THANKSGIVING

Thanksgiving

On The

Lower River Road

By Gordon Russ

L to R Grandma Bertha Russ, Lois Russ, Wayne Russ, Jean Hamilton,

 Violet Hamilton, Earnest Hamilton, Orville Hamilton, and Gordon Russ

 “Bob, come and cut the turkey, I think everything is ready?” with this announcement by my mother, Lois Russ, it was time for another Russ Thanksgiving dinner to begin.  I always found it interesting that dad was the turkey carving wizard.  He could hardly boil water.   He did have the appropriate tools of the trade though.  As a young man he worked in a meat market in Tacoma, Washington, so he was the proud owner of a quality Butcher’s knife and sharpening steel.  The steel did look a little like a wizard’s wand.  With a couple of swipes of his knife along the sharping steel he was ready to produce perfect thin slices of turkey for the platter.  The turkey was always cut in the kitchen and placed on platters for serving.

In the Russ household just about every part of our Thanksgiving meal was raised, picked, butchered, canned, and dressed on our farm.  Salt, sage, raisins and yams were about the only thing that came from the grocery store.   Given time I am sure my dad would have produced those as well. 

The center piece of our Thanksgiving meal was the regal Turkey.  It was not a packaged frozen bird. It was not purchased over the meat counter in Kamphers’or Pigley Wigley’s markets along Sixth Street.  The Thanksgiving turkey arrived in the back seat of dad’s 1948 Ford Sedan resting alive on test tubes, note books, ear tags and a package of Fig Newtons.  Dad always had a package of Fig Newtons stashed in his car for a snack.

 For several weeks the turkey lived a life of luxury roaming around the pasture. He was fed plenty of grain as he awaited his holiday fate.   A few days before Thanksgiving, he would be dispatched in somewhat of a family ceremony.   Well the ceremony was Wayne and I watching dad butcher, pick the feather and clean the bird.  As young boys we knew where food came from in all its forms.  At times we would refer to the meat by its given name, Judy, Brownie and so on. 

One time dad came home with about a dozen baby turkeys in the back seat of his car.  His idea was to raise them, and then sell the turkeys we didn’t need.  The young turkeys were placed in a wire pen that could be moved about the pasture so the young birds would have a clean area with fresh grass.  As they grew the pen grew smaller.  Rather than put them in a larger pen or several pens dad decided to let them roam the pasture on their own. He was sure they were too large for their undeveloped wings to fly.   Right!  While doing choirs one evening I happen to look to see how they were doing.  They were gone!  After some searching we found them roosting in several poplar trees that grew along the Lower River Road, across from the Roger Horn place.  Those turkeys could fly!  At least high enough to in order find a roosting spot.   I really don’t remember how we got them down.  I suspect it was with the universal persuader, food.  Once back on the ground we clipped their wings.  Several days later they were butchered packaged and sent to the freezer.  That was the last time dad had turkeys, except the usual grown one for Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Day was usually spent with mom’s sister Violet Hamilton and her family.  We would trade homes each year. They lived in Central Point, Violet’s husband, Orville, managed the Table Rock Pear Orchard.

Lois Russ was the youngest of the Louis and Margaret Loesch family and Violet Hamilton, the oldest child.  Their parents divorced when Lois was twelve or so.  So Lois missed having family celebrating Thanksgiving when she was very young. So, when she married in 1939 and started a family, she looked forward to starting a tradition of Holidays with family members.  World War II started shortly after her marriage, so family holidays were put on hold until after the war.  Once the war was over and she had her own family, home family traditions were a must.   To her, Thanksgiving was a special time to be spent with family.

Several days before the holiday meal the process would start with pie making.  Pumpkin and Mincemeat pies were always the order of the day. Mincemeat pie was her favorite.  It didn’t matter if anyone else in the family liked it or not she was going to have her Mincemeat Pie.  For others eaters’ pumpkin was the most important.  Although there was a debated whether a pie made with real pumpkin or if a squash pie was better.  I was never sure what the winner was. There was a difference in color. True pumpkin pie had a pumpkin color and a squash pie was a squash color, hum.  I just know they both tasted good when covered with fresh whipped cream.  No matter the ingredients they were always called pumpkin pie.  One concession mom did make though was that, she used canned pumpkin or canned squash.  We grew both pumpkins and squash in our garden, but she could see no reason not to use canned.  By the time you loaded it with sugar and spices how fresh did it have to be? Preparing garden fresh pumpkins is not easy and sometimes convenience is more important.  As for the Mincemeat pie I am not sure how she made that.  It was made from scratch, though with no liquor.  Mincemeat pie was not a family favorite, we stayed with the pumpkin pie and whipped cream as often as possible;  not to say there wasn’t a little pressure to try some.  To mom, Mincemeat was a Thanksgiving tradition.  She also made Fruit Cake for Christmas, without the alcohol.   

 Preparations of the Thanksgiving dinner would begin the night before the big event with the making of the stuffing.  You could tell it was Thanksgiving Eve with the smell of cooking giblets and the light toasting of bread in the oven of the wood cooking stove.  As the ingredients were blended the sweet smell of sage would permeate throughout the evening hours.

Thanksgiving morning would begin early.  The morning air would be crisp and fresh, a light frost would cover the ground.  I found it exciting with the anticipation of company coming and the building of the dinner.  It was also like a day off.  You really were not going to be bothered with anything other than the normal chores.    Dad would head to the barn to milk the cow, feed the chickens and gather the eggs. Mom would start her morning by fixing a small breakfast, and then the food preparation would start in earnest. Starting with the bringing of the wood stove’s oven up the correct temperature to cook the turkey.   She was an expert in using a wood cooking stove.  While waiting for the oven to get hot she would stuff the turkey.  Wayne and I would be assigned duties as needed.  Washing pots and pans, setting up the card tables for over flow from our small dining table.  We, generally, just stayed out of the way.

Around Ten O’clock Aunt Violet and family, along with other guests, would start to arrive.  It was exciting to see everyone.  I was always amazed how close together people arrived even though they had to travel a fair distance.  It was almost like they gather some place earlier than pop in at the same time.  

Mom would be in the kitchen peeling potatoes to be boiled for the mashed potatoes.  My Aunt Violet would jump in and start where needed.  The sweet potatoes had to be cooked and prepared for a candy coating of brown sugar and butter.  Sweet potatoes caused an interesting question which had the better flavor yams or sweet potatoes?  I don’t think there was ever an answer to this annual question, but they were called sweet potatoes no matter what they were.

