Vacant Lot - Ralph

Vacant Lot - Ralph

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.

Johnny Jacobean - Nez

 Johnny Jacobean, by Nez

A Close Call - Michael

Winning the lottery is typically considered a good thing. Unless that lottery is for a draft number and ticket to the Vietnam War. No more escape hatches or deferments to avoid the war. Unless, of course, your daddy was rich and influential. Or unless you were able to cook up an injury and wiggle off the hook. Nope. John Fogarty said it best, ‘I ain’t no fortunate son.” If your number came up, you were screwed. To put it politely.

My number came up. Number 21 out of 365 might as well have been #1. I was a sophomore at Arizona State University. I knew guys who had gone to Vietnam. I knew guys who came back messed up. I knew guys who never came back. The war was winding down, and long gone was the idealistic and naïve perspective that it was a noble act to fight communism. It was meatgrinder, fought by the middle and lower class of America. Eisenhower warned us about the insatiable appetite of the miliary industrial complex. It was front and center, gobbling up anyone in its way. It needed grist for the mill. Old Ike was right.

Everyone knew that the military draft was slowly grinding to a halt. We just didn’t know when. My clock started ticking with a request to report for my pre-induction physical at an army location in Phoenix. Aside from missing one eye, one leg, or having a yellow streak up your back, you passed with flying colors. Stand in line, drop your shorts and cough! Congratulations.

Now I waited. And I wondered. What to do when Uncle Sam’s letter arrived. While I didn’t have connections to dodge the draft, I was smart enough to know that an army grunt in a rice paddy was a very bad idea. I spoke to the Air Force recruiters. Four years there seemed a better option that two years on a front line with the army. That was my plan. When the letter arrived, I’d take it to the Air Force and enlist. This would put college on hold for the foreseeable future and send my life in an entirely new direction. In fact, some other guy would be sitting here now, reading to this esteemed writers’ group.

I waited some more. And then it happened. Secretary of Defense, Melvin Laird announced the end of the draft in January 1973. It was over. Done. Kaput.

For those of you who like irony, four years later I enlisted in the United States Army.

Babbling Brook - Marc

 BABBLING BROOK

Babbling brook forever running

Like the music always streaming through my brain

Most days gently whispering

A sweet love song, a concerto

Against the whistling wind

And the sighing leaves

Other days angrily racing

Frothing against the its banks

A screaming guitar solo, full of feedback

A drum solo pounding

A beat that threatens my safety

And sanity

Choked in winter

By the cold ice

Roasted in summer

By an unforgiving sun

Straggling along

Struggling with the effort

But the day arrives

And suddenly you break free

Triumphant in casting away

Chains that tried to bind you

As your music returns

Streaming through my brain

Opening Day 1967 - Nez

 People who know me know that I love baseball. Growing up my favorite major league players included Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Eddie Mathews, Hank Aaron, Jackie Robinson, Ted Williams, Whitey Ford, Frank Robinson, Ernie Banks, Bob Feller, Stan Musial, Don Newcombe, Roberto Clemente, and Roy Campanella plus several more. Of course, my Lyman neighbor, Niles Jordan was my childhood sports hero. He was a lefty and pitched a little for the Phillies and Indians.

I have seen a lot of baseball games, on tv and in person, but I have only been fortunate enough to attend one, just one, Major League Opening Day game. That was on Monday, April 10, 1967, at D.C. Stadium (renamed RFK Stadium). My day was made. The Washington Senators were hosting the New York Yankees. The marquee players for the visiting Yankees were Mickey Mantle, Mel Stottlemyre and Joe Pepitone. The marquee players for the hometown Senators were Frank Howard and uh… that’s pretty much it. Well, Eddie Brinkman …maybe. Nah. Just Frank Howard. The starting pitchers were Mel Stottlemyre for the Yankees and Darold Knowles for the Senators.

