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.

SOLDIERS COMING HOME

I was three years old when World War Two ended, but I remember it well. I remember the celebration and the commotion of the college boys racing up and down Seerley Boulevard hanging on to the running boards of their old jalopies, blowing their horns and cranking up air raid sirens. It scared me because I didn't understand what was happening. But I knew it was something big. My mother finally caught up with me as I ran toward the spectacle on Seerley Boulevard and we both stood on the curb and watched it all.

The boys were coming home! Everything was going to be all right. But as the boys came home, what were they going to do then? Many went to college.

Cedar Falls, Iowa, a quiet community of about fifteen thousand residents, was home to Iowa State Teachers' College, and it became the home of hundreds of men returning from the war.

Prior to then most of the students at the college were young women. But now, many students were men. These men were more mature than the college boys of the past. Many were married with families, which created a big problem. Where were they going to live?

My family had a basement apartment in our house, and we rented it out to a number of young couples who were students at the college. It was clean and comfortable with a backyard private entrance so we wouldn't run into each other. While the apartment had a toilet and laundry, the renters had to go upstairs to bathe. No one seemed to mind.

The first couple who lived in our apartment were Jim and Onalae Jenson. Jim had been a student at I.S.T.C, but he was drafted into the Army Air Corps and served in Europe. As a bomber pilot he flew numerous missions, was shot down and captured. But he was able to escape with the assistance of the French Underground. Later Jim was shot down a second time and held for two and a half years. He was given a garbage disposal assignment under heavy guard. As the war wore down security was loosened somewhat. Jim drove a horse wagon of garbage out of the camp and just kept going until he was rescued by the French once again.

Jim finished his studies at I.S.T.C and decided to become a veterinarian. He finished his degree at Iowa State College in Ames, Iowa, and started his practice specializing in large animals in southern California. Jim cared for many of the horses used in Hollywood.

I recently heard from Onalae. Jim has passed away. It was Onalae who told me Jim's stories.

Bob Siddens, the renowned wrestling coach, and his wife Jo, also lived in our basement apartment. Bob used to take me up to the wrestling room on Saturday mornings and show me how to wrestle. He also showed me how to stand on my head. Over the years there were at least ten couples who lived downstairs.

Many other homeowners were doing the same, but the housing was very tight. More housing was needed to meet the demand.

When the war was over the military was loaded with surpluses, especially Quonset buildings. One by one, Quonset by Quonset, Sunset Village emerged from a field south of the I.S.TC. campus. Sunset Village served the housing needs of hundreds of students and their families from 1947 until 1972 when it was demolished, and replaced by apartments facilities.

Many of my friends and classmates lived in Sunset Village. Even a number of faculty members lived in Sunset Village.

I used to go with some of my friends to deliver the local newspapers. It gave me an opportunity to take a look inside a Quonset hut. The Quonset was split into two apartments, making a small facility even smaller. It was tight and hard to keep clean depending on the weather. The roads were not well surfaced. The rent was affordable and the demand was high. They took what they could get. Hot in the summer and cold in the winter. There was no insulation.

I'm going back to Cedar Falls this summer, just for a short time. But I think I'll drive down Seerley Boulevard after I drive past my old home on Walnut Street.

I'm going to take some pictures of College Hill. More to come.




My Teachers were Heroes Too!

The mission at Iowa State Teachers College was to train the best teachers for the children in the state of Iowa, and that mission has been upheld.

To accomplish that mission there had to be a tremendous effort on the part of the instructors and professors who taught their student how to teach. Among those special people there were those who also served gallantly during World War Two:

1: Dr. Howard Vander Beek guided assault landing crafts onto the beaches at Normandy. He taught English at the Price Laboratory School and was a professor at the college.

2: Dr. Randall Bebb, who taught at the Lab School, flew supplies over the "hump" from India into China. He also was a professor at the college.

3: Dr. Ross Nielson served a combat information officer on a Navy destroyer. He, also was teacher at the Lab School and at the college.

4: Dr. William Happ's engine failed on a training flight over Lake Michigan. He dreaded water for nearly two days before he was rescued. As a result he insisted on building a indoor swimming pool at the Lab School. He taught hundreds of children how to swim.

THE LITTLE COTTAGE ON THE COLLEGE CAMPUS OR EVEN THE KINDERGARTEN TEACHER WAS A Ph.D.

Dr. Dorothy Koehring was my first teacher. She was a small woman in her late fifties with gray hair and kind eyes. She taught nursery school and kindergarten, and we all loved her.

My sister, Barbara, would walk me up the little sidewalk to the Iowa State Teachers College campus. Mother would say, "Take Randall by the handle and lead him off to school." My dad asked me what I did at school, and I said I played and played and played.

