doug

I wrote a while back about Doug who was ill, and still is.
He is my best friend's brother. Both are good guys.
I photographed him at a car show the three of us attended.
When David was here last, he got Doug into some help programs: Meals on Wheels, a regular clean up person and so on. He is not getting healthier, but he is a lot less miserable I think.

what?

“How long have you been married?”

I was teaching in a foreign land, where they ate funny food and talked in a dialect. It was Texas. (that is a joke, do not throw rocks).

As a graduate student I taught two classes a semester, in addition to my own class and studio work. I received a small stipend, and my our of state fees were waived, and that included Miriam as well. My classes were always in Basic Design, among the firsts art classes incoming freshmen took. Classes ran from 20 to 25 students, and since it was a studio class, each was 2 hours long, three days a week. We spent a lot of time together.

A class like this has to be fairly informal. I would walk in the room the first day, write “DAVE” on the board, and we would begin (policies on names vary by schools, this one was very relaxed). I was a pretty tough teacher, I expected wonderful results, and pushed and pushed. They in turn, went beyond my expectations.

In time one of the students, usually a girl, would ask the question. It was time for a tall tale. " How long have you been married, Dave?"

I would give the right number of years, then . . .

“Well in Idaho, we still have arranged marriages.” They knew nothing about Idaho, it could have been on the moon for all they knew. “And I was 9 when we were married.”

“OK.”

The idea had to incubate a bit. Usually it took two or three days, and one of the students would say: “What was that you told us the other day about marriage?” I tried to look innocent.

“That was not true!”

I was had. We all laughed deep and long.

As a teacher I put my finger in their brain and stirred. My teaching supervisor said my reviews were higher than many of the full time faulty. It was a good experience and I enjoyed it more than I can say. I was a natural college teacher who never quite made it to the Bigs.

I could spin yarns if I wished, but they would always catch me. I liked that. They were good people and good students. I miss those days.

arrows

There is a story in everything around us.
One morning I came out of the house and found a very nice arrow, the kind shot with a bow, laying on the concrete of my drive.
I brought it in the house and laughed about it.
The next day I found this hole in the trunk lid of Miriam's car. If you put the arrow in the hole you could see exactly where it came from.
So I called the police. "I don't want to cause problems, but the idea of metal tipped arrows flying through the air does not give me comfort."
The young officer smiled, said he would be right back and drove around a couple of corners.
He returned later to say that the house in direct line with the arrow had an archery target in the back yard, but he was told they "never would shoot an arrow that direction."
We all grinned and I still have the arrow!
Never happened again.

Nash

Dad bought the Nash in 1949, it was brand new. We did not have a lot of new so it was something.

That year Dad’s next older brother (Dad was the youngest of 4 brothers) lived with us. It seems that he worked with dad in construction. During this time Dad was a house builder.

The two brothers bought new Nash cars the same time. Dad’s was a NEW and IMPROVED 1949, and Marion bought a left over 1948 at a discount.

One morning Mom came into my room: “Get up and pack your things, we are moving to California -- today.” Shucks why would a kid need to have a lot of advance warning!

Grandma, dad’s mother, lived in Santa Cruz, a sleepy town 70 miles south of San Francisco, a smallish city at the time. Santa Cruz is right on the top corner of Monterey Bay. Grandma had a couple of lots and she wanted dad to build her a house or two (he ended up building a house and a duplex).

I cannot remember how we made the move. It was a temporary move, we all knew that, so we did not even rent the house out we just left it, took what we needed and left. Dad did not own a pickup or a truck at that point, so my guess is that whatever he had in tools, along with the 5 of us (brother was a year old) our clothes and gear all went into that cavernous Nash.

Dad was born and raised in San Jose, now in the heart of Silicone Valley and he knew his way around, so we visited and traveled and saw a lot of the area, in that Nash.

About a year later we moved back to Idaho in that same Nash.

I remember dad going on jeep trails with that crazy Nash. He had no idea of limitations, and would come down roads that were really off limits. “DALE!” mom would scream as he went over the edge on a “short cut”.

