These are a random collection (that will be added to from time to time) of stories and thoughts from various periods of my life. I hope you enjoy them.
The stories include: Early Childhood Memoir, Leaving Kansas in 1941,1941 Arrival in Skagit Area, One Room School, Immigrant Grandfather, Tenakee Hot Spring Adventure 1979 – 1981, Running in Alaska 1981, Emerald
City Marathon March 27th, 1983, Silver Star Peak Climb, Mount Baker Climb 1983, A Stolen Shower in Alaska, A Timer’s
Reflections On The Women’s Olympic Marathon Trials 1984, An Evening with an Alpha Male
WHO AM I?, Our Sister June, On Death and Dying
Early Childhood Memoir
One of my early childhood memories is of standing on a
kitchen chair with one of my mother’s aprons covering my entire body watching
her cook. At that time, around age four,
I was given the cake batter spoon to lick.
When I finished licking the spoon, my chair was placed in front of a
dishpan filled with soapy water and allowed
to wash the dishes. By the time I
was twelve years old I was the family baker, helping on baking day with the
countless loaves of bread, and always baking the cakes and cookies. My interest in cooking far outweighed my
interest in washing dishes at that age.
I then developed a life long interest in gathering recipes from many
Art, for me, had its first expression in food
decoration. Family event cake decoration
became my forte. My school experiences
through twelve years did nit include art instruction. It dates one doesn’t it,
to have gone through twelve years of school without an art experience? We did sing and write though. I spent my
first four years of schooling in a one-room country school with a single
teacher for all eight grades. Miss
Butler, a wonderful caring teacher, was what was termed an “old maid”.
She lived with her retired father. In those days women teachers were not allowed
to marry. My lack of early art
awareness continued through the next eight years of my schooling took place in
Leaving Kansas - Off the Grid
The Stone family
was made up of my parents, four brothers and one sister at the time we left my
state of birth, Kansas, in 1941 because of a family crisis. That is another story. My Dad turned a 1939 Chevrolet car into a
pickup by removing the back seat area and building a big box that he then
placed on a welded metal framework. He
was quite clever at mechanics and cars.
He mounted the box attaching it to the front half of the car and then
covered the box with rainproof canvas.
In a heavy rain storm the water seeped in and made life miserable for
the three brothers and myself atop our entire worldly goods on the long ride to
the state of Washington. The other two
children rode in the front seat with our parents. Prior to our leaving we had a big farm sale
of everything we owned.
Our destination was
the upper Skagit Valley near Sauk Mountain. Former Kansas neighbors had assured
my Dad by letter that working in the logging industry in the upper Valley was
profitable enough to support a family.
We arrived in late August and I had my first ride on a small hand wound
ferry attached to heavy cable with room for about six cars, the Faber Ferry. Soon after arrival my parents bought a big
army tent with a wooden floor and a small wood stove. We set it up in the friend’s orchard on the
banks of the Skagit River. Our first
winter it rained and it rained. I
remember the smell of mildew and never being warm enough. In the spring we rented a house in Concrete
where another brother was born not too long afterwards. From there we found a forty-acre stump ranch
high on a hillside facing Sauk Mountain.
It was there we left the grid behind.
In the center of
the forty acres on a large, cleared area sat a house made of cedar shakes
inside and out. Two tiny bedrooms, a
living room and kitchen of equal size sat between the bedrooms. No electricity, though we did have two
kerosene Aladdin lamps and no telephones.
Our water supply was a fast running creek several hundred feet down in a
gully. Every day we kids, several times
a day, trudged up and down the gully slope with two buckets to fetch
water. Our produce was kept in a wooden
crate in the creek tied to a small tree.
If the summer weather became really hot we would drive to the Sauk Store
and buy a block of ice that we placed in an icebox with doors. We kept it outside on the back porch facing
the north. It had an upper section for
storing food above the ice.
A large Monarch wood-firing
kitchen range was a main source of heat and cooking. If had an attached hot
water reservoir. Behind the stove hung a
large copper boiler to hold water for baths.
I still have that boiler. It now serves as a plant container in my
garden. I can’t look at it without remembering the Saturday bath ritual that I
shared with my younger sister. We
carried our own water and put it in the stove reservoir and boiler to
heat. While that took place we carried
more water to cool the bath if it was too hot.
Our bathtub was a big round galvanized tub that was also used for
laundry one day a week. A privacy
curtain hung between the living room and the kitchen. Needless to say we did not bathe daily. We did use a washcloth and pan
of soapy water to take what my mother termed “spit baths” before walking the
mile downhill to the ferry landing to catch the school bus that delivered us to
school in Concrete
outhouse sat against the forest some distance from the house. It featured two holes and a Sears catalog for
reading and to use for toilet paper. Near the house we had a huge garden plot. Under the woodshed there was a root cellar
for storing root vegetables, including potatoes and all of the canning. We grew most of our own food. My mother’s yearly goal was to preserve one
thousand quarts of food, vegetables, fruits, venison, salmon, pickles, jams and
jellies. We always kept a milk cow and
several younger heads of stock. We did
not have fences so they often wandered into the edge of the woods. My dad hung a cowbell around each animal’s
neck. We kids took turns finding them
and herding them back home. I actually
made a game out of it by sometimes running through the woods listening for a
bell. Other times I walked very quietly
observing my surroundings. It was not
unusual to see deer, occasional bobcats, drumming grouse, pheasants, rabbits, and
I remember one really scary experience. My brother Marion and I were assigned the
task of leading a yearling heifer up to a distant neighbors high pasture on our
mountainside and were instructed to leave her there with his bull that lived in
that pasture for breeding purposes. Our
two dogs accompanied us. We needed to go
through an old logging road gate to get there.
As we approached the gate a mother bear stood up on her hind legs and
growled at us. Her two cubs were right
behind her. I can still see that fierce
face. That day for the first time in my
life I saw the hackles rise on our two dogs.
They took a look at the bear, turned tail and headed for home. They by far beat us as we decided to do a
retreat ourselves as fast as we could.
The only problem was that we had dropped the rope on the heifer and she
was left behind to fend for herself. Our
dad was not happy. He did retrieve her
unharmed and delivered her to the high pasture himself.
I believe my connection with animals and wild
creatures resulted from those strong early woods experiences. Some sixty plus years later, I still have
strong connections to birds and animals.
Once in the 1970’s on a hiking trip near Lake Ozette I made friends with
a young female deer near our camping site.
I was searching the surrounding woods for mushrooms to add to our
campfire dinner. Suddenly I had the
feeling that someone or something was following me. I sat down on a log and I could hear something
break a twig or two while walking slowly along where I had just been walking. A young female deer stopped in its tracks and
just looked at me. I talked to her
quietly and she took hesitant steps toward me.
I slowly stood up and made my way toward our camping spot where we had
our sleeping bags stretched out on a canvas for sleeping that night. As I stepped into the clearing I put my arm
gently around the deer’s neck. She let
me do that for several moments. My
husband was watching, and he couldn’t believe it.
He took a photo of the gorgeous animal when I
knelt down and we sniffed each others’ face.
She followed me to the sleeping bed area and proceeded to sniff each
bag. When she came to my bag she started to pee on it. My
husband yelled and my startled new friend ran away, and I never saw her again.
One Room School
Another of my early childhood memories is of standing on a kitchen chair
with one of my mother’s aprons covering my entire body watching her cook. At that time, around age four, I was given
the cake batter spoon to lick. When I
finished licking the spoon, my chair was placed in front of a dishpan filled
with soapy water and I was allowed to
wash the dishes. Our house was located
next to the city jail that was in a house that belonged to a Black husband and
wife. He was the jailor and she was the
jail cook. They had no children and were
very friendly and kind to our family. My three brothers and I loved those two
people. The wife baked cookies often and
always would bring us over a plate full to share.
By the time I was twelve years old and living on a
mountainside off of the grid in Washington State above the Sauk Ferry that took
us to and fro over the Skagit River. I
became the family baker, helping on baking day with the countless loaves of
bread, and always baking the cakes and cookies.
