Ben Thomas Copyright 2014
Dad’s idea of a road trip was a straight shot, non stop cannonball run, except to fill an empty fuel tank and quickly empty a few full bladders of three whiny kids. At Mom’s insistence a few non essential photo ops were indulged along the way. Always the destination, not the in-between's was foremost in his mind according to my early and naive observations.
June 1955, my first and last ever road trip to Kansas City, Kansas to visit my dad’s cousins and his Mom's sister Aunt Cecile.
This was to be an eye opener in many ways, my first glimpse of a Tornado, but more distinctly, racism up close spewing from my relatives mouths young and old alike, at 6 years old I was baffled by their behavior and in awe of the Tornado.
This was to be an eye opener in many ways, my first glimpse of a Tornado, but more distinctly, racism up close spewing from my relatives mouths young and old alike, at 6 years old I was baffled by their behavior and in awe of the Tornado.
I saw many a blurred but well known roadside attraction through the rear window as we sped by with the promise to stop on the way back.
Little did we know the return trip was to be on a different route, explained away as a shortcut, however exciting in it’s own way, but was really Dad working out the particulars in his head of already being back home. His version of time travel, not to say he wasn’t paying attention to the road, he had that quiet intensity of concentration needed not to be distracted from all the drama coming from the back seat.
Being the youngest, I was relegated to a non window position in the back seat, in my estimation the best at the time, my older siblings Judy to my right, Herbie to my left.
For countless miles in the early summer heat I stood on the floorboard hump between the seats over the drive shaft resting my chin on the front seat with an unobstructed view of the American dream on those brand new interstates, watching for the Burma Shave signs in the days before seat belts.
Dosing and daydreaming with the steady ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump of the tires rolling over the expansion joints as Dad downshifted, breaking out of a big rig's slip stream into slow motion headwinds to pass the 18 wheelers, looking out the side window to see the trucks wheels slowly rotating backwards in their version of an optical illusion as it slowly drifted behind us and into the past.
Startled and wondering why no one else noticed, as I settled back down to track the stationary patterns of upholstery on the back of the seat, it seemed safer to me tracing threads than looking out the window, but was soon bored, the fascination and adventure of the open road always made me look back up and out.
The heat of the highway can do strange things to a young mind, Dad humming his traveling song, Mom rummaging in her bag for distractions as the Chevy's straight sixs’ rpms drifted back down into overdrive, eased in by Dad, deep in his zone with the cold second half of an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth guiding the Chevy in an elliptical curve back into our own lane in the nick of time.
There was a brief stop on the way back to Oregon, more a conciliatory interlude after a brief argument my folks had, we stopped at Yellowstone National Park, we almost saw “Ole Faithful” but left as it sputtered to life with unabated fear instilled by Dad that the whole place was gonna blow any second. Leaving no time for photographs, proof we really did stop.
A win/win of sorts for both Mom and Dad. Although she hadn’t expected him to play the destruction card, but now there is no way to ever know what price he paid, if any for pulling that one off.
Us kids sped back to the car, Herbie locking the door behind him in his single mindedness which left me circling around to Judy's side as we spilled in and locked the other door, eager in our disbelief.
Dad was pleased that the waylay was brief, he had us all back in the Chevy and hit the road again running through the gears into overdrive and back into his element.
The things we miss in our pursuit of getting there. Perhaps more than ever, there are somethings I still tend to dwell on now that I’m behind a wheel of my own.
1962, we packed up the car and headed north with much anticipation to the worlds fair. It may have been Mom’s idea after all.
The trip to Seattle was short, no need for pit stops, we could hold it till we got there. Once arriving we drove around downtown searching out a one night vacancy, we all wanted to be close enough to ride the monorail into the fair.
Eventually we found an older hotel downtown, most of Seattle was packed with fair goers and very little vacancies. I don’t think there were calls ahead to reserve a room cause it took some
time finding one available. Dad complained about the cost, mumbling something about scissor bills.
After a few minutes of negotiations with the desk clerk Dad got us checked in and the valet was about to take the car to the parking garage as we hauled out our luggage, which consisted of a cardboard box, a few shopping bags and a Coleman cooler. I can tell you, the Bell boy was not impressed and the desk clerk wasn’t sure which eyebrow to raise.
The Bell boy insisted on tossing our luggage onto his hand-truck and up to our room anyway, Dad bitched about tipping him but Mom insisted.
I felt like one of the kids from a Ma and Pa Kettle’s film. But heh !, here we were in a big city just in time for the worlds fair.
That night, it was tough trying to go to sleep, it was like camping out in a hotel room. All that was missing was the fire, marsh mellows, graham crackers and Hershey's chocolate. We were all excited about tomorrow’s events and getting kind of bored waiting.
Now, I don’t know where they came from. but somewhere, a bag of those multicolored party balloons appeared in Dad’s hands.
