FLOUR SACKS AND BLOOMERS

By Frances West

 

Recently I had to shop for some new underwear for myself, which triggered the memories of the days when I wore homemade bloomers. (Younger folks may want to look up exactly what bloomers are.) In those days my mother baked a lot of wonderful bread and would buy flour in 100-pound bags.  These cotton bags had colorful designs and were really quite pretty. So the ladies of the house would make good use of their material by making dish towels, aprons, and pinafores for the little girls’ dresses and other practical things.   My mamma decided that this was the very thing needed for my bloomers. The problem was that, for some reason, they were way too big. She always said it was so I could sit comfortably. But I was constantly pulling and rolling them up so they would not show below my dress. Girls did not wear jeans or long pants in those days.  Also, they were supposed to be long enough to connect with my long cotton stockings.  All of this was, of course, so I would stay warm.

There was only one other girl that I know of who also wore cotton bloomers. Her name was Patty and she lived with an elderly aunt, so we sort of bonded because of our underwear.  It seemed all the other girls had pretty pink silk or rayon panties.  I knew this because of a piece of playground equipment we used at recess. It was a high metal pole that had long chains hanging from the top with hand grips at the bottom which we would grab and run as fast as possible. The centrifugal force would carry is in a high circle and of course, expose our underwear.  It was called the “Giant Strides” and was great fun.

 My mother didn’t escape the bloomer dilemma.  One day she was standing at the stove, cooking dinner (stirring gravy, to be exact) for dinner guests, when her underpants fell down when the buttons came loose. This was during World War two and rubber products were scarce since the war effort needed all of things like that so they had to use buttons....anyway, poor Mom was so embarrassed. I heard a story that this happened to President Roosevelt’s wife as well.  I don’t imagine it was any less embarrassing.

In winter most of us wore long heavy brown cotton stockings. These were usually held up by a circular piece of elastic and were high enough to connect with the bloomers, which also had elastic at the lower leg. Most of us had to wear these stockings all winter or at least until the snow had melted from the hillsides. However when spring began to show we sisters would wait until we were out of our mother’s sight and would roll our stockings down and bloomers up.  It must have been quite a sight to see these little girls walking to school with fat brown “donuts” around their ankles.  Then on the trip home, we would reverse the procedure so that our moms would think we had worn our long sox all day. Looking back, I’m sure my mom knew what we were up to all along.

            To this day I like soft, pretty underwear. Nothing fussy and “age appropriate” for someone 82. Now I buy flour in paper bags and toss the bags into the trash when emptied. Recycling and using everything possible is not a new concept as many younger folks think these days. But then of course they know nothing of flour sack bloomers.

Wagon Train Travel/Civil War

Article 74 

By J.B. West 

June 8, 1973 

My grandfather, William McConnell was born in Virginia on July 12, 1819, the youngest of four children. He did not remember his mother at all because she died when he was very small. He only had a faint remembrance of his father, his three older brothers, and an older sister. At the age of four, he was adopted by another family and never heard from his own folks again. His foster parents raised him as one of their own but could provide him with but one year of schooling. As was the custom in those days when he became 21 they gave him a wagon and a team of horses and set out to make his way. He went to Missouri and by the time he was 30 had acquired a farm and married  Mariah Hurlbert. 

After Mariah’s marriage her parents, with their six young children began their journey to Oregon. On the way, they had another daughter born on the banks of the Blue  River. They named her Ellen Blue. The family settled near Corvallis. Ellen died in her teens. 

Meanwhile, back in Missouri, the McConnells, William and Mariah, prospered until the Civil War began. Missouri was a slave state. Grandfather used slaves on the farm and in the house but he hired them and paid wages to their owners. Missouri did not secede from the Union but was a buffer state between the North and the South. Raiding parties from both sides often came through and helped themselves to anything they wanted. It was hard to tell the friends from the enemies so Grandfather spent many a  night in hiding. The Civil War took its toll and the country became impoverished, the living conditions intolerable. By this time there were six children in the family, all under the age of 15. None of them went to school because there were no schools. 

The exchange of letters between the two families was infrequent but Hurlberts wrote from Oregon describing the mild climate, the plentiful water, wood, and land that was available and cheap. There was a school for the children as well. Grandfather, at the age of 46 decided to pull up roots and to go west to Oregon. There was no market for the  Missouri farm, but an adjoining neighbor agreed to rent it and then buy it as soon as possible, which he did several years later for about half its worth. 

The preparations began for the journey west. Grandfather bought three wagons;  one for the family, the second for farm equipment, and the third for food provisions for the trip which was to take more than six months. He cured quantities of bacon and prepared dried fruits and honey. He sold corn and purchased wheat flour and sold all his mules and all his horses except for two which he kept for riding. He purchased six oxen,  a team of two for each wagon. He also bought a milk cow which provided milk for the long journey.

These preparations took months, and then there was yet another delay because a  wagon train had to be organized for safety. After the war, the Indians had become hostile and would attack small wagon trains. A wagon train of 300 was considered a sufficient number to discourage an attack.  

Tragedy struck during the winter when a cholera epidemic swept the area. Six-year-old Johnny recovered fully but three-year-old Wallace died and was buried in the family orchard. Finally, in February 1865, the trip west began.

Camping - Nothing Else Like It!

 Camping – Nothing Else Like It!

