Childhood Memories

Me, and My Two Brothers, circa 1967

I think the Christmases of our youth, when we're young and the world is a new and exciting place, those are the ones we remember the most.  We're young, happy, we have our families, pets, friends around us... those days are filled with joy and anticipation.  

Waking up early, running out to the living room, marveling at the Christmas tree and all the goodies Santa Claus had left us while we slept.  Magical!  Mom and Dad would stumble out of their bedroom, half awake, half asleep and trudge to the kitchen to make coffee for themselves and hot cocoa for us kids.

We dared not even touch our stockings, hung by the chimney with care of course, as it was all part of our family's tradition to do every little thing like that together.  We weren't even allowed to open all of our presents because we had to wait for our Grandma and Grandpa to arrive from across town.

Coincidentally, they actually did live over the river and through the woods.  Well, not actually woods per se, but lots of neighborhoods!

My younger brother, Danny, got a bright red fireman's helmet with a built-in speaker and microphone.  I remember what fun he had running around making fire engine sounds through the speaker... until my Mom told him he needed to take his fun outside.

I don't remember a whole lot from those days gone by, but mostly how warm, cozy, and happy we all felt just being there with our Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, and yes, even my two brothers.

It was truly a magical, joyous time of the year, one that I've held dear to my heart ever since.

Merry Christmas Dan & Barney!

And a wonderful New Year to you and your families!

My Life With My Guitar

I started playing guitar in 3rd grade.  I was 9 years old; very young and very eager to please my mother.  She decided, or saw something in me, that led her to believe that I had talent.  Bless her heart for that. 

Sally Bennett was my teacher's name.  I think she reluctantly agreed because I was so young.  I don't know how my mother found Mrs. Bennett, but I am glad to this day that she did.  My guitar has helped me through some very tough times, and it's a constant reminder that I can do something well.  I have that if nothing else.

I remember piling into my step-sister Jill's V.W. bug and riding off to my lessons.  I don't know that Jill was fond of me or of having to take me to my lessons, but she did it without complaint. 

During each lesson, I would sit in a folding chair across from Mrs. Bennett, with one of those old nickel-plated music stands between us.  On the stand was last week's lesson, and a copy of this week's lesson.  I was a very awkward 9 year old, as most children that age are; still trying to figure out how their little bodies work and so on.  My fingers just barely reached around the neck of the guitar in order for me to form the chords in each week's lesson. 

My first guitar - Yamaha-c40 classical guitar, nylon strings

The other thing I distinctly remember was the sound the nylon strings made.  The nylon strings of a classical guitar, although softer and easier on the fingers, give the guitar a sort of softer sound when strummed.  Also because they tend to be thicker than their folk counterparts, they are more of a challenge to press against the frets.  I recall the deep burgundy color of those nylon strings and strumming them made me feel like a true musician!  It was magic... or, well, soon it would be magic.  Those beginning chords that I struggled with were killers. 

One of my first performances was in my own 3rd grade class.  I was incredibly nervous!  The first song I learned to play well, meaning that I was able to switch between chords quickly, was Silent Night.  It had three beginning chords:  A, D, and E seventh.  I am sure it sounded like nothing, but to me it meant I was a musician... a rock star!

I still have my second guitar, a gift from my mother and step-father, Russell, and it too is a Yahama.  I have semi-retired that one as it is 40+ years old.  My current one is a Takamine Jasmine, consequently the same model that I gave my son on his 12th birthday.  He seems to enjoy playing very much because he and some friends have formed a local band here in Portland, Autistic Youth.

I still offer guitar lessons, and the method I use is the same simple one I learned many years ago, by example.

College Life

College life began rather unceremoniously for me in the spring of 1977.  I'd just graduated from high school a month before, a half year early.  How?  I dunno; seems like I wasn't there most of the prior 5 months, but somehow I'd managed!  I skipped a lot of classes for various reasons, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't do that given again the opportunity to do it over.

