Happy Holidays

Today is Christmas. I am celebrating here in Santa Rosa, California. Its been many years since I enjoyed Christmas in Whitethorn. I remember when I was 9 or 10 years old we had snow for Christmas. What a wonder. I made a little sled and tied it up to my horses saddle horn and had her pull me through the snow. Although it was great fun, the sled wasn't built very well and the horse didn't like pulling it so the whole event didn't last very long.

At Christmas time my stepfather sometimes fired up the generator that could provided electricity to our house. He didn't do it very often because he was afraid the wiring wasn't good and the house might burn down. But for a night or two we celebrated with brightly colored lights. The rest of the year we used Coleman lanterns and the dimmer coal oil lamps.

My favorite Christmas presents were a bebe gun, a halter for my horse and a book about the Black Stallion. Whenever my mother bought me a Black Stallion book I would stay up all night reading it from cover to cover. Since she didn't want me to read all night I often covered up my head and turned on a flashlight. The worst present was a doll. I always hated dolls but my mother never seemed to get the message.

Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

Salmon in Winter

The mattole river ran a few hundred feet from our house in Thorn. There was a small fall of water just across from our home. In the summer it was great for swimming but in the winter it could be a raging and dangerous waterway. Fortunately, it never flooded the land because nature had provided a deep riverbed that safely carried the 100 or so inches of rain that poured down upon us in winter. The river was a solid mud color at in the middle of a storm, but cleared after a few days of dry weather. Standing at the falls, our family could often see dozens of salmon jumping up through the frothy water. They were big fish with hooked noses. Most of them had lost their natural color and had become a deep pink. The pink salmon were not good to eat because they were starting to die as they neared the end of their long journey from the sea. We never knew exactly where they left their eggs, but it couldn't have been very far upstream. The reddish fish that climbed the falls had nearly completed their journey back to the place of their birth. However, once in a while a silver colored fish would scramble up the river who was full of life and its flesh was good to eat. Although it was not legal to catch these delicious salmon, many a Thorn resident stood ready with his or her gaff hook and landed a fish for their often hungry family.

Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

Bastards?

My stepfather used to have a big log hauled to the side of our driveway in the fall. In the winter he cut the log into firewood. When he sawed the log he used what he called "Bastards" to keep the log from closing in on the blade of the saw. As I remember the 'Bastards' were made of steel and looked somewhat like the blade of an axe. After he sawed a few inches down he pounded the blade into the open cut. As a young kid I used to be uncomfortable with the name 'Bastard' and thought it was a bad word. I'm not sure if the correct name was 'wedge' or if he used a common or local name for the tool. In any case we had plenty of wood for the cook stove and the heater in the small living room. I refer you to my book True Tales of Whitethorn, for the story of how he came to shoot the living room stove.

Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

If you want to look at my blog in color rather than E-mail go to Http://lifewithloggers.blogspot.com/

How Much Wood Would a Wood Rat Chew if the Wood Rat Would Had Wood?

Skip the question. It's just a way of introducing my tale of the Wood Rat's nests. When I was out exploring the mountains, I sometimes came upon the glorious sight of a Wood Rat's nest. The nests were huge. Many were four or five feet tall and three or four feet wide. They were made of all sorts of sticks and leaves and seemed quite mysterious to my young mind. My friends and I sometimes dug the whole thing down, excitedly looking for its inhabitants. Much to our disappointment we never found a thing. I guess the rats had an escape route and were long gone once we had set to leveling its home. Poor rat. One thing for sure there exists nothing like a giant nest to excite the imagination of kids who live here in the city of Santa Rosa, California. In a way it is unfortunate. The discovery of a giant nest might keep some of them out of trouble.

Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

If you want to visit my actual blog in color, rather than E-mail, go to my blogsite:
http://lifewithloggers.blogspot.com/ I am soon going to post photos of some of the people who lived in Thorn.