Iowa State Teachers College was one of the premier colleges in the country for the training of teachers. Its mission was to prepare young men and women to become teachers. My dad was a professor at the college.

To achieve that mission the college had to teach students how to teach. For that purpose a laboratory school was developed where college students could develop their skills. As a child I attended that school from nursery school through high school. My teachers were all professors at the college and most of them had a Ph.D. They taught both at the college and at the Lab School. Many times there would be college students observing the classes I was attending. My teachers were actually teaching two classes at the same time, one for my classes and the college students who were observing. It was a school within a school.

I have been in school since I was four years old as a student and as a teacher for forty six years. My grandmother was a teacher, my mother taught in a community college, and my dad was a professor, and my brother and his wife were teachers as well. Most of my best friends were teachers.

Iowa State Teachers College became the State College of Iowa, and later the University of Northern Iowa. The university has grown tremendously. The little cottage on the campus is long gone.

I'm sitting in my computer room listening to some BLUES ROCK on my iPhone and remembering Miss Koehring, Dr. Paul Brimm, Mardell Mohn, Mrs. Blackman, Bud Happ, Dwight Curtis, Corrine Harper, Howard Vanderbeek, Marguerite Struble, Al Moon, Marshall Schools, Al Potter, Mrs. Holmberg, John Aldrich, Thomas Wikstrom and Ross Nielson

From my yearbook: "The Malcolm Price Laboratory School is an important part of the Iowa State Teachers College. It is here in the Laboratory School that the college students who plan to become teachers have practical, first-hand experiences in the learning to be teachers. We, all of us, have a responsibility to help them in every way possible to become good teachers for the boys and girls in the state of Iowa."

The Rock Island Rocket

Ethan,

One thing I love about living in Chico is hearing train whistles far off in the distance. As the train gets closer to town the whistles get louder. Then the crossing barriers go down, and the train roars through at speeds up to seventy miles an hour as the huge engine shakes the ground beneath its steel rails. Trains have always fascinated me.

My mom and dad gave me and my brother, Hugh, an electric train set for Christmas one year. We were at Grammy Spickler's farm, of course. I couldn't wait to get home so I could show it to my best friend Bill. Bill had a train set in his bedroom. His dad made a fold-down table for his train set. It had tunnels and bridges and all kinds of farm animals to put on his train. I would take my train to his house, and we would play trains for hours and hours.

Back in those days trains were a lot different than they are today. Most trains had coal-burning steam engines that spewed out huge clouds of black smoke and white steam. Unlike today's modern trains that run smoothly and quietly, the trains I remember as a boy were dirty and noisy and rough-riding. But it was always exciting to see them when they stopped at the railroad station. The fireman and the engineer had to take on water for the boilers, grease the wheels and sometimes hook up more train cars. Being a railway worker was back-breaking dirty work.

There were two major railroads that ran through my home town of Cedar Falls, the Rock Island Line and the Illinois Central. There was also the Waterloo, Cedar Falls & Northern. The was a local line that went north and south not too far from our house. There was also a small train line that delivered coal to the college. It ran two blocks from our house. It ran so slow that we could pass it on our bicycles. I had a friend named Gerry whose dad was a engineer on the WCF&N, and occasionally Gerry got to ride with his dad on the train. He was the envy of us all.

Fairly often my dad made business trips around the state, and he usually took the train. That meant that we would all get to drive to the station to send him off. It also meant that we got to watch the Land of Corn come into town and stop at the Rock Island depot. That was a real excitement. My dad would board the train and wave goodbye, and slowly the big black engine would build up steam. The engineer would sound the whistle, push the throttle and the train would slowly begin to move. Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! The Land of Corn would gradually gather gain speed until it was out of sight. But we could still hear the Chug, Chug, Chug and the blast of the whistle as my mother drove us home.

A week later my dad would come home and we got to do it all over again in reverse. The Land of Corn always arrived at 9:30PM. It was great to have my dad home again.

One summer there was a horrible train accident when a fire engine on its way to a fire was struck by a train. The firemen were sounding their siren and didn't hear the train coming. Just as the fire engine crossed the tracks it was hit by the train at full speed. Unfortunately, the firemen were all killed. After that they moved the fire station away from the railroad tracks.
It was a very sad time for the city of Cedar Falls.

My brother and I shared a bedroom on the second story of our house. On hot summer nights we always slept with the windows wide open. Shortly before 9:30 we could hear the Land of Corn coming into town and drawing to a stop at the Rock Island depot down town. Later on we could hear the departure whistle blow and the Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! as the train left town again. We both listened to the train sounds as long as we could stay awake. Those are sounds I will never forget.

The Rock Island depot is still there, but it's now a bank. The trains no longer stop there the way they used to.

I know how much you like trains. I like them, too. Trains have changed a lot since I was a boy. I can't imagine what trains will be like when you grow up.

Love you, Grampa