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.

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A Breakfast Guest Comes Calling

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By Bob West April (?) 2003 I wasn’t in a very good mood one Saturday morning in the summer of 1938. School vacation was about over and I had a lot of things I wanted to do before school started. The morning before, Dad informed me that our first load of firewood was arriving that afternoon. This didn’t excite me very much. Then he dropped a bombshell! I was 14 and old and big enough to haul the wood to the woodshed and stack it inside the building. I made all kinds of excuses to no avail. I was roused out of bed at seven and told to get busy. He wanted the job finished by the time he got home from work that evening. The wheelbarrow I used to move the wood about 20 feet was a homemade one with removable wooden sideboards. The wheel was an iron one taken from some piece of farm machinery and wobbled all over the place. About every third trip one of the sideboards fell off or the wheel would hit something and the load was dumped off. It was getting hot and I was getting madder and madder by the minute. I was going to take a break and drown my sorrows by drinking some homebrew. (Root beer made from Hires Root Beer extract). I had put several bottles of the drink in the refrigerator the night before so it was good and cold and really hit the spot. I had almost finished drinking when I noticed somebody walking down the alley. As he got closer I realized he was one of the transient workers that I had seen while fishing near the hobo jungle the day before.  When he got closer I waved at him. He waved back. I introduced myself and he told me his name was George O’Brien. I got excited when I heard that name. An actor by the same name was one of my all-time favorite western movie stars when I was just a kid. I was disappointed when I asked him if he was related to the star and he said no. I went to the kitchen and got two more bottles brew and handed him one. While we were enjoying the drink he asked if my parents were home and was disappointed when I told him no. He then asked if I knew anyone in the neighborhood that needed odd jobs done. He was awfully hungry and would accept food instead of money for wages. I came up with a great idea. I was a pretty good cook by this time. My mother worked full time at the store helping my dad. I always fixed my own breakfast and lunch and I  sometimes made supper for the family. Breakfast was usually a bowl of cereal and a couple of pieces of toast. I was also an expert egg fryer and made great French toast. I told George if he helped me move and stack the wood, I would cook him breakfast. He agreed but said he had to have something to eat before we started the job. Mom always canned a lot of peaches every fall. I got a quart of the fruit out of the cellar. My grandparents lived on a farm and supplied us with all the milk, cream, and eggs we could use. My aunt Lela baked us several loaves of bread every week. He WAS hungry - he ate the whole quart of peaches and three or four pieces of toast. Time to go to work. After the third loss of wood from the wheelbarrow he asked me if Dad had some tools he could use. Half an hour later the wheelbarrow was repaired and worked like a new one. I’ll tell you what, I never had so much fun working in my life. It was a contest to see who could work the hardest and fastest. I almost hated to see the job completed. While walking toward the house for breakfast he spotted an outside faucet with a hose attached and asked me if he could borrow some soap so he could wash up. I had a better idea. Why didn’t he take a bath in our bathtub? He gave me a startled look and asked me, “Won’t your parents care?” I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” I noticed his clothes were very grimy so I handed him the coveralls Dad kept in the woodshed and told him to strip and put them on so we could wash his clothes. We had one of those new fandangle Maytag washing machines with a wringer, but neither of us knew how to work it. Mom had two large washtubs, a copper washboard and a thing on a broomstick she called a plunger. George and I had both seen our mothers use these things so we had an idea of how they worked. A plumber had installed a new electric water heater in the house that spring so we had lots of hot water. We carried the tubs outside and began filling them with hot water by the bucketful from the kitchen. One tub was used for washing, the other for rinsing. I cut some slivers of soap from a bar of Fels Naphtha like I had seen mom do. I then swished my hand around in the water until suds appeared. We got a pretty good system going - he scrubbed and I plunged. We rinsed the garments and squeezed as much of the water as we could and then hung them on the clothesline to dry. I started cooking our breakfast while he was taking a bath. French toast with butter, syrup or jelly, fried eggs with milk to drink. As we were eating he told me this story: he was born and raised on a small farm in Nebraska. He was the only child and his dad had set aside a small amount of money every year for his education. Then came the winds that destroyed the farmland. The family was one of the lucky ones in the community, as his dad got a job as a blacksmith in one of the local shops. The wages were very small but enough to keep the family in food and clothing. The money for college had run out in two years and he hoped he would make enough money that summer for another year of college. After breakfast we scrubbed the bathtub, washed the dishes and mopped the kitchen floor. Going outside we put all the laundry equipment away leaving no trace of the afternoon activities. We visited while his clothes were drying. Before he left I made him two big sandwiches from some leftover roast beef. I rechecked the kitchen, the bathtub and the yard for any evidence of the doings that afternoon. I was confident there were none. My parents arrived home after work. Dad was really surprised that I had completed the job and patted me on the back for a job well done. I thought I was home free. Dad went to the front room and began reading the Saturday Evening Post while Mom started preparing supper. When we went to the kitchen for supper Mom called Dad over and they began talking. I knew I was in trouble. Dad then asked me if I wanted to tell them something. I confessed to everything. Well, not everything. I neglected to tell them about the bath. I was told I wouldn’t be punished this time for doing such a stupid thing, but not to do it again. I was curious about what we had done to make them suspicious. Mom laughed and replied, “As hard as you worked today it was impossible for a kid your age to eat a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, half of the roast beef planned for our supper that night, and drink a gallon of milk.” Phew, she didn’t mention the peaches and cream. The next morning we went on a picnic with some friends and did not get to visit the hobo jungle until that evening. I grabbed my fishing gear and went to the cellar to get some worms from the worm keg. A quart of peaches disappeared into my fishing creel. I knew my new friend would enjoy anther helping of home-canned peaches. However, he was not there. He had been picked by one of the farmers as part of a harvest crew. I never saw him again. We had exchanged mailing addresses, but never exchanged letters. I left the jar of fruit for his friends to enjoy. In the present days of distrust and suspicion would I invite a “down and out”  stranger into my home? Probably not. Gone is the “age of innocence” which, it seems we have lost to modern times.