We made a longer trip once with the 5 of us plus Grandma. since she was not my grandma don't know as much about her as my brother for instance, but I have definite memories. Another story.

In Idaho, dad had trouble getting his construction going again, a lesson there for all would be entrepreneurs. As I remember he went back into trucking then. He was gone a lot, leaving mom and we kids with the Nash. We did alright that way.

When Miriam and I were dating we went out in that Nash once. But as I put the dates back together it had to be the other Nash dad owned. Any way, it made into a bed also, and we laid the seats down, and leaning against the back seat we sat and talked and. . .

It was not near as racy as it might sound. Miriam was adamant about where hands went and didn’t go and where the clothing was (ON). We talked and we made out, but nothing heavy. (I do not take credit for that, I was over hormoned). It must have been vacation because Miriam was staying at our house.

When we got back home, way later than we should (though mom never scolded me) while getting out of the car I bumped the horn ring and the blast (they made strong horns in those days) woke the whole family.

Not too much longer I left home (I was barely 18) and never lived there again. I don’t remember what happened to dad’s string of Nashs, but that bathtub stays in my mind, and positively so.

Sorry that had to be such a dull story

I am fascinated by a lot of things I see. One of them is signs. I rarely turn down the chance to photograph a good sign.
I met the guy who owned this shop, but I do not remember what he did exactly, except he worked with authors in some capacity.
The name and the sign seemed very clever to me.

i did?

Miriam did not to terribly well in grade school or even high school.

Her dad, in a fit of christian humility, had told her that she was like him: “dumb in books.” Of course, she believed him. Truthfully, both were quite bright. It was not until she was being tested for Alzheimer’s that Miriam took any real tests. Turns out she is very bright.

But she got by, mostly C’s with a few Ds. I did not do a lot better. Our teachers did their best, but they did not try to really challenge us and to push us as I later learned to do with my students when I was a teacher.

But some how, with a bit of help from her mother Miriam finished high school.

So about a week ago Miriam and I were talking. It is not the same talking with her now as in earlier years. Her cognitive skills are not improving. We were visiting about this and that, like old married people do. A lot of our conversations are about our children and grandchildren, mixed with reminders of fidelity and devotion.

We know each other well enough to know what the other would think about almost any subject. It would seem that we might run out of things to talk about, but we have not. She was asking questions about things she should have remembered, but did not.

We talked about our Texas years. She asked why we had gone to Texas. “Did I graduate from college?” She asked. I cringed.

“Yes, you graduated from Texas Women’s University, with a BFA in painting.” She graduated with straight A’s in her major field, and had wonderful B’s in most of her academics, with a sprinkling of A’s.

She looked at me with that look that 7 year olds give when they make a major discovery. “I DID?”

“Yes, and you did all of the classwork for an M.A. But you got a job in Washington State and did not finish your thesis, so you didn’t quite finish that one.”

“I DID!?!” “My momma would be so proud of me.” Marie, Miriam’s mom graduated from high school at 12, went to business school for two years, before she married Miriam’s dad. She was 17. Sadly she died at 57, a long time ago.

Marie bore 4 children, Miriam is the oldest. Her father had 3 sons by his first marriage (his wife died when the boys were very young). And the 7 of them have done alright for themselves, but only Miriam actually graduated from college.

I was and am so proud of her. But this exchange tore at my heart.

ahh

This is a promotion photograph of the famous Nash that made into a bed. It was their big deal for a long while. In this picture the pillar between the doors has been removed to make a better picture.
Yea, I stole that one too.
Dad liked the Nash and owned several, but I don't remember them ever using the bed.
I remember taking Miriam out in the Nash, but that is another story!

bathtub Nash

I swiped these photographs, Don't do that often.
The Nash of that vintage was quite unique. It had a 20 gallon fuel tank (large for the day) and while underpowered by today's standards, it was a decent highway car and got very good mileage.
That design allowed tremendous amounts of interior s pace. And, Nash was the only car that the backs of the front seats would recline totally and make a pretty decent bed.

seeing dad

I was 14 when this happened.

