I built a canoe in my mother’s living room one winter.  A story in Boy’s Life had captivated me.  The dream was a big one with an outrigger, a sail… and Hawaii.  That summer at Camp Fleischmann, I got the canoeing merit badge.

I discovered a kit for a 12’ wood frame and canvas canoe advertised in Boy’s Life. It was not in the section with the sea monkeys and x-ray glasses, so it had to be legit.  A fortune, $25.00 plus shipping, REI Express.  I could handle it with the remnants of my summer earnings and the income from my paper route.

Mail ordering anything was a leap of faith.  When I was five I sent fifty cents to Laura Scudder Potato Chips for a miniature Whirly Bird helicopter.  Seven years and five moves later I was still waiting for it to arrive.  Never cared for Laura Scudder stuff after that.

Dad seemed to think REI Express was up to the task and Boy’s Life was reputable.  I was reluctant, then realized I had leverage; powerful friends everywhere.

If need be, I could write to the local Scout Troop and use them to enforce the contract if my canoe didn’t show up.  Boy Scouts had more reach and soldiers than the mafia.  We flew beneath the radar and were worldwide.  We outnumbered the Masons.  To this day I bet you never heard about the Boy Scout network… our cover story was that good.  Our enforcers were tough, and prepared.  Who could resist a skinny, freckle faced kid in a rumpled scout uniform, determined to do a good deed?

One day after school a big green REI Express truck stopped in front of our house.  A miracle.  The kit was complete, and there was no damage.  It was big.  Since there was snow on the ground, the only logical place to work was in the living room.  I had it unpacked before Mom got home.

Everything was pre-cut.  It took my brothers and I several weeks to build it.  I decided to go first class and finish the canvas with fiberglass instead of marine paint.  I was banished to the back yard for that part of the project.  I ruined a new pair of corduroy pants but everything else went relatively well.  The fiberglass was heavy and did not go on evenly.  There was too much weight on one side that made the craft extremely unstable.  All you had to do to tip it over was turn your head.

It was time for the maiden voyage.  My brother and I carried it down to the river by the old railroad trestle.  It was early spring and the water was fast.  We made it about 20 yards before hitting a rock and tipping over.  The water was COLD!  It was a good thing we wore life jackets.  A canoe full of water is incredibly heavy.  We finally got to shore and surveyed the damage.  There was a big tear near the bow and a little bit of frame damage.

The canoe repaired easily.

I had to recruit a new crew.  My brother was pissed.  In addition to the wild ride, I had turned into Captain Bligh and clobbered him with the canoe paddle a couple of times to emphasize the urgency of a course correction.  He had enough canoeing with me.

My buddy, Bill Bradley, was game.  He and I had gotten the canoeing merit badge together.

Bill’s house was on the river, just above some very serious (class 3-4) rapids we called “slippery gulch.”  The river travelled through a steep, narrow basalt earthquake fault and lost about 20 feet of elevation in about a quarter of a mile.  The rapids ended in a 90 degree bend to the east and slow, deep water in the swimming hole under the Richmond Road Bridge.  It was probably the worst stretch of river for miles.  As far as we were concerned, it was perfect.

We launched in the slack water above the rapids, behind Bill’s house.  We hit the first rock at the top of the rapids.  The boat quickly swamped and we jolted from rock to rock as we descended through the white water gulch.  There was nowhere to go but downstream.  At the bottom of the rapids the boat rolled upside down as we hit the bend.  Bill was thrown clear of the boat and held onto the rope at the bow as he swam to shore.  He could not see me.

When Bill could touch bottom the canoe was upside down and very heavy.  He decided to roll it over and drag it ashore, before looking for me.  Out I popped as he turned the canoe, I had been jammed under the heavily damaged canoe by the floatation of the life jacket.  My guardian angel had been on duty, again; I had not been under water for long.

We were freezing, it was March or early April.  To add insult to injury, we had to go back into the river with the canoe and drift another couple of hundred yards downstream, through deep water, to a place where we could haul out.

The dream of canoeing was still alive, but well tempered with experience and a new found respect for water and rocks.

Issac Newton was too narrow in his experience.  He observed a falling apple and became the father of theoretical physics.  Any kid that fell out of a tree learned about a hell of a lot more than gravity.

I only fell out of a tree once.  It was enough.  When I was about 9 we had a good size elm in the back yard, near the alley.  One evening I decided to do a recon for a tree house.  We had just seen Swiss Family Robinson.

The tree was about 30 inches in diameter at the stump.  The stem was straight and the first branches were about seven feet up.  It was a challenge.  If we actually built the tree house we would also have to build a ladder on the trunk to go with it.  As for the recon, I decided I could shinny up… just this once.

