True Tales from Redwoods: a Kid’s True Adventures and Survival Among the Loggers in the 1940s is a unique blend of story, history and creative non-fiction that appeals to both young and old. Readers will laugh and cry learning true stories of loggers and Indians somewhere near the Lost Coast in Northern California.
Sharon is a gutsy young girl who struggles with the adult world of violence, alcoholism, poverty and ignorance. Rather than being crushed she meets her world with humor, strength and honesty learning to shoot, trap and ride horses. .Her story is similar to Jeannette Wall’s best selling memoir The Glass Castle transferred to a loggers setting and mixed with a blend of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn.
“The winter rains and mud brings logging to a dead halt in Whitethorn. The Cat roads leading to the timberland turn into muddy quicksand and the loggers, log pond, the mill, the planing mill, and the cookhouse all sit idle until the rains stop and the mud dries. At this time, many of the men set their muscles to the rowdiest spells of poker, drinking and fighting.”
There is a growing market for books about loggers. Interest has soared as witness by the history discovery channel’s documentaries such as Axe Men and America Loggers.
On a recent trip to the heart of the redwood country, I learned from numerous bookstores thousands of tourists who visit every summer, eats up anything written about the life of the of the loggers. Every book dealer I spoke with was very eager to sell my book in their store.
According to the Humboldt County convention and visitors Bureau approximately 1.3 million tourist visits annually spending over $278 million dollars.
I am a retired school psychologist who has published in the California Alliance for the Mentally Ill Journal and women's voices. My blog, The Whitethorn Kid logger Journal, has been collected by the Mattole history society and filed for viewing for the public. My co-author Susan Dregey graduated from the top journalism school in the nation at the University of Missouri. She has been a feature writer in daily newspapers, was employed in editing text books and as an editorial assistant on major magazines.
copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Book Finally Finished
I have finally finished my book about my childhood growing up with Loggers in Whitethorn in late 1940s and early 1950s. The title has been changed from Tales of Whitethorn to Tales From the Redwoods: A kid"s True Adventures and Survival Among the Loggers.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Ruby Doers Obituary
A viewer has asked about the newspaper that published my mother's obituary. The Obit was written by my daughter, Marilyn Kay at the time of her grandmother's death. It was published in the Press Democrat in Santa Rosa, California.
Yesterday I revised it adding a few details such as her living in Whitethorn, California. She was an unusual woman with gifted intelligence and as a young woman she looked like Susan Hayward. My step-father, Albert Sharpe, claimed she was the smartest woman he had ever known and she was the only one he ever loved.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Yesterday I revised it adding a few details such as her living in Whitethorn, California. She was an unusual woman with gifted intelligence and as a young woman she looked like Susan Hayward. My step-father, Albert Sharpe, claimed she was the smartest woman he had ever known and she was the only one he ever loved.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Ruby E. Doers "Rosie the Riveter" Amended Obituary
Obituary
Ruby E. Roberts (Doers) passed away at home on October 13, 2006, surrounded by her loving family. She was 90. Born in Wisconsin, she came to California at the age of 9. Following in the genetic heritage of the Doers family, she could charm the whiskers off a mountain lion. Her childhood was spent in Bull Creek, California. In her early twenties she married George Porter of Arcata, California. Her second marriage was to Albert P. Sharpe, a Canadian who owned the Whitethorn Lumber Company. Ruby and I lived in Whitethorn between the years 1947 to 1951 when the family moved to Santa Rosa. She has lived in Clearlake for the past 20 years. During World War II, she worked as a welder on the first floating dry dock in Eureka earning the title as one of the “Rosie the Riveters”. From 1959 to 1979, she was a psychiatric technician at Sonoma Developmental Center. After her retirement she often remarked how she missed working with her disabled clients. She was an avid reader of books, especially suspense and mystery novels. She was a talented artist, a champion crossword puzzler, a wonderful cook, and loved to garden. She also loved to play bingo. Whenever she won a pot, she would always spend her winnings on her family. She was a good friend to her family, a lot of fun, easy going, a good listener, and very wise. She’ll be forever missed and in our hearts. She is survived by her two daughters, Sharon Moxley and Karen Sharpe; her grandchildren Marilyn, Antoinette, Jessica, Nicole, and Mariah; great grandchildren Melissa, Monica, Megan, Erin, and a little girl on the way who will be named Ruby. She is also survived by her niece Pam Mueller and her children Mike and Jennifer; nephew Jerry Croy; and great niece Teresa and great nephew Guy.
Ruby E. Roberts (Doers) passed away at home on October 13, 2006, surrounded by her loving family. She was 90. Born in Wisconsin, she came to California at the age of 9. Following in the genetic heritage of the Doers family, she could charm the whiskers off a mountain lion. Her childhood was spent in Bull Creek, California. In her early twenties she married George Porter of Arcata, California. Her second marriage was to Albert P. Sharpe, a Canadian who owned the Whitethorn Lumber Company. Ruby and I lived in Whitethorn between the years 1947 to 1951 when the family moved to Santa Rosa. She has lived in Clearlake for the past 20 years. During World War II, she worked as a welder on the first floating dry dock in Eureka earning the title as one of the “Rosie the Riveters”. From 1959 to 1979, she was a psychiatric technician at Sonoma Developmental Center. After her retirement she often remarked how she missed working with her disabled clients. She was an avid reader of books, especially suspense and mystery novels. She was a talented artist, a champion crossword puzzler, a wonderful cook, and loved to garden. She also loved to play bingo. Whenever she won a pot, she would always spend her winnings on her family. She was a good friend to her family, a lot of fun, easy going, a good listener, and very wise. She’ll be forever missed and in our hearts. She is survived by her two daughters, Sharon Moxley and Karen Sharpe; her grandchildren Marilyn, Antoinette, Jessica, Nicole, and Mariah; great grandchildren Melissa, Monica, Megan, Erin, and a little girl on the way who will be named Ruby. She is also survived by her niece Pam Mueller and her children Mike and Jennifer; nephew Jerry Croy; and great niece Teresa and great nephew Guy.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Review of Former Post Of Al Sharpe
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 years. He was a master poker player and the way he got his stake to go to the Redwood timber country was playing poker with the minors. He often said he hated taking their paychecks but he knew he had to get out of the mines. 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
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 years. He was a master poker player and the way he got his stake to go to the Redwood timber country was playing poker with the minors. He often said he hated taking their paychecks but he knew he had to get out of the mines. 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
Today's answer
Question: What is a Peavey?
Answer: A Peavey is a long handled tool that loggers use to move logs. It has a hook that loops around the side of a log, allowing the logger to move the log out of a log jam in a river or pond.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Answer: A Peavey is a long handled tool that loggers use to move logs. It has a hook that loops around the side of a log, allowing the logger to move the log out of a log jam in a river or pond.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Mario Machi Lost Coast fisherman
I just discovered that Mario Machi, a man I knew in Shelter Cover in the 1940s, published two books about his time in WWll as well as a history of Shelter Cove and the Lost Coast. Shelter Cove was only a few miles from Whitethorn and my family sometimes drove out there to fish. I plan to get a signed copy of his book about Shelter Cove. He died about ten years ago. I will let you know about out the gems I find in this book. I am so excited.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Spelling
My hands are almost healed and I am hoping to start posting regularly. Here is a bit of my childhood lesson in spelling. It is from my book Tales of Whitethorn, somewhere near the lost coast. Circa 1949
"The summer is almost over and I have to go back to school soon. It won’t be long til the heavy rains start and everything in Whitethorn will turn to mud. I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching my mother Ruby make my favorite bread. As the dough rises, she cuts off slices and fries them in deep bacon grease. She calls them ‘dough floppers.’
While I’m polishing off the floppers, Ruby hands me an unopened letter. “This letter came yesterday. It’s from your father.”
A letter from George, my dad! I tear it open. He’s going to come up to Whitethorn ten days from now and take me home with him for a couple of weeks. He lives in Arcata and spends every bit of his spare time fishing on the Mad River. I love to fish with him. I can hardly wait for him to come get me.
After I finish reading the letter, I once again wonder why Ruby and George are not together. I just can’t understand it. My father George is a real nice man. We would have had an easier life living in town if she had stayed with him. I look over at her, “Why did you leave George?”
Ruby keeps working on her plate of floppers. “He sure was the best- looking guy in Humboldt County. He just wasn’t smart enough for me.”
Ruby talks a lot about how she was the smartest kid in school and how she finished high school at sixteen. Everyone also knows that in her second year she was often asked to read her poems to the senior English class.
I can’t say I understand it. I don’t know anyone else who’s left their husband because he wasn’t smart enough. But in my family, the most important thing in the world is brains.
“Was he dumb?” I mumble between floppers.
“He wasn’t dumb. I was just so much smarter than him.” She shakes her head. “He couldn’t even spell right.”
I can’t spell right either, I think. I love reading but spelling is hard for me. I wonder if she thinks I’m not smart. I remember the time she got a big laugh when I was writing a paper for school about the golden horses of California. I guess I didn’t spell horses right and called them hores instead. From then on, she told everybody she knew about the ‘golden hores of California.’ I don’t know what a hore is, but I guess it was a real funny mistake since everybody laughed.
In some ways it’s hard to live with her and my stepfather. Al thinks he knows everything, and she thinks she is so smart she should have been a lawyer. They are always giving me problems to solve like the fox, the duck, and the bag of grain. The trick is to get them all across the river in a small boat that can hold only one of them and the boat guy.
If the fox is left with the duck, the fox will eat the duck. If the duck is left with the grain, the duck will eat the grain. I’ve never been able to figure this out even though I’m going into the fifth grade this fall. They laugh at me because I can’t come up with the right answer. Al teases me so much about it I sometimes throw things, yell, or stomp out of the room.
Ruby has never said I was smart but she sure is proud of my strength. When we are at the bar she often takes my hand and shows people the thick rows of calluses I have. Then she tells them how strong I am.
As soon as I finish eating, I hear a soft knock on the door. I open it and my scrawny friend Ronnie, Shirley’s little brother, is standing there, tattered clothes and all. His family is dirt poor, but all of them are real lookers. There’s also some rough stuff when his father gets real drunk. I figure Ronnie is hungry, as usual, so I let him have the last flopper. He gobbles it down and then we walk outside to sit in the sun.
“I’m sooo bored today,” I groan. “I don’t have a single thing to do.”
“I’m bored too,” Ronnie says, elbows propped on his skinny knees. “I don’t feel like fishing, exploring mountain roads, or anything.”
We’re quiet for a while, taking in the morning sun. Suddenly, an idea pops into my head. “Why don’t we have a circus?”
“A circus?” he says, wide-eyed. “How could we do that?”
