At The Corner of Quincy and West by Bob Kaufman

The camera of my mind captured many fond memories near the corner of Quincy and West streets during the days and nights of my boyhood in the 1950’s and 60’s. The Kodak Brownie Camera mom and dad gave me for Christmas, not so many. Gordon Hardgrave’s house sat back from the intersection and slightly uphill, tucked in next to the alley to the north, and Roy and Teen Wright’s log-cabin-like house to the east. Across the street – on the west side of West Street – lived the Bedient family. Billy Bedient and I played together a lot during those days. It seems I might have worn out my welcome just a bit because Billy's parents, Bill and Emma, soon gave me the nickname “Nuisance”, by which I am still called by the surviving Bedients to this day … but that’s another story.

Gordon Hardgrave at Home, circa 1958.

I remember nights when we played under the cone-shaped glow of the streetlight. Sometimes, the splintery, wooden light pole was home base for hide and seek or kick the can. Those games were fun, but often, a little more consistent with our boyishness, we would collect small rocks from the gutter, toss them into the dark void above the streetlight and wait for the bats to come darting after them. Anyway, I think that is what we were up to. Unless … I suppose there is a slight possibility we were trying to see who could hit the light with a rock …. Nah! We would never do that!

“Why is there air?”

That question first wended its way into my mind one summer night, likely just after we had abandoned our bat escapade because those flying rodents were getting a little agitated. The Hardgrave’s four-car garage sat closest to the corner. Due to the sloping hill, the back side of the garage roof was easily accessible. The gentle slope of the roof provided a place to lie and gaze at the stars. A large pine tree stood on the corner, shading us from the streetlight. It might have been some other evergreen species, but to me, every tree that had needles was a pine tree. Had I remained at home in my adulthood, I might have become educated on such matters. Nevertheless, in the fifties, our view of the heavens from the garage roof was unobstructed on those dark nights of the new moon, notwithstanding that pine trees were everywhere around our town. Indeed, we lived in the woods.

The Hardgrave Home, 1962.
Photo owned by Dave Hardgrave.
The garage was behind the photographer.

The Hardgrave lawn was terraced, given to the gentle upward slope of the hill away from the intersection. Several concrete steps led from the front yard up to the house at the highest level of their property. The front lawn a dozen feet or so right of the sidewalk sloped about twice the gradient of the garage roof. At the top of the slope was their fenced garden. One end of the fenced area was a pen for Daisy, the Hardgrave’s Muscove duck. The fencing was to keep Daisy from consuming all their fresh homegrown produce. That garden provided me with my first taste of raw peas.

According to Dave Hardgrave, Gordon’s older brother, they won a duck at the Plumas County Fair one year and decided, with an obvious absence of originality, to name it Donald. Then one day, Donald laid an egg, and thenceforth was dubbed "Daisy". Many years after Daisy's demise, Dave once quipped: "Daisy lived quite a long time, I guess, for a duck."

I do not recall having yet learned the concept of relative humidity, but in our little corner of northeastern California, separated from the Nevada high desert by just two or three more mountain ridges, the humidity was often lower than I had imagined. The cold, wet winters with frequent heavy snow, along with what seemed to be regular summer thunderstorms, misled my young mind into believing we lived in a wet climate. It was not so. The sloping grass was cool on those summer nights, and if it was not an allotted day to run sprinklers, the grass would be dry. When we would lie down, if we felt something damp, it was likely to be liquid duck “droppings.” Daisy was good at leaving her marks on the lawn. We had to be careful about that.

Gordon Hargrave at
the Portola Picnic Ground,
circa 1958.

Often, we would roll down the sloped lawn like logs and get dizzy. We could get dizzy by standing and spinning around with our arms extended, but rolling logs was more fun. Once the sky stopped spinning and the dizziness passed, we would just lie there and gaze at the stars. Have you ever lain on the grass on a cool summer evening, gazing into the heavens unobstructed by the moon or city lights? Truly it is a mind-expanding experience.

 

“Why is there air?”

“For that matter, why is there anything at all?”

 

Such was the beginning of my wondering. Surely, it was on one of those summer nights, lying on Gordon’s garage roof or on his lawn, near the corner of Quincy and West, that the Questions of the Soul first began to formulate in my mind and heart as we gazed with wonder and amazement into the heavens.

To be continued….

Turning Points: A Tribute to Mr. Bibb, by Bob Kaufman

Friday, June 3 was graduation day for the Portola High School class of 1966. I was asked to give the Welcome Address that night. I do not recall how that modest honor was bestowed, whether it was determined by faculty or students, but it is a memory I have held with some regard ever since.

The long-awaited night arrived. At 8:00 P.M. the band, positioned on the east end of the old gym, began to play Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance, under the direction of Mr. Ivan Thompson. Two-by-two, we entered from the door on the west, walked down the aisle in the center of the audience, up the steps to the stage, and peeled off to our seats on opposite sides of the stage. I say we walked, but if I have not conflated this memory too badly, I think we must have looked more like zombies doing that step, pause, step pause processional march. I guess they stopped doing that a few years later ... but that’s another story.

Soon the music stopped. The Reverend Alfred Thornburgh offered the invocation, and then it was my turn. Draped in my purple gown and purple cap with a purple and white tassel hanging down over my left (I think) eye, I walked - more human like - to the podium and spoke:

"This is a great moment in the lives of the 34 students up here tonight. We have worked hard and long for this moment, and it is truly a great reward for our work.