I remember several things about that day, but not much about the game. Two days before Opening Day I won two tickets to the game in a drawing at the NCO club. I called my sergeant and got Monday off. I went to the game by myself. Everybody else had to work. But I didn’t care. I was going to see my all-time favorite major leaguer, Mickey Mantle play, even if it was at first base, not in center field. Mickey and Frank Howard chatted and shook hands near home plate during warm-ups before the game. That was thrilling. And then every single player and manager for both teams was introduced.

I was in a mezzanine level box with twelve seats just above first base. Twelve box seats and I was the only occupant. The game finally started. The box to the left of me was empty. Then a tall man in an overcoat suddenly appeared behind me and stated that he was Secret Service and was with the Vice President. I thought, “What!” and I asked if I needed to move. He said, “No you stay where you are Nesmith. Please don’t bother him though.” Huh? “I do possess an Unlimited Security Clearance, that must have been how he knows who I am”. Moments later, while the Yankees were batting, VP Hubert H. Humphrey entered the box next to me. I stood. He made eye contact, smiled and reached out and we shook hands. He sat down just four seats from me, about six feet away and said, “enjoying the game young man?” “Yes, sir,” I smiled and sat down. There was only a metal railing between us. I wondered if he knew who I was. Probably not.

I noticed the VP and his six-man detail all wore dark heavy overcoats. It was a warm, sunny day. I wondered how hot they were and how fast they could draw their weapons in those heavy coats. I thought to myself I would help if they needed me. They didn’t. And I wasn’t armed anyway.

I never spoke another word. In the fourth inning the VP got up and shook my hand again and said, “I have meetings” and wished me “all the best.” Then as he was leaving an announcement was finally made over the PA system that he was there. The game stopped momentarily as the crowd stood and applauded and he waved. Then he was gone. I turned to find that my own Secret Service agent was gone also. So surreal.

Hey, I was a nobody in the Army and the Vice President of the U.S. was sitting with me watching a baseball game. How crazy is that?! This sort of thing just does not happen. It was so, so, so surreal.

Anyhow, back to the game. Stottlemyre pitched a complete game two-hitter. Yankees won 8-0. Mickey got a hit, a walk, scored a run, and didn’t play after the fourth inning. Frank Howard grounded out, flied out and struck out.

It was actually a pretty great day. When they get the chance every baseball fan should attend at least one Opening Day in their life. I hear they’re quite the spectacle. I need to go to Opening Day again. Perhaps a less daunting one.

Talk about surreal!

Delusional Bullshitter - Nez

 An old Lyman friend, Bill, is a bullshitter. No matter what he’s talking about you can be certain that a significant portion of what he’s saying is just plain “bullshit”. We’ve been friends since childhood and we probably will be until one of us dies. He tells unbelievable whoppers. He “did this” or he “did that”. There might be a grain of truth in there but I learned to take it “with a grain of salt” long ago. Bill lives alone now and during every conversation, which is about once a month, he always talks about the neighborhood women who come by to see him and sit with him the better part of a day and watch wrestling on tv. His daughter, Kelly, who sees him almost daily says she hasn’t seen a single one of these women visitors. So, I let it pass.

Bill was married for over forty-five years to Terri. (Think Rose from Two and a Half Men. Very close.) Terri was very likeable and good people. She cheerfully worked to support the family more than Bill. His excuses for when he couldn’t work were irritating. Suddenly one day Terri had finally put up with too much of Bill’s b.s. and laziness and had found that there was a much nicer way to live and divorced him. It’s a sad story, but here it is.

