The Journey to the West (6)

I cannot believe this is January of 2009 and I am living here in this remote corner of the country. My journey to the west draws closer to its conclusion each year. Before I should continue with the journey itself I should say something about my family background.

Both of my parents were from Norwegian stock. My father was born in Ottertail County, Minnesota, in 1897. He was one of 12 (or perhaps 13) children. His parents were solid middle class farmers who owned their own farm, including a small lake, and were reasonably prosperous. However, the farm could not support so many children so the children were forced to move on. My father only went to school to the fourth grade. By the time he was about 15 he was working in a lumberyard in Minneapolis (I believe it was Minneapolis, it could have been another city). He worked about 12 hours a day stacking lumber and doing manual labor. He was living in a boarding house. His only recreation was playing cards with some of the other boarders. As he invariably lost money he finally refused to play with them, at which point they took him into their confidences and he, too, became a professional gambler, which he remained for the rest of his life. In those days there was a gullible public and it was relatively easy to make a living just playing cards. For a time he rode the trains between Minneapolis and New York gambling with whomever he could entice into a game. He did well and began to dress in tailor-made suits, silk shirts, and ties with a diamond stickpin. He was a handsome man with dark curly hair in those days and was often called “Curly.” During WW I he enlisted in the army. He was sent to the Northwest to cut Spruce as that is what was used to make airplanes at that time. At war’s end he was discharged and found that it was not as easy to find prey as it had been. By this time there had been a number of articles warning people about playing with strangers and etc. So he started working in gambling halls as a dealer and eventually a floorman. He went where the money was in those days, Butte Montana, and Wallace, Idaho, thriving mining communities where gambling and prostitution and such flourished. At the time I entered elementary school he was a dealer and floorman in a cigar store that had gambling tables in the back room. I was told that when asked what my father did I should say he was a clerk in a cigar store. Having seen him at times sitting behind a green baize table with large piles of silver dollars in the middle I was well aware of the deception. But I could hardly have gone through my childhood trying to explain that my father was a gambler. He was good at what he did and in that environment was comfortable and did well. But as he had only a fourth grade education he suffered from some feelings of inferiority. For example, when offered employment in Reno, where he would have to wear a tuxedo and mingle with a higher class of people, he refused because he felt he would be out of place.

My mother was also from a Norwegian farm family. Unlike my father she attended the University of Washington where she took a two-year degree in music. She was a pianist and a vocalist and played for a time in an all-girl trio that traveled, among other places, to Alaska. Unfortunately, she seriously injured one of her hands in an automobile accident and was unable to pursue her career in music. She became a waitress where she met my father. Although they were a somewhat unlikely couple they married and lived together more or less peacefully. Unfortunately, again, my mother became deaf at about the time she bore me. I do not recall her deafness being a terrible problem, but it was at times a bit of an embarrassment. But ours was a small town, everyone knew her and understood she was deaf, and she managed quite well as a housewife and had many friends. Being well-educated she had higher aspirations for me than most of the other mothers did for their children, hence the ridiculous short pants and ties she had me wear when starting the first grade. Anyway, I always knew that my parents loved me and I felt secure and well-cared for. We were not wealthy by any means, but we always had good food, clothing, and a roof over our heads.

One of the consequences of my being the child of such an odd couple was that my religious training was virtually nonexistent. We lived in the upstairs of a duplex only three doors from a church on the corner. I believe it was an Episcopalian church. As my father was a gambler he felt it would be hypocritical, or at least unseemly, to attend church. As my mother was deaf she did not attend. Actually, I think they used these conditions as an excuse, and neither one of them were really interested in church. But, trying to be good and conscientious parents they sent me to Sunday School. I would be dressed up and sent off to the corner to attend. The first couple of times I actually did attend but nothing made any sense to me whatsoever. I didn’t know what anyone was talking about, I hated the hymns and the sermons, and even the sandbox in the basement held no charm for me. I soon learned that if I just went to the front door, got a copy of the handout, I could then run off and play for an hour before returning home. My parents were not stupid, they quickly learned of my deception, and that ended my religious training.