High School Graduation has often been called a turning point in the lives of the graduates. This is definitely true for us. We are on the last step before beginning a new type of life -- a life in a world different from the one we are leaving. Most of us will have many changes to adapt to. Some of us may have only a few changes. But this is a turning point in our lives.

It was once said that "The turning points of lives are not the great moments. The real crises are often concealed in occurrences so trivial in appearance that they pass unobserved."

So perhaps there is a better name for this occasion, something that describes it more exactly. But what is that 'something'?

To answer that question, I propose another. Why are we here tonight? Not to be congratulated for merely living for 17 or 18 years, but to receive recognition for our achievements during those years. That we are on this stage tonight is not unique of itself. Others have been here before us and others will come after. That we are here signifies that we have met some of our society's requirements, and are ready to seek our places as adults and to face other requirements of that society.

So tonight we are being recognized -- recognized for our work, achievements, and success. And without the help that you, as parents, teachers, and friends have given us, this occasion would not be so great for us. Without you, we would not have worked as hard, we would not have achieved as much, and we would not have been as successful. Our work is, in part, your work. Our achievements and successes are also yours. And not only do we welcome you to this occasion, but also we thank you for all that you have done for us.

This is truly a great moment in our lives."

Notwithstanding whatever honor it might have been for me to be chosen to speak first on the program, that is not the purpose of this story.

I recall appealing to Mr. Bibb for some help with what I might say in my brief remarks. As he was prone to do, he offered a quote that I could use if I so chose, along with some brief, general instructions. Then he turned me loose to create a draft. I am fairly certain the composition is mostly my own, but I believe there were a couple of revisions before it was completed.

Nearly twenty years later, I had forgotten the source of the quote. I had a vague idea, but it turned out to be wrong. I wrote to Mr. Bibb and received the wonderful letter shown at the end of this story. The quote was by William E. Woodward, Chapter 3, Part 2 of "George Washington":

"The turning points of lives are not the great moments. The real crises are often concealed in occurrences so trivial in appearance that they pass unobserved."

That quote has held great meaning for me in the forty plus years since (note: this was written circa 2008).  I have experienced it both for good and for bad. It has been a significant part of my philosophy and has influenced many of my life choices. I have gratefully passed it on to others who have looked to me for guidance from time to time. It echoes a favorite scripture that I have loved for several decades: "By small and simple things are great things brought to pass" (The Book of Mormon, Alma 37:6).

Even that priceless lesson is not the most significant part of this story for me. On page 3 is a penciled note "Wed. 6th per. 1:52 ‐ 2:40". That was the appointed time when I met with Mr. Bibb in his classroom and rehearsed the speech. I remember sitting near the door in one of those student desks with the arm on the right side (glad I wasn’t a lefty), as he reviewed my composition, with his red pencil in hand. The red circles, underlines, double vertical lines and slashes are his (certainly the only time I was happy to see his red marks on my paper). He accompanied those red prompts with verbal instructions on where to breathe, whether to use a long or short 'A' sound, which words to emphasize with voice inflection and where to pause for effect.

On the evening of graduation, dramatic pauses notwithstanding, it was over in the blink of an eye, but the lesson I learned has endured the compounding of years. I have kept those cards as a reminder of the care and concern of a great teacher who truly had the success of his students uppermost in his mind and heart. He is one of several we were fortunate to pass along the way.

Thank you, Mr. Bibb. In the language of the present generation, "You are awesome!"

I originally posted this on el Tigre circa 2008. Here is some of the conversation that followed that post:

How great you saved this speech all these years! It is clear why you were chosen to give the address Bob. Well done. All of us are blessed to have the wonderful teachers at PHS. Mr. Bibb, in particular, shaped who I am today. I am grateful for this truly great man, teacher and mentor. Thank you for sharing. - Reply posted by Paula Brown (Buerger) (68)

The cards have more character because of Mr. Bibb's red marks! - Reply posted by Bob Kaufman (66)

I remember when Mr. Bibb came to PHS. I was in his first English class. He introduced himself to the class with his officer's sword laying across the desk and announced that we would now study Shakespeare. We studied Shakespeare. - Reply posted by Dennis Miller (59)

Don't you just love his subtlety? - Reply posted by Bob Kaufman (66)

Dang! And I got him after you guys softened him up. <LOL> Has anyone invited Mr. Bibb to the site? I think he'd get a kick out of it. - Reply posted by Bobbie Burdett (Barbara McNeill 65) (Deceased Apr 2, 2014)

Hi Bob: I sent an invitation to Jack again yesterday (I think) to sign up. I think he would really get a great satisfaction out of the site and all the contacts. - Reply posted by Ray Donnenwirth (50) (Deceased Nov 9, 2017)

What a coincidence Ray, I sent him a personal Email yesterday asking him to join...AGAIN. Even told
him you were still smarting from the " C" you got. :>) - Reply posted by Dan Olsen (59)

It is hard to describe Mr. Bibb , in my memories of him he had so many facets to his character, being a staunch ex‐marine now high school English teacher and Jr. Varsity football coach, in class he demanded your best and nothing less, and you better turn in your book reports if you did not want to have that cold stare from those big blue eyes while looking at you over his glasses, he could make your assignment papers light up like a Christmas tree with all those red marks. It seemed like Mr. Bibb and Mr. Rowden were a team. They cruised the halls and checked all the secret spots that students would be with their girlfriend or boyfriend and intentionally embarrass them. He was always at odds with Mr. Willock across the hall teaching history, as we all know Mr. Willock liked to express himself while teaching at the top of his lungs - yelling, ranting and raving and occasionally jumping up on a chair to make his point to the class. This drove Mr. Bibb sometimes to the brink of leaving the class and going over to quiet Mr. Willock. He was also a very fine coach he gave you the incentive to give your best

performance on the field. I remember seeing a side of Mr. Bibb that I had never witnessed before. It was the day President Kennedy was assassinated, Mr. Bibb was very quiet all of a sudden, then he made the announcement to our class after which he sat down at his desk and held his head in his hands and I could see that he was so upset there were tears in his eyes. In closing Mr. Bibb made me want to be a better person and put my best foot forward. So, Mr. Bibb, I salute you and I am proud to say I am a veteran of these United States of America and you were part of that personal foundation in my life. Ralph W. Kelley 67 - Reply posted by Ralph Kelley (67)