By Bob West

Feb. 8, 1996

One summer, many years ago, two of my best buddies, Ray and Bob Sheets and I begged our parents to drive us to Kamiak Butte for an overnight camping trip. They always had some excuse not to do this…we were too young, it was too far, they didn’t have time, etc. They finally did relent and told us we could camp at “Trimbles Grove.” This is an area of approximately four acres located about a mile upriver from the city of Palouse. It once had a beautiful stand of pine trees, and was a very popular place for kids to play. Family, school, and church picnics were enjoyed there. It was a great place to find the first spring flowers. This was one of several spots where a bunch of us guys (sometimes even girls) would go “skinny dipping '' on the first warm spring day. In the late 30s, the property was sold, and the timber was logged off, destroying a very beautiful area.

As this land was bordered on one side by the river, and the other side by a deep cut that was dug when the tracks for the Washington, Idaho and Montana railroad were laid, there were no roads leading directly to it. Hiking up the railroad tracks was the best way to get there. Our parents explained to us since there was no way for them to transport our camping gear, we were on our own. No problem. We already had that figured out.

We each had a coaster wagon and would travel by wagon train as the pioneers did. We wanted to start at dawn but our parents made us wait until after lunch. I spent the entire morning packing and repacking my wagon. Quilts and blankets for my bed (no such thing as a sleeping bag in those days), a three-pound lard can with a handy bail for cooking, Mom’s large cast iron skillet, eating utensils, and my share of the grub.

Right after lunch, I pulled my heavily loaded wagon to my buddies’ house where everyone was ready and raring to go. Ray was the oldest so he was naturally elected wagon master. With a wave of his hand, his finger pointing eastward, it was “Wagons Ho!” We were on our way to a great adventure. The first part of the trip was smooth going, but when we came to the railroad tracks we found that traveling across railroad ties was far from easy. There was much jolting of our arms and shoulders in addition to the rattling and shaking of our pots and pans. A constant la thunk! La thunk! But it doesn't matter. This was but a small hardship as we were true pioneers on the open road.

It seemed like hours before we arrived at our campsite. We unpacked our wagons, made a fire pit, gathered enough wood for an all-night fire, and picked a spot for our beds. Each wanted to “our brave” the other, so we chose spots as far away from one another as possible.

After camp was set up, we had plenty of time to fish, catch crawdads, and skinny dip. I had also brought a pie pan of my mother’s to use for panning gold. I had been told that gold was found at the bottom end of a fast running rapid. I found a perfect spot for this but after a half hour of panning, I had dredged up one bottle cap, a piece of coal, and a horseshoe nail. Not one single gold nugget. Oh well.

None of us, of course, owned a watch, so we had no idea what time it was, but according to our stomachs it was dinnertime and I was in charge of cooking.

While my buddies started a fire, I prepared supper. I opened two large cans of Franco-American spaghetti. A large can of pork and beans was poured into the lard can, which was suspended over the fire on a stick. Everything was going great until the stick holding the beans burned in two, dropping the can, beans and all, into the skillet of spaghetti. I of course burned my fingers rescuing the beans, which I added to the spaghetti for a one-pan meal. Actually, it turned out to be very tasty. But what food isn’t good when it is flavored with natural condiments such as ashes, leaves, pine needles, bugs, and sand? We toasted marshmallows for dessert and ended our meal.

There were some weeds that grew abundantly in this area which we called Indian Tobacco. I thought I was going to be the “big man” to my fellow campers. I had sneaked into town the day before and bought a corncob pipe at the Pastime Tavern for a nickel. As I got this out, to my surprise Ray and Bob also brought out similar pipes from somewhere in their camping gear! We filled our corn cobs with this “tobacco” and sat around the fire smiling. We had a really big time. No one would admit it tasted terrible, made us dizzy and nauseous, and burned our tongues. Was this fun or what?

We planned to stay up all night, as there was no one to tell us to go to bed, but we barely lasted until dark. Besides, we weren't feeling too well. I remember thinking as I crawled into bed, “This is really the life!” About a half-hour later though, I began to change my mind. I could feel my bed was getting very hard and was full of sand and I was cold. I began to wish I was back home with my own warm and soft pillows.

Things got worse. Huge coyotes began howling right above my head. Owls began making tremendous hooting noises. I covered my head, not wanting to let anyone know I was a little scared. I peeked out of the covers and from the corner of my eye I saw that both Bob and Ray were up and standing by the fire. I slowly got out of bed, so as not to appear anxious, and joined them. We then mutually agreed to pool our blankets and sleep together for warmth. No one would admit to being scared, being cold was fine. We had been in bed only a short time when I felt something crawling on my legs. Ray shouted, “I’ve been stung!” We jumped up and tore the bed apart and sure enough, we had placed it over the entrance to a yellow jacket’s nest. We moved a few feet away and crawled back into our damp blankets. When we got up the next morning, everyone declared we had a wonderful night’s rest.

The fire had gone out. We gathered more fire-making materials only to find our one box of penny matches had been left on the wet sand and were ruined. We were in more trouble. We felt we were starving to death. But Mother Sheets had made pancake batter for us and put it in a large glass jug, but since we had no way to fry these cakes, someone came up with a great idea. We would add the maple syrup to the batter, mix it well and have something like a milkshake. We tried this, but as hungry as we were, it tasted horrible.

By this time we had to admit we were tired and unhappy campers. We were hungry, cold, wet, covered with mosquito bites and bee stings, and burned with hot coals. You name it we had it. There was no argument when I mentioned heading home. We loaded our gear into our wagons and started the long trek back. I was on my last leg when I finally arrived home. For once I didn’t argue with Mom about taking a bath. I then ate three bowls of Wheaties “The Breakfast of Champions” and crawled into my own soft bed for a long, long nap.