Many of the dishes were the same year to year.  Small fig leaf glass bowls filled with olives, carrots, cheese filled celery and green onions.  A Tomato Casserole, which was made with canned tomatoes, was placed in a large casserole dish with milk added and couple slices of bread placed on top then baked.  Lime Jell-O with infused grated carrots was covered with a light coating of mayonnaise.   Green bean casserole with canned French Fried Onions sprinkled on top.  Someone always brought a thick apple pie to be served with a slice of cheese for dessert.

Slowly the meal would come together. 

“Boys, start setting the table!”  Mom would order.  Wayne and I were always “Boys” when called together and this was often.  Our Sister, Barbara, thought that was our names “boys” until she was three or four.  When that command came we knew dinner would follow shortly.  The good dishes and silverware came out and the tables were covered with linen cloths. Wayne and I set the place settings.

While all these activities were being orchestrated by the women in the kitchen, the men were in the living room or outside discussing the latest automobile designs, farming implements, or just solving the world’s problems both on the local and national level.   The closer to the meal time the more often you could see them eyeing the platters and bowls that were placed on the table.  Once in a while an over whelming urge came over them to quickly snatch of a crumb or two from some magnetic dish.  The olives, carrots and celery sticks were the safest, though.     

Once the table was set and the last of the dishes were being prepared the call came, “Bob, come cut the turkey”.  That was the sign to locate your place at the table.

Once seated, we started with a short prayer, at my mother’s urging.  Then the food was passed back and forth and the eating began.  There was not a lot of ceremony when it came to eating.  These were farm people who ate with a purpose so they could get back on the job.  Habits didn’t change for Thanksgiving.  Once everyone had eaten their fill and a little more and other cup of coffee was poured and people would proclaim the meal to be the finest yet. More than one belt was let out a few notches or a pant button was undone. 

It was a rule that no dessert was to be served until the dinner dishes, pots and pans were cleaned that put away.  After clearing off their place setting, hot soapy water made and the women started the dishes.  In the meantime the guys got out the board games and set them up on the freshly cleaned card tables.  Monopoly, Parcheesi were the games of choice.  People could talk and enjoy each other’s company without getting too involved in the games.  I don’t remember any card games being played.  Personally I liked Parcheesi.  It was short and to the point.  No thinking involved. 

As the conversation began to slow down someone would inquire about dessert.  That was the sign the day was about to be called to an end.  Mom and her sister would head to the kitchen.  Pies would be cut.  The Mixmaster would whir whipping the cream.  Fresh coffee would be brewed.  The call would come “what kind of pie do you want?”  That was a tough choice on several levels.  The answer usually was “A small slice of each, please”.   These were not stupid people.  As the coolness of the evening set in and the sun began to drift over the horizon the company would gather their belongings and package a portion of the meal for their homeward journey.

After good byes were said Wayne and I would head for the barn to feed the chickens, put down hay for the cows the evening milking would begin.  Once the cow was milked we would put down more hay for the morning milking and the head for the house.  By then the sun was down and another successful Thanksgiving had passed into our memories.   

Trains

Trains

By Gordon Russ

Life on the Lower River Road

While at the Grants Pass railroad depot, Wayne and Gordon were wide eyed watching the steam railroad engines huff, puff and clank around the rail yard with clouds of white steam hissing from their pistons and black smoke billowed from their stacks they pushed and pulled railcars into line.  As one of the switcher engines came to a stop close to us the engineer hollered, “You boys want a ride?”

Grants Pass has a grand history of railroading.  Until 1926 Grants Pass was part Southern Pacific’s mainline as it went over the Siskiyou Mountains into California.  In fact my mother’s uncle Dick Lewman worked on the line as one of his many jobs, so I was connected as well.  In 1926 the Cascade line from Eugene to Klamath Falls was built and became the main line into California with the bulk of passenger and freight traffic from the north going that way.  However, in the 1940s Grants Pass still had its share of passenger trains running through the Rogue valley in fact they were increased due to the troops training at Camp White in Medford.  This lasted until the mid-1950s.   I won’t get into the history of railroading in the valley; there are many books, documents and pictures available that will provide a much clearer story than I can relate.  I will tell you what I remember.

My first remembrances of a passenger train was not so much the train, but getting to the train.  Dr. Robert Russ, dad, was inducted into the Army during WWII.  The calm Russ family life was to change with adventures not for scene just a few months before.  Dad was a veterinarian working for the Department of Agriculture Disease Eradication division prior to the war. In 1943 he was called up and made a Health Officer in the Army Air Corp. He was to insure camp health conditions at new Air Bases as they opened up.  In 1945 he was transferred to Smokey Hill Army Air Field in Salina, Kansas. 

So mom, Lois Russ, who had just driven back from dad’s assignment in Texas, packed up my brother, Wayne, and myself and boarded a train to Kansas.  All I really remember was our neighbor; Pat McFadden was taking us to the depot in Grants Pass.  We were all loaded in his car, but he had taken his seat out of the car.  I remember him coming out of his house with a kitchen chair saying “this will work”.  He sat on the chair and drove us to the depot.  I also remember a lot of guys in uniform being on the train.  They may have been from Camp White.  More than likely we traveled to Portland then transferred to a train heading to Kansas.   During this trip mom got off for a moment to purchase something at a depot store.  She ask a lady to watch us just for a second.  When she returned to reboard the gate to the train was shut and the attendant refused to open it.  Saying the train was about to leave.  She said she had to get on her kids were on board.  He still refused.  She started screaming that her kids were on board.  Finally another attendant came over inquiring what the commotion was about.  Now panicked and crying that here boys were on that train and she had to get on.  He was kind enough to open the gate.  She always bothered by what would have happen if the attendant had not come by and opened that gate.   

After the War dad went back to his regular job with the Department of Agriculture.   He would visit dairy farms early in the morning to collect blood samples of the cattle.  The cattle were being tested for Brucellosis and TB.  The Brucellosis test required a blood sample at that time. He also provided TB vaccination shots the young cows.  Each evening he would mail the blood samples to Oregon Agriculture College, present day Oregon State University, to be processed.  