In Idaho at that time a kid could get a drivers license at 14, and cousin Sam could get it for you when she got his. No test, no photograph, just $2 cash for two years. But I did not get my license until I was 16. I wanted to drive, but there just was no real reason. School and work were within walking distance.

After that early morning phone call, arrangements were made for some one to look after my sister who was 10 and half brother who was 3. Mom wanted me to go with her on the trip to California. Even if I could not drive I could keep her company, help keep her awake and alert and help where I could.

Dad had a “bathtub” Nash at that time. They were the target of a lot of jokes, but they were pretty decent transportation for that time.

When I first saw him, swathed in bandages, with his eyes peering through the windings of gauze, I was horrified. It was one of those unforgettable moments. He seemed to have friends there in that town, because we picked him up at a house not at the hospital or a hotel.

Dad was born and grew up in San Jose, not too far away, so it is highly likely that there were people there that he knew.

I don't remember the trip home or much of the rest of it.

But I will never forget the horror of seeing him that first time.

Eastern Oregon

end of a dream

The two engined truck was actually a very clever solution.

Truckers have a load going some where, but it is the back haul that pays some of the expenses. Rare is the trucker who makes a profit o the back haul, but it is important.

Tankers are more complex. Once you put petroleum products in a tanker, there are not too many options on what to carry. So, Dad only had a one way load.

Going down the Ford engine was plenty strong enough to pull the empty semi. And coming back on fairy flat ground the Ford did just fine. It was going up Tehachapi and Donner was when that 2nd engine worked pretty well.

I do not remember how long that operation lasted. It might have been a matter of a few months and it might have been a year, but in geological time it was not too long.

About 3 in the morning the phone rang. It was one of those dreaded rings and you know it is not good.

Dad had been in an accident, there had been a fatality he was injured come to Stockton and get him.

Later we put it all together. Dad was headed north with a full load. There was a section of freeway that still had some cross roads. He could see a car coming down the crossroads, and it looked like it was not going to stop and it did not.

The car was going full speed. It hit dads truck on the Ford axle, passenger side. The truck rolled over the car crushing the driver to death almost instantly. At the same time the cab of the truck rolled the opposite direction putting an almost full turn in the frame rails behind the cab.

Of course there was a fire almost instantly. The passenger window was open and pointing up. Dad was not dazed, had his considerable wits with him. He climbed out that window and ran.

He did not come any where near the fire, but he got 2nd and 3rd degree burns any way.

The accident was at the top of an underpass, so 4500 gallons of gasoline ran down the road burning up a quarter mile of highway.

Dad always thought the driver was trying to commit suicide. He had a big life insurance policy, his wife cashed it in, and headed for Florida. She returned in due time and filed a law suit against dad.

But because her husband was killed in the accident, and not the fire, she had no standing and the suit was thrown out.

Dad spent several months healing. Without him working, I know it was financially tight. Sister and I were receiving Social Security from our dad’s death, and I think that $75 a month fed the family a lot.

Old sign. Washington State.

walking in the rain

Tonight we went for a walk, Miriam Leo and I --
In the dark--
In the rain.

It was twilight when we left and began raining a bit later. I had a rain resistant jacket, good for a fairly long walk in the rain. I had our two raincoats in my backpack, so I thought I was ready for anything.

But when I got Miriam’s rain cape out and on her I discovered that it did not have a draw string on the hood, so it was quite difficult or impossible to hold it on while walking into the wind.

Hmm. The rain was a bit more intense, but it was was not cold, so we were not in any real danger of hyperthermia, but I wanted her to be comfortable (so she would come with me again!). I put my rain coat over hers and it was a bit better. Now I am full of questions.

How can I make her more comfortable?

That is the time of night I really like to walk, and I really want her to be comfortable next time.

Details are the key.

old trucks

Old trucks fascinate me.
This one looks a lot like the Mack trucks that were used in World War 1. This one has been equipped with later tires, I think the originals were solid rubber.
This was long before power steering (as were dad's trucks) or power brakes. It took some real muscle to drive these old babies, and they were slooooow.
Even at the slower speeds they traveled they were absolute kidney crushers.
Did you ask about AC? Roll the window down. Not all trucks even had workable heaters.

two engined truck

The one thing that dad was really good at was being low bid.