Utah Beach by Robert West

 My company’s (the 562^nd Railhead Company) first bivouac area in France was in an orchard on a hill overlooking the English Channel.  In ordinary times it would have been a beautiful, peaceful setting, but not this day.  It was D Day. June 6^th 1944.  the day that all peaceful nations were waiting for.  The greatest amphibious assault in history to the free people of Europe from the tyranny of the Axis powers of Germany and Italy had n.  From here one could see the LST 500 that had been home to us for seven days, and had waded ashore from a few hours before.  We were lucky; the beachhead had been secured by this time. Our luck did not last long.  We were introduced to the first of many German artillery and mortar attacks. There was no place on the beach head to “get” to escape this deadly fire. 

    About five that afternoon we began our march to the little orchard that was to be our home for several weeks.  We did not enjoy its beauty.   Seven of our buddies were no longer with us.  Three had been killed, four wounded and evacuated to a hospital ship.  We now knew the horrors of war. 

     My foxhole buddy, “Smitty” and I were enjoying a smoke while sitting on a pile of dirt beside our newly dug foxholes when we noticed an elderly couple trudging up the steep trail to the orchard.  Each of them was carrying a metal bucket and had a back pack.   We stood up to greet them.  I intended to give her a hand shake.  Before I could extend my hand she threw her arms me around me, pulled me close and gave me the French style of welcome – a kiss on both cheeks, not once but twice.  To this day I don’t know if I was embarrassed or repulsed by this action.   I do remember pushing her away from me rather hard.  Then I saw her face.  Even after sixty three years whenever I remember D day, the image of her face comes to mind.  It was old and wrinkled framed in a dirty scarf that covered hair.  Her blue eyes were misted over from the tears that ran down her cheeks.  The only way I can describe her toothless smile is by calling it a smile of pure joy and happiness.   Her whole face radiated these feelings.  I could not help myself.  I pulled her to me and I gave her the American style of greetings a hug and pats on the back.

     The buckets they carried were filled with milk.  Smitty and I were given a ladle of it to drink.  It was the first fresh milk we had since we left the States.  Oh how we enjoyed it! There were many things we were short of on the first few days on the beach, although cigarettes, Hershey bars and gum were plentiful.  We loaded our new friends with these items.  We indicated to them we would take them to the area where they could share the milk with our buddies.  About his time a jeep arrived with our commanding officer and first sergeant.  When the officer saw the civilians he asked me “What in the hell are those people doing here.”  I offered him a ladle of milk and replied “Sir these good people are treating our company to a drink of milk!”  I still get mad when I think of what happened next. He yanked the ladle out of my hand and heaved it down the hill as far as he could.  He then kicked the buckets over spilling the milk, giving an extra boot so they tumbled further down the hill.  He then ordered the people to leave and never come back.  I glanced at their faces.  Looks of astonishment and hurt replaced the happy smiles.  They slowly turned and made their way to the path.   He then shouted to us, “What the matter with you crazy idiots? Don’t you know that milk might be poisoned?”   I thought to myself, you are the idiot these good people had been under the control of the Germans for many years and existed under cruel treatment. We were their liberators and the only thing they had to welcome us with was fresh milk.  To this day I dislike this man intensely.  I did get a small amount of revenge several weeks later. 

     What a long day June 4^th was!  Actually is started before dusk the evening before when our LST lifted its anchor that started our great adventure.  There was little sleep for any of us.   We were also on double daylight savings time which made the day seem even longer. I was looking forward to going to bed even if it was just two slightly damp GI woolen blankets on the hard, cold, ground inside a two man pup tent.

