Messing with Sasquatch

One night, dad and I were on our way back from putting boats in at Dagger Falls. Our route took us past Stanley into some of the most beautiful country in Central Idaho. Dagger falls is a cascading waterfall over giant boulders. It is located near the headwaters of the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. The most magnificent feature of the falls is when you hit it right, you get to see Salmon jumping. Anyone who has witnessed that will stipulate that the overall experience is mesmerizing.

Every time I went with dad to put boats in the river, whether it was on the Main Salmon or Middle Fork, I felt sad I couldn't go on the trip. Inflating the boats, loading up the food and supply boxes, and all the other details of preparation were all part of the great adventure into the unknown that each trip presented. Everyone looked like they were having fun–because they were!

After helping the boatmen, dad and I loaded up the truck with odds and ends and headed out. Our experience in the truck was also a great adventure into the unknown. Every trip on the road offered something exciting or intriguing or both. Riding along mountain highways and lonely dirt roads was exciting just by itself. The truck used in those days was a flat-nosed Ryder box truck. It was not huge, but to a young boy, it was plenty big. I enjoyed riding along and being up high where I could tower over everyone else on the road. Dad also bought treats for the road that made the trips fun.

In retrospect, I chuckle about those treats that dad bought. At home, dad was continually on a strict diet of salad and other “healthy” food that mom seemed determined to make him eat. On the road, health food seemed not to be allowed. He bought licorice, old-fashioned stick candy, potato chips, and pop. Dad’s favorite pop was Pepsi. He said that it calmed his upset stomach. It seemed his stomach was always upset! My favorite was Mello-Yellow. Drinking that caffeinated beverage made me feel like I was living on the edge.

On our way back, it became late and there was no moon. The night was pitch-black–so black you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Riding in the truck was cool because I could follow the contour of the road quite a distance because of the headlights beaming out, especially when they were on high beam. Seeing the dark shapes of the trees and terrain in the periphery of the headlights was haunting. I imagined what could possibly be out there in the forest, lurking in the shadows. I shivered at the thought. No doubt, bears and mountain lions were out there just waiting for a chance to chew my leg off!

Just as we passed Clayton, a small bump-in-the-road town along the upper Salmon River, we rounded a bend in the road just as a creature stood up from a crouching position on the right side of the road. The river was on our left. When we first spotted the creature, it was at the furthest reaches of the headlights out in front of us, but dad hit the brakes and slowed down quickly.

Damn! What is that?! dad yelled. I was speechless.

The creature looked our direction and then walked across the highway. His face was level with mine. The creature’s body was dark and appeared to be covered in long hair. He had long arms and as he strode across the road, his arms swung at his side in long, methodical movements. The creature seemed to be bored with our presence even though he looked at us for a moment and then looked in front of him and seemed intent on getting across the road.

At the other side of the highway, the creature disappeared into the trees. Dad was silent for a moment and then he said, “Jeff, did you see that thing we just passed?” “He strode across this two-lane highway in only about six steps!”

All I could muster were a few words and grunts of affirmation. Not only did I have shivers going up my spine, the hair was standing straight up on the back of my neck. “That had to be Bigfoot,” I said.

“No doubt about it,” dad said in a stern voice. I could tell he was nervous and a bit mystified. “We just saw Bigfoot!”

Western Rivers

The river was a central focus in the life of everyone who lived in Salmon, Idaho. Lewis and Clark, the early American explorers, walked through the Salmon River Valley on their way to the Pacific Ocean. They hoped to use the river as a means of travel which would assure a quick passage through the high mountains and on to the ocean. The Indians warned them that the river was not passable because of the rough waters. It would swamp their canoes. They called it the “River of No Return.”

When I was around 12 or 13 years-old, I floated the river from the Shoup Bridge by our house down into town. I wore no life jacket and used only an inner tube. We didn't even own a life jacket. Safety measures were not high on our priority list at that age. Even though we played in the river and swam in it often, the idea of wearing a life vest was lost. It would be too cumbersome and would get in the way! Luckily, nobody died.

Dad began a summer job in the summer of 1974 when I was ten years-old. Because he was a school teacher and did not make enough money to support a big family on just that income, he had to take summer work every year in order to make ends meet. That year, he went to work for Western Rivers Expeditions, a company owned by a man named Jack Curry from the Salt Lake City area.

Jack was an early pioneer in the river running business. He invented a type of boat called a “J-Rig” that used a series of ‘J’ shaped neoprene pontoons hooked together side-by-side. They were used on the rivers in Idaho and Colorado and even used on the ocean where Jack leased a small island in Truk in the Eastern Carolines. I knew that dad thought a lot of Jack and liked him, as he often talked respectful of him when it came to river-running.

Dad’s job with Western Rivers was to drive truck. The first few years, dad took the boats to the put-in point on the river, and then he waited a few days when he picked them up at the end of the trips. Every trip that dad went on, he took one of us kids with him. Those were great adventures riding in the truck with dad and working on the river.

There were a lot of colorful characters who worked for Western Rivers. Some of them I learned to like a lot. Guys with names like Goldy, Zack, Scott, Steve, Sid, and Clay were boatmen and worked every week on the river with very little time off. They were all young men who were in excellent shape and had giant, bulging muscles. Being around those men was what prompted my drive to stay in good physical condition and work-out in order to build big muscles of my own. Dad used to say that Goldy’s arm muscles were so hard and defined that a fly would slip off his biceps. He was probably right!

Those ten years or so that dad worked for Western Rivers was full of adventure and intrigue. I watched the evolution of a company that was built by Jack and later on, bought by his son, Steve and a few other guys who had a different vision for how it should be ran. Changes were made and some of those changes resulted in operations that were not quite as efficient as hoped. 

I watched dad’s resilience as the company changed and his roles were tweaked. I heard his comments made at times on how he didn't think the company was being run right, but he was always loyal to his boss. That was a lesson for me. Always be loyal to the company even when things are not going as you like. Work for change within the system through proper channels and you will have your job as long as you wanted. Dad was always well-liked and respected by his co-workers.

I remember well the day dad came home and announced that he was going to work for the river company. I was excited! He was going to be a river guide and take dudes on float trips every week. As I recall, he went on a training trip and was gone for a week. When he returned, he announced that he was not going to be a guide. Instead, his job was going to be as the truck driver who put the boats in and then drove around to pick them up. I think that is what he wanted to do in the first place.

In those days, Western Rivers ran the Main Salmon River, the Selway, and Middle Fork of the Salmon. Put-in for the Main was a Corn Creek at the end of the road past Shoup. For the Middle Fork, it was at Dagger Falls. And for the Selway, put in was at Paradise. Riding in the truck with dad, I witnessed some of the most beautiful country on the face of the planet. I also experienced the scenery from the boats as each year, I had chances to float along on various stretches of the rivers.  

Gift Giving: Trials and Tribulations

Mom always made a big deal of celebrating my birthday.  There were times I thought she was just looking for a reason to buy goodies and have a party. Fact is, proof is always in the pudding and evidence indicated she really did love her kids and wanted us to feel loved, important, and extra special on our birthdays.

She also hoped for the same on her birthdays. I remember at least one time that dad fell short of mom’s expectations of birthday festivities, and she could let her angst be known. Mom had a way of exhibiting her displeasure without coming right out and saying, “I’m mad as hell because nobody made a big deal of my birthday like I expected you all to do!”

Fact is, dad tried, but he was handicapped by his maleness, in addition to chinks during his upbringing. His side of the family was not big on birthday celebrations and therefore, he didn't take them seriously…until mom lowered the boom on him and trained him up proper.  He got a baptism by fire on the subject!

After some of us kids got older and had resources of our own, we took the hint many times and multiplied dad’s birthday offerings for mom, with some of our own. There was at least one time when my gift-giving was not well-received. One particular time is branded into my memory, never to be forgotten. It occurred one year when I was eight or nine years-old and got ten extra bucks for my birthday money. I felt charitable and decided to spend it on mom’s birthday gift. Her special day was four days after mine, except on Leap Year.

I stuffed the cash into my Sears Tough Skins and walked down to one of the local clothing stores. I wasn't sure what I would find for my mom's birthday present but was sure there was something in that store that would please her immensely. After wandering aimlessly in the store for a few minutes, I noticed a rack of snow boots and they were on clearance! As far as I was concerned, a pair of good winter boots was a god-sent gift fit for a queen! Those particular boots were not your average run-of-the-mill boots. They were snowmobile boots with extra-thick felt liners, heavy duty rubber uppers topped with drawstring nylon leg huggers. And they were only eight bucks! My mind was so numb with excitement, I almost forgot to collect my change after I bought a pair for mom.