In spite of all this (or maybe because of it) I still love to go camping. But now, with our mattresses, tents, Coleman lanterns, and all the other “conveyances” camping will never have the same sense of adventure and excitement experienced in the “Tom Sawyer” era of my boyhood.

Mickey

 Mickey...More Than Man’s Best Friend...Ode To a Faithful Friend

 

By Bob West

April 19, 2001

 

One spring morning Barney, our son’s small dog, disappeared. We searched for him for several days and offered a cash reward for any information but he was never found. Dale of course was heartbroken. We were planning a trip to Spokane in a few weeks and we promised to stop at the humane society to find another pet.

    Opening the door to the dog pound we were greeted by about 30 dogs of different sizes, breeds, and temperaments. Most of them, as we passed their pens, tried to attract attention to themselves, hoping we would adopt them. In one pen there was a large, white-longhaired dog that didn’t seem too excited. She was lying on the floor with her head on her paws. When we stopped to look at her, she did lift her head, and her short-bobbed tail thumped against the floor. I noticed a name card on the door. “Mickey”, spayed Samoyed. Later I saw Dale looking at her and told him what the dog’s name was. Dale said, “Hello, Mickey, how are you?” Hearing her name she jumped up, her tail wagging, and made a pleasant low sound in her throat, as if she too were saying hello. That did the trick, he had found his new pet. We told him he must be sure – he said this was a dog he could hug. We warned him that because she was such a large dog she would not be allowed to live in the house as Barney had. He agreed. Contrary to this agreement, Mickey became a “live-in” member of the West household. She proved to be a very smart dog, and a great addition to the family despite two minor faults. She was overweight and was inclined to be a bit lazy.

A few days after school started that fall, she began following Dale to school, about four blocks away. On her return home, she would spend most of the remainder of the day dozing in our front yard. At about the same time every day, she would get up and walk to our front sidewalk, where she would sit looking toward the school. We always knew when Dale was approaching as her tail began to wag. She would then walk to the end of the block and wait for him (she was too lazy to walk any farther).

    Dale’s first-morning class in his freshman year was manual training (shop). On one of her school trips, Mickey noticed the door of the shop was open so she decided to visit the class. The teacher must have liked dogs because he told Dale she could stay if she behaved. These became daily visits. Like any other dog, she was very curious and would make a sniffing tour of the shop. One morning she sniffed something good – the teacher’s lunch. She couldn’t resist it – she devoured all of it! For some reason, this upset the teacher and he grabbed a broom and began chasing her around the room. Opening the door, and with a mighty swing on her backside, he said, “get out and don’t come back!” This event made a big change in her lifestyle. No matter how hard Dale tried to get her to follow him to school, she refused. That was the end of Mickey’s formal schooling.

    She began a new routine of following me as I walked to work each morning. She would then either sit or lay at the entrance to our grocery store. Most everyone in town knew and liked her and would stop to pat her head and say, “Good morning, Mickey!” She would answer with the same low throaty sound she had greeted us with at our first meeting. She also, like our kids, liked to visit Grandma. Every few days she would slowly walk to the house at the top of the hill to visit Frances’ mother. Grandma claimed she didn’t like animals in the house but she always let Mickey in. When Mickey was through visiting she would stand by the back door and wag her tail. One day Grandma made a mistake and gave her a homemade cookie before she left. After that, Mickey wouldn’t leave until she got her treat.

     One spring we bought a used Corvair van and converted it into a camping van. We named it our “hippy bus”. It wasn’t very fancy, but how we did enjoy it. We spent many weekends in the good weather camping out. Mickey enjoyed it more than anyone. I could drive the van several times a day and she would pay no attention to it. When we began loading it for a camping trip, though, she sat right by the door of the van. She knew we were going camping and was not going to be left behind. We camped at various spots on Gold Hill for a couple of years, then purchased our campground of 10 acres south of Sanders, Idaho, which we named “The Diggin’s”.

One Sunday evening we were packing to come home when a major thunderstorm and downpour hit the area. The last several hundred yards of the road to our campsite were very steep and narrow. After the rain stopped we started down the steep hill. About halfway down we saw a root that had been dislodged from the hill, part of it lying in the road. I stopped and looked the situation over and told my wife we could drive around it. She disagreed and refused to get back in the van. So with Mickey as my co-driver, we started down. We almost made it, but at the last moment, the van slipped off the road, rolled several times, and ended right-side up at the bottom of the hill. Neither Mickey nor I were physically injured, but our poor “hippy bus” was damaged beyond repair. Not wanting to miss out on camping we then purchased a pickup truck and a tent. We later moved a small camper trailer to our campsite.

     Mickey thought of herself as part of the family (as well she was) and refused to ride in the back of the pickup. Preparing for our first outing in the truck, I lifted her into the bed (she was too fat to jump in by herself). She jumped out before I could get into the driver’s seat. I lifted her twice more with the same result. I finally gave in and let her ride in the front between us. I thought she would be happy now, but she wasn’t. When I started the engine she reached over with a paw and raked it across my upper arm leaving white scratch marks. I told her to quit, but she did it twice more, the last time drawing blood. I stopped the truck to give her a good cuffing. I then realized she was holding her paw as if she wanted to “shake hands”. I did that and she seemed satisfied. Thereafter on our trips, I tried to remember to shake her paw when entering the truck. If I forgot she would remind me that I had failed to accept her thanks for letting her go along.

