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!

Face by Bob Kaufman

Face was a southpaw, but he wasn't an athlete, so we'll just say he was left handed.

He was a pretty good-looking guy with strong facial features and thick, dark, wavy hair.  I can't imagine he liked that nickname and I have no idea why Willie Ghidossi pinned it on him, except maybe because of those strong features.  But getting a less-than-flattering nickname comes with the territory when you're a new kid in town and you're not a sports superstar. Willie was always doing things like that, when he wasn't throwing me into the sticker bush by the front steps to the high school.

The only credit listed with Face's senior picture in the 1965 Pineneedle, our school yearbook was "PHS-2,3,4, transfer from McGregor, Texas", meaning that he attended PHS for his sophomore, junior and senior years and didn't do much else to stand out from the crowd.  Contrast that list of accomplishments with any of his classmates – Dan Fisher for example: “PHS-1,2,3,4; Block P-1,2,3,4; Football-1,3,4; Basketball-1,2,4; Baseball-1,3,4; Track-1,2,3,4; Student Council-1,4; Chico Student Leaders Conference-4; Class President-2; School Play-4;” and you can see why he was an easy target for some high school antics.  But as I remember, Face was a good-natured, gentle, and kind sort of a guy. It was difficult not to like him. I cannot recall ever hearing him say an unkind word about anyone.

For three years we walked the same hallways and even had a class or two together. Surely, we must have bumped shoulders in a crowded hallway once or twice between classes, although I remember none of it.  But then one day, in 5th period PE class, we spent a few minutes separated by little more than the length of his lanky left arm, which might have been an inch or so longer than mine. That day when we shared almost the same space and time was most likely his fifteen minutes of athletic fame in those three years, maybe even in all of his life.

The Old Gym at Portola High School
I believe this is a Bertha Miller photo
Courtesy of Carrie Neely

Boxing was one sport we experienced in PE, like it or not.  I didn’t care much for it.  During those long winter months when we played indoors, the most fun I ever had was playing pin baseball or dodge ball in the old gym...but that's another story.  Coach made certain we had a wide range of activities in our physical education and that meant we spent a week or two pounding on each other's bodies and faces if we wanted a passing grade.  And, of course, to NOT pass PE would be a disgrace worse than … well I can't think of anything that ranks in the same universe as failing PE, so we boxed a little. Strange how I feared taking a punch in the face more than using any part of my body to stop a 90 mile an hour volleyball thrown at close range by Willie, Dan, or Bunky Brown in a dodge ball game...but I did.

Taken at a home a block east of ours on
Plumas Street. I don't know the kid on the right.

Face and I were paired up for a boxing match in our 5th period PE class in the old gym. I was sort of an athlete, so I guess Coach figured it was fair for me to face an upperclassman that wasn't. He was older, taller, gentle, and nice.  I was macho and mean (right!).  I competed in football, basketball, baseball and track so I guess it was an even match.  At least I had had some experience with physical contact in a less-than-friendly environment.  I finally had outgrown my ninety-eight-pound weakling stereotype.  I must have been a whopping 120 pounds by then.  In short, I think Face was the underdog in this bout, or at least he was the emotional favorite.

We both had to wear the leather boxer’s headgear to prevent any serious injury.  In hindsight, that probably presented a greater danger to our health.  If you could sequence the DNA that had been sweated into those head protectors and boxing gloves over the years, you’d get an interesting list of who’s who from PHS in the 50’s and 60’s.  The smell of the gloves was unforgettable, and remarkably pleasant.

My first time being knocked down.
I think the chicken tripped me.

Face and I went a round or two without doing much harm to one another. But then, in the third round, Face poked at me with a right jab  and I leaned back to avoid contact.

Now, remember he was left handed and I was right handed. He danced like a butterfly with his right foot forward and jabbed with his right hand, saving his powerful left hand for the knockout punch.

I, on the other hand, stung like a bee leading with my left hand and my left foot forward. That's easy to understand. Right?