Treasure of Whitethorn

In the 1970s Albert P. Sharpe, my stepfather, told me about a buried treasure in Whitethorn. He said an old logger buried a quart jar of coins in his back yard in the 1930s or 40's. People had looked an looked for the Jar which by the 1970s might be worth more than face value due to having old, rare coins. Al knew exactly where the logger's cabin was located before it was flattened by age.

At that time I had a friend, Mary Middendoref, who owned a a metal detector. Mary, my 10 year old daughter and I rushed up to Whitethorn to look for the treasure. Sure enough we found the exact place where it was supposed to be buried. Mary put her detector to work and we were sure we would find the cash. However, the detector buzzed on every single inch of ground we covered. We finally realized there had previously been a sawmill in that location and the slag from the burner (used for burning sawdust and wood) covered the entire ground where the treasure was thought to be located. We of course had no luck finding the jar of coins. We did however, have a great time thinking we were going to make an historic find. LOL

Copyright 2008 Sharon Moxley

Raconteurs in the Family

I have recently found that a great great uncle of mine was noted for being a wonderful raconteur. This information was extremely interesting because my grandfather Guy Doers was noted for holding crowds of people with his story telling. His son, my uncle Alan, (See Whitethorn Cookhouse) was also a story teller.

It is so interesting to see a family trait passed down through the generations. Little do we know about aspects of our personality that are genetically handed down to us. Artistic talent is another aspect of my family's genealogy as well.

Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

Johnny McKee

Johnny McKee lived in Whitethorn in the 40s. I remember him as wearing leg braces on his legs. I don't know the cause of his disability. It may have been in WWW2 or he may have had polio when he was a child. He kind of stocky, had dark hair and was good looking. He always had a smile for everyone and he was liked by all.

Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

Answer to Figure Four Sticks Question

Figure four sticks are used for trapping animals. When I was a kid in Thorn, I used to whittle them for trapping chipmunks. When the trap was set, the sticks were put together in the shape of the number four. The horizontal line of the sticks was the longest and the end of it held the bait deep inside the trap. The top of the figure four held up the door of the trap. When a chipmunk went into the trap and started to eat the bait it caused the sticks to fly out of the trap and the door would crash down closing the trap. The trick was to carve the sticks (3 sticks in all) in an exact manner or the sticks would not fly far enough and one of the sticks would remain lodged in the door and the chipmunk could squeeze out of the trap. Many kids in Thorn trapped chipmunks. As far as I know I was the only girl who trapped them. Once the little critter was caught, we to kept it for a day or so, tied a string around its neck and wore it on our shoulder. Later, we freed the chipmunk back to the woods. In my book True Tales of Whitethorn, I tell the story of two chipmunks having a fight in my already tangled hair.

Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

Question of the Day

Question: What are figure four sticks?

Subscribing

Well here I go again. Apparently subscribing has to be blog to blog. In order to get the blog you either have to have a blog or you need to go to the address listed below daily or whenever you want to view the blog. Sorry for any inconvenience. Sharon

How to subscribe to Whitethorn Kid Journal Blog

I figured it out. If you want to subscribe to this blog go to: http.lifewithloggers.blogspot.com

Then click post and it will tell you how to subscribe. Whew. I will soon ad photos to the blog so it will dress it up and you can see what some of the characters look like. Thanks for your patience. Sharon Porter Moxley

Still Learning

I am still learning how to blog. Unfortunately everyone is receiving my blog through E-mail and no one is getting the actual blog page. I am busy working this out. Sharon

whitethorn kid journal: Subscribe?

msdregey@sbc@global.net

Subscribe?

Some of you have been receiving my blog through E-mail. For anyone who wants to keep on receiving the blog, please go to Post and subscribe. Thank you. Sharon

Am I part Indian?

Since my father looked like an Indian, I have always wondered if I too am part Indian. I have studied my genealogy for a number of years and I have found that my fathers grandfather, George Henry Porter was not part Indian, but my grandfather, a son of Cassie Ellen Courtright may have had an Indian ancestor and/or Spanish. So my search still goes on.