UPDATE: Marcy 10, 2021 - News of Mr. Bibb's passing today spread through our social media community like a California wildfire! The tributes and remembrances are many. We will all miss him and are grateful for the guidance we received from him during those precious years at PHS.

I was able to find the letter he wrote to me in response to an inquiry I made of him in the months preceding our 20-year reunion. I asked for the source of the quote that has meant so much to me all my adult life. I wish I had my original letter, but gladly I have his reply:

"Number Please" - A story about connections by Bob Kaufman

I don’t know when Calder and Richard happened by, nor when they went away, but for a brief time in the early 1950’s we were next-door neighbors. They lived in the little house beside ours at the top of the hill on Gulling Street. We always called it “The Little House”. I don’t know why.

The Kaufman House and The Little House
Hidden behind to the left, circa 1960

“I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

“Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

So wrote Charles Lamb. 

When I first heard this, that sentiment pierced directly into my heart and soul. I am certain it has application in both directions through the veils of birth and death … but that’s another story. This one is about the search that had engaged my mind and heart for decades, through the mists of time that have all but obscured the once-crystal-clear moments of earlier chapters of my life. The desire to find two particular old familiar faces stuck with me because of three black and white snapshots, and one very vivid memory of the time when I earned the wrath of “The Operator”. You should ask: “How could a pre-kindergartner possibly provoke a Bell Telephone operator?” Well … you’ll see.

Little Bobby Kaufman and
Richard Hammond circa 1952

The Big Snow hit Northern California the winter of 1951-1952. I was early in my fourth year, and few memories of that time are still visible through the mist. We must have been neighbors by then, but the Hammond family did not stay around town long – only a few years. From time to time over the six decades since those pictures were taken, I have often wondered what became of them, and on some occasions I tried, without success, to locate them.

Western Digital Type 500

The Western Digital Type 500 telephone first became available for consumer use in 1950. But, as with television, electric washing machines, and indoor restrooms, it took time for the Dial Phone to penetrate the small towns and sparsely populated areas of the northern Sierra Nevada mountains. Less dimly than The Big Snow, I remember the meeting all the town’s people attended in the elementary school cafeteria when the Dial Phone was introduced. It was around ‘56 or ‘57. I was older now, and just barely young enough still to enjoy the eight brightly colored tiny plastic telephones all the kids were given as a souvenir that night. There was one for every color in the rainbow, plus black and white. Like some modern weekly pill dispensers all senior citizens have in their cupboard, the phones came packaged in a clear plastic case with a removable lid so we could easily see them on display or take them out and play telephone games – pretending to talk to one another as if we weren’t in the same room. Not many years

hence, we played telephone for real, something we did as often as we could and a whole lot more than our moms and dads cared for. They cared even less when Tennyson called Venison. It was only ten miles, but incurred long-distance charges.

I guess I should tell the story about Tennyson and Venison, two homonymic, but otherwise unassociated words which, surely, have never been spoken in the same sentence in all the world, except by one humorous old-timer that night in the cafeteria, which yet carried the faint aroma of Mrs. Knapp’s tamale pie served at lunch time to all the kids at school. In truth, I really don’t know what was on the menu that day. The cafeteria smelled like tamale pie even on days when she didn’t cook tamale pie.

Bobby Kaufman and Richard Hammond
in our old Chevy at the WP Depot

When they first launched the dial system, the exchange numbers were TE2 for Portola and VE6 for the Graeagle area. On the dial, the prefixes were 832 and 836. Back then, the letters stood for something. The man who was giving the instructions said that TE stood for Tennyson. Just then the old guy in the back of the room stood up and in a heckling sort of way yelled, "What does VE stand for? Venison?" After a good laugh echoed through the cafeteria, the straight-faced presenter said the correct answer was “Vernon”. That name must have been thunk up by someone with very little sense of humor.

Western Electric
Antique Crank Phone

Before dial phones came to Portola, we only made crank phone calls.

“Number Please”. That’s what I heard each time I wanted to call Richard next door to see if he could play. To conjure the spirit in the box, I had to lift the earpiece, stand on my tiptoes, turn the crank on the brown wooden box that hung on the wall a foot or so above my head, and strain to speak into the mouthpiece to give the appropriate response. I do not remember ever getting a chair to make the task easier. Nevertheless, after completing the checklist, even this almost-five-year-old could wake the spirit from her slumber. It was always a woman with a somewhat nasal-sounding voice that answered my call. If I responded with the magic number: “2 9”, after a brief silence someone in the Hammond household would answer.

To connect to the home of “Little Bobby Kaufman” in the days of cranks and nasally operators, Richard would speak “2 2 2, please.” Soon after, the bell in the brown box on our wall would ring, and if it wasn’t wintertime, we would be playing in the yard faster than Superman could change in a phone booth. Although, I imagine that the picture of Richard and me standing on the snow in our front yard was taken some other day. Surely it was not the day I angered the spirit in the box, and by some miracle, lived to tell the story.

