The Johnson Rag

Think Spring

2009-02-27T16:23:00.000-08:00

After record snowfall here in Spokane, we are looking forward eagerly to spring. Actually, we are seeing a few bare spots on the south side of our house. I thought this floral arrangement would look good this time of year. I had to import it as we certainly don't have anything like it here yet. But if March is coming in a couple of days, spring can't be too far down the road. So I will take heart and see you in the spring.

Here is my little story offering for the month. I hope you enjoy it.

Sincerely, Don

Blessings
By
Donald R. Johnson

I was no different from the majority of young people in The United States. I had a young family with three children, a good house and an almost new car. I wanted to live comfortably and have the newest and best of everything. It was a noble goal, and I didn’t expect to do anything illegal or immoral to get it.
Every once in a while, our family would visit our parents in our home towns. While there, we would often look up old friends, some we had not seen for some time. On that particular day we decided to visit old family friends Maury and Susan. I had known them since I was about five years old and thought of them as very close.
We drove to their residence out in the country, which was new to me. It wasn’t a very large house, and certainly a long way from what you would call luxurious. We were welcomed warmly and invited in. I was surprised to see Susan in a wheel chair. I knew that she had lingering problems with childhood polio, but I had always thought of her being fairly active.
I was curious as to what had brought on the need for the wheelchair. I felt like bursting out with, “You don’t belong in that!”
When I asked how she was doing, she answered my unspoken question. “I’m doing fine. My legs don’t work very well any more. The doctor said it had something to do with my infantile paralysis coming back on me. I don’t understand it, but I do fine.”
Maury said everything was going great. He was about to get rehired for spring work, and they had made it through the winter just fine. The cow recently had a calf, so they would have milk and cream again along with a little home-churned butter. “The Good Lord has sure been good to us this year,” he said.
“I’ll say, ‘Amen,’ to that,” Susan said. “We’ve had plenty through the winter with canning and a cellar full of potatoes and apples.
The little house was sparkling with new paint on the walls and ceilings.

“We bought the paint last summer, and put it on this winter while Maury was out of a job. I wasn’t a whole lot of help, but we got it done. Well, I was the cheerleader,” Susan said.
While we were there, Susan made a pot of coffee and brought out some of her celebrated applesauce cake. That was a nostalgic happening, as I remembered from my earliest childhood talk of Susan’s wonderful applesauce cake.
We had an enjoyable time reminiscing about the years gone by and tracking down family members, and finally we had to leave.
“I’ll show you our new car,” Maury said as we went out the door.”
I had seen the “new car,” a fifteen year old Chevrolet, when we arrived, but I didn’t comment.
Maury spoke proudly of the old Chevrolet as we were leaving. I was feeling a little uncomfortable with my almost new Buick setting there with its shiny paint and up-to-date styling. After hearing Maury and Susan telling of how God was taking care of them, I felt small in my striving to have everything.
That was a humbling experience, seeing the thankfulness of these people who felt wealthy while possessing so little. I thought of how Paul wrote in his letter to the Philippians, “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.” and then the big news, “ … and My God will meet all your needs according to His glorious riches…”
A retired pastor friend once told me, “I never made much money as a pastor, but I felt I was doing what God asked of me. God said He would supply all our needs according to His riches, and, you know, that is pretty good pay.”

Addendum

2009-01-21T12:02:00.000-08:00

Record one day Spokane snowfall December, 2008.

Yes, That Christmas Was White, Bing

2009-01-19T15:18:00.000-08:00

Looking back from January, I can tell you we had that white Christmas that everyone is dreaming of. It snowed and it snowed. In fact, then it snowed some more. We set a record for a twenty-four hour snowfall by about ten inches over the old record here in Spokane.

We had kids and grand kids coming from Florida, and they lost two days getting here, trapped in various cities, and then another two days lost going out. Remember these folks are from Florida, and don't see snow locally. Our grandson, Devon, seemed to think it was great; making snow angels and even seemed to enjoy helping with the shoveling.

We appreciated the help of our good neighbor, Jay Noonie from across the street. He was often there to help with shovel and snow blower. Our little machine was really working hard because of the depth of the snow.

Well, things are looking up. We had some warm weather, and the snow level went down considerably. The dogs are enjoying new freedom as they frolic around on top of the frozen snow crust. They were captured in short circular trails for a long time. The miniature poodle, who is a whiner anyway, took awhile to brave the high road. They are slowly geting back their morning walk with Patty, Which they all enjoy (Patty too).

Another good sign is the increasing light each day. I don't care for the dark of winter. I'm reminded of Robert Lewis Stevenson's poem:

"In winter I get up by night, and dress by yellow candlelight, In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day."

I hope you are having a happy 2009 so far. Here is a story from my distant past only remotely tied to winter, but maybe I can get away with it, and you will get a little enjoyment from it. God bless, Don

Welcome
By
Donald R. Johnson

“Look at all these nice boys and girls who want to be your friends,” the teacher cooed.
I wasn’t so sure, because the whole setup didn’t seem that friendly so far. I had started school in Chewiliken Valley with two sisters, two cousins and others I had known for some time. Our family made up about one-third of the one-room country school.
Then on to Omak for another school after a month. There, I knew a few people, because that is where we actually lived. First grade in Omak at that time was a cinch. Any dummy could have made the grade with the singing, sandbox and woodshop in the room. In that first month, we did about what we pleased with no sign of learning to read, write or arithmetic. As close as we came was the printed name tag on our desks. Mine was J-A-C-K-I-E. The only thing that could have been easier would have been if I had been going by my real name D-O-N.
For some reason unknown to me, we moved to Tonasket in early December. I guess I slept through the family meeting or something, but I soon found out that the folks there had never heard of John Dewey and his “Learning by doing.” They were doing first and learning while they did. They had Dick and Jane down pat and were doing addition and subtraction like seven-year olds.
That morning hadn’t been so much fun earlier either. While crossing the lawn of the school, the boy walking with me spun the big armed sprinkler against my leg. A very large man in bib overalls materialized out of the early morning haze and grabbed us both by an arm.
“You boys know that you are not allowed to cross over this lawn and worse yet, you are fooling with my sprinklers,” that was Mr. Barker, the boss of the school talking to us.
Without further introduction, he dragged us into the office where we met Mr. Laughbon, the principal. After a stern lecture on following rules and messing with school equipment, he released us on our own recognizance.
It was then my fortunes improved, when Miss Thorndike, aka “Old Corncob,” introduced me to all the nice children who wanted to be friends. Her irritation level rose as she learned hat I had not read the works of Shakespeare and Dante, and she had no choice but to place me in the Billy Goat reading group. It didn’t take a high school general math student to figure out that the Palominos were the top readers and the Donkeys were the middle group. That left the Billy Goats dead last. A shame I bore for several weeks, while “Old Corncob” imprisoned me at noon and recess time to try and save me from the shame.
After school, as we walked out of sight of the building, one of my new friends yelled, “Let’s get him!”
Being a clever six-year-old, I took off down the snow covered hill as fast as my wool swathed 3 foot 8 inch body could fly. Just to show that friendships were not limited to only the first grade, a few of the older kids joined in the fun.
I will never forget Bill Anderson, as he was the first friend to jump on my back. Bill was a very athletic fourth year student in the second grade and was lucky enough to be first to catch the rabbit. I prepared to meet my maker, as I knew I did not have much longer in this life. Fortunately I was only six and a half so the flashing of my life didn’t take too long.
Bill washed my face in the clean new snow, and everyone was happy. The new kid was initiated, and besides, my face was probably a little dirty
anyway.

DRJ © 2008

White Christmas II

2008-12-16T15:18:00.000-08:00

Some Grinch came and stole my post before I was ready, so I will excite you with some more. Watch your blood pressure.

Usually, we can depend on a white Christmas around these parts of the Pacific Northwest for what that is worth. I suspect that folks in Southern California and Florida dream of white Christmases as much as anyone. I've heard Bing sing "White Christmas" at least 853 times so far this year, and I still love it.

While we know that snow at Christmas has nothing to do with the holiday, we get all sentimental and teary eyed when we hear the song. One Grinch told me, "My yard looks as good as my neighbor's when it snows." Now that wasn't very nice to say. Christmas is fun and sentimental meeting with friends and family; reminiscing about the good times of the past.

We remember the good times skating, sleigh riding, caroling and even the aching fingers when we ran in whining to Mama about the cold. Winter in itself can be fun, although it used to be more so.

Of course, we know that Christmas is celebrating God sending his Son to earth that we can have eternal life. That is the Good News of Christmas. So, with that, you have my permission to be merry his season. Let's celebrate.

Here's a winter story. I hope you like it .Sincerely, Don

SNOWBOUND
by
Donald R. Johnson

Cold weather? Let me tell you about the winter of forty-nine and fifty. The whole valley was full of snow; three feet on the ground by Christmas time and no letup in sight. Temperature is usually monitored quite closely by old men at any given time, but this year everyone was watching. The thermometer rose above the freezing mark only five times in thirty days. Night temperatures were going to twenty below zero every night. The wind howled, subtracting another twenty from what the thermometer said.

The weather was taking its toll on everything and everybody. The logging operations were shut down because the trucks couldn't get into the woods, due to the deep snow. In the valley, those who ordinarily worked at pruning apple trees were not working. When those young fruit spurs get so cold, they are brittle and break off, taking with them the next year's crop.

All this added up to no money to spend for car payments, Christmas and even groceries in some cases. The valley was paralyzed for all practical purposes. It seemed the only activity to be seen was the loan company workers coming to repossess cars, whose owners couldn't make the monthly payments.

Many families were sharing houses for various reasons. In some cases the water system was frozen up, not to return to service until there were several days of warm weather. In others, families pooled their meager food and wood supplies to make them last longer. Everyone had to eat and most people burned wood for heating.

In all crises there are a few heroes, who stand head and shoulders above the rest. George was just that kind of person. It may have been the fear of freezing to death or starvation, but he used every bit of ingenuity he could muster to stay alive for the winter. He knew that if he were to survive he had to put forth the effort.

George was always clever at making things work. He had earlier come into possession of an old drag saw, used mainly for cutting wood. He got the old one cylinder engine working pretty well, sharpened the saw and did a test run out by the woodshed. It was a noisy beast, but when the saw was brought down on the log, it cut right through, without complaint.
Red Durham had a truck and a Caterpillar tractor. When he was forced to, he would do a little hauling or dozer work with the "Cat". At thirty-five, he still lived with his widowed mother, and waited for her instructions for his every move. He was considered a little slow in body and mind, and only worked when Mama forced the issue.

George knew that he needed that truck and tractor to complete his survival scheme. His approach was to go to Mama and present his plan for forming a partnership in a wood cutting operation. She saw the wisdom of the plan and thought that George would take Red off her hands for at least part of the time. That was a good selling point, as well as the chance for a little income.

They spent the next two days gathering every axe, maul, wedge and gas can available. They sharpened the teeth of the crosscut saw to its finest cutting edge. Wool shirts, long underwear and "tin" pants were brought out. An old tent and an airtight heater would provide the temporary heat and shelter they would need up in the high valley, where they would be cutting.

They would be up in the higher elevation, where the temperature had been reported to be close to forty below zero on many clear nights that winter. The preferred wood from the tamarack and fir trees grew in those high valleys. Dead trees, which could be had for the taking, were plentiful. The plan was to fight their way up the hill, cut a load and take it to the lower valley to the buyer.

Most of day one was spent bucking through the snow and using the "Cat" to cut a trail when the truck couldn't make it. They did make it through, and by late afternoon, George and Red had everything unloaded and set up in readiness for the next day. They headed back to the lower valley for the night. It had been a hard fight, but they knew they could get the loads of wood out.

The sun came up bright on the cold morning, and George and Red were well on their way up the mountain. With the road cut through, it was an easy hour and a half to the camp. With a little coaxing, the "Cat" and drag saw engines started, and the operation was underway.

George ran the saw along a large fir log, while Red went into the woods, with the "Cat" to bring out more logs. By noon, they had the truck filled with the newly cut wood, stacked to the top of the racks. They went into the tent and built up a fire in the airtight heater, and made up a pot of coffee. They kept their bodies as close to the stove a possible, to try to thaw out. Finally the warmth penetrated their thick layered clothes, and they went back to the truck.

"I reckon that's about four cord on the truck." Red said as he mentally measured out the rows. "We got two cord sold to Max Evans, and the other two we can stack behind my shop."

They arrived down in the lower valley before dark, and had the wood delivered and stacked in a short period of time. Supper tasted good after the light lunch of soggy sandwiches they had eaten at midday.
The next day was clear and colder, but they decided that they had to go up the mountain, regardless of a little discomfort. George would be able to buy groceries for cash this week, instead of the usual winter charging, which was common during the winter season. With that thought he braved the cold and the bad roads up the mountain.

With the practice of the day before, they were able to increase production considerably. Red had skidded a good supply close in, so today he could stay near the log deck and help split and load the newly cut wood.
The first load of wood was split and loaded on the truck well before noon, and the two were excited with the prospect of having a good business from the cold weather.

"I have an idea, Red." George said, between his attacks on his cold bacon sandwich. "Why don't you take that load down the hill now, and I'll stay here, and by the time you get back, I'll have another load cut, split and ready to throw on the truck? That way we can increase the production considerably."

Red agreed to the proposal, and as soon as they finished their sandwiches and coffee, he was headed down the hill.
As the afternoon went on, George noticed the snow getting a little more crunch to it, and his face smarting more from the cold. Wrapping a wool scarf higher around his neck, he continued the routine of cutting and splitting. When he took his glove off to remove the gas tank cap from the saw engine, he very quickly felt his fingers going numb with the cold.
"Don't worry. Don't panic." he kept telling himself. "Red will be back shortly. In the meantime I think I'd better go in the tent and build a fire. This cold is getting serious."

A few pitch knots from a dead tree soon made a roaring fire in the little airtight. In fact, George had to close down the drafts a little, being afraid of catching the tent on fire at the ring, where the pipe went out through the canvas. He snuggled up close to the stove and was soon feeling a little less chilled; not warm, but less cold.

As the darkness settled in, he lit the old Coleman lantern, to provide a little more friendly atmosphere. It was late, but Red should be there any time now. He picked up the old Life magazine they had brought along, and holding it close to the lantern, tried to divert his thoughts by looking at the pictures on the wrinkled pages.

As the tent got colder, George built the fire as high as he dared, trying to keep from freezing solid. He was estimating the temperature at minus forty now, and bound to get worse as the evening wore on. He went out to the pile and got yet another arm load of wood.

