TV's and Cardboard Boxes

Dear Ethan:

I hear you like to play in cardboard boxes at home with your friends.  The bigger the box the better.  I also know that you like to watch TV, but when I was a kid there were no TV's.  We just listened to the radio or played in the neighborhood.

One day after I had just finished my paper route in the neighborhood,  I walked past the Perry house, and there was something different going on.  There was a soft blue light coming out of a window.  The next day there was strange long rod on the top of the roof with lots of other rods sticking out.

A couple of days later,  Bush Dodd, our good friend across the street,  started carrying a lot of old tools and boards of wood into the Perry house.  It looked like Bush was remodeling the house. and he was.

The kids on the block were wondering what was going on, including me.  Even some of grown ups were starting to take notice of what was going on and got curious and started to poke around.  Some of the moms were getting nervous and took kids indoors and to bed, including me.  It went on for a couple of days.

Then one day Mr. Perry invited us all to come in for a surprise.  When we all came in we were in what looked like a little movie theater with a big radio and a movie going on.  We had never seen  such a thing.  Mr. Perry explained that it was a television, like a movie in your own home. The picture was in black and white, and we thought it was something wonderful.

A couple of years went by and my dad finally bought our own TV set.  It came in a big cardboard box, and  my best friend, Bill and I played in that box until it finally broke completely down.

You know what, Ethan? I love big old boxes.  When we get together again, let's get a big old cardboard box and play.

 My best game is to make a fort!  The bigger the better.

Love you, Grandpa

• The Wild Ones

When I was in high school there were two car clubs in the Cedar Falls and Waterloo communities. Cedar Falls had the Pacers, all from Cedar Falls High, who mainly drove 1940 Ford coupes, lowered in the front and painted in primer gray.  They had the obligatory club plaque hanging from the rear bumper, and they wore jackets with "PACERS'  on the back.

I think I knew most of the Pacers by name, car and reputation.  But the only one I remember today was Jace.  He was tall and thin, had "the hair," and was quite good looking from the girls'  opinion.  I knew him later in college.

There were probably twenty or so members and a number of wannabes,  They worked mostly on their own cars and cruised but made an awesome spectacle when they were together.  That was usually on summer Saturday nights at Teen Time.  

Waterloo had the Ramblers.  They drove mostly newer model Chevrolets, lowered and nicely painted with a name lettered on the rear fenders.  One was a '56 two-door painted a dark red called "Blood Rust."  These guys were usually older, out of high school and had more money in their cars.  They were also from Waterloo, which made them bigger stuff in our eyes since Waterloo was the larger of the two cites.  I have no idea how many there were in all, because we were less likely to see them all at one time.

But they could be seen together sometimes at the Hop at Electric Park.  We knew them more by the names on their cars than by their real names.

The Ramblers and the Pacers seldom crossed paths and stayed mainly in their own towns.  They weren't territorial , but they kept distances from one another.

There were also car clubs in various small towns not far away like Janesville, Waverly and Parkersburg.  But they were lesser known....until the Dike Incident.

Who knows what the real story is? Even those who were there have blown it way out  of proportion. My telling of it is certainly second-hand, and over fifty years removed.  It must have been the summer of '59 when it happened.  There was one kid who was sort of on the fringes of the Pacers.  I knew him but can't remember his name.  He was small and mainly a punk.  Somehow he got into a scrape with some guys from one of the small towns and got his butt kicked.  He then threatened to call the Pacers and the Ramblers down on his adversaries.  Word started  to spread  that everyone was to meet in Dike for a Rumble.

Now, Dike was a very small town.  At the time,  the whole town could have been treed like "The Wild Ones", only it wouldn't have taken as many guys.  The thought of having several hundred angry teens in town was a little terrifying. The Dike police called for reinforcements.

So, on a hot summer afternoon every car club from miles around, converged on Dike for a showdown.  The Iowa Highway Patrol sealed off the town, moved in and nothing happened.  I think everybody, especially the would-be combatants, were glad the cops showed up.  It was over before it started.

But there is still this myth that persists and grows with each telling.  The story made the "Des Moines Register",  sort of like the Arnold Park riots of 1965.  The telling is more important than what really happened.

If someone wanted to, there are a lot stories like that that need to be researched.  I wonder how many guys still remember that incident, and even more, I wonder what happened to all those '40 Fords.