“My two white rats, Whisky and Frisky, could do some tricks. Rocky knows how to sit up and beg and he even barks for food.” I jump up. “We could do some acrobatic things like me holding you up in the air with my feet.” I let that sink in for a minute. “What d’ya think?”
Ronnie’s eyes brighten up. “My little sister knows how to stand on her hands and my sister Shirley can do a back flip.”
“And I can get pieces of cloth from Ruby’s sewing kit and we can make costumes for Whisky and Frisky. We can even paint our faces and dress up like clowns.”
“I’m going to visit my father in ten days so we need to have the circus before he comes. How about next Saturday?”
“Yeah, and we’ll put up some signs so people know we’re having it.”
“Let’s make them right now!”
Ronnie frowns. “With what?”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
“Are we going to charge people?” Ronnie asks. He’s always looking for money so he can buy something to eat.
“I think it should be a free circus. We’re not going to have monkeys or elephants like they have in a big circus.”
His shoulders sag. “Come on,” I grab his arm. “Let’s go look in the sheds and see what we can find.”
I pull him to the three old sheds standing in the middle of our yard. I keep my rats in one of them. Ruby throws junk in the others.
We climb up the battered gray stairs and go in to visit Whiskey and Frisky in their wire cage. They both stand on their hind legs and stick their pink, wiggly noses through the wire. I give each one a small nut. Their water and food bowls are full so we go on to the next shed.
This one is a jungle of junk. Way in the back I see a couple of big cardboard boxes. I look at Ronnie. “Crawl over there and bring back those two boxes.” As he’s tunneling his way to the boxes, I spy a can of paint. “And grab that can of paint off to the left.”
Ronnie drags the boxes out and then goes back for the paint. I pick up a small paint brush by the door and we haul everything to the garage. As soon as we plop the stuff down, I take my hunting knife out of my belt and cut two nice pieces of cardboard.
I paint the signs because I don’t trust Ronnie to do it right. When the paint dries, we take one of them down to the end of the driveway and prop it up with a stick facing the Whitethorn Road. We amble back to the garage, feeling we’re well on the way to our circus. “You take the other sign and put it down by the Whitethorn bar,” I tell Ronnie.
Just then Ruby returns from her trip to the store. When she gets close to our driveway, she stops the pickup, jumps out, grabs our sign and throws it into the back. When she drives up to us, she doesn’t look very happy. “You can’t put signs like that out on the road,” she yells.
Ronnie and I look at each other wondering what could be wrong about putting up our sign on the road. Does she think it’s a bad idea to have a circus?
It doesn’t take long before Ruby lets us in on the problem. “You can’t have a sign that says ‘fart’ on it.”
“Fart!” I holler. “I wrote ‘free’.”
“Well, it doesn’t say ‘free’. It says ‘fart’.”
I’m stumped. How could I write ‘fart’ instead of ‘free’?
Ruby starts laughing. She goes into the house bent over with giggles. I bet she can hardly wait to tell Al about the ‘fart’ circus.
Ronnie and I stand around for a while feeling like a couple of dopes.
“Are we going find out how to spell ‘free’ and make some new signs?” He finally asks.
“No! And we aren’t going to have a circus either,” I shout, throwing myself down on the grass, my hands cradling my head. Tears well up, but I wipe them away before Ronnie can see them.
He turns and trudges home and I drag myself into the garage and sit on the woodpile. My father can’t spell and Ruby thinks he’s dumb. When he comes to get me, I’m going to find out if he’s smart or not. I know just the test. I’ll ask him to solve the riddle of the fox, the goose and the grain.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
"The summer is almost over and I have to go back to school soon. It won’t be long til the heavy rains start and everything in Whitethorn will turn to mud. I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching my mother Ruby make my favorite bread. As the dough rises, she cuts off slices and fries them in deep bacon grease. She calls them ‘dough floppers.’
While I’m polishing off the floppers, Ruby hands me an unopened letter. “This letter came yesterday. It’s from your father.”
A letter from George, my dad! I tear it open. He’s going to come up to Whitethorn ten days from now and take me home with him for a couple of weeks. He lives in Arcata and spends every bit of his spare time fishing on the Mad River. I love to fish with him. I can hardly wait for him to come get me.
After I finish reading the letter, I once again wonder why Ruby and George are not together. I just can’t understand it. My father George is a real nice man. We would have had an easier life living in town if she had stayed with him. I look over at her, “Why did you leave George?”
Ruby keeps working on her plate of floppers. “He sure was the best- looking guy in Humboldt County. He just wasn’t smart enough for me.”
Ruby talks a lot about how she was the smartest kid in school and how she finished high school at sixteen. Everyone also knows that in her second year she was often asked to read her poems to the senior English class.
I can’t say I understand it. I don’t know anyone else who’s left their husband because he wasn’t smart enough. But in my family, the most important thing in the world is brains.
“Was he dumb?” I mumble between floppers.
“He wasn’t dumb. I was just so much smarter than him.” She shakes her head. “He couldn’t even spell right.”
I can’t spell right either, I think. I love reading but spelling is hard for me. I wonder if she thinks I’m not smart. I remember the time she got a big laugh when I was writing a paper for school about the golden horses of California. I guess I didn’t spell horses right and called them hores instead. From then on, she told everybody she knew about the ‘golden hores of California.’ I don’t know what a hore is, but I guess it was a real funny mistake since everybody laughed.
In some ways it’s hard to live with her and my stepfather. Al thinks he knows everything, and she thinks she is so smart she should have been a lawyer. They are always giving me problems to solve like the fox, the duck, and the bag of grain. The trick is to get them all across the river in a small boat that can hold only one of them and the boat guy.
If the fox is left with the duck, the fox will eat the duck. If the duck is left with the grain, the duck will eat the grain. I’ve never been able to figure this out even though I’m going into the fifth grade this fall. They laugh at me because I can’t come up with the right answer. Al teases me so much about it I sometimes throw things, yell, or stomp out of the room.
Ruby has never said I was smart but she sure is proud of my strength. When we are at the bar she often takes my hand and shows people the thick rows of calluses I have. Then she tells them how strong I am.
As soon as I finish eating, I hear a soft knock on the door. I open it and my scrawny friend Ronnie, Shirley’s little brother, is standing there, tattered clothes and all. His family is dirt poor, but all of them are real lookers. There’s also some rough stuff when his father gets real drunk. I figure Ronnie is hungry, as usual, so I let him have the last flopper. He gobbles it down and then we walk outside to sit in the sun.
“I’m sooo bored today,” I groan. “I don’t have a single thing to do.”
“I’m bored too,” Ronnie says, elbows propped on his skinny knees. “I don’t feel like fishing, exploring mountain roads, or anything.”
We’re quiet for a while, taking in the morning sun. Suddenly, an idea pops into my head. “Why don’t we have a circus?”
“A circus?” he says, wide-eyed. “How could we do that?”
“My two white rats, Whisky and Frisky, could do some tricks. Rocky knows how to sit up and beg and he even barks for food.” I jump up. “We could do some acrobatic things like me holding you up in the air with my feet.” I let that sink in for a minute. “What d’ya think?”
Ronnie’s eyes brighten up. “My little sister knows how to stand on her hands and my sister Shirley can do a back flip.”
“And I can get pieces of cloth from Ruby’s sewing kit and we can make costumes for Whisky and Frisky. We can even paint our faces and dress up like clowns.”
“I’m going to visit my father in ten days so we need to have the circus before he comes. How about next Saturday?”
“Yeah, and we’ll put up some signs so people know we’re having it.”
“Let’s make them right now!”
Ronnie frowns. “With what?”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
“Are we going to charge people?” Ronnie asks. He’s always looking for money so he can buy something to eat.
“I think it should be a free circus. We’re not going to have monkeys or elephants like they have in a big circus.”
His shoulders sag. “Come on,” I grab his arm. “Let’s go look in the sheds and see what we can find.”
I pull him to the three old sheds standing in the middle of our yard. I keep my rats in one of them. Ruby throws junk in the others.
We climb up the battered gray stairs and go in to visit Whiskey and Frisky in their wire cage. They both stand on their hind legs and stick their pink, wiggly noses through the wire. I give each one a small nut. Their water and food bowls are full so we go on to the next shed.
This one is a jungle of junk. Way in the back I see a couple of big cardboard boxes. I look at Ronnie. “Crawl over there and bring back those two boxes.” As he’s tunneling his way to the boxes, I spy a can of paint. “And grab that can of paint off to the left.”
Ronnie drags the boxes out and then goes back for the paint. I pick up a small paint brush by the door and we haul everything to the garage. As soon as we plop the stuff down, I take my hunting knife out of my belt and cut two nice pieces of cardboard.
I paint the signs because I don’t trust Ronnie to do it right. When the paint dries, we take one of them down to the end of the driveway and prop it up with a stick facing the Whitethorn Road. We amble back to the garage, feeling we’re well on the way to our circus. “You take the other sign and put it down by the Whitethorn bar,” I tell Ronnie.
Just then Ruby returns from her trip to the store. When she gets close to our driveway, she stops the pickup, jumps out, grabs our sign and throws it into the back. When she drives up to us, she doesn’t look very happy. “You can’t put signs like that out on the road,” she yells.
Ronnie and I look at each other wondering what could be wrong about putting up our sign on the road. Does she think it’s a bad idea to have a circus?
It doesn’t take long before Ruby lets us in on the problem. “You can’t have a sign that says ‘fart’ on it.”
“Fart!” I holler. “I wrote ‘free’.”
“Well, it doesn’t say ‘free’. It says ‘fart’.”
I’m stumped. How could I write ‘fart’ instead of ‘free’?
Ruby starts laughing. She goes into the house bent over with giggles. I bet she can hardly wait to tell Al about the ‘fart’ circus.
Ronnie and I stand around for a while feeling like a couple of dopes.
“Are we going find out how to spell ‘free’ and make some new signs?” He finally asks.
“No! And we aren’t going to have a circus either,” I shout, throwing myself down on the grass, my hands cradling my head. Tears well up, but I wipe them away before Ronnie can see them.
He turns and trudges home and I drag myself into the garage and sit on the woodpile. My father can’t spell and Ruby thinks he’s dumb. When he comes to get me, I’m going to find out if he’s smart or not. I know just the test. I’ll ask him to solve the riddle of the fox, the goose and the grain.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Blood Moon Rising
I have just finished reading Blood Moon Rising by Angela Lam Turpin. This book is a little gem. I couldn't put it down. When I started reading it I stayed up until 2 am and finished the book the next morning. Although I usually don't read books about Vampires this whimsical little tale was more about mother and child relationships and the problems that develop when the child is born half vampire and half human.
You can buy the book on Amazon.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
You can buy the book on Amazon.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Still here
I have not posted a blog for some time due to my thumb injury. It's getting better very slowly.
