Money Was Short - Nez

 Money Was Short

By Nez Nesmith

Lyman was considered a poor town in the 1950’s. Several families were rather poor. Some poorer than others. Most men in Lyman were loggers which was seasonal work. Snows in the mountains shut down logging in winter. So, most loggers were on what they called “Rocking chair” or unemployment during the winter months, which wasn’t much. For many families that was their whole income during the winter months, especially if they hadn’t saved any of their logging earnings. Also, women generally didn’t work outside the home yet, so most income was dependent on the man of the house. 

Money was always short. Growing up we rarely had spending money for things like candy, or sodas, or toys or games. Lyman couldn’t even support a restaurant other than the tavern. 

Our family was one of the poor ones, too, but our Dad wasn’t a logger. He was gone. Mom was a divorcee raising three kids and taking care of her Grandma Buckner. We were on state welfare. Mom was a good seamstress and earned additional income with her sewing. But that work was sporadic. There really weren’t other work options for her in Lyman, especially with three kids at home. 

When I was old enough I did a lot of things to earn spending money. Neighbors might pay me a couple of dollars to mow their yard with our old reel push mower. Or I helped someone cut and stack stove or fireplace wood for money. 

One year I sold Wallace Brown Christmas cards. They had a really nice assortment, including Currier and Ives cards. Mrs. Hittson loved those cards and bought four boxes of Currier and Ives, the most expensive. Customers pre-paid for their order with a check in September or October and I sent the orders and checks to the Wallace Brown company, and I received and delivered their monogrammed cards the first week of December. The company sent me a check with the deliveries. But Lyman didn’t have enough customers for me to earn much money selling Christmas cards. I did pretty well but that income was so slow in coming to me that it became our Christmas money. 

I tried other things too, like selling GRIT Newspaper, a bi-weekly national newspaper that kids all over the country sold. But I was looking for something with quicker cash results. 

One of the simpler jobs I did for immediate cash was to hike along the highway a mile or two outside of town with a gunnysack (burlap) to collect unbroken beer bottles and pop bottles that had been tossed out of vehicles. Beer bottles each had a One Cent deposit and pop bottles a Five Cent deposit. Those bottles were sturdy and didn’t break easily and glass is heavy. Pop bottles were scarce, but on a good day I could earn a dollar or two in an hour or so, depending on if anyone had recently picked that stretch of highway. In those days most everyone, including the loggers, drank and drove. 

I always took my very heavy gunnysack to the Lyman Tavern and turned the bottles in for the deposit return. When I made more than two dollars I rewarded myself with a Coca-Cola and a bag of peanuts, for twenty-five cents, which I poured into the Coke. Pure joy. I loved that. 

Then I got old enough to pick strawberries at Mapes Strawberry Farm for about three weeks. Hard work but more money.

Borrowed Boat - Nez

 Borrowed Boat

Our Sister - Marc

 OUR SISTER

Our sister is a pearl

who greets me in the morning

Lovely, dazzling

makes me want to embrace her

But to be close to her

ensures certain death

I wonder how one so beautiful

can be so deadly

As a watch her from afar

 

From Susan: Here’s a 10-minute exercise to try. Take a short poem and circle words you want to use.
Write another poem or a story using these words. I used the following Ted Kooser poem, “Two,” from his book of poems called Splitting an Order:

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I circled these words in Kooser’s poem: staircase, dress shirts, polished shoes, holding hands, fingers, reached out. Below is my 10-minute (and a bit more) version. 

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At the foot of the staircase lay

Four dress shirts,

Six tee shirts,

Five pair of white socks,

One weathered scarf, and

Two pair of polished shoes,

The contents of his closet left behind, 

Holding hands with the deserted air,

Fingers grasping for answers.

Reaching out to clutch the past, 

I longed to start again.

The foot of the staircase told a different story.

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I am no poet, but it is a fun exercise to try. You could do this with a paragraph from a book, song lyrics, news article, just about anything. 

Northern Lights - Nez

 Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis)

By Nez Nesmith

I don’t remember the first time I saw the Northern Lights in Lyman. It seems like

we saw them pretty much several times every year. Even when the sky was

overcast, or it was raining those lights shone through. To those of us who grew up

in northern Washington State (Lyman) seeing the Northern Lights (or Aurora

Borealis) beaming over the mountains was not that much of a big deal. It was

pretty commonplace, and once you had seen them as a kid, the excitement wore

off and their appearance just wasn’t all that special. We just took them for

granted.

