The Happiest Time of my Life

I am now 79 years old. That equates to 948 months. And when I revisit the happiest time of my life I realize it was only a period of six months’ time, 1/158^th of my life. Such a tiny fraction. Yet I find my mind going back to that time and place for the joy it brings to me, an old lady’s indulgence.

 

The year was 1955. I was eight years old. A girl, the oldest of four kids. My dad was happy. I say that because there were many more times that he was not happy and when Dad was not happy, none of us were. Dad had just returned to us in Tuscola, Illinois, after spending about six months “batching it” with Joe Gieser, a fellow miner, in Colorado, looking for outcroppings of uranium. Now he came home to Mom and a brand new baby girl, and told us we were all going out west to live on an Indian Reservation!

 

 

 

 

Let me tell you, we were excited! Well, probably not Mom. She was leaving her closeknit family of four sisters, two brothers, and her aging parents, and all her belongings except what could be stored on top of the car in a canvas carpack, headed for parts unknown. But she loved my dad, and trusted him, and was one of those 1950s obedient housewives who never considered “putting her foot down”, so off we went in our Kaiser sedan, Dad driving, Mom in the front seat with four-month-old Kathy, me, Mike, and Fran in the back seat, headed west.

 

 

 

 

After days of travel, living on bologna sandwiches, we pulled into a wooded campsite in the heart of the Spokane Indian Reservation at Wellpinit, Washington. There was a uranium mine there, near the campsite, and that’s where Dad would work for the next six months. A couple of families moved there, too, miners’ families, and two geologists, our neighbors. Each family had their own trailer house, but no running water, no electricity, and no toilets. It wasn’t long before a couple of the men set up a generator for lights, built a small outdoor toilet we all shared, but we never had water piped in.

 

 

 

Now, as an adult, I realize the hardship my mother dealt with. Four kids to feed and clothe, washing our laundry, including diapers, in a big pot over an open fire, hauling our drinking water from a creek upstream of our camp, sending my brother and I off to school on a small bus that came down into camp for us, and no friends and family to rely on.

 

But, for me, it was an 8-yr-old’s dream! There was a running creek in camp that let to a beaver dam. Dad took us kids fishing there where he caught small trout and brought them back to fry in a cast iron skillet. There were wild strawberries on the hillside behind our trailer. There were kids in camp our age to play with, and fight with, too. And Mom and Dad were so busy that we had freedom to explore with no boundaries, no fences. I still remember the strong scent of pine, the taste of fried oysters the geologists offered us, the dog whose face was peppered with porcupine quills, the bicycle Dad bought and the day I learned to ride it, the collie puppy. I was so happy in this old CCC camp surrounded by mountains and pine trees, free to explore nature without fear.

 

But it only lasted six months, and maybe that’s what makes it magical. Like an exotic vacation.

Only years later did I realize that the Indian Reservation is not a happy place, not for the Native Americans who call it home. And that mine? It polluted the streams and rivers and land so much it was designated a high priority clean up site by the government! And I mentioned what a hardship it was for my mother. So, how can I feel good about my role there, how can I be so insensitive to what it was like for those around me?

 

I have learned a thing or two from this six months’ life adventure. I liken it to the experience of a young man who joins the military and goes off to war. He is at the peak of his health and athleticism, most likely not married so only responsible for himself. Free to make up the rules as he goes, within the limits the military imposes. It’s not hard for me to understand how his years in the military can be remembered as the best years of his life. But if one looks at the bigger picture, what war is all about, the killing and the dying and the destruction, it seems wrong to remember those as the best years of one’s life. But I understand that.

 

 

Old Postcards

Today I came upon some old postcards I've been saving for over twenty years. I've kept them because I like the art work and for the first time I tried to learn more about the artist. On the back of the cards was written "The Riker Company, Western Americana Art, Box 668, Salida, Colo." Also, "Historical R. R. Series, 1966 H. Riker, 2-25-66 400". It took some time online to find his name was Hugh Riker and he was my father's age. I hadn't expected that. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I really like all the history included on the back of each postcard. By the way, they are not traditional, single sided postcards. They are postal notes that open up like a greeting card so that a personal message can be written inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 This is what I learned from his obituary. Hubert Dale “Hugh” Riker was born December 8, 1921, in Muir, Michigan, son of Alta and Sam Riker. He grew up in Flint, Michigan, where he attended the Flint Institute of Arts during his public school days. His fourth grade teacher recognized his artistic talents and encouraged him to develop his gift of drawing. He attended Layton School of Arts in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, School of Practical Arts in Boston, Massachusetts, and Chinard School of Design in Los Angeles, California.

