I'm From Portola. Period! by Bob Kaufman

On June 2, 2010 at Comerica Park in Detroit, Michigan, Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga became the 21st pitcher in Major League history to throw a perfect game...almost.   Galarraga retired the first 26 Cleveland Indians batters he faced and needed only one more out to achieve perfection. The Indians’ 27th batter was Jason Donald. With the count at 1-1, Donald hit a routine ground ball to second base. It looked like an easy out. Galarraga circled toward first base to take the throw, but his bid for baseball immortality failed when first base umpire Jim Joyce, arms flying out to each side as if he had just attacked two invisible assailants with sideways karate chops, signaled that Donald was safe at first base.  I was watching the game live on TV and could see clearly that Donald was out by half a stride.  Everybody in the world knew it.  I wasn't a Tigers fan but who wouldn't cheer for someone who had just thrown a perfect game?  I started to cheer and stopped midway when Joyce signaled "safe", almost straining some critical muscles in the aborted effort.  Galarraga did everything necessary to earn the glory but instead finished with a one-hit shutout in a 3–0 victory.  He faced 28 batters and threw just 88 pitches, 67 strikes and 21 balls, striking out three batters.  That game is sometimes referred to as the "Imperfect Game."

Amando Galarraga's Imperfect Game
The Imperfect Game - Longer Version

Rather than achieving every pitcher's dream, Gallaraga's otherwise perfect achievement is just a footnote in baseball history.  If ever he tells his grandchildren about it, he can't just say "I pitched a perfect game." He is forever consigned to adding a footnote to explain what really happened.  Invariably that will open a lengthy conversation that will interest absolutely nobody.

I HATE FOONOTES!

The intersection of Gulling Street and Highway 40A, 1952.
Photo by Alice Olinghouse (Walker), PHS Class of 1967

When I left home in September 1966 to begin my first year of college, I quickly learned that "Portola, California" as an answer to "where are you from" is an incomplete statement without a footnote.  Sometimes I wished I had grown up in San Francisco, or better yet, Los Angeles.  I envied those who could simply answer: "L.A." It is so compact, efficient and complete! You don't have to say another word after that.  On the other hand, "I'm from Portola" must always be followed by "It's about 50 miles northwest of Reno.” … "No.  You're thinking of Portola Valley.  That's in the Bay Area on the peninsula near San Francisco where there's fog, smog, congestion and lots of weird people.  My hometown is in the mountains on the east side of the state where the air and water are clean and pure, everybody knows everybody else and we don't even have a stop light in town.  In fact we could leave home, forget to lock the doors and return to find everything just as we left it...except if we left the water running on the lawn, a neighbor surely would have turned it off before it started running down the street."

But who would be interested in that?

Portola's Traffic Light
Portola Reporter Photo, 2004

Somebody did “borrow” my sister’s car one night when she left it running in front of the Portola Theater for a minute or two, and went in to help Jolene, who was taken ill.  When Carol went back out of the theater, her car was nowhere in sight. An hour or so later, it mysteriously showed up half a block down the street from our house, with a little less gas than when it disappeared.  Even car thieves in my hometown could be trusted not to do any real harm!

Beyond that one-car-theft incident, any attempt to compare Portola with a big city is complete balderdash at best, and at worst, an insult to the proud country folk who lived and grew up there.

In 2004, thirty-eight years after I left home for the city, they ruined everything and finally put a stop light at the intersection of Gulling Street and the highway, right smack dab in the middle of the north side of town…but that’s another story.

A few years ago, I learned that my grandfather - dad's natural father who I never met, who last contacted the family in the mid 40's some twenty or so years after he first disappeared - died near Los Angeles in 1953 when I was barely five years old.  If life had turned out differently, I might have lived near him and could have realized my dream of being able to say, "I'm from L.A." Period!

With my luck, the next question would have been "Which part?"

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 Day Dad and Humpy Got Lost in the Woods (And I Rescued Them!) - by Bob Kaufman

Once upon a time I was about five years old...and I was good at it. I definitely had a child’s imagination.

Me at the front door.
The Big Snow of 1952

In hindsight, a commodity which I now possess in abundance, it was the best place in the world to grow up, but life was difficult in my home town of Portola, California, situated in the Plumas National Forest in the northernmost region of the Sierra Nevada Mountains of eastern California. I read somewhere that winters in the 1940's through the 1960's, though not necessarily colder, were much wetter than recent decades. It seemed to me we had a lot more snow in those good ol’ days.  I don’t suppose that perception has evolved because I have lived in the desert for almost half a century since leaving home.  Locals might argue with me on this notion, especially after the winter of 2019.