THE NEIGHBOR I NEVER KNEW

I owe a lot to a neighbor of mine at our home in Cupertino, even though I never knew his name or exactly which house he lived in. But one summer day he conveyed a very important message to me just by his actions, as I would see him day after day briskly walking lap after lap around the block. Actually, he was shaming me into action, and even though he wasn't aware of what he was doing, it worked.

In my garage sitting on top 0f my seldom-used table saw was my 0ld PRC racing wheelchair. It had been a gift from my old running friends the year after a motorcycle on which I shouldn't have been riding took a nosedive into a ditch and left me an L-1 paraplegic. It had allowed me for a time to "run" again, and I truly loved it. But, as time passed, and my friends stopped running for various reasons, so did I. And for eight years my racing chair and I gathered dust together. Oh, I stayed busy as a teacher, raising three children, and enjoying a wonderful relationship with my wife, Diane. But the big blue recliner in front of the TV was far too comfortable, and the waistline was growing bigger by the year.

So one day in late July I dragged down the old PRC, pumped up the tires and started around the block. I made four laps before turning into the driveway for a glass of lemonade. Within three weeks I was doing three miles, and by August I was up to five. Looking into the mirror was becoming more pleasant as I tightened my belt a couple of notches and my face became thinner.

In September that year I was joined two evenings a week by one of Diane's co-workers at the Harker School whom she told about my "running." Mike and I became great friends and our running conversations covered nearly every topic imaginable, usually lasting well into the evening as we joined Diane in the living room for an after-run beer.

We had never really considered our running times during our five-mile runs, even though we knew we were getting faster, until one evening as we turned up the street toward home Mike looked at his watch and said that if we really pushed it we could break fifty minutes. So we broke it, and from that point on, time became a factor. Soon we broke forty-five, and when we broke forty we celebrated with a pizza. I knew that there was a limit that I could do in the old PRC which weighed over thirty pounds. But I also knew that I couldn't afford one of the newer models. My times kept dropping, with sub-forties becoming more regular in a 10K race. I was even running some mid-thirties and decreased my times.

On the weekends and when I didn't run with Mike, I increased my mileage. I could tell that I was getting stronger. Then I began to look for some competition.

I first ran the San Jose Mercury News 10K in 1980, three months before my motorcycle accident. I ran it several times in the PRC from 1982 t0 1986. But from 1986 until the next summer the chair sat on on the top of table saw.

When the race announcement appeared in the Mercury News I sent my application immediately. I was pumped. Mike and I continued to train as the race day approached, and I became more confident that I could at least break forty-five minutes. I decided that was my goal. I felt it was realistic.

On race day I arrived at the starting line an hour early. I wanted to meet and talk to other wheelchair racers, ask them about their equipment and their training techniques, and to learn about the best ways to push.

It was there that I met Marty and Emily Ball. At the age of 50, Marty was at least four years older than me, yet he had won the Mercury News the previous year and was one of the favorites. Emily had won the previous year's women's devision, and as it turned out, she won again. I felt that I was in pretty good hands, and at only 46 maybe I could compete after all.

After looking over my chair, Emily asked me if I was interested in buying a new one. I said I was, but that price was a real consideration for me, and that I wasn't sure that I could afford one right then. She responded by telling me of a friend of hers who had one available at a reasonable price. And, I responded that if the price was right and the chair fit, I would certainly consider it. Her friend turned out to be Jerry Deets, one of the world's best wheelchair racers.

The Mercury News turned out to be the last race I ran in in the PRC. I bettered my goal by nearly five minutes at 40:16. Marty and the fast pack left me at the starting line and soon were out of sight. But I managed to stay within sight of Emily for most 0f the race and finished only slightly more than four minutes behind her.

It turned out that I ended up eighth in the field of sixteen. But it was a distant eighth. Yet, with the more than 7000 runners, I did quite well. My long time running able bodied friends and Mike were duly impressed.

On the following Saturday I saw Jerry Deets at the National Wheelchair Basketball Tournament regionals in San Jose. I bought a new racing chair from him, and made a new friend. It's the friendships that make sports fun, I guess.

In the years that followed I purchased another racing wheelchair and entered several races, including three marathons. When race sponsors began to age group the wheelchair division, it opened a new dimension for me. I won or placed in several events, earning medals and even some money!

The year 2002 proved to be a turning point in my riding when I purchased my first handcycle. I rode it so much that I wore it out and had to get a new one, which is the one I use today.