A few months after Dale graduated, he moved to California. Not only did we become the legal owners of Mickey; we also adopted his other dog, Hilda. Now we were a 2-dog family. On our return trips home from camp, we always stopped at a roadside dumpster to leave our garbage. On one occasion I was driving away from the dumpster when, for the first and only time, Mickey began the arm-scratching routine on Frances. I told my wife to just shake her paw like I knew she wanted. She tried this, but Mickey would not stop scratching. I pulled off the road at the next wide spot. I was going to make that dog ride in the back, using a leash to keep her from jumping out. When I opened the door to get out I realized Hilda wasn’t in the cab. Did we leave her alone at the camp? I turned around and headed back. Hilda was sitting in the middle of the road by the dumpster, looking quite forlorn, waiting for us. If Mickey hadn’t alerted us by her scratching, we could well have gotten home without Hilda.

Mickey had extremely sensitive ears. The daily fire siren drove her crazy. She could detect a thunderstorm minutes before any human being could and would run and hide. Fourth of July firecrackers made her life miserable. Once Dale and I made the mistake of taking her varmint hunting. The very first shot sent her streaking back to the pickup. We found her hiding beneath it and we could not coax her from there until I had the rifle hidden. I never took her hunting again, but whenever she saw a rifle, she would hide. A hunting dog she was not!

My wife and I remember the years we spent camping as some of the best years of our married life. Toward the end of this era, we realized Mickey was getting old. Instead of following us as we hiked the steep trails of our mountain retreat, she would spend the day sleeping. She became ill one day and we cut our trip short to take her to a vet. She had a severe bladder infection and was given medicine for it. The vet warned us that her “waterworks” might fail at any time.

One hot Saturday morning Frances called me at work and told me something was wrong with Mickey. She had heard a strange moaning sound and found Mickey beside the house, obviously in great pain. She called the vet but he was not in. I rushed home and could see our pet was truly suffering. I could not stand to see her like this. She needed to be put down and I knew I had to do it myself. As I was loading my 22 I had a terrible thought that she might run when she saw the gun. I hid it behind my back as I approached her, saying, “Everything is going to be OK.” When she did see the rifle she stood up but instead of running, she looked up at me and wagged her tail. I patted her on the head and as I pulled my hand away, she nudged me with her nose and licked my hand. Completing this act of mercy was by far the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.

I had a hard time falling asleep that night. I kept reminiscing about our canine friend. I finally realized that when she “kissed” me with her nose and tongue, she was thanking me in advance for putting her out of her misery, much like she thanked me with her “handshakes” for our camping trips together. Yes, she was one great friend!

The Sights and Sounds of Kamiak Butte

The Sights and Sounds of Kamiak Butte

By Bob West

April – November 1995 (date?)

While growing up in Palouse, I spent many happy hours on Kamiak Butte. Myself and a friend or two would hike, or if we were lucky, hitch a ride out to the foot of the butte and then spend the entire day hiking and exploring there. If I couldn’t find a buddy to go with me, I would often times go alone.

One summer some older boys told me that Chief Kamiak had died while he was camped out on the butte, and his body was buried under a pile of rocks, standing upright in a hollow tree or under a fallen tree. Since the boys who told us this were much older and wiser (probably about 14) my buddies and I did not question their wisdom and spent many hours searching for the chief’s body. It wasn’t until years later that I learned his real name was Chief Kamiaken, not Chief Kamiak, and that he is buried at Rock Lake, near St.John, Washington.

On one of my solo trips up on the mountain, I heard an unusual sound – the sound of women’s laughter. What could women possibly be doing on my mountain? I was playing mountain man at that time and was appropriately dressed. I had designed myself a coonskin cap, using a fur collar taken from a coat I had found in a garbage can, and an old felt hat of my dad’s.

Upon hearing this laughter I did what any good mountaineer would do. I quickly dropped to the ground on my belly, grabbed a couple handfuls of dust, and powdered my face with it. While still on my belly, I slithered from bush to bush, tree to tree, rock to rock, until I reached a large pile of boulders, where the sound seemed to be coming from.

I peeked carefully around one of the boulders. Was I ever shocked to see four young ladies without any clothes on! Yes, they were plumb-naked!

Now you readers must realize this was many years before the countless “girly” magazines we see on the market today. Our “Playboy” magazine in those days was National Geographic. Several times a year they published articles complete with photographs of natives in the jungles of Africa, South America, or the Outback of Australia. Some of us boys tried to sneak a peek at these without my dad catching us. It was, after all, pretty daring stuff at that time. Many of these photos showed the natives a la naturelle. We overlooked the fact that some of the women looked as if they had ping pong paddles inserted in their upper lips, and the rest of their anatomy had, for the most part, lost all elasticity. But since this was sort of forbidden literature, we felt we should take a second look.

Anyway, as shocked as I was at seeing the nude bodies, I was even more astounded to see these women were smoking! Yes, all of them were smoking cigarettes! Nice ladies in those days simply did NOT smoke. The only other lady I had ever seen smoking was an old woman about 80 years old.

One of the young ladies spotted me and let out a scream that would have awakened Chief Kamiaken if he had indeed been buried there. Looking back I guess most anyone would scream in terror if they saw this strange being with bulging eyes, a face streaked with dust and sweat, and wearing a peculiar head covering.

Perhaps she thought she had sighted the Son of Sasquatch. Not wanting to get captured and tortured by these mountain nymphs I jumped to my feet and raced down the trail as fast as I could. What a story I had to tell my buddies!