Calder and Richard Hammond
Joe Kaufman, in the Kaufman Yard
circa 1952

Before I learned to walk, it was easy to put my foot in my mouth, literally. Somewhere along the way it became possible to do so only metaphorically. By the time I was able to stretch and reach the crank, I was no longer capable of biting my own toe. I am best at metaphorical mouth stuffing and have trouble thinking what to say at times when I come under pressure. That day, when the imprisoned spirit asked: “Number please”, and I quickly responded, “2 2 2”, I had my first experience with a pressure situation and putting my foot in my mouth.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I had given MY number, NOT Richard’s! Immediately I was flustered!

With those antiquated switchboards, whenever I turned the crank, a light flashed to alert the operator. She then would plug a cable into the jack for my line and ask for the secret code number. Once I spoke the number, she would plug another cable into the jack for Richard’s line. Soon we were talking to each other. Somewhat magically, our voices travelled through the wires down the street to the telephone office, through the switchboard and back to our homes. Given that we lived barely thirty feet apart, I think a couple tin cans and a long string would have worked just as well, and there would have been no spirits to anger along the way.

Eva Gufra and Barbara Applegate
At the Switchboard 1955
Bertha Miller Photo [1]

I expect the operator quickly noticed that 222 was busy, and that she could not plug another cable into that jack. I don’t recall what she said, but before she could finish, owing to my agitated state I blurted: “O shut up!” – quite loud actually – totally in character with my propensity for metaphorical mouth stuffing.

Not long after that incident, Calder and Richard moved away, and I never saw them again. But I always wondered where they went. This, then, is the rest of the story where I learned how closely connected our lives had been though we were completely unaware.

Occasionally, over the years I tried to locate Calder and Richard. When in Salt Lake City, I would look for Richard in the phone book. There were probably fifty Richard Hammonds in Salt Lake and the surrounding area. I never thought, even once, to look for Calder. Richards, like Bobs, are a dime a dozen, but Calder is priceless. In my life there has only ever been one Calder.

Sixty-five years or so after being grounded for sassing The Operator, COVID hit the world, and I was grounded once again. During a period of isolation late in May, I thought to search for Calder Hammond. Almost immediately, as if the operator had just plugged the cable into the jack for “2 9”, someone answered!

I searched for Calder Hammond on FamilySearch.org and I found him! He had passed through the second veil three years earlier, in 2017, and his information was now available to the public. One thing led to another and within two days I had corresponded with two of Calder’s daughters – and then, I was given a new magic number. I “turned the crank” on my mobile phone, punched in the ten-digit number, and Richard answered! I would have asked if he could come and play, but he lives seven hundred miles away. Instead, we reminisced about those carefree days in Portola, what little we could remember of them. It seems I had forgotten that we caught pollywogs together in the creek that ran in the gully behind our homes. Mom’s mason jars were good for more than just canning fruits and jams. We filled them with bug-infested creek water and pollywogs, added a few leaves and other green things. Then we put the jars on the porch. Before long, the pollywogs lost their tails, grew some legs, and little frogs were hopping out of those jars! I imagine that led to another grounding sentence. I was delighted to be talking to my long-lost playmate! Richard too, was tickled to have received a call from “Little Bobby Kaufman”.

 

The advent of social media has put tin cans in all our hands, and taut strings connect to other tin cans anywhere in the world. Richard and I could not have imagined such things when we were catching black, slippery, wiggly pollywogs in the creek. I have learned that we all share connections to others – kindred spirits, friends we never knew we had – others whose paths crossed ours, however briefly, perhaps long ago, or even long, long ago. In the end, I must confess that we are all brothers and sisters in more ways than we know.

I learned that Calder, his dear wife, and Richard all were members of the Tabernacle Choir for several years. A handful of times during those years, I sat in the Tabernacle on Temple Square and my childhood neighbors were in the choir seats, close enough to connect with tin cans and string. Their voices, combined with many others, produced that glorious music that I love dearly. There they were, right before me, in plain sight, and we were clueless. Two of Calder’s daughters, Carolyn and Melinda, are now members of the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square, anxiously awaiting the day when they can sing again. I, like they, have been agonizing the loss of music and anxiously await its return. Until then, I look for them in every recording I watch, and rejoice when I see their faces in the Alto section.

Richard and Calder in front of The Little House
On Gulling Street, Portola, Summer2013

In the summer of 2013, while Calder was still able to travel, Calder, Richard, and their families visited Portola and Graeagle, places which “formed some of [their] happiest boyhood memories”. Among other places, they stopped at the top of Gulling Street on the north side of town and took a picture in front of The Little House. No more than a week later, Claire and I stayed several days in Portola, for the annual Alumni Picnic. Oh, how I wish we had been there just a few days earlier! As with everything else in town, those houses where we lived and played have changed significantly. But then … so have we.

John, Elliott, Don Kaufman and 
Cousin Jamie Kaufman in front of The Little House
Summer 1986

Ever so slowly, spring 2020 morphed into the hottest and driest summer on record for the Phoenix area. September came, and Claire and I were able to hit the road for Salt Lake City to escape the heat, to visit my niece, and hopefully to see some fall color. My discovery from late in the spring had almost slipped from my aging mind. Suddenly, somewhere on I-15 north of Cedar City, I remembered Richard! He lives in Salt Lake. I can see him! Soon, we had engineered a meeting for lunch a couple days later. It happened to be on my birthday. When we arrived at Little America, we found a private room full of the Hammond family!