Face threw a right jab, I ducked back. I don't remember feeling any contact with my face.  If his glove touched me at all, it was completely in character with his gentle nature. Without the benefit of instant replay, I’m sure all the guys watching the match would swear he landed a punch squarely on my only-slightly-experienced-if-not-completely-unexercised-kisser.

As I tried to step back, he stepped on my left foot with his right foot.  Instantly I stumbled backward out of control.  I think it had something to do with the concept of center of gravity that Mr. Popish had taught us in 4th period Physics class just before our lunch break earlier that day.

Philip Cook
1965 Pineneedle

I stumbled backward several steps trying to regain my balance. Unable to get my feet back under me I finally went down flat on my back on the hardwood floor and just missed hitting my head on the padded wall under the basketball backboard. My feet flew over my head and I almost could have done a backward handstand against the wall. But, regaining control, I did a kip up to get back on my feet, just as Coach had taught us in gymnastics. Everybody cheered for Face and I was the unfortunate goat!  That “knock down” was a real crowd pleaser!

I have been “knocked down” only twice in my life that I can remember.  This was the second time.  Immediately I jumped to my feet and tried to explain what really happened, but nobody would have any part of it. The most unlikely athlete had just scored a knock down and that was a better story.  I don't think it made the next edition of “el Tigre”, the school newspaper, but I'm pretty sure the news echoed around the halls for a few days.  “Philip, ‘The Face’ Cook scores TKO against Bobby ‘Bad Boy’ Kaufman in 5th period PE!”  (Nobody ever called me ‘Bad Boy’.  I just made that up. After all, this is a boxing story.)

Philip Cook and his twin sister, Lai Launi were two pretty fine people from the class of 1965. I don't know when or if Willie ever stopped calling him Face, but if he did, I’m pretty sure it was right after he scored that knockdown in 5th period PE class.

Bugs by Bob Kaufman

My good friend, Bugs.

Stan Ghidossi (pronounced “Gid – oh – see with emphasis on the “oh”) is one of a handful of my classmates that attended Portola schools all 13 years from Kindergarten to High School Graduation.  He isn’t in my Kindergarten class picture, but I know he was there that year.  I will never forget the day he raised his hand to get permission to go to the little boy’s room.  I don’t remember if he raised one finger or two, but I know we all laughed when he went through the wrong door and entered the girl’s restroom.  We laughed even harder when he came out. What kindergartner wouldn’t get a laugh out of that?  The restroom doors were in plain view next to the classroom, so we could see everyone coming…and going…so to speak.

I don’t remember how he got the nickname “Bugs”, but I envied him a little for it.  It was a perfect nickname, especially for a kid growing up in a small mountain town.  I mean, if guy yells “Hey, Bugs”, everybody knows immediately who he’s talking to.  Say “Hey, Bob”, and fifteen guys turn around and say “huh?”  Maybe he got the name because he was a little smaller than the rest of us or it might have been a reference to Bugs Bunny.  Whatever the reason, he was Stan to most people, but he will always be Bugs to me.

Bugs’ older brother, Willie, was a year ahead of us in school.  Whatever Bugs gave up in size, Willie made up, and then some.  He made 7th grade a nightmare for me.  From the very first day I tried to enter the front doors of the old high school at the end of California street, I became intimately acquainted with the sticker bush at the bottom of the stairs at the main entrance, courtesy of Bugs’ big brother.  I suppose it would be called bullying today, but back then, it was just part of Junior High School initiation.  I wouldn't call Willie a bully. He was just a big guy who liked to have fun...but he scared me for a long time.

The Old Dam Caddy Corner from Bugs' and Willie's House.
Photo Credit: Unknown

Bugs and Willie lived in the yellow house at the corner of Riverside and North Beckwith streets, caddy-corner to the old bridge and the dam that blocked the Feather River, creating the best ice skating rink in the world…but that’s another story.  How lucky was that?  He could go ice skating anytime he wanted – in the winter anyway – just by crossing the street!