I was so elated I could hardly contain myself as I hauled those boots across the street, anxious to show them off to their new owner who was currently shopping for groceries. I walked into the store, all the while admiring how great those boots looked. It was beyond my ability to comprehend how anyone could not leap for joy at the prospect of having them. I was already coveting mom’s awesome gift!

Every boy, at some point in his life, crosses the threshold of his comfortable transcendental male reality and wanders into the dark and precarious realm known as gift-giving to women. He may initially learn the hard way that there are gender-specific gifts. He may learn through painful trials that generally, women prefer jewelry, nick-knacks, flowers, and things that will enhance their beauty. Men generally prefer knives, tools, hats, guns, and stuff for their cars. And maybe a man might settle for a pair of well-fitted winter boots for a birthday gift if the right pair is offered. Present a woman with a birthday gift of heavy, felt-lined winter boots and you might as well get into the “atomic position.” That is to say, you should bend over as far as possible and kiss your butt good-bye!

Running up to mom at the grocery check-out, I held up her spanking new birthday boots. “Mom, look at these great boots I got for your birthday!”

Her immediate reaction caused confusion and a wee bit of consternation. I had to do a double-take to make sure she was serious. I got that “look” followed by words indicating those boots would just not do.

How could any person who loved life and enjoyed playing in the snow turn down a pair of good winter boots!?  For a few seconds, my cranial head fuses misfired. This was the first time in my life that one of my gift offerings had been refused, and frankly, I didn't know what to do.

Dad, who was standing nearby, could see the cerebral dissonance written all over my face and he reacted quickly. Later, I supposed that he was good at that sort of conundrum I was feeling, probably from his own past experiences. He grabbed my hand and, with a big smile, offered to walk back to the store with me. On the way, he said a few soothing words that contributed to the re-building of my emotional wreckage. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I do remember they were words related to coping with the mystery of gender gift-giving.

“Jeff, when it comes to clothes or shoes, just let women buy their own–it’s a lot safer that way." I've remembered that sage advice and followed it explicitly since that day, over forty years ago.

Generosity and Christmas Presents

Even as a three year-old, I doubted the Santa myth, but all the beautifully wrapped presents were quite convincing.

The first Christmas I have any coherent recollection of was the year I was three. That means I was three and would turn four in exactly 2 months from Christmas day. I was sick with a bad cold and tremendous ear aches. That was natural for me. Sinus and ear problems were as common for me when I was a kid as getting up in the morning and playing with my friends. Mom would hold me on her lap and try to console me. But how does anyone get consoled when their inner ears are attacking them? The spoonfuls of hot oil that mom tried, did nothing but take the dull throbbing aches to sharp levels of excruciating pain.

I walked out into the living room of our little Boise house and the first thing I saw was a giant piece of plywood that dad had nailed train rails on and painted roads and a giant, two dimensional city. He put train cars on the tracks, plugged in the power, and suddenly the train started moving around the track. I was mystified! The train emitted a pungent odor of hot electrical wiring that I will never forget.

I grabbed a few cars and began driving them along the black painted roads so beautifully brushed on the board. Dad was really creative and he didn't spare any expense to make his little boys really happy. Like most dads who buy their toddling boys big toys, he had as much or more fun playing with our new toy as we did. In fact, he was still playing with “his” new train set long after Mikey and I lost interest and went on to playing with the boxes that our toys came in.

Christmas was a time when we drove up to Pine Top and looked at all the Christmas lights. We sang Christmas carols as we drove along. It was family togetherness. Mom was a decent singer. Dad sang alright, but he made-up his own pitch to every song. Many years later, dad joined the Church Choir because “they needed more voices.” Barbara Young stopped midstream during one of the first rehearsals and invited dad and Steve __ to quit the choir. Apparently they didn't need more voices in the group; they needed more singers.

I remember the pretty combinations of red, green, blue, and white during the holiday season. There was always something magical about this season. Decorating the house and putting ornaments and lights on the Christmas tree was exciting. We always had a live tree that made the house smell like a forest. Sometimes mom bought tinsel and draped it on the tree to go along with the other decorations.

When I was around ten, for Christmas dad bought Mikey and me some leather craft kits. We each got the same kit with a wooden hammer and a number of metal leather tools for carving and decorating leather. With the kit came a number of projects like a key keeper, wallet, and comb protector. I didn't know there was a need for a comb protector until that year I got my leather craft set.

Most Christmases, mom and dad would have us kids give them our wish list. I seldom filled out my wish list because I liked to be surprised on Christmas morning. I was surprised at some of the gifts I ended up getting. My favorite gift of all time was a cassette recorder/player that I got on the Christmas when I was eight years-old. I had myself pegged to be the next great country western singer like Jim Reeves. Recording my song of “Billy Bayou” accompanied with my guitar that was missing two strings, was a hit with my mother.

Even though money was tight, mom and dad always tried to make Christmas special. I suppose it was because Christmas for them as kids was not that special. Dad talked about feeling happy as a kid to get a pair of new socks and an orange at Christmas time. I always felt sorry for him that he didn't get cool toys and trucks. I also felt sorry for all the poor kids in Salmon that I knew did not have a Merry Christmas. The kids with alcoholic fathers or out-of-work parents (and there were quite a few) were the focus of my sorrow.  

When I was around six or seven, I knew for sure that Santa Claus was a fraud. Nobody tried to talk me out of it because I didn't say much about my epiphany. Also, even though I knew it was a sham, I liked to play along. Fantasy, even though the real truth was evident, was still fun. Looking out the window on the night of Christmas Eve and imagining I saw Santa’s sleigh flying through the air was exciting.

Christmas was also a time for TV. Cartoon Christmas specials were a big hit in the Hicks House. Even though I had seen the same specials every year, they were still fun to watch. Watching the numerous commercials during the programs even had an element of excitement.

One year, Grandma and Grandpa Henry came to visit for  the holidays. I suppose I was around nine years old. I knew that mom's folks were wealthy and mom and dad threatened us kids to adhere to proper decorum. That means we were forbidden to ask for money or to accept it if offered unless it was authorized by mom or dad.

Dad was a school teacher which meant that payday for him was always at the end of the month. This particular Christmas, it was a few days until there would be any money in dad's and mom's bank account. Grandpa Henry offered to spot dad some cash for Christmas. He could reimburse him on payday. Dad accepted. Grandpa pulled a giant wad of cash out of his pocket that was held together with a diamond-studded money clip. He rolled out a handful of $100 bills and handed them to dad. That was the most money I had ever seen.

That was the first time that “generosity” had meaning in my conscious. Merry Christmas to us.    

Lost

Camping was a big deal for my family. Every summer and clear into the fall during hunting season, we braved the wilds. I looked forward to camping. This was a chance to go far from home and be close to nature. Playing close to a lake or river was always a thrill. Roughing it was a favorite pastime. Dad taught Mikey and me how to cook in a Dutch Oven, build a decent fire, fish, hunt, and how to sleep comfortably when there was no bed present.

The summer of 1972, we drove into the Idaho back country and camped in the Yellow Jacket country. This is the area where many decades earlier, Grandpa Harry lived with his dad who drove a team of horses in supporting the mining effort in that area. Grandpa mentioned Yellow Jacket many times in his life history.

Going into this rough country was a problem for our Ford van. It simply wouldn't go over some of the steep mountain passes we needed to climb. Fortunately, Cousin Vic had his four-wheel drive jeep. He towed us up a few of the steeper mountains.

The first night, we camped next to a high mountain lake. Dad, Vic and Mikey went down to the lake to do some fishing. Mom stayed back at camp and started preparing dinner. I grabbed my fishing pole and headed down the trail that I thought dad and the others had taken. After walking for a few minutes, I realized that I was all alone and all about me was absolutely quiet.

I stopped and looked around. I tried as hard as I could to hear any sounds of other human beings. Suddenly, I felt a huge panic set-in. I had not felt such an overwhelming feeling of fear ever before in my life. My phobias seemed to compound and I felt I would never see another person again. Even though I was probably only a few hundred yards from our camp and from dad who was fishing near the lake, I transformed into a crazed nut! I threw my pole down and ran as fast as I could down the trail, screaming all the way.

Mikey, who was near dad’s location, heard my distant screams. He ran in the direction of the sound. It’s a good thing he could run fast and was nearby. When he finally caught up with me, I was running in the wrong direction and had lost all sense of coherence. He grabbed and held onto my jacket until I had calmed down. Even though I was sure Mikey was my enemy much of the time, at that moment, I was happy he found me and stopped me from running into the forest and far away. No doubt I would have really been lost if he hadn't come after me.