The neighbor who inspired me to race does not know this story and probably never will. I would like to share this with him to thank him for his contribution to my life.

To date, I have logged over 2500 miles, and am still going. I'd like to think that he would be proud.

Steam Engines

STEAM ENGINE TRACTORS

My dad once wrote that as a child he would lie awake during a spring night with the windows open enjoying the sounds of the South Dakota prairie . . . a far off coyote, the night birds and the crickets. But then one night he heard another sound, a familiar sound, but a sound foreign to the night, the sound of a tractor working the fields, the steady put-put- put sound of a two cylinder John Deere tractor working its way back and forth across a a distant field at night in the in the dark, the sound of progress.

My dad was born at the turn of the twentieth century in a house that stills stands on a section of land seven miles east of Pierpont, South Dakota. And, he brought the experiences of that time to life for me in his writings and in the things he taught me. It was a time when those in agriculture were realizing the awesome responsibility not only to feed themselves and their way of life, but to feed an entire nation. It was a time when machines were replacing horses, and the necessity to produce more more rapidly and consistently required every farmer to be both inventor and innovator just to survive.

Out of that time came massive steam machines that belched black smoke, and hissed, and whirred and chugged along on huge spiked iron wheels, steam engines to till the soil and drive the threshing machines, clear the land and move a nation into the twentieth century.

It was a need to pass on the meaning of that experience that prompted our visits to the farm of his youth, and his writings and pictures albums. A need that I didn't understand at the time when he would drag me to off once more on the hottest day of the summer to see the old steam engines belch black smoke and hiss and chug along on huge spiked iron wheels at the Cedar Falls Thresher Men's Field Days. But, it's a genuine need we all feel as we get older to stress upon those who follow that the times in which we lived were significant and important.

Oh, I tolerated the trips to Thresher Men's Field Days and even enjoyed them a bit, I guess, but how many times did I have to see a steam engine pulling a thirty-two bottom plow to know that the work was hard and dirty and hot and not a whole lot more efficient than than using horses to do the same job. I was missing the point . There was a lot more there than just a bunch of old men in bib overalls trying to relive old times. There was a message there and I was missing it.

When I went to work, many of the jobs I got were on farms. I detassled corn and bailed hay mostly. I was growing up. I began to understand what it all meant. Even though I was a "town kid," I began to see the big picture, and I envied my schoolmates who lived on farms, and visited them when I could. The idea of living and working on a farm drew me in.

My mother grew up on a farm not too far from the Mississippi River in Illinois. My grandfather passed away long before I was born, but my grandmother ran the farm with the aide of several hired hands. Later, my cousin, Keith, who is sixteen years older than me took the farm over, where he and his wife still live. He no longer runs the farm but leases the land to the Cargill Corporation.

My family has held the farm for over 100 years. The barn still stands on a little hill not far from the house.My wife and I visited the farm in 2011, and it is still a beautiful site to see.

On our trip through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa, we were amazed by the vast rolling fields of corn and soybeans, now run by huge corporate farms. The changes are amazing. It's happening
all across the country. Our country has a huge appetite!

Today I am substitute teaching at Chico High School in Chico, California, where I will be working with high school students in the agriculture program at the school. Most of the students are members of the Future Farmers of America program. Unlike me, so long ago, I know they are getting it.

My Summer of 1963

My Summer of 1963

I was just finishing my junior year at the State College of Iowa and looking for adventure and summer employment. My older friend Jack, who lived across the street, had spent several summers as a ranger at Grand Teton National Park and he told me all about it. I was encouraged to give rangering a shot. I was headed to the Tetons.

I discovered that becoming a ranger wasn't quite that easy, so Jack gave me some tips. Number One was to mail as many resume letters to every National Park in the country as you could. So I did. Every night when I wasn't studying for finals I was sending letters. I started with Grand

Teton National Park. Then Yellow Stone Park. Yosemite was next along with the Grand Canyon. Then the Great Smokey National Park, Glacier National Park and more. Then I waited. Nothing!
So I sent more letters and waited and waited.

My parents left to visit relatives in Illinois and South Dakota. When they left, I was alone. My brother went with my parents. My sister had long ago gone to live in Denver. I was giving up hope for a summer in a National Park.

It was hot. I was disgruntled and angry at myself. The chance of getting any summer job was passing, especially a job in a National Park.