 

 

Mr. Riker was a veteran of WWII, having served in the North Atlantic aboard the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Escanaba, where he participated in the heroic rescue of 133 survivors of the S.S. Dorchester that sank off Greenland after being torpedoed by a German submarine.

 

 

 

 

 

 Hugh was a kind, peace loving gentleman, always seeing the good in everyone he met. He saw beauty in all of God’s creations and always thought happy, positive thoughts. He was a loving husband and wonderful friend, filled with wisdom, always supportive and encouraging people to be their best and do what is right. He lived his Christian faith. He was a disciplined man, not only with his work but with himself. He loved people but he also treasured his quiet time. He was an avid reader and kept three or four books going at a time, until Parkinson’s slipped in. He said the Hamilton, Texas, library was the best he had ever seen for a town its size.

 

As a little boy he sold the Saturday Evening Post & The Grit door to door. As he got older he sold the daily newspaper on the street corner. He was fascinated by the newspaper industry and later did lettering and layouts for several cartoon strips.

 

 

 

 

 

In 1961, after a career in advertising, he launched his art career with a one-man exhibit at the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City. He loved Mexico and its culture. Mr. Riker taught work-shops in watercolor, drawing and pen and ink calligraphy throughout the Southwest and Mexico, and English at the Mexican-American Language Institute in Uruappan, Mexico. His work appeared in Arizona Highways and Ford Times. He exhibited throughout the United States and Mexico. He was a prolific artist having drawn many of the historic Court Houses in Texas. He authored and illustrated Ghost Towns and Mining Camps of Colorado, Learning to Draw in Pen Ink, Vol. 1 & Vol. 2, Wit & Wisdom Under the Tree of Knowledge, and published a travel column for newspapers. His last major project was the 1999 Historic Texas Forts Calendar that he researched and worked on for a year and a half before printing.

Hugh Riker passed away July 1, 2004, in Hamilton, Hamilton County, Texas. The personal information about Hugh's loved ones I have not included here. Reading this much about his life makes me want to see photos of his studio, and I really want one of those Texas Forts calendars! I got out my old postcard collection today to see if I could find a home for it, for downsizing is my goal. And now I want to add to it! Yikes!

Earthship Home near Taos, New Mexico

The summer of 1973 Bob and I started the remodel of an old farmhouse on a small acreage in Larimer County, Colorado, our dream come true. Influenced and enthused by our reading material that included Handmade Houses, by Art Boericke/ Barry Shapiro, Mother Earth News Magazine, Shelter by Shelter Publications out of California, and Peter Rabbit's Drop City Dome book, we decided to build a large addition to the farmhouse in the form of a 5/8, three frequency geodesic dome attached to the story-and-half, sixty-year-old house. 

 

 

Before we got too far into the project we opted to take a driving vacation with our 5-year-old son, Patrick, to southern Colorado and into New Mexico, to visit alternative housing that interested Bob. We visited Drop City, already a ghost town near Trinidad, Colorado, populated with abandoned domes made from triangles of steel chopped out of car tops, then welded together. We took photos of those structures then continued our trip toward the west, our destination about sixty-five miles from Drop City, up into the mountains near Gardner, Colorado, where the former residents of Drop City were establishing a commune they named Libre. We only spent an afternoon there, mingling with the folks, asking a few questions, before heading back to the interstate and south into New Mexico. 

In Taos we rented a motel room and visited the Taos Pueblo the next morning. We three loved that experience immensely and took many photos of the adobe structures built about a thousand years ago. I've written about that and will again. 