Stoking the fire with as much wood as he could, he huddled in close, trying to thaw out from his last trip out. Keeping an eye on the tent fabric, where the pipe exited, he turned around the fire like a human rotisserie, warming one side and moving on to the other. It was becoming impossible to keep warm all over at any one time, in fact, it was getting downright uncomfortable.

Huddling closer to the stove, he shivered on, with his teeth chattering, sounding like castanets in a Latin orchestra. He huddled yet closer to the stove.
What was that smell? It smelled like smoldering cloth. After a quick inspection, George found that the source of the smell was his coat, smoldering from being too close to the hot stove. By that time he not only smelled the smoke, but felt the pain of the heat against his back, as the fire consumed another layer of the wool.

A feeling of desperation came over him. Was this to be his last night alive? This was not exactly how he had planned to end his life. He tried to clear his mind to devise a plan for his salvation from the elements. Finding a real house with a real stove and real people had to be the correct answer to the problem.

Grabbing an old tattered blanket, he wrapped it around his torso, and ran down the road as hard as he could. He wasn't exactly speeding, due to the bulky clothing and the difficulty in sucking in the frigid air. He knew the Schmidt ranch was about four miles down the mountain, and they would take him in. Maybe he'd meet Red on the road. His mind raced with the possibilities, including that of freezing to death.

He ran on, having no other choice, as stopping would be the end for sure. He was getting colder, and the cold air seared his lungs, making it difficult to continue at more than a stumbling walk. He had to keep going. What about Edith and Little Pat? What would they do without him. He pushed on like a madman.

By the moonlight, he could see the Schmidt ranch house out ahead. His pace picked up, along with his spirits. He could make it now. Looking at his watch, he could see that it was almost midnight. He knew that everyone would be in bed, but he would have to forego his manners tonight and wake up his host.

As he came into the yard he noticed their old Chevrolet, an International pickup and an International truck that looked just like Red's. The dog came out of the straw stack and greeted him with an unenthusiastic bark.
After banging on the door, for what seemed to George to be fifteen minutes, Gus Schmidt came to the door, in his slippers, an old heavy bathrobe and a knitted wool night cap.

"Come on in, George." Gus yelled out. "What in the heck are you doing out in this kind of weather."

George stumbled in and sat down, not feeling like a lot of conversation. Gus opened the draft on the heating stove and put in some wood. Gus's wife, Marie, was up by this time and rustled up some leftover roast from supper and heated up the coffee pot. George made that bread and meat disappear in no time at all, and then he was fed and warmed enough to answer questions.

After some discussion, they heard a noise on the stairs. There, coming down the stairs, a sleepy-eyed Red Durham made his grand entry, looking like a bear coming out of hibernation.

George was speechless for quite a spell, but was finally able to stammer out, "What in the World are you doing here?"

Red just stood there, kind of staring into space, and finally said, "I decided I better stop here when I had a chance. It's not safe to be out in this kind of weather."

George decided that it would be better not to respond right then, as Marie was in the room, and what he had to say was not permitted, by his upbringing, to be said in the presence of a lady.

The wood cutting operation sort of collapsed from there on out. The land finally thawed out in the spring, and George went back to the orchards to work, and Red went back to Mama, to work when she got sick of him being underfoot around the house. Almost everyone got back to working, and the general attitude got more pleasant, along with the weather.
(From Legends, Lies and Half Truths) (C) DRJ 2001

White Christmas

2008-12-16T14:29:00.000-08:00

December 16, 2008

This is the time of year when we get all sentimenal about favorite things and white Christmas. For what it's worth, we usually have a white Christmas in these parts.

Thankful

2008-11-22T15:52:00.000-08:00

One Unlucky Fellow

Most of us will be celebrating next Thursday with family and friends, and if I may be so bold, feasting. Now, I am totally aware that there is a lot of hardship in the country and the world, but for the most part, you who are reading this have a lot to be thankful about.
One thing hard times does for us is to define what the good times really are. In many ways, I’m glad I grew up in the shadow of the Great Depression. With that background, I realize that times have improved for me. As they used to say, “They squeezed the nickel so hard you could hear he buffalo bellow.” Another benefit or curse is that I think I recognize value. I am plagued by the habit of price comparison and trying for the best buy; even in the smallest purchase.
Turkey is the choice of meat for the big day. Every year I check out the grocery ads and find the best price for turkey. Sometimes a store will offer an unbelievably low price provided you buy so many dollars worth of groceries besides the bird. This year, after all the wasted time in the past, I decided that it would be easier, and probably more efficient in time and gas consumption, to go to the store where we usually buy groceries and pay a few more pennies per pound rather than buy extra things we don’t need. Maybe I’m learning.
It is good that we stop for a moment every once in a while and count our blessings. In some cases, they may be a little bit obscured by things outside our control, but if you look you will find that bright spot. Let’s take advantage of this Thanksgiving Day to celebrate and be thankful for those good things in our lives. Your list may be longer than you think.

Here is a little story I hope you enjoy. Sincerely, Don

The Cat-a-holic
By
Donald R. Johnson

With the newly acquired neighbors visiting, I did so want the Thanksgiving dinner to be perfect. As I finally sat down, I noticed the little Jennifer had not used the nice dinner cups that matched the plates, but had used the cups from the mug tree. There was a Garfield cup, a World’s Number one Mom, Popeye, Disneyland and a variety of others.
‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter,’ I thought, but, in spite of my resolve I couldn’t help apologizing. After all, we didn’t know much about these folks and wanted to leave a good impression.
Jennifer wasn’t done yet. “Do you like dogs, Mrs. Bumsinger?” “Not really,” Mrs. Bumsinger replied.
“How about you, Mr. Bumsinger?”
“What, Jennifer?”
“Like dogs.”
“Well, Mrs. Bumsinger doesn’t.”
“How about cats?”
“Oh, no. Mrs. Bumsinger is allergic to cats.”
“That’s too bad. I think cats are nice. We have one, but he has to stay in the basement when we have special company.”
I was getting frantic. “Jennifer, you stop talking so much now and let the adults visit. Well, it looks as though the children wanted this to be a more festive occasion and used a less formal design for our cup collection,” I offered half-heartedly.”
I tried desperately to keep the conversation going, talking about everything in the weather, on the football games, Trying to keep talk of religion and politics to the minimum.
Jennifer broke in again, “Where do you guys go to church?”
“Jennifer, that is their private business.” Now we really have a problem.
“That’s all right, Mr. Bumsinger smiled. We attend the First Presbyterian Church downtown.”
“Oh, we go to St. Paul’s Methodist Church,” Jennifer offered.
“Would you folks like some more turkey? Dressing. There’s plenty.” ‘This day is going to be a total disaster,’ I thought.
I put my finger to my lips, trying to stop Jennifer from saying any more. It didn’t work.
“Mrs. Bumsinger, didn’t you say that you didn’t like cats; that you were allergic to them?”
“Jennifer,” I tried to cut her off.
She continued on in spite of my warnings. “Mrs. Bumsinger I’m sorry I put that cup at your place. I didn’t know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the cup. It’s perfectly all right, Dear.”
“Oh, no. You said you were allergic to cats, and that cup says cataholic on it. That would mean someone addicted to cats. You know like alcoholic means someone addicted to alcohol.
I know my face had turned bright red by that time. What do I do with this precocious seven-year-old, one kid talk-a-thon?
“No, Jennifer, the word is Catholic. Mrs. Peterson gave that cup to us. She attends St. Mark’s Catholic Church.”
Mrs. Bumsinger snorted and started laughing. “You know,” she said. I quite frankly was hesitant about accepting your invitation, and I’ll admit to being a little stuffy and crotchety, but I will also have to admit that this has turned out to be a delightful day. I hope this will be the beginning of a long friendship with all your family, especially this little lady Jennifer.”
I was flabbergasted at the turn of events. And, by the way, it was the beginning of a great friendship. I don’t know what cemented Jennifer and Beatrice Bumsinger together, but they seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

BOOO!!!!!

2008-10-25T13:27:00.001-07:00

Oh, I'm sorry if I scared you. After all, it is Halloween, and you are supposed to be a little scared.

Tomorrow is our big annual Halloween/Grandmas' birthday party day. We round up as many kids and grand kids and gather for pumpkin carving, visiting, eating and games. It is always an enjoyable time to get together with family. As the grand kids get older, go away to school or jobs, the logistics of get-togethers become more complicated.

We wish you a happy Halloween. Don't eat too much candy, and don't let any of those goblins or monsters get you.

Here is a little story from my checkered past. I hope you find a smile in it.

Sincerely, Don

Sleep, My Child
By
Donald R. Johnson
Dad was always bring home a stray dog or old man out of pity and kindness. The problem was that he often went back to work and left Mom at home to take care of the stray. It was sort of like a play on the words of James, the Bible epistle writer, “Faith without good works is dead.” Dad showed the faith, but would then leave the good works for Mom.
There was a certain lady in town, who was troubled by mental illness. Anytime we kids would see her, we would cross the street rather than meet her face to face. As far as I know, she never hurt anyone, but she was strange.
She was sometimes observed going into a service station restroom with no baggage, and emerge wearing a totally different outfit. She often did chores for whomever would take her in, and wanted to be properly dressed for whatever the job may be. Like a Boy Scout, she was prepared.
In those days, houses were quite often left unlocked, and some people claimed that Esther had taken things from them while they were absent from their home. For the most part, folks were understanding and kind to her and didn’t make a fuss about minor incidents.
Another time, the lady of the house had come home to find Esther busily running the vacuum cleaner. While the owner had been out, the table was cleared and the dishes washed. Stories of Esther were many, and they left me feeling extremely uncomfortable.
During the time of Esther’s reign, we had leased a small apple orchard. Harvest time was upon us, and because Dad was foreman at another orchard, Mom and we kids were the total crew. Dad came up with a bone-chilling suggestion.
“Mother,” he always called her Mother. “We need some more help with the harvest. I know that Esther would be good help. She has lived here all her life and knows how to pick apples.”
As it turned out, Esther did accept the job, and she was placed in the bedroom right next to mine. Every night I would wonder if that were going to be my last night on earth as I would hug my dog up close as though the poor, little mutt could be much good in a fight.
Often at night I could hear Mom and Esther talking through the thin bedroom wall. I could never make out exactly what was being said, but I knew Mom would never be in on a plot to take my life. Or would she?
This went on for several days, and I was getting totally worn out from lack of sleep. When I finally would drift off to sleep, I would dream about my upcoming murder. I would come out of the bed with my heart pounding, check to see where my watchdog was and lay there and listen for strange noises. When I listened for strange noises, they were always accommodating and made themselves known.
The “Esther Period” was probably about two weeks long, but it seemed like all of the ten years I had lived. Obviously, I lived through it, but you can never tell, especially during this Halloween time, what could happen to you.
SO DURING THIS NEXT WEEK BE VERY CAREFUL. YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN!!!
© 2008 Donald R. Johnson

Autumn/Fall

2008-09-25T16:17:00.000-07:00

While not appreciating the shorter days and early darkness of fall, I do like the colors of the turning leaves. What a sneaky way to show one of my books! Well, I do like that flame-red tree. That happens to be my inspirational/spiritual book about my bout with cancer.

I was thinking about September; the starting of school and the coming of fall. That little ditty came to me: Thirty days hath September, April, June and November, thirty-one have all the rest, except for February etc.

It caused me to ponder the ways of the mind, how we pile in various information, some valuable and some not. It is stored there and comes out from time to time. Of course there are times when you can't, to save your life, bring it out. Overall, it is a remarkable system.

We Got A Deal is available for $9.95 plus $3.00 s&h.
Donald R. Johnson
@2233 E 49th Ave
Spokane, WA 99223 509-443-0910 john.dr@comcast.net

Here is my writing effort for the month. I hope you enjoy it.
Sincerely, Don

The Seasons
The season that's best would have to be Spring,
New flowers blooming, birds start to sing,
Thermometer rises, Everything's pleasant
You may see a robin, bluebird or pheasant

Summer starts in much the same way,
School is out, there's more time to play,
It seems this season can't really be beat,
Until Mother Nature turns up the heat.

Autumn is nice, hear the wild geese call,
Beautiful colors, leaves start to fall,
Lovers go walking through leaves in the park,
The problem with Autumn, too soon it gets dark.

Winter brings cold, snow, slippery ice,
Skaters and skiers think that's real nice,
The cold, snowy weather's not really my thing,
I'll pull up the covers and sleep until Spring

© 2008 Donald R. Johnson

The Wedding

2008-08-22T14:09:00.000-07:00

Did you ever notice that women usually say with a big smile, "We are going to a wedding," and men tend to say, "We have to go to a wedding?"

Well, that is what's happening around these parts this weekend. That's our grandson, Daniel (Danny to us) and his bride-to-be Kristi. We are looking forward to driving to the beautiful little town of Orofino, Idaho, northeast of Lewiston, where they will be living.

Wedded Bliss

I met her at the Harvest Ball,
She looked so very nice,
The kind of girl whose grace and charm
Could any boy entice.

Right there I fell in love with her,
It was a wondrous thing,
She gazed intently in my eyes,
I smelled the flowers of spring.

As we danced I held her close,
She folded in so near,
I thought my eyes were failing me,
She dabbed a little tear.

And what. My Dear, is troubling you,
Tell me, won’t you please,
It’s not a thing she whispered soft,
For polite society.

It couldn’t really be so bad,
I made an earnest plea,
An awful thing has happened,
I’m plagued with jumping fleas.

At first I only noticed,
I had the slightest twitch,
But when she told me what she had,
I had a full-blown itch.

I figured love would conquer all,
That’s what the wise men say,
We’ll get along just fine, I thought,
With living day by day.

The glorious day then soon arrived,
The bride was quite a sight,
Blushing, beautiful, yes she was,
I’d learn a lot that night.

We cuddled close to one another,
Great to be so near,
But as we snuggled close I saw,
A bedbug in her ear.

Another thing I noticed,
When we were cuddled close,
A hay bale size of auburn hair,
Was growing in her nose.

We soon were both in slumber,
Upon our lumpy bed,
Her snoring shook the ceiling,
Left plaster on my head.

I woke at four that morning,
I smelled the smell of death,
A dragon fierce with anger,
Was blowing out its breath.

She made me coffee and a roll,
She had them pretty soon,
The back to bed she traipsed,
To beauty sleep ‘til noon.

The coffee wasn’t all that bad,
But maybe not the best,
I felt a new sensation,
Of growing hair upon my chest.

The roll was round and brownish,
Shaped somewhat like an egg,
It rolled briskly off the table,
And broke my lower leg.

That afternoon was bright and warm,
Our schedule tight and full,
The bulk of time we spent together,
Getting things annulled.