My interest in cooking far outweighed my interest in washing dishes at
that age. Especially since we had no
running water in our house. We had to
carry it uphill from a fast-moving mountain creek and heat it in a boiler on
top of our big Monarch wood kitchen stove.
It was then I developed a life long interest in gathering recipes from
Art, for me, had its first expression in food
decoration. Family event cake decoration
became my forte. My school experiences
through twelve years did not include art instruction. It dates one doesn’t it,
to have gone through twelve years of school without an art experience? My first
four years of schooling took place in Kansas. From 1941 when I entered the
fifth grade through my high school graduation I attended school in Concrete,
My very first month of first grade started out in an Erie,
Kansas elementary school. I was five
years of age. At that time we lived in a
large two story rented house on the banks of the Neosho River. My three older brothers and I walked about a
mile to and from that school daily. My
experience there was horrible. The
teacher singled me out from day one.
She accused me of steeling another student’s lunch and took me in front
of my classmates and lectured on my misbehavior as a thief. All of our lunches
were set on a shelf in the coatroom very close together in paper bags. I had picked up the one by my coat and looked
in it and saw a marshmallow topped cookie.
I had watched my mother put one in the top of my paper bag. I started to go sit down when another girl
claimed I had stolen her lunch. She had
had the same kind of cookie in her lunch that I had. I was mortified. A week later I used the signal the teacher
had told us to use if we really had to go to the bathroom. If it was to urinate you held one finger
up. I held my finger up and she ignored
me so I started waving it to make sure she knew I really had to go. I finally wet my pants as a result. Again she
called me to her desk and told me to walk home and change my clothes. Again I was mortified. I could not understand why she did not like
me. Lucky for me our relationship lasted
a little over a month. The Neosho River
flooded and destroyed our house and we moved to a large farm some distance
away. My dad took me with him to visit
our old house when the flood receded enough that we could get to it. I will never forget his taking me inside the
front door and looking up to see snakes hanging from the ceiling in loops. I had nightmares about snakes for a number of
years. Dad had brought a large
galvanized tub and pitchfork along. He
used the fork to stab stranded fish in big puddles in our former orchard and
filled the tub. We ate fish for a long
When we moved from our flooded home to the farm some miles
away we attended a one-room school named Orcutt. I was still five years
old. Our school had no indoor
plumbing. We had one outdoor toilet for
everyone. Our schools soul source of
heat was a pot- bellied wood stove. Miss
Butler had the older boys bring in the wood to fill it. She always made learning so much fun. We had music as well as reading, writing,
penmanship, and arithmetic. She taught
us songs as she played an ancient piano.
We read age appropriate books out loud selected from her mini
library. Not too long after I arrived at
the school we did an all class musical performance for all the parents. I remember I danced and sang with a white
formal glove on one hand. I loved
it. I don’t remember what the song was
titled but I remember the glove was part of the performance.
Our whole family attended pie socials where all the
neighbors got together at the school for a social evening with pies, homemade
ice cream, coffee and treats for the kids.
One time I ate so much popcorn that I got sick. I didn’t eat popcorn again for years.
That little one room school was a delight for me. It
really turned me on to reading for
pleasure and learning and exploring the world around me became an obsession
that I still enjoy at age eighty-nine.
Miss Butler was a
wonderful caring teacher, and was what was termed an “old maid”. She lived with her retired father who often
visited the school and did repair and upkeep when needed. In those days women teachers were not allowed
to marry. My lack of early art
awareness continued through the next eight years starting fifth grade through
high school graduation in 1949.
That little one room school was a delight for me. It had a shelf of books for all ages of first
grade through eighth grade. We practiced our reading skills by reading aloud
from a book suitable for our age group. Our school had no indoor plumbing. We had one outdoor toilet. The school was heated by a pot-bellied
woodstove. Our teacher had the older
boys bring in the wood to fill it. She
really made learning fun. She taught
music accompanied by an ancient piano and all students sang together like a
choir. Not too long after my dad bought
the large family farm that was located a short distance from a one room.
Alfred Albertine, Great-grandfather of My Three Children
In the early 1950’s, when my children were very young, their
paternal great-grandfather, Alfred Albertine liked to drop by to visit. He would sit in my kitchen by our old Monarch
wood range and tell me stories about his early days in the Skagit Valley. I would iron or cook as he talked.
Alfred was born in the Tyrol area of
Austria. On occasion he would talk of
his extremely painful childhood in Austria.
His father was a professional soldier, otherwise known as a
mercenary. The father was away from home
a lot. At age six, Alfred’s father sold
him to a winery. He never lived with his
parents again. The winery owner put him
to work at a very young age.
When Alfred turned eighteen years of age he escaped his
servitude and fled Austria on a ship traveling to the United States. When he arrived on the docks of New York City
he was greeted by people who threw rotten tomatoes at him. He thought it was because he was just another
foreigner who spoke very little English and would be a competitor looking for
work. Jobs were hard to find so he left
the area immediately and migrated to Michigan and found work in the iron
mines. He stayed there for two
years. He traveled to Nanaimo, Vancouver
Island, Canada. He worked in mines there
for the next six years. During that time
he wrote to relatives in Austria and asked them to find him an Austrian
Mary Menghini arrived in Nanaimo
in 1896. After their marriage in Nanaimo
they traveled to Skagit County in Washington State and settled in on a one
hundred acre homestead near Day Creek.
At that time there were no dams on the Skagit River and it flooded
often. During the four years they tried
farming at Day Creek there were numerous floods. Each time the river managed to take a chunk
of their land as well as many of their survival crops. At times they were stranded in the hayloft of
their barn for several days at a time.
In 1900 they moved across the river onto twenty acres at Lyman. There they were able to become successful
farmers. Over the years the family built
their holdings back up to one hundred acres.
They had a large Guernsey dairy herd that supplied milk to the Valley
for over fifty years. The family
maintained a milk delivery route for Carnation Milk Company for most of those
years starting with horses and wagons and then in later times changing to a
hard-rubber wheeled truck.
The Albertines raised eight children in their large Lyman
home. Grandad Albertine’s greatest joy
was to keep his children close, even as adults.
He could hardly stand it when any one of them chose to live elsewhere. One
daughter moved to another state. He
never forgave her for that. The loss of
two sons in the War of 1918 was almost more than he could bear. One daughter and one son never married and
lived in his home until their death long after his death.
1941 Arrival in Skagit Area
I would like to tell you a story, a love story. Granted it started out as a love-hate
relationship. It took years of experiencing
the many moods, the encompassing diversity and beauty, the richness found only
in long-term relationships that develop slowly into a consuming passion.
My first winter here at age ten was the winter of
1941-42. Our parents and we six children
lived in an army tent on the west side of the Skagit River. We were camped in the orchard of friends who
had left my birth state Kansas a year or two before we did to become loggers
rather than farmers.
It rained and it rained, all winter long. For a child used to clear cold weather
interspersed with snowdrifts that were higher than the fence posts, it was
miserable. Climbing into, always damp
clothing smelling of mildew was a hated task.
Things began to improve when we moved into a rented house in Concrete,
WA for a short time before we purchased our forty-acre stump ranch with a small
house built of cedar shakes, inside and out.
The house and a pole barn sat high on a hillside facing Sauk Mountain
across the narrow Upper Skagit Valley. The Skagit River snaked its way down
through the Valley towards the sea. It
was there, high on the hillside, where I grew my Victory Garden, learned to
cook and preserve food. We kids roamed
the woods with the bears, cougars, deer and all sorts of small animals.
My interest in Valley history started there while listening
to “old timers” tales of the settling of the Valley. The first European-American settlers arrived
in the Skagit Valley in the mid-1800’s.
A good share of those first arrivals in the Valley were farmers. Many were of Scandinavian heritage. They were drawn to the Skagit River’s rich
silt loam. A fertile soil that took the
Skagit 20,000 years to lay down at the river’s mouth. It was not an easy task to clear land of the
giant trees that forested the area.
Remember this was the era of horses and oxen for transportation and
farming. The main cash crops of that
period were oats, barley, and hay. The
Skagit farmers’ grains supplied the entire west coast down as far as San
Francisco. It was pre-1900 that the
Valley established their record for being the supplier of seed to the entire
world, a record that is still maintained today.