In those days the passenger trains had a mail car.  Rather than go to the post office you could go to the mail car and hand them the mail for instant delivery.  Each mail car was a post office.  The employees would pick up the mail from the local Post Offices along the tracks.  As the train moved along the mail would be sorted for the next stops down the tracks.  When the train got to Corvallis the box of blood sample would be delivered to OAC.  It was always fun to make the trip to the depot each evening and watch the steam engines move and sort cars in the rail yard. 

You could also pick up special freight from the train as well.  Each year dad would order baby chickens from a nursery in California.  I don’t remember the process, I just remember while at the railroad station one of the men on a freight car would hand him a cardboard box full of baby chicks.  We would take them home and keep them in the kitchen until they started getting feathers.  We placed them by our wood burning cook stove.

 

When Oregon law banned fireworks in the state, dad was not happy.  He did like his fireworks at the fourth of July.  He thought he would go around the law and order them right from an out of state company.  They did come to the railroad freight house and dad got a call his fireworks order had arrived.  He said he would be right down to pick them up.  The freight clerk then informed him, he couldn’t pick them up they were illegal.  Whoa Nelly, we had some home grown fireworks that night.  I am not sure how or if he got his money back and if he had to pay the freight charges both ways.  But I do know he was not happy.  To dad it was Un-American to ban fireworks. 

 

The depot is long gone, I guess replaced by a Safeway Store, but it was a center of activity in those days.  There was an ice plant close to the depot as well.  Most rail centers had ice houses to service the refrigerated cars and some homes still used ice boxes.  In truth I don’t remember ice being put on any cars, but we did use the place.  We rented a frozen food locker at the plant.  We processed much of our own meat and produce.  Home freezers were not common so we had a locker at the plant.  Each evening dad was given a list from mom of possible foods items to bring home while he was putting his blood samples on the train.  So we would go and sort through the locker looking for whatever was on the list.  It was nice place on a hot summer days.  However mom was always a little concerned about being locked in the locker.  Come evening they did lock the place and if someone didn’t do a good job of checking there was that possibility.  It was not unknown happen; although I am not sure it happened in Grant Pass.  The walls of the locker were very thick with an inner and outer walls packed with insulation.  There was no way for anyone to hear you yell.  It was a freezer. 

One high light was the coming of Clyde Beatty Circus.  They came to town on rail cars.  What great fun it was to watch them unload the animals from the rail cars.  They then formed up at the rail yard for a Circus parade through town and on to the Josephine County Fairgrounds.  What a site watching all the, clowns, animals, wagons and trucks going down 6^th street and across Caveman Bridge.  Clyde Beatty was known to all of us kids for his Clyde Beatty radio program.   Keizer/Frazier automobile sponsored the circus so the parade was lead off by a Keizer automobile for Clyde with zebra skin seats and a Frazier automobile for his wife with some other kind of skin seats.  At that time the Keizer Company was introducing the Henry J., a small economy car.  It was introduced during the show by a bunch of clowns getting out of it, not sure how many, but a bunch.   Yes advertising was part of the show then as well.   The circus stayed a couple days then they loaded up their train and steamed on to the next town.

Trains were also a diversion when I was in Demmick Grade School.  From the school windows we could see the railroad cut across Granite Mountain.   As we sat in Mrs. Howell’s class you could see the trains as they pass through the cut outlined against the yellowing granite gravel.   Mrs. Howell taught four grades in her room.  While she was busy with another grade a dreamy Gordon would watch the steam engines pull a string of rail cars over the hill, huffing and puffing all the way.  Sometimes there were two engines pulling the string of cars with an engine cut in the middle and one pushing at the end.  A couple years later, after Demmick and Ft Vannoy consolidated around 1948, I was back in the same room in the third grade.  By then the diesel engines were coming into being.  What a difference, one or two engines pulling close to a hundred cars over that hill with ease.   I know because more than once I just sat there looking out those big windows counting railroad cars.  I thought what a gyp, There is no class in those things.  A new era had started, but in my mind nothing could replace steam engines.  They were like living breathing things.  Diesels was just a big car with iron wheels.  It didn’t take skill to run one.  Just step on the starter and off you went.

Did those two boys get a ride, no. Dad was coming back soon and if we were gone there would have been heck to pay.  When we told him about the engineer’s offer he said, “You should have gone, never turn down a chance for a ride in the engine.”  Ya right, parents go figure. 

  

The Old Swimmin Hole

Swimming was a major summer activity for Wayne and I and for most kids along Lower River Road or any other road the Rogue River Valley. Once we settle back on the farm after the war memories of swimming come first to mind.   We started swimming with our mother, Lois, taking us swimming.  We loaded the car not only with the three of us but neighborhood kids as well.   We didn’t swim in the Rogue though.  She had grown up in the Applegate valley so felt more comfortable taking people to swimming holes she was familiar with.  She has swum there while growing up on her family’s farm in Provolt.   She said she felt the Applegate River was cleaner, more important she knew were to go.  I really don’t know where we went.  We just drove along until we got to the right place.  We usually went with other people.  Who they were escapes me now, but suspect they were the Brockson family. We did a lot of thing with them in the earlier days.   One of the families owned a Army panel truck and we got to ride in that.  After the war people were buying salvaged military vehicles like hotcakes.  Between the depression and the war good reliable vehicles were in demand, the one’s people had been getting by with were short on life.  We enjoyed riding in that panel wagon.  It had no windows, more the fun.  Most important you could sit in the floor. It was rough riding and geared so low that it took a while to get up to highway speeds. 

One sunny afternoon mom was taking a group of us out to the Applegate, she stopped to purchase some pop at the Bridge Street Store.  Yep it was there then.  This would be around 1946 or 47.  While we waited in the car she disappeared in to the little place.  Soon she came out just steaming got in the car slammed the door and drove off.  No pop either.  Pop at that time cost a nickel a bottle.  It seems the store had just tried to charge her a dime a bottle.  Doesn’t sound like much not now.  But at that time they had just doubled the price of a soft drink, a penny may have be OK, But a nickel was a bit much.  As it is today the Bridge Street store was a Mom and Pop business. The sale of beer, pop, cigarettes and candy was what most people went in for.   During the era after the war there was much concern about businesses taking advantage of the real or perceived War shortages.  There were much advertising and consistent news articles about business taking advantages of shortages. Even radio shows would have themes about the subject.  So people watch closely when prices went up.  It was kind of funny, but no one in the car dare say anything.  It was quiet in the car all the way to the swimming hole. It took her some time to calm down.  Of course none of us kids had an idea of what she was talking about.  Mom was the only adult in the car so we just quietly rode along.