 

 

 

 

 

But this story is about another unique housing development on the outskirts of Taos called Earthship. Bob probably read about it in the Denver Post for it garnered a lot of attention in 1970 and 1971 when the first house was started, the Beer Can House. 

 

 

 

The day we drove up to the jobsite two men were working there and were friendly but busy, so we took a few photographs and left them to their project. 

 

 

 

 

 

It inspired us to consider used construction materials and methods in our own house building project, which we did. 

 

 

 

 

 

It kept our costs down and added character and fun memories to every aspect. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I found this story about Earthship and its founder, architect Mike Reynolds, and am happy to know it didn't turn to dust like Drop City. In fact, they have a few rentals now so tourists can experience living in an Earthship in Taos, New Mexico!

 https://share.google/UknMl8mS9sDerT7X7

 

 

 

 

Bob thought this form of construction was similar to adobe but with a different inner core. I've read that others tried it with aluminum cans. I wonder how well this beer can house held up to wind and weather. In today's world there is a housing shortage, especially for young people like we were then, needing an affordable place to live. We've seen Tiny Houses designed to fill that need but there are more and more homeless people on our streets and along streams and railroad tracks. I would like to see more developments like Earthship in Taos.

An Easter to Remember

 

April 1974, Bob and I made a road trip with our friends Jim and Sue Foster, from Waverly, Colorado, south down I-25 all the way to Taos, New Mexico. Driving a 4-door Ford sedan, provided by my employer Union Mfg and Supply Co., the trip was comfortable with plenty of leg room for us long-legged travelers. Jim and Sue were great traveling companions, easy going, never an argument, and quick to laugh. It was a leasurely drive with plenty of stops along the way, to stretch, fill up the gas tank, and visit the restrooms.

In Taos we rented a two-bedroom motel with a kitchenette where we ate some of our meals, mostly breakfast. We learned quirky things about one another such as how Jim liked hot water on his dry cereal rather than the traditional cold milk. 

 

 

 

 

And they were astounded at how many diet Pepsi’s Bob consumed in a day. Jim was trying out new health-enhancing techniques including hanging upside down every chance he got.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Visiting Taos Pueblo was a cultural experience for us all. This pueblo has been occupied continuously for over 1,000 years. 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a sovereign nation representing the Tiwa-speaking Taos people. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We ate freshly baked bread from the onsite horno oven and marveled at the structures and ancient cemetery. 

 

 

 

 

 

 At a small grocery store Bob loved the group of dogs gathered at the door, led by a cat. Jim was fascinated at the way the dogs took to Bob right away.

 

  

 

 

We found a picturesque jewelry store outside the pueblo where silver and turquoise handmade pieces were offered for sale, but we didn’t buy any jewelry.

 

 

 

 

 

We met a group of Jim's friends from his college days, artists who invited us to their studio. An eclectic group whose non-traditional art was exciting and inspiring. This photo of Ruth (on the left) and her friend whose name I have forgotten is one of my favorites from the trip. We went out to dinner with them, too, and I remember it well, because I became upset when one of Jim's friends raised his voice in complaint at dinner. I don't remember what his complaint was but he was certainly vocal about it!

On Easter Sunday we attended an outdoor “Blessing of the Animals”, honoring St. Francis of Assissi. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was chilly and windy that day as we watched the ceremony move along the street, the priest blessing each pet and farm animal brought forward. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Surrounded by children and animals we felt blessed, too, to celebrate Easter this unique way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On our return trip we detoured to Bent’s Old Fort in southeastern Colorado near LaJunta. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I recently read that the adobe structure is in disrepair and needing serious structural reworking, but in 1973 it was beautiful. 

 

 

 

 

 

Bob and I had visited Bent’s Old Fort with our son Patrick in 1972 and fell in love with the place. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We knew Jim and Sue would appreciated it, too, and they certainly did.

 

 

 

 

Back on I-25 headed north for home we stopped at a rest stop with trees and running water close by. Jim took a photograph of me while Sue walked along the creek gathering stones and bark and other odds and ends which she used to make a charming impromptu  arrangement of nature’s bounty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then there were several hours of driving, talking, and listening to music on the radio. We were all grateful to the grandparents for keeping our children while we experienced an extraordinary Easter in New Mexico.