I was lying on the couch on the front porch when the phone rang. I thought it was one of my buddies who wanted to go down to the Circle for a couple of brews. But that wasn't it. There was a man on the line who identified himself as the superintendent of Lassen Volcanic National Park in California.

I was overwhelmed. He told me that he had read my letter, and he asked me if I was interested in a job at Lassen. I stuttered and said, "YES!" He asked me how soon I could be there. I said that I was going to be there as soon as I can. He said we'll expect you.

He said that I would have to purchase my ranger uniform at Fort Collins.

My mother always had some money stuffed away just for "those" kinds of circumstances. I knew where the money was and I took less than $100. I loaded up my '54 Chevy with what I thought I needed, filled up the tank, checked the tires, and I was ready. While the Chevy was drivable, it needed some attention. It took me most of the day to get on my way. It was late afternoon when I finally pulled out of our drivcway.

I had gone on a ski trip over spring, so I was familiar with the trip on I 80 . But I wasn't prepared for the Colorado deer. I hit one on the right front fender. It took me most of the day to get on my way again.

My sister had moved to Denver to get her Masters Degree at Denver U and had a baby girl. I knew how to get to her home, so I moved in for the night. I took care of the baby while she did some shopping. I was worn out so I spent the night.

The next morning I called the Park Superintendent to tell him that I was on my way, which I was at noon. The Chevy was running fairly well.

It's a long and lonely drive from Denver to Lassen Volcanic National Park. I had no idea how long. In my home state of Iowa I could cross the entire state in a matter of hours, but it took me more than a day to cross Colorado. In Iowa I could always wave to a friendly farmer as I passed by, but in Colorado I was alone. I was amazed at the changing landscapes, mountains, deserts, open space and forests. I crossed into Utah late in the evening and found a place to sleep in a little town I'll never see again. At one place I slept on a picnic table at a highway rest stop. I was concerned about the Chevy. It was hot. I was thirsty. I was in the middle of nowhere but it was beautiful.

I crossed over into Utah and it was much the same. I pushed on to get as far as I could, but stopped frequently at a gas stations because I didn't know when I would see the next one.

My brother had a little portable radio which I grabbed before I left Iowa. Why not? He was off with my parents and I was alone. I could pick up some radio signals, but they went in and out. Yeah, I was lonely.

I entered Nevada and stopped at a gas station. While the attendant filled my tank, I lost fifty cents at the slot machine. There was a big flashing sign with a nearly naked show girl on top.
I wouldn't have seen something that in Iowa
My goal for the day was Reno. I knew I was getting close to my goal. In fact, I was only four hours away.

The landscape was changing, more forest land. I was on Highway 36 and I knew that it would take me to the Park.

I was a sorry-looking vagabond when I drove up the Lassen National Park headquarters. I walked in and introduced myself to the Park Superintendent. We shook hands and I took a deep breath. I will never forget that moment. I was a Ranger!

Mineral, California, was a very quaint little community with the Park Headquarters, a gas station, which served as a grocery store as well, and a population of about 85 full time residents.

I was introduced to the regional ranger who escorted me to my cabin eight miles up highway 89 to the Southwest entrance station where I was to reside for the next three months. The cabin was of WPA vintage and only large enough for me and my two roommates. Dick Black was the oldest of the three of us and was a veteran of ranger life. I shared the bunk room with Mike Katz, another ranger. He also had some experience. That meant that I did the dishes and cleaned the cabin

Our job was to greet the park visitors and collect their entrance fees. Our little kiosk was hardly large enough for the two of us to move around. But we managed. Dick was responsible for patrolling the road from the entrance to the summit of the road, an elevation of over 8,500 feet.

The air was clean and fresh except for the sulphur smell that settled from the Sulphur Works up the road.

When my watch was over I drove across the Park to Manzanita Lake at the north end of the park. That was where the action was. Rangers were everywhere, so I introduced myself and entered the visitor station. From Manzanita Lake there was a beautiful view of Lassen Peak. I was overwhelmed. I told myself that I had to hike up Lassen Peak. And I did. Not just once but several times over the summer. Whenever I was able I explored that wonderful discovery.

And so the summer went on, working at the entrance station and exploring the park. I knew it would have to come to end, and it did. I packed up the Chevy, and said goodbye to Lassen Volcanic National Park. I had to complete my schooling. But I knew I would return.

And return, I did, many times over the years. Sixteen years ago my wife and I bought a home at Lake Almanor, just a 40 minute drive from Lassen. We go there often and love to take family and friends.