Too, the farmers grew many potatoes plus hops for beer production. Dairying became a major industry in the early
1900’s. Creameries for making butter and
cheese were located near the river for ease of transportation. The settlers took the best land they could
find along fresh water entries into the salt tides of Puget Sound. It was a time of grueling work diking and
draining the flats along the banks of the Skagit.
My love affair with the Valley has spanned well over
Seventy-five years. My childhood years
were in the upper reaches of the Skagit.
As a child bride of seventeen I moved half way down the river and lived
on a thirty-four acre farm at Lyman, In 1972 I traveled down the last segment
of the Skagit River Valley to Fir Island.
I found a haven of fertile loam.
My life’s love of the land expanding as the gardens I tend expanded Sunflowers fifteen feet tall, vegetables and
fruit glowing, growing, bird life so diverse, so beautiful. My seasonal calendar attuned to their
migrations. Who wouldn’t love this
Tenakee Hot Spring Adventure 1979 – 1981
In 1979 through 1981 I was a commercial salmon
fisher person in Alaska. In 1981 my crew
and several other fishing boats traveled to the island of Chichagof in
Southeast Alaska. The island is only
accessible by boat or seaplane. We had a
break between fishing openings and really needed a rest. Late that night we arrived and tied our 55
foot commercial fishing boat, the Carol, to the only dock available. The other two boats traveling with us had to
tie their boats to ours. The captain of the boat next to us had had a few nips
on the way in and when he attempted to step from his boat on to ours he didn’t
quite make it and had to be fished out of the cold, cold sea by crew-members. That was the beginning of our Tenakee
Later that night as we had dinner with the locals in the only bar
café in the village of Tenakee Hot Springs we learned that grizzly bears had
been spotted that day on the nearby river.
My son and the crew became very excited about the possibility of seeing
grizzlies the next day. Son Chuck
planned an adventure for the next morning to find the river and the grizzlies. We were told by the locals of a wonderful hot
springs close to the village created in a deep rock formation. Men and women had different time slots to
make use of the therapeutic hot spring waters in the cliff cave of natural rock. Women were allowed to use it for an hour late
at night. I couldn’t wait to do so. Inside, by the hand chiseled stone steps,
metal pitchers full of hot soapy water were lined up and were to be used for a
bath. The sign said to step away from
the spring and give your self a soapy shower and then rinse with more hot water
before entering the pool. I sat at the
bottom of the steps in the pool for over an hour. As I tried to stand I became very dizzy. I had to wait a few minutes before I could
climb back up the steps. A bit spooky as
no one else was in the area.
Next morning bright and early my son Chuck,
myself and several other crewmembers headed for the river on a very foggy
morning. As we hiked along the rocky
coastline we heard sharp sounds that sounded like gunshots followed by loud
whooshes. Suddenly, as the fog began to
rise, a pod of orcas appeared right beside us and they were oh so close to the
shoreline. They looked so beautiful and mystical
as the sun broke through the fog coating everything with a golden glow. It was a totally magic experience.
On our way back to the boat from the river we
found ourselves in a wet area along the shore that was filled with live
crabs. One crab latched on to the toe of
son Chuck’s rubber knee boot. He was not
easy to dislodge. He left a hole in the
boot. We hurried to the boat and grabbed
a bucket each and headed back to gather crabs
After boiling them and cleaning them we filled
a thirteen quart stainless steel mixing bowl with crab meat and crab cocktail
ingredients. I also made four loaves of
sourdough bread that day. We and members
from the other boats we were docked with had a crab cocktail dinner with fresh
bread. We ate every crumb of the food.
Running in Alaska 1981
Running in Alaska is an experience! On July 21, 1981 I flew up to Ketchikan, AK
with my daughter Marcia on a so-called working vacation to fill in for a sick
crewmember on our 55-foot long salmon purse seiner. Sunshine greeted us when we stepped off the
plane at 8:20 AM. We were whisked off to
the F.V. Carol. The minute we boarded
her in Thomas Basin the crew decided we should all climb Deer Mountain since
this was the first sunny day since their arrival in Alaska on July 1st. Having only our feet for transportation, we
started our hike at Thomas Basin. The
climb was fairly easy and we were rewarded by several viewpoints that
overlooked the many small bays and islands that surround Ketchikan which is
located on the shore of Tongass
Narrows. On the way to the top of the
mountain we crossed numerous small snowfields (a little scary because if one
should slip it was a long way down.)
About two thirds of the way up we had to cajole Marcia to continue. By the time we reached the top and began to
play in snow as we hiked across a saddle she recovered fully and did some
pretty fancy skiing on tenny-runners. In
fact we all did a lot of running up there to avoid being frozen to death by
flying snowballs. We were all wearing
shorts and that wet snow was a little like ice cubes.
Two thirds of the way down two of us decided to run down the
rest of the way. It was really not
recommended as the trail zig-zags across the side of the mountain Nevertheless, we did run to the bottom. The rest of the crew decided they would walk
from there to the boat. I ran the rest
of the way since my legs were already warmed up and I felt the need to run some
The next morning, we received the sobering news that an
eighteen-year-old off of another purse seiner had also climbed Deer Mountain
the previous day. He had not
returned. Search teams and search dogs
were out looking for him. They found his
body five days later at the bottom of a cliff near the point where our group
had started running and walking down the mountain.
I continued to run each day we were in port. There were plenty of places to run. I ran to Saxman Indian Village two miles
south of Ketchikan to look at a fair-sized collection of totem poles and then
ran back to the boat. Just running to
the post office is a run of about four miles one-way. Ketchikan is stretched out along the
waterfront with lots of boat and small plane activity at all times of the day
My favorite run while there was to a place called Wards
Cove. It is six-miles out and six miles
back along some beautiful waterfront. I
was amazed by the friendliness of the people I passed along the way. Most asked where I was running to and seemed
shocked that I intended to run twelve miles non-stop in one day. At the
half-way mark I did make a brief pass through a large fish cannery at Ward’s
Cove before running back to Ketchikan.
The road crew that was repairing the highway gave me a cheer as I neared
the end of my twelve mile run, giving me my final boost needed to finish
strong. One of them who had been
standing all day with a stop sign in his hand exclaimed, “I can’t even run a
mile and she isn’t even breathing hard.”
I didn’t stop to explain to him that if you are a distance runner in
good shape nine to ten minute pleasure miles don’t make you breathe hard.
The working part of my vacation was to fill in for a crew member
who became quite ill the second day I was there. We took him to the hospital and found out he
had mono. He slept a lot. We wanted to fly him home, but he didn’t want
to go. Having worked as a crewmember
doing the cooking and running the deck equipment for the two previous years,
the skipper wanted me to stay. So, I
did. Fishing proved to be unprofitable
that year as the large, predicted run did not show up on schedule. We caught as many as other boats did in the
area, but finally decided it wasn’t enough.
At the end of the fishing day on Sunday August 1 we unloaded to a tender
at Chacon Point, stowed our nets in the hold and headed down the Inside Passage
to try our luck fishing for sockeye at Salmon Banks. I was on the boat for the last five days and
nights fishing with no shower, I couldn’t wait to get home to a hot sudsy
shower. I couldn’t run during those
days. Instead I made a jump rope out of
a heavy stiff rope. I don’t know which
got the most exercise, my legs or my arms.
The high point for me on the way down through the Inside
Passage was playing with the porpoises that love to frolic in the spray created
by the bow of the boat. The more I
applauded and talked to them, the longer they stayed and performed. There are no words to describe the feeling I
felt when one of those large, graceful forms would turn on its side and lock
one thought-provoking eye with my eyes.
City Marathon March 27th, 1983
City Marathon, Silver Star Peak, Mount Baker, all poetic names, for Linda
Patterson and I they are poetic firsts.
We met in an aerobics class in late November of 1979 shortly after the
death of my husband Ross Newell in July of that year. She
and her husband, Jim Patterson, were
always positioned directly across from me in an aerobics class held in the
Burlington High School gym. About two
thirds of the way through the month long class taught by a young man named
Dave, Linda marched across the gym with hands on her hips and said, “You look
like someone we would like to know.”