(C) DRJ 2008

Honestly, I didn't say, "We hafta go........" In fact, I'm looking forward to the trip. We are anticipating a great weekend seeing old friends and family and meeting new folks and celebrating with the kids.

Here is a little poem about marriage I hope you like. Sioncerely, Don

The Long Hot Summer

2008-07-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

I'm reminded of a song Nat King Cole did about sixty years ago, "Roll Out The Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days Of Summer." With the price of travel these days, Lazy and Hazy may be the more descriptive of the adjectives of the song. Travel is down, and a new term, Staycation has been coined.

Speaking of staycations, it may be a good time to plug my books. I have for your reading enjoyment:
Fables, Folklore and Fabrications, a book of humorous short stories
A Dry Thirsty Land, a novel about Small Town, USA in 1940s and '50s
We Got A Deal, Spiritual/Inspirational re: recovery from cancer
Under The Clock, History of The Crescent, Spokane's premier department store through the eyes of the owners, employees and customers (the personal touch)
Dear Old Nat, The story of Spokane's world class amusement park for 100 years.

If you are interested in learning more about these books, call
509-443-0910 or email john.dr@comcast.net .

Also, during this hot, dry season, I would admonish you to be careful of fire. There are currently quite a number of wild fires in this part of the country. The picture at the top of the page is our grandson, Patrick Johnson, who is a smokejumper. In this shot he is walking out after a jump in Northern California in June.
Here is my offering for this blog. I hope you enjoy it. Sincerely, Don

THE NIGHT OF THE WATERMELON
By
Donald R. Johnson
The night was hot, bugs all buzzin'
We needed excitement, me and my cousins,
The moon was up and shining bright,
Let's get us some watermelon this fine night.

We crept along Siwash Crick bed,
We knew where to go, no word was said,
Instead we hurried to find the site,
We'll have some melon to eat tonight.
The barn and field were soon in view,
We're gonna get a watermelon, maybe two,
We made our way slowly down a straight row,

Feeling the melons as we'd go.
We thought we'd found the very best,
We'd take a few and leave the rest..
Ivan stood guard for what he could see,
He took good care of Albert and me.
He forgot to look next to the barn,

Could that be the source of serious harm?
We thought that things were quite secure,
Who would hide by a pile of manure?
It wasn't long 'til we found out,
The click of metal, a deaf'ning shout,
"Stick 'em up", his voice loud and firm,
We knew right there we were on his terms.
Albert obeyed, but I had less sense,
I took off running right into the fence.
My head was cut, I felt the blood
Run down my face, it felt like a flood.
The dogs were barking, I ran with style,
The first in history, a four minute mile,
I was leading the pack I was still all alone,
Pounding the pavement, going toward home.
All of that noise, the sound and the fury.
Getting shot became the least of my worries.

It suddenly dawned as homeward I ran,
What if the noise wakes up the old man.
I knew if he learned of our night of great fun,
I'd rather be facing the barrel of a gun,
Not even a double of serious guage,
Could match the fright-factor of that old man's rage.
He slept through it all, I heard not a whisper,
But, was met in the yard by Muriel, my sister.
I said, "It's exciting, but no longer fun,
They've got cousin Albert held up with a gun."
She ran to get Eva asleep in her bed,
"They've captured poor Albert, shot Jack in the head."
She exclaimed rather loudly with a tremelous howl,
While mopping the blood with a cotton dishtowel.
Al finally escaped, Ivan came from the crick,
Back together again, it took quite a trick.
Each time I remember that frightening time,
I know that I'm saved from a life of hard crime.

Summertime and Easy Living

2008-06-22T15:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was officially the first day of summer. I love the long days with the extra light, but when it gets too hot, I might get mean. Around these parts, we usually enjoy cool nights, so that gives respite from the heat for awhile. I would guess that summertime holds our best childhood memories. I guess I believe that because it was a time of freedom and lots of times with friends.

Our family gets together each summer in the little town of Ritzville, Washington to show off grandkids, reminisce and eat. It is a good time for my siblings and me to get together and remember the good old days. As the picture shows, after we eat, the music takes over. Several of us have musical instruments (some may refer to them as blunt instruments or instruments of torture the way we sometimes play them), and most sing along. It's an enjoyable time.

I hope all of you have a great summer.

Here's a little poem about modern day camping. I was first published in Western RV News. I hope you enjoy it. Sincerely, Don

CAMPING
It used to be we'd go to camp,
Hot and sunny, cold or damp,
An old torn tarp, with luck, a tent,
We'd just pick up, and away we went.
We didn't care if it rained or snowed,
If a storm came up, we'd let her blow,
We'd build us up a great big fire,
We had most things a heart would desire.
Now-a-days it seems quite strange,
We've seen a difference, what a change!
We have a giant home on wheels,

Hot water, toilet, such a deal!
Wind, rain or snow, or even sleet,
We don't worry, we turn up the heat.
Not for me, the campfire slave,
I'll fix my supper in the microwave.
If called by nature late at night,
No cold or bears, no nighttime fright.
I'm warm as toast and all alone,
Sitting royally on my throne.
One thing I dread with thought so dour,
What if we would lose our power?
Although it's pleasant, this land to roam,
If that should happen, I'm going home.

Memorial Day

2008-05-23T16:49:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day was originally created to honor those who died in the past wars. That morphed into honoring all the dead. It is still spectacular to go to a cemetery and see the flags and the flowers on the rows of graves.

In the cities, the caretakers do most of the work, and volunteers put up the flags, while family and friends tend to place flowers on private plots. the other night, my wife and I visited a friend's grave in a cemetery just outside the little town of Spangle, Washington. It is tended mostly by those who live in the community. They had really done a great job. Everything was clean and in order.

In past years, we had been involved in the project. My wife, Patty, had been the secretary/treasurer of the cemetery district for several years, and we really enjoyed the history lesson provided by those headstones. It was especially rewarding when someone from out of town would come by, and we were able to find a grave site of on of their ancestors.

I do have some regrets that the holiday was made into one of those Monday-guaranteed-three day weekends. While I like the idea of the family time the three day weekend promotes, it seems to take something away from the day.

Well, I didn't mean to lecture you too hard. The old school teacher in me sometimes gets the best of me. Have a good holiday whatever you do or wherever you go. Here's a little story I hope you will enjoy.

Sincerely, Don

The Cat-a-holic
By
Donald R. Johnson

With the newly acquired neighbors visiting, I did so want the Thanksgiving dinner to be perfect. As I finally sat down, I noticed the little Jennifer had not used the nice dinner cups that matched the plates, but had used the cups from the mug tree. There was a Garfield cup, a World’s Number one Mom, Popeye, Disney Land and a variety of others.
‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter,’ I thought, but, in spite of my resolve I couldn't help apologizing. After all, we didn’t know much about these folks and wanted to leave a good impression.
Jennifer wasn’t done yet. “Do you like dogs, Mrs. Bumsinger?”
“Not really,” Mrs. Bumsinger replied.
“How about you, Mr. Bumsinger?”
“What, Jennifer?”
“Like dogs.”
“Well, Mrs. Bumsinger doesn’t.”
“How about cats?”
“Oh, no. Mrs. Bumsinger is allergic to cats.”
“That’s too bad. I think cats are nice. We have one, but he has to stay in the basement when we have special company.”
I was getting frantic. “Jennifer, you stop talking so much now and let the adults visit. Well, it looks as though the children wanted this to be a more festive occasion and used a less formal design for our cup collection,” I offered half-heartedly.”
I tried desperately to keep the conversation going, talking about everything in the weather, on the football games, Trying to keep talk of religion and politics to the minimum.
Jennifer broke in again, “Where do you guys go to church?”
“Jennifer, that is their private business.” Now we really have a problem.
“That’s all right, Mr. Bumsinger smiled. We attend the First Presbyterian Church downtown.”
“Oh, we go to St. Paul’s Methodist Church,” Jennifer offered.
“Would you folks like some more turkey? Dressing. There’s plenty.” 'This day is going to be a total disaster,’ I thought.
I put my finger to my lips, trying to stop Jennifer from saying any more. It didn’t work.
“Mrs. Bumsinger, didn’t you say that you didn’t like cats; that you were allergic to them?”
“Jennifer,” I tried to cut her off.
She continued on in spite of my warnings. “Mrs. Bumsinger I’m sorry I put that cup at your place. I didn’t know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the cup. It’s perfectly all right, Dear.”
“Oh, no. You said you were allergic to cats, and that cup says cataholic on it. That would mean someone addicted to cats. You know like alcoholic means someone addicted to alcohol.
I know my face had turned bright red by that time. What do I do with this precocious seven-year-old, one kid talk-a-thon?
“No, Jennifer, the word is Catholic. Mrs. Peterson gave that cup to us. She attends St. Mark’s Catholic Church.”
Mrs. Bumsinger snorted and started laughing. “You know,” she said. I quite frankly was hesitant about accepting your invitation, and I’ll admit to being a little stuffy and crotchety, but I will also have to admit that this has turned out to be a delightful day. I hope this will be the beginning of a long friendship with all your family, especially this little lady Jennifer.”
I was flabbergasted at the turn of events. And, by the way, it was the beginning of a great friendship. I don’t know what cemented Jennifer and Beatrice Bumsinger together, but they seemed to enjoy each other’s company.
© 2008 DRJ

SPRING ?

2008-04-17T09:23:00.000-07:00

So far this spring we have had one day that seemed to be in season. Yes, I realize that Spokane is farther north than is Florida for instance. On April 13, I noticed a little patch of snow in our backyard, which measured about eight inches by twelve inches. That was gone by the end of that one 70 degree spring day. We are at about 2300 feet elevation where I live, but we are past the middle of April. Now they have the audacity to tell us that we will have more snow in the next few days. I'm going to share a summertime story from my kid days to try to conjure up some better weather.
Any comments or questions? email drjohnson@peoplepc.com or 509-443-0910. Sincerely, Don

By the way, the picture is from my wife, Patty's, recent trip to visit our daughter in Wilmington, NC. It's spring there.

BAREFOOT
By
Donald R. Johnson

During the Great Depression of the 1930's, shoes were often a luxury for kids in the summertime. About dusk you'd hear the mother's voices yelling for the son or daughter to come in the house before dark.
"Frank-EEE," one mother would holler and that would be followed by, "Lind-UHH," until all the kids were safely in side for the night.
You knew, even without being there, that the next ritual to follow would be the nightly foot scrubbing and patching. No matter what the racial or ethnic background of a kid, their feet would be black by nightfall each summer day. The soap and water in the pan would turn gray and then black as the feet turned back to their normal color.
There was usually some minor repair work for the mother to do, also. Each household had a good supply of iodine and Cloverine Salve. Slivers and thorns were pulled out and blisters treated, preparing the kids for sleep, and ultimately, the next day. Going barefoot caused an awful volume of wear and tear on kids' feet.
The first attempt at going barefoot would usually happen about the middle of March. That false spring sun would be out for a brief period, making all the kids think spring was here for sure. The first steps were like those of a baby, short, hesitant steps, with the shoulders humped up and the stepper looking like someone walking on glass. Every little rock bit into the tender skin of the sole of the foot. Tough grass felt like large needles trying to penetrate the tender, winter softened skin. Later on, by mid-summer most kids could run at full speed over thistles and wheat stubble without a grimace, but that took time and a little pain.
Stubbed toes were merely minor inconveniences, wood splinters caused a slight amount of pain, but the real scourge of the barefoot boy was broken glass or rusty nails. Glass fragments can be downright sneaky the way they can hide in the soft dirt. During the summer, you'd see many a foot wrapped in a portion of an old bed sheet. Such wounds were cause for extra soaking during the clean-up time before bed. One of the favorite treatments was a poultice made of strange ingredients, such as old bread, corn meal or other substance tied up against the wound. These mixtures were supposed to take out the infection and speed the healing process.
I never knew of anyone going to the doctor from barefoot hazards, unless a rusty nail found its way into the foot. The trip to the doctor came then, only when it was thought that the kid would lose his foot from blood poisoning.
When a kid would step on a rusty nail, he had sense enough to go home and seek treatment. Even the foreknowledge of the treatment, he would usually hurry home to take his medicine, so to speak. The treatment consisted of all the available family members holding the wounded in place while the treater, usually the mother, would pour iodine in, over and around the offending hole. The treated would yell as loud as possible during the treatment, which was all part of the healing process.

For the lucky ones there was Cloverine Salve. The supply of Cloverine Salve was obtained when a young entrepreneur would contract to sell twelve cans of the balm in exchange for great prizes. The sales were usually not consummated, so the company would send letters to encourage the young businessman to pay what was owed. After a few threatening letters from the company, a worried mother would save her son from a life in prison by buying all twelve of the unsold units. For a long period of time after that, everything was treated with Cloverine Salve.
Nowadays, people seem to go barefoot for the sheer pleasure of feeling the Earth on their feet without any barriers. It is thought to be fun by these people. It is doubtful if you would ever catch a person who had to go barefoot as a child, without shoes on. The exception to that rule would probably be while bathing or sleeping. It simply was not a fun experience.

© DRJ 2008

Easter

2008-03-19T16:21:00.000-07:00

Easter sneaked up on us this year. It is one of the earlyest possible dates it can happen. I won't get into all the moon changes and such that make it happen, but you can look it up if you are desperate to learn about it.It probably isn't the big deal with all the clothes, ladie's hats and such these days but it is probably the second biggest religious celebration, after Christmas. It is the occasion for Jesus' time on earth coming to a close, with his rising from the dead and coming assention.
The egg gatherer in the picture is our granddaughter, Gracie Ellis, who lives in Ephrata, Washington.