In 2017 Terri visited her dying mother in hospice about an hour away. She usually went alone after work every day. Bill had flimsy excuses for not going along to visit his long-time and dying mother-in-law. (“She never liked me” or “she doesn’t want to see me,” he whined.) At the hospice place Terri met a man who was visiting his own dying wife. Terri and this man had coffee together a few times and she discovered that he was very different than Bill. She really liked what she saw in this man. They hit it off and after his wife and Terri’s mother had passed he and she dated and he showed her a much better life than she had lived for the past forty-five years. Then he unexpectedly proposed to her. Surprised, she had been under the illusion that they were just having a fling, an affair. But this was more than that. She never expected to marry the guy. They were both in their sixties. This man had fallen in love with her and she with him. So, she divorced Bill and married this guy she met at hospice. He bought her a new car, had a much nicer home than she had ever lived-in and told her to make any changes she wanted or he would buy her a new place. He had the money. (Bill never had money, though he often claimed he did.) She loved the house and made a few minor changes to make it her own. About a year into her new marriage, Terri became very ill. It turned out to be a very advanced massive brain tumor. Bill wouldn’t go to visit or see her (he said he would lose his temper). I encouraged him to go see her, and I told him I understood, but I didn’t. They had forty-five years and four kids together, and she wanted to see him. He didn’t go. She died in four months. The hospice guy/now widower husband who lost two wives in about two years, reached out to Bill and invited him to attended Terri’s funeral as her husband. Bill and his family attended Terri’s funeral together with the hospice husband.

During this whole time Bill called me over and over again crying about Terri leaving him, but he didn’t attempt to get her back. Never made any effort whatsoever. We talked about it and I chided him several times for not doing anything “if he really wanted her back”. Then he called crying about her dying. And then about her funeral. I understand about losing loved ones and I sympathized with him. He talked about more women who wanted to see him. Really dude?!

Sometimes when I call to check on him Bill’s daughter Kelly is there and I get to talk with her. She’s usually pretty open and a lot like her mom was. This is where I learned the whole story about Terri. Kelly told me that when she and her three siblings first learned that their mom was dating another man they were furious. All of them had gone with her at different times to see their grandmother in hospice, but never saw or heard any clues about this hospice man. They couldn’t believe she did that to their dad. Confronting her she explained how different this man was, how he made her feel like a real person, a respected person and how he cherished his time with her. Their dad never did any of that. After some time, the kids forgave their mom. They didn’t abandon their dad either.

Bill’s a little older than me but these days he just seems to be waiting for the grim reaper. He says he’s not but his lack of actions say otherwise. Asked if he’s ready to die he says no, he wants to get his legs (knees) fixed and do things. We all know won’t. He used to be pretty good at basketball. He played and coached recreational basketball for years. Now in his early eighties he can barely get around, even with crutches or a walker because it’s too painful. He watches tv all day, Fox news, NBA basketball, and wrestling are his favorites. He insisted his kids moved his electric hospital-type bed into the living room, so he watches tv from bed all day. He fell out of bed and broke his knee. Kelly said a partial knee replacement was done, but he won’t do any physical therapy. She tries but he whines about his circumstances and won’t do anything. I empathize. He talks again about his women. His delusional fantasy, his reality avoidance.

Bill says I’m his only friend now and I maybe I am. I try to be there for him but he won’t do anything for himself, or even for his kids or grandkids, whom he professes to love to death. He doesn’t talk with his brothers and sisters anymore. Only his kids and whoever calls. As kids we had a lot of fun together, but we don’t have much in common anymore except our old age and childhood, which we talk about and laugh. When I call, his first words are, “Well, who’s died now?” I say, “not you” and he laughs. It’s a game we play while he’s waiting to die. I’ve still got a lot of living to do.

My Sorrowful Army Introduction - Nez

 

On June 30, 1964, I boarded a plane for the very first time. It was a Western Airlines Boeing 707. We flew from Seattle to San Francisco. That was the day I joined the U.S. Army. I was headed to Fort Ord, California for Basic Training. They put a bunch of west coast recruits on busses to Fort Ord, which was between the Salinas Valley and Monterrey. (Fort Ord no longer exists.)

The hour long bus ride quickly took us to Fort Ord. On arrival we were ordered off the bus and into formation. After roll-call we were assigned to our units and barracks and locker numbers and given five minutes to go there and put our stuff in the locker and report back to the formation. The last “recruit” back was given a very loud reprimand. (Thank goodness it wasn’t me.)