It has been very interesting to write about my childhood in Whitethorn. I seem to be claiming that lost identity I left behind somewhere near the lost coast. It has made me appreciate the little logger kid knowing nothing about the greater world with few books to read. I came to Windsor, California when I was 12 years, 6 months old. From there I traveled the horseshow circuit, the local libraries and finally college where I became a School Psychologist.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
It has been very interesting to write about my childhood in Whitethorn. I seem to be claiming that lost identity I left behind somewhere near the lost coast. It has made me appreciate the little logger kid knowing nothing about the greater world with few books to read. I came to Windsor, California when I was 12 years, 6 months old. From there I traveled the horseshow circuit, the local libraries and finally college where I became a School Psychologist.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Prince
My thumb is still healing and I am not using the computer much. Today I am publishing excerpts from my book, Tales Of Whitethorn.
Prince 1948
On a beautiful dreamlike morning in May, a big grey horse appears in Whitethorn. Nobody seems to own him He may have drifted up the Whitethorn Road from somewhere near Briceland, a small town about 10 miles away, or he may have simply stepped out of the mist of a fairy tale. We found him wandering in a nearby field and put him in a makeshift corral at her house.
Today, I run down the Whitethorn Road to Shirley’s house, where I’m stopped dead by the sight of the towering beauty in her corral. I rush closer and take in his huge body and lofty grey head. He is taller than any horse I’ve ever seen. I inch my way into his corral and put my hand on his velvet nose. He welcomes me with a nudge, as if asking, “Where’s the grain?”
“We don’t have grain here in Whitethorn, but I can pick you some grass,” I tell him, happy he’s friendly and gentle....
“I’m going to get on him,” I announce, “but we need to make a bridle first.”
We search the barnyard and find an old rope covered in dried mud. Its frayed ends go deep into the earth like twisted roots and it takes both of us to pull it up. We clean it and make it into a large bridle complete with long reins. I fit the bridle around his head .....putting the rope behind his ears and attaching it to the part of the rope around his nose.
I grab his mane with my left hand and try to swing my legs over his back. He’s almost twice as tall as I am. On the first try my feet make it only half way to the top. He is not skinny like Brownie so his big belly gets in the way.....
Time after time I swing on his mane and try to reach what I’m sure is heaven. Each time I give a great big swing, I get my feet a couple of inches higher. Finally I make it up to his back, covered with sweat and gasping for breath.
Perched high on the big gray’s fat back, my legs are spread wide instead of down. I love the feel of his big hairy back against my legs. I feel like a king looking over my Whitethorn kingdom. I sit there, knowing my life is changed forever. The back of a horse is where I belong. But he is not just a “horse”, he must have a name.
I think on it real deep. I got it! ” From this moment forward I pronounce you ‘Prince’.”
I pull one of the reins to the right and Prince turns around. I give him a little kick and we are on our way. I think I may be a natural-born rider. Everything goes great until Prince starts to trot and I begin to bounce up and down. But I’m not discouraged because I know I will soon be riding like I’m part of him.
A couple of weeks later, I’m riding like a cowboy. I can float along on Prince’s back when he walks, trots, or gallops and I can swing up on his bare back like an acrobat.
One hazy June day, I go out to catch Prince and he is nowhere to be found. He has vanished! Did he return to the town of Briceland, or did he travel back to the enchanted land where he came from? It’s hard to be without him. I no longer sit high upon his back, galloping through the woods and fields of Whitethorn. No one has heard any news of him since he disappeared. Wherever he is, I hope he’s happy and fat and remembers our time together. He taught me how to ride and foretold of my life with horses. I will miss him forever.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Prince 1948
On a beautiful dreamlike morning in May, a big grey horse appears in Whitethorn. Nobody seems to own him He may have drifted up the Whitethorn Road from somewhere near Briceland, a small town about 10 miles away, or he may have simply stepped out of the mist of a fairy tale. We found him wandering in a nearby field and put him in a makeshift corral at her house.
Today, I run down the Whitethorn Road to Shirley’s house, where I’m stopped dead by the sight of the towering beauty in her corral. I rush closer and take in his huge body and lofty grey head. He is taller than any horse I’ve ever seen. I inch my way into his corral and put my hand on his velvet nose. He welcomes me with a nudge, as if asking, “Where’s the grain?”
“We don’t have grain here in Whitethorn, but I can pick you some grass,” I tell him, happy he’s friendly and gentle....
“I’m going to get on him,” I announce, “but we need to make a bridle first.”
We search the barnyard and find an old rope covered in dried mud. Its frayed ends go deep into the earth like twisted roots and it takes both of us to pull it up. We clean it and make it into a large bridle complete with long reins. I fit the bridle around his head .....putting the rope behind his ears and attaching it to the part of the rope around his nose.
I grab his mane with my left hand and try to swing my legs over his back. He’s almost twice as tall as I am. On the first try my feet make it only half way to the top. He is not skinny like Brownie so his big belly gets in the way.....
Time after time I swing on his mane and try to reach what I’m sure is heaven. Each time I give a great big swing, I get my feet a couple of inches higher. Finally I make it up to his back, covered with sweat and gasping for breath.
Perched high on the big gray’s fat back, my legs are spread wide instead of down. I love the feel of his big hairy back against my legs. I feel like a king looking over my Whitethorn kingdom. I sit there, knowing my life is changed forever. The back of a horse is where I belong. But he is not just a “horse”, he must have a name.
I think on it real deep. I got it! ” From this moment forward I pronounce you ‘Prince’.”
I pull one of the reins to the right and Prince turns around. I give him a little kick and we are on our way. I think I may be a natural-born rider. Everything goes great until Prince starts to trot and I begin to bounce up and down. But I’m not discouraged because I know I will soon be riding like I’m part of him.
A couple of weeks later, I’m riding like a cowboy. I can float along on Prince’s back when he walks, trots, or gallops and I can swing up on his bare back like an acrobat.
One hazy June day, I go out to catch Prince and he is nowhere to be found. He has vanished! Did he return to the town of Briceland, or did he travel back to the enchanted land where he came from? It’s hard to be without him. I no longer sit high upon his back, galloping through the woods and fields of Whitethorn. No one has heard any news of him since he disappeared. Wherever he is, I hope he’s happy and fat and remembers our time together. He taught me how to ride and foretold of my life with horses. I will miss him forever.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Thumb sprain
Hi Folks: I have not been blogging because I injured my thumb. It will be a while before it gets well. Sharon
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Immunization for Kids and Dogs
My last blog entry focused upon the thousands and thousands of women who died giving birth. What I didn't say was many of the children who were born healthy later died of the various diseases. For centuries children were not protected by medical advances that developed immunizations against these killers.
Although childhood immunizations have prevented the agony and deaths of untold millions, here in Sonoma County, California a great debate has emerged regarding the safety of giving childhood vaccinations. In some parts of Sonoma County as high as 50% of children do not get the preventive inoculation.
Fear of Autism
Although it has been proven that the shots do not cause autism, some people still believe they cause it. The rate of autism has shot through the roof, but the actual cause of this rise may be due to more accurate diagnosis. As a school psychologist, I found tremendous resistance to bringing up this diagnosis with parents and other professionals in the field. Thus many of the children I believed had autistic characteristics were left undiagnosed. After the motion picture Rainman came out, reducing the stigma of autism, many parents who had a child with poor communication and social interaction skills wanted the previously feared diagnosis. In addition, 30 to 40 years ago professionals believed autism was caused by what they called,"refrigerator parents." Of course parents feared the pronouncement that they were so cold and uncaring their child developed poor language development and inadequate interpersonal skills.
Today, the parents are not being blamed for their child's autism (a neurological disorder that is probably genetic) and funds and special education programs are provided for children with this label. There are now parent support groups providing education tips for a family who has an autistic child. The result of these changes has allowed many more children to receive a rightly deserved diagnosis of autism. Thus the rate of autism has risen.
Lack of Information about past childhood diseases:
Since many children have been immunized for childhood diseases there is often a herd protection for children who do get measles, mumps, diphtheria, polio and other killers of kids. Thus the general population tends to forget the tragic consequences of catching these diseases.
I remember my Grandmother telling about her little brother dying of diphtheria when he was two years old. He was not the only one. Every child two and younger died in her small town, during this outbreak.
Before Polio shots were developed almost thirty thousand children caught this tragic disease every year.
Before I wrote this opinion, I looked it up on the Internet. What I found was a wild mixture of truths and myths. Any parent doing research of the safety of vaccines should be thoroughly confused after reading the pros and cons.
One thing I know for sure, my two Chihuahuas get their shots every year. They never get sick. My daughter also received her childhood vaccines as prescribed by her physician. She never caught any of the killer diseases. However, I did not receive a measles vaccine. When I was 30 years old I caught measles. At first I got the typical rash and fever. Then my joints swelled up. I could not go to work for a month. Very scary.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Although childhood immunizations have prevented the agony and deaths of untold millions, here in Sonoma County, California a great debate has emerged regarding the safety of giving childhood vaccinations. In some parts of Sonoma County as high as 50% of children do not get the preventive inoculation.
Fear of Autism
Although it has been proven that the shots do not cause autism, some people still believe they cause it. The rate of autism has shot through the roof, but the actual cause of this rise may be due to more accurate diagnosis. As a school psychologist, I found tremendous resistance to bringing up this diagnosis with parents and other professionals in the field. Thus many of the children I believed had autistic characteristics were left undiagnosed. After the motion picture Rainman came out, reducing the stigma of autism, many parents who had a child with poor communication and social interaction skills wanted the previously feared diagnosis. In addition, 30 to 40 years ago professionals believed autism was caused by what they called,"refrigerator parents." Of course parents feared the pronouncement that they were so cold and uncaring their child developed poor language development and inadequate interpersonal skills.
Today, the parents are not being blamed for their child's autism (a neurological disorder that is probably genetic) and funds and special education programs are provided for children with this label. There are now parent support groups providing education tips for a family who has an autistic child. The result of these changes has allowed many more children to receive a rightly deserved diagnosis of autism. Thus the rate of autism has risen.
Lack of Information about past childhood diseases:
Since many children have been immunized for childhood diseases there is often a herd protection for children who do get measles, mumps, diphtheria, polio and other killers of kids. Thus the general population tends to forget the tragic consequences of catching these diseases.
I remember my Grandmother telling about her little brother dying of diphtheria when he was two years old. He was not the only one. Every child two and younger died in her small town, during this outbreak.
Before Polio shots were developed almost thirty thousand children caught this tragic disease every year.
Before I wrote this opinion, I looked it up on the Internet. What I found was a wild mixture of truths and myths. Any parent doing research of the safety of vaccines should be thoroughly confused after reading the pros and cons.