It was during this period of my life that I often felt like a timid whelp scared of my own shadow. I had a phobia of being lost and separated from familiar surroundings and family members. Even though I carried a Buck knife on my belt, it did not alleviate the incredible fear I felt most of the time. Mom and dad tried to pry out of me the cause of my fear, but I had no way to adequately tell them what I was feeling. In addition to that, I felt ashamed  and didn't want them to think I was less of a person. I knew deep down inside, I had problems, but didn't know what to do about it.

The next day, we traveled up to the Yellow Jacket mine and camped there. Dad and Vic panned for gold and found a bit of color. Littering the ground was refuse from the mining operations from a bygone era. Here and there, we found bits of dynamite. Dad warned us not to play with the stuff and to report anything that looked like a giant firecracker. Like most kids, we just ran around and did what we wanted. Fortunately, we were not killed or maimed and had an abundance of fun.

Grasshoppers and Baseball

One of my best friends was the little girl that lived in the room next to mine. Her name was Julie. Most boys I knew would be abhorred to call their younger sister one of their best friends, but that’s how it was for me. Actually, I really liked having her around. She could yell louder, run faster, and throw rocks further than most of the boys my age. She even tried the “peeing for distance” routine one time, but she just didn't have the tools for that activity. But she could spit a long ways, especially if the wind was at her back.

Friendship when you’re a kid is more about availability and convenience. You play with those who are nearby and who share common interests. Fortunately, Julie liked doing the things I liked, and visa-versa. We played in the tree house, made forts, rode bikes, and played games–mostly Monopoly. She didn't mind when I (the banker) handed out free loans for hotels and motels when there was no personal wealth left. Actually we were just following the basic tenets of some of the political parties of the day!

The family had an old blue bike. I am not sure what family member owned it. We rode that thing everywhere because it had a wide granny seat and a cargo rack on the back. The wheels were huge and the handle bars were positioned so that it was easy for a kid to ride and steer without having to lean over like on a 10-speed. Some days, Julie was brave enough to sit on my shoulders as we rode down the dirt road in front of our house. We wore no helmets, pads, gloves or any other safety equipment of any kind. Bikers in those days did not consider riding to be particularly dangerous, even with a younger sister sitting on your shoulders.

Life in those days was marked by summer free-time and school prison. The start of school always meant that winter and cold weather were just around the corner. It was like the seasons knew exactly when to make the big change–just a few weeks after school started. As a general reprieve, the seasons were also marked by sports.

One summer day, dad came home and informed Mike and me that we were signed up to play baseball. Pee Wee league was going strong and apparently, they needed players. The idea of sports and competition was lost on me, but it didn't seem like I had a choice–I was signed up! It wasn't so bad; I got a cool uniform and a mitt. My team was the Honda Boys.

I soon learned that I just didn't have any savvy for baseball. It seemed pointless to whack a ball with a bat and then run really fast from one base to another all while the other team tried to "get you out." It seemed the most important aspect of this game was to avoid being whacked with that rock-hard baseball being thrown all around. When it wasn't our team’s turn to bat, I found that playing defense was equally pointless. Also, in the back of my mind, I hated to think of ever being hit by the ball.

That thought dictated and controlled every dimension of my game. Plus, I couldn't find any merit in the coach wanting me to say “hey batter, batter, hey batter, batter–swing!” when I was out in my position in right field. That “chatter” as he called it was the fruitiest part of the game and I didn't like it.

Hard as I tried, I couldn't hit the ball when it was my turn to bat. There just didn't seem to be any hand-eye coordination when it came to that. Plus, that ball was coming fast and I knew if it hit any part of me, I would feel a lot of pain.

“Why was I doing this?” was a question that floated through my young mind every time I suited up for practice or for games.

“Because dad said so, was always the answer…” As he exclaimed numerous times, he wanted his boys to have more "opportunities" than he had as a small boy. Well, his second son didn't like baseball.

One day as I occupied my spot in right field, I was enthralled and intrigued with the grasshoppers and ants nearby. Large locusts were flying all around and I ran in circles trying to catch one in my huge mitt. Suddenly, I heard my name being screamed from the dugout. It was coach and he was yelling for me to “look-up! in addition to screaming a few descriptive curse words. I obeyed and looked up. A ball was flying right towards me. My first instinct was to try to catch it, but I knew how difficult that would be and how much it would hurt if it hit me.

As I stepped back to adjust for the glaring sunlight, I saw the ball hit the ground then bounce up. One never knows for sure how hard, flying objects seem to find their mark, but that bouncing baseball flew up and whacked me right on the bridge of my nose. The lights went out for a second and tears flooded into my eyes.

When the fog cleared, I looked around for the ball and saw it lying on the ground nearby. Fortunately, my face stopped its forward progress. I picked it up and blindly heaved it toward home plate. It was at that moment that I was convinced that baseball just wasn't my thing. That thought was reinforced by my glaring team mates and my cursing, swearing coach.

Earning a Place at the Family Table

I am not a violent person. In fact I abhor violence. It makes me feel ill. Given that, I regard acts of violence against other people as a bad thing. Other than acts of self-defense, pounding someone else for the shear pleasure of overpowering them or teaching them a lesson is anti-social. As a kid, those values often become obscured and marred by the need  to be accepted.

In retrospect, I would classify my youth as a time of peace and solitude marked by numerous moments of hostility and even violence. Much of this hostility and violence was aimed at me. Living around my older brother often required that I resort to basic skills of self-preservation. A young kid having to learn those skills at such an early age was not conducive to overall happiness but it was my reality.

At around two years old, Mike jumped on my back and drove my head into a wooden block that I was innocently playing with. That incident required stitches in my head. I still bear the scar.

Through our childhood, I was Mike’s playmate much of the time. That means I was Mike’s punch-dummy when things went bad or he lost his temper. I was schooled by the law of hard-knocks–literally. If I dared to argue or go contrary to Mike’s assertions or ideas in any way, about virtually anything, I paid the price. Kicks and punches were my rewards.

I am sure I had numerous concussions and even other head injuries as a result of that violence. Dad and mom got-after my brother for those beatings he gave me, but I don’t recall them ever exercising any solid efforts to make him stop. Lectures about “being nice to your little brother” were about the extent of his punishment for taking his aggression out on me. From two years old until I reached about 14, that’s the way it was. At the time, I hated him for it.

Located in the middle inserts of comic books that I read when I was a small boy were a couple of popular ads that always caught my attention. One was of a picture of Charles Atlas who lifted weights and became incredibly strong. The ad promised that if I lifted weights, exercised and became strong like Charles, I wouldn't have to “let people kick sand in my face anymore.” The other ad was of a wimpy guy who learned karate. Once he discovered the secrets of this Oriental art of self-protection, he could kick anyone’s butt! For $.25, I could get the detailed plans to learn those measures. I was sold! Whatever it would take to be able to pound the daylights out of Mike, I was willing to try.

Like most of my yearly overt intentions of self-improvement, they fell by the wayside as my money was used for immediate rewards like candy, gum, and cool stuff that came on sale in the Kings Dime Store toy section. But I must say, those comic book ads brought a lot of solace and hope to a small, timid boy who was the sole object of daily terror and hostility. I suppose like other “younger brothers” who could identify with what I was experiencing, I discovered the means of self-preservation to guarantee my survival. Mine was simple. I could run faster than Mike.

My brother knew that I could outrun him. So he developed his own personal means of equalization. He became an accurate thrower of rocks, sticks, or other prehistoric weapons. It would go something like this. I would recall the recent beating I took and figure it was time to get even with Mike.

“Mikey, Mikey two-by-four, couldn't get through the bathroom door, so he did it on the floor. Mikey’s a fat-so!” I yelled as I ran like the wind.

At that point, Mike would grab the nearest prehistoric weapon and lob it in my direction. I don’t know how, but so many times, those sticks and stones rained down in direct hits on my cranium as I ran away. I could never figure out how he was so accurate and could throw so far. But the drive to stay even in the score of hostility was worth it in spite of the inevitable pain I would suffer.

Also in retrospect, I am sure that if dad would not have encouraged Mike so often, my brother’s resort to violence at every turn would not have lasted long. But that was not to be. Every time my brother came home from school with the report of him beating-up another kid, dad praised him and reminded him that was the true “Hicks” way of dealing with conflict. “Pound them into submission and teach them a lesson.”