No matter what the deal was he could built, make arrange whatever cheaper than any one else. Of course, there are side problems.

Consistently low bid operations are really hard to make profitable, for starters. Dad could make a device to solve a problem and he could make it work fine, but no one else, any where could do the same.

Once he got the idea of trucking gasoline from Southern California to Idaho. He figured where to buy, where to sell and he figured he had enough margin. I have no idea of the actual numbers.

But to do that he bought a tanker trailer. It was 4500 gallons as I remember, and at a little less than 9 pounds a gallon for gasoline, he had a cargo of close to 40,000 pounds. That was not easy in those days.

Dad liked gasoline trucks, only owned one diesel that I remember. He drove Ford F8’s. They were pretty good sized rigs, that could pull that much weight, with the right gears, but not too quickly.

His Ford was an early 1950’s model, as I remember, the ones we call “fat fendered” now. While I was looking for information on old Ford trucks, I found this site: http://fordofwestmemphis.blogspot.com/2009/01/1950-1959-ford-trucks.html. Good information. My best idea now is that the engine was less than 300 ci (in other words small) and had maybe a couple hundred horsepower. My Dodge has 260 HP and it is a pickup!

So he had this truck, and I pulled the trailer. But between LA and Boise there were some really nasty passes and the ford would pull those really slowly. Dad needed a larger truck, but being low bidder, he did not have much margin.

At the same time he had picked up an open cab Dodge military truck. It had a smallish straight 6 engine in it.

So dad took the Dodge apart, and mounted the Dodge engine BEHIND the cab of the Ford. The engine was at a fair angle, so it lined up with a 2nd axle. That made his rig a tandem axle truck. The unique thing was that the tires and wheel on the Dodge were quite a bit smaller than the Ford, so it made an interesting looking rig.

Each had a manual transmission, so he rigged a 2nd set of levers in the cab (along with two clutch pedals and two throttle pedals). All of this made the inside of the truck rather unique, to put it mildly.
One of the most essential gear shifting was going from next to the lowest gear to the lowest, called the granny gear. Miss that one and the ford might not have enough power to start pulling that load again.

To shift dad stuck his left hand through the spokes I the steering wheel to grab the Ford shifter in his left hand, while his right hand was on the Dodge shifter. There was no synchromesh transmissions then, so that shifting was accompanied by some double clutching and some careful work on the throttle.

Dad could make it happen, but I promise you not another living soul could.

I’ll see if I can come up with some pictures.

Tomorrow I’ll tell about the fate of the double engined truck.

pop

A note of explanation is in order here I suppose.

The man who was my biological father, an d whose name I proudly carry was killed when I was very young, and while he had great influence on me then his influence lessened as I got older. I call him Father. As in my father. . .

The man who really raised me (actually mom raised me, but he was there) was Dale. I call him Dad mostly, but never Father. Sadly he is the male of record in most of my life. He was a complex man, capable of great patience with machinery (he could figure a machine out and "fix' it), but he had little patience with people.

I came to not be terribly fond of him soon after he married mom. I know a shrink could spend a LONG time on that one, but I’l let the obvious stand, which is that I was a kid, and he was pretty cruel at times.

When it came to names, Mom would not let me call her any name that she thought sounded disrespectful. She was “mom” or “mother.” It was a good policy, one I continued to my daughters and now grandkids.

So when my anger at my step dad rose, I found the most disrespectful thing I could call him and get away with. He was a very strong disiplinarian (with my sister and I, not so much so later with his son). So I caled him “Pop”. It was about as opposite of what my mother would allow as I could get away with, and about as disrespectful as i could get away with. Besides the name had that rebellious ring I liked.

So I called him Pop and it stuck.

One of my uncles (gone now) was called Pop a great deal. It always seemed to be a bit disrespectful.

My kids just know that my name is not Pop! Grandkids learn fast too. I have reverted to my mom’s idea of respect!

You could read all kinds of things into this picture of my sister and I. We were about 6 and 10 maybe.