Bugs' Jump Shot
1966 Pineneedle

Bugs was one of the best guards Portola basketball teams ever had, at least during the few years that I played.  I know we had fun on the bus traveling to and from the away games at Greenville, Chester, Herlong, and other such exotic destinations, all schools in the Feather River League. But my best memories of our times together were those we spent in the band room.

Bugs played a baritone horn in the Concert Band and I played clarinet.  Together with Bob Hurd, Pete Thill, and Glenn Hull on trombone, and Rory Luce on the Tuba we had a pretty good ensemble, especially in 7th and 8th grade band. OK.  I’m stretching the truth again.  On the days we spent time in the practice rooms adjacent to the main band room, I’m sure we were girl watching more than we were practicing our music.  You see, some of the practice rooms had windows facing the outdoor entrance to the girls’ locker room, and when the boys had band and shop class, the girls had P.E.   Get the picture?

Bugs was good on the baritone, but he was best known for his skills on the piano.  He was the pianist for the Dance Band for four years from 1963-1966. That first year I was not a performing member of the Dance Band. Mr. Thompson asked me to play the Baritone Sax in evening rehearsals, but I did not play at any gigs.  I didn't mind though. I would jump at any chance I had to play the bari sax. Sometimes the vibration in the mouthpiece from the lower notes would tickle my lips and nose, but it created a cool sound. The next three years I was a performing member playing the tenor and alto sax.

Bugs playing the Baritone.
1966 Pineneedle

We rehearsed either on Tuesday or Thursday nights from 7 to 9 PM.  That made for some long days when we had football or basketball practice after school.  Before we turned 16 and got our drivers licenses, Bugs and I had the best time walking home after rehearsals.  We both loved those good old Neil Sedaka songs from the sixties. You haven’t lived if you’ve never walked down Nevada street at 9 o’clock at night singing at a fortississimo "Do-do-do down doobie-do-down-down, com-a com-a down doobie-do-down-down.  Breaking up is hard to-oo-oo do."?  We had the lungs to do it, and the fog from our warm breath hitting the crisp night air turned into snow that blanketed the town the next morning! OK. I suppose we weren't filled with that much hot air, but once or twice during those years, we must have annoyed the Olsen’s, Rees’s, Ayoob’s, and a few others in the neighborhood with our late night crooning!

Dance Band.
1966 Pineneedle

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do by Neil Sedaka

As good as Bugs was as a singer, his forte was the piano.  He could tickle the ivories better than anyone I knew. No, wait. I forgot about Norma Peterson, but she was a grown up, so that doesn't count – and oh, what a story that is! I remember many occasions when Bugs would play the piano before and after concert band and dance band rehearsals, and he had quite a repertoire of pieces he could play from memory.  When Bugs played these impromptu recitals, many of us would stand around the piano firing requests at him before he could release the foot pedal to muffle the string vibrations from the previous piece.  One of the favorites was Ludwig Von Beethoven's “Bagatelle No. 25 in A Minor for Solo Piano”.  It was many years after the echo of Bugs' renditions had faded from the music room of the old high school before I came to know its more familiar title: "Für Elise". (Heck, I had never heard of a Bagatelle until I Googled it the other day.)

Greg VonTour was in Willie’s class. He was a bit of a character, one who was more likely to help Willie throw me into the sticker bush than to play an instrument in the band. I think it’s safe to say he probably was not given to studying classical music. In fact, I don't recall why he ever would have darkened the door of the band room, except maybe to peak out the practice room windows. But one day in particular, he was with a group of us around the piano. I doubt German was Greg's second language.  They only offered Spanish in those days. So “Für Elise” most likely was not in his vocabulary. This much I do know, it wasn’t in MY vocabulary. And forget about the Bagatelle…. I wonder if even Bugs knew that one. But it was Greg who is immortalized in my mind as the guy who shouted out the one request that I will never forget. I wonder if Beethoven rolled over in his grave when Greg shouted:

The Complete Dance Band

"Play Tinga Linga Linga Too"!