My mother had been doing well that summer, 1976, but in the early fall became quite ill and was taken into the hospital.  I remember she looked very pale and sickly the night that we visited her.  She was sitting on her hospital bed when we walked in.  I got the sense that she didn't recognize me when we went there. Somehow inside me, I knew she was not going to get better.  I ached all over.  I told her about how I'd started college, and how much I enjoyed that.  Honestly, I don't know how coherent she was at that point, I only know that I felt so sad looking at this shell that had been my mommy.

My college life officially started fall term 1977.  We'd put my mother to rest a few months earlier, and I think the shock hadn't quite warn off as I started my morning routine of hitting campus around 7:30 am.  My first class was an introductory writing class, 101, I believe.  "Express yourself. Write what you feel.  Write what you know."  Sounds easy enough.  The professor gave us various ideas or themes on which to write, so we were never at a loss for topics.  One of my favorites was a little piece I wrote that compared a male ballet dancer (ballerino) to a cat, with its sleek, elegant movements.  It was memorable.

That first year I took the regular slew of freshman classes:  Writing 101-103, Biology 101, English Lit 101, Psychology 101, First Year French 101-103, Dalmatians 101, One hundred and one 101... You get the idea.

Now, during this time, our family had disbanded, due to the passing of my mother in early 1977 at the age of 44.  I was 19 at the time, and well, simply not prepared to go out into the world alone.  Oh, I had family:  my two brothers, aunts and uncles, grandparents, but somehow that wasn't enough.  There have been many times since then that I'd wanted to share some little bit of joy or happiness or sadness with her, only to be brought back to the reality that she was gone.

I moved in with my Grandparents, her mother and father, where I had the run of the house during my college years because they'd recently moved into a mobile home park in Tempe, Arizona and spent the majority of the year there for health reasons.  I remember they'd come back for holidays (Thanksgiving and Christmas), and then go back to Tempe after the New Year started.

There was one crisis while they were away.  The retaining wall on the north side of their property broke loose and fell into the neighbor's flower bed.  Wow.  I wasn't aware of it for a couple of days because I was busy with studying and couldn't see that part of the yard from anywhere in the house.  The only time you could see it was if you were in the garage and the door was up.  Sunday afternoon, the neighbor came knocking, er, pounding on the front door.  I don't recall his name, so I'll go with Mr. Smith.  "What'er you gonna do about this mess??"

"Excuse me?  What mess, Mr. Smith?"

He did the "come'ere" finger motion with his index finger, and I followed him.  When we got to where the fence and wall should be, I noticed a rather large segment missing... until Mr. Smith pointed it out to me.

"That mess,"  he said.

It was all I could do to keep from giggling manically, but I somehow managed.

"Well, I could call my Grandfather and see what he suggests."

Mr. Smith looked at me, rather perturbed.  I don't know what he expected of me, being only 20 and rather clueless about such matters.

"You go do that, and I'll wait here."

Off I went to find their telephone number.  When I called them, they said to call Charlotte, my Aunt, and she and Ralph (my Uncle) could take care of it.  After all, no sense in them coming back to Portland just for a little matter like this, right?

I must have gotten distracted, because the next thing I knew, there was that darn pounding on the front door again.

"What's the matter with you? Did you die?"

"Excuse me?"

"You were supposed to come back and tell me what Charlie (my Grandfather) said to you about this mess."

"Oh yeah.  Well, my Aunt and Uncle will be over later to look at it and get ahold of the insurance people."

"Later?  What about now?  What about my flower bed???"

"I'm just telling you what he said."

"Hrrumph!"  And he stormed away.

That's a bit more dramatic than it actually went down, but not by much.  Within a few days the insurance man had come by, given an estimate of the damages to Mr. Smith, who seemed satisfied, and within a couple of weeks, the wall (and Mr. Smith's flowers) were fully restored.

Another memory of the time was working one summer, 1978, at a Circle K store just off the Banfield Freeway,on Halsey Street near NE 82nd Avenue.  I worked swing shift, about 3 pm to 11 pm.  The only time the doors were actually locked were when I had to stock the coolers or use the restroom.  Other than that, there was pretty steady traffic in and out of the store.  That was also the time when I worked a week long graveyard shift at the Tigard location on SW Grant Street, just off of Pacific Highway.  I didn't own a car, and so the manager of the NE Halsey location had to drive me there every night that week.  I remember crawling back into bed every morning around 7 am and getting up about 3 pm or so to have a snack, then dinner, and shower to get ready for work.  I think by the end of that week, not only was I exhausted from the graveyard shifts, but had started drinking coffee, too.  Ha!