Here is a little fun Easter story for your enjoyment. I hope you like it. Sincerely, Don
THE BIG EASTER CAPER
By
Donald R. Johnson

Churches of most denominations consider Christmas and Easter to be very special occasions on the Christian calendar. Both days call for special celebration, first for the birth of Jesus at Christmas, and second, his resurrection from the dead at Easter.
We celebrate Christmas with the giving of gifts and special programs at the churches on and around the twenty-fifth of December. Easter comes in a close second, with folks going to special early morning services and ladies dressing up in their finest dresses and hats.
Our family was always involved in church activities during my growing up years. Dad was always especially encouraging. "You kids hurry up and get to church," He would shout out enthusiastically as he lay on the couch napping or reading the Sunday paper.
On Easter Sunday all the churches in town, in a grand sweeping ecumenical spirit, would gather on the hill on the west side of town for a religious service. It was always cold and damp, but the spirit of the occasion warmed one's inner being with the company of the good friends across the denominational lines.
There were three rough crosses planted in a semi-permanent fashion, and it was something awe inspiring looking toward the rising sun in the east as the new day dawned. The pastors of the local churches took turns preaching the sermon, and to my knowledge, there were never any major arguments over differences in theology or whose turn it was on those occasions. It was simply a great time for all.
After the service on the hill, all the congregants would meet at the fellowship hall of one of the churches for a great breakfast and a time of visiting with friends. After breakfast, everyone would go back to their own church, feeling sorry for those poor misled souls in the other church. It seemed that everyone in town attended church services somewhere on that day.
As a lad of twelve in 1944, I was willing to bear the embarrassment of going with my older sisters to the Easter services. My oldest sister was almost eighteen and had the privilege of driving the family car. At twelve, I was certain that I could do a better job driving, but she was the one with the license.
As the garage was behind the house in an inconvenient spot, the car rarely saw the inside of it. It took a place of convenience in the front, handy for use when called on. There were no major crime waves in that area, and cars were rarely locked. Many owners kept their keys in the cars as a further convenience and driving pleasure.
On that particular Easter morning, my two older sisters and I quietly got up and dressed in preparation for the early morning sunrise service and the festivities following. We were right on time going out the door and eager to meet with our friends on the hill.
We got into the car, and my sister started the engine. The car was shifted into reverse, and then the excitement started.
"Hey! Get out of that car, you no good rascal!" I'm not sure these were the exact words, but in deference to this being an Easter morning event, the account should be fairly mild in nature.
Startled, we looked to the source of the noise. There on the porch, waving his arms violently, was Dad in his long underwear and nothing else, ready to drive off the dastards who were stealing the family car.
He immediately saw his error, brought his arms down and went slinking quietly back into the house. We went on to the celebration of the day, laughing uncontrollably from time to time.
During the regular Sunday service later in the day, we met Dad, Mom and my younger sister in our pew. Every little while, my sisters and I would look at each other and start laughing. We tried to maintain proper church behavior, but it seemed impossible considering the earlier happenings of the morning.
Periodically I would see my sisters sitting with their shoulders shaking, and that would cause me to lose control for a while. Apparently Dad didn't think it so funny, because he spent the whole time scowling at us, putting his finger to his lips and shaking his head.
That event took place well over fifty years ago, but it can still break us up all over again when we are reminded of that wild Easter morning.

© DRJ 03/08

2008-02-01T14:17:00.000-08:00

February, 2008

Be Mine

Valentine's Day is our February celebration. Or Ain't love grand? This picture is of my Valentine and me at the ocean. When you are with someone you love, you forget about the fog, the chill and the sand in your shoes. The beautiful seascape, the romance of the beach and the company you keep imprint special memories. Here is a little romantic story about love (maybe the puppy type) for you enjoyment. I hope it brings a smile.

Sincerely, Don

drjohnson74@peoplepc.com

509-443-0910

Violet

She was beautiful by any fifteen-year-old’s standard, I’m sure. At least this fifteen-year-old mind could fathom nothing more beautiful. I would write her name on paper, on my hand, in the sand and once even carved it lovingly on an aspen tree, marring the beautiful bark forever. Forever is the correct term, because that was my love for her.
I wanted to spend every minute of my time with her. There were two forces preventing that notion; her father and mine. Mine thought I should always do my chores in a timely manner, and I wasn’t sure about her father. He was a preacher, and I was concerned that he knew about fifteen-year-old boys and their thoughts and ways. That perception was always with me when I visited their home. Consequently, I was always tense and tried to be on my best behavior, trying to leave a good impression with them.
Violet’s mother was much easier to be with and helped me feel at ease with her offerings of cake, pop, and sometimes, a sandwich. I always hoped that her husband would be at the church or out calling on parishioners.
When he would arrive unexpectedly, I would start feeling uneasy hoping to say the right things and act in an unsuspicious manner. I imagined that he never took his eyes off me. I was certain he had a pair in the back of his head to supplement the two in front.
One day my world changed dramatically. Violet told me they were moving to Wenatchee, because her dad had accepted a position as pastor of a large church there. The 120 miles distance might just as well have been the other side of the universe to a fifteen-year-old. With no car or driver’s license and no money, I would possibly never see her again.
We exchanged letters, frequently at first, then a little less frequent. At first, each letter from her would cause me to go into that lonesome nosedive of despair to fuel that torment that raged in me.
One of those letters caused me considerable discomfort.

My dad was called Jack, and I was known from the time I was born as little Jack or “Jackie.” At the beginning of the sixth grade, Dad insisted that I be called by my official name of Donald. That worked for the teachers and strangers, but my family and friends called me a mature variation of Jackie; Jack.

One evening Dad came home and started shuffling through the mail. He read a line or two, and started muttering, “What in the world?

What in the world?”
That went on for too long until he said, “This must be for you from some girl. Wouldn’t it be better if you told her your name?”
I took the letter and retreated sheepishly to my room.
On one occasion, my older brother had business in Wenatchee and took me to Violet’s house to visit. We were there for a couple hours, and it was pleasant to see her again for a short period.
As time went on, I experienced fewer incidents of despair and took on a more normal existence of fifteen -year-old activities. I could see some merit in some of the other girls, and there were plenty of athletics and other male type activities to take up my time.
After a few months, I received a letter that caused me to reflect on my relationship with Violet. She wrote of the weather, her school activities and her family. Then at the end, she mentioned in passing that her boyfriend was there.
What could that mean? I was 120 miles away.
OH !!

Hang In There

2008-01-11T14:48:00.001-08:00

Dogs and kids are always eye catchers. Did Moe catch your eye? Moe is our daughter's dog (one of them) and lives in Wilmington, NC. When I chose him for the January model, I was thinking of New Year's resolutions, difficulty in sticking with them and the tenacious characteristics of the bulldog. Hang in there. Here is a story I hope you enjoy.

Sincerely, Don
drjohnson74@peoplepc.com
509-443-0910

FISHING BEAR CREEK
By
Donald R. Johnson

When you hear a bear rattling around the greasy fry pan, you know you should have cleaned up properly. I lay there, bound like a mummy in my sleeping bag, afraid to move. I didn't dare direct the bear's attention to the tent by any movement or noise. My son, Tom, lay there sleeping as though nothing was happening.
Tom and I had decided to make a quick trip up to the creek for a couple of day's fishing, and for that short time, we would travel light with just the bare necessities of the tent and cooking gear. This incident was our third night out on our excursion.
Bear Creek is a small stream, where the worm digging can sometimes be more sport than the fishing, but some experienced sportsmen have been known to catchbig ones up to seven inches long. Stories like that kept us coming back.
The brush along the water would challenge an experienced West Texas Peccarywith the thick timber and fallen logs everywhere. It could be considered dangerous just to fight your way to the next fishing hole. While none of our party ever sustained a broken bone, there were enough cuts and bruises to cause night of goaning and days of limping.
We had arrived at our favorite campsite two days before and had enjoyed the time of digging worms, stumbling through the brush, falling off logs and sleeping on rocks. In the lantern-lit evenings, fortunes were won and lost in our pennyante/nickel limit poker games.
After the first night, I needed help from my younger companion to get up off the ground. After an hour of sitting in the sun, I was able to dig a few worms. Tom had graciously agreed to make breakfast, rather than face the threat of walking the eighty-five miles home.
We spent the morning working out our night kinks in the brush along the creek and making new ones falling and rolling on the ground. We even caught a couple of little rainbow trout.
By midday, we stopped and ate our smashed sandwiches, along with a bruised up apple. We were sore and totally exhausted from sleeping on Mother Earth and falling through the brush.
I didn't know if I could go on any more, but Tom told me I had to, because they only had ten men on the Chewelah emergency crew, and it would take more than that to carry me out. He finally convinced me, and we went on with the afternoon of fun.
About sundown, we went slinking into camp, wishing we had a shower and a wife to cook supper. Having neither, we went with what we had, which wasn't very much. I bribed Tom and got him to build a fire to cook the steaks we had brought in the ice chest. He also heated a can of corn and a can of beans to add to the nutritional count of the meal.
While Tom was cooking, I went around the edge of the camp and cut the end branches off young fir trees, as I had heard that they were softer to sleep on than the ground. In a few minutes I had enough for both of us to have nice, comfortable beds.
Somewhat revived from food and rest, we went right into a competitive game of poker. The money went back and forth, with neither of us getting the upper hand to financially ruin the other. I was going to stay awake as long as I could to put off lying on that hard, rocky ground any more than necessary.
By eleven o'clock, I could not stay awake any longer. The combination of the work out on the creek and a full stomach worked against my staying awake any longer. We went into the tent, leaving the pots, pans, cans and dishes where they lay. We would take care of them tomorrow before going home.
Now it was four in the morning, and I was wide awake, scared half to death. I could hear the cans moving and the aluminum foil rattling as the bear tried to get the last little bit of food and grease out of them.
My mind raced to try to conceive a plan to get out of this situation with our lives. If I woke Tom, I was afraid he would make a noise waking up before I could tell him what was going on. If we stayed in the sleeping bags, there would be no escaping the bear mauling us.
After a long time of thinking, I decided that I would have to confront the bear, make a lot of noise and hope it would run away. I quietly unzipped my bag and crawled toward the door of the tent. With shaky hands, I carefully lifted the door flap.
Looking out by the campfire, I could see the wind blowing and the cans rolling up against the fire circle. Then, they would roll back across the grass a way until the next gust of wind would roll them against the rocks of the fire circle again. The large paper sack, empty except for a couple of cans of pork and beans, rustled in the breeze, but there was not one bear in sight.
After that excitement, I dressed, built a fire and put on the coffee pot. In a few minutes, Tom stuck his head out the door.
"Why are you up this time of night?" he asked.
"Get up and have a cup of coffee. You can't catch fish if you stay in bed all day," I told him. I didn't want to scare my poor little, forty-year-old son by telling him any bear stories.

Merry Christmas

2007-12-15T11:08:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas. May this be your best Christmas ever. Take time to give thanks for the good things you enjoy and celebrate the birth of Jesus. Attached is a Christmas story from my past. I hope you enjoy it.

Sincerely, Don

Merry Christmas, Mr. Ryder

A few years ago I saw a movie about a young boy who very much wanted a BB gun. His father was very much against the idea and presented many arguments against BB gun ownership. One of the worst hazards of owning a BB gun, he said, was the danger of putting out an eye. I was excited when I saw that picture because it was my story, exactly as it happened in 1940 as an eight year old at Christmas time.

The Great Depression was winding down for many people in the country, but with the aid of a small logging and sawmill operation we managed to keep it going in our home. It seemed that the machinery was often broken down, or if the machinery was working the price of rough lumber and railroad ties was down. Money was always in short supply.

Christmas was on the way, and it looked as though we would have our usual big dinner, a few special treats and a few simple gifts that were usually too practical to satisfy my eight year old needs.

I had been eyeing the genuine Red Ryder saddle carbine, with its real wood stock, leather thong, two hundred shot capacity and the fast load feature, but I knew that it would be way beyond the means of the Santa Claus our family knew. There was one hanging on the wall at Lee's Mercantile and I would stop in occasionally just to look and dream. Red Ryder himself carried one when he and Little Beaver rode around the ranch looking for trouble and Red personally endorsed it. Anyone who read the "Red Ryder" comics knew that to be a fact. I had mentioned my need for such a weapon to both my parents, but I really knew there was no hope of every having one. My dad stated a number of reasons why it would be unwise for me to own a gun, including the one about shooting out an eye of some innocent bystander.

As the winter set in and the snow got deeper it was increasingly more difficult to work in the woods. We continued to eat and the grocery bill continued to climb. It was customary in those days for the grocers to carry charge accounts with the local families. Many families credited their local store owner with getting them through a hard winter and even posssibly saving their lives. We had the benefit of that trust at Lee's Mercantile.

Dad had already taken lumber to the store's lumber yard as payment on the bills, but the the bills continued to rise with the depth of the December snow. There was no use to fight the snow to go to the woods, and even if the mill could operate, there would be no one to buy the lumber in December.

Dad came home one evening and seemed to be in a better mood than we had seen for a long while. We kids were sworn to secrecy when he revealed to us that he would be the Santa Claus at Lee's Mercantile. It would not be good for the kids in town to discover that Santa was actually disguised as their neighbor. That news meant that there would be a little cash to keep us going until the lumber prospects improved.

I went by Lee's every day after school and peeked in the window to see my dad with a little kid on his lap and others lined up to get a turn. It made me proud that my dad had such an important job. It was tempting to take more than one turn to get an extra sack of candy with the orange and nuts, but I knew Dad was very strict about fair play, so I didn't even try. I just contented myself with looking on and admiring the toys, including my beloved Red Ryder saddle gun.

On Christmas Eve the stores closed early and Dad came home with large sacks of groceries. We were all excited to see the oranges, nuts and candy which had been a rarity in our house for some time. Such things were holiday foods. Mom told us that after the Christmas Eve service at church we would all have a special treat.

Christmas morning was dark with a gray sky and predictions of snow for the area. I woke to Mom's call that breakfast was ready. Bacon, eggs and toast was our fare on Sundays and holidays. The rest of the time it was oatmeal and milk. That made breakfast somewhat special, but I wasn't really enjoying it because I was eager to join the rest of the family sing carols in the living room and opening the presents. Typically presents were something homemade or a needed piece of clothing such as a cap or stockings. Even though I wouldn't get the gift I dreamed about all those months I did enjoy the holiday with the family fun, singing and special food. After breakfast we would open our presents and then go sledding for awhile before dinner.

Dad finally said it was time to open presents and we rushed in the living room as fast as we dared. The presents were distributed around the family from youngest child to the oldest. My little sister got a pretty velvet hat and glove set and, I suppose in deference to her age got a little duck on wheels that she pulled around the living room with great excitement.

My first gift was a stocking cap, a multicolored piece, handmade by my mother. I said my "thank you's" as I had been taught, but I was really thinking of other gift possibilities. The gifts made the rounds of all six of us and came back to me. My next gift was a pair of wool sox to help fight off the bitter cold of the winter.

We all received a popcorn ball, an orange and big candy stick as special treats from Santa.
While we were involved with comparing our gifts and planning our sledding outing, Dad left the room quietly. He returned in a minute with a box. I hardly noticed that he had come and gone.

"I found this out in the car," he said in a quiet voice when he returned. "I think Santa may have forgotten to bring it in last night. It says Donnie on the box."

When he said, "Donnie," I jerked to attention and look over at him. There was a box in his hands. The size and shape were right, but it couldn't be.

Dad walked over to me and said, "Why don't you open it, Donnie?."

I did open it and yes, it was the genuine Red Ryder saddle carbine. I couldn't talk for a bit. I just sat and stared at that beautiful work of art.

"Well, do you like it, Son?" Dad asked with a smile.

