Fallen Myrtle - Nez

As kids in Lyman, we knew the town had “outcasts,” people or families who somehow didn’t fit in. That “somehow” being mostly arbitrary. Several were not so deserving of that label and yet were treated as such. Several outcasts were treated horribly, and yet others were not. And since most non-outcasts were “church people” imagine how the outcasts were selected. Chatting with my sister recently, she asked if I had written an “outcast” story yet. Here is one.

Myrtle Daves

In Lyman Tavern with a brown paper sack, cradled like a baby in her arms, Myrtle Daves should have already headed home. Bundled up in her black winter coat and gloves, she’s not wearing a hat or boots or galoshes. Myrtle doesn’t drive. It’s cold, windy and snowing outside and she has about three-fourths of a mile to walk in heels and stockings. Now hours past noon she’s drunk and wobbly. Declining an offer of coffee, she steadies herself, tucks the paper bag under her arm, and shuffles toward the exit.

Myrtle dresses her best whenever she goes uptown, which for her is really, really rare. In her younger days, with her short slender build and cold black hair Myrtle had been quite attractive. You wouldn’t know it now. Years of booze and abuse have robbed her of many things, as well as her looks. Now at middle-aged she is haggard looking with a permanent scowl, though her hair is still black. Myrtle is a recluse, who only leaves home when she is out of liquor (her medicine) and there’s no one else home to get it for her. Her husband, or one of her two sons, usually keeps her supplied, but they’ve gone to work and she ran out of “medicine” at breakfast. So, she got herself dressed up and made her way to town. It wasn’t snowing when she arrived at the tavern’s front door before it opened at ten. It’s almost three as she finally leaves the notorious establishment. She wants to be home before dark, which is a little after four.

Through snow, wind and cold Myrtle makes her way down across the tracks, crosses over to the sidewalk and trudges up past the Mobil station where the terrain levels and on past the Baptist Church. Nearing the intersection with her dead-end gravel street, of which she lives at the very end, she approaches the end of the sidewalk. At the drop off from the sidewalk down to the gravel street, she gingerly steps onto the short slippery embankment, loses her footing, slips and falls backward. She lies there with her upper body on the sidewalk and her legs splayed out on the sloped ground. The fall must have been painful as Myrtle doesn’t seem to move. Finally rising up on one elbow she realizes her bottle broke during her fall when it hit the sidewalk. The contents of her brown paper bag are soaking the inside of her coat and dress. She sobs and swears, and vomits, and realizes that she might have hurt her back during her fall. Crying she hoarsely calls out for help.

The Dietz kids in their yard up ahead are watching her. She sees them and cries out to them for help, but the they ignore her cry. Instead, they ridicule her. They point and laugh while singing, “Myrtle the turtle, Myrtle the turtle, fell and broke her bottle.” “Myrtle the turtle, Myrtle the turtle, fell and broke her bottle.” This brings Mrs. Dietz, a “devout Baptist” lady out onto her porch to see what the commotion is about. She spies the fallen drunk. Myrtle, sobbing, again cries out for help, but Mrs. Dietz simply ushers her kids inside, steps in and closes her door.

Because of where she’s fallen Myrtle is having difficulty getting her legs under her so she can rise up onto her feet. The house that she has fallen in front of, ironically, is the Baptist Church Parsonage. Even though some of the preacher’s kids are watching her from a window they don’t intend to come to her aid, nor do they make any attempt to get the pastor or his wife to help. They only see Myrtle as a fallen-down drunk. To be pitied, yes. To be helped, no.

Myrtle time and again struggles as she attempts to get to her feet. Finally, she manages to wriggle her way from the sidewalk into the yard of the Parsonage where she eventually rises to her feet after losing her balance three more times and vomiting again. Sobbing, cold and wet and now without her medicine she musters up the little pride she has left, straightens herself up, smooths her dress and coat as best she can, and painfully hobbles out to her gravel road and hobbles on toward home in her high heels, torn stockings and bruises. Muttering to herself, she curses those kids and Mrs. Dietz.

Epilogue

Myrtle Daves and her family were among the “outcasts” in the Lyman area. As far as anybody knew they didn’t have friends or relatives nearby, yet they had been in Lyman several years. And since arriving in Lyman none of the family had ever participated or contributed to the community. They didn’t attend church and were not known to help others. In addition, both Myrtle and her husband, Berle, were heavy drinkers. And Berle was often seen beating Myrtle or one of their sons in their front yard. Thus, the Daves were deemed “outcasts” by most of the town. We all avoided them.

Yet, there were others in town who were as bad as the Daves, maybe worse, but if they were community participants and/or contributors with friends or relatives they were deemed “acceptable”. The difference being who they were, who they knew, and in whose closet their skeletons resided.