Here’s setting a good example for your kids and a great example of good parenting skills. Dad had the bright idea of filling them with water from the bathroom sink and dropping them on unsuspecting fair goers down on the sidewalk.
We developed the “Drop and duck” (reminiscent of the duck and cover drills in school at the time) technique out of the third floor window before the many wondering tourists had any reason to look up. After many misses and near hits, no direct hits, timing was everything. Mom finally cut us off with a proper scolding, mostly directed at Dad.
He must have been more fun as a kid.
The next day off we went to the fair on my one and only ride, the monorail. I absolutely refused to go up the space needle. Elevators should be inside a building not on the outside...period.
The pace was not fast enough for me seeing all the exhibits so I slipped away from the folks and proceeded to see the fair on my own. The folks were pissed and worried. I was fine.
We had been to Disneyland earlier that year. Think of it...Disneyland right at the fingertips of a 13 year old kid, growing up with the TV show every Sunday night at 7:30 and unable to get on any of the rides. Dad said the lines were too long and didn’t want to wait around. He was ready to hit the road home. His penchant on non- stop travel lasted a lifetime. We did however ride the riverboat. Dan got to ride the tea cups with gusto.
All in all a poor conciliation in lieu of what was all around us.
At the worlds fair I figured, what the hell, let them worry, I’m going see this on my own terms, anyway I knew where the car was parked.
A few hours later I spotted Judy and Dan riding a cable car suspended over the fairway and followed them back to the terminal where I figured the folks would be waiting for them.
I had covered most of the things I wanted to see anyway and indeed they were there, they were upset, I got a small lecture to stay close and that was that.
That independent streak and risk taking has gotten me into trouble since but it also has enabled me to achieve some important things in my life. A calculated risk.
Inside one of the open pavilions was a big indoor track for tricycles where younger kids could ride maniacally around the track, working off the excitement of the day. My brother Dan at 6 years old took (with plenty of red wagon experiences) off with his special orange felt hat with the feather flying much like Robin Hood’s hat, certainly the bandit aspect, took to the track like a crazed destruction derby driver, careening around the corners at break neck speeds on two wheels, pulling ahead of the pack then lapping the slow and dull riders. He commenced to sideswipe, cutoff and rear end those meandering and unsuspecting enthusiasts still in his way, leaving a trail of crying kids, crashed tricycles and upset parents in his turbulent wake.
It took several laps for Mom to even get his attention as Dad stood by grinning, pissing Mom and the other parents off even more. Eventually it took both of them to extract Dan from the track, Mom blocking the way while Dad swooped in from behind lifting him off the still speeding tricycle by the nap of his neck leaving him tangling from Dads strong arm move, Meanwhile the speeding trike finally came to rest after bouncing off the guard rail and into more riders as they were making their feeble attempts to escape the carnage. I had never observed them working as a Team before (something to remember) It was a good ride while it lasted.
Dan had that stubborn upturned lip frown on his face as the rush of adrenaline eased off as the folks got the thrill seeker under tow.
So many things happened in 1962, Right after my 8th. grade graduation we moved. The city of Beaverton was encroaching on my Dad. We lived on 130th. a 2 mile long dead end gravel road surrounded by orchards, forests and open fields off Allen Avenue (Allen named after mom’s extended family, they were all early settlers of Beaverton, called Beavertown at the time) My great uncle Earl Fischer, the Fischer’s being another early family to settle there) mom’s mothers brother, held the position of Mayor of Beaverton twice. The first in his mid twenties and then again in his early eighties, a school teacher by trade. I remember visiting him in his Mayors office. It was his idea for the Highway 26 Vista tunnel way back then. Everyone thought he was off his rocker but he was ahead of his time. The tunnels were built in the late 60’s same time as the 405. I still have his business card he gave me that day in his office.
I have a couple glass negatives and original prints of Uncle Earl riding his horse in the Fourth of July parade in Beaverton in 1908.
So, the city of Beaverton was going to charge Dad with the costs of a new road, water service, sewer, higher property taxes and a slew of other benefits of living within the city limits that he wanted no part of. All property owners got hit according to road frontage and property lines. Dad got the hell out.
He built the house himself in 1954. A sprawling ranch style with a full daylight basement, Arizona sandstone and roman brick veneer, about 4200 sq.ft. It’s still there. I have lots of great photos of it’s construction. The 7.5 acres got sub-divided into crap apartments and shit hole houses.
I was not happy about moving, it meant leaving old friends behind. I did however get a welcome at my new school, they immediately elected me Freshman Class President (go figure) Parliamentary procedure came in handy from the eighth grade and I got to be an escort for one of the Princess's on the Candy-cane Court. Kinda like a prom prince for Freshman.
What I didn’t expect was that a few friends from Beaverton and a few new friends from Tigard became a third group altogether.
High School was boring. I was lazy and got by doing the least work possible to achieve that
pinnacle of C’ averages.
I had played Pop Warner football in the 7th & 8th. grades. My freshman year I was on the wrestling, football and track teams.