The Sierra Nevada Mountains - Wikipedia

The most memorable winter was the winter of 1951-52 when we had ten feet of snow in town.  Nearly 65 feet of snow fell on Donner Summit that year and the snow pack reached 26 feet, the greatest depth ever recorded there.

City of San Francisco passenger train stranded on Donner Pass, January 13, 1952

Reign of the Sierra Storm King: Weather History of Donner Pass

The severe winters made it necessary for us stockpile firewood every summer. Getting firewood was a LOT of work.  I remember one summer when I was a teenager dad ordered a logging truck load delivered to the vacant lot across the gully from our house. Some of those logs were more than three feet in diameter. I spent a good part of that summer becoming very familiar with a chain saw, sledge hammer and wedges…but that's another story.

Dad cutting the big tree
that had been struck by lightning.

Another time, a lightning strike destroyed the huge pine tree across the gully on the corner of Plumas and Ridge streets. We only had to go a block away to find our wood that year, but our work was still cut out for us, so to speak. Ah, but you couldn’t beat escaping from the cold and sitting in front of a blazing fire in the fireplace on a winter evening - the reward for a summer of hard work. I remember gazing through the double-pane storm windows in our living room watching the snow fall in our yard and on the street.

Like the headlights of a car on a foggy mountain road, the vertical cone-shaped glow from the single street light that hung at the corner of Plumas and Gulling streets, caddy corner from our house, provided just a tiny glimpse of the winter wonderland that would be revealed at sunrise the next morning after the storm clouds had passed.  I loved how snowfall muffled the normal sounds of the town. It's amazing how quiet and peaceful it can be during a gentle snow storm.

Dad on Santa's (Humpy's) lap
at the Portola Theater
Bertha Miller Photo, courtesy of Carrie Neely

Evert Humphreys was unforgettable. For a skinny kid like me, he seemed more round than tall - something like the egg-shaped fictional character with a similar name. But that was more perception than reality.  Although, he did have a Santa Claus suit and he played that role well.

I have met a lot of characters in my life, but few were nicer, kinder, or friendlier than Evert Humphreys, affectionately called Humpy by all those who knew and loved him. During those years I saw him often in his fishing outfit, overalls, railroad work clothes, but most often in his suit at church, where he could always be found on a Sunday unless he had been called to work that day by the WPRR. Oh! And there was the time of my fish story - the big one that got away on the Klamath River - Humpy was there! For sure, THAT is another story. Humpy and dad, and it seems, most men in town worked for the Western Pacific Railroad.  Dad was a brakeman and I think Humpy was a dispatcher. At least whenever dad took me to the old depot, Humpy could be found in the office. Like the fire in the fireplace on a cold, snowy winter evening, my memories of Humpy are warm and pleasant.

Me and somebody in the old Chevy

It must have been a spring day, in 1953 or thereabouts.  Dad and Humpy decided to take our beige-colored 1950-ish model Chevy out into the woods to scout for firewood. That Chevy was the kind of car that performed just as well on a dirt road in the woods as it did on a long family trip on the highway.  When I was very little, I would often climb into the back of that car and lay on the panel between the window and the rear bench seat. On a cold winter day, the radiant heat of the sun made it a cozy hideout.

Portola City Limit, west end of town.
Bald Head Mountain right of center.

I don't know why dad and Humpy decided to take me along on this trip. Maybe I cried and begged to go. I’m certain we drove the old highway out past Rocky Point and into the west end of the Sierra Valley, crossed the Feather River at the bridge on the county road that goes to Sierraville. Then we must have turned back west on a dirt road that led to the back side of Bald Head Mountain. I didn't know it was called that until just a few years ago, and today, I'm not sure that is the exact name. To me, it was just the mountain with the "P". Even little kids know where the "P" is. You can see it from just about every place in town, except when it is covered with snow, or if you happen to be crawling through a culvert under Gulling Street. But this day, we were on the back side of the mountain, and this imaginative five year old might well have been in Montana for all he knew.

We stopped in a large open area surrounded by manzanita brush.  It seemed rather open for being in "the woods". I think there had been a forest fire a few years earlier, leaving mostly manzanita in that area. Higher up the mountain there were pine trees, or maybe they were Douglas fir. For a mountain kid, I didn't know my trees very well. I just thought everything was a pine tree if it had needles instead of leaves. It's no matter that there were no trees nearby. The manzanita was at least two kids tall all around and I couldn’t see anything else.

The Kaufman home on Gulling Street
Portola, California early 1950's

Dad and Humpy got out of the car to go looking for logs.  Not wanting me to slow them down Dad told me to stay in the car, saying they would not be far away and would be back soon. They quickly disappeared into the brush and my five-year old imagination kicked into overdrive. What seemed like hours was probably ten minutes...or less. It was so quiet I couldn't hear anything but my pounding heart. Although, in over seventy years, I have never seen a bear anywhere near my home country,⧪ I imagined that surely a bear had eaten Dad and Humpy by now, or worse he might come to the car and eat me! I curled up like a roly poly bug on the floorboard, hid my face and covered my eyes and ears. That didn't help. I couldn’t look up because I knew there would be a huge bear with monster claws and razor-sharp teeth glaring at me through the window! I curled up as tight as I could, but the bear just wouldn't go away.