Oh sure, sometimes the show was more extraordinary than usual, especially the

ones with a lot of dancing and loud colors. Those usually got our attention… for a

while at least. If the sky was fairly clear the show could go on for hours. It was

pretty spectacular. But for us younger adolescents with our short attention spans

it was just doing the same old thing over and over. Pretty soon it became boring.

Plus, they don’t hold a lot of pleasant memories for me. Memories, yes, pleasant,

not so much.

I remember when Aunt Kathryn and Uncle Mac and cousins Diane, Laree and

Terry were visiting us in Lyman. They were from Mapleton, Oregon (which is

about 150 miles southwest of Portland). The Northern Lights were putting on a

show for them that first night. They could sometimes see them from their home

but not like this. They were mesmerized by the quick movement and the colors,

shades of green, pink, purple, white and aqua, and how fast they would change

from one color to another. It was instantaneous. If you blinked it was different.

Anyway, my teenage cousin Diane, who was a bit of a prima donna and as we kids

had always thought, a big showoff, had been taking clarinet lessons in school and

had brought her clarinet on the trip with her to show us how well she was doing

with it. And, since she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to show off her clarinet

prowess, she thought she might do so while the Northern Lights were playing and

attempt to add a little music to the light show. Neither my sister, who also played

clarinet, nor I, who played violin, had any thoughts about joining Diane’s musical

incursion. As far as we were concerned she was on her own. We just knew it

wouldn’t go well. And boy-howdy we were so lucky that we didn’t because to us it

was a totally utter and laughable disaster.

At first, she couldn’t figure out which note to begin with, and when she finally

decided we just heard one squeaky note after another loud squeaky note, if you

could call them notes. And she couldn’t figure out the rhythm of the light show to

where her clarinet could join in. (The light show had its own rhythm.) It was bad,

really bad. Then, of course, everyone, including her whole family and all of the

rest of us (about ten people), except one, laughed loudly at her attempt at playing

along with the dancing Northern Lights. And her dad even pleaded with her to

stop. She ran off embarrassed and crying, which I’m sure any one of us would

have done were we in the same circumstance.

Then, our Mom, the only one who hadn’t laughed at Diane, gave us all a

definitively scowling look and followed after her. Mom spent most of the rest of

the night consoling Diane with calming comments and encouragement and made

every single one of us who had laughed at her playing apologize to Diane, one at a

time. As I approached her I had a smirk on my face, and I swear I couldn’t help it

but suddenly I just laughed out loud again. But instead of crying of humiliation

Diane suddenly attacked me and beat the hell out of me right there in the kitchen.

Mom sat there and watched and smirked, as if to say, “You asked for it Buddy”.

Diane was a girl so I couldn’t even fight back or defend myself and there was

nowhere for me to run. Diane was almost three years older than I and bigger. I

was just a little pip-squeak of about eight. I didn’t stand a chance. She was strong

and hit me hard. Now I was humiliated and crying. After Diane was done Mom

consoled me by giving me a whipping with my own belt and sent me to bed.

With a cigarette dangling from her lips Aunt Kathryn came to my room and vainly

attempted to console me. Her constant chuckling didn’t help.

A memory snapshot of the early 1950’s. Unpleasant memory maybe, but lesson

learned.

Peace and Quiet - Marc

 PEACE AND QUIET

Once upon a time, (which is the way most stories should be started), there was a young

couple who were very much in love. They lived in a small house at the end of a cul de sac, with

a grassy yard and woods beyond. They would spend their time laughing over dinner, reading

quietly together in their yard, and hiking through the woods. And wherever they went, they

were happy to be spending their time with Peace and Quiet. Although they never actually spoke

with Peace and Quiet, it was comforting for them know that Peace and Quiet were always there

with them.

On day, the woman announced that she was pregnant, much to the surprise and

happiness of the man. (Why he should be surprised is beyond me, he was there at the start

after all)! It was not an easy pregnancy. Months of morning sickness were followed a course of

pneumonia, and finally severe back pain. But their love for each other, and for their unborn

child brought them through the difficult times.

Childbirth was difficult, but when she first held her newborn daughter all was forgotten

while she bathed in the moment of bliss. The baby was a challenge, being a poor sleeper and

often suffering from cholic, while frequently crying.

It was then that they noticed for the first time that their friends, Peace and Quiet had

abandoned them. Peace and Quiet were nowhere to be found in their lives.

They years rolled on, through childhood sicknesses, the first school play, middle school

madness, and high school proms. And eventually, they forgot that Peace and Quiet had ever

shared life with them.