     I don’t think I was in bed five minutes before I heard the sound of approaching air craft.  I wasn’t really concerned, after all the allies owned the air space.  How wrong I was.  All hell broke loose.  Bombs began falling; fighter planes began strafing the area time after time.  Smitty and I managed to roll into our fox holes.  I remember thinking to myself I wish I had dug it little deeper.  I don’t know how many planes attacked us, or how long it lasted, but it seemed like an eternity.

        Sleep was impossible the rest of the night.  By dawn most of were up wanderings around the area and reliving the day and night before.  We were further saddened when we learned one more buddy had been killed and two wounded and evacuated.

     The field kitchen would not be set up for several days.  We would survive on C, K and D rations.  Not tasty, but were very nutritious. I was sitting on the edge of my fox hole finishing my K ration breakfast when the company runner informed me I was to report to the commanding officer. (The very person who had called us idiots) My first thought was that I was going to be court-martialed for the milk drinking incident.  While I was reporting to and saluting him I noticed he was reading my service record. “Corporal West I see you are a good typist.”’  “I would say only average Sir.” “My company clerk was wounded last night.  How would you like to take his place?”  Just the thought of being around this man twenty four hours a day made me sick. Although I knew it probably would do no good I replied “Thank you sir, but I would like to stay with my friends.” I was right, it did no good and I became company clerk.  Lordy! Lordy! What had I done to deserve this? 

    There were only two things I liked about my new job.  The living and sleeping conditions were much better. The large C.P (command post) tent was far superior for comfort than the small two man pup tents the rest of the troops used.  I was issued a canvas cot, much   more comfortable than the co hard ground. My second joy was that I had access to a Jeep to deliver reports to battalion headquarters. On my second trip there I discovered the home of the elderly French friends.  On almost every trip I stopped and visited taking them some sort of treat. As we got more and different rations the gifts became came better.   

     Telephone communications on the beach were very unreliable.   One minute they were very clear, the next minute garbled with so much static it was impossible to understand everything.    One evening the phone rang. I answered it with “562^nd Railhead Company, Corporal West speaking   how I may help you?”  You can imagine my surprise when the answer was.   “Corporal, this is General George Patten. Would you please inform your commanding officer I would like to talk with him.  Tell him it is very important.”  I quickly replied, “Yes sir, right away.’ The officers slept in an eight man squad tent a few yards behind the CP.  On the way to this tent I came up with an idea how I might get revenge on the C.O.by getting him in trouble.  I called though the closed flap off the tent.  “Captain you are wanted on the telephone.”  “Who is calling?”  With a white lie I answered “I don’t know sir, I ask twice but the line was so garbled I couldn’t understand what he said.  I was sitting on the edge of my cot when he entered his office. He answered the phone with “This is Captain Black.  I hope you have a good reason for calling me.”  In an instant I saw his arrogant face change to a surprised and shocked one. In a very nervous voice he answered several questions with “Yes sir, no sir and I’ll take care it sir. Then he answered a question with “I don’t know sir.”  Patten’s famous temper came forth.  With a voice so filled with anger I could hear every word he was saying from where I was sitting.  “CAPTAIN, I HAVE JUST TAKEN OF COMMAND OF THE THIRD ARMY.   OFFICERS UNDER MY COMMAND DO NOT THINK, THEY KNOW.  DO I MAKE MYSELF PERFECTLY CLEAR?  After a weak yes sir the general hung up.  Captain Black sat at his desk with a stunned look.  I had gotten away with my trickery.  To be on the safe side I ask “Who was that sir?”  “”General Patten.  The third army is going on the attack tomorrow.  I want you to inform the platoon sergeants to wake their men at 0500.  We have to break camp and be ready to leave by 10:00 hundred hours. The sergeants were not needed.  We were awakened at dawn by the hundreds of aircraft OVERHEAD ton their way to St Lo to destroy defenses, fortifications and troops.  It was the beginning of General Patten’s lightning like thrust through France. The beginning of the end of the axis powers.                                          

Treasure Box

By Bob West

May 18, 2000

All the activity in downtown Palouse these days – the demolition of three buildings, the improvement of the railroad crossings and the upcoming Main Street project – is bound to trigger some memories for some of us old-timers .I recently visited with Dwight (Swede) Parrish, and he told me that when the Texaco gas station was built, a tunnel was dug under the street at the intersection between the former Williamson building and the station building site, to accommodate water and sewer lines to the new business. Swede was working on the crew that dug this tunnel, and about halfway across the street they encountered a wooden structure that had to be removed before the job could be completed. This was no doubt the large watering trough that had been built when the city moved to this present location, from the South Hill, and became part of the fill when the street was raised to its present height.