There were times when I was profoundly cognizant of the fact that I might be adopted. I did not handle myself like the other Hicks folks as dad described. I mused that beating and pounding on someone else with my fists was a stupid way to conduct myself. Why would I want to pummel some kid because I disagreed with him? It didn't make sense. But, according to my understanding of dad’s inferences, that’s what I must do in order to follow the family tradition.

One day in seventh grade, I would get my chance to prove my family connection. Sitting in Mrs. Pike’s English class, my desk was situated between Chris’ and Randy’s. Those two boys were mutual friends of mine, but I didn't consider either one of them especially close friends although later in high school, I spent time with Chris in sports and came to like him a lot.

Suddenly, Randy turned around and flicked his fountain-tipped pen in Chris’ direction. Ink blotches sprayed all over my favorite brown shirt. This particular shirt was custom-made by mom when she cut the sleeves off a long-sleeved dress shirt. I looked down and saw ink everywhere. Something clicked in my brain and I instantly became furious at Randy.

Pike told me to go down to the bathroom and see if I could wash the ink off my brown shirt. The black ink just smeared even more as I rubbed and dabbed the blotches with a wet paper towel. This incident occurred just before lunch.

As I returned to my classroom and sat down, I informed Randy that after class, he was going to be a dead man. This worried him and he apologized profusely for getting ink on my shirt. After class, he grabbed his books and ran downstairs to the entrance to dad’s classroom. Dad was just leaving to grab some lunch in the teachers’ lounge. Randy pleaded for dad to save him because, “Jeff is mad and going to beat me up.” Dad didn't know what he was talking about.

I walked up and invited Randy outside. The school exit was located by dad’s classroom. Randy declined, so I grabbed his hair and kneed him in the stomach. Then I pummeled him with a flurry of uppercuts and hooks to his face. I was so mad and wanted him to feel pain. Within a moment, dad pulled me off the poor kid and sent me outside. The fight was over and Randy had “learned his lesson” as dad would so profoundly say.

I suppose that fisticuffs with Randy gave me rights to a place in the Hicks family album of fights and beatings targeting others who had lessons to learn. Within a short time of “teaching Randy a lesson” I was not happy about my anger and about the subsequent thrashing I gave the kid. However, at his expense and “lessons learned,” I earned a place at the family table.

Blanket Forts and Treehouses

Making forts was a big deal. Mike and I had a total of two tree houses and we built make-shift pillbox forts to supplement the times the tree houses would not suffice. Richard visited almost every summer and the tree houses were not big enough to hold three growing boys and all their sleeping gear along with store-bought goodies.

Around that same year, the new and bigger Saveways Market opened in Salmon. They sold donuts in their new bakery for $.10 apiece. Those glazed morsels were delectable and we could not eat enough of them. The first week the store was open, they were giving those donuts away for free. I remember eating them until I couldn't bear stuffing another in my mouth. Finally the lady behind the counter told us to get lost and stop eating all the free donuts.

Richard, Mike and I bought milk and those fun sized sugary cereal packages for food rations in our fort. Mom was totally against sugared cereal, so when we ate that, it was like the forbidden fruit. Graham Crackers were also a favorite. We stored them out of sight so the girls wouldn't notice our cache and steal them. Sleeping in our fort was exciting and we got in our share of trouble those nights as we spent time knocking on neighbor’s doors in the middle of the night and then running back to the shelter of our fort. It never occurred to us that we were being jerks for pissing off our neighbors like that. It was just great fun.

Another exciting activity was when we prank-called folks on the phone. This was long before technology included caller ID's. We randomly called a number in the phone book. When someone answered, we made-up a wisecrack statement.

“Is your refrigerator running?”

“Yes.”

“Go catch it before it gets completely away!”

Sometimes we couldn't resist calling Mary Bills at Saveways Market. She always worked right next to the courtesy phone and we could count on her answering the phone every time we called.

“Hello, do you have Prince Albert (tobacco) in the can?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Let him out, he’s suffocating!”

We laughed and laughed after making a prank call. It was part of our repertoire of comedy and we thought we were hilarious. This was also the time that a full-time operator worked for the Bell Phone Company. One could just dial “0” and get the operator at any time of the day or night. Maryanne worked as an operator. One of my junior high friends had a crush on her, so we would occasionally go to the phone center and visit her on school lunch break. Anyway, it was great to call the operator when there was nothing else to do. She would give you the correct time or answer random questions of any kind.

The summer when I was eight years-old, Mike and I constantly badgered dad to build us a tree house high up in the tree next to our house. So he did. It took some serious climbing ability and a lot of bravery to reach our newest tree fort. After dad was finished, I climbed up to play. Dad was already there and instructed me on how to climb up without falling and dying.

Just before reaching the floor of the structure, you had to reach way out in a near prone position and make a little hop to propel yourself onto the floor. Try that when the wind was blowing and the tree was swaying in all directions and it was, indeed, like riding a kite blowing in the wind. Death was just around the corner every time Mike and I played in our new tree house. It’s possible that dad was trying to activate our life insurance policies. I’m not sure. We managed to stay alive, however.

During the heat of summer when the tree was fully covered in leaves, I could hide in the tree house and observe all the activities of everyone on our street. Being able to remain incognito throughout much of the day was thrilling. The downside was, mom knew where the tree house was located and if I could not be found to do chores, that is where she would look first. However, if I laid completely flat on the floor of the tree house, there's no way she could see me.

Chili and Cornbread

We all have a keen sense of smell.  I suppose we can all stipulate that various luscious, smelly foods seem to take dominance when it comes to nostalgic remembrances.  Whenever I smell simmering chili in the pot and fresh cornbread in the oven, I am overpowered with some memories and specific occurrences from my youth and I can’t help but reflect.

We were fairly poor back in those days – at least relative to 21^st Century standards.  With dad being an Idaho school teacher and mom being a housewife, together they had six hungry kids to feed and clothe.  One need have no other information to deduce our standard of living.  Everyone was expected to pitch in, work, and do his part.

One chilly, fall evening dad, Mike and I went to the sawmill and picked up a dump truck load of 2x4 ends and pieces.  We used this wood to burn in our big pot bellied stove and keep the house warm.  It was our only source of heat throughout those cold Idaho winters.  The wood was dumped in our yard and dad took the truck back to Voyd's house up the street where he had borrowed it.  Now it was up to Mike and me to rick this wood or stack it so it would dry out and burn better.  That meant we had to load the wood in our arms, haul it back near the shed, and stack it in neat, uniform piles.

We hated ricking the wood.  It was hard labor and we felt abused and picked on for having to do it.  To add to our misery, the rest of the family was in the nice, warm house resting and watching TV – at least that’s what we imagined.

As we begrudgingly went through the motions of wood stacking, our minds were busy figuring out how to get out of doing this terrible chore and even better, how to get even with dad and mom for forcing such hard labor onto their sons.  We decided that this night would be our last in this family.  We would run away and live like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer down by the river.  There was an old abandoned cabin down there and we would live in that.  Of course, that meant that we wouldn't have to go to school anymore, either.  The idea seemed brilliant!

After much discussion it was decided I was to go in the house, sneak into the food room, take some canned goods off the shelf and pack them into my backpack.  Mike would be busy grabbing our sleeping bags and a few extra blankets.  Of course, we would also throw in our knives and guns – I had a Buck knife and a .22 and Mike had his shotgun.  One never knows when he will be set upon by wild animals like bears or wolves.  Plus, we would need to kill a deer once in awhile to stay alive.  Our packs would then be topped off with some warm winter clothes and we would then be ready for a life of happiness living on our own with no more damn chores to do.  We went over every detail and had it planned very carefully.

I imagined mom weeping over the loss of her sons and dad feeling terrible for making his sons do hard labor.  I had a feeling of smugness as I thought about how these people were going to regret their parenting mistakes.  I figured they would just have to learn their lessons the hard way.

Suddenly, dad opened the door and said, “You boys finish that load you have and then come in for dinner.  Mom has everything on the table ready to eat.”

As he closed the door, the smell of chili and cornbread wafted out of the house and right into my nostrils.  Man that smelled good!  My mouth started to water as I imagined that good chili being washed down with cold milk and topped off with cornbread, butter and honey.  But no!  We had a plan – we were running away and there was no forgetting that plan.
I neatly stacked the wood that I had and Mike did the same.  As we walked back toward the house, he said, “What do you think?  Maybe we ought to eat dinner before we run away.  At least we will have one last decent meal before we’re gone for good.”
I agreed.  We would sit with the family for one last meal together before we set out.  But after that, there was no looking back.  So we walked in the house and washed up for dinner.  Running the warm water over our cold hands hurt, but it was refreshing to be warm again.