We were issued our “flying twenty” dollars which was used for our buzzcuts, boot polish, and padlocks for our locker and footlocker. We were then issued uniforms (two sets of fatigues, two pair of socks and shiny black combat boots, and bedding. We took everything to our barracks and stowed them temporarily in our footlockers and again reported back to the formation either shirtless or in a t-shirt. We did almost everything in formation.

We were “marched” to the infirmary for our inoculations. If you were allergic to eggs, you were taken out of line and into the infirmary separately. Those of us not allergic to eggs stayed in line and through four army medics (two on each side) with what looked like “space” pistols. We were told to “Stop and Do Not Move” and the first two medics immediately ‘shot’ us on each upper arm, and again “Stop and Do Not Move” as the next pair of medics repeated the action. We were given four shots for what we never knew (maybe even experimental medications?). And were never given shot records.

We were “marched” around for thirty minutes to “let the shots take effect.” And to familiarize us with the company area, our home for the next ten weeks. Next we were “marched” to the mess hall, where we stood in formation while our company commander, made a welcoming speech and introduced our training cadre, our “drill sergeants”. Finally, then we had our first mess hall meal and the first “sit down” since getting off the bus. It wasn’t “mama’s home cooking.”

We were awaken at five a.m. the next morning, by a large metal spoon pounding the bottom of a pan by Sgt. Flores, our drill sergeant. He called us to attention in our skivvies in front of our footlockers. Then before we did anything else we had to make our beds as we were shown and repeatedly practiced the previous night, the military way and very tight. All beds had to  look uniform and then we could shower, shave, brush our teeth and get dressed in combat fatigues and be out in formation in thirty minutes.

Our barracks was 2^nd Platoon, Company C and we barely made formation in thirty minutes. We were at attention while our company commander reviewed our platoon. He was not impressed.  We had been at Fort Ord for fewer than twenty-four hours, with fewer than five hours of sleep and we were already being “dressed down” by the ‘man’. Our 1st  fifteen minute breakfast was scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and milk, water or black coffee. That was our most decent breakfast. SOS became the norm.

I had to memorize my Army serial number. I had to memorize my M1 rifle’s serial number and how to dis-assemble and re-assemble it blindfolded. Our drill instructor, Sgt. Flores, taught us the ‘Army’ way of doing everything especially marching. He marched us until we were a precision drill team, and at double-time (running) then he taught us rifle drills until we did them in our sleep. He did everything we did while he sang marching ditties for cadence and did it all running backwards and didn’t break a sweat. We spent a lot of time with Sgt. Flores. He worked us hard, but was really good-natured and fair, always smiling, laughing and telling us stories.

I remember he told us in that WWII he was a teen in the Philippines which was under occupation by the Japanese. He was one of many Phlipino guerillas who killed hundreds of Japanese soldiers with knives and machetes while they slept in their barracks. He loved General McArthur and at seventeen he joined the American army and later became an American citizen. And we would be his last assignment before he retired.

Some three weeks into our training Fort Ord had a Spinal Meningitis outbreak and the whole fort was locked down and quarantined. We kept training, except there was no more double-timing and ten minute breaks every hour. We spent more time at the rifle range for more separation. No one could leave post, and civilians weren’t allowed on post. Worst of all our ‘free’ weekends were spent “on post”.

Our barracks windows were open at all times. Our beds had to be stripped every morning and mattresses turned every day. Trainees were dying from the disease. Men that we had become used to seeing daily disappeared. We slept in bunkbeds and one night my upper bunkmate was removed by medics at about two a.m. and we never saw him again. Others slept with a blanket over their heads to filter the air they breathed. It was pretty scary.

Finally, during week seven the quarantine was lifted and most activities returned to ‘normal’. Except the sick trainees never came back. We were told that our basic training was being cut short, to eight weeks instead of ten. We would wrap things up with a night crawl under concertina wire and live ammo shots above the wire, and run our PT tests the next week. We would have graduation exercises and leave that Friday.