I have recently discovered that my great grandmother Mary Jane Johnson, who married my Grandfather Amos Doers in 1881, had her first child out of wedlock. It is not clear if this child is a son of Amos or not. This comes as a big surprise to me. Imagine living with a man you are not married to in the 1880's. Mary always told the family that her mother died in childbirth (not true) and nobody cared enough to keep track of her birth. She essentially indicated that she had no real family. I later learned through decedents of Mary's brother and sister that her mother did not die giving birth to Mary. Apparently, Mary did not want her children or grandchildren to know she lived with Amos for a year or so when she was not married to him.

I also just found out that one of my great great great? Grandmother's, on Mary's side, was raped by her father. However, the worst thing I learned was Mary's family had a strong gene for depression, bipolar, and anxiety disorders. Almost every family member for generations have been plagued by this disease. Sure enough I have the disease and so have numerous living relatives.

My mother Ruby, always told me that Mary was a very beautiful woman who she remember as being extremely patient. However, at her death bed she told my mother that she had never had a happy day in her life. IT'S A NO BRAINER. SHE WAS DEPRESSED!

To close on a happier note. My mother's family were also extremely intelligent, artistic and musical. They had a wonderful sense of humor and laughed a lot, when they were not depressed. LOL

Copyright 2008

Excerpts from my memoir, True Tales of Whitethorn

Good morning everyone: Today I am going to publish an excerpt from my book, True Tales of Whitethorn.

TRUE TALES OF WHITETHORN
Somewhere near the Lost Coast, California
Circa 1947

Loggers and Indians: Trick or Treat
I was nine years old when this took place.

Although my grandmother, Blanche Doers is half Welsh, I think she looks like the Indian Chiefs you see in those old, faded photographs. She is almost six feet tall, has a long nose, and looks very serious. She also knows how to stalk a deer and is a crack shot. When hunting season comes around, she won’t go hunting with the men. She hikes alone into the hills and always comes back with a deer. If the men should return empty handed, she has a good laugh.

Tonight we are all feasting on my grandma’s deer. My mom has fried deer meat and baked potatoes and opened a can of green beans. She divides the potatoes and beans up between the four of us and places a big platter of lip-smacking deer meat in the middle of the table. Al, my step-father, moves the Coleman lantern to the back of the table to make room for the pile of steaks. I dive right in and fork up a big juicy piece, lather lots of butter on it, cut off a chunk, and wolf it down.

“You’re a great hunter,” I tell my grandmother, as I chew down on the deer meat. “I bet you could even out hunt the Indians that used to live here.”

She flashes a rare smile. “I don’t think I’m as good as an Indian, but I’m a better shot than the lumberjacks who work in the mills and the loggers who cut down the trees.”

“I sure wish I was an Indian,” I say.

“I’ve always told you, you might be part Indian,” my mother reminds me. “Your father still can’t get a drink in a bar, unless the bartender knows him, because of his dark skin, straight black hair, and dark brown eyes.”

“What does looking like an Indian have to do with buying a drink?” I ask, my mouth still working on the meat.

“It’s against the law to sell liquor to Indians.”

“Why?”

“They say Indians get crazy when they drink so they passed a law about not selling to them,” she replies.

“You better hope you’re not part Indian,” says Al, who has been busy gulping down a chunks of meat. “Last Saturday night a bunch of Indians came up here and tried to get drinks at the Bar. They probably thought they could get away with it because we’re so far out in the mountains. But we don’t want Indians up here causing trouble.”

“Were you there?” I ask.

“I was home playing pinochle with your mother. I heard the bar was already filled with lumberjacks and loggers having drinks and playing cards when the Indians walked in. Everybody froze, bottles of beer hanging half way to their mouths. A couple of men stepped in front of the Indians and told them to get out and go back to wherever the hell they came from.”

I feel myself getting mad. The loggers had no right to treat the Indians like this. “Did they leave?”

“They sure didn’t. As they shoved their way up to the bar, big ol’ Mel Turner took a swing at one of ‘em and everyone else piled on and started slugging away.”