We sat at the table in our usual spots and loaded up.  Our bowls were filled with scrumptious thick chili with giant chunks of hamburger.  Large portions of cornbread were placed on our plates.  The steam rose off the bread as it was cut in half and the butter was spread.  The heat from the bread caused the honey to melt and become runny as it soaked in and ran down the side.  A huge pitcher of cold milk was on the table for refilling our glasses as we chugged it down.  Everything was perfect – too perfect, in fact, for running away.  How can one turn his back on something as heavenly as great food?  That and the question of intense warmth and comfort crept into my mind.  I looked at Mike out of the corner of my eye and he wasn't looking back.

A half hour later, we had finished eating.  I followed Mike into our bedroom.

“Are we still going through with our plan?” I asked, a little apprehensive about his answer.

“Well, let’s wait until this weekend, he said.  That will give us more time for packing and getting everything ready.”

Deep inside, I knew we would never follow our plan to fruition.  Why?  Great food and a warm house will always trump kids’ spur-of-the-moment plans to run away.  I suppose that has been the case for centuries and will most likely be the case for years to come.  No question about it,  parents have that one ‘ace up their sleeve’ when it comes to keeping their kids living at home until it is the proper time for them to jump from the nest and venture out to live on their own.

Throughout the years, every time I am privileged to smell chili and cornbread I am immediately taken back to that Idaho homestead where I, as a young boy and my brother learned the essence of life – that hard labor is OK  but only when good food, warmth of home, and family are the rewards.

"Will You Go With Me?"

I just really liked girls. From Kindergarten on I had a girlfriend. At least I had a girl I really liked. Whether the feeling was reciprocated could be argued. I don’t know why I really liked girls and fell in love with them so easily. Most boys my age stayed away from girls. I suppose it would take Sigmund Freud to figure it all out. I didn't care. I knew I was an anomaly, even though I didn't know what that word meant at the time.

Janna was my first real girlfriend. We were a hot item in Mrs. Whiting’s Kindergarten class. As we sat around the little table during class, I couldn't help but notice how pretty she was and how good she could color. During our recess time, I confirmed my manly prowess during our games of tag and hide-n-seek. I parked my candy-apple red and yellow racing bicycle out front on the sidewalk. Nobody messed with it and I made sure of that!
In first grade, Danny and I talked on the playground on the first day of school. It was my first experience with recess–one of the beloved parts of elementary school I actually enjoyed. He wondered who my girlfriend was. I hadn't seen Janna that morning and wasn't sure if he knew her anyway. So I pointed out a pretty brown-haired girl climbing up the slide.

“There she is!” I said.

“Oh, you like Stacey?” he said in disbelief. “She’s cool!”

Actually, I didn't even know who Stacey was up till that time. She wasn't in my class. I just figured it was important to point out a girl - any pretty girl - if your best friend asked who your girlfriend was!
In second grade, I fell head-over-heels for a beautiful girl named Diana. She was the most gorgeous woman I knew. Our families got together for dinner occasionally. Even though I was a shy, timid little kid, I did not let that get in the way of wooing Diana. One evening her family planned to have dinner with mine. I picked her up on my bike for our dinner-date. Having her ride behind me as I took her to my house was an incredible experience. I knew I had the coolest bike in town and the prettiest girlfriend!

One weekend, I talked Julie into inviting Diana over for a sleepover. I invited Barry so things wouldn't look so obvious. All weekend, I played with Diana and Julie hung out with Barry. It was a bold move to plan and implement such an intricate strategy to bolster my love life. But it worked.
I cried when Diana’s family moved away the next year. I missed her every day for the next couple years and wished somehow there was a way to see her or write to her. It wasn't until I was a senior in high school that I would run into her again. My heart nearly stopped when those old fond memories instantly flooded back.

For the next few years, I was in and out of love with Tammy, Wendy, Shannon, and Kryss. In fifth and sixth grade, Wendy’s house was located on the bluff that overlooked the practice field where my football team worked out. I imagined she was always up there watching how incredibly tough and awesome my playing was. I needed an audience and just imagining she was there made my game and playing ability that much better.

In eighth grade, I got a love note from Kryss. She was the most popular girl in school and one that I really liked. She was not only very pretty, but very smart as well. She was also a cheerleader and very athletic. I got her note just after the school play that I had a lead part in. Apparently, she liked my performance. For nearly half the year, our relationship was propped-up by notes and shy glances. I was too bashful to be in a real relationship with her and I am sure she had no idea how to approach this shy kid! I really wanted to be with her and get to know her better, but didn't have a clue how.

Around Christmas, we met at a big school dance and danced every song together. After one song, she kissed me on the cheek and that is the first time I felt my knees buckle and become weak. I still remember the song that was played. "How Deep is Your Love," by the Bee Gees.

Later that year, I had my eye on this beautiful seventh grade woman named Sara who always seemed to have another boy hanging around. However, near the end of that school year, I saw my chance to make a move. There was a small window of opportunity when she broke up with her boyfriend. I mustered all the courage I could and sat next to her on the bus.

In those Junior High School days, it was customary to "ask a girl to go with you." I tried it once. I wrote a note to the one who was the girl of my dreams for that particular month. I folded it in a complicated, but unique way, and handed it to her in the hallway between class. My note read something like this. "You are cool. I really like you. Will you go with me? Yes...No..."

Every kid knew after the note was delivered, it was up to the girl to respond. Proper decorum involved the requirement for the girl to check one of the boxes next to either the 'Yes' answer or the 'No' answer and return the note. If the answer was NO, then the whole deal was off. It was rejection and it was humiliating!

However, if the girl responded with a 'Yes" then things were really official! It meant we could hold hands, sit by each other, and exchange gifts at Christmas. Also, if some other boy flirted with my girl or even talked nicely to her, I could act furious and threaten to "break-up with her!" It was just the natural order of things.

Sara was a smart girl. She was a year behind me in school and I started liking her at the beginning of my 8th grade year. It seems she transformed into a woman overnight. I don’t know if it was her new hair style, different wardrobe,  or the fact that she moved in closer to my circle of friends. But I fell so hard for her that year, I couldn't think of anything or anyone else. She had everything going for her like perfect hair, a perfect figure, and a bubbly personality that made me so happy every time I was with her. Even though I felt like a fish-out-of-water when I was around her, I just smiled and hoped for the best...or for a miracle. I never wrote her a note asking her to "go with me."

Explorers and No-Bake Cookies

The river was about a 10 minute walk from my house on River Street. This was the mighty River of No Return (that’s what the local Indians called it). Apparently, the early American Explorers, Lewis and Clark journeyed through the Salmon Valley. You may remember the name Sacajawea. She was the female Indian guide that saved their bacon and showed them the way through the Rocky Mountains. Without her, they would have been killed, or worse. Her tribe was located near where I grew up. I learned all about her in my fourth grade Idaho History lessons.

Lewis and Clark were trying to find a water route to the Pacific Ocean. They discovered that the land routes were rugged and dangerous because of all the high mountains peaks and thick forests they had to slog through. One of them had the bright idea to float their canoes down the River of No Return (Salmon River) and eventually make their way to the Pacific. The local Indians warned them that the rough river would be difficult to navigate in their canoes. Their fears were confirmed when they got to what is now called the Pine Creek Rapids and saw the giant waves, deep holes, and numerous rocks. They turned back and decided any land route was better than drowning in the river.

All the Lewis and Clark stories in addition to all the Indian lore that was abundant in Salmon were all part of my social acclimation of my new home town. In fact, Mikey and I took things one step further. As we hiked, camped and explored all the accessible hills, mountains and valleys around Salmon, we made-up our own version of local lore. We envisioned ancient camps of marauding Indians and mountain men. In fact, we were sure we discovered old camp sites and relics in our adventures. Mikey made up the term “squamp-um,” which was a petrified Indian turd. There were a lot of them around Salmon.

There were a number of Indians from the Shoshone Bannock Indian tribe that resided in Salmon. They lived out by Kids Creek just outside of town on the south end. Their Indian Camp, as it was known, was made up of a bunch of old deplorable looking wood shacks. I visited there a few times. One time was to see an old Indian lady who made deer skin clothing. She was a master artisan and her outfits were beautifully laden in beads and other decorations. Jed, my friend David’s dad, was a friend to those Indians.