Unable to take it any more, I jumped up, looked that grizzly bear straight in the eyes through the window...but he was nowhere to be seen. So, I opened the door and started yelling! The sound of my cries just faded away into the brush. Over and over I yelled "DAD!" "HUMPY!", but after a brief echo, there came only silence. Now I was crying!

Brethren from the Portola Branch, circa 1955
Evert Humphreys, front and center

I decided it was too dangerous to stay there, so I started to walk down the dirt road back from where we had come. Don't know how far I went – thirty miles at least, walking, running, and crawling all the way! I went around a bend in the road and couldn't see the Chevy any more, all the time looking for that bear. Didn't see him, but there were a lot of snake holes and I was sure poisonous snakes were going to spring out and bite me.

Finally, after about two days and nights on that lonely dirt road in the woods, fighting poisonous serpents and ferocious wild beasts all the way, I heard a familiar sound on the road behind me. I turned and looked and there came the old Chevy, kicking up a cloud of dust as it approached. Guess what? It was Dad and Humpy!

I don't remember anything that happened after that, except I'm sure Dad repeated the story many times when he visited folks in town. He was always telling stories and my embarrassing adventures were among his best.  Humpy was too modest to ever mention to anyone that he and Dad got lost in the woods. And I...well let's just say that I let them know right away that they were lucky that they didn't continue straight ahead on the road, over the mountain across the way from Rocky Point and back into town on the south side of the river.⧫ Instead, they turned around and came out the way we drove in.

Good thing, or else I might never have rescued them!

⧪ My dearth of bear sightings came to an abrupt end the evening of July 24, 2019 on the way to Graeagle...but that's another story!

⧫ Truth is, Dad asked me: "What would you have done if we had gone the other way?" How would I know? I was just a kid!

The Fastest Math Whiz in Mrs. Yount's Fourth Grade Class - by Bob Kaufman

I was the fastest math whiz in Mrs. Yount's 4th grade class…well…at least I wanted to be.

Portola Elementary School, circa 1959
Fourth Avenue and Nevada Street
Photo courtesy of Carrie Neely

It was most likely early March 1958, when winter's hold on our lives in the high Sierras had not completely thawed.  Dirty crusted snow still covered the shadier spots near the two-story grammar school atop the hill on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Nevada Streets. Mrs. Yount chose such a day to test our math skills with a contest.

Mrs. Yount's classroom was strategically located in the north wing of the building, at the top of the stairs that led down to the library and out to the cafeteria. We could get head start on everyone else when the lunch bell rang. Ah, the memories I have of the cafeteria...but that's another story.

I wonder if it was before or after lunch when we had our contest.... That could have had something to do with the outcome.

Two by two, all nineteen of us, twelve boys and seven girls, went to the chalkboard and raced to complete a problem comprised of several steps using the basic arithmetic functions. The first one to put down his chalk and turn around to face the class - and to complete the problem correctly - was the winner. I’m not certain how Mrs. Yount handled the odd number, but it was the girls who were odd, not the boys.

One by one, classmates were eliminated until only two remained. Those two finalists faced off with the final problem to determine the fastest math whiz in the class.

That crisp, almost spring morning, I competed against Darrell McMurphy.  On the cue from Mrs. Yount, I whipped around and raced lickety-split through the calculations, carrying and borrowing numbers here and there, just as we had been taught.  In only a few seconds, about 19 ½, I’d guess, I dropped my chalk in the tray and turned around a split second ahead of Darrell. I WAS SO EXCITED!

My last picture of Darrell McMurphy
Probably 5th or 6th Grade

Then…as Mrs. Yount walked through each step in the problem…my heart sank. Suddenly I saw, as did all my classmates, that I had made a slight miscalculation.  I was off by one digit!  Although I was a split second quicker, Darrell got it right and won the contest.

After 60 years it is doubtful that my memory of the event is accurate.  So, whether or not it actually happened this way, this is how I choose to remember it.  I would like to believe that my race with Darrell was for the class championship and that I was a close second to the winner, but it probably wasn't. Darrell eventually had to face Margy Lee.  When it comes to a contest of brains, NOBODY BEATS MARGY LEE……..EVER!