It was a tough climb up to the first branches, hugging the tree, inch by inch; fingers and toes in the rough bark.  Once I got up into the branches it was a piece of cake.  There were a couple of nasty, slimy areas of bark where sap was bleeding.

It was a tall tree with not a lot of potential for a tree house.  The limbs seemed strong enough but too far apart for my level of construction skill.  I went as far up into the top of the tree as I dared.  The limbs got pretty thin but the view was great.  I didn’t expect the tree to sway so much in the evening breeze.  It was kinda scary.

It was getting dark and time for me to start making my way down.  The sparse limbs were more difficult to navigate while descending.  There were places where I had only two points of secure contact when I preferred three; but I managed.

Everything changed when I got to the bottom branches.  It was a lot farther to the ground looking down from above the branches than it had been from standing on the ground looking up.  I didn’t have a lot of time to plan a strategy, it was getting dark.

Shinnying down looked hazardous.  Finally, I decided to hang from the lowest branch and drop to the ground.  It was more of a drop than I liked, but within the pain threshold.

As I lowered myself below the branch, my grip began to fail.  I made a snap decision.  Rather than fall to the ground and try to land on my feet, I swung to the trunk and wrapped my arms and legs around the rough bark.  I slid down the trunk, leaving a lot of hide on the tree.

I was raw from my palms to the center of my chest and neck.  The inside of my legs weren’t much better from the ankles to the mid-thighs.  When I hit the ground I went down on my butt so hard it knocked the wind out of me.

In all, I fared pretty well.  No bones were broken, but my raw spots felt like they were on fire.

Mom was nervous about trees so I needed an alibi.  I told her that I had been playing tag in the street and tripped while running on the pavement.

Imagine how much more advanced our knowledge of physics would now be, if Isaac had FALLEN out of the apple tree…

I was blessed with four Grandmas; I’m not sure they would have said the same.  Maternal and paternal grandmothers, as well as maternal great grandmothers.

The first crisis was with Great Grandmother Brewster.  She and my Great Grandfather had a little store and gas station, across the highway from their rural home.  It was the social center of the community.  I remember a family gathering at the store one weekend when I was three or four.  As I toddled by, Grandma snatched me from behind, gave me a bristly kiss; sat me in her lap and held me prisoner.  I was startled, scared, and didn’t know for a while who had grabbed me.

I squirmed to escape and a power struggle developed.  She was bigger and stronger, so I had to improvise.  I knew better than to bite, but was tempted.  From where we sat I saw through a window to the gas pumps.  Hansel and Gretel were a recent and fresh source of inspiration; the rest was history.  I told her that if she did not let me go I would pour gas on her and set her afire.  The gambit worked and I was set free.  I took refuge in the salt blocks next to the animal feed and veterinary supplies in the back of the store.

The first hint of trouble was a tearful conference I observed from my sanctuary.   Mom and Grandma Thelma were huddled around a tearful Great Grandma.  Mom came and drug me over to the Grandmas by the scruff of the neck; a token gesture of punishment.  Great Grandma had cultivated an audience by then and was inconsolable.  Resolution came in the form of a hasty retreat home.  Our relationship was forever clouded by the incident.

A few years later we were visiting Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Fred, who lived nearby.  Great Grandma called on the phone.  She had just shot a deer she had discovered in her vegetable garden and wanted my Uncle Kenny to dress it and hang it in the barn.  Kenny was out for the afternoon in his new car pursuing the elusive scents of gasoline, perfume, and pheromones.  Grandma Thelma sent me to do the job.

When I arrived Great Grandma closely supervised.  I was a little nervous because she used her old rifle, with the flashlight taped to the barrel; as a baton to direct my work.  My labors apparently met with approval since I was fed peach pie and milk before being dismissed.

About 20 years later, when she was in her 90’s the properties that abutted hers had built up and Great Grandma had new neighbors.  City people.  They called the Sheriff on her for shooting another deer out of her garden, next to their house.  He came out and confiscated her rifle.  She never understood.  That garden had produced an abundance of venison and vegetables for 60 to 70 years.

Great Grandma Frazer was older, her husband rode in the Rough Riders with Teddy Roosevelt.  By the time I came along she was in her mid 80’s and soon lived with Grandma Marion and Grandpa Herb.

She was my first cribbage master, and ruthless; she gleefully pegged all the count and score I missed.

My only other memorable moment with her was over breakfast.

I had taken the bus up to Salem, Oregon; by myself, to stay with my grandparents and earn my fortune picking strawberries.  I was twelve years old.  One Saturday morning when my grandparents were out of town.  She decided to cook me bacon and eggs after the morning peace had been shattered by a cherry bomb my uncle John and his buddy Jay had thrown in my bed with me.

I think Great Grandma was trying to re-establish the peace while keeping a protective eye on me.  By that age I had developed a keen sense for surreptitious adult supervision and my hackles were up.  John and Jay were gone and all I wanted to do was hunt for cherry bombs.