The day came when they dropped their daughter off at college. Once home, they missed

her terribly. However, one day, while reading quietly in their yard, they realized that their

friends, Peace and Quiet had returned, after being gone for so long. And they also realized that

when life takes something away, it often also gives something back.

Like so many years earlier, their life had returned to a simpler time, shared with Peace

and Quiet.

Peace and Quiet = Marc

 PEACE AND QUIET

Once upon a time, (which is the way most stories should be started), there was a young

couple who were very much in love. They lived in a small house at the end of a cul de sac, with

a grassy yard and woods beyond. They would spend their time laughing over dinner, reading

quietly together in their yard, and hiking through the woods. And wherever they went, they

were happy to be spending their time with Peace and Quiet. Although they never actually spoke

with Peace and Quiet, it was comforting for them know that Peace and Quiet were always there

with them.

On day, the woman announced that she was pregnant, much to the surprise and

happiness of the man. (Why he should be surprised is beyond me, he was there at the start

after all)! It was not an easy pregnancy. Months of morning sickness were followed a course of

pneumonia, and finally severe back pain. But their love for each other, and for their unborn

child brought them through the difficult times.

Childbirth was difficult, but when she first held her newborn daughter all was forgotten

while she bathed in the moment of bliss. The baby was a challenge, being a poor sleeper and

often suffering from cholic, while frequently crying.

It was then that they noticed for the first time that their friends, Peace and Quiet had

abandoned them. Peace and Quiet were nowhere to be found in their lives.

They years rolled on, through childhood sicknesses, the first school play, middle school

madness, and high school proms. And eventually, they forgot that Peace and Quiet had ever

shared life with them.

The day came when they dropped their daughter off at college. Once home, they missed

her terribly. However, one day, while reading quietly in their yard, they realized that their

friends, Peace and Quiet had returned, after being gone for so long. And they also realized that

when life takes something away, it often also gives something back.

Like so many years earlier, their life had returned to a simpler time, shared with Peace

and Quiet.

Untitled - Marc

 UNTITLED

Standing silently

with hands clasped behind them

Necks stretching to watch

The agile fingers working

Hoping for a miracle

As the frigid wind

Brings them closer

on this desolate street

But the sounds make it clear that

Despite his best, there will be no miracles today

The man shakes his head

And calls the tow truck

Newhalem Baseball Teams - Nez

 Newhalem Baseball Teams

By Nez Nesmith

Lyman is one of the few small towns one would pass through when taking Highway 20 east to

cross the Cascade Mountains. Highway 20 is mostly a two-lane east-west highway that crosses

the whole state of Washington from the Idaho border to the town of Anacortes at the Salish

Sea water’s edge in Skagit County. It’s also called North Cascades Highway, as it is the most

northern highway in Washington that you can go across the Cascade mountains over into

Eastern Washington. And from November through April Highway 20 is closed through the

mountains. Too much snow. Of course, it remains open on both sides of the Cascades, so

there’s just about an 80 mile stretch that’s closed.

When I was a kid in the 1950’s Highway 20 didn’t go all the way across the mountains. It

stopped at Newhalem, about 45 miles east and north of Lyman. Newhalem was the end of the

road, and in the mountains. It was and still is a company town owned by Seattle Light and

Power. The town was built for the workers on the Diablo and Ross Dams projects on the Upper

Skagit River. (It’s still the last place to buy anything if you’re going across the mountains to

Eastern Washington.) Newhalem totaled about 400 people, employees and their families back

then. Much less now.

Newhalem had no schools. A town of 400 people with a lot of kids and no schools. And it’s

actually in Whatcom County, but there is no access from Whatcom County to that mountainous

region. You had then and still have to go through Lyman, Hamilton, Concrete, Rockport and

Marblemount, all in Skagit County. Neither did Rockport or Marblemount. Kids from those

towns and Newhalem were all bussed to the town of Concrete, population 705, in Skagit

County. The Seattle Light and Power Company paid the Concrete Schools for the Newhalem

students and provided their school bus and its driver. It was about an hour and a half each way

from Newhalem to Concrete. Can you imagine? Five days a week. That’s fifteen hours each

week spent on a school bus. I guess you shouldn’t have had any homework left to do by the

time you got home. (I wondered what the bus driver did while the kids were in school.)

Although Newhalem didn’t have schools, it did have a nice park with a baseball diamond and

baseball players. Boy, did they have the ballplayers. They always had really good Little League

and Babe Ruth teams. Whenever our team from Lyman, then coached by Mr. Shirley Allen,

played at Newhalem it was an all-day affair, over two hours each direction on Highway 20.