The Applegate River was a good place to swim as I remember.  There were not nice grassy areas along the bank to sit on.  Mom just drove until she found a large sandy area to park and just walked to the water.  She just sat under the trees and watched or talked if there was another adult along, which there usually was.  I suspect she just reminisced about her youth at the same spot or so.    Swimming suits didn’t last long, but in those days underwear worked just as well and usually did.  For kids swim suits were marginal at best.  You just wore what worked.   

By the time we started school we graduated to the irrigation ditch that ran along the Lower River Road.  It was not very deep, but on a hot day it was fun.  We could float along than walk back up the bank.  We did learn to swim in the ditch.  I don’t remember ever taking swimming lessons.  It was just something we learned to do much like throwing a baseball.   Of course like all young boys we couldn’t just float and swim.  What is the adventure in that?  Soon we were exploring the culverts that went under the drive ways and daring each other to go into the deeper water at each end of the pipe.  That was a daring feat.  That took courage; you might get pulled in to the pipe.  There was always an eddy of floating material around the mouth of the upstream side of the culvert.  You never knew what might be in there.  Usually it was just grass.  But once in a while, if you were lucky, there would be a snake swimming for its life. There was also a possibility of succors as well.  Once in a while they would get through the screens at the Savage Rapids dam and be carried along the ditch. Dropping into that detrital mass was the sort of thing stories are made of and many were told in the shade of a tree on a hot summer afternoon.

Of course the next thing was us to enter the pipe.  We didn’t know what was in the pipe, but we were risk taker.  So down we went and pulling ourselves along the pipe to the other side.  That was big stuff.  What great sport to have other kids around then swim down to the pipe disappear under the water and come up at the other end of the pipe.  They thought about it for a while, but the thrill of adventure was too much.   But before long they worked up the courage to give it a try.  It was a bad day when people upstream were using the water and the ditch was dry.

 We also had a dirt ditch that crossed through the back of our property. We were about the end of the line on that ditch and we generally got water late at night.  So seldom swam there.  When we irrigated the pasture using that ditch it as a late night for dad.  He would start the water then go to where it ended.  He would lie down on the grass and wait until he felt the water on his toes.  He knew the field was finished.  One night he and our dog Tippy found a skunk while waiting.  My dad took his shovel and killer with Tippy helping.  When the irrigating was finish he came in the house to go to bed.  When our mother smelt him, well he couldn’t get the doors open fast enough exiting the house.  Mom made him take all his clothes off in the back yard and wash down with soap and the cold water from the garden hose.  As for Tippy he smelt like skunk whenever he got wet for the rest of his life.

 Sometime around 1950 we graduated to the Rogue River and we were off for White Rock.  White Rock was a place down the River from our place?  Not too far from where the road makes a turn and starts to parallel the river.  There were several large white granite boulders in the river that gave it, its name.  I suspect it is still there. It was place that was kind of a rite of passage for pre-teen boys. You were on your way when you went to White Rock. That is among our friends. The bank was steep to the water and was covered with brush, nettles and grass.  Just some trails lead to the water. Someone had climbed one of the fir trees and tied a rope.  They had also built stand. It was just a couple polls put in the ground with cross member. We would climb the latter then swing out over the water and drop.  We had to be careful though, there was a gravel bar part way out so if you hit the water in the right place or I should say the wrong place the water could be very shallow in some spots.  We did spent time sitting on the rock in the river.  From there we would dive to the bottom and swimming around.  We didn’t use goggles just opened our eyes.  Later we did get some swim fins and a face masks which made things much clearer.  Once in a while we would swim across the river.  It seemed a long way, but now doesn’t look all that far the last time I was there.  We didn’t do that often, just too much work and a waste of time.   You drifted down river and by the time you went both ways you had to walk though berry vines and nettles to get back.  Just wasn’t worth the effort.

 Our favorite thing to do was swim to the bottom pick up a rock and swim back to the top. The challenge was to see who could bring up the biggest rock. That could be a lung burner.  You could tell you were getting closer to the surface the light would get brighter and brighter the closer we got to the top.  Some time you just had to let go of the rock and get some air.  One of the more interesting times we were laying on the rock and all of a sudden the river got higher and higher.  Soon it covered the rocks.  It was kind of scary at first.  You had no idea why and how deep it was going to get.  Most likely they opened the gates at Savage Rapids dam to release more of the upstream water.

The best thing about White Rock was it was not crowded.  Very seldom was there anyone there except the group of boys we went with.  Once in a while there might be a high school couple trying to find a private place.  They would sit on the rocks and neck then drop in the water to cool off.  Once several ten, eleven or twelve year old boys showed up, they generally headed for new territory.    

Riverside Park in Grants Pass was another haunt.  I personally did not really cared for that too much.  It was crowded.  You could swim out to a raft anchored in the river, but it was crowded and people just sat there.  It was more of a sun bathing place.  At our ages sun bathing was not in the cards.  There was a railroad bridge upstream from Caveman Bridge that kids jumped off.   That was more for High school kids. Once in a while someone would get killed hitting the concrete abutments.

 Wayne did have a problem or two at the city park.  One time someone tried to steal his bike.  Fortunately he walked up as the kids started to ride off.  Another time he dove off the raft and hit his head on the rocks at the bottom of the river.  When I found him he was bleeding pretty well so we went rode home. Mom took him to the doctor and he got a couple stiches.   The talk was always someone rode their bike over the arches on Caveman Bridge.  It had those wide curved arches as it still does.  Not sure if anyone did. I never saw anyone or talked to anyone who did.  Now walking over is another thing. Not me. I liked the park, but was just too crowded.  There was large dance pavilion by the water, with changing rooms underneath.  They sold food and drinks also.  But unlike White Rock it was just a mass of kids and adults just running around.  We all need a White Rock.  It was a boys place.

Water was our friend during the summers.  But it could also be a hazard.  Not only the inherent danger, but it was the Polio era. The word polio struck fear into the hearts of everyone.  Medford seemed to be a hot bed of cases.   It was felt the disease could be transmitted by the river water.  So when an outbreak occurred, parents limited the kids swimming until the fear passed.  I am not sure if people got it from polluted water, but they were taking no chances.