She asked me how many eggs, and how much bacon, I wanted.  I told her one egg and six pieces of bacon.  Never before had I been offered a blank check!  After I placed my order she paused, scowled at me over her glasses and announced I would have TWO pieces of bacon.  Good thing I didn’t ask for coffee.  Obviously I failed the test of character.

Grandma Marion had infinite patience… with grandchildren.  Dad, and his siblings have led me to believe that she kept them on a much shorter lead.

She and Grandpa Herb made sure all the grandkids got a new, high quality winter coat, every Christmas.

I remember foraging through her kitchen one time and encountering booby traps set specifically for me.  The first was a bar of Hershey’s Chocolate.  A giant bar that must have weighed a pound.  One bite did the trick, how did she make so bitter?  How did she know to poison that piece of candy?  What if somebody else had gotten it?  She knew what I was going to do and set the trap for ME!  At that time of my life I perceived all chocolate was the same, I had never heard of semi-sweet cooking chocolate.

The next trap was olive oil.  All the kids in my family loved black olives and the brine they were packed in.  In her pantry I found a tin of Italian olive oil, obviously the expensive good stuff.  Oil… brine; in my mind there was no difference.  I took a big swig of the Italian oil and barely got it spit back in the can without spraying it all over the pantry.  Reminded me of the oil, or some other crud, Grandpa Herb had in a coke bottle in the garage.

She was a mind reader, a formidable adversary!  How could she have the clairvoyance to booby trap the first two things I would sample in her pantry?  No telling what other poisons awaited me in that larder.  I never again dared eat anything in her kitchen that was not served me.

Grandma Marion was my second cribbage master.  She actually taught me some strategy before beating me in the dirt.  She also helped me count and score.

Grandma Thelma was an absolute saint.  Her capacity for forgiveness was unlimited.  She also took us fishing and camping.

She let us bring our BB guns whenever we came to her house, despite the fact we shot everything.  The only things off limits were pets, chickens, livestock, kids, cars, and windows.  If one of Grandpa’s yard cars had previously damaged glass, it was fair game.

I always had a vague impression she had bigger, more destructive weapons available for us where the yard cars were concerned.

We cut trees and made log cabins in the woods next to her house; no power saws allowed.  She always worried about us.

I accidentally blew her up one time and she never said a word to me or my parents about the matter.

I had a windfall of high quality cherry bombs the summer I was twelve.  Not long after I had returned home from Oregon my parents decided they needed to get away for the weekend.

For some unknown reason my mother frequently suffered a rather severe nervous condition.  It often manifested after one of my adventures.

Grandma Thelma was enlisted to baby sit the four of us.  I was the oldest of four boys at 12, Phil was 10, David was 8, and Tracy was 3.

I had been waiting for the right opportunity to try a cherry bomb on Phil.  Saturday morning, after Mom & Dad left, looked like a good time.  I  established a simple ambush from the grape arbor, above the back door.  After a very long wait I heard the door open to the back porch from the kitchen.

I struck the match and counted… one thousand… two thousand… and lit the fuse.  The back door opened… three thousand; the fuse was burning fast so I let go.  Out stepped… GRANDMA!

I knew I was dead.  I decided it was best to take my lumps while she was still concussed.  Her disorientation might work to my advantage.

I could not find her.  All the kids were watching cartoons on TV.  She was gone.  Then I heard her VW.  I looked out the front window in time to see her drive down to the end of the street and turn toward home, two hours away.

Monday morning Mom & Dad got home and asked where was Grandma?  I told them that she… just left.  I awaited my doom for the rest of the day, the week, then month.  The axe never fell.  She never spoke of the incident, and died many years later with our secret intact.  I sent her flowers on every Mother’s Day.

I dearly loved my Grandma’s.  I can only hope that they knew it.

Our neighbor, Charlie was a HAM Radio operator and had an antenna in his back yard big enough to reach Mars.  It went at least a mile straight up into the sky with an elaborate spiky structure on top.  Kind of a cross between a huge aluminum snowflake and the letter “H” on the HOLLYWOOD sign.   

Charlie was a mild-mannered nice guy; eccentric and quiet.  He reminded me of TV’s Mr. Wizard, the archetype of Popular Mechanics.  He was brilliant and always tinkering.  Charlie’s wife, Ruth, was the family alpha and also our Sunday school teacher.  He and his wife were active in local liberal politics.  The only time I ever really interacted with Charlie was when I was on my paper route.

Winters were long and sidewalks were icy for weeks at a time.  Ruth always made Charlie keep the sidewalks clear.  Charlie once had an idea, and broke up the perfectly good sidewalks in the front of his house.  The new walks were designed with pipes running through them.  His plan was to run the water from the household hot water heater through the cement, and back into the house.  He would never again have to chip ice, or shovel snow.