There were a couple of pretty cool courses I took while I was living there in NE Portland:  Puppetry for Clinic & Classroom, and Ice Skating.  By my Junior year at Portland State, I'd decided to go into Teaching as a career, and with Speech Communication as a minor, I thought it might be kind of fun to take a class called, "Puppetry For Clinic & Classroom".  It was every bit as fun as it sounded.  Each week we had to develop a lesson plan and some type of puppet to accompany it.  I made a basic hand puppet from terry cloth, a dog rod-puppet (very similar in size to Kermit the Frog), and a marionette of the Conehead, "Beldar", from Saturday Night Live.  Within a year of this, I would be creating many more puppets with the guidance from my future wife.

Dorg, circa 1978

Now I mentioned taking an Ice Skating class as well.  It was in this class that I made the acquaintance of Judy Fanning, a nice young lady with whom I became fast friends.  I don't know if it was a twist of fate, or some sort of divine sign, but on our first date we'd planned to go to Meier & Frank (now Macy's) and play Pong, as that particular video game was all the rage at the time.  Here's where fate stepped in:  It was during our course final exam.  Part of the final was to skate from one side of the rink to the other, while performing various skating moves.  One such move was to skate backwards, a challenge for even the most seasoned skaters.  I made it across fine, although, really, really slow!

Judy, on the other hand, hmm, no such luck.  She started off fine, and then about halfway across the ice, I think she hit a nick in the ice or got distracted or something because the next thing we knew, she was flat on her back, and had shattered all the bones in her right wrist.  Yikes!  We'd only known each other for a few weeks, I think, but seemed comfortable enough with one another that she asked me if I could drive her to the hospital.  (Some first date, eh?)  We went directly to the Emergency entrance, she filled out the paperwork as best she could and then I went off to the waiting room.

The next thing I know, she's wheeling by on a gurney, giggling quietly to herself, waving at me, and just generally looking out of it.  She told me a could of days later that the nice doctors had given her morphine to dull the pain and between that and the Mickey Mouse heads and balloons painted on the ceiling, she was feeling no pain whatsoever. 

At some point in 1979, I moved out of my Grandparent's house and into an apartment in Beaverton, Oregon.  I don't recall who my roommate was, but it put me closer to my friend, Judy.

Now, I don't recall if I was working at the time, but Judy and I started getting serious in the spring of 1979, and at one point, I believe the conversation went something like this:

"What would you say  if I asked you to marry me?"  She paused, and her whole face lit up.  It was truly magical.

"Well, I'd probably say, 'Yes'."  And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.
-----------------------

We got married on Flag Day, June 14, 1980, just under a month after the massive eruption of Mt. St. Helens.  Judy's wedding dress had a hint of ash on it from that eruption.

Late Teen Years

Sunset High School, NW Cornell Road; Beaverton, Oregon:

 
I began my high school days in the fall of 1973, coincidentally, the same year my older brother graduated and my Grandparent's 50th Wedding Anniversary.  It was a big year, and I remember it well.  

My high school career was not necessarily a pleasant one, but like all of you, I muddled my way through and came out the other side with my sheepskin intact.  I had a few friends that I met at Sunset, and kept most of the ones I'd known from Cedar Park.  Dean Williams and Tim Uglesich were my two closest buddies.  We did all kinds of crazy, nutty stuff together.  Some of my fondest memories of that time are when Dean and I would go toolin' around in his V.W. bug that he'd converted into a Rolls Royce.  Apparently fiberglass kits were available that you could add onto an existing V.W. bug to make it look like a mini-Rolls, a mini-hearse, a mini-ambulance, and a mini-fire engine.  The mini-Rolls was cool because it had the rumble-seat in the back of the car for an additional passenger. 