Reece Coggins, Musician, Fisherman, Storyteller - Nez

The Lyman area became well acquainted with the Coggins Clan in the 1930’s and 40’s. There was the stern patriarch, Make Coggins (real name), his wife Sarah, his daughter Roxie, and sons Carl, Mike, Glen, and Reece. Every member of this clan was born in East Tennessee (Appalachia). That they ended up in Skagit County, Washington before WWII is the same story that’s been told time and again. Make was a logger in Tennessee, and logging shut down in Appalachia during the Great Depression, so he hoboed his way to the Pacific Northwest where they were still logging. Then, as many others from Appalachia did, he brought his family to Lyman and Skagit County. Make and his older boys logged, the younger ones finished school, and Sarah kept house.

By the 1950’s our family was close friends with neighbors Roxie and her husband Fred, as well as Glen and his wife Eileen, who was mom’s best friend, and their kids, and Reece and his wife Bernice, and their kids. We knew the whole Coggins Clan. And, of all the Coggins men Reece, to me, was the most interesting, and certainly the most fun.

Reece and Bernice had four kids, Terry, Calvin, Lillian and Donny. I was close to Terry and Calvin, so we were at each other’s houses frequently. Bernice did most of their household parenting unless she really needed Reece to get involved. He was more of a big kid than a parent except he could drink and the kids, of course, could not. The kids liked having their friends over as their dad did less drinking when there was company, especially kids.

At their house we pretty much expected to be entertained if Reece was home, unless he was already slumbering in a drunken stupor. Reece drank a six-pack of beer every day, more on weekends. He was a big garrulous guy who had fun with everybody. He always smiled and laughed, except when he was drunk. If you got to their house before he consumed or got too far into the six-pack he would play his guitar and sing. He would go to the kitchen and sing and dance with Bernice. He was good and often performed at dances. And he loved telling stories, and swore they were true, though we knew they were not. He was hilarious. He told jokes and always howled at his own punchlines.

Reece was fun to be around, even when he was fishing. In salmon season, usually the winter months after New Years, Reece would take the boys fishing at the Skagit on Saturday or Sunday mornings. He had a boat, but preferred fishing from the bank. If he found a place with really good footing Reece could cast out to the deepest part of the river channel, which was where salmon, steelhead and trout were.

Early one Saturday morning, a bunch of fishermen from Lyman were on the riverbank as the sun rose. King Salmon were running so real fishermen found their way to the river. There must have been ten or fifteen guys fishing from the bank that morning, and a bunch of kids, me included, were there watching. It was always fun when a bunch of fishermen showed up. Stories and lies and lots of laughs. Reece was there fishing with his boys and so were Ed Fore, Jim Price, Cecil Hittson, Merrit Melton, Onny Jackson, June Parker, and Eula Aiken. Guys were spread about five or six yards apart so they had room for casting. Those of us just watching knew there was a good chance at least one of those guys would hook a big fish. They usually did.

King Salmon are big, one could weigh over seventy pounds and they’re fighters. It takes a while to land one. Yet it didn’t take too long for Ed Fore to land a big one that morning, which he brought close to the bank so someone could gaff it for him. It weighed a little over forty-two pounds. Pretty soon our man Reece hooked a big one, which he declared was the “grand-daddy” of King Salmon. He fought it and worked to land it for well over an hour, talking the whole time. Others fishing nearby put their poles aside ready to help. Reece didn’t take a break or let anyone else work the fish either. He was going to  wear this big “daddy” out so he could land it. He grinned, “take my picture”, but nobody had a camera. He yelled, “get me a beer,” but nobody did. He couldn’t have drank it anyway, he was too busy. He was really working, give and take, making sure the fish didn’t break his line, with sweat running down his face, and a couple of times the fish seemed to be pulling him into the river, but Reece didn’t give in. He kept working.

By the time Reece landed that huge fish there must have been thirty to forty people on the riverbank watching the show. His brother Glen had shown up and it took both he and another guy to hook gaffs into both gills and haul that fish out of the river. When it was landed everybody applauded and Reece took a big bow and grinned from ear to ear, and laughed saying, “wait ‘til you hear this story.” And by that time someone had shown up with a camera, but Reece was too tired and the fish too big to hold up by himself, so he and his two boys and Glen held it across their chests for the picture. Then someone handed Reece a beer and he raised it to the fish, made a joke and downed the whole thing. Everyone applauded again and soon the men, without us kids, adjourned to the tavern, but not before Reece had cleaned his fish and his boys lugged it home to Bernice.

That fish officially weighed seventy-eight pounds, the biggest that I ever actually saw being caught in the Skagit River. Pictures of Reece and his catch appeared in the Courier Times, the weekly newspaper. Before long Reece’s version of catching the world’s biggest King Salmon, took on a life of its own. Reece was a good storyteller, and those of us who were there had us a big fishing tale to tell, too.