Palouse River Adventures

Palouse River Adventures

by Bob West


One Saturday morning in March 1940, I, my buddy Revere Lazelle, Charles Clark, and a guy whose name I have forgotten (I’ll call him Bill), decided to build a raft and float to the little town of Elberton, a few miles downstream. The river was in flood stage at this time, and we figured the trip wouldn’t take very long.

In searching for materials for the raft, I suggested we look at the dilapidated, two-story structure on the hillside behind the Palouse Hardware and Implement Company’s building (now Bagott’s used car lot). Bill ridiculed this idea, saying that the building was at least 100 years old, and that there would be no worthwhile material. He was right about the age. It had been built in 1890 as a horse barn and warehouse for storing tools and farm implements. He was dead wrong about the material.

Leaning against an inside wall was a 9 or 10-square-foot door in very good condition, considering its age. By the time we dragged it down the bank, across Main Street, and to the bank of the river beside the old gymnasium, minor repairs were needed. I suggested we nail some heavy planks we had seen beside the old building for added buoyancy, but the rest of the crew pooh-poohed the idea. We needed to find a long pole to control the raft. Again we lucked out. I found a 10-foot-long, hardwood one beyond the hardware store building. It could have been a flagstaff but I believe it was part of a roll-up canvas awning that most of the buildings on the north side of Main Street used in those days. We now had everything we needed for our adventure. We were anxious to start but decided it was too late in the day so we agreed to launch after Sunday School the next day.

That Sunday was one of those rare, warm days in early March. A perfect day for a cruise down the mighty Palouse River. After we changed clothes we met at the launch site. We pushed the raft into the water. Charles jumped on, holding the raft against the bank with the pole. Revere and I then jumped on. With a mighty push, Bill jumped aboard. The raft began to sink! Bill was close enough to the shore to leap to safety. The raft continued to sink!

Using the pole Charles vaulted from the craft to shallow water. His action left Revere and me “up the creek without proper locomotion.” Well, that’s not quite right. We were not up the creek but headed downstream. As for locomotion, we had lots of that from the fast-running current of the river. Boy, were we having fun – that is until we got a few yards past the bridge by the City Park. We had traveled quite a sizable distance in a short period of time. We were surprised to see the top of a large tree in the middle of the river and we were heading right for it. Revere yelled, “We’re going to hit that tree!” Hit it we did, the impact nearly threw us off the raft. Some good news and some bad. The raft wedged itself between two large limbs of the tree keeping it intact. The bad news, the raft was several feet under water and we were standing waist-high in this cold swirling current. More good news, there were plenty of branches for us to hang on to keep us from being swept away. About half an hour later we saw a couple of men walking across the bridge. We began shouting and waving our arms. They finally saw us and waved back, and continued on their walk. Boy, were we disappointed! We thought they would surely make some attempt to rescue us.

A few minutes later the fire siren sounded. That’s all we needed. The firemen who should be rescuing us would be fighting the fire. The siren rang again. It must be some fire! Five minutes later two fire trucks filled with firemen arrived at our scene. Twenty minutes later at least half the population of Palouse was standing on the riverbank, no doubt expecting to see a fire. Instead, they saw two scared high school kids standing waist-deep in the middle of a river gone wild. Several plans were made for the rescue, but discarded. The only feasible plan was to somehow get a rope out to us. A coil of rope was secured and a horseshoe was tied on the end for weight. Two local husky high school students, Bud Potter and Delmer Clark (Charles’ brother) were given the task of getting the rope out to us. Most of the throws were short of the tree and fell into the water. The ones that did get far enough out were swept off the tree before we could get to them. A heavier weight was needed. A local blacksmith solved this problem by lending the rescuers a four-pronged grapple hook he forged in his shop for a previous rescue mission. This was about twice the weight of the horseshoe.

After a few rescue attempts using this new weight, the rope flew over Revere’s head, and the hook caught a branch and held. He grabbed the rope, freed the hook, and jumped off the raft. By this time we had been on the raft for several hours and were getting very cold. Revere’s hands were so cold he couldn’t grasp the rope hard enough to keep it from sliding from his hands. Lucky for him he did manage to hold onto the hook long enough to be pulled from the water. One down and one to go.

It was nearly an hour before a rope came close enough for me to grab. Someone from shore warned me to tie the rope around my waist. I was very cold now, and it was an extreme effort for me to find the strength to wrap the rope around my chest and tie a knot. I gave the rescuers a high sign when I was ready and pushed myself off the submerged raft that I had been standing on for four hours or longer.

Warm, woolen blankets were waiting for me. My parents had spent the afternoon in Pullman visiting my sister. Chief of Police E.E. (Mike) Ogan and his wife Mary loaded me into their car and drove me home. By the time I had undressed, they had our big old-fashioned six-foot-long bathtub filled with warm water. Oh…how good it felt! Every few minutes I would let out some water and refill it with more hot water. As we had no family car, my parents had walked to my Aunt Lela’s house on Mill Row to borrow her car for the trip to Pullman. On the way back from my aunt’s, they were hailed down by a kid (G.A. Perry) who asked them how I was doing. They, of course, knew nothing about our adventure so Mr. Perry gave them a detailed account. They rushed home expecting to see me at death’s door, or maybe even dead, but I had gotten out of the tub by then and was lying on a couch in the living room in a “nest” Mrs. Ogan had made for me. Thankfully, Revere and I had no ill effects from this ordeal. We went to school the next morning as if nothing had happened. Looking back on this experience, I realize how lucky we were to get “hung up” where we did. If it had been in an unpopulated part of the river, we would probably have died from hypothermia or drowning. Who knows, we could have gone over Palouse Falls.