Thus began a relationship that has lasted over forty years.
aerobics we graduated into running together almost daily averaging twenty to
forty miles a week. Many mornings before
heading to Cascade Middle School to teach I would roll out of bed at five a.m.,
drive sixteen miles to Big Lake to join Linda in an eight and three/tenths mile
run around Big Lake’s hilly circumference.
At the end of our run we would jump into the cold waters of the lake
before finishing up with a twenty minute warm up in their hot tub. Our longest run prior to 1983 and our participation
in the Emerald City marathon was a half marathon sponsored by Skagit Runners
Club and Skagit Valley College. I was
delighted to come in first in my fifty to sixty year old age division. There were two thousand runners that ran the
We ran the very
first Seattle Emerald City Marathon on March 27th, 1983. I remember a cold wind, especially down by
the water as we approached the finish line at the King Dome. Our route included starting in downtown
Seattle and running across the Mercer Island Bridge. I have a great memory of running across the
bridge and just as we reached the turn around spot we were greeted by a great
Mariachi band playing the Tequila song.
At the appropriate moment in the music two thousand runners shouted
TEQUILA. Our route then took us through
the Arboretum and across town to Ballard and its waterfront area ending up
along the downtown waterfront leading to the finish line.
to come in fourth for my age group, fifty to sixty years old division. The next day I couldn’t walk. In the afternoon a friend drove to my doctor
who x-rayed my foot. The x-ray showed a
small crack in one of my foot’s metatarsais bones. I knew exactly when that happened. The Saturday before our scheduled marathon
several of my fellow Skagit Runners and I had ran from the Bow Post office up
Chuckanut Drive to Bellingham for breakfast as our last training run. About half way there I jumped off a bank into
a trail along the road. I felt a small
pop but finished the run. I did no running
the week before the marathon and instead soaked in my hot tub for a half hour
I ran for well over
fifteen years. Running led to our first
Mountain climbing experience. Each
unique sporting experience was a fulfilled challenge, each anticipated with
some fear and a lot of eagerness; including fear of the unknown, the
unexpected. I had a desire to find out
just what it is that draws thousands of people to run a marathon and hundreds
to climb snow covered peaks. All the
time thinking, can I really run twenty-six point two miles? Climb 9,000 feet on
snow and ice? D
Did we find
out what it is that inspires people to push themselves to new limits? Perhaps.
I started running and exercising to help me sleep after my husband’s
unexpected death by cardiac arrest. It
helped me survive.
Most of the
people we climbed with were members of the Skagit Runners’ club. Experienced climbers, Mike Woodmansee and
Warren Krug, organized both of the climbs that we accomplished. We discovered that people who are distance runners are also physically able to climb rugged
Silver Star Peak Climb
We climbed Silver Star Peak the weekend of
June 9 and 10, 1984. I was fifty-three
and Linda was thirty-seven years old.
Sixteen people completed the weekend climb.
original plan for that weekend was that Mike and Warren, our two experienced
climbers would lead twenty Skagit Runners up to the summit of Mount Baker. It was to be a mix of experienced and
inexperienced climbers. I believe it all
started when Skagit Runner, Linda MacGregor, mentioned to Mike Woodmansee, an
avid runner and teacher of mountaineering, that she would like to climb
again. Linda had done some climbing in
Alaska several years ago. Mike had
climbed two hundred different peaks by that time. Some of them he had climbed more that once.
Why did we
climb Silver Star instead of Mount Baker?
Weather! Mike called for several
planning meetings prior to the chosen date to go over equipment lists, food
lists, and alternate plans if the weather did not cooperate. Our first alternate was Silver Star Peak on
the east side of the Cascades. It poured
all night the eve of our departure date. When we arrived at Skagit Valley
College parking lot at 5:30 a.m. it was not raining but the weatherman
predicted showers. We decided it
wouldn’t be much fun to be on top of Baker in a cloud- bank.
all our packs and ourselves into several vehicles and headed up the North Cross
Highway. We signed in at the Marblemount
Ranger Station on our way over the pass.
It was 9:00 a.m. when the last person dropped down over the rocky bank
by the sign that pointed to Silver Star Peak.
When I looked up to the top of that spire I began to have some slight
doubts about our collective sanity. Mike
had just pointed out to the group that we were going to go straight up through
the trees and rocks to the snow line. When we reached that point we would angle back
over the large field of snow and ice that looked a little like avalanche
material to me. We would, one at a time,
attach to a rope and step off of the col that would be our pass to the other
side of a giant snow field. From the col
we would drop, and we did literally, attached to a rope by a locking carabiner
also called a D-ring that was hooked over our climbing-harnass. We dropped straight down about a hundred feet
and glided for a very long distance on the snow field.. That was a real thrill. It wasn’t easy to take that major step off into
space. For some it took a while but we all did it.
we angled back up the side of the mountain with miniature snow balls shooting
down the incline we had to cross to get to our camping area. Oh, how they smarted when they hit you on the
hand or the side of the face. Our camp
was on a saddle where we spent the night in our three man tents.
It was such
a relief to take off our packs and take a look around at the awesome view that
surrounded us. Linda and I staked out
our tent spot right in the middle of the area that was barely large enough for
all of the tents. Everyone was feeling
pretty good by that time. We got our
little stoves going and the party atmosphere expanded. Several of us heated up our food and shared
our assorted dinners and ended up with a seven-course dinner. Not bad for being 7700 feet up in ice and
snow, sipping a hot drink while looking out over layer after layer of snow
covered mountains. It gave one a high
similar to the one attributed to running.
arrived early on the mountaintop. So
does 4:15 a.m., the time decided upon for our final assault of the rocky spire
that formed the summit of Silver Star.
During the night the wind blew hard and sleet pelted the tent. At wake-up time the weather was
gorgeous. Mike assured us that we would
be on the apex in a very short time.
When we reached our first crevasse we roped up in groups of four. Linda and I roped up behind Jere LaFollette
and Mike Woodmansee.
The crevasse was
beautiful with gorgeous shades of blue down inside. The only thing that made me
nervous was the cracking and popping noises going on inside it. About a hundred feet from the summit we were
treated to a spectacular view that in one direction looked down on Liberty Bell
Mountain and Highway Twenty and the
ranges to the north. In the other
direction there were countless layers of mountains. Our final fifty feet was a steep incline of
snow covered rocks. Before we could sit
on the top of our chosen spire we had one last obstacle to overcome. We had to work our way up through a chimney
that offered very little in handholds or footholds. I think that was the time I was most
appreciative of being roped to the lead climber who had wrapped his rope around
a solid rock at the top. There was no
room for moving around on the top. By
the time sixteen of us were there no one dared move. As we drank in the view in all directions,
Mike pointed out major peaks in the area, naming them for us.
realize how vast the Cascades are until they are viewed from above.
trickiest part of going down from the summit to our camp area was going down
over the rocks and through the chimney.
When we reached the solid glacier area we glissaded down. Sitting down and sliding certainly speeds up
the return trip. If we went too fast we
could slow down by ice axe arrests. I’m
sure our jubilant yells could be heard for some distance.
camp it took very little time to pack up our tents. Since we had several long glissading areas to
cover on the way down, Mike decided to give we beginners an hour’s lesson
perfecting our self arrests with the ice axe.
We had to slide down a bank feet first, then head first, and then
backwards head first. Our test was to
self arrest ourselves at the halfway mark.
Some people had to do it several times before they got it right. Believe me, while glissading down that long
one thousand feet from the col I was thankful for the practice. I used my newly learned techniques several
times. I found that heels are pretty
good brakes, also.
down the mountain we came across gigantic bear tracks in the snow. I have seen numerous bear paw prints in the
past but none as large as these. The
bear appeared to be following deer tracks.
Sure glad we didn’t meet that bear face to face.
completed the climb were Linda and Mac Mac Gregor, Katie and John Dahl, Carlene
Corbin and her dad, Carl, John Pickett, Walter Phfal, Dan Bailey, Fred
Heydrich, John Reynolds, Jere La Follette, Warren Krug, Mike Woodmansee, Linda
Patterson and myself.