I managed to remember my manners and give my heartfelt, enthusiastic thank you after I recovered from the initial shock. There was no way I could open up my heart and tell anyone of that great feeling that was exploding inside me. Merry Christmas, Red Ryder. You betchum.

P.S. A few years ago my son, Brian and his wife, Suzette, surprised me at Christmas with a Red Ryder saddle gun. They had heard my story several times. I cherish that one also.

From: Legends, Lies and Half-Truths © 2001 by Donald R. Johnson

What Are You Thankful For?

2007-11-18T15:52:00.000-08:00

In case you didn't recognize these folks, they are my wife,Patty, and I. When I think of Thanksgiving, I think of family, friends, and of course, a lot of good food. Personally, I am thankful for friends and family and food. We are fortunate to have a lot of all of them. The list could get quite lengthy in my case.

The reason I sneaked my wife's picture in here is because she is often the hostess for the great holiday feasts that take place at our house. We have kids from new-born on and great-grandmothers to ninety years old at our table. Sometimes, our house gets a little crowded, but everyone seems to enjoy the occasion. I should add that she has done a great job as caretaker while I went through a bout with cancer. Another thing I can be thankful for; I am now classified a "survivor."

We have so much to be thankful for in this great country. Most families do well with food, shelter and clothing. We tend to dwell often on the price of gas, world problems and dirty politics (especially this year), but the fact is that we live in the greatest country ever, and we live well. As my dad used to say, "The poor are living better than the rich used to."

I'm hoping that you are having some positive thoughts about the season and will join me in thanking God for the good things in your life.

See you next time. Sincerely, Don

Of Horses And Men

2007-10-25T10:48:00.000-07:00

October 25, 2007
Every kid wants a pony. Here is a story about the bittersweet experience of horse ownership and the world of big business. No commercial today. Just enjoy the story.

Sincerely, Don

TINY TIM

To my six year old eyes, Tiny Tim was the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth. His mane and tail flowed over him in a magnificent display. The tail nearly touched the ground, and the mane cascaded over his neck and face to add to his charm. Tiny Tim was a pinto Shetland pony.

In the '30s, Dad traded for about anything to make a car sale, and those trades that weren't older cars were mainly in the form of livestock. Even though we lived in town, we had a large fenced area behind the house equipped with a small barn. There were always cows or horses residing in the area.

Tiny Tim arrived in my life when I was six years old and he was a nervous little stallion with a noticeable mean streak. While I was allowed to pet him, I was warned that he would bite if you didn't watch him closely.

At the time he arrived at our house, he was young, spirited and had progressed in his training only to being led with a hackamore. A black leather saddle and bridle came with him, but he had not yet been ridden.

A young, unemployed cowboy, Bert, was staying with us when Tiny Tim arrived, and he seemed to be quite amused that this "little imitation horse" was with us. Very soon, Dad had him assigned to breaking the "little imitation horse" tame enough for a kid to ride.

Bert took on the assignment immediately, and went to work with rope, gunny sack and blindfold. Bert was slim and lanky, looking the part of the cowboy in his ten-gallon hat, Levis and boots. Standing beside Tiny Tim, it looked as though the pony didn't even reach Bert's silver belt buckle. I supervised every move of the operation through the poles of the corral.

Bert's first action was to lead Tiny Tim around he corral talking to him. Around and around they went, with Bert's soothing voice going constantly. Then, he moved the sack slowly over his back, and then, on his neck and down his legs. Tiny Tim was nervous at first and kicked at it, but after a time, he settled down and didn't seem to mind the movement.

As the training progressed, Bert would run beside Tiny Tim with his arm over his back, putting on pressure as a rider would. The pony would run and kick while Bert just grinned and went along with him.

Finally, it was time to sit astride him, and I was hoping that I would be chosen to ride, but that was not to be the case. I was beginning to think of Tiny Tim as my pony, as I was allowed to feed him a carrot or pieces of apple sometimes. Bert would always tell me to hold my hand flat so it would not be so easy for Tiny Tim to bite my fingers.

On the day that Bert was going to straddle him, I was eager to see how that tall cowboy could ride that little pony. He went up to him, talking as he moved closer. Tiny Tim was used to him by now and just stood there snorting quietly and looking back at him.

As Bert slowly moved his long leg over Tiny Tim's back, the pony shuddered and jumped a couple of quick hops. Bert touched his boot on the ground on the opposite side from where he had started. Looking at him, I noticed that both boots were on the ground on each side of the pony. Whenever Tiny Tim would buck, Bert would sort of stand up on his toes and run along with him.
That night I heard Mom talking to Dad after supper in the kitchen.
"Do you know what Bert was doing to that pony?" She asked him.

"No. What?"

"He was riding the poor thing, and when the pony would try to buck, he would just stand on the ground."

"Did he sit on him with his whole weight?" Dad asked.

"Well, not really. It's just that it's cruel to treat a little creature that way."

"Now, Mother, that pony wasn't hurt a bit. If he would have put all his weight on him, that would have been a different story. Bert knows horses and how to handle them."

Tiny Tim's training was finally nearing the end. Bert would let me get on him and ride around the corral. While Bert was doing other things, I would go around and around the corral, practicing the best neck-rein techniques Bert had showed me.

At last, the day came when I was allowed to ride outside the corral and down the street. I felt like a real grown-up cowboy with my oversized straw hat and my real horse. I was the trail boss for that particular time.

Then, without warning, disaster struck. The Swartz boys jumped out of the shrubs as I rode by their house. The sudden movement spooked Tiny Tim and he shied sharply to the opposite side of the street. Somehow, I managed to stay on and got past.

However, in the next barrage, I didn't fare so well. Those Swartz boys had a reputation for mischief, and today they kept up that reputation. When I thought I had passed safely by, I heard the splat of two soft objects coming together, and I was on the ground. By the time I looked up, Tiny Tim was galloping at full speed back to the house.

The Swartz boys had shot Tiny Tim in the rump with their rubber guns. I was indignant with their action, but it is hard to put on a good front when you are crying and up against two older boys. I wiped my clothes and limped back home, hoping that Dad wouldn't find out about the incident.

Dad didn't find out, and I had other rides on Tiny Tim, making sure not to go near the Swartz’s house. I was feeling a real emotional tie with that pony.
Then, one day my world fell apart when a man came to the house and went with Dad to look at Tiny Tim. It wasn't long before the man was handing Dad some money, and then he went to his car. We met him at the barn, where they loaded the little saddle and bridle in the car trunk. Then the man drove close to the corral, and he and Dad went in.

They brought Tiny Tim to the car and opened both back doors. Then the man held the rope while Dad went to the other side of the car. With Dad pulling on the rope and the man pushing from behind, they were loading Tiny Tim in the back seat. It was then that I realized that Tiny Tim was going away. I ran to the house, because I didn't want men to see me crying.

After a while, Dad came to the house and into the living room where I was lying on the couch. I didn't want to talk, and just lay there staring at the light on the ceiling. Dad came over by the couch.

"Son, I'm sorry we had to sell that pony, but from the very start, you should have known that our horses are not pets but part of the business. That's the way business works. You buy something for a certain amount, and hope to sell it for more."

If that was the way big business worked, I thought right then and there that I wanted no part of it. I felt better that night after we went to the theater, but I moped around for several days pining for that little pony.

It was another nine years before I had real ownership of a horse. It was sold also, but this time I did it. That's the way business works isn't it?

© 2007 Donald R. Johnson

Lazy, Crazy, Hazy Days Of Summer

2007-09-20T13:46:00.000-07:00

I didn't have to check the calendar. Here in Spokane, I felt the cool temperature, and decided that fall was coming on us quite rapidly. We turned on the furnace on for the first time day before yesterday. I try to hold off as long as possible, but those early morning showers got to feeling pretty brisk. Time marches on. Summer is gone. Soon, we will be complaining about the cold, where only two weeks ago, it was too hot.

I wanted to get a summer activity picture to say goodbye to summer, and killed two birds with one stone with a cute picture of a couple of our grandkids.The one on the left is Brayden and the other one is Andrew.

Let me rush on to my commercial message. As the weather cools, build up the fire, curl up and read a book. You might even want to check one of mine. Here's a sample.

Sincerely, Don

Does Anyone Know The Words?
By
Donald R. Johnson

Young people seem to be the first on the cutting edge of the music scene and then the older ones follow along later, usually after considerable criticism of the younger generation. This was true when I was a kid except there didn't seem to be quite the generation gap that we have nowadays.
When I was much younger, kids spent a great deal of time with music as they do now. The phonograph, with the brittle 78 rpm records was the great medium of the day. We first heard the song on the radio and then, as soon as time and finances would allow, we would head for the store. During my early teen years in our household, we advanced from the old windup, hard-to-adjust speed machine to an electrical phonograph, which did a much better job of playing the records.
Those records were easy to chip and break and many a good song was lost from breakage. After much use the centers would crack out and the record would spin in an erratic manner making the music sound like a bad Wayne King Orchestra production. They did sell little glue-on circles, made of a heavy paper, to make the hole round again and give a little more life to a worn record. The sound grooves were prone to wear down causing the needle to stick and one phrase would repeat, repeat, repeat until someone would bump the arm into the next groove. It was hard to part with those good records until you were forced into it, so we often had those repeaters and the dizzy ones rotating erratically on the turntable.
I worked every summer during my teen years and felt wealthy during those times. Every Saturday, we were released from work early and most of us would head for town. My first order of business was to head for the soda fountain area of the drug store. After I had that thick milk shake, as advertised on the window ( "Thick Milk Shakes 15 cents" ), I was ready for other business. That other business was to head for the variety store across the street.
The variety store was usually called the five and dime or simply the dime store. They had a marvelous selection of goods, but I was usually only interested in the fantastic record collection in the back. At that time one of those brittle 78 rpm records was priced at seventy-nine cents. I usually knew what I wanted to add to my collection, having studied the question all week. Each record had a song on each side of about three minutes duration.
On this particular Saturday I found just the right ones: "Mairzy Doats," "Pistol Packin' Mama" and "Along The Navajo Trail." After making my purchase I went to the barber shop, as my mother had strongly suggested that I get a haircut while in town.
After the perfunctory greetings in the barbershop I laid my package of records on a chair and went to search for reading material. I found the right one and headed back to my chair.
Without any thought, I sat down on the chair and heard the awful "Crack" as I sat right on those brittle sources of entertainment. Of course, everyone was looking at me and I was trying to look nonchalant about the whole thing. It didn't take long for the good natured joking to start and I tried to smile as though I was not very concerned about the matter.
As soon as I was finished at the barbershop I hurried back to the variety store to replace my losses with new records. Mr. Reid had another "Pistol Packin' Mama" and "Mairzy Doats," but there didn't seem to be any "Along The Navajo Trail" records left. He searched the stacks again and even went into the back room, but still no "Along The Navajo Trail." I thanked Mr. Reid and headed for home.
I was more sick about losing the record than about having to pay twice for the others. I couldn't throw it away so I put it with my collection and tried to use it. About a third of the edge was broken off, so I would start the needle just inside the break and hear what I could of it.
The way it turned out was that my version of the song started with......."I love to lie and listen to the music, when the wind is strummin' a sagebrush guitar" and so on.
It was much later when I learned the first part of that fine song.
Ev'ry day along about ev'nin'
When the sunlight's beginnin' to fail,
I ride through the slumberin' shadows
Along the Navajo Trail
When it's night and crickets are callin'
And coyotes are makin' a wail,
I dream by a smouldering fire,
Along the Navajo Trail.
© 8-2007 Donald R. Johnson

New Books

2007-08-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

August 20, 2007

Finally: My latest books have arrived. I feel like a new, proud parent. I am ready to generously share these with the world.

I've told you about them before, but I'm going to do it again just in case someone missed it the first time.

A Dry Thirsty Land is a novel of Small Town, USA, during the decade following WWII. You will get into the inside of the church, the school and downtown Sandy Creek and the antics of the people involved. The best action is down at Larry's Cafe, where the patrons take care of all the problems of the town, the nation and the world. You all know these folks; they are your neighbors, relatives and friends, and if you look in a mirror you may see another character who is portrayed in the book.

We Got A Deal is an Inspirational/Spiritual account of the author's bout with cancer, and how he bargained with God for His care.(The Bible states that God will take care of us if we trust in Him). That was the deal.

If you have an interest in these books send we an e-mail drjohnson74@peoplepc.com , Telephone 509-443-0910 or Apple Blossom Publishing 2233 E. 49th Ave., Spokane, WA 99223.

Cost: We Got A Deal $9.95

A Dry Thirsty Land $10.95

Shipping: First book: $3.00

additional books $1.00 each

Thanks for checking in. Sincerely, Don

Out Of Season

2007-07-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

July 30, 2007

I'm probably a bit crazy, but I wouldn't mind if we listened to Christmas Carols all year long. It wouldn't bother me a bit to celebrate Easter with all the new dresses, hats and so on. I love Irving Berlin's song, "Easter Parade," and I could listen to it every day.
Easter used to be a big deal for the ladies. There would be the nice new dresses and some pretty outlandish hats to be seen. Little girls were especially cute in there shiny shoes, little straw hats and pretty, fluffy dresses. Little boys were sometimes dressed in suits to imitate their dads. Obviously, things are much less formal these days.

What I'm leading up to is an Easter story from several years ago. I hope you enjoy it. Sincerely, Don

THE BIG EASTER CAPER
By
Donald R. Johnson

Churches of most denominations consider Christmas and Easter to be very special occasions on the Christian calendar. Both days call for special celebration, first for the birth of Jesus at Christmas, and second, his resurrection from the dead at Easter.

We celebrate Christmas with the giving of gifts and special programs at the churches on and around the twenty-fifth of December. Easter comes in a close second, with folks going to special early morning services and ladies dressing up in their finest dresses and hats.

Our family was always involved in church activities during my growing up years. Dad was always especially encouraging. "You kids hurry up and get to church," He would shout out enthusiastically as he lay on the couch napping or reading the Sunday paper.

On Easter Sunday all the churches in town, in a grand sweeping ecumenical spirit, would gather on the hill on the west side of town for a religious service. It was always cold and damp, but the spirit of the occasion warmed one's inner being with the company of the good friends across the denominational lines.

There were three rough crosses planted in a semi-permanent fashion, and it was something awe inspiring looking toward the rising sun in the east as the new day dawned. The pastors of the local churches took turns preaching the sermon, and to my knowledge, there were never any major arguments over differences in theology or whose turn it was on those occasions. It was simply a great time for all.