Copyright 2008

Whitethorn Cook House

In the late forties Albert Sharpe hired Alan Doers (my uncle) and his wife Pearl to run the Whitethorn Cook House for the men working in his mill. Alan was the son of Guy and Blanch Doers. Like his father, Alan was a wonderful story teller. As a child I watched him hold a crowd of people, laughing until they cried, while he told the story of driving a truck with no brakes down a steep mountain road.

Alan and Pearl ran the cook house for about a year and then it was closed down.

Copyright 2008

Albert P. Sharpe

Albert Sharpe was my step-father. He came to Whitethorn in the late thirties or early forties and bought the Whitethorn Lumber Company. He also owned about 700 acres of land in and about the Whitethorn Valley. He was born in Canada and ran away from home in his teens because his parents wanted him to work in the family store rather than go on to school. His first stop was a coal mine where he worked for several yearss. He was a master poker player and the way he got his stake to go to the Redwood timber country was by playing poker with the minors.

At Whitethorn (Thorn) Al eventually bought or built the Whitethorn bar in joint ownership With George Martin and his wife Virginia. Virginia ran a restaurant in back of the bar and was quite the cook. Many families bought their children to the restaurant and children were allowed in the bar because there was no law enforcement in the valley.

Al was greatly respected in the valley because he owned the mill and employed many of the men in Thorn and partly because no one was ever able to put his arm down. He also played poker in the bar in winter and was viewed as not only the best poker player in town but the best bluffer. He never let anyone see his hand unless they put up the money in the pot. When he won he would smile and tell who ever he was playing with to come back next time when he had learned how to play. Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley

Answer to question

The reason high tree climbers did not like to climb at the noon hour was because the sun shined directly down on them and they couldn't see well. Sometimes the semi-blinded logger fell to his death because he didn't loop the rope correctly on the tree.

Question of the day

Question: Why did loggers avoid climbing to the tops of high trees during the lunch hour?

Copyright 2008

Back in action

Well my leg has finally healed from my fall down a bank at Bull Creek. I am going to review the purpose of the blog for new readers.

I lived in the backwoods of Humboldt County, California most of my childhood and did not appear in civilization until I was almost thirteen when my family moved to Santa Rosa, California where I continue to live.

Despite the early days in the Redwoods I graduated from college and became a school psychologist. I am now retired and writing a book called The Whitethorn Kid, True Tales of Whitethorn (somewhere near the Lost Coast).

The following is part of a chapter which takes place when I was in the third grade.



TALES OF WHITETHORN
Somewhere near the Lost Coast, California


CHILDREN OF THE REDWOODS


Barbara and I run the woods a lot. We have a big tree house inside a burnt out trunk of a huge redwood tree. It is in a grove of redwoods, which people say has been there for over 2000 years. The big old trees are so quiet and still, we think they have spirits in them or perhaps ancient Gods that are keeping an eye on the two of us.

Barbara read a book once about Lamas who live in a place called Tibet. I don't know what a Lama is, but we think that they might be the very spirits that are in our huge trees. Barbara says the lamas are magical women who are fantastically powerful. They wear bright colored clothes, and the most powerful Lamas are dressed in brilliant red robes.

One day we were scrutinizing our biggest, tallest tree and we came to the conclusion that this particular tree was so mysterious and hallowed, it was likely that one of those magical Lamas was in this tree. After that, we started watching for signs that would tell us if lama lived in a tree. After much discussion, and some outstanding detective work, we began to notice the mushrooms that sometimes grew between the scraggly red bark of the trees. The mushrooms came in all sorts of fantastic shapes and sizes. Some were flat and stacked like pancakes and others were built like lofty fairy castles. They came in all kinds of colors just like the Lamas who lived in Tibet. The mushrooms became our best clue that a lama lived in the heart of the tree. From then on, when we discovered colored mushrooms growing on a redwood tree we knew that a red Lama or an orange Lama probably lived in the tree.