Mount Baker Climb, 1983
For the past month, every time I looked at Mount Baker, the
same questions flashed through my mind.
Am I really going to do it? Am I
crazy enough to attempt to climb that mountain and cross all those crevasse-strewn
glaciers with only one other major mountain climb to my credit? Those thoughts were always followed by
flashback images of flying over Mount Baker in a small plane with friend Jim
Abrahamson two years ago. I remember
looking down at the multiple fissures encircling the entire mountain and
thinking that it was a mighty scary looking place.
On July 15, 1983 I did climb to the top and I am crazy
enough to cross the glaciers with all their crevasses. I loved it!
Climbing Mount Baker is like most everything else one does that appears
to be a challenge. The anticipation is
more frightening than the actual deed.
Not to say that there wasn’t a moment or two of excitement. Several of our group of nineteen managed to
sample the thrill of one leg suddenly disappearing into a snow bridge covered
crevasse edge. I managed to do it
twice. The first time I got out of it by
myself with the help of my ice axe. The
second time I wasn’t so lucky. Jim and Linda Patterson did a great ice axe
arrest preventing me from dropping farther down into a crevasse as our rope
leader Mike stabilized my predicament. Katie Dahl fell through a crevasse with both
legs up to her waist. She seemed to
think that was enough of that and the mountain could just pick on someone else
for the rest of the day.
Most of the people climbing that day were members of the
Skagit Runners Club. We started our climb
at the 3500-foot level parking lot just for climbers. The climb was organized and led by experienced
climbers, Mike Woodmansee and Warren Krug.
The other members of our party were Jim and Linda Patterson, Mac and
Linda Mac Gregor, John and Katie Dahl, Carl and Carlene Corbin, John Pickett,
Kent Haberly, John Reynolds, Jere La Folette, Walter Phfal, Don Slack, Howard
Shapiro, Paul ?, and myself, Lavone Newell.
We left Kulshan parking lot at 5:10 a.m. By twelve noon most of us were on the summit
of Mount Baker. By 1:00 p.m. the last of
our group reached the top. It took us
seven hours to climb 7000 + feet to reach the 10,500 foot summit. We spent over an hour on top eating our lunch
and taking photos, and visiting with some Canadian climbers. The flat area at the summit is large enough
to fit a football field on it with room to spare. After climbing up and up for hours it seemed
a little surrealistic to walk across such a level area of that size so high in
the sky. At one edge there is a small
cone that is thirty or so feet higher.
It was on top of that area that everyone paused to photograph the
surrounding views of mountain after mountain with Baker Lake lying far below
and to the southeast.
I couldn’t help but compare the mammoth size of Baker’s
summit to the minute area at the top the spire on Silver Star Peak that our
same group climbed in June. There were
sixteen of us on that climb (the first ever real mountain climb that over half
of the group had made). It was all we
could do to make room for everyone on Silver Star’s six foot by ten foot
mountain top that included a snow covered cornice along one edge.
After photographing the view on Baker we were discussing how
we could get the entire group together in a photograph when two young men with
skis on their backs arrived. John
Pickett recognized one of them as a photographer he had met some time ago. He asked him to take the photo. I think the best photo of all, though, might
be the one snapped of him with a dozen of our group’s cameras hanging all over
him as he patiently took two shots of the group with each camera.
When the photo session ended we did a combination plunge
step, slip and slide, and glissading down the Roman Wall. We looked back up the slope to see the two
skiers, Cliff Leight and Monty Tuengel gracefully traversing the Roman Wall we
had just struggled down. They passed us
at that point and we watched them sail down across the glaciers, skimming over
crevasses. They made it all look so easy
as if there was nothing to it.
At the base of the Roman Wall four of our experienced
climbers; Warren Krug, Mike Woodmansee, Don Slack and Jere La Follette decided
to bag another peak before the day was over.
Since each of them was on a different rope we had to do some jockeying
around to allow the four of them to head up the Hanging Glacier Dome on one
rope. John Reynolds replaced Mike
Woodmansee on our rope and we headed out at a trot down the glacier
fields. Going down was a breeze compared
to going up. When no large crevasses
showed up ahead of us we glissaded down on our rears. Glissading is fast, but occasionally painful
when you hit an ice lump at high speed.
It took us less than four hours from the top to get back to the spot
where we had left our cars. Sure did feel
good to remove those boots, wash our faces and just sit back and look up at
Baker and say, “We Did It!”
It felt so good that I met friends at a local spot in Mount
Vernon to listen to music and dance the night away. I slept well that night.
A Stolen Shower in Alaska
Background: The year
is 1981. The final year of a three-year
commercial fishing venture in Southeast Alaska aboard the fishing vessel, The
Carol. Built in the 1930’s, it was a
classic fifty-five-foot-long wooden hulled salmon fishing boat. It was meant for work with no luxuries
apparent. It had no place to shower. It did have a very tight toilet, but you
could not turn around in it. A compact
galley was the one place with the most comfort.
A small one-bunk room for the skipper adjoined it. Since I was the only female of a six-person
working crew, I was allowed to sleep there.
The skipper slept down below just off of the fish hold below decks with
the rest of the crew. I was the cook,
and I ran the equipment on the deck.
Quite fragrant any time, but especially so when you were fishing around
the clock because of a forty-eight hour opening.
You fished at the whim of the Alaska State Fisheries
Department. Sometimes you fished for a
week without going ashore. A cannery
fish tender boat followed the fishing fleet around the fishing grounds. When you had a full hold you radioed the
tender and they would tie up to your boat and our crew, including myself, threw
the fish into the a lowered basket and they were weighed and then dumped into
the tenders iced hold. We had to
separate the sockeyes from the lowly humpy because the price varied
immensely. Kings and silvers were also
separated by species. It was a real
fishy job. Not unusual to get slapped in
the face with a fish if you moved carelessly.
Do you think we needed a shower after a week at sea? Uh-huh!!!
Well, let me tell you about one particular shower that I
will never forget. We had been fishing
night and day for a week without going ashore.
It was midnight or later when we arrived in Ketchikan and tied up at our
cannery’s dock. We had in the past been
allowed to shower there when all of the public showers in town were
closed. Because of unknown complaints by
cannery workers it was decided we could no longer do that. The cannery had gone so far as to put up a
barbed wire fence and locked gate across the dock blocking boat crews from
entering the cannery. We were not
happy. We discussed what we should
do. The crew voted that we should climb
over the damn fence gate and just go in and take a shower anyhow. I agreed that my need for a shower was
greater than my nervousness about stealing one.
So, with a bit of difficulty and a lot of adrenalin we made it over the
obstacles and joyously found the showers unlocked. Without lights we each found a shower space
and the water flowed hot and furiously.
I lathered myself with soap from the top of my head to the bottom of my
feet. Uh-oh, all of a sudden flashing
red lights reflected on the walls. The
crew whispered loudly, HIDE! Under the
bench I went wrapped in a soapy towel barely able to breath for fear of being
hauled in the nude to a police station.
No-one made a sound. I had no
idea where the rest of the crew was hiding.
I saw a policeman with a flashlight shining it around the building. Luckily he had it aimed above the bench where
I was hiding. Finally he went back to
his cruiser with its flashing lights and left the area. When he was gone everyone whooped and then we
finished our stolen showers. At the time
I wondered why they had windows in a shower room. Could it be it was to catch shower thieves?
Reflections On The Women’s Olympic Marathon Trials 1984
The names in women’s distance running – Joan Benoit, Julie Brown, the
Shea sisters, Karen Dunn, Marianne Dickerson, Sue King, and my own personal
favorite, Sister Marion Irvine: all gathered together in one spectacular
marathon. The first ever Women’s Olympic
Marathon Trials. There were
two-hundred-sixty-seven women, who had each already run a qualifying marathon
at 2:51:16 or less, between April 1, 1983 and April 16, 1984, from all parts of the United States
making them eligible to take part in the elite run. They ranged in age from sixteen year old
Cathy Schiro of Dover, New Hampshire to the oldest competitor, the fifty-four
year old Dominican nun, Sister Marion Irving from San Francisco,
California. Schiro’s best qualifying
time was 2:45:16, Irvine’s was 2:51:01.