After the service on the hill, all the congregants would meet at the fellowship hall of one of the churches for a great breakfast and a time of visiting with friends. After breakfast, everyone would go back to their own church, feeling sorry for those poor misled souls in the other church. It seemed that everyone in town attended church services somewhere on that day.

As a lad of twelve in 1944, I was willing to bear the embarrassment of going with my older sisters to the Easter services. My oldest sister was almost eighteen and had the privilege of driving the family car. At twelve, I was certain that I could do a better job driving, but she was the one with the license.

As the garage was behind the house in an inconvenient spot, the car rarely saw the inside of it. It took a place of convenience in the front, handy for use when called on. There were no major crime waves in that area, and cars were rarely locked. Many owners kept their keys in the cars as a further convenience and driving pleasure.

On that particular Easter morning, my two older sisters and I quietly got up and dressed in preparation for the early morning sunrise service and the festivities following. We were right on time going out the door and eager to meet with our friends on the hill.

We got into the car, and my sister started the engine. The car was shifted into reverse, and then the excitement started.

"Hey! Get out of that car, you no good rascal!" I'm not sure these were the exact words, but in deference to this being an Easter morning event, the account should be fairly mild in nature.

Startled, we looked to the source of the noise. There on the porch, waving his arms violently, was Dad in his long underwear and nothing else, ready to drive off the dastards who were stealing the family car.

He immediately saw his error, brought his arms down and went slinking quietly back into the house. We went on to the celebration of the day, laughing uncontrollably from time to time.

During the regular Sunday service later in the day, we met Dad, Mom and my younger sister in our pew. Every little while, my sisters and I would look at each other and start laughing. We tried to maintain proper church behavior, but it seemed impossible considering the earlier happenings of the morning.
Periodically I would see my sisters sitting with their shoulders shaking, and that would cause me to lose control for a while. Apparently Dad didn't think it so funny, because he spent the whole time scowling at us, putting his finger to his lips and shaking his head.

That event took place well over fifty years ago, but it can still break us up all over again when we are reminded of that wild Easter morning.

(C) 2007 Donald R. Johnson

Happy Independence Day

2007-06-28T10:48:00.000-07:00

INDEPENDENCE DAY
By
Donald R. Johnson

In July we celebrate a significant event in the history of our country; our independence from England. Traditionally, it has been a day of fireworks, picnics and parades. Unfortunately, much of the splendor of the day has been lost. It seems that it has become just another day off from work to many.

Oh yes, there are picnics and fun just as always, but something appears to be missing. The parades have dwindled to almost none, fireworks has been banned in most places and there is little talk of the history of our great nation.

I would have to admit that we look at the past through those ever-present rose-colored glasses. I remember one fellow who got mixed up with an explosive, which cost him a few fingertips. He was called “Stub” for the rest of his life; a small price to pay for the glory of blowing off a few fingers.

Another unfortunate fellow I knew lost his hearing when a stray “torpedo” bounced off his head. However most of the celebrators got by with just the fun of shooting off their own fireworks.

It seems that the biggest danger now is fire set by fireworks. People are awfully thick in places these days, and there are a lot of things to burn. It would give the impression that every year there are fires set by careless fireworks use.

Even so, it was a lot of fun when everyone had their own fireworks to play with.
Well, whatever you do this fourth, remember why we do it. In 1776 on July fourth, the founding fathers of our nation wrote up the Declaration of Independence, which stated that we were no longer a colony of England, but our own country, The United States of America. The English didn't like the idea, so we had to fight them for the right to be free.

So let’s enjoy the time of picnics, boating, swimming or whatever you do, but stop and remember for just a minute what we are celebrating. While you are having fun on that great day, wave the flag a little.

Merry-Go-Round

2007-05-04T11:05:00.000-07:00

Do you ever think that life is spinning too fast, and maybe you would like to get off? I remember some years ago, a little girl breaking with tradition and crying to get off the carousel. She wanted to get off that thing right away, but there was no escape. At first, she probably thought it would be great fun to tame that monster and spend the day relaxed in total oblivion to the rest of the world.

I think that sometimes older people want to get off that machine too. It just isn't as much fun as we thought it would be: take the fast elevator to the top, go for the big job, buy that car or house we can't afford. It could be any number of choices that get us there, but too often we start to get a little dizzy after awhile, and there is no jumping off.

Some thrive in the fast lane. But, others, such as I, find the slower pace to be better. I would advise you to relax by playing a little more, take time with friends and family and read a good book. If you have been reading "The Johnson Rag," you know I can get you the good books. Send inquiries to drjohnson74@peoplepc.com (the commercial message.)

Sincerely, Don

The Competition

2007-04-21T12:22:00.001-07:00

April 23, 2007

I periodically wrestle with the idea, "Does anyone read anymore?" It would seem that with the constant dinging and buzzing of electronic gadgets; note the television, Game Boys, DVDs and on and on. How many TV channels do you receive? I'm behind the times and only get about eight. Five of those come in quite clearly, and the others are occasionally clear enough to look at.

Whenever I visit one of the family, or when I was in the hospital, I was exposed to a great number of channels courtesy of cable service. It always makes me think, If I had all those choices, would there ever be a time when there would be a lull in the action?

I am still holding out. I enjoy the quiet time of reading. There are a number of things we are required to read in order to survive; legal information, menus, instruction manuals and a number of other things. Some of us read for the pure pleasure of reading. I personally like history and like the images the printed page plants on my mind.

I would suppose that my main problem with the electronics is that it runs competition with my books. I want everyone to buy my books. So, with tongue in cheek, I urge you to throw away all your electronics and buy one or all of my books. Here is a sample.

email for more information drjohnson74@peoplepc.com

"Three Man Tent?"
By
Donald R. Johnson

We lay there listening to the thunder and seeing the best lightning ever. We were enjoying the night so far, as the water had not yet come through the material or wicked its way up from the ground.

Earlier in the night, we had lain in the tent wondering what three men could possibly get in that diminutive tent. We had barely enough room for the two of us with a negligible amount of space in the curves for our clothes and shoes. It did say “Three Man Tent” on the box.

We came up with a number of small men, but we had our doubts that any three could get in the tent, let alone get along with each other and sleep. The discussion did serve to amuse us for a short time.

The storm came with new fury, with the sky lighting up every few seconds it seemed; the cracks of thunder coming sooner with each flash. It was starting to be a bit more than we could enjoy in one evening.

We had come up to the lake the day before with two daughters, one husband, one son, and two grandsons. The two men chose to sleep in the large tent, and took the two little boys with them for the experience of real camping. The two daughters were given the pickup camper for their private domain, except it became public for changing clothes and cooking.

About the time we thought everything was going to calm down for a good night’s sleep, the granddaddy of all lightning bolts struck close to home. That was unsettling in itself, but the crack of the tree close by got our attention.

“We better get out of here and under something more substantial than this tent. I think the girls probably locked the camper door, but the pickup is likely unlocked. We‘ll make a run for the cab,” I told my wife, Patty.

Our plan was to put on our jeans and shoes, take off like crazy and end up in the relative safety of the pickup cab.

“Right after the next lightning, we’ll make a run for it. You go first, and then I‘ll follow right behind you.”

Like a dutiful wife should, Patty went running through the night at full speed. As she sped through the clearing by the fire pit, the greatest lightning flash of all lit up the sky. In a split second, she was gone in the darkness. The flash of lightening was followed by a tremendous crash, obviously very close to where we were.

Almost immediately, there was a knock on the back window, indicating the girls were aware of our position. Soon, we were in the comfort of the camper.
.
It wasn’t long before the brave men of the tent came to the camper for a more substantial shelter. We discovered that our complete adventure had been observed by all the crew in both the camper and the big tent. Our six year old grandson was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“The lightning got grandma,” he answered.

“No, she’s all right,” I said. “She’s right here.”

“We were watching from the window of the tent,” Dave, our son-in-law said. “When you disappeared we thought for a minute that the lightning did get you.”

“What we saw from the camper window was you running through the middle of camp, then you were gone. We too thought you were gone until we heard the door on the pickup open,” said our younger daughter.

It was almost daylight with everyone awake and crowded in the camper, and it was very quickly becoming a jumbled mass of humanity. The camper was small to start with, but with eight people huddled around it was really ridiculous. There was no hope of any more sleep.

I immediately ordered all the kids up on the overhead bed, got four adults at the small table, and the remainder sat on the ledge below the bed. I then got out the makings of pancakes and started cooking.

We had a hearty breakfast of pancakes, syrup and eggs. The adults had coffee, and the kids had cocoa to wash it all down.

We assessed the campground, and there was mud everywhere. Even the fire pit was full of mud. We decided that we needed to go down into the valley to let things dry out. One ominous sign was that of the fresh lightning hit on a tree only about thirty feet from where our little tent was pitched.

In the valley, it was ninety degrees that day. We headed out toward Penticton, B. C. to the wild game farm where the adults as well as the kids enjoyed seeing the exotic animals from Asia and Africa.

We went back to the Oroville area and spent the rest of the afternoon swimming in the warm water of Lake Osoyoos. It was a remarkable contrast to the cold rain we had experienced at the mountain lake that morning.

We arrived back at camp that evening tired, but refreshed from our unexpected adventures of the day. Everything was dried out, we were able to have several more days of good camping at the lake.

© DRJ 3/07

Have a great day, Don

New Dog--New Books

2007-03-28T15:33:00.001-07:00

Our new dog, Buddy. Cute!

March 28, 2007

Hi:

It's been awhile since I last published anything to my blog. I must confess that I fouled up on some new ways of fighting through my password. Things get complicated for some of old guys sometimes.

Last week, I got the final proofs for my new books, so I was feeling pretty good about life. My wife, Patty, and I went over them with that proverbial fine-tooth comb to try to have perfect copies.

If you haven't been keeping up on my writings (there are too many of you out there), one book is an "inspirational book about my year-long bout with cancer. The theme of the book is God's care for us as we trust in Him. (We Got a Deal)

The other is a novel about rural America in about 1950, A Dry Thirsty Land. It is a book of humor dealing with the church, the school, the downtown scene, with the antics of the high school kids and others. I like it, and I hope that a lot of others will too.

Sincerely, Don

This the opening of We Got a Deal

We Got A Deal
By
Donald R. Johnson

I
Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

“Your white blood count is rather high, which is not too unusual, but in this case the cells are not healthy.” I had been seeing Dr. Mark Johnson as my primary physician for well over twenty years, and I always appreciated his calling after medical procedures to keep me informed.
My very limited knowledge of medicine told me that high counts of white blood cells would indicate some infection, so that was my first casual thought.

“The way the cells are breaking down would suggest a possible leukemia connection,” he continued.

Now he had my attention. My older sister had died the previous summer of an acute, fast moving leukemia. She had dropped the bomb by calmly announcing to us that she had beengiven three months to live. With good treatment and a positive attitude she had made it for six months.

Dr. Johnson assured me that this would not be the fast moving leukemia that had taken my sister, and it was too early to jump to any conclusions.
“Would you like to get an appointment with a hematologist right away or test the blood cells again in a few weeks?” he asked. “I believe this is something to watch carefully, but there is no need to panic.”

Wanting to maintain my reputation of being calm under fire, I opted to wait and do another blood count later. There was no use to panic the family, and besides, it was probably nothing.
Of course, the first thing I did when I arrived home was to look up “leukemia” on the internet.

Google provided enough material to keep me busy for at least a year, but I soon found a site from the American Cancer Society that was concise and easy to read. The first symptom listed was “Night sweats.” Wow! That certainly fit. For several weeks I had been waking up soaked with sweat.

This was one of the most uncomfortable situations I had ever experienced. I had a regular cycle I would go through; feel hot, sweat and chill. All phases were uncomfortable, but the worst was the wetness when the water would simply flood over me for no reason. Even when everyone else in the room was wearing a sweater and shivering, I would sweat.

Another symptom listed was “Loss of appetite.” I have always enjoyed eating, but for the past few weeks, I had not cared much about food. I was experiencing a slow weight loss, but that seemed like a good thing as I weighed more than I should anyway. When someone would comment on my eating less, I would simply brush it off with a comment about not being particularly hungry or that I always eat too much and was cutting back.

Another symptom listed was “Fatigue.” That one hit home also. For quite some time, I had felt like I didn’t want to do much of anything and couldn’t have done anything if I wanted.
By the time I had finished my “Google,” I was convinced that I had leukemia. All the signs seemed to be in place.

Cabin Fever

2007-02-23T13:09:00.000-08:00

It looked like spring was here for a few days, then the snow and cold came back. Our yard was full of robins yesterday, so it must be coming. It is also encouraging to see the daylight getting longer. I don't like the short, dark days of winter. I'm getting eager to get out and camp and fish a little.
I suppose you might say I'm suffering from cabin fever. This enclosed story is about an interesting fishing trip with a little side adventure. This is from one of my short story books, Legends, Lies and Half Truths.