Memories of the old grammar school on the hill are sweet, although I am certain we didn’t feel that way at the time. We could not wait for school to end so we could catch chipmunks in the woods and crawdads in the river, or just ride our bikes on dusty mountain roads every day - the boys did anyway. I have no clue what those seven girls did during the summer. A few years later, I started paying attention.  I remember little else about fourth grade, but I will never forget how I suffered humiliation when I lost to Darrell McMurphy…then a little later, he was smoked at the blackboard by Margy Lee, the Fastest Math Whiz in Mrs. Yount's 4th grade class!

Mrs. Angwin's 3rd Grade Class.
(I do not have the picture of the 4th grade so this will have to do.)
Top row: Stan Ghidossi, Mona Guerra, Jackie Hickock, Glenn Hull, Margy Lee, Frank Powell, Linda Edgar.
Middle row: Jerry Babcock, Kim Rees, Bob Hurd, Mrs. Angwin, Ernie Gonzales, Judy Servia, Les Martin.
Bottom Row: Rodney Reid, Pete Thill, Darrell McMurphy, Mr. Matthews (Principal), Cheryl Conant, Bob Kaufman, Ken Knox.

Originally, that was the end of the story. I had intended it to be a nostalgic and somewhat creative look back at a single spark of memory from a much more innocent time. But recently I came upon the rest of the story and my purpose changed.

Three years after our contest at the blackboard, Darrell moved away from the mountains down into the valley and I never saw him again.  For almost sixty years I knew nothing of what became of him. Then one day, March 16 this year (2018) to be exact, I learned that Jay Darrell McMurphy was killed by small arms fire in the Thua Thien Province, South Vietnam, March 16, 1968, fifty years earlier to the day, and just ten years after our competition at the blackboard. He was survived by his young bride who was six months pregnant with their only child.

On March 16, 1968, I walked the campus at BYU. My greatest fear was in trying to muster the courage to ask a cute blonde, whom I had first noticed six months earlier, for a date. Darrell, on the other hand, patrolled the jungles of South Vietnam as the point man for his squad, where gun battles with the enemy and resulting casualties had been occurring regularly for more than a week. On the Virtual Vietnam memorial, Michael O’Connell wrote:

The Wall of Faces entry for Jay Darrell McMurphy, Sponsored by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund

The Virtual Wall, Vietnam Veterans Memorial

HonorStates.org

“On March 16, 1968, my platoon led Charlie Company, down a jungle trail west of the new fire base Birmingham. Jay walked point and John Ahern walked his slack. My squad was second in line. Minutes after came a loud roar as AK-47 fire broke out. My platoon rushed forward; it was clear we had casualties. After we hit the ground, one of our squads moved to the left and M-60 fire broke out. The NVA had paid a price, but so had we. Both Jay and John were dead. I remember them both as good people and gallant soldiers. Rest in peace, pointman.”

During my search, I met and spoke with Lon Reed who had been Jay's friend after he moved from Portola (I always knew him by Darrell, but he went by Jay afterward). He spoke very highly of his dear friend, and posted this remembrance on the virtual wall 8/23/16 - "It has been 48 years since you left our world while fighting in Vietnam and your friends and family miss you very much. What a shame to lose a fine man like you, Darrell, but we grieve your loss and respect you for your service to our country, the United States of America. I hope you are at peace my friend and know you are always in our hearts. I will be visiting Droast in Hawaii next year and we will hold up a glass to you."

I also learned of Darrell's daughter, Kimberly McMurphy (Coates), who was yet unborn when Darrell perished at war. She posted under the title "The Father I never knew": "This is my father...he was killed 3 months before my mom gave birth to me. I will forever only know him by photos and letters he wrote home.  I am his only offspring and live my life knowing that he would be so proud of me."

Michael O'Connell called Darrell a "gallant soldier." I Googled “gallant” and found it quite in harmony with a phrase I love from scripture: “steadfast and immovable”. After conversing recently with one of his closest friends, and after reading the remembrances of his comrades, those who knew him in peacetime and in war, after he moved from the mountains, I can safely say: “In the face of fear and mortal danger, Jay Darrell McMurphy was steadfast and immovable in performing his sworn duty.” Darrell was truly a gallant soldier, and my classmate whom I will never forget. "Rest in peace, Pointman."

Mrs. Freeman's 1st Grade Class.
Top row: unknown, Ken Knox, Cheryl Conant, Andy Parsons, Pete Thill, Stan Ghidossi, Mike Nally.
2nd row: Darrell McMurphy, Bob Kaufman, Mona Guerra, Mrs. Freeman, Jerry Babcock,
Rodney Reid, Linda Edgar.
3rd row: Margy Lee, Ernie Gonzales, Helen Monahan, school nurse, Mr. Matthews, principal,
unknown, Judy Servia.
Bottom row: Pam McPhie, Bob Hurd, Kim Rees, Michael Curzon.

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!