In the trials, Schiro finished ninth in 2:34:24. Irvine ‘s time was 2:52:04
briefing for the official timers took place from 8:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. in a
room just east of the starting line. It
was during this briefing that I was handed a yellow flag and told that part of
my duties at the thirteen mile mark was to wave it at all remaining runners at
precisely one hour and forty-four minutes after the starting gun. I was also told to give them a verbal warning
that they were close to being removed from the course.
marathon was scheduled to start at exactly 9:25 a.m. That gave we timers an opportunity to walk
out to the starting area and share some of the pre-race tensions of the
competitors. Looking down the avenue
lined with American flags did give one a special feeling. At 9:20 all timers who were not already at
their post were grouped together near the starting line with eyes glued to the
starter’s gun. Right on time we all
pushed the starting button on our stopwatches.
Those of us stationed at eight miles and out were then bussed to our
positions. We followed the runners for
the first three miles. At that point we
cut across the course to the eight-mile mark.
The bus dropped each timer off at his or her post. Mine. At the thirteen-mile mark, was on the
Yelm highway next to a huge Christmas tree farm.
fifteen minutes prior to the approach of the first runner to my post a car with
four Olympic officials came by and checked my stopwatch against the official
clock they were carrying with them.
After a few seconds of comparing the two they formally announced that I
was a certified timer with the certified time.
I have wondered since what would have happened if the two timepieces had
eagerly awaited the first runner, I listened to a ham radio operator’s
commentary on the approaching runners.
Up to the twelve mile mark Joan Benoit and Betty Springs were step for
step. Somewhere between the twelve mile
mark and the thirteen mile area Benoit cruised away from all contenders. When I first sighted her she was all alone.
almost indescribable. The photos I have
seen in the past did not do justice to the five foot three inch, one
hundred-five pound dynamo. She is
pretty, petite, and all guts. The most
difficult part of being an official timer was refraining from cheering her on
as she neared my milepost. I did get to
take a good look at her smooth running form as she led the pack gliding towards me before I concentrated on
calling out splits for the next half hour or so. Benoit crossed the thirteen mile mark alone
at 1:12:34. From then on all I saw were
legs and blurs of bodies approaching my watch.
Trying to out shout the hovering television helicopters as the leaders went
by was a real challenge!
the last runner passed by my post. (Yea,
I didn’t have to use my yellow flag.)
She did run a bit awkwardly but then you might too if you were six
months pregnant. Directly behind her
was a medical wagon. A bus followed
it. The course officials, including
myself were being picked up by the bus to be returned to the starting
line. As we rode along behind our
pregnant runner we listened to the bus radio.
Benoit was almost to the finish line.
Julie Brown not far behind her.
It sounded like a real battle shaping up for third place. While the races top spots were being decided
the last runner was gaining quite a rooting section on our bus. She had already announced that the child she
was carrying is a boy. By mile eighteen
she was within thirty seconds of being flagged off of the course. Runners had to do eight minute miles or less
to receive an official time. The hills
were beginning to take a toll on her. It
seemed that Michelle Davis intended to have her unborn son be the only male to
run the first ever Women’s Olympic Trials Marathon. At each mile the red flag came out. Michelle kept running. Finally the medics must have decided to take
her in hand. One jumped out of the van
and ran along side of Michelle, obviously telling her she must slow down. After the second medic joined her she did
walk and she removed her race number. At
that point our bus passed her. Michelle
finished her run at 4:01.
By the time
I arrived at the finish line it was time for the awards ceremony. One of the first people I spotted was Joan
Benoit. As I looked around I found the
area was alive with lovely ladies wearing orchid leis. The conversation centered on how each had
performed in the marathon. Second place
Julie Brown did not even look tired.
Julie Isphording was euphoric. As
she signed my program I asked her if she was getting tired of people
congratulating her. Her response-“Oh,
no, this is what I have been working for.
I can’t get enough of it”. Joan
Benoit was much calmer. Her movements
revealed that the race had taken its toll on the speedster. I am totally in awe of the twenty-six year
old Benoit who had recently had undergone arthroscopic surgery on her right
knee., and who also suffered from a sore hamstring the week before the
Marathon. One of the most gracious
runners I chatted with was Sister Marion Irvine. She had hoped to run the distance in 2:50 but
missed that time by one minute. That
didn’t seem to phase her at all. She laughed and said she would try again to
break 2:50 next January in Osaka, Japan.
If I as an older runner need a model, Sister Marion fills the role.
An Evening with an Alpha Male Coyote Trickster
My husband Dick and I regularly spend the month of March on Dove Mountain north
of Tucson, Arizona and have for nearly twenty years. We often hike in a 1200
acre Desert Preserve located less than a mile from the house where we stay.
Only non-motorized traffic is allowed on its nine miles of trails. We often met
coyotes, javelinas (collared peccary, similar to wild boars, considered
dangerous if babies are with them.), occasional rattlesnakes, jack rabbits,
roadrunners and assorted other creatures and birds. Too, there were bicycles and horses on
occasion. We also hiked in high desert
area near the top of Dove Mountain without trails.
One late afternoon we decided to do a trail-less hike up to
the top of the mountain. We actually
became a bit lost as it was starting to get dark. I spotted a pair of coyotes ahead of us and
decided I wanted to photograph them. We
slowly inched toward them and every time we got close enough to take a picture
they would trot faster and finally disappeared off to the side. We turned towards where we thought our house
was at a fast walk because it was really starting to get dark. I sensed
something behind me. I looked back to
see the two coyotes were following us.
The one in front was a large male coyote in very good shape and the
other following him we thought was his mate.
About then we spotted the tower that marked where the house was located
and hiked home as fast as we could without running. We learned later that we had wandered in to
the area that was filled with coyote dens.
WHO AM I?
This is a paper I wrote in the early 1980’s for a workshop I
Am I that fourth child born to struggling farmers living on
the edge of the Great Depression on
November 20th, 1931?
Am I the transplanted ten year-old Kansan separated by half
a continent from the grandmother I adored?
She of the wondrous storytelling and heart felt poetry. That trip from Kansas to Washington State was
done in the manner of the dust Bowl Okies traveling west. Six siblings four of us piled atop all of the
family’s worldly possessions in an old canopied pick-up truck made out of a
1930’scar with the backseats removed and a canvas covered wooden box . We camped out along the way renting a motel
for one night so all could take a shower?
Or, am I the maturing child living off the grid in the deep
woods on the the South side of the Skagit River living miles from neighbors in
an area accessible only by a hand-wound cable ferry that crossed the Skagit as
needed from 6;00am to midnight daily?
Or, Am I the young woman who married three days after high
school graduation at age seventeen and birthing three children by age
twenty-one? I became a farmer’s wife,
milking cows, raising hay crops, gardening, and preserving food on a
thirty-four acre farm half way down the Skagit River on the eastern edge of
Lyman? A young adult developing a burning interest in art and in learning for
Perhaps I am the art teacher who spent twenty-three years in
the same room at Cascade Junior High (later it became a Middle School) in Sedro
Woolley. A teacher, experiencing growing
pains along with her students intense creativity. Twenty-three years surrounded with puberty,
what an experience.
Or, am I the woman who married my best friend at age forty
and spent the next seven years working with him on an ultimate art piece, the
house and gardens I live in on Fir Island.
We followed his dream in 1979 and bought into a commercial fishing vessel. On that salmon purse seiner, the Carol, my
husband fell dead at my feet the first day of the first salmon fishing
opening. He suffered a massive cardiac
arrest. I worked summers on the boat for
the next three years before selling our interest in it and escaping the
$500,000 loan that used our home as collateral.
Am I the so-called retiree, fulfilling a long-term dream of
publishing a book with art, poetry, and good cooking? My days were filled with gardening, painting,
and writing at my own pace, feeling strongly the need to record on canvas or
paper my view of nature and spirituality.