One thing I know for sure, my two Chihuahuas get their shots every year. They never get sick. My daughter also received her childhood vaccines as prescribed by her physician. She never caught any of the killer diseases. However, I did not receive a measles vaccine. When I was 30 years old I caught measles. At first I got the typical rash and fever. Then my joints swelled up. I could not go to work for a month. Very scary.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Monday, April 20, 2009
Childbirth Deaths of Women
As most of you know, who read this Blog, I have long been researching my ancestry. I have been able to discover my ancestors as far back as 1500 years ago. It has been fascinating to find that some of them were Kings and Queens and some of them died in the crusades in the Holy Land. I have photographs of many castles these fortunate families owned still standing in Europe.
Throughout this adventure a sad fact has come to light. Many of my female ancestors died the same year they gave birth to one of their children. I knew childbirth was a dangerous event prior to modern medicine but I didn't have the names and death dates of so many of these poor young women. Some of them died in their teens others in their twenties or older. Childbirth fever must have been a common cause due to midwives or doctors failing to wash their hands. Others must have died an agonizing death when the baby was born breach or the mother bled to death during the birth. Of course there were many women who survived a dozen or more births of healthy babies.
Today I remember and honor those brave women who gave their lives so that I might live hundreds of years later.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Throughout this adventure a sad fact has come to light. Many of my female ancestors died the same year they gave birth to one of their children. I knew childbirth was a dangerous event prior to modern medicine but I didn't have the names and death dates of so many of these poor young women. Some of them died in their teens others in their twenties or older. Childbirth fever must have been a common cause due to midwives or doctors failing to wash their hands. Others must have died an agonizing death when the baby was born breach or the mother bled to death during the birth. Of course there were many women who survived a dozen or more births of healthy babies.
Today I remember and honor those brave women who gave their lives so that I might live hundreds of years later.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Friday, April 17, 2009
Moving to Whitethorn
My mother and I moved to Whitethorn when I was 8 years old. Albert Sharpe who owned the Whitethorn Lumber Company was my new stepfather. The following is from my book, Tales of Whitethorn, Growing Up With Loggers. It is from the second chapter, The Road To Whitethorn, where I get my introduction to the Whitethorn road.
"After Briceland, we start climbing into the hills. The country looks pretty bare except for a few scrubby bay trees and manzanita brush. I crane my neck looking out at tree stumps and dead branches scattered all over the mountains.
I turn to Al. “Why are all the trees cut down?”
He looks at me and pulls his smoking pipe out of his mouth. “When I moved out here, most of this country was filled with trees. Giant redwoods, fir and tan bark. The redwoods and fir trees were cut for lumber and the tan bark was stripped from the trees and used for tanning leather. What’s left on the mountains out there is called, ‘slashings’.”
“’Slashings,’ sure is the right word,” I agree, “It looks like a giant pirate ran all over the place swinging his sword taking out everything in sight.” I spend a few minutes imagining a wild pirate swinging his gleaming sword at all the trees.
For the next couple of miles the road is so rough I have to hang on to my seat. I wonder why anyone would want to live way out here. “Why did you come to Whitethorn?” I ask Al.
“I wasn’t born in this country,” he says. I was born in Canada.”
“Where is Canada?”
“Canada is a big country way up north,” he explains. When I came to California, I made enough money in the woods to buy a saw mill. The Whitethorn Lumber Company was for sale for a decent price so I bought it.”
I sit back in my seat. He does talk kind of funny, like saying ‘bean’ instead of ‘been.’ “Why did you leave Canada?” I ask.
“When I graduated eighth grade, my father wanted me to work in our store instead of going to high school. I was so mad I ran away from home.”
My eyes widen. “Did you join a circus? I’ve heard stories about kids running away and working in a circus.”
He chuckles, “I went to the United States and started working in a coal mine.”
“A coal mine!”
“Yep. I worked there a couple of years. One day, I decided I would spend my whole life in a dark and dirty hole in the ground, if I didn’t do something to get out.”
“I’ve nevcr known anyone who worked in a coal mine. So how did you get away?”
He chuckles again. “You might say I played my way out. I started playing poker with the miners and before long, I made a big enough stake to leave and look for some other kind of work.”
“You must be a super poker player,” I reply, impressed.
My mother Ruby jumps into the conversation. “He’s the best poker player I’ve ever seen. No one can beat him.”
I sit quiet for a while, mulling it all over. Finally I ask. “Do you still own the mill?”
“Yep.”
“When we get to Whitethorn, we’ll take you to visit the mill,” Ruby adds.
Suddenly, the road becomes real steep and turns into a big S shape. Ruby shifts down to a lower gear. “Is this where I double clutch it?” she asks Al.
“Yes. Just push the clutch in a couple of times while you’re shifting.”
As Ruby tries to do the double clutch an awful grinding noise fills up the cab. I’m scared to death the pickup is falling apart.
Al clamps his teeth down on his pipe and hollers, “You’re not doing it right!”
“I just can’t get the hang of it!” Ruby wails.
Finally we grind to the top of the hill. The road to Whitethorn sure is rough, and I worry a little about what’s waiting for me at the end of it.
From the top of the hill, we free wheel it downhill. When my mother rolls down her window, a wonderful scent hits my nose along with the dust. It reminds me of sweet flowers, spicy bay leaves and wild berries. Maybe Whitethorn is going to be okay. I can hardly wait to get there and see what it’s like. “When are we going to get there, Ruby?”
She smiles. “It won’t be long now.”
A little while later the country starts to change again. I see a couple of small ranches with pastures that hold cows and sheep. Red dusty roads are branching out in all directions up into the mountains. Al says they are old logging roads and even today a few people live in some of the old shacks built on them. I wonder if we are soon going to turn into one of these old roads. I would hate to live up on these mountains with heaps of dust piled high on both sides of our house.
“See those bushes out there beside the road?” Ruby says. “They are whitethorn brush. The closer we get to Whitethorn, the more whitethorn brush you’ll see.”
I look around, but see only some stringy green bushes, nothing white. “Why do they call it whitethorn?” I ask.
“In the spring, they bloom masses of beautiful white flowers,” Ruby replies.
It isn’t long before our broken down road brings us to a little town. This must be Whitethorn. Like in Briceland, everything is covered with dust, only not so deep. A tiny grocery store sits on the left and a post office on the right. I don’t see a bar yet, but I’m sure it’s here. Other dirt roads split off from the main road. A River cuts off the houses on the right, and to get to them, it looks like people have to cross a scary-looking narrow bridge.
The main road follows along beside the river and we soon pass a meadow full of whitethorn and poison oak. What fun. Now I’ll be able to catch poison oak again just like I did in Bull Creek.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
"After Briceland, we start climbing into the hills. The country looks pretty bare except for a few scrubby bay trees and manzanita brush. I crane my neck looking out at tree stumps and dead branches scattered all over the mountains.
I turn to Al. “Why are all the trees cut down?”
He looks at me and pulls his smoking pipe out of his mouth. “When I moved out here, most of this country was filled with trees. Giant redwoods, fir and tan bark. The redwoods and fir trees were cut for lumber and the tan bark was stripped from the trees and used for tanning leather. What’s left on the mountains out there is called, ‘slashings’.”
“’Slashings,’ sure is the right word,” I agree, “It looks like a giant pirate ran all over the place swinging his sword taking out everything in sight.” I spend a few minutes imagining a wild pirate swinging his gleaming sword at all the trees.
For the next couple of miles the road is so rough I have to hang on to my seat. I wonder why anyone would want to live way out here. “Why did you come to Whitethorn?” I ask Al.
“I wasn’t born in this country,” he says. I was born in Canada.”
“Where is Canada?”
“Canada is a big country way up north,” he explains. When I came to California, I made enough money in the woods to buy a saw mill. The Whitethorn Lumber Company was for sale for a decent price so I bought it.”
I sit back in my seat. He does talk kind of funny, like saying ‘bean’ instead of ‘been.’ “Why did you leave Canada?” I ask.
“When I graduated eighth grade, my father wanted me to work in our store instead of going to high school. I was so mad I ran away from home.”
My eyes widen. “Did you join a circus? I’ve heard stories about kids running away and working in a circus.”
He chuckles, “I went to the United States and started working in a coal mine.”
“A coal mine!”
“Yep. I worked there a couple of years. One day, I decided I would spend my whole life in a dark and dirty hole in the ground, if I didn’t do something to get out.”
“I’ve nevcr known anyone who worked in a coal mine. So how did you get away?”
He chuckles again. “You might say I played my way out. I started playing poker with the miners and before long, I made a big enough stake to leave and look for some other kind of work.”
“You must be a super poker player,” I reply, impressed.
My mother Ruby jumps into the conversation. “He’s the best poker player I’ve ever seen. No one can beat him.”
I sit quiet for a while, mulling it all over. Finally I ask. “Do you still own the mill?”
“Yep.”
“When we get to Whitethorn, we’ll take you to visit the mill,” Ruby adds.
Suddenly, the road becomes real steep and turns into a big S shape. Ruby shifts down to a lower gear. “Is this where I double clutch it?” she asks Al.
“Yes. Just push the clutch in a couple of times while you’re shifting.”
As Ruby tries to do the double clutch an awful grinding noise fills up the cab. I’m scared to death the pickup is falling apart.
Al clamps his teeth down on his pipe and hollers, “You’re not doing it right!”
“I just can’t get the hang of it!” Ruby wails.
Finally we grind to the top of the hill. The road to Whitethorn sure is rough, and I worry a little about what’s waiting for me at the end of it.
From the top of the hill, we free wheel it downhill. When my mother rolls down her window, a wonderful scent hits my nose along with the dust. It reminds me of sweet flowers, spicy bay leaves and wild berries. Maybe Whitethorn is going to be okay. I can hardly wait to get there and see what it’s like. “When are we going to get there, Ruby?”
She smiles. “It won’t be long now.”
A little while later the country starts to change again. I see a couple of small ranches with pastures that hold cows and sheep. Red dusty roads are branching out in all directions up into the mountains. Al says they are old logging roads and even today a few people live in some of the old shacks built on them. I wonder if we are soon going to turn into one of these old roads. I would hate to live up on these mountains with heaps of dust piled high on both sides of our house.
“See those bushes out there beside the road?” Ruby says. “They are whitethorn brush. The closer we get to Whitethorn, the more whitethorn brush you’ll see.”
I look around, but see only some stringy green bushes, nothing white. “Why do they call it whitethorn?” I ask.
“In the spring, they bloom masses of beautiful white flowers,” Ruby replies.
It isn’t long before our broken down road brings us to a little town. This must be Whitethorn. Like in Briceland, everything is covered with dust, only not so deep. A tiny grocery store sits on the left and a post office on the right. I don’t see a bar yet, but I’m sure it’s here. Other dirt roads split off from the main road. A River cuts off the houses on the right, and to get to them, it looks like people have to cross a scary-looking narrow bridge.