When we are out in the forest we also find wild orchids growing, beneath our gigantic trees, in the spring. They are small, pink and real pretty. My mother says they are called Lady Slippers. Then there are these other flowers that looks like lady slippers but they are an ugly, greenish brown color, and they sink like the devil. Barbara and I found an old book that had a picture of one of those awful flowers and the name of it was Fettered Adders Tongue. We found out later that this means smelly snakes tongue. Now I never smelled a snakes tongue before, but I am sure it would smell just like one of those flowers. I wonder if the guy who named those flowers went around smelling snakes tongues? If he did, he sure didn't live here in Whitethorn. We have better sense than that around here.

IRON WOOD

(Circa 1949) The Whitethorn Lumber Mill shut down because it needed a new part. I went to Eureka, California with my mother and stepfather to get the new part. What a surprise. The new part was a piece of wood about 3 feet long, 2 inches wide and 1 inch thick. I had been expecting something made of steel or iron. When my stepfather handed me the wood, I was flabbergasted. It was as heavy as iron. He called it iron wood.

On my recent trip to Humboldt county I found a little store that actually sold iron wood carvings. The owner told me they were machine carved because they were too hard to carve by hand. Remembering the trip to Eureka in 1949, I had to have one of the carvings. I bought a 4 inch bear. As expected it was as heavy as iron.

I later looked up iron wood on the net and found it is only grown in the Sonora desert. It will not float on water. Live trees are not used for carvings but from fallen limbs and trees. Most of it is machine carved because it is so hard.

Fire

The fires in southern California are still burning and hundreds of homes have perished. The winds are supposed to die down soon and hopefully the fires will be controlled.

The fires remind me of my childhood in Whitethorn in the 40s. Amazingly I don't recall any fires during the years I was there except for a small mill that went up in flames. Ironically enough we kids built many campfires during the hot summers. We used them to cook small fish we had caught and bake potatoes we brought from home. We all knew how to make fires safe and we never left a a campfire without churning it up and covering it with dirt. Most of the time our fires were on the gravel shore of the the Matole River but sometimes they were in the redwoods or in my backyard.

Copywright 2008

Status of Women

I have been thinking about the election and the wonderful election of Obama. I truly think that some good things are going to happen, not the least of which is raising the self-esteem African Americans, especially the young. It was so heartening to watch the school children on TV tell the world they feel they can do anything now that Obama has won.

However, I feel the status of women has been dearly wounded and may not recover for years. Think about it. After watching the way Hilary and Sarah were scorned and humiliated, what woman would dare to run for president? Hilary was viciously vivified. Remember the Hilary nut cracker? It was one thing to not want her for president, but why demonize her. And then there was Sarah Palin. Plucked from Alaska and misused by the republicans , she too was demonized and made a laughing stock. Yes, she was not qualified to be vice-president but why spread lies about her. Why not just talk about her lack of qualifications in a factual way and not make outrageous personal attacks.

And all the while the nation did not want Palin because she was not qualified, they didn't want Clinton either, a woman who was one of the most competent and qualified person in politics.

Yes, the glass ceiling had 80 million cracks in it but sadly many women and men used the opportunity to push the glass shards on the top of these too women heads.

This blog is mostly about northern California and my childhood in the 40s and I don't plan to write about politics in any significant manner, but the way women were treated in this election has saddened me and I feel that I have been pushed to the back of the bus. There could have been a less distructive message to women in this historic election.

Keep YOUR TOES flexible and out in front

I am back. I have been so caught up in the election, I have not had time or interest in my blog. I am currently trying to recover from a fall I took on my recent visit to Humboldt County, trying to climb down some big boulders on the banks of Bull Creek. Having played as a child on these same banks, I forgot I was approaching seventy. I happily enjoyed stepping from one boulder to another when I tumbled down the bank. I did not break a bone so I must still have strong bones, but I did suffer multiple bruises on my legs and arms. Everything is now alright, except for my left shin bone. It is still swollen and bruised and aches if I walk around the house very much.

One important thing I learned about this fall. I stepped on the ball of my foot rather than using my toes. For the past few months I have been working on using my toes when I walk. According to some experts a major cause of falls in the elderly is losing the use of toes when walking. I learned this when I discovered I was inexplicably falling when leaning over a pot of flowers. I was not using my toes for balance as I did naturally when I was younger. I now realize when I took the fall I was slightly nervous and must have scrunched up my toes and landed on the ball of my foot. Not having the support of the all valuable toes, I toppled down the pile of boulders.