I can remember a tall wooden fence, painted yellow, running the entire length of the alley, along the railroad tracks, which are still behind the buildings, of the Powers block. Four-by-four poles had been set, holes drilled near the top and chains draped between the posts. This was the hitching post for the city. In this time period (the early 30s); many farmers used horses and wagons to haul their seed, feed and other supplies to and from town. In the winter, wheels of the wagons were replaced with sled runners for travel over snow and ice. The fence had been built to protect the horses from the sight of a large steam engine bearing down on them on the nearly railroad tracks.

When I was in the second grade an older boy told me and a friend that if we floated hairs from a horse’s tail in the water of a horse trough, the hairs would turn into snakes. We then pulled several hairs from the tail of a horse tied there (with some objections from the horse) and trudged up the steep hill and to the far end of Mill Row, to the only watering trough we knew of. We checked every day for several days. No snakes. Perhaps it was the wrong kind of horse.

When I was a kid the finding and selling of pop and beer bottles was a good source of my income. All but two of the buildings in the Powers block had apartments on the second floor, and also the Congress Hotel had several apartments to rent. The druggist in Mecklem’s Pharmacy learned that I was hunting bottles and agreed to save bottles for me and also talked most of the tenants in the apartments into saving me theirs. This was by far the most moneymaking area of all my routes. This same pharmacist had nicknamed me “The Colonel” as at that age I couldn’t pronounce my “R’s” and they came out “ows”. That title remained with me for several years.

I have always liked to read, and this same alley supplied me with a small portion of my reading material. The Oasis, then owned by Marion and Jenny Sligar, did a large magazine business from a rack in front of the building. When a new shipment arrived, the old magazines were replaced and the covers torn off. The coverless ones were taken to the back alley to be burned. Everyone knows how difficult it is to completely burn a magazine, and many times I could recover some of these publications that were singed but readable. Of course they had that burned paper smell. One day I found the magazine of all magazines, in mint condition with no burned or singed pages. It was the summer edition of “Sunshine and Health”, a nudist periodical. Page after page of people of all ages doing various outdoor activities in the nude. I knew I would be in deep trouble if my parents found this in my possession, but I had a perfect hiding spot. At this time there was a large wooden building north of our house. It was built as a barn but had been remodeled for a garage and woodshed. Dad had let me build a “clubhouse” in the rafters in one corner of the building. While putting down the floor of my corner, I built a secret compartment. On one of my many trips to the city’s dump ground, in search of possible treasures, I found a metal safety box. The lock had been broken, but a band cut from a rubber inner tube kept the lid closed. I added this precious magazine to my other treasures, and hid the box in the secret compartment.

For a few weeks that summer I was the most popular kid in town. I made many trips to the “clubhouse” to dig out the magazine to show the boys (and a few girls). If I had been smart I would have charged 5 cents a showing, making a small fortune. After a few weeks though, interest waned and the magazine was almost forgotten, although I did take a peek once in awhile. (This was no doubt a very moderate magazine compared to today’s standards).

        By the time I was in high school I had forgotten about the clubhouse and the treasure box. In 1950 Dad told me he had hired a man to tear down the building. That night I woke up and began reminiscing about this old structure. Like a bolt of lightning the thought of the metal box appeared. Was it still there? At my lunch break the next day I climbed the ladder to the hiding place, uncovered the secret compartment, reached in and removed the almost forgotten box. Opening it I found the magazine was in the same shape it was when I put it there many years before, but the pictures had lost their glamour and appeal. There were other items, other forbidden pictures, Indianhead pennies, half a package of Camel cigarettes, a plug of Star chewing tobacco and other items. On the bottom was a note from a girl reading, “Hi handsome. I want to meet you at the tree house after school this afternoon. We can hug and kiss, and maybe I have a surprise. Don’t be late. Carla” (Name has been changed because I can’t remember what it was).

The note was from a girl that had been living in town for a short time, was very attractive and was in my class. All the boys in the freshman class and 8th grade had tried to make points with her, and now she was asking me to meet her. The best part was the fact that the tree house was in an empty lot about a block away from my house. As important as this was to me, I knew if I didn’t change my clothes after school I would be in trouble with my mother, so I lost precious time while I changed. I ran out the back door, across the street, up the alley only to see her climbing the ladder to the tree house with someone else! I couldn’t believe it. I was crushed, and quickly left the area broken-hearted. Over the next few weeks many of my classmates bragged about being asked to the tree house. I was never asked again. No doubt for the best.

About the only thing left of this tale are my memories. The hitching post, the building and the wooden fence were torn down many years ago. Three of the buildings have been demolished. The café is no longer in business and the hotel building is falling down. The lot where the tree house was located sold many years ago, the tree cut down and a house erected. It is now the home of Loren and Mary Estes. Sometimes when I pass this house I can’t help but ask myself, “I wonder what Carla meant when she said, ‘And maybe a surprise?’”