The main road follows along beside the river and we soon pass a meadow full of whitethorn and poison oak. What fun. Now I’ll be able to catch poison oak again just like I did in Bull Creek.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Saturday, April 4, 2009
More Shootings in USA
In the last two days there have been two mass murders in the United States. Yesterday thirteen innocent people were shot down by a depressed gunman. This morning, 3 police officers are reported killed when they responded to what they thought was a domestic dispute.
Again I wonder why I did not hear of shootings in Whitethorn and surrounding small towns. Of course the small population would rule out a statistical accounting, whereas we are presently looking at two incidents in the entire population of the United States. However, almost everyone in Whitethorn had guns, at the ready, in their homes and or in their pickups. Why didn't they shoot each other when they were depressed and angry?
Physical fights happened often enough for one observer to call fist fighting a community sport. I remember loggers traveling to bars with the specific intention of having a fight. The fights were brutal and sometimes involved everyone in the bar engaging in a violent brawl. The fights were later bragged about for weeks and even years. Guns were usually not considered by these tough loggers who prided themselves on their physical strength and courage.
Did the barroom sports events serve as a way to let off steam? Who knows? But that's the way it was when I was a kid growing up with loggers.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Again I wonder why I did not hear of shootings in Whitethorn and surrounding small towns. Of course the small population would rule out a statistical accounting, whereas we are presently looking at two incidents in the entire population of the United States. However, almost everyone in Whitethorn had guns, at the ready, in their homes and or in their pickups. Why didn't they shoot each other when they were depressed and angry?
Physical fights happened often enough for one observer to call fist fighting a community sport. I remember loggers traveling to bars with the specific intention of having a fight. The fights were brutal and sometimes involved everyone in the bar engaging in a violent brawl. The fights were later bragged about for weeks and even years. Guns were usually not considered by these tough loggers who prided themselves on their physical strength and courage.
Did the barroom sports events serve as a way to let off steam? Who knows? But that's the way it was when I was a kid growing up with loggers.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Friday, March 20, 2009
Guns and Depression
There has been more school shootings this year. The worst tragedy was in Germany where 15 people were shot. Once again guns were blamed for the horrible loss of young lives. In Whitethorn and Bull Creek almost everyone had guns. But I never heard of anyone being shot either by intention or accident. In that gun culture, young and old were taught gun safety. All guns were considered loaded and it was almost a capital offense if someone carelessly pointed the gun at another person. ( I still get upset watching movies where the hero waves his guns around.)
I am not against gun control but what seems to be overlooked again and again is the emotional state of the killer who is almost always depressed. Yet the knee jerk reaction is always gun control and the real killer, depression, is not even considered. People need to get that DEPRESSION KILLS or these tragedies will continue. People should also take note that the slaughter frequently happens around March or April. The reason for this has been thought to be related to the amount of sun a person gets providing Serotonin, a chemical that functions as mood control. The lack of sun in the winter can cause depression in some individuals. Someone who is deeply depressed is often confined to bed unable to function on a daily basis or make decisions. When the season changes in the spring the depressed individual is more likely to act out. Although the depression is still there, the surge of Serotonin can provide just enough energy to carry out a deadly rampage.
In 1998 Suicide was the 8th leading cause of death in the United States. 31,000 suicides occurred which was 50% higher than the homicide rate. Unfortunately, depression still remains a taboo subject and a high percentage of people who are depressed do not get adequate treatment.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
I am not against gun control but what seems to be overlooked again and again is the emotional state of the killer who is almost always depressed. Yet the knee jerk reaction is always gun control and the real killer, depression, is not even considered. People need to get that DEPRESSION KILLS or these tragedies will continue. People should also take note that the slaughter frequently happens around March or April. The reason for this has been thought to be related to the amount of sun a person gets providing Serotonin, a chemical that functions as mood control. The lack of sun in the winter can cause depression in some individuals. Someone who is deeply depressed is often confined to bed unable to function on a daily basis or make decisions. When the season changes in the spring the depressed individual is more likely to act out. Although the depression is still there, the surge of Serotonin can provide just enough energy to carry out a deadly rampage.
In 1998 Suicide was the 8th leading cause of death in the United States. 31,000 suicides occurred which was 50% higher than the homicide rate. Unfortunately, depression still remains a taboo subject and a high percentage of people who are depressed do not get adequate treatment.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sick Horses
When I lived in Whitethorn my horse never got sick. I had no idea a horse could get a cold. But once I moved to Santa Rosa, California, a sick horse was routine. There were many horses in Sonoma County and I often took my horse to horse shows where they caught various colds and other diseases. In order to save money, I soon learned how to give penicillin shots to them but it sometimes took weeks for a horse to get well.
I also learned to shoe horses, a task that was never needed in Whitethorn where my horse was traveling on dirt roads and open fields. Down here in civilisation I had to ride my horses on the paved roads or on the gravel trails beside the roads, quickly wearing their tough hooves down to the quick.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
I also learned to shoe horses, a task that was never needed in Whitethorn where my horse was traveling on dirt roads and open fields. Down here in civilisation I had to ride my horses on the paved roads or on the gravel trails beside the roads, quickly wearing their tough hooves down to the quick.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Friday, March 13, 2009
Appaloosa
The photo is of one of my horses who was almost 100 percent pure Appaloosa. I no longer raise horses due to expense and my upcoming 70th birthday.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Champion Race Horse
My mother bought me a cute little strawberry roan mare for my ninth birthday. She was a good kids horse and I rode her all over Whitethorn. I loved her but I longed for a horse that could run fast.
In 1964 I started raising Appaloosas. These horses had a marvelous history. Chief Joseph and his tribe raised Appaloosas and rode them in their mad dash for Canada trying to escape the US soldiers. The Indians were caught just miles from the border where Chief Joseph gave his eloquent surrender speech. "As the sun now stands I will fight no more forever."
Tragically the soldiers slaughter over a thousand of the tribes beautiful spotted horses. The rest of the horses scattered and they bred with the mustangs, draft horses, and other breeds. Eventually, horse lovers collected and bred the descendants of Chief Joseph's horses and formed the National Appaloosa Horse Club.
In 1984 one of my mares foaled a filly I named Cari Double. The next few years were the happiest of my life. I hired a trainer and Cari Double raced for two years becoming a National Champion Appaloosa race mare. What a thrill. I finally had my fast horse.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
In 1964 I started raising Appaloosas. These horses had a marvelous history. Chief Joseph and his tribe raised Appaloosas and rode them in their mad dash for Canada trying to escape the US soldiers. The Indians were caught just miles from the border where Chief Joseph gave his eloquent surrender speech. "As the sun now stands I will fight no more forever."
Tragically the soldiers slaughter over a thousand of the tribes beautiful spotted horses. The rest of the horses scattered and they bred with the mustangs, draft horses, and other breeds. Eventually, horse lovers collected and bred the descendants of Chief Joseph's horses and formed the National Appaloosa Horse Club.
In 1984 one of my mares foaled a filly I named Cari Double. The next few years were the happiest of my life. I hired a trainer and Cari Double raced for two years becoming a National Champion Appaloosa race mare. What a thrill. I finally had my fast horse.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Free Range
When I was living at Whitethorn (Thorn) there were very few fences resulting in what was called free range. My horse Stardust roamed the Whitethorn valley at will. This was great because I didn't have to feed her.
Today, here in Santa Rosa, I have paid up to several hundred dollars a month for each horse. Having a horse is no longer a choice for children who have parents with low or average income. It is a real shame. Having a horse was so helpful to my early development. I learned to take responsibility for my horse and I gained self-esteem for being able to ride and control such a big strong animal.
Interestingly enough horseback riding is almost exclusively a girls game. You see very few boys riding in horse shows. However, the males suddenly appear on the horse scene when they are in their early twenties. I don't know where they come from since most of them were absent as boys. But when they hit 21, they are out on the tracks riding race horses, roping cattle and riding in rodeos and Olympic equestrian events.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Today, here in Santa Rosa, I have paid up to several hundred dollars a month for each horse. Having a horse is no longer a choice for children who have parents with low or average income. It is a real shame. Having a horse was so helpful to my early development. I learned to take responsibility for my horse and I gained self-esteem for being able to ride and control such a big strong animal.
Interestingly enough horseback riding is almost exclusively a girls game. You see very few boys riding in horse shows. However, the males suddenly appear on the horse scene when they are in their early twenties. I don't know where they come from since most of them were absent as boys. But when they hit 21, they are out on the tracks riding race horses, roping cattle and riding in rodeos and Olympic equestrian events.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Wild Food of Whitethorn
Whitethorn was filled with many kinds of wild berries and nuts. Here is a partial list: huckleberries, blackberries, red caps, strawberries, hazel nuts, minors lettuce, and acorns. The acorns were a primary source of food for the indigenous Indians. They ground the acorns and then strained water through them to make an edible mash.
During the summer months, I used to graze on the food that was to be had for the picking. I also caught fish and roasted them on a small fire. I was afraid to eat the acorns, although I knew the Indians ate them, because I wasn't sure how to grind and wash them.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
During the summer months, I used to graze on the food that was to be had for the picking. I also caught fish and roasted them on a small fire. I was afraid to eat the acorns, although I knew the Indians ate them, because I wasn't sure how to grind and wash them.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Yerba Buena
Yerba Buena (Good Herb) is a vine that grows wild in many places in California. My friends and I were always thrilled when we came upon this tasty plant with its delicious odor. It usually crawled in long vines beside trees and brush. It needed a bit of shade and a dash of sunshine to thrive. Once we had picked it we used to take it home and make a fantastic tea. A goodly dose of sugar made it perfect for our young taste buds
In Whitethorn we knew of many wild plants that were good for eating or drinking. I've always believed this knowledge had been passed down to the white settlers by the indigenous Sinkyone Indians.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
In Whitethorn we knew of many wild plants that were good for eating or drinking. I've always believed this knowledge had been passed down to the white settlers by the indigenous Sinkyone Indians.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Ray Raphael's Books About Northern California
Ray Raphael is my hero. He has written several books about Humboldt County History and has included my beloved Whitethorn in his book, An Everyday History of Somewhere. This book was awarded the best book of the year, about California, by the Commonwealth Club.
Another interesting book by Raphael is Cash Crop An American Dream. This book delineates the history of the back-to-the-landers, who came to Whitethorn and other California backwoods in the 1970s, to realize their dreams of living on the land. Finding that the soil in the backwoods grew nothing so well as poison oak, they began growing marijuana. Raphael gives an objective documentary as told to him by the growers.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Another interesting book by Raphael is Cash Crop An American Dream. This book delineates the history of the back-to-the-landers, who came to Whitethorn and other California backwoods in the 1970s, to realize their dreams of living on the land. Finding that the soil in the backwoods grew nothing so well as poison oak, they began growing marijuana. Raphael gives an objective documentary as told to him by the growers.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Book Finished About Growing Up with Loggers
Hooray! I have finished the last chapter of my book about my childhood in Whitethorn. It is about 80,000 words long. I am toying with different titles.