To us boys, though, the worst scenario would be if we had gotten to Elberton and successfully beached the raft. We would have no way to get back home. We would have then been obliged to call Revere’s mom to come and get us. If that had happened, we would have been in REAL trouble. I mean REALLY BIG trouble!

Teenage Woes

 Teenage Woes the Same Then As Now

By Bob West

July 20, 2000

 

In 1927 the school board opened bids to build a new gymnasium on Main Street. (This building still stands, across from the post office). This would replace the one built in the early 1900s by the high school manual training class, located north of the original wooden schoolhouse on the north hill. My dad told me that the school accepted donated labor and his father (my grandfather) had worked two weeks on the project, about half of it in sub-zero weather. According to J.D. (Judge) Kincaid, the lot where the new gym was to be built, was the site of the area’s first stationary threshing machine, operated by John Ladow. The first grain threshed was from a three-acre field north of the river, in the area of the present Church Street. In later years this was the location of one of three livery stables doing business in Palouse.

The new gym was completed in 1928 and for the next 14 years was used for sporting events, dances, graduations, class plays, concerts, public meetings, and all community events. I have many memories of this old building, but the most vivid is the last Junior Prom that was held there.

This event, at that time, was for upperclassmen only. Freshmen and sophomores could attend only if asked by one of the older students. I was dating Marilyn, a sophomore at the time, and so asked her to be my date for this special social event. A few days earlier we had attended a movie at our local theater. I don’t remember the name of the film but I do remember the star was Tyrone Power. He was a very handsome guy and the heartthrob of most of the girls. In several scenes, he was wearing white flannel slacks, a black dinner jacket, a white shirt and a black bow tie. A white handkerchief was carefully folded into the breast pocket of his jacket. This gave him an especially debonair appearance, a classic touch, so to speak. I had to agree with my girl that Tyrone was very handsome, but I did tire of her constant talking of him. I imagine I had to be a little jealous of him, but doggone it, maybe I could be just as good looking if I had the same kind of outfit. I lucked out. I found out from our commercial teacher, who was also our drama coach, that I might be able to rent suitable clothes from the University of Idaho drama department. One afternoon I drove my trusty 1924 Franklin touring car to Moscow and rented exactly what I wanted. I already had a pair of black dress oxfords, and since I was a professional shoeshine boy when I was just a kid in downtown Palouse, I knew I could put a fine shine on the shoes. I did have to spend 25 cents on a new white handkerchief though.

The Wednesday before the big event, I was in the bathroom getting ready for school. When I looked into the mirror, I saw a very happy and confident face, and why not? I was dating the cutest girl in school and I was sure I would be the best-dressed male at the dance. Then I took a second look, and then a third. This couldn’t be happening. Mother heard me exclaim and came running to see what was wrong. She didn’t have to ask. Perched on the end of my nose was the largest, ugliest zit I had ever seen! I swear it was as large as a bing cherry and just as red. My first impulse was to give it a big pinch, but Mom warned it would only make it worse, and assured me it would be gone by Saturday. I didn’t want to go to school that day. I knew the kids would have a great joke at my expense, because of this monstrous disfigurement, but in those days students had to be at death’s door before getting excused from school. It was the longest day of the year for me. Although no one said anything about it, they sure stared at me. When Marilyn saw it, her eyes got wider and she gave a gasp. I was certain she was going to break the date with me, but she never mentioned the hateful thing.

After school, I went to the Rexall Pharmacy, and the druggist, Bob Smith, took one look at me and handed me a tube of “Denver Mud”, a cure-all for all kinds of ailments. Mr. Smith told me it would draw out the poison. The ointment was sort of a forerunner of “Clearasil”. I applied a goodly amount of this potion before retiring that night, hoping the zit would be gone the next morning. Upon arising though, it was still there, just as red and ugly as ever. One of my sympathetic friends told me his mother used the white of an egg for a poultice for things like this.

I was getting desperate by now, so I decided to give it a try. I must have wasted a half dozen eggs before I got some to stay on. The next morning my nose was not only red and ugly but was covered with a strange white film. Another cure down the drain. One last try. I had at times, cured water blisters by piercing them with hot needles. Would this be the answer? I heated a needle red hot with a match, and bravely and painfully put several holes in this dreadful thing. The next morning I got up with high hopes, but alas it was still there, worse than ever, now with three black holes in it. The zit seemed to have taken on a life of its own! I was going to have to live with it. Maybe I could just hide it with some of Dad’s talcum powder. On the morning of the big day, I jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror, hoping the whole thing was just a big nightmare. No such luck.

I was too nervous to eat much supper that night and began getting ready as soon as I got up from the table. I spent about 20 minutes folding and refolding my new handkerchief and placing it in the breast pocket of my jacket. It had to be just right – Tyrone Power style. Being the klutz that I still am, I asked Mom to apply the talcum powder to my nose, knowing I would have it all over my black jacket. I felt like a sissy when she used her powder puff, but I have to admit she did a good job. The zit, of course, was still there, but sort of camouflaged. At least that was what I wanted to believe.