Call it what you will, it matters not. But oh, how I wish I could go back to that music room and hear Bugs play it again, just one more time!

Fur Elise

Update: Had this conversation with Bugs on Facebook today, Aug 2, 2019 (So know you know the rest of the story):

I Wish Don Joy Wore a Size 9 Shoe! by Bob Kaufman

Don Joy wore a size 16 shoe.

OK, so I’m exaggerating again, but he was a big guy compared to me, the skinny 98-pound weakling.  He lived a block up Gulling Street from my house.  We played together a lot when we were kids.  His dad, Irwin Joy, owned Joy Hardware.  The name is a bit misleading.  I only went there to see Don, buy model airplane kits, and later, 45 rpm records…but that’s another story.  Though it does explain why I still call a plumber if I have a leaky faucet today.

We spent many long hours on the kitchen table at the Joy’s home playing Stratego, Battleship and Risk.  In a personal message recently, Don expressed that one of his great pleasures today, fifty or so years later, is playing Strageto with his grandsons, allowing them to move their bombs and flag, leveling the playing field so they could beat him.  When they play Battleship, he lets one stand behind him telling the other where to hit next.  Believe me.  He NEVER extended such a courtesy to me in the 60’s!

We also spent many hours in the basement of the Joy house.  Actually, it wasn’t really a basement.  Their house was on the corner of Gulling and Magnolia where the ground dropped down 20 feet or so to the creek that ran in the gully behind both of our houses.  The front door to the Joy home was on Gulling street.  Go down the stairs in the kitchen, to the “basement”, hang a right and you could walk out the garage door onto Magnolia Street.  In the corner by the garage door Don and his older brother, Ken, had built a huge HO scale model railroad.  If we weren’t running the train, we could be found playing ping pong in the “dungeon” to the left at the bottom of the stairs.  Don was no more kind to me at ping pong than he was at Stratego and Risk.  I remember many summer nights playing Hide and Seek at the Joy house with all the other kids in the neighborhood.  We couldn’t lay on the lawn and do much stargazing, though, there were too many pine trees in the yard.  For stargazing we went to the Hein’s just a few houses away.

Don was a year ahead of me in school, and in my mind, many steps ahead of me on the smart scale.  Maybe he wasn’t a genius, but I leaned heavily on him in Math, Chemistry and Physics.  Don was a good friend and I have many fond memories of the times we shared in the little mountain railroad town of Portola, California in the 50’s and 60’s.  I JUST WISH HE HAD SMALLER FEET!

I had thought for many years that this event happened at the Loyalton football game in the fall of our 1964-65 school year when Don was a senior and I a junior. But checking the 1965 Pineneedle for that year, I see that the Portola Varsity defeated Loyalton 10 – 7 on our home field.  That certainly was the year Willie Ghidossi kicked a field goal in the closing minutes of the game to secure the victory.  Field goals simply weren’t part of the game in those days, so that was an amazing feat (pun intended).  But that, too, is another story.

Willie "The Toe" Ghidossi, Tigers No. 33 Kicks a field goal to defeat Loyalton 10-7, Fall 1964.

Portola at Loyalton, 1975
(Photo Credit: Lance Studebaker)

So, my Don Joy Big Foot story must have been in the Junior Varsity game in the “pasture” at Loyalton
in the fall of the 1962-63 school year.  The 1963 Pineneedle says Portola JV defeated Loyalton 39 – 0.  Why else would Coach Rowden put a 98-pound weakling freshman in at half back?  Our lead was secure enough that there was no risk of losing the game.  Coach called for a Quick 7 (or Quick 4 – after 50 years, I don’t remember which way the numbers went – from left to right or right to left).  I was the left halfback, Don was left tackle.  The Quick 7 was a simple halfback dive over the tackle spot.