Be careful out there. Keep your toes flexible and out in front.

Bull Creek, California

I went to second grade in 1945 at a little logging community called Bull Creek. I have just returned from a visit to the land that once held this thriving community. There was almost nothing there because of two great floods that happened in the mid twentieth century.

TALE OF BULL CREEK. Pronounced by the locals as Bull Krick.

In 1925, my mother and her family packed up their old car and left the state of Wisconsin in hopes of finding better times in California. The journey took them many weeks, stopping at times to work on farms to get enough money for food and gas. At last, they reached northern California and they settled in a small logging community called Bull Creek. Other family members eventually followed from Wisconsin, and while none of them found their fortune, the logging industry provided them with enough money to survive. My great aunt and her husband established the Bull Creek grocery store and rented a few small houses to permanent or temporary residents. Bull Creek’s tiny stream ran along side the store. It was a friendly creek, and in the summer happy children sat on its banks and caught small fish. In the winter, the creek rose high enough so salmon could successfully fight their way up stream to spawn. The locals joyfully claimed part of the migration for fish dinners. It never crossed anyone’s mind that Bull Creek might not last forever.

But to everyone’s astonishment, all of Bull Creek was swallowed by the great floods of 1955 and 1964. Even the graveyard was wiped out. Corpses washed out along with the town and dead people who hadn’t been seen for years floated out with the living. Everyone was amazed at how well preserved the bodies were. People who had not seen each other for years got reacquainted. Of course there were a few bodies that had been buried so long no one who was alive knew who they were.

But in the end it made no difference if the living or the dead passed down that bloated creek. Bull Creek and its people were forever gone.

My visit continued: Driving up the little Bull Creek road the landscaped was so changed I couldn't even guess where the local store or mill used to stand. However, I was very surprised to some upon the Bull Creek Cemetery. Although there were some graves there an inspection of the stones revealed that most of them had been buried after 1964. A large stone had been erected citing the names of the people who washed out in the flood. An even bigger surprise for me was I found the grave of my long lost cousin Arlie 'Bud' Bishop 1918-1980. The grave was wildly decorated including a hound dog toy, a wooden fence and flowers. Although I had not seen him since I was about 10 years old I remember him clearly as a gifted artist, guitar player and singer. He was a whole show that evening. The other interesting thing about him was he spent months at a time up in the hills with his pack of coon hounds. He was definitely the original hippy.

An Apifera-a-Day: Original - "Pretty Sure He's Here Somewhere"

An Apifera-a-Day: Original - "Pretty Sure He's Here Somewhere"

Greenchain answer

My stepfather, Al Sharpe, owned the Whithorn Lumber company sawmill when I lived in Whitethorn in the 1940s so I learned alot about the mill and the logging industry. The greenchain was a platform that had chains on either side of the top of it. When the logs were pulled out from the log pond, they were cut up into different size boards. The lumber was of course green and had not cured like the wood we put into a fireplace. Green wood is heavy with sap. The men would stand beside the greenchain and as it rolled the lumber along and pulled the boards off, according to size. They then carefully stacked them on a pile of lumber sitting just below their station. As the boards on the greenchain rolled past a man, he would pull 2x4s or 4x4s or other sizes that were the same size as the boards on his particular stack. It wouldn't do to have boards of different sizes on the same stack. The lumber could then be loaded on a truck for shipping according to order.

An interesting phenomena sometimes occurred when a man from a town such as Eureka, often called a "city slicker" hired on to pull the greenchain. City Slickers or people who lived outside the Whithorn Valley usually weren't welcome. When an "outsider" tried to pull the greenchain, the lumberjacks would have the greenchain speeded up so everyone had to pull faster. Of course the "outsider" who was generally not in shape for that kind of heavy work would fall behind. His boards would go to the end of the greenchain and fall off the end of it. This often resulted in the man giving up altogether or getting fired by the owner.