I suspect I am all of these things. I feel privileged to have experienced so much
diversity, and to have lived so many lives in one lifetime.
Our Sister June
My most vivid memory as a small child is the following story
of my sister June Stone’s birth. The
second most vivid memory is of dancing with my father from the time I was a
year or so old. He would play the
harmonica and he and I would dance. I
particularly remember visits to Dad’s oldest brother, Uncle John where he
worked as a car mechanic. Uncle John was
a tall man and he always wore coveralls that were covered with grease. Every time dad and I danced on our visits
with him he would end up giving me a shiny new penny when we finished. What
still amazes me about Uncle John is the fact that he had twelve children and
probably couldn’t afford to give me even one shiny new penny. My dad told me later that I started dancing
as soon as I could walk. What I remember
most is dancing to music anytime I heard it and receiving that shiny new penny
as a reward. I can still “feel the
music” today as I approach my ninetieth birthday. I think I’d
like to leave this life dancing.
Dad and I were always the Saturday night entertainment for our large
family from the time I was a small child.
Of course I was born during the Great Depression on November 20,
1931. Food was scarce, jobs were
scarce, and the only entertainment was that which you made for yourself.
My sister June’s Story:
Yvonne June Stone was born June 25, 1934 in a modest home
near Galesburg, Kansas. She joined three
older brothers and one older sister. I
am that older sister. I remember the
beautiful sunny day of her birth so well because I, at age two years and seven
months, observed her birth while hidden high on a gigantic pile of quilts and
blankets that were atop an ancient steamer trunk in our parents’ bedroom. I was supposed to be next door at our
neighbors’ house. My grandmother had
taken me over there to spend the afternoon while June's birth took place. I must have sensed something unusual was
happening because I sneaked back home and scurried into my mother’s bedroom
unnoticed by anyone. I climbed to the top of the bedding that nearly touched
the ceiling. The entire event is etched
forever in my memory. I lay, sucking my thumb, watching her birth unfold. I saw
my mother, with hands above her head, gripping the brass bedstead while moaning
and writhing on the bed. I thought the
midwife and my grandmother were trying to take her legs off. I was mesmerized when my grandmother held out
her hands and caught my sister as she emerged from between my mother’s legs. The words she spoke still ring in my
ears. ‘This child will do wondrous
things because she has a veil over her face’.
Her head was covered with a film that I have since learned is called a
caul. As my grandmother started to clear
the film away I began to cry and remember asking, “why did you try to take
mama’s leg off?” I was in deep
trouble. The visible consternation
scared me seriously.
Another strong recollection of June is of a happy little
sister with a ringlet-covered head framing big brown eyes. I remember our father calling her his “little
brown eyed Gypsy”. We were probably both
under the age of five at that time. June
was always a cowgirl at heart. Oh, how
she wanted to have a horse, it never happened.
I can see her now in her black cowboy hat she wore throughout her
childhood.. Somewhere in my copious photo
files I have a slide of her zooming around the fifty bed hospital June had
helped build and ran for close to forty years in Ippy. The Ippy compound is
located in Central African Republic.
When June arrived there in the 1960’s it was known as French Equatorial
Africa. The photo is of June zipping around on her moped wearing a colorful
African sleeveless dress, cowboy Stetson on her head and cowboy boots on her
feet. In Africa women wore dresses,
never slacks or jeans.
But let us return to the days of our childhood. Being girls, we were assigned to do the
dishes every day. Neither of us ever
wanted to deal with the heavy, greasy pans.
That was probably the only time we ever argued. As children we always
slept in the same bed. It turns out our
bedroom was a day bed in the living room where we slept feet to feet. We were bed partners until I left home at age
seventeen. Our little cedar shake house
in the woods had only two small bedrooms, one on each side of a living room
that opened up into a kitchen, similar to a cross. By this time our family had grown in number.
Now, seven living children filled the small house. The three older brothers slept in one bedroom
our parents in the other. The two
current babies had a crib in with our parents.
That left the day bed, also used as a couch, to June and I.
Our religious upbringing was varied. In our last Kansas church the locals termed
it a “Holy Roller” church. It had a fiery minister. I recall that when we first started attending
that church I was a bit scared of the loudness of the sermons. One Sunday I spoke up to my parents and asked
in my normal voice a question about the service. I remember asking “if God created us who
created God? I remember my parents being
quite upset by my outspoken question. I
was well scolded when we returned home.
In Washington State our family continued
to worship God in the church closest to our home. During June’s formative years, we lived on
the south side of the Skagit River in an area called Sauk. The only way to cross the river was on the
Faber Ferry, a hand-wound, gas driven, ferry attached to cables that spanned
the river. As a result, June and
siblings (including me) often attended Sunday school classes in the home of
Florence Hockett, a woman instrumental in the building of the Community Bible
Church in Concrete. During those early
years we also attended the Presbyterian Church in Concrete. That might explain why, as adults, two older
brothers became Catholic and another joined a Southern Baptist congregation. My children were raised as
Episcopalians. June started out as a
teenager with the Community Bible Church in Concrete. Later, while attending nursing school in
Everett, she joined Calvary Baptist Church and remained a member until the day
she died. Our younger sister and family
belong to the Assembly of God Church in Concrete. Most Sundays, our large family joined our
parents for after church Sunday dinners of chicken and noodles or chicken and
dumplings until our parents’ deaths. Not once can I recall criticism from
anyone over a family member’s choice of religious expression. One can’t help but think that our parental
example of tolerance of all faiths, if practiced throughout the world, could
make our world a much more peaceful, pleasant place for all.
At age fifteen June made the decision to become a medical
missionary in Africa. She spent close to
forty years in Africa doing just that.
She graduated at the top of her class from Concrete high
school. After graduation she enrolled
in a college in New York State where she graduated with high honors. She then went to Everett and completed a
three-year nursing course, again with high honors. She spent the next year working as a surgical
nurse at an Everett hospital. From there
she traveled to The Sorbonne College in Paris and spent eighteen months
learning the French language. From Paris
she traveled to Fort Krampel in Africa to learn the Sango dialect that would
allow her to communicate with the native Africans in French Equatorial
Africa. That country is now Central
African Republic. She then officially became a medical missionary with Baptists
Mid- Missions. The stories that unfolded
through those years are amazing. Each
fifth year she left Africa on leave for more training in tropical medicines in
places like Scotland, England, Wales and in the United States. Each leave included travel from church to
church in the United States to raise money for medical supplies and cash to
support her work in Africa. Her
supporting churches covered the West coast of America, and included Alaska and
Her experiences throughout her nearly forty years in Africa
were amazing. Her first term was scarily
highlighted for, we her family, by an actual act of cannibalism that took place
in her area. Three men from the closest
village went off to a hunting area to try to find meat for their needy
families. Two of the three men returned
and did not seem to know what had happened to the third man. His family was
very upset. It was noted that they came
back with smoked meat that turned out to be human flesh. They were even so bold as to serve their
hunting partner’s flesh at their homes.
Over the years there were many snake stories. Everything from their appearance hanging from
the thatch roofs during services in small churches, to the one who traveled
with her in her car for many miles, to the six foot plus “bad snake” that came
to dinner. The visit took place on
June’s birthday. On the Ippy station, a
missionary pilot who flew patients to and from the hospital and his wife lived
close by to June. He was flying on a
mission that day. His wife decided that
June should come to her house and have a birthday lunch. As they sat down at the table they heard a
noise, like a bottle breaking. When they
went to investigate they saw a huge snake forcing his way through what had been
a small hole in the screen door. He
slithered into the room and disappeared.
The snake suddenly reappeared. It
stuck its head around the doorway about half way up the wall. They called African workers to come and
remove the snake. The men took one look
at it and shouted, “bad snake, bad snake”.
It disappeared behind a buffet.
They ran to a residence nearby for help and neighbor, Larry Beckman,
came over with a pellet gun and shot the snake over and over. Finally it was dead. They took it out to the road and measured
it. Larry, who was well over six feet
tall, lay down beside it. The snake stretched out well beyond six feet long.