Like all projects, it took a lot longer than planned.  In Sunday school, Ruth was enthusiastic and told us about it. The cold weather finally came.  Ice was everywhere but Charlie’s sidewalk.  We marveled.  Ruth told us that it worked well but they had to turn up the heat on their electric water heater.

After a month or so, the ice was back on Charlie’s sidewalk.  Ruth avoided our questions in Sunday school.  We were all curious.  Late that spring, I had a chance to talk to Charlie.  I grilled him about the sidewalk.

I was about 12, and my social barometer was not well developed.  Charlie was avoiding the subject.  He was flustered by my questions.  Later, I heard it took Charlie a long time to pay off his electric bill for the month his sidewalk was operating.

Danny, my brother David’s friend, lived next door to Charlie.  David once mentioned that Danny had a cool “Tarzan” swing on the hill next to his house.  That got my attention.

A steep, high hillside meandered for about three quarters of a mile through our neighborhood and was our playground.  My Dad said it was actually a small earthquake fault.  Halfway up the hill an irrigation ditch bisected the hill.  The half of the hill, above the ditch, was steeper than the lower.

Most of the hill was covered with brush that was about eight feet deep.  The ground under the brush was a warren of tall grass “tunnels” where we had forts and played army.  Scattered along the ditch were several big pine trees that were about 100 feet tall and about 350 yards apart.

Charlie and Danny lived at the base of the hill on the west end.  Charlie’s property was the only one in the neighborhood that included the part of the hill that adjoined his home.

Located in the center of Charlie’s part of the hill was his HAM antenna.  The first big pine along the ditch was next to Danny’s house.  The “Tarzan” swing hung from high in the pine to a strategic location above the ditch where, presumably, it was out of the reach of kids.

The swing was kinda weird.  It consisted of about six feet of railroad rail hanging lengthwise from a cable that descended from the nether heights of the pine tree.  A three foot piece of galvanized 2” pipe, the perfect grip for our hands, rested above the rail with the cable running through it.  Very heavy, expensive, and industrial for a kids swing.

The swing was easily reached with a long stick and pulled to the uphill slope, where we could mount it.  When launched, we flew high over the ditch, above Danny’s apple tree and the roof of his house.  The reverse brought you gently into the upper hillside.  It was perfect;  the lethal fall from the far half of the arc added just the right flavor to the experience.

We discovered an unusual feature.  The more kids on the swing at one time, the better.  The extra weight of more kids added a bouncy roller coaster quality to the ride.  With four kids, you bounced ten to fifteen feet up and down as you rode the swing out and back.  That bounce really made you to concentrate on your grip in the death zone.  Whoever designed the swing did a hell of a job.  Over the course of the summer the swing started to hang lower over the ditch and was easier to reach.

One day, when delivering papers, I saw Charlie up high working on his antenna.  I stopped and visited as he worked.  I had never seen anyone working that high off the ground.  Much higher than the power poles in our neighborhood.  Charlie said that the wind was pushing his antenna around so much lately that it was driving him crazy.  His guy wires needed constant tuning “to keep the damn thing from falling on my house.”  I started paying more attention to the antenna, particularly in the wind.  It never seemed to move very much.

My last ride on the swing was a couple of days later.  I launched off the hill and the cable parted where it went through the rail.  The hole in the rail had been cut with a torch and was rough.  It eroded the cable with every ride.  I fell to the ground above, and slid down into, the ditch.  I was incredibly lucky that the fall happened there.  At the far end of the swing, I could have fallen 30 feet or more.  I was also fortunate to have landed on the rail rather than the rail on me.  It was so heavy it would have broken a lot of bones.

Later, Charlie was working on his antenna.  The top was leaning way off to one side.  I asked him what happened.  He was in the house and heard the antenna “whooshing” from side to side.  As he came out of the house it drooped over and stopped.  He was afraid it might fall over.  He was still working when I delivered his paper that afternoon; by then he had it figured out.  The cable on his ‘custom designed anti-sway damper’ had broken.  I asked him what was a damper and he pointed to the remnants of our Tarzan swing that he had fished out of the ditch.  He speculated that the limbs of the pine tree had grown, and while swaying in the wind, they pushed on the damper cable so much it made the antenna sway excessively.

The swing was so far from the antenna that I had never made an association between the two.  My blood ran cold as everything came into perspective.  Each ride on the Tarzan swing whipped his antenna back and forth like the tachometer on a teenager’s car.  It never occurred to Charlie that anyone might have been responsible for the events that had transpired.  A few days later I noticed that the new counterweight was hung so high that it was truly beyond our considerable reach.  There were also a lot more, and bigger, guy wires supporting the antenna.

Charlie being Charlie, never said anything.  As I write I am not certain that he didn’t know the truth.