One of Mikey’s and my favorite summer activities was to walk up to the city dump and explore. There were numerous things thrown into that city dump that fit within dad’s Law of Salvage. Sometimes we found cool things that seemed useful. Bike rims, frames, chains, pipes, worn hand tools, rusty implements, and ball bearings were only a few of the many things we found. Mostly, we just smashed bottles and shot at stuff with our wrist rockets. Dad had purchased those sling-shots that were engineered to fit around our wrist. The bands were made of surgical tubing. You could shoot a rock well over 100 yards with a lot of velocity. No bird or small animal was safe with those around. Most kids I knew had one.

One day, Mikey and I decided to confine our adventures to home. It was raining outside. We got hungry and decided to make some Chocolate Oatmeal No-Bake Cookies. We were excellent cooks as far as any line of junior chefs was concerned. As we laid our creations out on wax paper to cool and set-up, Mike was the first to try one. He immediately spit out is luscious looking morsel.

“This tastes like crap, Jeff! What did you put in these things?” he yelled.

Before I reminded him that he was the head chef and I was only his assistant, I picked one up and took a bite. There was no mistake. We had accidentally used salt instead of sugar! The batch was a total loss!

We packed the whole production of cookie mix outside and flung it in handfuls against the barn wall. Even the birds and insects wouldn’t eat it. It dried into clumps of crud harder than concrete. Over the years, even after we moved from that house out to Perreau Creek, that Oatmeal No-Bake Chocolate Cookie dough was still stuck to the side of the barn.

The Cost of Living

I turned seven  in 1971. I was an active member of the national work force–as a landscape technician. I also dabbled in the intrigues of treasure hunting, exploring old, abandoned mines, decrepit buildings, and ghost towns in search of useful stuff.

Being an active treasure hunter was in my blood. My dad lived by what he called the “Law of Salvage.” This law dictated that anything found alongside the road, in ditches, in old, abandoned places could be fair game in the claims game. His mantra, on a child’s level, matched the playground rule, “Finders keepers; Losers Weepers.” The stuff I found, I traded to my brother for better stuff, sold to friends, or kept in the numerous treasure boxes I kept around the house.

Of course, following his Law of Salvage, dad did not believe in breaking any laws, so any found treasures had to be free of any previous owners. There were strict codes against theft of any kind!

One time, in 1971, I was low on cash so I searched through the wood shed where dad kept his yard tools, camping stuff, and other superfluous items that had value. I dug out an old hand-operated egg beater and figured I could make a few bucks on it if my sales pitch was right. I walked up and down the dirt roads near my house, knocking on doors, looking for a buyer. Grandpa bought it, but only after we dickered on price for awhile. His views on the fair price of good, used egg beaters differed quite a lot from mine. I asked for five bucks; we settled on two.

After I pocketed the money from my sale and walked off, he called my house and asked mom if she and dad were desperate and needed money.

We lived on River Street in 1971, in a small house with three bedrooms, a big pot-bellied stove in the center of the house, and a cedar-shake roof over our heads. We weren’t rich, but I didn’t care. Food was on the table around 5:00 p.m. every day. That’s when we gathered as a family to pray and eat. I enjoyed plenty of play time.

My family rode around town in a blue and white, Ford van with a six cylinder engine. It had a manual transmission with a ‘three-on-the-tree,’ shift lever. This van carried us to the store, to church, and into the mountains to hunt deer, camp, fish, and just ride around when there was nothing else to do.

In 1971, I began to understand all there was to know about the cost of living. Most of the money I had, I used for playing, gum, and candy. I earned it in the summer time mowing lawns and doing special chores for mom. I had two, sometimes three, lawns that were my responsibility. Dad made a two-wheeled cart that I could tie to the sissy bar on my bike so I could tow my old, side-shoot mower down the road. Pushing a lawn mower across town is not cool – even for a 1st grader.

I bought gas for my mower at Dick’s gas station on Main Street. There was no ‘self-serve’ in those days, so Dick would usually come out and fill up my metal gas can. I never had more than about 50 cents in my pocket, so that’s what he would charge. I really didn't internalize that I had just bought a gallon of gas. I only wanted my can full so I wouldn't have to keep coming back for more. Fifty cents was only valuable according to what it could buy…a full can of gas, a couple packs of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum (my favorite), and four glazed donuts at Saveways were common purchases.

I viewed economics and finance on a personal level. What would a few cents get me in the form of food and entertainment and could I buy low and sell high in some cases? One time, I walked to the store during school lunch hour, bought a package of Pop Rocks for 50 cents, walked back to school and sold them to a kid for 75 cents. At that moment, I innocently cashed in on the laws of Supply and Demand.

The House on River Street

For a kid, there is no promise of security, no strict code that says your life will be free of change. When parents decide it’s time to move-on, the kids go too. There is no grand council where any kid is given a vote to stay or go. They just stand-by while their stuff is loaded into a truck, and then they tag along and try to keep-up as everyone hits the road. Who cares if they don’t want to move? Who cares if their familiar surroundings and personal security have been dashed to bits once again? Who cares if they will miss their old home and friends?

“Grab your pillow and toys, Jeff. We’re leaving!

When the family moved to the house on River Street, it was a non-eventful day. We left the beautiful ranch house with the big barn and moved into town. Dad and a bunch of other men moved all our earthly belongings into the old Hicks family homestead. This was the place that “Harry Hicks built with only a Spirit Level and a plumb bob.”

The old house held numerous antiquities that distinguished it as a dwelling built during the ‘olden days’ which emerged still intact in the ‘modern days.’ One relic that proves my point–mounted on the back of the house was a rickety old, original straw ice box that was used for food preservation before Frigidaire made indoor refrigerators popular. The indoor bathroom had been plumbed-in after the home was originally built. Remnants where the old outhouse stood could still be found out behind the house. The pitted and crumbling concrete septic tank access was a prominent feature in the yard a few paces from the side door.

I knew this house well. It was the place that Grandma and Grandpa Hicks lived clear back as far as I could remember. Then they sold the place to Carla and Ed. Mikey and I had to stay with them when I was only a few years old. Now it was my home.

Nobody ever used the front door except when visitors came and knocked. The side door was the one we used. You enter the house and immediately see a small kitchen on the left and on the right, a dining room. Past that, the living room sprawled to the far wall. Built between the kitchen and living room was a large rock divider that contained the only heat source for the house–a big potbellied stove. To light the fire, you had to crawl down inside the rock structure where the stove was mounted.

Being the only source of heat during the frigid Salmon winters, the stove had to be stoked and kept burning from November to the middle of March, which meant we had a sizable wood pile out back.
The linoleum covered hallway past the stove structure led to the bathroom on the left, bedrooms on the right, and at the end of the hallway was a storage room. Adjacent to that was mom’s and dad’s bedroom. Standing in the storage room, you could lift a trap door which led to a wine cellar. It smelled of murk and mildew because every spring it filled with water. The back door of the house opened to a broad view of the big garden area and the tool shed loaded full of mysterious artifacts and spiders.

My new house was located right next to the Dahle Red E Mix concrete company owned and operated by Voyd. The peaceful sounds I was used to from my old home by the river were replaced by diesel cement trucks, front-end loaders, dump trucks, a rock crusher, and the septic tank building operation located just over our side fence.

Voyd was a mystery that intrigued me from the first time I saw him. He always wore a pair of grey coveralls and leather boots. I can’t remember a time I ever saw him without an old dirty nondescript baseball hat that he wore kind of crooked on his head. The most intriguing thing about this man was his choice of cigarettes. He rolled his own.

Watching him pull out a piece of paper and delicately hold it in his grizzled fingers as he gently dumped in a small pile of tobacco from a pouch was, to me, a true form of artistic acumen. After licking the side of the paper and rolling his cigarette, he would light it with a match and then draw in the smoke like it was the next best thing to heaven for him.

Voyd lived up the street with his wife, Madge. She quickly became my good friend and allowed me to go into her raspberry patch and eat her delicious berries, but only if I asked, first. Madge was an old woman that exuded the epitome of happy and charitable. Her countenance was as stark a contrast to that of her husband as a cloudy, thundering rainstorm was from a bright, clear day.

"Johnny Cash"

The first few months in Salmon were tough for me. I didn’t like all the peace and quiet, for one thing. I was used to trains, traffic, and a few jets flying overhead. Salmon was full of serenity with birds singing and the river flowing in the distance. It took me awhile before I could get a full night’s sleep.
I missed my friends, Robby and Dougy. Leaving them behind in Boise to fend for themselves against the mean older neighborhood boys was difficult for me. I missed picking them up each morning to go find some new adventures. I had a hard time adjusting to the new lifestyle in Salmon. I had to construct a new way to approach each day. My old routines and habits of my Boise life were not possible on our little ranch in Salmon.