1. Tales of Whitethorn
Somewhere Near the Lost Coast
2. Tales of Whitethorn
Growing up with Loggers
3. Growing Up With Loggers Somewhere Near the Lost Coast
4. The Whitethorn Kid
Growing Up in Logging Camps
Comments? Favorites?
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
1. Tales of Whitethorn
Somewhere Near the Lost Coast
2. Tales of Whitethorn
Growing up with Loggers
3. Growing Up With Loggers Somewhere Near the Lost Coast
4. The Whitethorn Kid
Growing Up in Logging Camps
Comments? Favorites?
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Friday, March 6, 2009
Dogs and Poison
A friend recently gave me a list of food items that are poison for dogs. The following items were on the list: 1. Chocolate 2. Raisins 3. Avocado 4. Walnuts 5. caffeine 6. Onions.
My pet dogs in Whitethorn did not seem to live very long. Most of their food was table scraps. Maybe the above list is the answer to their short lives. My mother certainly didn't have this list to guide her. I remember that beans was a common meal for my dogs. Beans always needed plenty of onions for flavor. I might also have shared my candy bar with them.
Watch your dogs diet!
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
My pet dogs in Whitethorn did not seem to live very long. Most of their food was table scraps. Maybe the above list is the answer to their short lives. My mother certainly didn't have this list to guide her. I remember that beans was a common meal for my dogs. Beans always needed plenty of onions for flavor. I might also have shared my candy bar with them.
Watch your dogs diet!
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Sawyer and Choker Setter
Yesterday, I watch a program on the history of logging. It jolted my memory a bit and confirmed my childhood memories of the names for loggers and lumberjacks jobs. I was pretty sure a Sawyer was the man who set the saw for cutting up the logs as they came into the mill, and I was right. The sawyer decided how to get the most boards out of a given log filling orders for two by fours or other size boards. I also had a dim memory of what a choker setter did out in the woods. Again my memories were correct. A choker setter wrapped a large steel cable around the logs after they were felled and cut up into long pieces. As I remember, it was a very dangerous job and if the logger didn't set it correctly it could come loose when the logs were pulled up the mountain causing the cable to fly in any direction. If the log's cable loosened it could slide helter skelter back down the mountain. A flying iron cable could cut a man in two and a sliding log could flatten any unfortunate fellow who was standing below it. All the men's lives, working in the nearby area, were put in mortal danger. I remember the pride loggers took in praising a man who was a good "choker setter." As with other logging jobs the men depended on each other to safeguard their lives. This brotherhood of men was fashioned by the incredible danger they faced every day. It must have been like the closeness men sometimes develop in war.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Dogs, Compost, and Schools
For the past year, I have been feeling slightly guilty because I was not making compost with my garbage scraps. Little did I know that a compost pile could kill my two beautiful long-haired Chihuahuas. Last week, a friend of mine almost lost her beloved big dog when it got into a neighbors yard and ate compost. Apparently, compost breeds some kind of poisonous mold as it decomposes. Who woulda thunk it? If I do get around to composting, I will put it in a container.
So many times our good intentions and actions hold one of those infamous unintended consequences. Another example of these tricks of nature occurred in the seventies when so many people built their homes and other buildings with large glass windows and stone. As a school psychologist,I used to serve a school built with these "odes to nature". Now, I realize it must cost a fortune to keep the students warm in the winter, wasting our precious resources.
Another interesting and frightening innovation was building schools in non-traditional patterns. No longer built in predictable sequencing, I used to get lost trying to find a given classroom. God help the students or teachers if a medical emergency occurred.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
So many times our good intentions and actions hold one of those infamous unintended consequences. Another example of these tricks of nature occurred in the seventies when so many people built their homes and other buildings with large glass windows and stone. As a school psychologist,I used to serve a school built with these "odes to nature". Now, I realize it must cost a fortune to keep the students warm in the winter, wasting our precious resources.
Another interesting and frightening innovation was building schools in non-traditional patterns. No longer built in predictable sequencing, I used to get lost trying to find a given classroom. God help the students or teachers if a medical emergency occurred.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Woman Killed by Tree
During a big windy storm last week a woman was killed by a falling tree. She was reported as a lover of nature. This terrible accident reminds me of my mother's warnings about walking in the woods on a windy day. This caution was common knowledge in both Bull Creek and Whitethorn where loggers knew the ways of the weather and the woods. It was said that even a small branch falling from a tall tree could kill a person if it landed on their unfortunate head. When my mother, Ruby Doers walked through the woods with me she often pointed to broken branches hanging high in certain trees and told me they were called "widow makers."
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Monday, February 23, 2009
History of Humboldt County
Today I am updating this bit about my blog, Whitethorn Kid Logger Journal.
I was born in Eureka in 1939. I moved to Bull Creek in the second grade.(wiped out in the floods of 1955 and 1964) Most of my childhood was spent in Whitethorn, Humboldt County, California. My blog centers around my days in Whitethorn. From time to time I write about other parts of Humboldt County and current events or opinions.
My blog describes people and events in Whitethorn during the years 1946-1951. My stepfather, Al Sharpe, owned the Whitethorn Lumber Company and the Whitethorn Bar as well as 700 acres of whitethorn brush, poison oak, tan oak, madrone, fir, bay and 2 wonderful acres of old growth redwoods he saved behind our house.
The blog is historically accurate and it names and describes people who lived in Humboldt County.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
I was born in Eureka in 1939. I moved to Bull Creek in the second grade.(wiped out in the floods of 1955 and 1964) Most of my childhood was spent in Whitethorn, Humboldt County, California. My blog centers around my days in Whitethorn. From time to time I write about other parts of Humboldt County and current events or opinions.
My blog describes people and events in Whitethorn during the years 1946-1951. My stepfather, Al Sharpe, owned the Whitethorn Lumber Company and the Whitethorn Bar as well as 700 acres of whitethorn brush, poison oak, tan oak, madrone, fir, bay and 2 wonderful acres of old growth redwoods he saved behind our house.
The blog is historically accurate and it names and describes people who lived in Humboldt County.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Rain
The much needed rain is pounding away here in Santa Rosa, California. It's a good storm, giving us an inch or more a day. It reminds me of the the way it rained in Whitethorn. Once a storm started you would count on it lasting for days or even weeks. And what a show it delivered. Great sheets of rain would swaggered across the valley like silver soldiers marching in a grand parade.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Friday, February 20, 2009
Ruby Doers Obituary
The following is the obituary of my mother, written by her grand daughter, Marilyn Sue Moxley. She lived in Whitethorn and Bull Creek for many years before moving to Sonoma County, California.
Obituary
Ruby E. Roberts (Doers) passed away at home on October 13, 2006, surrounded by her loving family. She was 90. Born in Wisconsin, she came to California at the age of 9. Previously she resided in Santa Rosa and has lived in Clearlake for the past 20 years. During World War II, she worked as a welder on the first floating dry dock in Eureka. From 1959 to 1979, she was a psychiatric technician at Sonoma Developmental Center. For years she remarked how she missed working with her disabled clients. She was an avid reader of books, especially suspense and mystery novels. She was a champion crossword puzzler, wonderful cook, and loved to garden. She also loved to play bingo. Whenever she won a pot, she would always spend her winnings on her family. She was also a good friend to her family, a lot of fun, easy going, a good listener, and very wise. She’ll be forever missed and in our hearts. She is survived by her two daughters, Sharon Moxley and Karen Sharpe; her grandchildren Marilyn, Antoinette, Jessica, Nicole, and Mariah; great grandchildren Melissa, Monica, Megan, Erin, and a little girl on the way; niece Pam Muellor and her children Mike and Jennifer; nephew Jerry Croy; great niece Teresa and great nephew Guy. Funeral services will be held…
Obituary
Ruby E. Roberts (Doers) passed away at home on October 13, 2006, surrounded by her loving family. She was 90. Born in Wisconsin, she came to California at the age of 9. Previously she resided in Santa Rosa and has lived in Clearlake for the past 20 years. During World War II, she worked as a welder on the first floating dry dock in Eureka. From 1959 to 1979, she was a psychiatric technician at Sonoma Developmental Center. For years she remarked how she missed working with her disabled clients. She was an avid reader of books, especially suspense and mystery novels. She was a champion crossword puzzler, wonderful cook, and loved to garden. She also loved to play bingo. Whenever she won a pot, she would always spend her winnings on her family. She was also a good friend to her family, a lot of fun, easy going, a good listener, and very wise. She’ll be forever missed and in our hearts. She is survived by her two daughters, Sharon Moxley and Karen Sharpe; her grandchildren Marilyn, Antoinette, Jessica, Nicole, and Mariah; great grandchildren Melissa, Monica, Megan, Erin, and a little girl on the way; niece Pam Muellor and her children Mike and Jennifer; nephew Jerry Croy; great niece Teresa and great nephew Guy. Funeral services will be held…
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Axmen
I see that there is a series on TV about men cutting down trees. I have yet to view it but I plan on seeing it in the near future.
During the past four years, while writing my book about my childhood in Whitethorn, I have periodically done research on loggers and lumberjacks. Early on I found little written about their work. Now that they are a dying breed, it seems they have caught the attention of the public.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
During the past four years, while writing my book about my childhood in Whitethorn, I have periodically done research on loggers and lumberjacks. Early on I found little written about their work. Now that they are a dying breed, it seems they have caught the attention of the public.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Monday, February 16, 2009
Undercut Answer
When a logger cut down a tree, he used and undercut to insure that the tree fell in a certain path. In Whitethorn, I remember hearing some old loggers brag they could lay down a tree exactly where they wanted it to land. Usually, they aimed for a spot between standing trees so there was no damage to the other trees making them less fit lumber. The undercut was a wedge shaped cut placed several inches deep on the other side of the tree where the logger was sawing. Without an undercut the tree could fall in any direction including on top of the busy logger.
If you want to view an example of an undercut go to Logging etool: making the cuts
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
If you want to view an example of an undercut go to Logging etool: making the cuts
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Friday, February 13, 2009
Question of the Day
What is an undercut? Hint: Loggers did it. It often saved their lives.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Jamestown Settlement
As most of you readers know, I have been researching my ancesters on Ancestry.com. I have another surprise for you. I am a direct descendent of several settler's of Jamestown, Virginia. One of my ancestors, Richard Pace helped save many of the Jamestown people by warning them about the impending Indian Attack of 1622. Richard had adopted an indian boy who told him about the indian's plan. Although many settlers lost their lives in the raid, including a few of my ancestor cousins, many more would have died if Richard had not warned them.
