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1.
Far Back Memories

The Olsens and the Petersons started attending Wednesday morning Bible studies in 1985 and usually finished the morning by going to Denny's or International Pancake House for brunch, especially when the newspapers or the mails had provided us with coupon specials. The specials were for a menu of several hotcakes, two eggs, two slices of bacon and two sausages and coffee which Denny's called "The Grand Slam." After a few sessions we got bold and started ordering "Build Your Own" breakfasts, or omelets, or whatever. Sometimes we ordered senior citizen-size breakfasts which consisted of half the regular menu. The price, however, was not half, but then a dollar saved and a full stomach were still a good deal, I thought.

All this, of course has nothing to do with "Far Back Memories," except that we usually talked of many things during these breakfast sessions and one morning (nearly noon) on our way home, Warren asked me, "How far back can you remember, Ed?" The answer I thought of was that very old one, "Back to the slap the doctor gave me." The answer I gave was that I remembered a few things right off, and one went back to when I was about five years old. Warren and Clara Mae also had early childhood memories. Betty on this occasion was deliberating a case on a Federal Grand Jury in Seattle, and was not with us.

During our ride home I recalled pre-school events such as cutting the palm of my hand, hitting my cousin with a baseball bat, my steel-rim wheeled tricycle, a birthday party and the two- or three-roomed house we lived in. Other things came to mind, but I wonder if I really remember the events happening or remembered others talking about them. As Clara Mae said about her memory of being lost, "I think I remember, but maybe it's because my parents talked and laughed about it in later years."

Caption

I remember playing with two Finnish boys, Norman [Heikkila] and Vilho [Lehto], about a year or so older than I was, who lived in our neighborhood. Mullan had a lot of Finns since the Finns are sort of a clannish people and congregate in small towns so anywhere you lived in Mullan, you lived in a Finnish neighborhood. One day as I was chasing the older ones around our house, I stumbled and cut the heel of my hand, left hand, on a piece of glass or something. Evidently I stumbled a lot when I was young because my folks called me kompasstikelli, which interpreted means "one who stumbles a lot." They also called me karpastikelli, which means "skinny like a weasel." (One can realize that last name no longer fits me at 200-plus pounds!) Well, anyway, when I fell, the broken piece of glass caused a quite large gash which my mother pressed down, and then bandaged tightly. Today a child is rushed to the emergency ward for a little stitching job -- those days the nearest hospital was seven miles away, and the wagons took a long time getting there. The village doctor, Doctor Rolf, could have put in a few stitches, but for some reason we didn't visit him either. I've carried the scar on my hand all my life and can remember wondering why all the boys didn't have a scar like mine -- they were just different.

Cousins Sennie, Irene, Vieno

One day when my cousins, Sennie and Irene were visiting us from the other side of the hill, I wanted to show them my abilities as a ball player. In our town we had a miner, minor league baseball team that played against similar teams from around the Inland Empire, which had its capital in Spokane. The players were recruited from around the area, and sometimes were college kids hoping to make a few dollars for school by working in the mines. They were paid for mining and not for playing ball, so they retained their amateur standing -- I think. My father would take me to sit on the hillside overlooking the ball field to watch the games so at a tender pre-school age I was an expert ballplayer even though I really didn't know the fundamentals of the game. Anyway, during my cousins' visit, I was demonstrating how a batter swung a bat. Whether I had a toy bat, or just a stick, I can't remember, but I took a vicious cut at the imaginary fast ball. Irene was sitting to the side, but Sennie's head was just where the ball was coming in over home plate. She claims she was never just right after that, but I think she was. I can't remember Irene's reaction, whether she laughed or cried or what, but Sennie cried and maybe I did too out of fear of the reaction that my action would cause.

My tricycle I remember, or think I remember, wasn't something that could be used very well where we lived because there were no smooth sidewalks on our unpaved street, or for that matter, anywhere except on Main Street in town. Triking was made more difficult too, because the wheels weren't fashioned with rubber tires. Since the trike is so dim in my memory, it's possible it comes to mind only because of a postcard-size, black and white picture of it with me on the seat that was in my parent's photo album. My parents took a lot of pictures, and even developed them on postcard-size positives. I wonder if that's where I got the desire to use a camera? Or maybe it was the box camera given me and all twelve year olds in the sixth grade by the Eastman Kodak Company.

During my life I've had many parties to help celebrate my birthday. The first one I remember was in that little red home in Brock's Addition. Most of what happened at the party is forgotten, but one of the gifts I received I remember quite well. It was a cup, similar to a coffee mug but smaller, that had a picture of a small boy playing a trombone painted on its side. I seem to recall a small dog on it also, but could a small dog be listening to a small boy playing a trombone? My instrument in later years was a trumpet and no dog would stick around to hear me play. The cup of course was never used for coffee--or I don't think it was. I'm sure I had fun at the party because I asked my mother when I could have another one like it. There have been many parties in my life when I could have asked the same question.

I mentioned the little red house just a moment ago. It stood at the upper end of a sloping yard and had a wooden walk from the porch in front to the street below. The property wasn't very wide because there was only a few feet of space on either side of the house to the property line or to our next door neighbor's house. In the back there was a wood shed on one side and beyond it a little outhouse. I don't know whether it was a one holer or a two holer, and I can't remember using it. Across the back of the lot was a bulkhead built of logs and some steep steps that went up to the last street in that section of town. The street provided access to a few garages. Our garage was used as a chicken coop, since we had no car. Oh yes, there were cars in those days. My aunt and uncle owned an Overland touring car that didn't run during my "remembering" days but it was a nice thing for me to play in. In later years when I was ten or eleven, my dad dismantled parts of it to get me ball bearings to use as marbles.

One time my mother gathered some eggs from the garage, turned chicken coop, and placed them on a towel near the kitchen woodstove. The little chicks that hatched from those eggs amazed me, but then I was very young then. (Come to think of it, chicks hatching still amazes me.)

Years later, during a winter or early springtime trip to Mullan, I took Karen, Ted and Linda for a walk to show them where I was born and where I played. The red house was still there, but as we looked at it from where the garage had stood, I felt a little sadness, for the winter snows had caved in the roof. No longer was the red house a home. It would have been nice to go inside to see what it was like, but then even if that had been possible in the caved-in condition, we would have been trespassing on private property. It was strange, but the house and the yard seemed much smaller than I remembered them.

The walk that day included a visit to the city water tanks and dam. They too seemed smaller, especially the dam which had seemed so high and spooky to cross. The water tanks were the scene of many picnics where mother and her friends took their young ones for an outing. It was fun.

I was looking at some old pictures in my folks' album one day and one was of our neighbor's house. If the camera had been turned just a little, the red house (with black and white photos?) would have shown -- somewhere in those old pictures must be one of my first home. Looking at old pictures and snapshots will surely bring more memories of the "far back." as even now I write and can remember.

It seems like I'm closing my memories quite short. I could have started remembering a lot of things like a fire in a kid built cabin in the woods and other things but I've decided to remember them in other write ups. Mullan has a lot of stories to work on.