We did have one alternative to the river and ditches.  The YMCA in Medford was a choice.  Now that was an adventure.  We went with a church group, boys only.  Our family attended the First Christian Church in Grants Pass.  So as an activity they would take a bunch of boys to swim.  What an experience that was.  Of course in those days it was not the friendly family YMCA.  The “M” stood for men. Oh ya boys as well.  Anyway that was not fun.  First you could not wear clothes in the pool.  Yep no swim suits.  You went in stripped to the buff, took a shower and washed your feet in some kind of disinfectant that was in a long trough.  Then off to the pool. Oh Joy, nothing quite like swimming with twenty naked boys in a cold dang basement pool.  But it was disinfected.  If any of you have ever been in those older “Y” pools they generally were in a basement with limited lighting, concrete walls and just maybe they had small windows with chicken wire security glass around the top of the room. I guess the men did the same thing.  Not sure but suspect handball was a more popular sport. 

Swimming was a big part of growing up on the Lower River Road.  There were many opportunities and places.  People really didn’t think much about polluted water, except for Polio.  If it was wet you got in.  Once we started on our own and got a bicycle we went most every day some place.

One other river activity that took place year around was just to walk to the river and play along the bank. Dad got a war surplus machete at Camp White after the war.  It was mainly left in the barn to cut the binding twine on the hay bales.  But it worked well cutting berry vines along the river.  So we would walk through the pastures behind our property to be river.  A great afternoon would be spent cutting tunnels and trails to nowhere.  Many an hour was spent walking a fallen cottonwood tree as it pass just above the vines hoping you did slip and fall, tumbling into the mass of thorns below.  One evening my mother and I were waiting for Wayne to come home so we could go to some long forgotten place.  A little after dusk he came walking up the drive way wondering what we were waiting for.  Mom was not happy and wanted to know what he had been doing.  He looked at her and said, “Cutting a tree down”.  He then got into the car as if that was normal and a little surprised she bothered to ask.

LLRR, 70    

  

                                                   

 

When the Thrashing Machine Came To Our House

During the summer a thrashing machine pulled by a tractor passed by our house from time to time.  It was always exciting to watch it go by.  It was pulled slow with men standing on it to make sure it cleared tree limbs and possible low power lines.  I never knew where it was going.  Its owner had been hired to so work somewhere.  In 1940's they were becoming a rare site and a cause for wonderment. The one day it came to our house.

The excitement was high when a thrashing machine pulled onto our property in the summer of 1948.  It was pulled by a John Deere Tractor or Johnny Popper as they were called for their unique engine popping sound. To one side was a large spinning pulley or power take off.  A wide canvas belt was place around the power take off then run up to the thrashing machine to power it up.  Once the belt was put in to place and started to turn the thrashing machine would slowly come to life.  It would shake and rumble with all its clanking belt chains, spinning cogged pulleys.  The grass was pitched on to a conveyor belt that carried up and into that mysterious machine.  As a kid I had no idea what evils took place in that living thing's insides.  All I could see was the large pipe spewing dust into the air and firing chaff into a pile.  As it shook as it was some living thing it slowly poured the tiny grass seeds into a bag. This was big time.

 Neighbors came over to help feed the contraption.  Many brought over their own grass to feed it.  The whole process didn't take long.  A half day at most.  When we were finished each farmer collected his bag of seed and went home.  What I was surprised about was how small the volume of seed that was collected.  Unlike the great amounts of wheat and barley I later combined in eastern Oregon that were measured in pound and better yet tons.  These amounts were measured in ounces and pounds for all that work.  Although I suspect its value was great.  The seeds were very tiny and it didn't take a lot seed to plant an acre.  But it was exciting for an eight year old boy.

Today we only see thrashing machines in farm shows or steam ups.  But in the late 1940s they could still be found in rural areas.  The combine harvesters were well developed.  But for small amounts of grass a thrashing machine worked fine.  Many of the farmers on the Lower River Road were small acreage farmers.  Making a living off of 15 to 30 acres.  Some had dairy cattle; others farmed garden vegetable and sold them at road side stands.  Most were older long time farmers.  Many of the younger farmers were people returning from the war and had the land before they left.  The younger guys all had jobs away from home and as we did. I guess we would be called hobby farmers today.  Why did the thrashing machine come to our house?

Sometime around 1946 or 47 the property to the east of our place was being sold off.  Mostly divided up into large parcels for people to build on.  Not lots, yet, but an acre or more.  So people bought the land next to our house and built their home next to our driveway, much to the chagrin of my parents.  So to prevent any more cozy neighbors from hemming us in my folks purchased the land portion at the back of our property for additional pasture land and prevent people from building there.

Most farmers flooded irrigated their property from a network of ditches fed from the Savage In order for this type of irrigation to work the land needed to be graded away from the ditch that went through the back of our property.  So once we bought the land it was surveyed then graded.  At intervals a ridge was graded in.  They ran the length of the field away from the ditch. They looked much like speed bumps.  They were to channel the water along the length of the field. Once grass was planted and the ground settled down it was hard to tell they were there until you drove over them.  It took a while for the grass to mature so the cattle to graze on it.  So to recover the cost of the grass seed it was allowed to go to seed its first year.  It was then cut, dried and thrashed to recover that seed.  I was never sure it paid for itself.  But if a number chipped in for the thrashing machine it most likely didn’t cost much.

The grading was done by our neighbor Pat McFadden.  He used his horse and a Fresno grader to level the field.  It is a wide bucket with a bladed edge that is pulled across the ground skimmed off the dirt.  On the back is a long handle that would tilt up the Fresno to dump the dirt.  On the front were a couple skids that allow the lifted bucket and clear the ground to dump.  It worked great and was the way roads and other leveling was done long before road graders or the huge scrapers were used as we see on construction sites today.

That was not the only time the thrashing machine came to our neighborhood.  A short time later it came to Pat McFadden's house.  I am not sure of the event.  It was at the time our sister, Barbara, was born.  My mother was in Josephine General hospital giving birth.  At the same time Wayne and I had been promised a trip to Camp White near Medford to see and air show.  World War Two planes were going to perform a dog fight.  We couldn’t wait.  But first we had to help with the thrashing.  At noon Lucy McFadden had a big crew dinner in her dining room. The only time I remember that room being used.