What followed was a delightful couple of hours reminiscing, and visiting with friends we didn’t know we had – kindred spirits from a time before pollywog hunting, before The Big Snow, before crank phone calls, before all that. We talked about Portola, The Little House, music – the language of heaven, Calder’s bittersweet passing. We even enjoyed lunch and dessert … oh wait … we skipped dessert. 

Richard and Bob
September 14, 2020

It was a day of tender mercies. I felt the sentiment expressed by Juliet Ashton in her letter to “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society”, one of our favorite movies:

“Without knowing it, I feel I’ve been searching for the old familiar faces for many years now, and can’t quite account for why I recognize them as yours. But I do.”

“Do you suppose it is possible for us to already belong to someone before we’ve met them? If so, then I belong to you, or you to me. Or me simply to the spirit I found among you…. That is as good a definition of family as any I know.”

That would have been reward enough for having waited over six decades to be reunited. But my joy was not yet complete. Before we set course for our separate ways, four present and former members of the Tabernacle Choir and the rest sang Happy Birthday to me, there in that banquet room in Little America! Few people can say they ever received such a birthday present.

To Richard and Suzanne, Joyce, Melinda, Carolyn and Derek, I will quote Juliet Ashton again.

“Thank you for sharing the story of your family with me, and for sharing [Calder]. Though I did not get to meet him [again] myself, I feel keenly how [his] life has changed the arc of my own forever, in ways I am only just beginning to discover.”

I went in search of childhood friends and found connections that extend much further back in time.

When Alma encountered the Sons of Mosiah after years of separation on their missionary journeys, what added to his joy was that they were still his brethren in the Lord. I expect Calder and my brother Joe had a joyful reunion a few years ago. Still, another reunion awaits somewhere down the road. I expect it will be without the use of cranks and dials – not even tin cans and string!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Footnotes:

[1] The image of the operator shows Barbara Applegate, mother of my classmate and old friend, Dave Applegate. I wonder if she might have been the "spirit in the box". It would be fun to think so.

This image was posted in 2008 on our PHS site at MyFamily.com by Carrie Neely, daughter of Bertha Miller. A friend, Dolores Schuetter, PHS class of 1961 posted this comment:  "I also remember the crank telephone on the wall in the kitchen. Whenever I needed my mom (at work) I would crank the phone and say: "I want to talk to my mom" and I would be connected. Also remember the party lines."

I expect "The Operator" knew a whole lot more about us kids than we knew about them.

 

Melinda, Joyce, Carolyn, Bob, Richard, Claire, Suzanne

Joyce, Melinda, Derek, Carolyn, Bob, Richard, Suzanne

The Summer of My Discontent! by Bob Kaufman

Stan Ghidossi's Wood Pile 2019

My friend, Stan Ghidossi, posted this picture on Facebook, November 16, 2019. Reading his post took my mind back to “The Summer of My Discontent!”

I remember vividly the summer, probably 1964 or '65, when Dad ordered a truckload of logs delivered to the vacant lot across the gully from our house. It was my task to turn the logs into firewood for the coming winter, load the finished product into the bed of Dad's '56 Chevy pickup, and transport the load to the woodpile in our front yard. These were not Lincoln Logs. At the big end, some were about four feet in diameter, certainly longer than the 36" guide bar of Dad's biggest chainsaw. Like slicing a carrot, I cut those logs into pieces short enough to fit our fireplace. No summer before nor since have I been so intimately acquainted with a chainsaw as I was then. Perhaps a close second was a few years earlier, 1958 I think, when lightning struck and destroyed the big tree on the corner of Plumas and Pine Streets...but that's another story.

Dad Sawing the Tree
Destroyed by Lightning

(Oh heck! Why not?)

When that lightning bolt jolted into my life, shattering parts of that ill-fated tree and cutting a spiral rift from top to bottom, I was at the street corner by the telephone office, just a short diagonal city block away, returning from a trek to Leonard's Market, toting groceries in a paper bag that felt like it could not hold intact for one more block's walk in the deluge. I think I may have sought shelter from the rain, pausing momentarily under the veranda at the entrance to the office. You know how a paper grocery bag silently rips apart when it gets wet, especially when it is full of bottled or canned goods? Well...how that wet paper bag didn't disintegrate, scattering the groceries all over the phone office parking lot and shattering the bottles, when I jumped, is a mystery. I do not remember having to break into my piggy bank for funds to replace the groceries, so it is possible that Marge had double-bagged them to ensure a successful delivery.

Mom Helped

When the time came to make firewood from that tree, I was too young to be trusted with running the chainsaw, so my duties were confined to gathering, loading, and unloading the log disks, and splitting them into fuel. There must be a mountain-dweller’s name for those log disks, but I’ve lived in the desert now for nearly a half century, so if there is one, it has floated away from my mental archive like the smoke from all those logs I made into firewood and burned in the old fireplace.

Both summers of my discontent I found myself wishing that Dad would buy one of those gas-powered log-splitters to make my life easier, something he did, finally, after I had migrated to the desert but too late for me to get any pleasure from running it. Actually, it is good that he didn’t buy that work saver. If he had, I would have remained a Casper Milquetoast, never having completed the physical training I needed to become the football superstar I was that fall! Nevertheless, those pre-log-splitter summers were my opportunity to learn that I NEVER wanted to make my living using a sledgehammer and wedges!

(Truthfully, by Thanksgiving that year, I had also learned I wasn't going to earn a living on the gridiron either.)