I remember one trip in particular that Dean and I took, probably in the spring or summer of 1974 or 1975.  Dean was driving along Skyline Boulevard in NW Portland, and I don't know exactly what happened, but the car spun around, doing a 180, and we were facing the opposite direction.  Boom! Just like that.  My jaw dropped through the floorboards, and Dean, well, he just started giggling manically and then drove off, like that sort of thing happened to him all the time.  Ha!  Later that same night, on a whim, just for sh*ts and giggles, Dean drove us through the Rose Test Gardens in Washington Park.  I remember driving through the fountain, down the steps of the amphitheater, and down the many rows of roses.  It was a blast! 

There was a bike ride that Tim and I went on, from my house all the way through the hills of SW Portland, up the hill towards the Lewis & Clark College campus, and then down the other side to Lake Oswego.  That was the longest hill I think I'd ever ridden on.  Besides the long bike ride, I recall that we stopped at every single fast-food joint along the way:  McDonald's, Arby's, Burger King, Burgerville, Wendy's, Pizza Hut, and McDonald's... again.  I think I ate about a bazillion tons of beef that day in various forms.  And then to top it off, after we arrived at the home of Tim's Grandparents, his Grandmother just knew we'd be hungry.  (I can still feel the gurgling in my stomach as though it were yesterday.)  I think I nibbled on whatever she made for us.  Lacy curtains, his Grandfather called them.  Actually they where fried eggs, over easy.  The "lacy curtains" refers to the edges being slightly bubbled and browned.


Another friend that I met at Sunset was Mike Goodwin.  We were the same age, had the same birthday, but different as night and day.  We didn't walk alike or talk alike either.  The birthday was the only similarity I can recall.  He was a stoner, I was a straight-laced, goody-two-shoes.  Somehow we became fast friends.  He lived in the West Hills, in the Bonny Slope neighborhood, about a 5 minute drive east on Cornell Road from the high school.  His older brother, Kerry, grew pot plants, and Mike was a regular in the high school's smoking area.  As far as I know, he never smoked weed on school grounds... I'm just saying.  


I think the mistake I made with Mike is that I moved in with him shortly after graduation, as I was in school and needed to be out of our house by then.  More on why later.  Suffice to say that living with Mike was interesting and educational.  I'd always lived at home, and under different circumstances, I likely would have remained at home until I graduated from college.  

Back to Mike.  He'd met a young lady, Teena, somewhere and sometime during senior year at Sunset.  They'd dated pretty much since senior year began in September 1975, and I'm guessing were planning on graduating together in the spring.  Not gonna happen.  They decided, somewhere along the way, to do the 5-year plan instead.  Anyway, I digress.  We moved into the upstairs apartment of an elderly woman, just down the street from Beaverton High School.  I remember it was a quiet neighborhood, conveniently located off of SW Farmington Road, near the corner of SW 7th & Erickson Avenue.  

My only memories of that experience are grocery shopping and Teena plucking Mike's chest hairs, all three of them.  She didn't like chest hair, and yet between plucking Mike's and the perm she gave him, he looked very gay.  She preferred the word feminine.  The grocery "discussion" was about the amount I should have paid, for my part.  The problem was that I could never eat half of all the food the two of them ate together.  I think I moved out shortly thereafter.  I think I expected Mike to stick up for me, which seemed reasonable at the time.  I never talked to either of them again, mostly because I'd moved on to college, and they were still in high school.  No regrets.

Towards the end of high school, in the summer/early fall of 1976, my mother became quite ill and was taken into the hospital.  

For my part, I'd graduated early from high school in mid-March and started taking college classes at the local university, Portland State in downtown Portland.  I don't know why, but at the time I was interested in the local geography and so my step-father suggested Geography of the Northwest.  

Now, he'd attended college several years before, but I'm guessing pretty much the same or very similar class reference numbers applied:  000 to 100 were Freshman level, 200 were Sophomore level, 300 were Junior and 400 were Senior level.  My geography class... 500.  Graduate level. Wow.  And being a newbie at this it didn't dawn on me that maybe I was a little out of my league!  I did, however manage to pass with a D.