 Then we had to go to the hospital to see our mother and sister. Except kids were not allowed in the hospital in those days.  Also mom had to stay in the hospital for a number of days and in bed.  Was anything wrong?  No that is how it was done.  So we had to wait in the car.  In the meantime the air show was under way.  Well between the thrashing bee, the hospital.  Well we didn't make it in time to see the dog fight.  We did get to see the planes.  Ah well.  I still think about missing the airshow.  In those days a drive to Medford was not the forty five minutes it is today.  No I-5.  Just Highway 99 weaving its way along the river and through the country side. 

Whenever I attend an old time thrashing event I thing about how it came to our house and did real work.  I love the rumble and roar and of course the smell of the blowing chaff.

Pat McFadden

Pat McFadden was a special person in my life and I suspect Wayne's as well.  He lived owned a farm across the highway from us.  The first time I remember him was just before we went to Salina, Kansas during the latter part of WWII,  I don't remember much.  The first thing that sticks out in my mind was he was taking us to catch the passenger train in Grants Pass.  We loaded our stuff in his car, but there was no seat on the driver's side of the car.  Pretty soon he comes out of the house with a kitchen chair.  Says something to the effect that it would work and off we went. Little did I know  how important he would become in my life. He would in many way our surrogate grandfather.

He was average short, built square and of Irish decent. He was older than my parents. He was a low key person. I only remember him getting perturbed at us one time.  He always wore loose fitting jeans.  Not cowboy stuff, but working clothes.  As I remember he did smoke, who didn't in those days.  He had large fingers and freckles on the back of his hand.  He always wore leather gloves that when he wanted to stop and talk  he would roll them up and stuff the into his back pocket.  Most important he seemed to talk to us as adults.  He never ordered or talk down to us. He would just ask or suggest.

 My favorite memories are when he would stop working lean against a fence and talk about something we were doing or if we had read something.  He was really interested.   Knowing, as young boys, we didn't read much on our own. But to spur our interest in things  he would ask  a questions about thing just to get us to think. One time he me ask if I had read a certain Read's Digest book selection on Alaska. He knew I hadn't, but wanted  to peak my interest.  He said I ought to read it.  So I ran home and spend a couple days reading it.  I was about 10 or 11 at the time.  I was a slow reader and it was tough for me to get through, but I wanted to be able to discuss it with him so plowed on. That may have been what got me started on a life time of reading. I still think about that article.

One day out of the blue he ask if I knew the 23rd psalm.  Even though I went to church  in truth it was not part of my Sunday School learning.  He was not a religious man.  He never any church that I knew of. He did feel people should know this one psalm.  Why?  I think he felt it was a universal passage.  To him it was the basics of the Christian religion. He felt everyone should know it.  So he took the time and effort to try to teach it to me.  I would be with him during some chore, soon he would stop what he was doing. Roll up his gloves put them in his back pocket, pull our a cigarette and proceed to drill me on the 23 psalm. Like many pioneer people it was part life's kit.  You had to learn to do things on your own.  That went for doctor'n and preach'n.  In the old west you never knew when you would be called on to pray for or bury someone.  It was just a good thing to know and it covered all the bases.   

In the book  "They Settled in Applegate Country" he is mentioned as a dairyman.  I suspect he was.  Like many farmers in on the Lower and Upper River Road country, he farmed a small acreage. Ten to twenty acres.  Doing what ever he could to make a living. Prior to the 1940s and 50s you could make a living on a small place.   He did have some dairy cows when I first remember him.  Only around 5 or so.  Not twenty or thirty and of course not 200 to 300 or more like to dairies today.  I do remember a Surge Milking machine, so he didn't do the milking by hand.  The milk was put in milk cans and put in a cooler.  Each morning a Grants Pass Creamery truck came to pick up the can in exchange for clean cans.  The mike would be from the evening milking and the morning milking.   I can still hear the clanking of the cans and the muted sliding sound as the delivery man slid them across the metal floor of his truck.

 As the milk laws became stricter Pat had to up grade his milk handling equipment.  He installed a refrigerated  bulk tank that pumped the milk from the cow to the tank then directly into a milk truck.  It was getting to be too big an investment for the number of cows he could handle, so around 1952 or so he gave it up.  The days of the real small dairyman were gone.  The larger 30 or 40 head dairies, like the Johnson Golden Guernsey, had taken over.  Of course those days are long gone as well.   

Pat always kept a horse around to do field labor.  He never used a wagon, but hooked up a sledge.  He would use it to haul hay, produce or anything else that he wanted to transport around his place.  Many a time Wayne and I would ride the sled heading out to do some kind of work or just to get in Pat's way.  There was always something to be done on a farm.  Fixing fence, cleaning barns of manure, cleaning irrigation ditches it all went on the sledge.  I don't remember the horse having a name.  It could have.  It was controlled by clicking of your tongue or whoa.  Mostly you just let him go.  Not real instructions were needed.

However, he did borrow a tractor to plow for his produce gardens, mow hay and pull a bailer for that hay.  However hauling the hay to be barn was done with his horse and sled.  It was always fun when he borrowed a tractor.  I don't know where he got them.  They all seemed to be late model tractors.  But that I mean, 1939 and later.  In 1948 a 1939 tractor was a late model.  The ones I remember were a Ford, John Deere and a Farmall.  The Ford was low to the ground with kind of like a car, while the other two had big rear tires and small front wheels that were close together.  I always thought the latter two would roll over.  But they were really designed for row crop work while the Ford was for more open work.  Anyway he always allowed us to ride with him.  Maybe even drive once in a while.  

Pat always grew several acres of produce that he would sell to the public traveling along Lower River Road. I was never sure if he sold it any place else.  We would go to town with him once in a while and he didn't when we were along.   He didn't have a road side stand as the Horn family did down the road.  He just sold from his yard.  He grew about any kind of produce you can think of.  Corn, beans, tomatoes, pumpkins, and watermelons.  [The watermelons are a story in themselves] 

Each spring he would prepare the ground for planting.  So he would hook his horse to a harrow and a clod buster.  The clod was a 2x4 platform about the dimensions of the harrow and pulled behind the harrow to smooth out the ground and of course breakup any  dirt clods.  You could stand on the platform as the horse pulled you along.  Once he had things lined out he would ask if we want to take over.   Boy Howdy, does a horse ....  So he handed us the reins or ribbons as some old timers called them and off we went.  He would stand there for a while watching then disappear leaving us on our own.  I think we grew up more right there as any place else.  He trusted us.  So we would spend the afternoon working those the ground.  Not that that we were always angels.  But we knew when we had been entrusted with something important.