Dad Posing, I Think

Despite the difficulty of such hard labor, it is strange how the memory of the sights, sounds, and smells of making firewood in that vacant, sagebrush-covered lot, are pleasant to me, so many years agone. Pining for the aroma of sawdust and fresh-cut chips of Douglas fir ejected amidst the smoke exhaust of the chain saw; the wood pitch that stuck to everything attracting dirt and turning black; the clink of the sledgehammer hitting the wedge; the crackling of the wood fibers ripping apart as the log splits; the soft scent of the sagebrush, dampened by a gentle rain the night before; all make me wish, for a moment at least, to return to the mountains!

Perhaps again, in June, I shall return, roll up my sleeves and pant legs, and wade in Gold Lake one more time.

Dear Bugs, where were you during The Summer of My Discontent?

Firewood Was a Basic Necessity!

The Daring Rescue at Squaw Queen Creek by Bob Kaufman

I remember vividly the moment I saved Glenn Hull’s life. Everything else that day is just a blur.

1965 Basketball

Glenn was unquestionably the best all-around athlete in the class of 1966. A few guys might argue that point, but they’d lose. Being the best in Portola isn’t necessarily saying a lot, but if I recall correctly, Glenn did have some success after high school. While he wore the PHS Tigers uniform, he played football, basketball, baseball, and track all four years. He was a four-year letterman and a Feather River League Allstar in football both our Junior and Senior years.

According to the program for the Westwood basketball game, January 22, 1966, Glenn stood 6’2” tall – nothing remarkable, but he had long arms and a vertical leap better than anyone around. He could hold his own on the basketball court with opponents from Quincy and Greenville who boasted a towering 6’8” on the event programs. Sometimes they fudged the numbers a bit, I think, trying to get into our heads, but these guys looked every bit that tall, or taller. That was especially true of a couple of games where Glenn was suspended and I, John Hein, and a few other sub-six-footers were called on to play center for the Tigers. I saw a clip once showing a tall giant of a guy, standing flat-footed, holding a basketball in one hand with his arm straight up, and five little guys running around, trying in vain to jump and take it away. We were those little guys. To say it was hopeless is an understatement!

Fall 1965 Football

Glenn was a pretty nice guy…most of the time, but he chose to be ornery on occasion. For mouthing off to Coach Wise near the end of football, he was suspended at the beginning of our final Varsity Basketball season. After losing the first four games by a combined score of 246 to 152, including back to back games against the Quincy Trojans who outscored us by 57 points (remember the 6’8” giant?), Bob Hurd and I cornered Glenn and persuaded (begged) him to apologize to Coach so he could come back and try to salvage our season. Glenn capitulated and apologized. In the remaining 14 games he averaged 22 points and 16 rebounds per game to lead the team. Even with Glenn on the roster, though, we were small. Coach Donnenwirth’s parting words in the Pineneedle were: “The team was lacking in height but not in spirit as it turned in many outstanding efforts during the season.” That’s how coaches sugarcoat a 4 and 14 season. What he really meant was we got our rear ends kicked, but we tried hard.

And that's not all he said. He closed his message by saying "Six seniors will be departing from the present team, but the juniors showed great improvement during the season and should form the nucleus of a contending ball club for next year." Dang, I hate it when they say "Wait till next year." Thanks a lot, coach. For us there wasn't a next year!

1966 Basketball

Glenn’s orneriness didn’t stop at badmouthing Coach. He knew I always wanted to wear jersey number 14, no matter what sport. I was born on the 14th, and somewhere along the way, 14 became MY number. I managed to get it for football and basketball that year, but before the start of baseball season, when Coach Cimaglia was handing out uniforms in the boys’ locker room, Glenn muscled his way ahead of me in the line and deliberately grabbed number 14 before I could get it. Now, mind you, I had no sense of entitlement in the matter. He did it just for spite and wouldn’t give in when I tried to persuade (begged) him to trade with me. So, for baseball, I wore number 15. I’m still mad at him about that – maybe…. Come to think of it, most likely, I was able to wear number 14 for basketball because of his suspension – maybe….

I saved Glenn’s life, and for that, I had to wear number 15! Is there no justice in the world?

Well…perhaps there is. It’s time to rewind the video tape.

The Daring Rescue at Squaw Queen Creek happened four years earlier, near the end of the eighth grade, before any of us superstars in the class of 1966 took the fields, stormed the court, or ran the track in a Tigers uniform. Notwithstanding his athletic prowess in high school, in the eighth grade, Glenn could not swim. Completely in character with his machismo, he would never admit that to any of us guys. But then one day, in the heat of battle, we discovered Glenn’s Achilles Heel was aquatics.

Our eighth-grade band class was a wonder to behold. We boys made for an interesting ensemble:  Bob Hurd (aka "Turo"), Pete Thill, and Glenn Hull – Trombone; Rory Luce – Tuba; Stan Ghidossi (aka “Bugs”) – Baritone Horn; Bob Kaufman – Clarinet. I think I was the black sheep in that group of brass players.

Our music teacher, Mr. Ivan Thompson, who also taught seventh and eighth grade English, had a tradition of taking the boys from eighth-grade band class on a camping trip out in the wilderness – without our instruments. Notwithstanding our instrument-less-ness, we took our vocal cords wherever we went and made good use of them riding through Clover Valley in the back of Mr. T’s pickup singing:

“I got a gal named Bony Maroney.
She’s as skinny as a stick of macaroni.
Oughta see her rock and roll with her blue jeans on.
She’s not very fat, just skin and bones.
But I love her, and she loves me,
And oh, how happy now we can be
Makin’ love underneath the apple tree.”