The remainder of that week we prepared for our PT test which included just four events plus the mile run. We ran our final PT test in full combat gear with rifle and backpack in our shiny black combat boots. I ran the mile in less than seven and a half minutes. I was an athlete and I scored well in everything.

I was really glad that no more than six is our barracks had gotten meningitis. We didn’t know if any died. The Army arranged for each of us to fly back home for two weeks and gave us tickets and orders for our next assignment. I went to Fort Devens, Mass. for cryptographer school in September 1964.

 

The Saga of Gloria and Her 1958 Impala - Nez

The family and six of their seven grown kids were neighborly, friendly and charitable Christians. They helped out wherever and whoever they could. Just two years following his family’s membership into the First Baptist Church of Lyman Mr. Aiken was elected Deacon. Immediately everyone in town heard the news and congratulated him. But, his daughter, Gloria, a college student who regularly partied and danced, wasn’t too keen on her Dad becoming a Deacon, knowing that certain additional church expectations would (and did) permeate the household.

Unexpectedly, in March 1958 Gloria dropped college, took a southbound Greyhound to Oregon and moved in with her sister, Mary Ruth and her family. Soon, with a new job, Gloria was partying and dancing as she pleased, without her Dad’s critical oversight.

Jimmy, the middle son, drank and didn’t care much about church.  Anyway, he was given a “pass” on his drinking due of his Korean War injuries. He often drove the family car to the Lyman Tavern, where he spent many of his days and nights. Tolerance was at a pretty high level for most people in Lyman. But of course, a couple of Baptist busybodies thought that having the Aiken’s vehicle usually parked at the tavern was unacceptable for the image of the church. So, the pastor discretely suggested to his newest deacon that Jimmy drive to the tavern in Hamilton instead. It was only four miles from Lyman but would be out of sight of those image conscious Baptists. Mr. Aiken soberly agreed.

So, Jimmy drove the family car to the Hamilton Tavern. He was usually there until closing and drove home drunk many nights. Only four miles, but one night he missed a turn, wound up in a creek, injured and the family car was totaled. Insurance paid Jimmy’s hospital expenses but offered only enough money for a down payment on another car. But Mr. Aiken decided not to go into debt for a new car so he didn’t buy anything.

Gloria, upon hearing that Jimmy had wrecked the family car and was himself hospitalized with injuries, came back from Oregon driving a brand-new 1958 Chevrolet Impala, two-door hardtop. A really nice car, which she had actually won in a dance competition the same night that Jimmy had his wreck. As a token of reconciliation, she offered the Impala to her Dad as the new family car but he wouldn’t accept a “sinful” car. However, after serious and heartfelt discussion with Mrs. Aiken he proposed to Gloria that if she wanted to return home and get a job he “would allow her to chauffeur” her mother and him whenever they needed transportation. Astounded but understanding that her parents needed transportation Gloria accepted her Dad’s terms and returned home. For a while.

A couple of months later, Mike, the oldest son and a Seattle realtor, needed additional agents and decided to hire Gloria. Before she left for Seattle Gloria again offered the car to her Dad and once again he declined. So, with her parents blessing Gloria and her 1958 Impala moved to Seattle.

Meanwhile, Freddy, the youngest son and a Navy veteran, seeing that his parents were again without a vehicle, traded his old pickup as a down-payment and financed a four-door, a 1959 Pontiac Bonneville sedan and offered it to his parents, but with the stipulation that Jimmy was banned from driving it. They graciously accepted.

Jimmy, without a family vehicle went back to the Lyman Tavern and continued drinking.

A few days later Freddy went back to the dealer and re-acquired his old pickup.

Very quickly Gloria, with her 1958 Impala, became a successful real estate agent while still partying and dancing. In fact, Gloria partied and danced her way to realtor of the year repeatedly.