I remember the ball punching my gut as I clutched it between my arms.  In that instant, the big guy opened a hole wide enough for a WP diesel engine and I could see daylight to Don’s left.  There was nothing in my view but open field to the goal line about 80 yards away.  In fact, I think there was nothing beyond the goal line for another half mile or so.  I could have run like Forrest Gump!

Coach Rowden

We lost our next two games to Greenville and Herlong and narrowly defeated Chester for the season finale.  I am certain that that one moment in Loyalton was the only time my number was called to carry the ball that year.  As my glorious 80-yard run to pay dirt flashed in my mind, my right toe caught the heel of Don Joy’s size 20 cleats, I went down on my face, got a mouthful of Loyalton pasture and recorded a whopping gain of about 18 inches.

I have always wondered if Coach noticed the ball hitting the ground just before I fell on it.

Portola JV Football Team, Fall 1962

Portola at Loyalton, 1975
Beckwourth Peak in the background.
Photo credit:  Lance Studebaker

The Twelfth Man by Bob Kaufman

Portola Tigers JV Football, 1956-1957
Bill Rees #34, top left
Joe Kaufman, #39, bottom left

Every boy who has ever struggled to put on the pads of a football uniform has had visions of making the big play. In another story about Don Joy’s size 16 shoes, I told of my vision of an 80-yard touchdown run in the Loyalton game sometime in 60’s – a short-lived vision that ended with my getting a mouthful of Loyalton grass after a whopping gain of 18 inches. For most of us, those visions just drift away like a puff of smoke from the score keeper's final gun on a breezy mountain afternoon.

Sometime in the fall of 1956, I was on the west sideline of the old football field doing whatever an eight-year old might do on a sunny fall Saturday afternoon. I was watching the JV football game while sitting on my bicycle as close to the sideline as I could get without getting into trouble. My brother Joe was on the team or else I probably would have been riding my bike in the woods checking chipmunk traps and just kicking up dust. I remember how he would sit on the porch at our old house and polish his cleats and clean his helmet on game day. I’m sure I wanted to go to the game to see if he would get them dirty again.

The Old Football Field and THE HILL
1964 Before the "New" Gym and Science Wing were built
Photo by Carrie Neely

That day, Portola was defending the north goal, facing south with a clear view of Beckwourth Peak, and THE HILL, frequently used in practice on Monday as "incentive" meant to encourage good performance on Saturday ...but that's another story.

Dan Olsen told me recently that the Tigers were playing the Grizzly's from Loyalton. I would never contradict Dan, a Hall of Fame QB from yesteryear who was the Varsity signal-caller that same day, but who missed the play because he was in the locker room getting dressed at the time.

The line of scrimmage was near our opponents 30 yard line.  The teddy bears ran a sweep play around their left end, right in front of a bench full of Tigers. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Big Bill Rees, all 300 pounds of him came off the sideline and flattened the runner, who only seconds before had visions of a 70-yard touchdown run.

For over 60 years, I have had that memory in mind, although like a faded photograph from the good old days, so blurry you cannot recognize any of the faces. I don’t remember anything else about it. Surely, we were penalized for too many men on the field and Bill was ejected from the game for his infraction – definitely a personal foul for unnecessary roughness and unsportsmanlike conduct!

Well, at the Alumni Picnic last month (July 2018), I had opportunity to tell Bill about that memory, and he just laughed and laughed. Then he told me the rest of the story and filled in a little of the detail in that long-since faded photo.

Bill and Kim Rees (Kimberley Lowerison)
PHS Alumni Picnic 2018

Bill said he was playing defensive tackle (where else?) and it seems he thought Coach Rowden had sent in a substitute for him. So, he was hustling to the sidelines, as fast as his 300 pounds could move, trying to get off the field before the Grizzly's center snapped the ball, in order to avoid the penalty. Then he said he must have been mistaken, because the coaches and everybody on the sideline were yelling and waving frantically at him to stay on the field. As fortune would have it, Bill got the message in the nick of time and dug in his heels, creating a trench in the turf somewhat resembling the Marianas. The enemy running back had his vision of a 70-yard touchdown run dashed in an instant. Suddenly, Bill turned, took aim on the bear cub, and mashed him to bits!