Not many young people even in that time grew up knowing how to work a horse.  Granted the work was not heavy, but is was done an older way from an older time.  A horse to Pat was like a dog.  Not necessary, but just a good old friend to have around.  It was very gentle and just walked along.  And it was cheap.  It just ate grass and hay, which he had anyway.

Once in a while Pat would hook up an old plow and do a small area.  I now know why they called them foot burners.  He would tie the reins together and toss them over one shoulder and under his arm on the other side.  Grab the plow handles give the signal usually a clicking sound and off he would go.  Even what appeared to be a slow walk for a horse was a human quick step.  Walking in the furrow left by the plow was no easy trick.  I think Pat just did it just to remember how he did it in days gone past.  You were hot foot'n it along.

Oh!  The watermelon.  Pat's watermelon were not the big variety you saw in the store.  They were small like a little beach ball.  On a summer afternoon while we were hanging around Pat would pick a couple while he was collecting his fresh produce.  When we go to to his house and things put away he would say.  Come on let's see if that melon is any good.  We would sit on the back stoop and he would pull out his pocket knife and split it open.  It was good.  But in truth they were not full of fruit.  Usually they were partly hollow in side.  For some reason we couldn't grow really good watermelon on that area.  My mom was always disappointed.  They were not like the good one she got when growing up in the Applegate Valley.  I don't know.  But I know the excitement when we opened them up with Pat.

That is just a touch of the McFadden I knew.

  

Digging a Basement

Some time around 1947 or sor dad decided to dig a basement under our house.  Our house was small with two bed rooms, bath, living room and kitchen.  We ate in the kitchen.  With two bedrooms my brother and I slept in one and mom and dad in the other.  With one bathroom centered between the two.  For some reason it was decided to build the basement rather than add on to the house, that is an other story.  Oh I know the reason, a utility basement was more important than a place to sleep.

After consulting with a builder that lived around  Doreen Ln area.  Dad started the project. As he did everything he would do the work himself with guidance from a local expert.  In this case the builder helped build a conveyor belt.  I remember going to the builder's shop off and on while my dad consulted with him. One of the first dad had constructed was a couple wooden roller that moved the belt.  The belt was made of heavy rubber that was cut to length and two ends fastened together.  The belt was about a foot or more wide with wooden slats attach to carry the material up and not slide back.  A long wooden trough was made with the rollers attached to each end and an electric attached to the top roll to pull the belt along.  [Later this operation was used to put baled hay in the barn, but that's another story.]

First the entry to the basement was decided on. It was placed beside the back porch.  It would be an outside entry.  The main reason it was cheaper and it was a utility basement so they didn't want things tracked into the house.

Next is was necessary to cut a section of the foundation away.  This was cut the width of the entry door.  That required the purchase was a star drill.  He seemed to be proud of the thing.  It was a man's work.  Heck it was just a hardened steel rod with a cross hatch or star at it's tip.  It's purpose is to drill holes in rocks or concrete.  A sledge hammer was used to drive it into the foundation.  Once numerous holes were drill through the foundation in several places in he broke the pieces out. It was a laborious task.  No power tools for dad if you could do it in a cheaper more manly.  In truth the job was not nearly big enough to own a power too and rental stored was not available.  Power tools were really not in the hands of the average home  owner.

Once the foundation was cut away the digging began.   The dirt was put into the trailer and hauled away.  Much was hauled along Lower River Road.  Mainly along the north side of the road between our house and Rogue Lane.  Along the irrigation ditch.  It is still still there today.  No one ever said anything.  But then we were in the country in those days.  Rogue Lane was not.  The field on the north side of road was a hop field.

Each evening he worked on the project.  My brother and I did the choirs and helped dig.  When he came to a footings under the house the old one was removed a concrete block was put down and a longer 4x4 replaced it. The side walls were cut about a foot from the foundation.  To keep the house from sagging he would put a level on the joists and jack the house up until level then put shims in to keep it lever.   Things went well.  Well until.  Construction without a problem is not construction.  Anyway.  There is a summer high water table.

The project was started in early summer so the ground would dry out and the water table would be lower.  That was fine, but not one thought about summer irrigation.  Much of the Lower River Road was irrigated by flooding the fields and lawn with water from the ditch that paralleled the road.  There were also additional ditched that covered the properties away from the road.  We had a pipe that went under the road and provided water for our lawn, garden and pasture land.  No thought was given to the water table coming up with out the winter rains.  About mid August during the hight of irrigation season up came the water table.  It flooded our new unfinished basement with two foot of water.  What does that make.  Why it makes a very good indoor swimming pool

A swimming pool it was.  That is until mom heard us playing in the water our mother heard us.  She just came unglued.  She let us know in no uncertain terms that we were not to be down there.  The concern was the  wet walls could sump allowing the foundation to come down as well dropping the house into the basement or in one heck of twist.  So during the next couple weeks they were on pins and needles waiting for the water table to go back down.  It did once irrigations stopped and harvest began the water subsided and work began in earnest and with a since of purpose that fall.

In a short time forms were put into place and concrete poured.  No mixing ourselves.  Trucks came in along with professionals to make sure the walls and floors were poured properly.  Things went well from then on. Except the walls did leak some, but the floor by design was tilted toward one corner and some minor groves cut in to allow the water to drain to one corner were a sump pump was place to pump the water out.

A wood furnace was installed to provide welcome winter heat.  The kitchen wood stove was moved to the basement and we got one of those electric stoves.  Not new of course, but a good used one.

The basement was our place out of the weather.  It was a shop, furnace room,clothes wash and drying room, butcher shop where we cut and packaged our own meat of all kinds. We also canned fruit and vegetables. We even had an home made incubator to hatch chickens.  It worked, but purchasing baby chick was easier. Of course the furnace required wood so that is how Wayne and I spend most Saturdays mornings stacking a weeks worth of wood.

It was also a place to go do something when it rained.  The hay loft and the basement were our out of the places.  

But those are stories in themselves.  

Our First Bike

My brother and I got our first bike when we were about nine or ten.  Living in the country and being kids it was about the only way we had to travel.  Ah but more important it was the prestige of just having one.  It didn't matter what kind it was or how it looked just the ownership was key.  I say our, because it was one bike between, Wayne and myself at the time.