I spent time with Danny who lived down the highway about a hundred yards. I would follow the fence line down to his house, ask if he could play, and we would climb on the roof of our shed, play in our barns, or wherever we could find something fun to do. Ricky and Mikey went to school all day, so until the afternoon, we had the whole wide-open place to ourselves.

My sister Julie hung around when I would let her. She was mom’s project at that time–the only pupil in Birdie’s finishing school. Apparently Julie wasn’t quite feminine enough for mom’s tastes, so she had to walk around the house with a book on her head in order to, as mom said, “learn to be graceful.” She also got her hair done for Sundays and had to practice “sitting like a lady.”

I don’t think mom expected to have a tomboy to raise and she really didn’t know what to do about it. Julie just didn’t buy into all the girl stuff at that time, and that drove mom crazy. She would wear a dress to church and would walk with a book on her head only because mom made her do those things. But as far as I could tell, she could throw a rock as far as any boy my age, run as fast, and yell as loud. She was a good pal to hang around with most of the time.

It was about that time that Julie began to have an identity crisis. She became Johnny Cash. Without warning, she would grab a tennis racket, put her foot up on something, and start strumming the racket as if it was a guitar as she sang, ‘I Walk the Line’ and ‘How High’s the Water, Momma?’ I figured everyone has to have a role to play and living in this little country town with a quirky name like Salmon, why not be Johnny Cash? If she could keep up, she was welcome to play with the boys as long as she didn’t break into song at the wrong time. That wouldn’t be cool!

One day, I met Danny at his house. We hung around for awhile playing trucks in the dirt when he announced that we should take up smoking. I figured that would be great! He disappeared into his house for a few minutes, and then suddenly emerged with two cigarettes and a handful of matches. I got excited at the prospects of entering some forbidden territory and breaking some rules. Something about smoking was just really intriguing to me and I couldn’t wait to give it a try. I suppose it was like the forbidden fruit. Mom and Dad warned all of us kids against puffing on those things. Actually, I really hadn’t thought how fun it might be until they brought it up, even though I’d seen plenty of commercials on TV enticing me to give it a try.

We sat in his mother’s vegetable garden, right in the middle of the tall corn patch, and tried to light-up. I had a hard time getting my cigarette to light. I didn’t understand the concept. When I did get the hang of it, I inhaled all that “Marlboro” had to offer and instantly felt sick to my stomach as I coughed and sputtered. I couldn’t admit that things were really getting bad though, because the advertisements I’d seen had everyone really enjoying these things. All the real men on TV smoked, including one of my heroes, Jerry Lewis.

When I got to the point I couldn’t take it anymore, I informed Danny that I had to go home. The moment I walked in the door, mom was calling my name. Strolling into the living room–the location where I heard her voice, I found her lying on the couch taking a rest.

“What have you been doing, Jeff?”

“Oh, me and Danny were just playing,” I said.

“Were you over there smoking?” she suddenly asked without hesitation. She spoke with authority, more like a statement than a question.

“No, mom! We were just playing.”

“Jeff, you’re lying to me,” she declared.

I could see the gig was up and trying to weasel out of this was not going to be easy. With mom around, it was impossible to get away with anything. I knew nothing about “motherly intuition.” But I did know that I couldn’t do anything bad without her figuring it out somehow, and that was really troubling to me. And, on top of that, every time I did flirt with ‘criminal’ behavior, I was reminded that Heavenly Father was watching me every second and He was not happy! That was a lot of pressure on a kid. Feeling compelled to please God and mom was a huge undertaking. At least He didn’t threaten to “get the paddle” every time things got out of hand.

“You go to your room and don’t come out till I tell you to,” she demanded. “You sit in there and think about what you’ve done wrong! Smoking is bad, Jeff, and you need to learn that!”

I already knew it was bad! My gut was wrenching and I felt sick. As I walked to my room, I reflected on the whole situation. In my adolescent mind, I figured Heavenly Father had tipped her off to my misdeeds. There was no other way she could have known. I mused there was no way I was going to be able to get away with anything if He was constantly letting her know what I was up to.

The fact that my face was a deep shade of green and I smelled like a Marlboro smoke stack was two bits of evidence that were completely lost on me.

A Simple Life of Confusion

The day my new baby sister was born, February 27, 1970, we also had a new baby calf born. We named the calf George and the new sister, Tammy. I think mom and dad named their baby daughter after the Overton’s oldest daughter.  Tammy’s birthday came two days after my own.

Mom knew she could be having her baby anytime, so she made a cake for me and had it ready on my birthday, which was on the 25th. For a present, I got a small Matchbox car. It was an ambulance and had doors that opened. Some might raise their eyes at such a meager gift. In those days, I could play for hours with a small car with doors that opened. I suppose many kids just didn't expect as much in 1970.

My world was small. Dinner was usually on the table at around 5:00 or 6:00 p.m. each day. Dad came home at the same time after teaching school at the Brooklyn Junior High. Folks were generally pleasant and happy. I had a warm bed. And cartoons came on every Saturday morning at 5:30 a.m. That was my life.

Occasionally things would erupt into chaos. One day, Grandpa and Grandma Hicks came over for dinner. After dinner, everyone was sitting around talking. Mikey and I went off to play and the adults were sitting in the living room. Suddenly, crap hit the fan.

I always knew when dad was really mad because he would yell. The crescendo from his voice at the high end, when he was driving home a point, could rattle mom’s plates in the cupboard. Dad and mom and Grandpa Hicks were yelling back and forth. At first, I thought it was a game and they were all celebrating. Not so.

It was a yelling match and nobody was winning. What a boondoggle of confusion! Grandma Hicks turned off her hearing aids and sat back saying nothing. I had noticed a long time before this shouting match, that’s what she did when grandpa started yelling. Then he could scream to his heart’s delight and she wouldn't have to hear all the vile threats and cursing flying out of his mouth. It seemed to happen a lot when they were both driving in the same car. Grandpa would drive while screaming and yelling at all the other drivers, street lights, and at grandma. She would simply turn her hearing aids down and drown out the hollering. The few times I rode with them was an adventure in survival. The comedic value watching and listening to this duo was overshadowed only by the terror of listening to grandpa's cursing of everything from heaven to earth.

Anyway, this particular night, Grandpa wanted to borrow some of mom’s music records. She had a lot and they were a large part of her treasures. Like most people’s treasures, she didn't want them out of her sight. I guess the thought of grandpa taking them home and listening to them caused her a lot of anxiety and she refused to let them leave the house. Grandpa was known for his terrible temper and that was enough to cause him to explode. I think dad felt compelled to stick up for mom since she was his wife, so he yelled back. Within moments, the house was filled with the sound of adults screaming terrible things back and forth.

Grandpa accused mom of being selfish and dad accused grandpa of a lot of things that must have happened years before. Not much of the verbal warfare made any sense to me, but, in retrospect, it seemed there was a lot of tense anxiety between these people that had never been resolved. Years of hurt and frustration bottled up inside a person can come boiling out when the discussion of borrowing records comes up.

After what seemed like an eternity, the fighting stopped. Mom was crying and Grandpa and dad sat there for awhile with nothing more to say to each other. The hurt and pain were out there and nobody was wondering anymore. That was the first time I had seen adults scream at each other and it scared the hell out of me. A few years before, Grandpa Hicks had screamed at me when I kept him awake with my obsessive opening and closing of the bathroom door, but I was a kid. Kids were supposed to be yelled at. But adults’ yelling at each other was a different story.

A grand compromise was decided upon. The adults hugged each other. Grandma turned her hearing aids back on. Everyone made-up, and grandpa left with a few records tucked under his arms. It all seemed fairly simple in the end, but it took vile threats, screaming, and a lot of yelling to arrive at that point. It was all confusing to me, but seemed to be the way with adults. They got out their angst, made up, and moved on.

To a young kid, life was confusing but simple. My life was a daily routine that revolved around getting in enough recreation, doing a few chores that mom demanded be done according to her specifications, staying out of Mike’s way so I didn’t get pounded, and playing with a Matchbox car with doors that opened.

Adventures in Biking

There really isn't any other way for a kid to have credibility unless he has a bike. Street cred is what’s important when you’re the new kid in town when you need to prove yourself to every kid you meet.

“Why are you walking? Don’t you have a bike?” some kid would ask.

“No, I broke a window in a street rumble when I lived in Boise and had to pay for it with my bike money,” I would say.

“ Didn't you have to go to jail?”

“No, I didn't go to jail because my dad was a policeman.”