Personally, I think it is a better story the way I remembered it. Bill was a legend in my own mind. But, instead of being a hero, the likes of Jesse James, or maybe The Incredible Hulk, I guess he was just plain lucky. Either that, or Coach Rowden had just invented a new and very effective defensive play.

On second thought, I think I am going to have a senior moment and forget our conversation at the picnic.

Here’s to Bill Rees, Portola JV’s Twelfth Man!

The Great Pickoff Play at Third Base by Bob Kaufman

Gary Cole scared the pants off everybody!

Well, that isn't exactly true, nor fair. I should explain.

Gary lived across from the Hein’s a block north of my home on Gulling Street. From everything I remember he was a pretty nice guy.  He was two years ahead of me in school, so I doubt we ever "played together", but I do remember one football game on Gulling street when he kicked a field goal over the power lines...but that's another story.

It must have been the summer of '58.  I was 9, going on 10 years old, in my second year of Little League and had earned a place in the infield playing third base for the Tigers.  Two or three evenings a week we had the wonderful experience of playing ball on the field on the south edge of town surrounded by pine trees so tall that most of the field was in shadows by late afternoon.  A small creek ran behind the fence from center field to right field and then on into town.  I can't imagine a better place in the world for forty or so eight to twelve year old boys to don the uniforms of the Yankees, Tigers or Giants and spend a balmy summer evening playing ball. An occasional trip to the Sierra Valley to play the Sierraville Cubs or the Loyalton Cardinals provided a change in scenery but was no less idyllic than the home games.

Play Ball!

Gary Cole was a Giant.  It said so right on his chest - as if we were clueless and needed a reminder. Over six feet tall at age twelve he was huge!  Pull out the 1964 Pineneedle, his senior yearbook, and you'll see he played football, basketball, baseball and track all four years in high school and was a four-year letterman, probably in all four sports. It was all I could do to keep my 98-pound weakling body in the batter's box when he fired a fast ball from the pitcher's mound just 46 feet away. And it was all our pitchers could do to keep the ball out of the creek when Gary came to bat. The creek angled away from the park from right field to center, so if he pulled the homer to left field we wouldn't have to play with a wet ball.

Conference on "The Mound"

My imagination and memory fail at trying to compose the scenario that placed Gary at third base that evening. His usual presence there was only in passing as he rounded the corner in his typical home run trot. Yet there he was. The only possible way I can figure he was obliged to stop at third base was because we intentionally walked him and another batter or two drove him around the bases.

The Tigers' battery against the Giants was John Work on the mound, and Tom Olsen behind the plate. John threw a couple of pitches to the next batter. Each time, Gary danced several steps toward home, then turned his back to our catcher and walked back to third, strutting just like John Wayne.  Then, after the third or fourth pitch, Tom called a conference at the mound. His plan was to fire the ball to me after the next pitch and we would pick the big guy off when he turned his back.

I was so excited! Imagine me involved in a super pick-off play against the league's most valuable, admired, feared (you fill in the adjective, he was all of those) player. If ever there could be a modern David and Goliath tale, this was it.  We would be the talk of the town for the rest of the summer.  Heck, we probably would become legends in our own time!

We returned to our positions and got set.  John wound up and fired the pitch.

I am certain the Giants won the pennant that year and probably every year Gary played.  Of course, in high school he was on OUR team. He was exciting to watch on the field and on the court.  I think our teams did pretty well the years he played. 

Oh, and The Great Pickoff Play at Third Base, the day we became living legends, the heroes of the Feather River Little League?  Never happened.  John’s pitch was too close to the plate. The batter punched the ball somewhere to the outfield and Gary Cole walked home, strutting just like John Wayne.

Football Action - 1964 Pineneedle

Block 'P' Four-year Lettermen