Jim Nance

 

From age seven Bobby Russell has been fascinated with airplanes and flight. The summer of 1948 he was living with his family on a dryland farm in Weld County, when a crop sprayer landed his Piper Cub on a nearby road, then taxied and took flight while Bobby watched in amazement. At nineteen he left farming and joined the Navy with high hopes of becoming a jet pilot. Here are his words about that time and that decision, “I joined the Navy to fly airplanes. In 1962, if you had a college degree or had completed two years of college and passed a test you went straight to Pensacola. If you had less than two complete years of college but passed the test you went to Boot Camp, then to Pensacola. I was in the last group which meant that I belonged to a Boot Camp company but never attended any classes. My days were spent being a go-fer supposedly getting on-the-job training as to being an officer.”

 

 

A few weeks into Boot Camp that plan changed when he attended a lecture given to all Boots by Big Bad Dude, John Melvin "Maxie" Stephenson, Underwater Demolition Teams training unit. “He stood up on the stage in his starched greens and told us he wasn’t interested in making men out of us but if any of us were already men he was willing to talk.” Five days before Class 29 started RD checked into the Boots Barracks on the Naval Amphib Base, where his Navy tour as a UDT water warrior was a drastic change from his dream of Navy jet pilot.

In 1975 RD used his G.I. Bill benefits to attend Colorado Aerotech in Broomfield, Colorado, where he studied Airframe and Powerplant Mechanics. 

 

 

 

 

RD bought himself a used VW bug from Mike Sandifer, put a crushed Budweiser can between the engine cover, “trunk lid”, and frame to allow more air flow around the engine, and drove that bug back and forth to Broomfield five days a week for the next year and a half. (Photo is of graduates of RD's and Jim's Aerotech class)

 

It was there he met Jim Nance, about whom this story is written. I was reminded of Jim today when I saw crabapple trees in full bloom in our town, and came home to check on the health of our own crabapple tree, our “Jim Nance” tree, planted when Jim died in the 1980s. Seeing it healthy and blooming I started to reminisce …

 

 

 

Jim Nance was a Texan and an Air Force B-52 bomber pilot in Viet Nam while RD was a Coloradoan and Navy UDT-11 frogman. I imagine they had lots to talk about as they compared experiences and learned to fix airplanes at Aerotech. They had more in common than the military, both loving good food and pretty women.

I recall RD telling me that soon they were a group of five or so students who ate lunch together each day and learned about one another’s lives. 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim and RD graduated at the top of their class in 1976, licensed A&P Mechanics, and good friends.

 

 

 

 

Soon after graduation Jim moved his family to Fort Collins and became a part of the local airport crowd. He also became friends with our friends Bill West and Jack Archibald. We liked Jim’s wife, Susan, and remember her saying, “I’ve never eaten a bad meal out.”

 

 

 

RD and Jim shared an interest in experimental aircraft and made two trips back east to attend the Experimental Aircraft Association, EAA, annual fly-in, in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. 

 

 

 

 

Jim drove his camper and they had fun adventures going and coming home. On one of those trips a neighbor woman of Jim’s asked if she could hitch a ride to see a relative and he said, “sure”. RD was surprised to arrive at Jim’s and find the woman sitting in the back of the camper on a lawn chair! 

 

And one year on their return to Colorado they stopped at Jim’s sister’s home in Iowa and were treated to a wonderful homecooked meal, a very welcome respite from all the hotdogs in their cooler.

Jim became the Fort Collins Veterans’ Service Officer and helped many veterans with their issues. He was really good at that job. But Jim had a bad heart, and struggled with weight control and high blood pressure. He was planning a big trip to the Gulf where he planned to put in his boat and do some sailing. He was at Poudre Valley Hospital getting his health checked out to make sure “all systems go” prior to his trip, ready to be released, when he suffered a fatal heart attack. I don’t remember the exact year but I know he was too young to go.

Thank you Jim Nance for your friendship. RD and I remember. We hope you are flying high above the clouds. The Navy men say “Fair Winds and Following Seas”. I believe the Air Force men say “Blue Skies and Tailwinds”.