FISHING BEAR CREEK
By
Donald R. Johnson

When you hear a bear rattling around the greasy fry pan, you know you should have cleaned up properly. I lay there, bound like a mummy in my sleeping bag, afraid to move. I didn't dare direct the bear's attention to the tent by any movement or noise. My son, Tom, lay there sleeping as though nothing was happening.
Tom and I had decided to make a quick trip up to the creek for a couple of day's fishing, and for that short time, we would travel light with just the bare necessities of the tent and cooking gear. This incident was our third night out on our excursion.
Bear Creek is a small stream, where the worm digging can sometimes be more sport than the fishing, but some experienced sportsmen have been known to catch big ones up to seven inches long. Stories like that kept us coming back.
The brush along the water would challenge an experienced West Texas Peccary with the thick timber and fallen logs everywhere. It could be considered dangerous just to fight your way to the next fishing hole. While none of our party ever sustained a broken bone, there were enough cuts and bruises to cause nights of groaning and days of limping.
We had arrived at our favorite campsite two days before and had enjoyed the time of digging worms, stumbling through the brush, falling off logs and sleeping on rocks. In the lantern-lit evenings, fortunes were won and lost in our penny ante/nickel limit poker games.
After the first night, I needed help from my younger companion to get up off the ground. After an hour of sitting in the sun, I was able to dig a few worms. Tom had graciously agreed to make breakfast, rather than face the threat of walking the eighty-five miles home.
We spent the morning working out our night kinks in the brush along the creek and making new ones falling and rolling on the ground. We even caught a couple of little rainbow trout.
By midday, we stopped and ate our smashed sandwiches, along with a bruised up apple. We were sore and totally exhausted from sleeping on Mother Earth and falling through the brush.
I didn't know if I could go on any more, but Tom told me I had to, because they only had ten men on the Chewelah emergency crew, and it would take more than that to carry me out. He finally convinced me, and we went on with the afternoon of fun.
About sundown, we went slinking into camp, wishing we had a shower and a wife to cook supper. Having neither, we went with what we had, which wasn't very much. I bribed Tom and got him to build a fire to cook the steaks we had brought in the ice chest. He also heated a can of corn and a can of beans to add to the nutritional count of the meal.
While Tom was cooking, I went around the edge of the camp and cut the end branches off young fir trees, as I had heard that they were softer to sleep on than the ground. In a few minutes I had enough for both of us to have nice, comfortable beds.
Somewhat revived from food and rest, we went right into a competitive game of poker. The money went back and forth, with neither of us getting the upper hand to financially ruin the other. I was going to stay awake as long as I could to put off lying on that hard, rocky ground any more than necessary.
By eleven o'clock, I could not stay awake any longer. The combination of the work out on the creek and a full stomach worked against my staying awake any longer. We went into the tent, leaving the pots, pans, cans and dishes where they lay. We would take care of them tomorrow before going home.
Now it was four in the morning, and I was wide awake, scared half to death. I could hear the cans moving and the aluminum foil rattling as the bear tried to get the last little bit of food and grease out of them.
My mind raced to try to conceive a plan to get out of this situation with our lives. If I woke Tom, I was afraid he would make a noise waking up before I could tell him what was going on. If we stayed in the sleeping bags, there would be no escaping the bear mauling us.
After a long time of thinking, I decided that I would have to confront the bear, make a lot of noise and hope it would run away. I quietly unzipped my bag and crawled toward the door of the tent. With shaky hands, I carefully lifted the door flap.
Looking out by the campfire, I could see the wind blowing and the cans rolling up against the fire circle. Then, they would roll back across the grass a way until the next gust of wind would roll them against the rocks of the fire circle again. The large paper sack, empty except for a couple of cans of pork and beans, rustled in the breeze, but there was not one bear in sight.
After that excitement, I dressed, built a fire and put on the coffee pot. In a few minutes, Tom stuck his head out the door.
"Why are you up this time of night?" he asked.
"Get up and have a cup of coffee. You can't catch fish if you stay in bed all day," I told him. I didn't want to scare my poor little, forty-year-old son by telling him any bear stories.

This one is from one of my short story books, Legends, Lies and Half Truths.

Winter

2007-01-11T15:09:00.000-08:00

January, 2007

As you would expect, it is a bit cold in these parts. I do live in the northern part of the country, and sometimes it does cool down. I looked at the temperature ahwile ago, and it showed 18 degrees. The weatherman, who always tries to scare me with horrible things to come, predicts 5 below zero for tonight.

If you thought I was going to let you off without a commercial message, think again. The message is: Now is a good time to read. There are millions of books to be had. I even have a few available if you get really desperate. So, read. Here is a story from my collection.

(New email: drjohnson74@peoplepc.com)
Apple Blossom Publishing
2233 E. 49th Ave.
Spokane, WA 99223

Chicken Every Sunday
By
Donald R. Johnson

We of the older generation often look back at the Great Depression with feelings of longing for those good old days. Most of the people were great certainly, but how many of us would give up the comfortable life we have now to go back? Admittedly, there were some bright spots along the way.

We always seemed to have plenty to eat. That could be a real chore in itself, supplying food for 8 people around the table. We had lots of pancakes, pork and wild game, when available, but the really fancy things went to others better off than we.

In the late 30's,Dad, with the help of my older brothers, was trying to make a living from logging and operating a small, somewhat moveable sawmill. That was a near impossible task in those days as there was little money floating around for anyone to buy the lumber .

Our family car, at the time, was a late model Ford panel delivery. It was a mixture of car, station wagon and pickup. The front end resembled a car, but from the driver's seat on back there were no windows. The doors on the back swung out, providing a large opening for loading cargo. A seat had been added in the back for transporting kids in less than style. Actually its versatility fit our needs very satisfactorily.

Each day Dad and my two brothers would get into the Ford and head for the mountains. The first task was to cut enough logs to operate the sawmill, and the next to get the mill operating. In better times there would be log cutters on the job and a skidder to bring the logs to the mill. During the slow winter months it was often a family affair, with Dad and the brothers doing it all.

After a hard day's work they would often cut a load of firewood to throw in the back of the Ford, and bring it home for cooking and heating our house. Sometimes a deer might find its way along with the firewood, but that was a fairly rare event.

On holidays or visits to relatives the Ford served as our finest transportation. It had a nice, shiny black paint and seemed like a smooth operating automobile to me. We kids in the back had to see all the sights looking through the front window past the adults in front, but we always enjoyed the trip.

There were days in the winter when it was too cold or there was too much snow to drive to the woods. It was on one of those days that Dad came home in the evening driving an old Model-A Ford that had the tired look of many years' service about it. The paint was a faded green with black trim and the seats were showing the wear from years of the occupants bouncing up and down on them over the rough roads. The engine had a strange rattling noise, not like the smooth purr of the Ford V-8 that we had been accustomed to hearing.

The most unusual part about the car was that every available inch of space beside the driver's seat was covered with crates of chickens. The noise was not loud at this point, but had possibilities. There was a definite odor of chickens and their by-product. Dad asked me to help with the unloading.

As we carried the crates to the woodshed and released the chickens, my seven year old mind didn't comprehend the total message of what had happened to our shiny black car. Of course, I knew later that it was sacrificed in the interest of survival. Now, we not only had basic transportation, but also food for the table.

I well remember those delicious chicken dinners that we had. Whenever we needed meat we went to our private woodshed and got another chicken. The bad part of the deal was the new mode of transportation. Those long winter trips were spent at a very slow 35 miles per hour, dressed in our most efficient winter clothes huddled under a heavy quilt to keep from freezing to death. No more cruising down the highway at 50 miles per hour with the heater warming us.
To me, those great chicken dinners almost made up for the hardships, but I suspect hat it was difficult for Dad and Mom. No one likes to move backwards with the comforts of life.

I once ask Mom why we ate chicken so often. She replied that it was because we were poor. My answer to that was, "I sure hope we stay poor for a long time."

Fall

2006-11-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

lloween

November 18, 2006

Fall

This time of year has always been fall to me. I know a lot of you call it autumn, but it seems that fall is more fitting; you know as in leaves, temperature and such. The leaves have mostly all fallen from the trees in this part of the world.
The picture at the left is one of our annual Halloween party for the grandkids. We have fifteen now. Here are a few of them doing their best to make a scary face, while some of the adults look on.
Halloween is also my wife's birthday. She is the instigator and main planner for the annual event. We usually go bowling or some other fun activity for the kids and then come to our house for pumpkin carving and food. She attempts to get the attention away from her birthday and put the empasis on the kids. Everyone seems to enjoy the time.
Winter will soon be here, and that is what I would like to speak to. Do you read more in winter? When the air is cold outside do you like to stay close to the fire? I can't let you go without a commercial message. Now doesn't curling up by the fire with a book sound cozy? I write books, and while I love to write, I like to share them with others.
We are sold out of Dear Old Nat, and probably will do another run in the spring. We have Fables, Folklore and Fabrications, a book of humorous short stories and Under The Clock, the history of Spokane's Crescent Department Store. These books were given excellent reviews by the Spokane Living magazine.
I will have my new books soon. A Dry Thirsty Land, a novel about life in small town America after WWII and We Got A Deal, an inspirational book about my bout with cancer, and how it drew me closer to God.
I would like to hear from you about any questions you have about these books: email johnson@spocom.com or Apple Blossom Publishing, 2233 E 49th Ave., Spokane, WA 99223.

Sincerely, Don

Liars

2006-09-21T15:26:00.000-07:00

October 15, 2006

Good liars are hard to come by these days. A few decades back, lying was a science as well as art. Here is a little story about one of those real experts in the field.

NATURAL BORN LIAR
By
Donald R. Johnson

From all indications the art of real good lying is being lost. If not totally lost it is certainly breathing its last breathe.
Oh yes, there are still liars around. People will lie about almost everything if given the opportunity. They lie about their age, weight, how much money they earn, what they do to earn it, lie on their income tax returns and sprinkle all that with lots of "little white lies." Most of these are simply rank amateurs.
Generally these amateurs give themselves away when they lie, with a blink, a tic around the eye or a dumb slipup in consistency. They practice often and long, but they never get it right like the professionals.
The "little white lie" category is the one that includes driver's license weight, a woman's age, hair color or other such personal matters, but these folks are really at the bottom of the heap when it comes to good lying.
I have known some really good professional liars in my time. Every story they told was consistent with their previous string of stories, and no matter how many times these stories were told, they stayed the same in the "facts." You would never see that telltale tic or blink that is so common to the amateur. They could always look you straight in the eye with never a flinch.
Bill was one of those real professional liars. Years before he had been broken up pretty bad when his horse had bucked him off in a rock pile. He couldn't do much of the heavy work around the ranch anymore, so he was able to work more on story telling as he did odd jobs on the place. His fame grew along with the number of his listening fans.
The guest ranch where he worked brought in people from all over the Northwest, so he never lacked an appreciative audience. Every time a new batch would arrive, he would be called on by Dick, the ranch foreman, to perform.
"Bill, why don't you tell these folks one of your stories?" Dick would start the ball rolling.
Bill would always make a show of being too busy to quit what he was doing, but would finally give in to the coaxing. He would get going and tell of getting calves off the range in a bad snowstorm, saving a colt from a cougar or defending some helpless lady or child. The audience was always appreciative and wondered how one old man could have been so brave, generous and kind all the time. Often, he would be asked for another, but he would always decline because there was so much work to be done. The listeners were always appreciative and left smiling. His reputation just kept growing.
One day, when a new set of guests arrived from the Coast for the week, Dick looked for Bill to tell them a story. He finally found him in what seemed to be a slightly agitated state. He made his usual request for a story.
Bill looked at him rather seriously and answered, "Man, I'm really sorry, but I can't do it now. We just got word that Shorty's layin' up on that mountain with a broken leg. We got to get two or three men with a stretcher in that Jeep and go get him."
Immediately Dick excused himself from the dudes and joined Bill in the effort. Everything was almost ready when Shorty came walking casually around the barn. Dick's face seemed to immediately turn bright red.
"Bill," he yelled. "What in the world are you trying to pull? Of all the stupid tricks this one beats all."
All eyes turned on Bill to get his reaction. He stood there with a silly grin on his face waiting for Dick's face to relax and for the stream of abuse to run its course.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Dick sputtered.
Old Bill's grin got still wider as he finally drawled out, "Don't blame me. You're the one who asked for the story."
Yes, Bill was a real professional.

© Donald R. Johnson From Legends, Lies And Half Truths by Donald R. Johnson copyright 2001

Books and Books

2006-09-08T10:39:00.000-07:00

September 25, 2006

With all the fooling around with the dogs for the past couple of times, I thought I had better get back in the picture. The dog might just take over if he had half a chance.

You may notice that in addition to me, there are a couple of books in the picture. I warned you earlier that I wanted to sell more of my books and get on the road to fame and maybe even a little fortune.

These are two of my books that I had mentioned previously. Fables, Folklore and Fabrications is a book of humorous short stories based on things I saw, heard and did in the 40s and 50s up in the logging, cattle and fruit area of North Central Washington State. The stories are pretty much about those folks involved in the logging, ranching and what we used to call appleknocking. I have had a little experience in all three, and believe that writing is easier, but not so much fun.

Under The Clock is the story of The Crescent Department Store, Spokane, Washington's premier store for almost 100 years. Along with the history, are interviews of the former employees and customers.

Here is the lead story from Fables, Folklore and Fabrication.

Water, Water Everywhere

Even for July, it was hot. The thermometer was bouncing off eighty by late morning and climbing. Everyone knew that those fluffy little clouds in the west were not going to provide any relief, and those silver linings were there strictly for decoration.
If anyone within 200 miles was a rodeo fan, they were there. It was not only a rodeo, but also, lots of family fun. At nine, the egg throwing had started off the day for the kids, and following that came the races with the various age groups and distances. There were prizes for hog calling, log sawing and about anything anyone could have ever thought of. That little town of twenty-five people grew to a thousand at rodeo time.
It would be afternoon, after the picnic lunches, when the greased pig chase and the little kids’ calf riding would introduce the rodeo. That was when the hard-core, real cowboy types would ride the saddle broncs, bareback and bulls. There would be calf roping and bulldogging for a change of pace, and barrel racing for the ladies.
Along with the heat and the dust stirred up by all the movement of people and animals came the intensive thirst. It was announced that the natural water supply, Meyers Creek, was not fit to drink because of the decomposed cow carcass found in it earlier that week. Through the years, it was the custom for most to simply dip out of the creek for a cool drink on a hot day.
Going to the little store was no relief, because those who did found that every kind of fluid sold for drinking was gone by noon. Even the vendors on the grounds, with their outrageous prices, were sold out by one o’clock. It was so desperate that even watching the cowboys and bucking broncs provided little diversion from the nagging thirst.
By two o’clock, the bronc riding was just getting started, and the fans in the stands were getting pretty thirsty and restless along with it. Most of the talk was running to thirsty as the temperature rose into the nineties in the shade and no shade provided. Those seats were merely a place to sit, with no other comforts such as a roof to deflect the hot sun.
Out of a desperation born of thirst, Al remembered his field water jug in the trunk of the car. He told his wife, Ruth, he was going to get that jug, and it didn’t take him long to bail out of those stands and go out to the field where the cars were parked.
Those field water jugs were homemade concoctions made of an empty wine jug, part of a burlap grain sack and some imagination. The jug held the water, and the part of the sack was sewn around it and wet down to keep the water inside cool by evaporation. The imagination part was that the water would stay cool for any length of time. Well, at least it was fluid.
As he made his way back to the stands, he was intercepted by his boy, Ron. Of course, Ron was as thirsty as the next guy and requested a drink. He took his drink, and Al proceeded to make his way back to his seat.
As he was working through the crowd, he noticed a hand beckoning him to come closer. His first glance told him it was his Uncle Earl.
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any more of that wet stuff, would you?” Uncle Earl asked.
Al handed over the jug, and Earl took a small swig. “You may have just saved my life, Al,” Earl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned, the trace of Copenhagen showing at the corner of his mouth.
“Was you passin’ that jug around?” Al looked toward the stands again. It was Joe Connally, an acquaintance who farmed on the other side of the valley.
Well, it wasn’t kin, but in ranch country it would be like signing your social death warrant to turn anyone down for a drink, so the jug was passed once more.
With that one, the stampede got underway. That jug went up and down in that section until, finally Al again recovered a much used water jug. He noticed that it was considerably lighter than when it had started the trip up and down the stands.
In the meantime, Ruth was watching all the action from the next section and gave Al the sign to hurry up and get back. All that activity of strangers drinking from their jug had her stomach churning a little. She wasn’t sure how badly she wanted a drink at this point, or if she would just as soon die of thirst. In light of where that jug had been, the latter option may be the best, she thought.
As Al scooted into the place beside her she grabbed the jug from him, scowling. He just shrugged his shoulders, “What else could I do under the circumstances?”
Shaking the jug, she could tell it was almost empty. Taking off the lid, she was certain that she could smell all the conglomeration of hot dogs, halitosis, and best of all, Copenhagen snuff emitting their odors from the jug.
“I’d rather die,” she made her final decision setting the jug at their feet. It was going to be a long afternoon.
(c) Donald R. Johnson (2006)

"Fables" is available for $12.00 including shipping and handling. Now that's a bargain, folks!!