“My dad can beat your dad up because he’s a logger!”

“Well, my dad was a police and he has a gun. So there! No say-backs!” I would yell.

Then the kid would go bawling off to tattle to his mom.

I figured all those pointless conversations could be avoided if only I had a bike of my own!
It was simple. As the new kid in town, I got no respect because there was no bike. Ricky and Danny rode over to our place on their bikes. Mikey had his new red Spider bike sitting out near the porch. I had nothing. I had no wheels for bragging rights. I had no ride.

I could have bragged about all my exploits from Boise! All those rumbles I had been in with the neighbor kids. How I could bounce a rock off someone’s head when they were far away. But even as a five year-old, I knew that being a braggart was worse than just about anything. Nobody liked a braggart. The reputation for that was worse than being bike-less.

I rued the day that I zeroed in on that kid with a rock; the rock that missed its target. That shattering window played over and over in my mind–how it cracked and fell into the back seat of that car. Also shattered was my chances of getting a bike for awhile.

I complained to mom and dad. I figured the time elapse for discipline was up and I should be able to move on with my life. They both just gave me that look–you know–the one that says, “Bad boys who break windows don’t get bikes whenever they want.” Whatever!

One day, dad came home from work and said that he had a surprise for me in the car. We went out and he pulled a candy apple, red and yellow bicycle out of our Volkswagen bus. I stared in disbelief. The curse had been lifted! I now had some street cred.

My new bike had a big wheel in back and a smaller one in front. The back tire was a “slick,” meaning that it had no tread because the bike was strictly for going really fast so there was no need for any tread. Later on, Grandpa Hicks, who was my personal bike mechanic, said that the reason for the little wheel on the front of my bike was to make it go faster because I would always be going downhill! Until I gained a bit more knowledge and common sense, I believed him.

That bicycle was to become my only form of personal transportation for the next six or seven years. I was known around town as “that shy Hicks kid with the cool bike.” Everybody needs a prop and I now had one. That would be enough to get me through the next phase of my life. I would no longer lead a life of obscurity.

When I began studies at The White House Kindergarten the next year, I parked my bike out front on the sidewalk. Everyone knew it was to look at, admire, but NOT touch. One time I came out of class and a kid was messing with my bike. I threatened him with a good pounding if he didn't leave it alone. Janna, my kindergarten girl-friend who was standing nearby was really impressed.

In the second grade, I fell in love with Diana, that cute little dark-haired girl with big, brown eyes. Her family was joining ours for dinner that evening, so I went over to her house and picked her up. With the banana seat, there was room for two and it was great having her sitting behind me as we rode to my house, holding on tight…That’s the first moment when I began to understand what it meant to be a man…with a fast ride and a beautiful woman. Who could ask for more?

Adventures in Mining

Some people say that 'Adventure is just bad planning.' As a  kid growing up in Salmon, I loved adventure. Mom and dad were adamant that Mikey and I leave home on Saturdays and go out exploring. These adventures were fun, but I hated to have my Saturday cartoons interrupted. Mikey and I slept in the living room on Friday nights and would wake up at the crack of dawn the next morning, ready for cartoons! Scooby-Doo, Coyote and Roadrunner, The Pink Panther, and Speed Buggy were my favorites.

Salmon is located in the mountains of Idaho - not the flat, deserted, desert parts - but the rugged part with mountain names like Baldy, Big Horn Crags, and Ajax. There were plenty of places for young boys to play and we enjoyed taking risks and living-on-the-edge. The boys that lived up the road usually tagged along with us. Their parents wanted them out of the house just as badly as ours.

One adventure that I recall came when I was almost six years old. We had only lived in Salmon for a few months. I was ripped away from Scooby-Doo one Saturday morning, given a knapsack containing a sandwich and an apple, and told to go find adventure along with Mikey. I was not in favor of leaving, but that look mom gave me told me I had no choice.

We decided to go explore an old mine located half way up a mountain near our ranch house. In some communities, that would mean a trip to the slammer for our parents for child endangerment. In Salmon, it seems kids were supposed to court danger. Most of them eventually returned home; some did not, and some traveled home via a trip to the hospital first. As a five year-old, words like 'vertical mining shaft' and 'bottomless pit' had no meaning to me.

When we finally made it to the mine, we were tired but invigorated by the prospects that lay before us. In our romantically adventurous minds, there had to be large sacks of gold hidden somewhere in this mine. Even though young in age, we knew all the legends of hidden treasure in these parts. The next few hours were full of intrigue and adventure. No gold was found, but tons of priceless memories were formed as we vaulted large holes, played on rusty mine equipment, had rock fights, and basked in the excitement of our newly discovered playground with the quaint name of 'No Trespassing' posted on a sign at the entrance.

Upon returning home, our mom asked about our adventure. "Oh, we had a nice adventure, mom," was our reply. She never knew where we had gone and she didn't seem that curious to find out. We were home safe, and it was dinner time!

Adventures in Sewage

The first home we moved into in Salmon, Idaho was a sprawling ranch house. Next to the house was a big barn. Mikey and I had roughly seven acres of pasture to play in. Out in the field were a few more barns. Dad told us to stay away from one of them because it was old and rickety and might cave-in on top of us. We obeyed him some of the time. Our brand of play included courting danger. Tempting fate by having a barn fall over on top of us seemed like a great adventure when we were feeling extra brave.

The big Salmon River ran behind our house. Mikey and I were told to be careful when we played around the river because it could be dangerous. Dad, who had grown up around this river, told us stories about nearly drowning a few times. He taught us about eddies and sleeper rocks and logs that could cause a person to get drug underwater and drown. We had respect for the river.

Ricky and Danny lived just down the highway from us. They were Mikey’s and my first friends in Salmon. We could just walk out our gate and down the fence line and be at their house in a few minutes. They were the same ages as us and seemed prone to court adventure, just like us.

Our new house was big and it echoed. I got lost in it a few times and couldn't find my bedroom. I was used to the Boise house that was impossible to get lost in. It only had a couple of bedrooms and they were small. Things were different in the new house. In the new house, there was a brown, gas furnace that sat just outside the kitchen as you walked into the living room. I liked to play there because it was warm and cozy. When the furnace came on, I could see flames leaping inside. I was tempted to poke sticks or paper in there just to see what would happen. But mom was always just in the kitchen nearby. She was my conscience for the first seven or eight years of my life and I couldn't get away with anything while she was around.

I liked to play in the barns. Dad promptly got a milk cow a few weeks after we moved to town. I guess he wanted to become a rancher and ranchers had cows. We went to pick up the cow and all the while, I wondered why dad was so adamant that we have a cow. I figured it was because there was no milkman in this town and this was the only way to get milk. Seemed logical to me and I accepted that. I missed the milkman in Boise. He was a nice guy who always smiled at me and said, “Hello.” I also missed those glass bottles he would pick-up and leave on our porch.

Not long after we moved into our new home, Mikey came to me with a secret. I was not used to being privy to any of his secrets and I was elated. He led me outside and into the backyard. A short distance behind the house was a ditch that ran parallel to our home. Mikey pointed to a pipe that ran out of the ground that was aimed right at the ditch.

“You stay right here, Jeffy, and don’t move! Watch that pipe and don’t take your eyes off of it!”
He then ran towards the house and disappeared through the backdoor. I watched the pipe intently, not knowing what surprises it held. Within a minute, I heard some gurgling coming from the pipe and suddenly some murky water and toilet paper flew out of the end and splashed into the ditch below! I was mystified.

Mikey reappeared and explained everything with excitement. “This pipe comes from our toilet in the house! Our crap comes out of this!”

This was the answer to a lot of mysteries I had been trying to solve since I was old enough to watch stuff get flushed down the toilet and disappear forever. This was the answer to the toilet mystery. I felt like a scientist who had discovered a major breakthrough. Suddenly, everything in my whole existence started to come into focus. I realized there were logical conclusions and answers to things I had previously deemed unsolvable– like where does my crap go after I flush the toilet and it disappears down that little hole. That had been puzzling me for at least a couple years.

The rest of the day, Mikey and I flushed various objects down the toilet and then raced outside to watch them fly out of the pipe. It was a great way to pass the time and nobody seemed to mind. Small sticks, broken pencils, paper, and a few of Julie's small toys were flushed and gone forever. We were busy and out of mom's sight, so the fun and intrigue continued well into the evening.

At a young age, I learned the principle, “Out of sight, out of mind,” when it came to interaction with mom and dad. If I laid low and kept a low profile, there were fewer chores. Hang around and act bored, though, and mom would find plenty of things to do an none of them fun!