My buddy Revere Lazelle and I had a plan all worked out for the evening. He was going to borrow his mother’s car, pick up his date, pick me up, and then my date. It didn’t work out as planned. Our parents wanted pictures taken of their kids in all their finery and agreed to meet at our house for the picture taking. We were all posed when my mother gave me a final inspection. I thought I had passed, but all of a sudden, in a motherly fashion, she yanked the folded hanky from the pocket of my jacket, spit-ooed on it, not once but twice, and began scrubbing a spot (imaginary I'm sure) on my forehead. This universal cleanser has been used by mothers for centuries to clean off the faces of babies and young kids. Can you imagine how embarrassing it was for me – a junior in high school – to have this done in front of my friends and their parents? After she completed the scrubbing she tried to refold the handkerchief and replace it in my pocket, but it was wrinkled and tainted by now and I wanted no part of it, even though it spoiled my Hollywood image. Oh well.

The only seating in the building where the prom was held was the balcony on the east and west side. This was where the friends and parents sat and watched the event. During the grand march, I knew all of these people were looking at me and wondering why my nose was glowing and what was that strange red streak on my forehead? To make matters more embarrassing for me, Dad was on the school board and the board members were invited to the dance. Imagine being at the same party as these old people!

After the grand march, the real agony began. I knew I was the worst dancer on the floor and I hated dancing. My date though had filled her dance card so I had to dance (or try to) with girls I didn’t care for. What a drag! The girls were obviously just enduring my feeble efforts. At long last, the final dance ended and we drove to Pullman for a treat. On the way back we planned to find a place to “park” with our girls but time ran out. As it was, I was about 15 minutes late getting Marilyn home and was soundly reprimanded by her father. I didn’t even get a good night kiss.

The social event of the year was over and I felt a great sense of relief. Was this the way it was supposed to feel? It is said that all problems are relative, and what is a minor problem for an adult can be a major crisis for a teenager. Although this is not what I imagined I would remember of my first big social date, it did give me a sense of compassion and understanding when the very same thing happened to my teenage daughter (our noses resemble each other’s anyway) 30 years later. When she left for the prom with her date and a lustrous nose, I felt as if I were going with her, and did a certain amount of suffering all evening. But in the end, we all survived, as people will always do.  Thank goodness everything passes.

The Oregon Trail from MIssouri

My mother, Frances  West transcribed a letter written by my great grandmother, Olive West which was published in the Boomerang in the fall of 1994 and is an account of my great-great grandmother’s family (Mariah Hulbert McConnel) as they journeyed west from Missouri. My mother kept it as close to the original letter as possible.  My grandfather also wrote a series of articles about the McConnells. This is my great grandmother Olive's account:

   My father, William McConnell was a thrifty farmer living in what was then the new state of Missouri, which soon became a slave state. If a man needed help on his farm he went to a big slaveholder and hired a slave from his master. The money the slave earned was paid to his master. It was the same with the help in the house.

     At the age of 30, he married my mother Miriah Hulbert. Miriah had four sisters and two brothers, one named Wallace Hulbert, who later became one of the first ministers in Oregon.

About the time the youngest Hulbert child was born the War Between the States was just over. My grandfather Hulbert didn’t like living in a slave state and after his oldest daughter, Mirah, my mother, married William McConnell he left Missouri taking his other six children. He crossed the plains to the new country just opening up….Oregon. Their last child was born on the plains on the banks of the Blue River, and they named her Ellen Blue after the place where she was born.  He settled in the Willamette Valley, about 1851. I am not sure of the exact date, but they were among the first settlers.  They started their new home in the neighborhood of what is now Corvallis.

   Meanwhile, the slaves were set free back in Missouri, and everyone that was able to raise enough to prepare for a long journey across the plans sold out for what they could get and joined wagon trains going west.  Missouri was war-torn and living conditions were nearly intolerable. About that time an epidemic of cholera swept the country and many of the little children fell victim.  My mother, (who had remained in Missouri) received a letter from her parents the Hulberts in Oregon telling of the mild climate and the fruits and vegetables they could raise.

    So my parents then began making plans to leave the country and head west for the Oregon valley. Before they could leave their small son Wallace died of cholera and was laid to rest in the orchard of their home.  The home was turned over to a good friend who was remaining in that country, who afterward bought it for half of what it was worth.  But they knew the little grave they left behind would always be respected.

     My father sold all his horses and mules and bought oxen and three big wagons.  One was especially for the family and was made as comfortable as possible.  One was loaded with food consisting of cured bacon, flour, dried fruit and honey enough to last until they were able to raise a crop in the new country.  One wagon was for farm implements and tools.  Now they were ready to start but must wait until there were three hundred wagons ready to go.  Any less was not safe on the plains as the Indians were on the warpath.  At the time when the white men fought among themselves, the Indians grew dangerous. It was thought the Indians were encouraged by the Europeans but this was not certain.

      When the journal finally began the youngest child was three months old and the oldest was 16 years. They started in February and arrived in the valley in September. What happened along the way would fill a good-sized book, but I can only record what I heard my parents tell.  The wagons were covered and a young man with a wife and one child drove the wagon of provisions. A young Englishman who had worked for Father decided he would go along and drive the wagon of farm tools.  Each wagon was hauled by six yoke of oxen and they had a milk cow they yoked up with the oxen.  They also had two young horses. Every outfit had a horse or two as the oxen had to be herded when they stopped for grazing.

 Great-grandmother Olive (Ollie) West

Mother had a real heartbreaking time when she finally was united with her folks, the Hulberts. Messages between the two families were few and far between, so she hadn’t heard that her mother had died and her father had remarried. Her youngest sister Emily had also died.  She saw for the first time her sister Ellen Blue.  Mother was grief-stricken, but the pioneers were made of stern stuff. She could not take time out to grieve, for winter was coming and they had to settle into a farm that father had rented. They put the children in school and the next two years were busy ones.