Question of the day.

What is a greenchain?

The Last Match

The following is from the beginning of a chapter from my book, Tales of Whitethorn:

The rain roars out of the darkness splashing over our windshield like waves crashing on a beach. Our headlights catch flashes of huge redwood roots lining the dark road, threatening to catch our battered old pickup if we drive too close. It’s ten o’clock at night and Ruby and I are on our way home. We’ve been visiting Ruby’s sister, Doris who lives in Eureka. We started late because she insisted we eat dinner before we left. Of course she couldn’t start cooking until she and Uncle Max finished doing the evening milking.

“Can you see the road?” Ruby asks.

I squint my eyes. “Not very well. But I think that’s the white line in the middle of the road. We seem to be a few inches to the right side of it.”

This part of 101 highway is lined thick with giant redwoods and it would be easy to make a mistake and run head on into one of them. We are both scared and we still have about forty miles to go before we get home to Whitethorn. The Whitethorn gravel road that twists up into the mountains will be even more dangerous in this storm

Cheri Block Sabraw - Notes from Around the Block: Who’s Alpha?

Cheri Block Sabraw - Notes from Around the Block: Who’s Alpha?

Donkey Dreams: Letters to Pino

Donkey Dreams: Letters to Pino

Donkey Dreams: Letters to Pino

Donkey Dreams: Letters to Pino

Trip to Humboldt County, California

Hi: I just got back from a trip to Eureka where I was born. Found lots of information for the book I am writing about my childhood in Whitethorn, California. I bought a book called, two Peoples, One Place, by Ray Raphael and Freeman House. It is a historical account of the Indians and the white folks in the area.

When I was a child at Whitethorn, my mother told me about a terrible attack on the Indians by the local people in Eureka. She said the indians lived on an island in Humboldt Bay and the locals sneaked out to the island at night carrying hatchets and knives and killed every Indian on the island. They did not carry guns because they didn't want to make noise. Most of the indians were women and children. Hearing this from my mother only, I did not have the facts to back it up. Ray and Freeman document the event in their book describing a partial list of Massacres.
Date: February 1860 on Indian Island (Humboldt Bay). Fifty five Wiyot women and children were killed.

I find it interesting that my mother, born in 1916, knew about this awful event that took place decades after she was born.

Lost Coast?

Question: Where is the Lost Coast?

Answer: The Lost Coast is in Humboldt County, California. You take the Redway turn 2 miles north of Garberville. From Redway you travel to Briceland and will eventually find a road turning right, off the Thorn-Briceland Road to Shelter Cove. Shelter Cove is a beautiful part of the the lost Coast. It has wonderful fishing and hiking trails and shouldn't be missed by adventurous travelers.

Question of the day

QUESTION: Where is the lost coast?

Noam Wasserman's "Founder Frustrations" blog: The Perils of Being a (Successful) Serial Entrepreneur

Noam Wasserman's "Founder Frustrations" blog: The Perils of Being a (Successful) Serial Entrepreneur

Answer to yesterdays question.

If a tree comes down the wrong way a logger has to run like a jackrabbit. If their pant leg gets caught on a limb, they can be smashed like a pancake. The few extra seconds it takes to tear loose a seam can mean the difference between life and death.

Loggers with ruffles

Today's question: Why do loggers cut off the seams on the bottom of their pants? I will give the answer tomorrow.

How Many did I miss

Still new to this game. The link to How Many did I miss: http://www.pendulum.org/stories/howmany.htm

whitethorn kid journal: How many did I miss

whitethorn kid journal: How many did I miss

How many did I miss

The above link displays a first person account of my life as a school psychologist. It was first published in the California Alliance for the Mentally Ill and is now published on the bipolar focus website.

My URL

Hi: I am still struggling with setting up my blog. I can't figure out how to write my URl since I don't know what it is when I set up feeds. Help?

Woman in the Mirror

This is a good day. My article on my relationship with my mother just got published in the local monthly paper. Hope you like it.

