brought endless personal benefits. It even inspired a new country song about a golfer.

In recent days, I got back into writing the kink modern Western called Meth Town. It is utterly a delight to create this novel. It might even have some commercial appeal. Imagine that.

A loud, obnoxious Trumpian drunk just entered my office in OTA country. I usually leave not long after he arrives. He says he licked an inoperable cancer, a million to one shot, and survived to become THIS?

Kirk Douglas died a couple days ago. He was one of my favorite actors. He also wrote one of the best American memoirs of all time, The Ragman’s Son, published to universal acclaim in 1988. He wrote it himself and I urge people to find this extraordinary book. His story about his high school drama teacher should be a movie.

I played my first game of pool in 15 years the other day. I won.

A great story about a horny, OTA, retired log truck driver drifted my way yesterday. Apparently he wants to rig up a projection system where he can broadcast Porn Hub videos on an outdoor screen in his RV park. I may have to use that in the Western. It’s too good to pass up.

Bird House

NSP Meditations

I hung a bird house in a weather-ripped Sitka spruce the other morning, and I took more pleasure in that activity than I have in any other thing I’ve done in months. That includes finishing two books. What made hanging the birdhouse especially satisfying was that I found it buried in a corner of a large farm shed that had gone to seed. I was whipping that space into better shape and purpose.

There is nothing like whipping something gone to seed at the hands of human indifference into something with better shape and purpose. Could be a shed, could be a person, could be a dog.

There I was, moving shit, sweeping, going through bags and boxes, and there it was: cedar, clearly homemade, utterly lost, perhaps for all time—until I entombed it and held the house to the rafters. Wonderful! My boss came into the shed and I told him about the discovery. He suggested that when I finish the cleaning, I hang the birdhouse in a nearby tree. What a boss! He’d pay me to hang a bird house!

So I leaned an extension ladder against the tree, went up the rungs, found the perfect spot for mounting, and screwed the bird house into position where it will be somewhat sheltered from fierce south winds and rain.

In the coming weeks and months and years (?) on the job, I hope to see a bird move in. I hope to watch a story unfold.

On Reading in Libraries

NSP Meditations

Decades ago, I developed a habit of going to a library once a week or so, usually on a Saturday or Sunday, and reading newspapers and periodicals. NY Times, New Yorker, Harper’s, Smithsonian, Mother Jones, The Atlantic and various fishing, logging and agriculture trade publications.

I fell out of this habit a few years ago, but since have returned to it and have rekindled my love for long-form journalism and the extensive essay. We’re talking about 5000-8000 word pieces, in print, in your hands, rich with introspection and back story. Reading pieces of this length on screen is nearly impossible. I recently read an investigative feature in Harper’s about Republican voter suppression that was truly shocking. I had no idea it ran this deep, systematic, evil. Every American should read it. Every American should never experience a barrier to vote. Oregon figured this out with vote-by-mail decades ago. There is no fraud with it. Bad weather affecting turnout and making people wait in lines in far out polling places would be a thing of the past. It would overhaul the American electoral system. The Republicans don’t want it.

It occurs to me that my reading in libraries might provide me more clarity with the material than reading in other places. My thinking in libraries also seems a bit crisper. I’m sure glad they are still around.

Elk Christmas (Part 6)

Fiction, NSP Meditations

Back inside the cabin, Danielle popped in another pizza. Two pizza in one afternoon! Why not? The family was starving after their beach excursion and fort frenzy.

The oldest boy asked his mom if he could try and get the fire going in the wood stove. He said it while holding the directions provided by the owner. Danielle balked. He said please and she agreed.

Five minutes later a blaze crackled in the wood stove and the boy fed the fire just like the directions read. A few minutes later a different kind of heat suffused the cabin, a richer warmth. Danielle turned off the baseboard heater and patted her son on the back. She dubbed him the “Fire Master” and he loved the title.

The girl set up another card table and found a new puzzle. Mt Hood was history. She had chosen one that depicted an ancient log truck that held a single gigantic log, an old growth god from eons ago when timber-related industries were Oregon’s number one employer, not high tech.

As the girl dumped out the puzzle, the youngest boy emerged from the bedroom carrying a dart board and a fistful of feathered darts. He said he found it in a closet. He didn’t know what it was, maybe a game, but it looked cool. Would mom explain it to him, maybe want to play, whatever it was?

Danielle laughed. She’d played darts in a bar. Once or twice, drunken darts, but it was the plastic version, with the automatic plastic scoreboard. This dart board was cork and the darts were metal. Players had to tally their scores. That meant math on the fly. How many points did it take to win a dart game? How many darts does each player throw per round? How much is a goddamn bulls-eye?