Newhalemites were very friendly people. They didn’t get many visitors. And there was no

restaurant. So, the townspeople rolled out the red carpet for us and fed us. Picnic tables near

the ballfield were crowded with homemade dishes of food, every kind we could think of. Since

it was such a long drive we usually played a double-header. We ate between games. We were

thrilled to win one game against them. They typically easily won both, even when they made

the trip down river to play in Hamilton or Lyman. Those trips were pretty much all-day for them

too, and usually double-headers. Newhalem teams were always exceptionally good.

But here’s the rub. At Marblemount Highway 20 turns north still following the Skagit River and

as mentioned earlier, that puts the town of Newhalem in Whatcom County, by just a couple of

miles. And because of that two miles Newhalem baseball teams weren’t eligible to compete in

Skagit County for Little League or Babe Ruth championships. They were relegated to Whatcom

County which meant they had to compete with teams from Bellingham, Ferndale, Lynden,

Deming and Sumas, which were in the western part of that county. To play any of those teams

would have meant at least a 200 mile roundtrip drive, and that just wasn’t feasible. Thus, they

never played any Whatcom County teams. The Skagit teams even petitioned the two baseball

commissions, Skagit and Whatcom, on their behalf and were denied. So Newhalem could only

play the upriver Skagit County teams in the regular season without being in the playoffs, which

I’m sure they would have dominated regularly.

Even though they knew they were not eligible to win a championship, they still put their best

players on the field and played their hearts out. Every other team admired and respected them.

Coaches, too, especially Coach Allen. He and another coach initiated the petitions. I always

thought Newhalem got cheated just because they were in Whatcom County. Why wouldn’t the

Little League and Babe Ruth commissions have made some sort of exception/concession for

them? I’m sure there were times when they were good enough to have maybe won a State

Championship and competed for the Little League World Series. The last season I played against

them in Little League their team went undefeated. Never lost a game but there was no trophy

for them. They were the best team in the area by far, yet another team was awarded the

championship trophy.

But, you know, I never really knew how they felt about it.

A Girl and a Map

 [Prompt: Write a story about hope.]

by Susan Hunt

Fila sat on the wide wooden steps of the farmhouse, a tattered and dirt-smudged map of the Southern United States resting, unseen, on her lap. The two mules, Jack and Mike, stood patiently in the dusty yard, hitched to a wagon loaded with the barest of supplies for this move to Texas. Everything else had been sold, and now only what was left -- the mules, the wagon, the heat, the very air itself -- seemed to be waiting for Fila and her mother to abandon their past to a future both unknown and uncertain.

Fila knew she should be studying the map, memorizing the route from her birthplace in Girard, Alabama, to her uncle’s farm in Plano, Texas. But her mind was blind to the paper in her hands. She sat, unmoving, and stared down at lines and faded words. They meant nothing to her, and she grieved the paper they were printed on.

This was her father’s map, a good father’s map, and she wondered if he would have led them west had he lived. A moot question now. Her mother saw no future here in Alabama without a husband and income to manage 40 acres of cotton, not to mention a heavy equipment business that thrived during the War of Northern Aggression, a business doomed after the restless peace of loss descended on them. Her father’s skill at building roads and rail lines for the Confederacy meant an end to the business and its owner.

Now, the land was sold and along with it, equipment, livestock, and the house that had been home to Fila since birth. With her finger, Fila traced the route on the map, wondering where this move would lead beyond the miles a wagon train would travel. What good could possibly come from this uprooting of body and soul? From the brokenness of their hearts? Everything but a grave left behind?

Fila’s mother, although grieving and anxious about the future, had assured Fila that this move was necessary and not entirely without hope. Their uncle in Texas was a good man who had befriended Fila’s family on more than one occasion. “We will trust the goodness of others and Uncle Ned’s promise to help us,” her mother said with conviction.

Fila was not so convinced as she stared at the map, giving it her full attention now. They would start in Girard, meeting up with the wagon train in Columbus, just across the river. From there they would cross Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then into east Texas, turning north at Dallas and on to Plano. The wagon boss estimated covering 10 miles a day, God willing and the weather held. How far was it, anyway? 800 miles? 900? 80 days minimum. That’s almost three months in a Conestoga wagon. Dear God, how would she ever survive such an ordeal? Yet, here they were.

Fila folded the map and stood to greet the young man hired to drive the wagon into her future. As she held out her hand to greet him, she said, “I hope you know the way.” Clasping her hand, the young man replied, “Yes, ma’am, I do. Your hope is not misplaced.”