WOMAN IN THE MIRROR

My mother died two years ago. She was 90 years old and had the good fortune to have an active body and mind until the last year of her life. Her amazing lungs survived the assault of seventy years of smoking but finally succumbed to unforgiving lung cancer. She might have lived to be a hundred.

For almost half my life I’ve had mixed feelings about my mother. Although I loved her, I felt she had not been the kind of mother I deserved. Her mothering tended to swing between neglect and loving nurture. She was a beautiful woman, a redhead who looked like the old-time movie star Susan Hayward. In addition, she charmed almost everyone she met. When I was five years old, she divorced my father and was subsequently wined and dined by hopeful suitors for several years. During this time, she often left me home, feeling deserted and forlorn, with my grandmother All in all she married four times.

As a young child I loved her blindly. But when I reached puberty, my new found ability to judge and assess resulted in countless she didn’t, she should have, and why didn’t shes.

Over the years, my fury grew like a well fertilized plant. Although she bought me a life-saver in the form of a little horse named Stardust, it made no difference. During my teen years, she even devoted herself to following me to horseshows, where I won many trophies and ribbons. But it was too late. The fires of my anger had spread and burned into my consciousness like the cancer in her lungs. In following decades, I unburdened myself to more than a few therapists who listened in quiet support, sustaining my claims of injustice.

Growing up, I looked very much like my father, a handsome dark-haired man with deep brown eyes. His looks were the complete opposite of my mother. And as the absent parent, my visits with him were filled with attention and fun, unhindered by the snags of daily living.

My resentment towards my mother caused me to carefully examine and savor every one of my photographs that echoed my father’s features. My hair was almost black and my skin tanned easily to a dark brown bronze. The last thing in the world I wanted was to look like my mother, a woman who couldn’t get a tan if she lay on the Healdsburg beach for a week.

I enjoyed my bittersweet resentment towards my mother until my late thirties. At that time I became deeply depressed and unable to take care of myself. My father was long deceased and she was the only parent I had. Given no other choice, I crawled home to mother.

As I lay on my mother’s couch bemoaning my life through the dark veil of depression, I watched the woman I had rejected doing everything she could to comfort me. Yes, she still didn’t do the best job taking care of me. But I could see how hard she must have tried when I was a child. Imperfect but loving. From the vantage point of lying flat on my back, I forgave my mother. Forever. Months later, after I recovered from my depression, I found that my mother had become a great friend and companion. In fact, she became my best friend and throughout the remaining years of her life, we enjoyed many good times together.

In my fifties, a strange thing happened. The image of my father was gradually fading from the mirror. Instead, the lines in my face drew in a person I had never wanted to resemble, my mother. Not only did I begin to look like her, I started noticing the many ways we were alike. As a mother, I too tried my best, but shared some of her failings. During my early adulthood, I also got caught up in my own life and didn’t give my daughter as much attention as she needed and deserved. On the positive side, I also found that my mother and I shared many of the same interests and values.

Now, after my mother’s passing, I know I will never talk with her again or enjoy her company. But as I approach seventy, the lines in my face have deepened and have brought into clearer focus the woman I see in the mirror. It is uncanny but there in the mirror is my lost mother and I am glad to see her. This apparition is not my imagination for when meeting people who knew my mother, they often react in shock. “You look just like your mother!”

Getting Started

This is the second day of my first blog. As soon as I figure it out I am going to jazz up my page and put in a few bells and whistles. For now I will ask a question that readers may want to answer. Few people in Whitethorn in the 1940s had running water. What did people use for a bathtub?

Growing up in Whitethorn

This is my first post so I will introduce myself to my readers. Long before the first desperate backtolander punched his/her first Marijuana into the red soil of Whitethorn, I lived in this community as a girl child growing up in the wilds with loggers, lumberjacks, gamblers and guns. Part of my blog will describe my life as a kid living somewhere near the lost coast.



Ray Raphael has described Humbolt County, California and Whitethorn in his book The Everyday History of Somewhere. I strongly recommend his book.