Back to my mother.  My step-father had been a wonderful provider for us:  a beautiful home, nice clothes, quiet neighborhood in the West Hills.  All the trappings.  So, we never questioned it when he said, "Your mother is very sick and needs to be in the hospital.  We'll go visit her soon."  Soon turned out to be around late September or early October, in the evening.


I remember she looked very pale and sickly.  She was sitting on her hospital bed naked, when we walked in, and we quickly turned and went down the hall for several minutes;  I think that is when my step-father helped her get dressed.  I got the sense that she didn't recognize me when we went there. Somehow inside me, I knew she was not going to get better.  I ached all over.  I told her about how I'd started college, and how much I enjoyed that.  Honestly, I don't know how coherent she was at that point, I only know that I felt so sad looking at this shell that had been my mommy.


I don't remember much more about that visit, other than it was rather short because my step-father had to get us home as Visiting Hours were coming to a close.  We said our good-byes and left the room, heads down, staring at the floor and feeling quite empty.


That December was our last Christmas together as a family.  After my Mother's passing, the family fell apart, scattering to the four winds.

Early Teen Years

From Ridgewood Elementary School, Tim and I moved up to the Big Leagues, making new friends, and of course, getting ourselves into even bigger and better scrapes! 

In 7th grade, I really came out of my shell, as it were.  I think most of that was not spending as much time in Tim's shadow.  I remember making lots of new friends in my Homeroom (Block) Class.  It was a combination (2 periods) of Social Studies/Language Arts.  Mr. Nelson was our Block teacher.  He was really nice, and obviously had worked with incoming 7th graders for several years... very calm, patient, and understood about making the transition from Grade School to Junior High.

This is the view from the north side of the school, looking south.  You can see the three "wings" in the center of the picture; each wing was a different grade level: 7th, 8th, and 9th grades.  The large portion of the building at the bottom of the school is the cafetorium, cafeteria/auditorium.  I didn't make up that word, just using it.

I was pretty goofy in 7th grade, doing weird stuff even I had never seen before.  One of those involved running into Block class each day, jumping onto the class president's desk, and shouting, "Hello, Mr. President!"  I have no idea why I did that, but it made me popular.  Oh sure, I got lots of stares from others, but I was popular!  Bill Snook, I think was his name.   Not sure how he felt about me doing that, or what Mr. Nelson thought.


So, the years went by, uneventful, hanging out with friends after school, bike riding on the weekends, sleep-overs, homework... I never did discover girls in junior high, though.  Not sure why.  I remember going to one of the junior high dances, and the theme was to Michael Jackson's "Rockin' Robin."   


I think mostly that junior high was an awkward time for me, trying desperately to fit in, wanting to be part of the "Popular Crowd", "The IN Group", and so on.  Never happened.


I remember the summer of 1973 being a particularly hard time for me.  My older brother had just graduated from high school, and had lots of horror stories to tell me, but he also shared to funny ones about the mischief and crazy antics he'd gotten into.  Junior high did not prepare me for what was to come at the end of summer.

Childhood

We had a fairly "normal" childhood:  played with friends in the neighborhood, family gatherings, supper at 6:00 pm, cold cereal for breakfast, waffles on the weekend, and so on.  

Grade school was rather uneventful, other than breaking my right leg in 1st grade and spending the year in a half-body plaster cast.  I hated that thing, but that's what was available back then.  I don't recall how long, but I was in traction in the hospital for at least a month with a steel rod piercing my leg diagonally just below my knee cap.  I had lots of visitors, too.  That was fun... but, I was 6 and got bored very quickly.  I had a few stuffed animals and a View Master my great aunt, Louise, had given me.  She was like a second grandma to me in many ways.

(This is an aerial view of the front of the building, hidden by the shrubbery.)

I actually started here at Ridgewood Elementary in 2nd grade.  I don't recall any difficulties walking, although I'm sure there was some recovery period.  It was at Ridgewood that I met a longtime friend, Tim.  We became fast friends, hanging out and eventually sleeping over at each other's homes, going on long bike rides together and so on.

The highlight of my Ridgewood "experience", was winning the school-wide 3rd grade Spelling Bee.  Consequently now, I rely on Spell Check!