I am currently reading Jamestown, The Buried Truth, by William M. Kelso. Very interesting book about the archaeologists who dug up the town around 1995. They found many artifacts from the settlement and they even did face reconstruction on a few of the skulls of the dead settlers. No, they didn't reconstruct Richard Pace's face. Darn it.
I am currently reading Jamestown, The Buried Truth, by William M. Kelso. Very interesting book about the archaeologists who dug up the town around 1995. They found many artifacts from the settlement and they even did face reconstruction on a few of the skulls of the dead settlers. No, they didn't reconstruct Richard Pace's face. Darn it.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Loggers and Lumberjacks
These days most people use the names loggers and lumberjacks interchangeably. However, in Whitethorn we used to call men loggers when their job involved cutting down trees. Men who worked in a sawmill, where the logs were cut into boards, were called lumberjacks. Whatever the case may be, a waitress in Eureka recently told me they were both "dying breeds" because of the tree sitters. She didn't sound happy about it.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Peanut Recall
This past week I have been proudly eating trail mix and oranges for breakfast. I thought I was eating a healthy meal. Now I discover whole peanuts might be contaminated and I have peanuts in my trail mix. Darn!
I was so lucky to grow up in Bull Creek and Whitethorn. The air was so clean it was almost holy and I picked wild berries and nuts for snacks.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
I was so lucky to grow up in Bull Creek and Whitethorn. The air was so clean it was almost holy and I picked wild berries and nuts for snacks.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
John D. Rockefeller Jr and his Forest
In the early 20th century, John D. Rockefeller Jr. donated two million dollars to preserve and protect 10,000 acres of old growth redwoods in Bull Creek Flats, California. Because of him this forest, which now hosts the world's tallest tree, has never been touched by the logger's axe.
When I was a child playing in this magical forest, I thought of it as my own personal park. As a young adult, I was enraged when I saw a sign designating it Rockefeller Forest. I knew nothing of Rockefeller's bountiful donation. I just wondered how this city slicker from New York could claim what in my heart was my own personal property? Looking back on my ire, I realize I had not yet outgrown the isolationist suspicion of strangers I had learned growing up in Whitethorn.
Bless John D. Rockefeller Jr. !
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
When I was a child playing in this magical forest, I thought of it as my own personal park. As a young adult, I was enraged when I saw a sign designating it Rockefeller Forest. I knew nothing of Rockefeller's bountiful donation. I just wondered how this city slicker from New York could claim what in my heart was my own personal property? Looking back on my ire, I realize I had not yet outgrown the isolationist suspicion of strangers I had learned growing up in Whitethorn.
Bless John D. Rockefeller Jr. !
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Monday, February 2, 2009
Why the Flat Iron Tree fell.
I have done some research on why the Flat Iron Tree fell. Usually, the park where it stood averaged winds of only 2 miles per hour. However, loggers had clear cut an area less than a mile west of the tree. This removed the protective canopy that kept the winds at this slow speed. Around 1995 the ancient tree and its neighbors were hit with high speed winds. When the 36 story tree crashed to the ground, it knocked down several other giant trees measuring 25 feet around.
For those of you who want to make a comment, click on the "comment" word at the end of this post. Thanks.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
For those of you who want to make a comment, click on the "comment" word at the end of this post. Thanks.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Death of Old Growth Trees
I just read in the paper the rate of death of old growth trees has almost doubled. This is apparently happening all over the United States.
When I was a child living in Bull Creek, California, I used to run and play in an old growth redwood forest, now a large park. My favorite tree was called the Flat Iron Tree. The lower part of its giant trunk looked like it had been flattened by a huge iron.
Last fall, when I made my journey to Humboldt County, I was grief stricken when I visited my old friend. I found it on the ground, broken in several places, large sharp bristles jutting from it's awful wounds. It had stood tall for 2,000 years. How could it have died in my lifetime? It was there when Christ was born. It was there when the Mayflower landed on our shores. It was there during the Civil War. It was there when King told of his magnificent dream. It was there when the first black man was making a successful run for the presidency. The history it had witnessed was enormous. Yet now, it had fallen and died. All was quiet around it's beaten corps. The quiet wasn't the same as the deep silence of the trees. This soundless sleep spoke of defeat, a sacrifice to the idol of civilization.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
When I was a child living in Bull Creek, California, I used to run and play in an old growth redwood forest, now a large park. My favorite tree was called the Flat Iron Tree. The lower part of its giant trunk looked like it had been flattened by a huge iron.
Last fall, when I made my journey to Humboldt County, I was grief stricken when I visited my old friend. I found it on the ground, broken in several places, large sharp bristles jutting from it's awful wounds. It had stood tall for 2,000 years. How could it have died in my lifetime? It was there when Christ was born. It was there when the Mayflower landed on our shores. It was there during the Civil War. It was there when King told of his magnificent dream. It was there when the first black man was making a successful run for the presidency. The history it had witnessed was enormous. Yet now, it had fallen and died. All was quiet around it's beaten corps. The quiet wasn't the same as the deep silence of the trees. This soundless sleep spoke of defeat, a sacrifice to the idol of civilization.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
OBAMA
I am in awe of our new President! I had huge reservations about him when he was campaigning but I love the choice of cabinet members and today on TV his government transparency provisions left me dumb founded. We may have the real deal with this man.
ANSWER ABOUT THE DONKEY
My uncle by marriage, Gene Croy used to run the Donkey at Bull Creek. It was a big machine that rested upon a bluff overlooking the Bull Creek road and the log pond of a lumber mill. The Donkey had steel cables that were hooked to the logs on the big trucks that parked between the road and the pond. The lumberjacks fastened the cables to the logs and the Donkey pulled them up and dropped them into the pond. Once in a while, (just for fun) my Uncle made the Donkey slap the huge steel cables down across the road. This was scary for everybody, but no self-respecting lumberjack would admit it. I can remember by Aunt Maude Croy saying, "If the cables came down on a man, it would cut him in half!"
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
ANSWER ABOUT THE DONKEY
My uncle by marriage, Gene Croy used to run the Donkey at Bull Creek. It was a big machine that rested upon a bluff overlooking the Bull Creek road and the log pond of a lumber mill. The Donkey had steel cables that were hooked to the logs on the big trucks that parked between the road and the pond. The lumberjacks fastened the cables to the logs and the Donkey pulled them up and dropped them into the pond. Once in a while, (just for fun) my Uncle made the Donkey slap the huge steel cables down across the road. This was scary for everybody, but no self-respecting lumberjack would admit it. I can remember by Aunt Maude Croy saying, "If the cables came down on a man, it would cut him in half!"
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Monday, January 19, 2009
Question of the Day
What was a donkey and how was it used? Hint: It was not an animal.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Continuation of A Cat's Tale
" While they’re on the porch arguing about the gun, I take the flashlight and go into the yard to see if she killed the tom. I hope so, because he will come back and kill our kittens. I move the flashlight slowly across the grass and weeds. My eyes go wide as I spot a black, furry tail on the ground. I grab it up and yell to my mother, “You shot his tail off!” I dash back to her and show off our prize. “You didn’t kill him, but I bet he won’t come back again,” I laugh.
“If he does come back he won’t be bringing his tail.” We both chuckle at the thought of the cat running away without its tail."
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
“If he does come back he won’t be bringing his tail.” We both chuckle at the thought of the cat running away without its tail."
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Friday, January 16, 2009
Almost Finished
I have been writing my book, True Tales of Whitethorn, for 4 years. I am now on the next to last chapter. The book is 80,000 words long. I plan to submit it to a publisher but I might delay this because of the poor economy. The book chronicles my childhood in Whitethorn. My blog is about Whitethorn but most of it is general information rather than the drama of my life.
I considered self-publishing a collection of three stories but again decided against it because of the economy. I have done considerable market research in northern California and find book stores would take it on consignment. There is an especially good market for books about loggers and lumberjacks in northern California.
The following is the beginning of a chapter from the book called, A Cat's Tale:
An earsplitting screech shatters our evening as my mother and I stand by the sink doing dishes. My mother, hands wet with soap, picks up her rifle. I grab the flashlight. We both rush out to the back porch. I shine the light on a huge black tom cat tearing out of the storeroom and leaping to the top of the porch railing. Just as the he dives out into the night, my mother takes aim and squeezes the trigger. For a moment we both stand frozen as the acid smell of gunfire fills the darkness.
“What on earth are you trying to do, Ruby?” My stepfather shouts, as he stomps out of the house.
We ignore him and run to the storeroom at the end of the porch. Even though I am only eight years old, I get there first.
“Are they alive, Sharon?” my mother cries.
I count the small kittens. “They’re all here and it looks like none of them are hurt. Mama cat must have fought him off.
“Is moma cat ok?”
“She’s just fine. But why do tomcats kill kittens?”
“I wish I knew,” she says. If we hadn’t gotten here in time, the big tom would’ve killed them all.
“Ruby, I’ve told you again and again how dangerous it is to be shooting that gun,” my stepfather Al hollers from the porch. “And now you’re out here blasting away in the dark. Don’t you have any sense?”
“I’ve been shooting guns all my life,” my mother says. “Just because you don’t know one end of a gun from the other doesn’t mean I don’t know what I am doing.”
I considered self-publishing a collection of three stories but again decided against it because of the economy. I have done considerable market research in northern California and find book stores would take it on consignment. There is an especially good market for books about loggers and lumberjacks in northern California.
The following is the beginning of a chapter from the book called, A Cat's Tale:
An earsplitting screech shatters our evening as my mother and I stand by the sink doing dishes. My mother, hands wet with soap, picks up her rifle. I grab the flashlight. We both rush out to the back porch. I shine the light on a huge black tom cat tearing out of the storeroom and leaping to the top of the porch railing. Just as the he dives out into the night, my mother takes aim and squeezes the trigger. For a moment we both stand frozen as the acid smell of gunfire fills the darkness.
“What on earth are you trying to do, Ruby?” My stepfather shouts, as he stomps out of the house.
We ignore him and run to the storeroom at the end of the porch. Even though I am only eight years old, I get there first.
“Are they alive, Sharon?” my mother cries.
I count the small kittens. “They’re all here and it looks like none of them are hurt. Mama cat must have fought him off.
“Is moma cat ok?”
“She’s just fine. But why do tomcats kill kittens?”
“I wish I knew,” she says. If we hadn’t gotten here in time, the big tom would’ve killed them all.
“Ruby, I’ve told you again and again how dangerous it is to be shooting that gun,” my stepfather Al hollers from the porch. “And now you’re out here blasting away in the dark. Don’t you have any sense?”
“I’ve been shooting guns all my life,” my mother says. “Just because you don’t know one end of a gun from the other doesn’t mean I don’t know what I am doing.”