Wrestling, I liked the least, but it was the most egalitarian of all the sports. You competed according to your weight...period, the coach could not change a thing other than run you to death to lose weight. I came in at 157 lbs. 5’11” ( I later grew another 4”).
On the track team I reluctantly threw the discus, shot put and javelin even though every practice I would outrun Mike Happle by 5-6 strides in the 220 every time. I never ran the 220 during any track meets, however Mike did and always lost.
In football, I played first string Center. Not my choice. I wanted to play receiving end, I was tall, fast and could catch the ball, but no, I was stuck in the middle and most often at the bottom of every pile up.
I injured an opponent during a football game in Tillamook. The right guard and I were double teaming their left guard for several plays. Then on our third down play my right guard pulled so I had their left guard to myself.
Now, on the line there are words passed back and forth even at that level, not friendly.. and this guy was pissed off, a dairy farmers very large son. I was thinking what am I gonna do--what am I gonna do, seconds ticked by, Mike, our quarterback was calling the play into action, I slammed the ball up into his hands (some people may not know it but centers wear plastic cups and quite often one or both of your testicles gets wedged in between the cup and the inside of your thigh, so when you hike the ball it is like getting kicked in the balls) I screamed at the left guard, adrenaline pumping, I could not believe it, the guy stood up and looked at me as I launched full tilt ramming my right shoulder pad into his sternum, lifting him up over my shoulder, he went down in agony with the wind knocked out of him, confidence shaken. I remember standing there looking down at him, thinking what have I done? Then off to the left on the sidelines our line coach was screaming at me to go for another block for Christ's Sake! The guard did not come back into the game, the second string guard filled in for him, he was to scared to do anything and was a push over.
I quit sports after that. People holding you back, not recognizing the rigidity of their choices, pre-conceived ideas and the impact it has on their players, at least that was my experience.
Ironically I escaped the Viet Nam war by an act of violence. High School P.E. was led by the football line coach Mr. Yates, yeah, same guy. P.E. classes were mayhem, it was during a Dodge ball game and I was chatting with a friend Stu Ness (on opposing team) who happened to be in our prison close to the line when Dufus who was in prison as well, slammed the ball into my back at a range of about four feet, it left a welt from impact...pissed me off, so as he was trotting back to his side I tackled him and as we tumbled down, my right knee gave out..the wrong way.
Consequently my knee would pop out unexpectedly. It wasn’t until I walked out of the examining physician’s office, the last stop during my physical into the Air Force (I signed up rather than be drafted) at Portland’s Induction center with that slip of paper in my hand that it dawned on me I was out with a 4-F. It seemed everyone else knew what it was before I did.
The doc had glanced over the medical info. paper work and came across the answer “yes” to “Painful or swollen joints”. He had seen just about every make believe condition by then, so with disdain he had me sit down, grabbed my foot and tucked it up into his crotch, grabbed my knee and started pushing it around, checking mobility, range of motion and such, however it did not pop out. So I asked him “are you trying to dislocate it?” He grunted confirmation, “yeah , seems okay to me”.
So I said, let me stand up, I stood up with him still holding onto the knee, moved it laterally and sure enough it popped out in his hands. He grunted again, didn’t talk much. Threw a slip of paper
at me and yelled “Next”... It truly was a selective service, for once I was glad not to be wanted.
In 1969, free of the draft I got a one way ticket to London England. I had $500.00 in American express checks in my pocket, the money lasted almost a year.
My seat on the plane would not recline so I spent the next 14 or so hours sitting upright.
I started running out of money on a small island off the coast of Spain in the Mediterranean called Formeterra, it was about 3 miles long and about 1/2 mile wide at it’s narrowest point, with one large hill at the eastern end. We would bicycle up that hill turn around and coast back down. The locals were direct descendants of the early witch trials that were spared and political exiles from the continent.
The trip changed my life. It was the first time I had really been away from home, getting back was something I would figure out when I was ready.
Mom and believe it or not my brother Herb took me to the airport, it was early in the morning. Dad was at the top of the stairs at the house in Tigard, I was at the bottom, with so many steps between us just about to walk out the door when he asked, “ what if you get sick?” It surprised me. I assured him that I would see a doc if it came to that. It was the first real emotional display from him I recognized.
In 1971 the developer who bought our “Old” property in Beaverton bulldozed the apple orchard, I had been driving by for the past two weeks checking on the unkempt orchard, the apples were nearing their picking peak. I was ready for one last harvest with boxes and ladder at hand. The morning I arrived to pick, the big D-9 cats had the trees in several big piles. Some were already lit up with Diesel.
They had pillaged and burned it just as it was bearing fruit.
It was an old orchard being planted in the 1800s by the original homesteader. I was fucking pissed.
That fiasco of progress in motion led me to criss cross all of Washington and some of Yamhill counties on the back roads looking for neglected orchards. I found several and harvested what I could.
A small consolation, change and moving on can be difficult.