There were years when June and the African midwife nurses
she had helped train delivered as many as five hundred babies a year. Each of those newborn babies received a
layette of flannel diapers and a baby gown.
The layettes were made by church members and loyal supporters throughout
the USA. I remember a photo of one
adorable baby that June took care of until she could find a relative. Baby Pierre slept in a bassinet made out of a
dresser drawer in June’s bedroom. The mother died during labor. It was quite
some time before the father came to claim the baby.
I recall another photograph of, what June termed, an African
ambulance. It showed two men with a
strong pole over their shoulders.
Between them there was a blanket attached to the pole and the victim
needing medical assistance was therein reclined. I believe that our sister June deserves
sainthood. The stories in my head go on
Those last years at Ippy, where she had managed the hospital
for most of her years in Africa, were difficult for a number of reasons. The area was overrun with rebel groups,
called bandits, who threatened her medical compound repeatedly. Her hospital was filled beyond its capacity
with young mothers who were HIV positive as were their babies. The men didn’t come in for treatment. Most of the African population would not
accept the fact that sexual promiscuity had anything to do with the
In the summer of 1996 June was forced to leave her hospital
by French Military escort. Rebels were
killing anyone and everyone with white skin.
She received a radio-telephone call from a French African diamond
collector. June had taken care of his
wife at an earlier date at her small hospital.
He told her to turn over the hospital and her home to the native Africans
she trusted most. The few hours before
the rescue operation took place also included a long trek to the Bambari
airfield. Immediately June chose to give
head nurse Joseph, an African nurse she had trained many years before, the
assistant head nurse, and the hospital cashier, Timothy, control of everything
pertaining to the hospital. She and the only other white woman on the station
had to choose what they would take with them.
Each person being airlifted out of the area was allowed to bring one bag
of personal items. For June it was a
very difficult task after spending more than thirty-five years living in
Africa. Their instructions were to
travel some distance to a small, grassy airfield to join other whites from
numerous European nations. Many were merchants from throughout the Ippy area.
They were told that at 5:30 a.m. a French troop transport plane would land and
they had less than ten minutes to load and be back in the air. They were instructed to line up in a
row. At 5:30 am exactly, two French jet
fighter planes zoomed crisscross across the area to check for rebels. The troop
transport plane landed, opened up the back loading door, and out popped about
thirty-five soldiers who surrounded the airplane. Like clockwork, the waiting group of people
marched in, handing their one suitcase to a soldier. The plane was back in the air within seven
minutes heading for Bangui. At Bangui
they landed at the French controlled airport that was walled in similar to a
fort. When they landed June was escorted
to an American airplane that took her to the Cameroons. She flew from there to Switzerland and then
to the U.S.A. As her plane left Bangui
the rebels were shooting at the plane. June told me by that time she was so
tired that she just didn’t care and she simply drifted off to sleep
Another unusual memory shortly after June’s birth that
relates to my Grandmother Gough. The
house was the same one that June was born in 1934. That house was located not far from
Grandmother Gough’s farm. Someone knocked loudly on the door. My grandmother exclaimed, “Uncle Ed is
dead.” My mother said, “he is fine What are you talking about?” She opened the door to another of my
Grandmother’s brother who said, ”Ed just
died of a heart attack.” Grandmother
seems to have been what has been termed a seer.
On Death and Dying
My introduction to death arrived early in my life. It was an unpleasant and baffling
experience. I was around six years old
and had great admiration for my pretty blonde eleven-year old cousin,
Lois. I thought of her as a lovely
princess. She was always clothed in
frilly dresses and wore patent leather shoes.
Her naturally curly hair sported ribbons to match her clothes. She lived
in town and had her own girly bedroom. I
lived on a farm and shared sleeping quarters with my siblings. My clothes were hand-me-downs and I wore
sturdy shoes. I do know I was awe struck
by her sweet persona. She suddenly
became quite ill and was very weak and bed ridden. Her bedroom was darkened by
heavy drapes. After a while rails were
added to her bed so she could not roll out of it in her weakened state. I now know she had developed leukemia. At the time no one explained to me what was
happening even though we continued to visit her until her death. After her funeral attended by all of the
family we went back to her home and her father and mother carried all of her
bed and bedding and her clothes to the back yard and burned them. To this day I don’t really know why they did
that. I was appalled and couldn’t wait
to return to our farm. That same year
Lois’s father was injured in a hunting accident and died shortly afterwards.
As the oldest girl child, the fourth born of seven siblings
I became an alternate mother of my sibling babies. Mother often worked outside in our immense
gardens. Some summers my mother worked
as a field boss for a large strawberry field near Concrete. I believe the field where she worked belonged
to the Sukuma Brothers. It was her job
to keep the kids filling their strawberry flats of boxes while discouraging
filling their stomachs or starting a strawberry war. The temptation to throw the biggest, juiciest
berry at the nearest human target cost many a youngster his job. For some that was a welcome release.
I was twelve years old when my baby sister, Gertrude Helen
Jane Stone, was born three months premature.
Her birth was traumatic. Six
months into Mom’s pregnancy she had a severe attack of appendicitis in the wee
hours of the night. We lived high on a
hillside a mile above the only way to a hospital. We first had to cross the Skagit River on a
hand-wound ferry. The ferry was closed
from midnight until six a.m. The hospital was located in Sedro Woolley some
thirty plus miles away. My oldest
brother was rousted out of bed and sent on a mile run to the ferry landing to
beat loudly on a metal disc and yell loudly to awaken the ferry operator who
lived on the other side of the river to telephone for the Concrete emergency
ambulance to meet the ferry. I was left
at home to baby sit at the house while dad dressed mom and drove her to the
ferry in our old beaten up pickup truck.
By the time mom reached the hospital in the ambulance her appendix had
ruptured. When they did the surgery they
delivered the baby, Gertrude Helen Jane, at the same time. She weighed less than two pounds. She was not expected to survive. Mother named her Gertrude Helen after the
nurses who took such great care of both mother and child. Jane was my paternal grandmother’s name. It is a very large name for such a mite of a
baby. Recovery for both took a very long
time. Little Gertrude’s premature birth
caused her to suffer from hydrocelphalus.
In simple terms the soft area on the top of the head enlarged rather
than closed as it normally does and filled with fluid. I tended baby Gertrude a lot over her first
two years. The only word she could say
clearly was mama. Mother was mama and I
Less than a week after her second birthday, as I was
changing her diaper she gave a strange little cry and her eyes rolled
back. I picked her up and she went limp
in my arms. I held her close to comfort
her. But in my soul I knew she was
gone. I took her out to my mother who
was working in the garden. I simply
handed Gertrude to her. Mother took one
look and pointed her finger in the direction of the river and said quietly,
“Go, get your dad”. My father was a
boom-man rafting logs on the Skagit River about a mile and a half north of our
home that sat on the mountainside in a heavily wooded area. I ran through the woods on a path we called
the shortcut. The path cut off a mile or
so of distance to where Dad worked. I
will never forget that run, bushes slapping me in the face, running through a
small creek that crossed the path. I can
still hear the squish of my wet shoes and socks. When I arrived at the riverbank my dad took
one look at me and threw down his long pike pole that he moved logs around with
and ran across the rafted logs in his cork boots as if he was were on dry
land. I told him my story and we jumped
into his old truck. Mother was waiting
for us at the end of the mile long lane to our home. She was standing there with Baby Gertrude
wrapped in a quilt. I can still see her
little foot poking from under the covers.
I was told to go home to tend to the other two young siblings. I stood for a moment and listened to the
drumbeat of the truck’s loose fender as my parents drove rapidly away before I
turned and headed up the long hill to the house. My parents returned much later with a
beautiful frilly white satin lined child’s casket that contained the body of my
little sister. My father got out of the
vehicle and dropped on his knees to the ground.
That was the only time in my life I ever saw my father sob
My mother gave birth to ten children between 1923 and 1949,
a period of twenty-six years. Eight of
them lived to adulthood. One son, Robert Lee Stone, was stillborn in 1939
before we left Kansas and Gertrude Helen Jane died at age two in 1944.