Our dad said we could own a bike when we had enough money to buy one.  Ya right.  We did earn money working around the farm.  But that was little and no where near the price of a new bike.  Besides mom really didn't want us to have a bike.  She felt that the Lower River road was no place to be riding a bike.  The traffic was fast and a fair amount of it.  So the edict worked for them both.  Dad didn't want to spend the money and mom didn't want us on the road.  Some where during a summer day in 1951 or so things changed. In truth I am not sure of the year, do remember it was summer.  

On that fateful summer afternoon Wayne and I were sitting in our backyard discussing the ways of the world with our friend, James Beed.  During the course of our conversation about the fastest way to cut down a tree, the biggest cow pie was in our pasture, I had really bad poison oak and other important facts, Jim announced he was getting a new bike.  A three speed.  Three speeds were the wave of the future.  Wow that's cool we thought, but the bigger wow was what was he going to do with his old bike. Of course you never come straight out and ask.  That would show you are desperate and you were never desperate.   After a bit of hinting around that we just  might be interested in taking his old one off his hands. You learn at a young age how to bargain.  You never tip your hand. Finally he  said he might be willing to let us buy the old one. Will is one thing, but at what cost.  He thought for a minute,  a long minute, as we sat holding our breath in a cool manner then Jim said five bucks. FIVE BUCKS!   With a sense of joy, yet with controlled  nervousness we said we would have to check. With a quick step we headed into the house to check our rat holed savings.  Moving with a fear he would change his mind. A deal was not a deal until money change hands. Even then it was questionable among kids.  After pooling our funds we came up with the FIVE BUCKS.  Asking our parents was not necessary, we hoped.  That deal had been struck when we were told that "you have to earn the money your selves".  The bike was ours.  We were kings that summer.

When we told our parent we had bought a bike that afternoon.  Their response was well-stunned.  There was nothing they could really say.  Dad did come up with a weak "is it safe".  Safe really met did it work.  It worked.  

The bike was an old 1930s or 40s fat tire bike.  Painted red with a tank mounted in the straddle bar. At one time the tank contained a horn.  Now there was just a button that did nothing.  The seat was big saddle with coiled springs.  Still the most comfortable seat ever built.  We spend many an afternoon washing, polishing and of course lubing the bike.  The various axles required oiling by a little clip coved port built in to the axle.  You lifted the little clip cover and squirted in some oil from a oil can.   The spokes always required polishing, because the oil would drip from the hubs and along with dust left a dirty film on them.  One trick for polishing the hubs or axles was to place a loose fitting piece of leather strap around it.  As you rode along it would do the polishing for you.  That was a summer to remember.  We were free to range much further than before.  We did do a lot of walking along Lower River road, but now the possibilities were endless.  Although we could only go one at a time.  Or one walk the other riding the switch.  It was not satisfactory but it was a start.  

 In truth after we share rode that bike for a month or so dad took me down to a used bike shop on G Street and purchased us another used bike. Then we were off to many adventures.  Riding to Riverside park to swim or to White Rock our favorite swimming hole.  We could ride to school at Ft Vannoy, or pick beans on the Upper River road.  Ride up Granite Hill to the railroad tracks through the cemetery.  But those are other stories .    

The Trailer

The idea for this blog started at my dad's funeral in 2005.    After the funeral my sister, Barbara, ask if I could write things down of my life in Oregon.  She is some what younger than my brother, Wayne and myself.  By the time she was old enough to remember many things The family had moved to Ely, Nevada and later to Roseburg, Oregon.  My life pretty much matured on the Lower River Road.  I tried several times to write it down.  But as many of life's event things start to get complicated as you keep recalling things.  Then attempting to cut them down to size.  Your choice is to cut it down, Grants Pass or a day by day account of events.  Then it hit me do a blog.  It does not need to be in any order except as events come to mind.  Stories will breed stories.
    
To help keep me on track while speaking at my dad's funeral I thought about a trailer that was part of our life's from the time I was born until it was sold in 2002.  By that time it had been in the family for 62 years that I knew about. A TRAILER!  Yep.  I am not sure when it was purchased.  It may have been used to help move my parents to the Lower River Road some time in 1940?

What I do know it was part of our family during World War ll.  Around 1942 dad was inducted into the Army Air Corp.  He was a Veterinarian so received officer's commission.  His job was to inspect troop food supplies and its preparation facilities. He did not leave the States.  Salina, Kansas was the furtherest east he got.

So leaving the  Lower River Road to fend for it's self off the Russ family went to war.  They loaded up the trailer and off to Wendover Air Base, Utah.  They found a home in Wells, Nevada.  We lived there a few months and then he was transfered to Monahans, Texas.  Loading up the trailer in Wells and off they went pulling their family goods behind them.  The next stop was Salina, Kansas.  However my mother pulled the trailer back to Grants Pass, Oregon.  Repacked suit cases and took the train to Kansas.   This all lasted until 1945.  Then we all settle back on the Lower River Road for the post War years.

The trailer then became a utility vehicle. When dad built a new barn it was used to haul supplies for it's construction.  It was used to haul dirt from a basement dad dug under the house. [a story there]  Much of the rock and dirt was dumped along the Lower River Road.  I suspect it is still there. He hauled pigs and cows for our farm.  Then some time around 1948 or so it was converted into a trailer to haul larger cattle.

 Originally it was built of 1 by 4s and ran on wheels with a leaf spring suspension and painted black. A little light for cattle.  So it was beefed up with 2X4 and 2X6s.  A drop gate was built so the animals could walk in. With a stanchion to hold their heads.  It was painted green.  The walk up gate could be removed so it could haul hay, manure, household good.  It was still a utility trailer.  Many a time Wayne and I used it as a manure spreader.  We loaded it up and then walked behind pulling it out on the pastures.  [ah another story]

We moved to Nevada in 1956. It still was used as a utility vehicle.  Buts the farm animals use was no more.  But then it took on the additional duties of a camp trailer.  [oh joy].  Many a fun night was spent unloading camping gear on our many travels. A  Disney Land trip camping in a public parks out of a cattle trailer.  We felt like kings, ya right.  I did like Disney Land and was one of the first people to visit.  But out of a green cattle trailer.

In 1961 they moved Roseburg and the trailer was still being used as a utility vehicle.  Some time around 1980 or so it was converted into a boat trailer and finished it's life thus.

Anyway that was my story that day.  So this is my story to day and have several Lower River Road stories out of this one.  Yes it is history.  and this is history.

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