I Got a Gal Named Boney Maroney, by Sha-na-na

Glenn Hull, Class of 1966

Yeah. Glenn taught us that song. Can you imagine six eighth-grade boys riding through the woods in the bed of a pickup truck singing that one? Better that than dancing to it with a girl at a sock hop. That gig didn’t launch any stellar music careers, but a half-century later, I did make it to the grand stage in Carnegie Hall…but that’s another story.

On Squaw Queen Creek, somewhere before the confluence with Little Last Chance Creek, was a swimming hole, guarded on every side by the tall willow bushes that grow along all the creeks and rivers up home. We once played a basketball game in Westwood where the court was so short the top of the Free Throw Circle was only a couple feet from the mid-court line. This swimming hole was no more than half the size of that half court.

On the west end of the swimming hole was a huge round boulder, protruding high enough above the water to make a small diving platform, but low enough that you could almost sit and dangle your feet in the water. There might have been a small patch of wild grass on the side of the creek, but at best, it was a soggy bog. The only sure way to exit the swimming hole was to climb up the rock. It wasn’t much of a climb, but it was slippery when wet and only had a few handholds we could use to pull ourselves up and out of the water. Three or four boys could sit on that rock and just barely bump elbows. I don’t know how high Glenn could reach in a vertical leap in the eighth grade. None of us had yet finished growing, but that swimming hole was deeper than that – deeper still by the height of one more thirteen-year-old. I know because many years later, Turo told me so. The water was dark and murky. I was only able to see a couple of feet below the surface.

To get to Squaw Queen Creek, we had to drive to Beckwourth, then take the Beckwourth to Genesee Road up to Clover Valley, cross over into Dixie Valley for a few miles and then hang a left to follow Squaw Queen Creek into Squaw Valley (not ‘the’ Squaw Valley loved by skiers). It might have been 25 to 30 miles away from town, but it was all dirt roads from just a few miles north of Beckwourth. I’m sure driving time was an hour or so, especially with boys in the bed of the pickup. It was a remote area. Still is today. It was the perfect place to get away, if nothing went wrong.

There we were on that rock – Glenn, Turo, me, and a couple others. Given that Rory, Pete, and Bugs were the only other candidates, it should be easy, but I simply do not remember who else was there.  Somebody asked if we all could swim. Everyone answered yes. A couple guys jumped in followed by Glenn. Suddenly the water was splashing and churning like it was full of piranha on a feeding frenzy! Glenn’s arms were flailing around as he tried to get his head back above water. The only other time I remember his arms waiving around so vigorously was during the 1965 Quincy football game when he was open in the pass pattern, but our QB, Mike Nally, was desperately trying to run away from a couple of Quincy’s defensive lineman and ended up with a mouthful of grass and a ten yard loss right in front of our bench – and a screaming Coach Wise.

The noise around the swimming hole was almost as loud as Coach’s screaming. During the commotion, Turo jumped in. I stayed on the rock, trying, but failing to grab hold of Glenn’s arm. Turo disappeared into the turbulent water for what was probably only fifteen seconds or so but seemed longer than one of Mr. T’s English classes.  His arms still flailing, Glenn drifted closer to the rock, and his head popped above the water. My reflexes were too slow for me to catch his arm, and his hair was just too short. In desperation, still having not seen Turo come up, with my right hand, I clinched Glenn’s ear! Holding on for dear life (not sure whose), it must have been enough to keep him safe until the others could get out of the water and help pull him up.

Pete Thill, Glenn Hull, Glenn Schwartz

Hearing Hurd tell the story decades later, one would think he thought he was the hero. I mean, he said he jumped in, but Glenn grabbed him and was pulling him under. With considerable effort he managed to break free from Glenn’s grasp. He sunk down, and standing on the bottom, he  grabbed Glenn’s legs and started pushing him up and toward the rock. All I remember is my hand clutching Glenn’s ear…and then singing Boney Maroney in the back of Mr. T's pickup the next afternoon. Everything in the middle is gone. But, I can still see Glenn’s face while we were singing. When he was being goofy, we all had a lot of fun!

Forty-five years later, at our 40th class reunion in the Log Cabin, Hurd and I were joking with Glenn about the rescue. He said he did remember the event, and in his goofy way said, "Yeah, and I haven't been swimming since!"

A few years ago, during a reunion as several of us gathered around a fire to reminisce, in the clear night air at River’s Edge RV Park in Clio, under the canopy of his trailer, Hurd said there was one casualty that fateful weekend. As he told it, a few hours after his daring rescue, we were all laying around the campfire in our sleeping bags when a lizard scampered toward the fire, jumped in, and was burned to a crisp. Sadly, that image did not stick in my memory. If my brain had been able to retain three images instead of two, definitely I would have wanted the third to be the fire-roasted lizard.

Great Hands, Bob! by Bob Kaufman

Google "great hands" and you'll quickly find a list of web links and an array of images depicting a variety of seemingly unrelated topics: physical massage, tattoos, potter's wheels, football, baseball and basketball players doing their thing, and even a hockey player picking his nose.  If "ball" is anywhere in the name of a sport, the successful players must have good hands. The superstars have great hands.

T-38 Flight Line, Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

T-38 In the Overhead Traffic Pattern,
Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

During my days in the cockpit, the best pilots were sometimes called "good sticks" referring to the stick we held in our right hand to control every movement of the aircraft. With throttles in our left hand and the stick in our right hand, it was also said of those who were the best pilots, usually with some envy, "he has great hands".  I was first in my class of 70 or so student pilots for most of our year in training. When our follow-on assignments came near the end of training, I had earned first choice. I graduated 4th in my class...but that's another story.