The hell with it? Let’s make up our own dart game!

She told her son to scrounge up some paper and a pen to keep score while she found a spot to hang the board. It took her only a matter of seconds to see where it was supposed to hang and she noticed the mark on the floor where to stand and throw.

Pizza was cooking. The fire glowed in the wood stove. Danielle took turns playing darts with her children while the other two worked on the puzzle, Each one made up a goofy new dart game that lasted a couple minutes. The darts rarely landed on the board, but who cared?

As they played darts, Danielle considered broaching sensitive subjects with her children, such as school and screen time, but decided that could wait until after the holidays. This day was a start.

But she knew she had to follow up. Could she do that back in Tigard? That’s always the true test of Christmas. Can you take the best of it back to the everyday real world?

Danielle winged a dart and almost hit a bulls-eye. Her oldest son clapped and exclaimed“Nice shot mom!”

Then the kids at the table gasped, “MOM! The window!”

Danielle turned around. She saw about a dozen elk, all with antlers, crowded outside the window, exhaling white puffs of breath, fogging up the glass.

“Mom,” the girl whispered, “It’s reindeers.”

Danielle smiled and suppressed a laugh. She didn’t have the cold heart to correct her daughter and also inform her that reindeer wasn’t a plural noun. Oh sweet bad grammar!

More elk appeared at the window. It was the whole damn herd! Danielle and her son took a quiet seat around the table. The family worked the puzzle in silence and took sneaky peeks at the elk. This went on for half an hour.

And then the elk disappeared into the dusk. Danielle stood up from the table and walked over to the shelf displaying the board games. She perused them quickly and pulled one out. She’d played it with her dad and brothers decades ago and always lost. She wondered if she remembered how to play.

“Okay, puzzle time is over,” she said. Danielle slammed down Risk on the table and the kids ripped off the top of the box.

“So who wants to rule the world?” she said.

The kids all raised their hands. The Christmas Day Risk marathon was on and Danielle was going to kick some ass.

Elk Christmas (Part 5)

Fiction, NSP Meditations

The great assemblage commenced and somewhere in the basement of her childhood memories, Danielle recalled that beginning a puzzle properly meant finding the straight edges first and building the outline.

So that’s what the family did, and, as they searched for pieces, they talked and talked. They worked together. Their hands bumped into each other as they reached across the table. Crater Lake begin to take form with astonishing speed. As the image became clearer, one of the boys said he’d like to see it. Danielle said it was a plan for next summer. Maybe they’d rent a motor home!

Two hours later, Crater Lake in all its magnificent splendor materialized in front of the family. They all high fived and then ate pizza. The girl wanted to tackle another puzzle, Mt. Hood, but the rain had stopped and Danielle wanted to get on the beach. She suggested it and the kids were game. They bundled up and walked out of the cabin, down a path that ran through the golf course and into some sand dunes. They traversed the dunes and emerged on a beach littered with driftwood. Among the driftwood stood at least a dozen forts of all shapes and sizes. One of them was even a two-story mansion.

The boys saw the forts first and exclaimed their shock and joy. They began running toward them and the girl gave choice.

Danielle realized she hadn’t seen her children run since they were toddlers. It was an awesome sight. She started running toward the forts, too.

The kids ran to every fort and ducked inside, darted out, fell down, laughed, and marveled at the ingenuity of of the structures and how some were decorated with kelp, crab pot floats, fishing line, feathers, shells and rope. One fort even had a little tin box with paper and pens inside that invited visitors to leave a fort message. All the kids did. They thanked the fort builders and wished everyone a Merry Christmas and there wasn’t a single typo!

Danielle joined them in their fort adventures. She left a message, too. It said something about starting over, right here, right now. She threw in three exclamation points for good measure.

The oldest boy suggested they build a fort. What a perfect activity for Christmas Day and it costs absolutely nothing in Oregon! So the family found an old blown-out fort and began building together, hoisting, interlocking, steadying pieces of wood so that the structure rose and became sturdier by the minute. As the family built, the talked and worked out architectural issues.

A kind of a corral fort with an arched entrance resulted from the labor. They made a bench for someone to sit down inside. They draped the fort in kelp and tucked feathers inside the slivers of the wood. The girl gathered some white rocks and designed a walkway leading to the fort. The young boy found a washed up shore pine and planted it in front of the fort. It was a natural Christmas tree harvested from the ocean. Danielle etched a message in the sand near the tree: Decorate me!

The family stood together in front of the fort, sweating, tired, hungry, thirsty, beaming. They needed a family portrait. But there wouldn’t one because everybody forgot to bring their phones.

«‹ 177 178 179 180›»