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Question of the Day
My mother often used this expression: "He got what the little boy shot at." As I child I could never figure out what she meant. If you want to submit an answer click on comment.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The Church and the Bar
The church and the bar in Whitethorn were always at odds. The Pentecostal Church members often hoped that the bar would close. They believed that drinking and dancing were sins. They were also concerned that the bar was a place where "backsliders" might resume their sinful ways and begin drinking and dancing again.
The people who frequented the bar were often hostile about what they felt was unfair judgement by the church members. One defender of the bar stated, "The bar is the only other place where people can get together and visit. George and Virginia do a nice job of running it. Virginia cooks good meals in the restaurant and families bring their children to eat and have a coke. Living a good life is fine but rolling on the floor and babbling in tongues is another thing."
A defender of the church claimed that some people didn't understand the teachings of Jesus. "Everyone makes fun of us because some church members roll on the floor. Rolling on the floor and speaking in tongues means Jesus has baptized you with the Holy Spirit and you are saved."
Since my family were members of the bar and my best friend was a member of the church, I visited the bar regularly and went to church every week. As I look back on my life I realize the teachings of the church actually did "save" me. I have never been a drinker and I have never smoked cigarettes. I did not engage in sexual intercourse until my wedding night. I was able to avoid these behaviors because of the Pentecostal Church.
My family moved to civilization when I was twelve. In my teens I joined the Methodist church, was baptized and sang in the choir. I quit the church in my early twenties and lost most of my faith when my unborn baby died when I was 8 months pregnant.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
The people who frequented the bar were often hostile about what they felt was unfair judgement by the church members. One defender of the bar stated, "The bar is the only other place where people can get together and visit. George and Virginia do a nice job of running it. Virginia cooks good meals in the restaurant and families bring their children to eat and have a coke. Living a good life is fine but rolling on the floor and babbling in tongues is another thing."
A defender of the church claimed that some people didn't understand the teachings of Jesus. "Everyone makes fun of us because some church members roll on the floor. Rolling on the floor and speaking in tongues means Jesus has baptized you with the Holy Spirit and you are saved."
Since my family were members of the bar and my best friend was a member of the church, I visited the bar regularly and went to church every week. As I look back on my life I realize the teachings of the church actually did "save" me. I have never been a drinker and I have never smoked cigarettes. I did not engage in sexual intercourse until my wedding night. I was able to avoid these behaviors because of the Pentecostal Church.
My family moved to civilization when I was twelve. In my teens I joined the Methodist church, was baptized and sang in the choir. I quit the church in my early twenties and lost most of my faith when my unborn baby died when I was 8 months pregnant.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Saturday, January 10, 2009
George and Virginia Martin-The Whitethorn Bar
George and Virginia Martin ran the Whitethorn Bar in the40's. Al Sharpe and the Martins shared ownership in this rough and tumble place. George was a big man with black hair. Virginia was a feisty, overweight woman who was from Oklahoma or Arkansas. She had an accent pronouncing "farr" for "fire and other interesting words that was incomprehensible to most Californians. Virginia was a pretty good cook. She served the loggers lots of greasy meat and potatoes which they claimed to enjoy. George usually tended bar and was liked by his burly customers.
Although it was against the law, children were allowed in the bar. Since there was no law enforcement in Whitethorn, there was no reason for the kids to sit outside in the family car while the parents guzzled beer. Most of the time the bar was peaceful. But on occasion, a fight would break out traumatizing any innocent kid who was hanging around.
One infamous Saturday night a group of Indians came into the bar. The result was a huge brawl between the Indians and the loggers. The Indians lost and the loggers bragged for years about their victory. There was no concept of civil rights for minorities at that time and it was actually illegal to serve alcohol to Indians.
As a child, I was outraged by this event. Since I believed I might be part Indian, I was against the loggers and their violence.
Although it was against the law, children were allowed in the bar. Since there was no law enforcement in Whitethorn, there was no reason for the kids to sit outside in the family car while the parents guzzled beer. Most of the time the bar was peaceful. But on occasion, a fight would break out traumatizing any innocent kid who was hanging around.
One infamous Saturday night a group of Indians came into the bar. The result was a huge brawl between the Indians and the loggers. The Indians lost and the loggers bragged for years about their victory. There was no concept of civil rights for minorities at that time and it was actually illegal to serve alcohol to Indians.
As a child, I was outraged by this event. Since I believed I might be part Indian, I was against the loggers and their violence.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Henry Behrenst
Henry Behrenst and his family went to the Whitethorn Pentecostal Church. Henry 'Hank' was a tall, sinewy blond fellow who had a very nice singing voice. I remember him singing The Old Rugged Cross on Sunday mornings or at evening services. He was a good man who provided well for his family. Like all members of the church he did't drink or smoke. I don't remember exactly what he did for a living but he undoubtedly worked in nearby mills or in the woods.
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Copyright 2009 Sharon Porter Moxley
Monday, January 5, 2009
King Edward 111 and Whitethorn kid
I have been doing my genology for several years. While the first 10 generations or so were of very very modest beginnings, I have recently found that my line goes back to a King of England, Edward the third, born in the year 1312. Of course going back that far in the records I may have stumbled on some errors and will eventually find I am mistaken. But for now I am having great fun thinking about this possibility.
I also go back to a fellow named Garret Null who was convicted of treason by the Canadian government when he and his companions tried to claim a small bit of Canada for the United States. His companions were hung but he died in Jail. This event took place in the early 1800s.
And then of course there was Mary Johnson and her family who passed depression, bi-polar disorder, anxiety and agoraphobia down to the present generation. The other day I received an E-mail from a distant cousin who desended from that family. She described the terrible agony her family endures because of this disease. When I read her E-mail I couldn't help but imagine myself as a tiny baby born unknowingly under the shadow of this inherited malady.
But cheer up folks. Here is a list of a few people who endured this terrible brain disorder while giving their wonderful gifts to the world: Winston Churchill (He called it his Black Dog), Leo Tolstoy (at the height of his success he reported that he couldn't keep a rope in his house for fear of hanging himself), Earnest Hemingway, Peter Tchaikovsky, Edgar Allan Poe, Michelangelo, Herman Melville, George Frideric Handel, F Scott Fitzgerald, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Cole Porter, Vincent Van Gogh, Walt Whitman, Virginia Woolf and many many more.
Researchers have found at least some connection with creativity and mood disorder. A study of children who were adopted at birth found that the level of creativity in the biological parent predicted illness in the children, but there was no corolation to the level of creativity in their adoptive home.
If you want to know if your children are at risk for mood disorder, do a chart of the family history. Look at symptoms of depression if there is no actual professional diagnosis. Symptoms would include mood swings, sleeplessness, irritability, feeling like a failure, loss of appetite, loss of interest in things that used to be interesting.
If you suspect bi polar disorder watch for periods of excessive talking, risk taking, sexual acting out, drug/alcohol use, or excessive anger when crossed. With kids in their late teens you might see psychosis, and paranoid delusions.
Of course you should check with professionals in the field of psychiatry to confirm and treat the person. This blog in no way seeks to take the place of identification and treatment by a mental health professional.
Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley
I also go back to a fellow named Garret Null who was convicted of treason by the Canadian government when he and his companions tried to claim a small bit of Canada for the United States. His companions were hung but he died in Jail. This event took place in the early 1800s.
And then of course there was Mary Johnson and her family who passed depression, bi-polar disorder, anxiety and agoraphobia down to the present generation. The other day I received an E-mail from a distant cousin who desended from that family. She described the terrible agony her family endures because of this disease. When I read her E-mail I couldn't help but imagine myself as a tiny baby born unknowingly under the shadow of this inherited malady.
But cheer up folks. Here is a list of a few people who endured this terrible brain disorder while giving their wonderful gifts to the world: Winston Churchill (He called it his Black Dog), Leo Tolstoy (at the height of his success he reported that he couldn't keep a rope in his house for fear of hanging himself), Earnest Hemingway, Peter Tchaikovsky, Edgar Allan Poe, Michelangelo, Herman Melville, George Frideric Handel, F Scott Fitzgerald, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Cole Porter, Vincent Van Gogh, Walt Whitman, Virginia Woolf and many many more.
Researchers have found at least some connection with creativity and mood disorder. A study of children who were adopted at birth found that the level of creativity in the biological parent predicted illness in the children, but there was no corolation to the level of creativity in their adoptive home.
If you want to know if your children are at risk for mood disorder, do a chart of the family history. Look at symptoms of depression if there is no actual professional diagnosis. Symptoms would include mood swings, sleeplessness, irritability, feeling like a failure, loss of appetite, loss of interest in things that used to be interesting.
If you suspect bi polar disorder watch for periods of excessive talking, risk taking, sexual acting out, drug/alcohol use, or excessive anger when crossed. With kids in their late teens you might see psychosis, and paranoid delusions.
Of course you should check with professionals in the field of psychiatry to confirm and treat the person. This blog in no way seeks to take the place of identification and treatment by a mental health professional.
Copyright 2008 Sharon Porter Moxley
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Mary?
Around 1949 a woman named Mary arrived in Whitethorn. What a show. Mary was flamboyant blond woman who claimed she was formerly married to a famous writer. I can't remember for sure, but I think she said she had been married to John Steinbeck. Whoever he was her story was undoubtedly not true. However, Mary obviously came from a well to do background. She brought with her a magnificent grand piano, antiques, bamboo screens and several Siamese cats. She played beautiful classical music on her piano and entertained everyone who knew her. She reportedly danced for some of her visitors and one bit of gossip claimed that after dancing in front of one spellbound group she turned around and exposed her bare butt to her audience.
Despite the fact I didn't have a piano, I took piano lessons from Mary. She made a cardboard copy of the piano keys and I practiced my lessons on this soundless board. While I never really learned to play the piano I did learn to read music.
Mary stayed in Whitethorn for a little over a year and it wasn't until my mother Ruby found her in Eureka did we know where she had gone. My mother told me she was walking on second street in Eureka when she past a bar where someone was playing a piano. Recognizing Mary's style, my mother went into the bar and there was Mary and her fantastic piano. That was the last we ever heard about her.
Despite the fact I didn't have a piano, I took piano lessons from Mary. She made a cardboard copy of the piano keys and I practiced my lessons on this soundless board. While I never really learned to play the piano I did learn to read music.
Mary stayed in Whitethorn for a little over a year and it wasn't until my mother Ruby found her in Eureka did we know where she had gone. My mother told me she was walking on second street in Eureka when she past a bar where someone was playing a piano. Recognizing Mary's style, my mother went into the bar and there was Mary and her fantastic piano. That was the last we ever heard about her.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Year in Whitethorn
Happy New Year everyone. Since most people in Whitethorn had guns the whole valley boomed at the stroke of midnight. No telling where the bullets landed but there was plenty of open country so no one was shot as far as I know.
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