It was about this time that I was born.  Two years later another boy, James was born. Mother was then 42 years old.

Father then bought a 300-acre farm nine miles north of Eugene and when I was three weeks old we moved in. I lived on that farm for 21 years. My mother Miriah made all my father’s clothes, even his coats and pants and knit all the sock for the family, including the boys’ until they grew up big enough to rebel and get their “boughten” clothes themselves.  She ground all our coffee, made all the soap from ashes taken from the fireplace and mixed with lard.  We girls were taught to wash dishes at seven years old and to churn butter and cook and sew.  We had to do most everything around the house, as mother became a semi-invalid after she was 50 years old. She raised nine children to adulthood except the boy who died in Missouri.  Many of these children became pioneers of the Palouse country. A number of their descendants still live there.  She died an old woman at72, and father at 77. She is buried in the Palouse cemetery plot with her daughter Louise.

Well my story is done. When you read this and see some mistakes I have made please remember that today is the 18 of April 1952 and I am 85 years of age.

Olive McConnell West

Pierre's Warfare

Pierre’s Warfare

By Bob West

Feb. 1, 2001

My military career started one cold January morning in 1943 when I and seven other young men from this community boarded a bus for Spokane. We were the first of many that were called into military service after the draft age was lowered to 18. Our destination was the Armory where we joined many other draftees from Washington and Idaho. About 7:30 that night we were bussed to the train station to board a train for Ft. Douglas, Utah, to be inducted into the army of the United States of America.

Once there we were issued Army clothing and given a GI haircut, which took all of three minutes, using clippers only. Some of the guys actually cried when they saw their curly locks lying on the ground. After several days of total confusion, orders, indoctrinations, training films, and a hundred immunization shots (well, almost!), we were separated into companies and shipped to camps or forts all over the country. My company was sent to Camp Polk, Louisiana for basic training. It was at this point of my military service I witnessed my first of many, many SNAFU’s (Situation Normal, All Fouled Up). There was no room for us – there were no sleeping barracks. We spent the first night at camp sleeping in the aisles and under the tables in the mess hall. The next morning, 8-man squad tents were erected around the perimeter of a drill field. Each tent was assigned a barracks for showering and sanitary needs. This was to be our home for several months.

My tent was lucky #13. All but one of us was in this young age group. Pierre was the old man of the tent, all of 25 years of age. He was about 30 pounds overweight and soon had the nickname Porky. He was a happy-go-lucky guy, always in a good mood, and a real comedian. At first, we all wanted to be his friend, but this changed a little later when we found he had one major fault.

For many of us young men, this was the first time we had been away from home for any length of time, and we were extremely homesick. During the day they kept us so busy we didn’t have time to think of our loved ones back home. Nighttime was different. After we showered and ate our evening mess we had several hours of leisure time. Most of us used this time to write letters to our friends and loved ones. When the order, “Lights Out” came, and “Taps” was played, homesickness really set in. I think most of us cried a little, I did. As tired as we were, it was hard to fall asleep. There were so many strange and weird sounds we were not used to – groaning, coughing, sneezing, snoring, just to name a few. Because of our eating habits and the change in our diet, we all suffered from irritations of the lower digestive tract. Soon after we retired, it sounded as if our tent was involved in a small-arms firefight. Pierre brought in the heavy artillery. He had a severe case of chronic flatulence. His was not the nighttime only variety, but the 24-hour, every 10 or 15-minute variety. None of us wanted to sit at the same mess table with him. When we got passes to go to town, we avoided getting in the same bus with him. He was excused from close-order drill (marching) because he drowned out the drill instructor’s orders and cadence count.

After we completed our basic training we were sent to Camp Chaffee, Arkansas to begin training for combat duty with the 16^th armored division. In late September a bulletin was sent to all units informing us that on the following Saturday a special ceremony was being held to celebrate the induction of the division into the active fighting service of the United State ground forces. This was to be a very formal affair with several Army generals and big wig officials from the nation’s capitol in attendance. The memo stated we were all to be on our best behavior (meaning, no SNAFUs). Perpetrators would be severely dealt with.

Arkansas is very hot and humid this time of year. By noon of the day of the big event, the temperature was over the 100-degree mark. To add to our miseries our uniform of the day was ODs (woolen olive drab), no jacket but shirt collar buttoned with a tie. By the time we marched 12 blocks to the field where the affair was held, our uniforms were wet with perspiration. Marching that far in this heat was bad enough but standing at parade rest until all the troops were assembled was worse. I heard later that over 200 troops suffered from heat prostration and had to be carried off the field. Although all the troops were sweating it out, I think our company, especially members of Tent 13, were doing more sweating. Pierre had not been heard from. I will give him credit, he tried to be good, but there were forces he could not control and it finally happened. Even those of us who knew what he was capable of were astounded. I truly believe that if this could have been recorded, and there was a record for this event, his would be on the top of the list for its longevity and the record high on the decibel scale in the Guinness Book of Records. At first, we were so shocked we failed to react, but someone snickered, setting off a chain reaction of laughter in our section of the area. The guilty ones spent the next week confined to our company area, doing KP, washing windows, scrubbing barracks floors and other company duties.

I admit this event did not capture worldwide attention as “the shot heard around the world” at the Concord Bridge during the Revolutionary War did, but the shot on the drill field at Camp Chaffee did attract attention on the base for several weeks.