I think Tim and I met in 5th grade, maybe 6th and had a the same teacher, Carel Dermott; Danish descent, I believe.  I think in a former life he must have been a Catholic nun or something because he had a propensity for breaking rulers and yardsticks on kids' desks, one time, clipping my knuckles.

One time Tim and I were caught messing around, tossing Elmer's glue bottles around behind the teacher's back and were sent to the Principal's Office... not unlike walking The Green Mile.  Keep in mind that this was back when Corporal Punishment (spanking with a wooden paddle, belt, etc.) was quite common.  

Our "crime" didn't merit anything like this, but I know for my part, just being in the Principal's Office was enough deterrent for me to recognize the error of my ways and never re-offend.  Tim, well, he was a different story, always living on the edge from what I could tell.  And quite happy there.  The problem was that he kept taking me down with him.  Of course, I was happy to go, rarely saying no to him.  He was the rebel, and I was happy to follow blindly just wherever and whenever he went.

The Day The Music Died

About me:

I was born exactly 1 year to the day, prior to "The Day The Music Died", February 3, 1959.  That was the day on which Ritchie Valens ("La Bamba"), J.P. Richardson ("The Big Bopper" - "Chantilly Lace"), and Buddy Holly ("That'll Be The Day") were en route to another gig on their 24-city tour.  Tragically, their plane went down, ending the short lives of three up-and-coming new rock and roll stars... 

Mine was a happy childhood, along with my 2 brothers.  The very early years found us living and playing around SE Portland, near 92nd and SE Division Streets.  We lived in a small three bedroom home during the famous Columbus Day Storm of 1962.  

I remember that storm because my older brother was sent home from school early, and I recall him walking down the sidewalk toward our home, the trees nearly bending down to the street.  That's how strong the winds were.  (Consequently, a similar storm hit Portland almost 30 years later.)

The other thing I remember about that day was that our neighbor's chimney, made entirely of bricks, was blown over and its bricks spilled into our basement.  Amazing!  I don't think there was anything left of that chimney... only its remnants.  The only other memories I have of that house was my younger brother coming home from the hospital in April, 1962.  Shortly after that, in the summer, I believe, we moved from SE Portland to NE Portland, in the exclusive Maywood Heights neighborhood.  (This is now the area where the I-205 freeway intersects with I-84; the Parkrose School District.)  

That was where I climbed up the trails to the top of Rocky Butte, overlooking NE Portland, and the Gateway area.  My older brother's friend accompanied me, I don't recall why.  Anyway, we get to the top and there was this cool rock formation we called The King's Chair.  As I sat there, my brother's friend sneaked up behind me and either pushed or scared me so that I fell down the rock face, some 50 yards straight down.  I broke my right leg at the knee cap, and spent most of 1st grade at home in a plaster cast that weighed almost as much as me.  (Now, my right leg is about 3/4 inch shorter than my left.)

Sadly, within 2 years of that move, my mom and dad decided to get a divorce.  He moved out-of-state, while we moved across town to SW Portland, near Cedar Hills.  We lived in the apartments behind the shopping center for not quite a year.  Then a wonderful thing happened:  She met an amazing gentleman... Mr. McJury.

In many ways, I truly feel this is when my life began.  Yes, my father brought me into the world along with my mother, but after their divorce, he left the city and moved out-of-state.  We wouldn't see him for about 5 years, and then when we did, he'd remarried.  We hardly knew him.  He spent the next several years trying to be a father, when he should have spent that time, trying to be our friend.  Things were just never the same after that divorce, not for us kids anyway.

Welcome

Welcome.  Come in.

Make yourself at home.  I've got some overstuffed chairs over there, some beanbag chairs in that area to your left, and lots of throw pillows around the room for you to relax on.

The jukebox should arrive sometime in the next several days.  It will be filled with my collection of LPs from the 1950s, 60s and 70s.  Old stuff, huh?  No disco balls, no floor that lights up when you dance on it. Nope.  Just some old linoleum and shag carpet. 

When the world seems like a cold, harsh place, you're always welcome here... my little nest on the superhighway of the net.