I had pretty good hands.

Capt. Bob Kaufman, Boomer Flight IP,
Williams AFB, Arizona 1974

On the other hand, there was "ham hands".  Walking through the hallway of the T-38 squadron building one day I observed a small crowd of student pilots listening to one of their comrades telling a "war" story about his heroics during the mission he had just completed. While performing a routine entry to the overhead traffic pattern - a maneuver that required a simple, level 60-degree bank turn to line up with the runway at an altitude of 1500 feet AGL (above ground level) at a comfortable 280 knots airspeed - this magnificent young airman somehow rolled his flying machine inverted (upside down), crossed through the final approach corridors of two active, parallel runways and almost "bought the farm" in a cotton field a few miles southeast of the runway.  Miraculously, ham hands recovered from his very unusual attitude, crossed back through the other traffic on his return to the prescribed pattern, and eventually landed safely and lived to recount his heroics to his fellow students in the snack bar. During his heroic narrative he used the phrase "great hands" in reference to his safe recovery.  Its a wonder how he didn't break his arm patting himself on the back. I was not his IP (instructor pilot) so I bit my tongue and walked away.  Discounting possible mechanical failure, only the worst of pilots could ever get such an unusual attitude in a perfectly good airplane. Nah, that’s too nice. I can’t imagine how even the worst stick could do it. This guy was awfully @#^$%* lucky! (Colorful military metaphor censored!)

So, there I was, in right field, Spring 1965, my junior year in high school playing for the PHS Tigers baseball team.  That was a few years after they had completed the new football field which is now called Coach Bob Wise Memorial Stadium.  The old football field would later become the baseball field, but at that time we did not have a suitable baseball field anywhere in town.  Instead, for home games we rode the bus to Graeagle and played on the gravel field surrounded by Tomahawk Trail, just up the hill from highway 89 in the middle of town. (Later I mention the "dugouts" at that field, but they were no more than telephone poles, laid horizontally on some footings, which we seldom used because, frankly, they hurt our butts!)

Portola Tigers High School Baseball Team, Spring 1965
Graeagle Baseball Field
1965 Pineneedle

Bunky Brown played center field.  He had the strongest arm of anyone in the county and his skill at the plate was everything you would want in a strong center fielder.  On the other hand, my ninety-eight pound weakling arm had improved just a little…very little, from Little League…but I had quick feet, good judgement, and quick responses so I was able to cover a lot of ground and run down some tough fly balls. I wanted to play center field but nobody was going to replace Bunky until he graduated. (I did make to center field in 1966!)

Mr. Cimaglia's Coach's Message in the 1965 Pineneedle said:  "The outfield was manned by Brown, Grant and Fisher".  They were all seniors.  But I must have done something right because coach also said: "The 1965 baseball season can be summarized in the score:  Portola 2, Lassen 0.  The Tigers beat Lassen in the last game of the year to knock the Grizzlies out of first place.  Stalwart pitcher Ed Cavaille performed masterfully on the mound.  Portola scored on consecutive hits by Nally, Kaufman, Hull, and Ed Cavaille."
(Mr. Cimaglia always called me "Coffee" or maybe it was "Kaufee". However you spell it, I really liked that.)

Coach Armando "Mando" Cimaglia's Message
1965 Pineneedle

Make a note of that.  It is in print for all to see.  I actually contributed to the most important game of
that year...but this story is about the Greenville game.  We were scalped by the Indians 14 - 7.

In one of the late innings, Greenville had two out and I think a couple of men on base.  Their batter hit a routine fly ball to shallow right field...and it would have been a routine catch not worthy of being mentioned ever again except that, belying my previous statement about good judgement, at first, I started moving to my left and back.  Then I realized the ball was going to drop well in front of me. Quickly I dug in with my left foot, changed course, and scrambled forward.  At the last instant, with both arms outstretched, I dove head-first onto the gravel, landing on my forearms, kicking up a cloud of dust like an Arizona monsoon.  I closed my glove a split second early and the ball landed on the crease between my thumb and fingers.  Because I was engulfed in that cloud of dust, absolutely no one at the field but me knows for sure what happened. However, the umpire, showing somewhat uncharacteristic good judgement, (something umpires seldom do when you're losing), ruled it was an out.

I trotted toward our "dugout" on the third base side, passing the first base dugout where the Indians were on the warpath, whooping and hollering and complaining they had been cheated out of a few more runs...as if 14 to 7 wasn’t enough of a massacre. You would have thought the game was on the line by their reaction.  All the Tigers had to say was "Great hands, Bob!" (A few might have said “great catch”, but that wouldn’t fit the story, so I’ll pretend I’m right.)

Truthfully, it was a catch.  The ball never hit the ground.  Instant replay would not have overturned that call. Just like that ball stuck in the crease of my glove, that mental image of the ball resting there has stuck in my memory for more than fifty years!

The next day in Mr. Rowden's math class, I sat with my elbows on the desk and both hands in the air, like a doctor waiting for his assistant to put on his surgical gloves, to keep my scarred and scabbed forearms off the desk.  Oblivious to my heroic play the previous day he said something totally in character like: "What happened?  Did you trip going down the stairs?"  Didn't he know he was in the presence of a superstar with great hands?

I don’t know if I had a girlfriend at the time.  I hardly did, ever, so probably not.  But if I did, she would have been impressed even if Mr. Rowden wasn’t.  And she would not have known that I was a hero, basking in my fifteen seconds of fame, only because I misjudged a routine fly ball...and I certainly wasn’t about to admit it!