Under The Clock is $20.00 including shipping and handling. You may order at johnson@spocom.com or

Apple Blossom Publishing
2233 E 49th Ave.
Spokane, WA 99223

Thanks, Don

So, The Dog Is Better Looking

2006-08-18T16:15:00.000-07:00

September 5, 2006

It has been said many times that featuring a dog or a kid will get the audience's attention every time. Well, it's worth a try. And besides, the dog is cuter than I am.

I thought I would share a story about how things were back in the old days when money was often scarce. I hope you enjoy it.

The Cowboy’s Life
By
Donald R. Johnson

I guess about every little boy wants to be a cowboy. Being around horses and cattle whetted my appetite for the cowboy life at an early age. To be a real cowboy one must dress the part, and that can be a costly proposition.

My older brother solved the money problems early on with some ingenuity and a little work. When he was a young lad of seven or eight, he had the good fortune to inherit some worn out high-heeled shoes from our mother. These fine shoes had the look of cowboy boots with the tops and some of the side leather cut out of them. He soon remedied that situation by getting an old coat, cutting off the sleeves and wiring the sleeves to the topless boots.

Some years later and in better times, I followed in his footsteps, or bootsteps, with the cowboy look. Times were better, and I was able to buy a new pair of Acme boots. They were a lovely tan with color stitching, and I was as proud as a new father with a pretty baby strutting around in those beauties. I could get them on with some effort and considerable amount of stomping on the floor to finish the application, but the problem came at night after my feet had swollen to fill the total foot area to capacity. I simply could not remove those unyielding pieces of cowboy footwear without outside help.

Sometimes my mother would help and sometimes one of my sisters. I never asked Dad, because I knew he wouldn’t usually stoop to the role of a handmaiden to a simple minded youth.
“Why don’t you just use a bootjack?” He would growl at me showing not one iota of sympathy for my situation.

I had tried that, but it didn’t work. Sometimes I would come home late and find no helpers awake. That meant I had to spend the night with those cantankerous boots stuck on my aching feet.

My next pair of boots were more practical, or so I imagined. They were high-heeled, pointy toed characters with a much easier entry and exit system than the standard cowboy garb. These handsome pieces of cow hide had feet like other boots, but the top stopped abruptly at the ankle. In addition to the shortness, there was an elastic expansion joint on the side of each boot. That design caused those little cuties to slide on and off as though they were treated with WD-40.

One snowy morning, Dad and Mom were headed out for town in the family car, while I was staying home to catch up on some chores. I was looking forward to a day of light work and lots of pleasurable activities. I was dressed casually for the occasion, but was wearing my grand would-be boots.

It was only a few short minutes before I heard the familiar screaming tires of a car stuck in the wet snow. Looking out, I saw the family car at the end of the driveway not going anywhere.
Leaping into action, I ran down the lane, and soon saved the day by pushing on the car enough to get it on the highway.

When I arrived back at the house, my feet were soaked from the wet snow I had so recently slogged through. I did the only logical thing under the circumstance; I turned on the oven of the stove and placed the boots on the door to dry. I then went in the living room to look at a magazine before starting any chores.

Sometime later, I remembered the drying boots and went to check on the drying progress. They had dried very well, but in the process, they had curled up into a strange looking mass. Their career of helping a young fellow look cowboyish was over. The only thing they would be good for now would be for a court jester with a very small, deformed set of feet.

Some years later, I started wearing boots again, but this time I chose the low-heeled, round toed variety commonly known as ropers. They were easy to get on and off, and by that time, I knew better than to substitute a pair of boots for dinner in a hot oven.

DRJ © 2006

The Dog Woke up

2006-08-16T18:57:00.000-07:00

August 25, 2006

The last time we talked, you may remember that I spoke of needing to wake up out of the lazy, crazy days of summer (Dog Days Of Summer) and get busy. As I had said, I received the proof copies of my two latest books and was forced to stir a little. After all, we want everything to be perfect.

Before I'm ready to seriously get to work, they will be finished, and the marketing frenzie will begin. To be quite candid, the dog, even awake, has not been too helpful in the book business. His main job is to chase squirrels and sprinklers and pester the old dog. So, all that means is that I'll have to do the work myself.

I must admit that there is a great deal of pleasure in meeting people and telling them about my writings. It is also enjoyable to know that I am sharing ideas and entertainment--something that I created. It would also be honest to say that I enjoy the checks that come by from time to time.

Step in close!! I would like to remind you once more that I would like your help in making me successful. In other words, step right up and buy my books. They will thrill you, educate you and entertain you. You had better hurry. The are going fast. Individuals are limited to ten books per order. Don't lose out. Order now while they're still available.

Seriously, I don't expect that type of sales pitch to be very successful, but if you would be interested in information about my books, email me at johnson@spocom.com. Thanks for listening. Don

Wake Up Call

2006-08-14T14:29:00.000-07:00

August 15,2006

A Wakeup Call

The last time we talked, I talked about the dog days of summer. Maybe it’s time now to wake up and get to work. My publisher delivered proofs of my two latest books, and I had to go over them to see if I wanted to change anything.
This is the time when you go peruse everything and find the things that looked all right when you looked the last time. Well, you do want to have a perfect book when you are finished.
I will always remember the excitement my first piece I wrote for real money. Sending off articles and waiting for the rejection slips is a slow, punishing project. Finally, I was paid twenty dollars for a silly little poem about camping that was published in Western RV News. I was a professional writer on a roll to fame and fortune. Both have been somewhat elusive up until the present time.
However, I’m going to have you help me out. I’m going to make subtle hints about my books, and your part will be to email for more information and buy several copies.
You have already heard about my humorous short story books, "Legends, Lies and Half Truths" and "Fables, Folklore and Fabrications." There are about 50 stories in each book, with a Western flair and a little twist at the end. I have two books on Spokane history, "Dear Old Nat," co-authored with Marla Hyder, chronicles the history of the famous Natatorium amusement in Spokane and "Under the Clock," tells of Spokane’s premier department store, which built a satisfied customer base with superior quality and service for over 99 years.
My two latest books will be released soon. "We Got A Deal" is an inspirational book about my year with cancer, and how God was especially close to me though the whole time. The title is derived from my deal with God that I would trust Him in everything, and He would take care of me. By the way, it was a good deal.
"A Dry Thirsty Land" is a novel about Smalltown, USA, during the ten or fifteen years after WWII, the late ’40s and the ’50s. It is laced with humor, but also tells of the problems, heartaches and disappointments of the high school kids, preacher, ranchers and the loafers on the street. The town boss causes problems for the school and church with his demands. The real problems are solved by the morning coffee drinkers down at Larry’s Café.
I’d be pleased to hear from you and give you more information. If your curiosity is unbearable, send me your questions at Johnson@spocom.com. Thanks, Don

Dog Days Of Summer

2006-07-20T17:04:00.000-07:00

July 22, 2006

Awhile back, I was looking a a picture that my wife took of me and our pup sleeping in my recliner. It made think of the "Dog Days of Summer" when the weather heats up and I slow down. Dogs are good at relaxing, but we humans sometimes feel guilty about it.

As a writer, I tend to have slow-down periods. Some may call it "writer's block," but in my case I would have to admit to procrastination or just plain lazyness. I can't seem to get started, so I'll have another cup of coffee. Then, I may have to spend some time in thinking, or does meditation sound better?

When I finally aproach the computer, I can't start until I play a few games of computer solitaire. If I don't win, I play more and then some more. Then, I need another cup of coffee. I feel a twinge of guilt for not doing something worthwhile.

I'm sort of retired, but I feel strongly that everyone, no matter what age, should have a job. I have chosen to be a freelance writer, which I have pursued with modest success. Maybe I should fire myself. No, then I would be out of a job. There is enough unemployment without adding me to the list.

Possibly the best option is to learn from my dogs and flop down to sleep any place and any time. That's it. From now on, I'm living free of guilt and enjoy the Dog Days Of Summer with the dogs. That has its drawbacks. Someone needs to work at selling my books and sending off another article for a rejection slip.

I have an idea: email me at johnson@spocom.com, and I'll tell you how you can buy one of my entertaining books. Stay cool. Don

Grandparenting

2006-07-07T15:42:00.000-07:00

No, this is not me, but she is my lovely wife, Patty, who is my best friend and editor of my writing. The "bundle of joy" she holds is our youngest grandchild, Gracia Ellis, born on 7-4-05 at 7:40 p.m., weighing 7 lb. 4 oz.

Grandparenting can be a fulltime job in our situation. We have 13 grandkids and 2 great-grandkids. We always have a celebration around Fathers' Day which co-incides with my birthday and several others, including Brayden, who turned 3 this year, sharing the same birthday with me. We have a good day with family and a barbeque dinner. Ain't it great living here in America?

I received the proof on one of my new books, Dry Thirsty Land, today. While it is exciting to have another book out, it alsoo makes more work in the marketing. It should be available in August. It is a story of rural America in the late 40s and 50s. It's all about the school, the kids, the church, the loafers and all the others in small town America. It is mostly humorous.

Being an author is work, but it has its rewards. At a signing recently, two little girls came up to me. and watched me for awhile. I smiled and nodded to them. One was about six and the other about eight. "Are you really an author?" one asked. I admitted that I was. "Are you a famous author?" the other one wanted to know. Should I have lied just a little to these innocent little girls? No, I just said, "I hope to be some day".

Summer is on for some time yet. Enjoy yourself.

Sincerely, Don

Summer Heat

2006-06-26T11:29:00.000-07:00

June 26, 2006

As a writer, my ego compells me to share with others. Much of my writing consists of things that happened in my life, and most of my writing is light and humorous. Here is one about the summer heat. I hope you enjoy it.

DON

Modern Travel

Watching a young family get ready for a trip makes me wonder how they can put all that stuff into one car. There is every sort of contraption for the comfort, entertainment and safety of the kids. There are bags of special clothing, with just the right brand displayed prominently, games to keep them occupied and often even a movie shown on the drop down screen in the ceiling of the car.

I wonder how our kids made it forty years ago when you opened the door, herded the kids in and took off. If you had a station wagon, the minivan of the past, so much the better. The back seats were always down so the kids could set up for a football game or a wrestling ring. They also provided choice seating for a drive-in movie. When they tired of all the fun and fighting, it was easy to simply flop over and go to sleep.

On one such trip, which included husband, wife, three kids and the family dog, we almost swore off travel for life. It didn’t help when the radio announced that the temperature was 105 degrees in Pasco, the town we were to go through next, and all this was done without air-conditioning. The kids were sagging in their corners rather than playing the usual ball game. Any conversation was reserved strictly for griping about the heat. The dog provided an interesting study as he made a large puddle from his tongue drippings on the floor.

After going through Pasco, we increased the speed back to a comfortable sixty miles per hour and settled back into our agonized state. Of course, the kids started arguing about anything that came up, and the adults broke their silence only to threaten the kids with dismemberment or death if they continued their pattern of behavior.
There is never a satisfactory answer as to why kids do things, so it is usually useless to question their motives. They usually flop around like a rag doll letting things happen, awaiting that day in the future when the brain will start slowly functioning. This incident illustrates that phenomenon.

For whatever reason, high temperature and all, the older sister crawled under the cheap plastic air mattress on the floor of the station wagon. The pesky brother did his part by hooking the hand pump to the filler hole. The adult population in the front seat was taking a break from the arguing and fighting that they had listened to so long. Little sister continued with the afternoon nap in the corner.

Cheap plastic air mattresses have a very low tolerance for snags, tears and excessive air pressure. Little brother was a natural born scientist and took great interest in the outcome of applying excessive air pressure to weak plastic chambers. He looked with great concentration as one corner of the mattress ballooned out well past its natural boundaries.

As the young scientist observed the progress of the experiment, form, matter and elements all changed positions. Since this happens so often in nature, a seasoned scientist would have predicted the outcome.
“Ker-Bam!” the bulge on the mattress suddenly lost its air, causing a chain reaction in the universe of the station wagon. The baby woke with a loud howl, the dog forgot to pant and started barking and the mother looked back to see only two kids instead of the usual three she was accustomed to.

As Dad fights for control, he steers the station wagon to the side of the road, and Mother starts into wailing. Boy wonders what all the excitement is about and would like to be a part of it.

“Where is Patty?” Mother wails painfully. She is wondering if the bottom of the car dropped out leaving her number one daughter somewhere on the pavement miles behind.

As the drama climaxed in the reign of confusion, Patty, probably the most confused, sat up and looked at the bewilderment of all parties.
In total innocence, she asks, “What is the matter?”

Unfortunately, those fun times would not likely be repeated these days. With the rear facing child seats, seatbelts and such modern inconveniences, the modern kid will have to stoop to playing with his Game Boy or watching the latest movies on the DVD player. Things just aren’t like they used to be.
© DRJ 2006

The Johnson Rag

2006-06-24T16:57:00.000-07:00

June 24, 2006

Hi, my name is Don Johnson, and this is my first ever blog. I hope it proves to be of interest to some of the readers. I am a freelance writer, who has done numerous other things during my lifetime; laborer, sailor, door-to-door salesman and school administrator. I have been published in a number of magazines and have published four books; two were collections of humorous short stories, and two were historical accounts of institutions in Spokane, WA.

Legends, Lies and Half-Truths are the short story books. Under the Clock is the story of the Crescent Department Store, which was in Spokane and Dear Old Nat is the story of The Natatorium Park, the place to go in Spokane from about 1890 to 1960. Dear Old Nat was co-authored with Marla Hyder and published by Nostalgia Magazine.

I currently have two other books in the process of publication: A Dry Thirsty Land, the story of Small Town, U.S.A. after WWII, and We Got a Deal, an inspirational book about my bout with cancer in 2005, and my dealing with God to take care of me.

I live in Spokane, WA with my wife, Patty, and my two dogs, Debbie and Toby. I hope that "The Johnson Rag" will suit your taste and we will have along and pleasant relationship.
Don