Once Upon A Sewer

“My childhood home” Robert Midthun, 1982

Once Upon a Sewer, a Sodbuster’s Son’s Legacy

Copyright  2007 by MidZOOM Press. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Except as permitted in the Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of publisher, with the exception that the program listings may be entered, stored, and executed in a computer system, but they may not be reproduced for publication.

Editor-in-Chief:

Richard A. Midthun

Copy Editor:

Kermit S. Midthun

Designer:

Richard A. Midthun

ISBN

Pending

First Edition: January 18, 2007

29359 Wagon Road Agoura, CA 91301 U.S.A.

TABLE OF CONTENTS DEDICATION ................................................................................................................................................... 5 INTRODUCTION ............................................................................................................................................. 7 PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE .............................................. 9 Chapter 1: A Sodbuster's Legacy................................................................................................................... 11 Chapter 2: My Miraculous Life...................................................................................................................... 15 Chapter 3: Beginnings..................................................................................................................................... 25 Chapter 4: A Prairie School ........................................................................................................................... 33 Chapter 5: Boyhood Memories ..................................................................................................................... 37 Chapter 6: High School Days ........................................................................................................................ 43 Chapter 7: The Schnitzler Scholarship ......................................................................................................... 53 Chapter 8: The Bonds Are Broken ............................................................................................................... 59 Chapter 9: Out Of The Harbor And Into The Deep: Fort Peck............................................................. 69 Chapter 10: A Marriage Under The Stars .................................................................................................... 91 Chapter 11: Moving West .............................................................................................................................. 95 Chapter 12: Photo School—The Navy Way .............................................................................................103 Chapter 13: Secure The Navy—Back To Civilian Life............................................................................109 Chapter 14: A Call To Christian Service ....................................................................................................113 Chapter 15: Drinking Out Of A Fire Hose. ..............................................................................................115 Chapter 16: All-American Status At Last...................................................................................................121 PART TWO: REMEMBRANCES ...............................................................................................................127 Chapter 17: Mustangs And Broncos...........................................................................................................129 Chapter 18: Hogs Running Wild.................................................................................................................133 Chapter 19: Dolores Buys A Hog ...............................................................................................................135 Chapter 20: Where Has My Childhood Gone?.........................................................................................137 Chapter 21: All About The Froid All-School Reunion............................................................................141 Chapter 22: “Show And Tell”......................................................................................................................153 Chapter 23: The Joys Of Watercolor Painting ..........................................................................................157 Chapter 24: Goodbye, Father ......................................................................................................................161 EPILOGUE......................................................................................................................................................165 INDEX..............................................................................................................................................................167 Page 3

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the most wonderful family a man could have in this world. These dear ones not only have had the durability to live with me as I write these episodes but also to listen to many hours of idle patter about the book I intended to write. Sue Beisel Midthun, my daughter-in-law, is the beautiful person who came out directly and said to me, “Boppa, either put up or shut up.” She laid down the gauntlet. I took it up! To my patient wife Dolores goes the credit for encouragement, motivation, and the willingness to share me with the computer for many hours. Richard, my son, patiently listened to my tales, accompanied me on trips to the old farm in Froid, met the people, saw the land, and felt some of the things that motivated me to express these personal thoughts and feelings. His labor has resulted in this book being published. Barbara, my daughter, encouraged my artwork and storytelling at every step of the way. Brother Kermit, a distinguished diplomat, scholar, and a closest pal, has given me patient encouragement and motivation in sincere understanding of the story he and I have experienced. His copy editing has been a blessing. The final dedication is to all my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I want them all to know and understand “what made Boppa tick.” The book is divided into two parts. The title of the first part, "My Journey from Sodbuster to Cyberspace," denotes the time frame for the story of my life, which began in a sod shack on a Montana homestead and led to a career in the construction industry and use of modern computer technology. I emerged eventually as a prominent consultant for the creation of water transmission systems, concrete storm sewers, and irrigation and drainage systems. The second part, "Remembrances," is a series of vignettes and anecdotes best recounted outside the first part's timeline. Please enjoy my artwork and these stories of the life and times of a Montana sodbuster settler's son. Robert A. Midthun, April, 2006

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INTRODUCTION

Dad, Aslag Nelson Midthun, emigrated to America from Norway in 1905, landing on his uncle's farm in North Dakota. He earned his citizenship and homesteaded 160 acres near Froid, Montana. Mother, Edith Marie Steenerson, was born in Minnesota of parents of recent Norwegian ancestry. I am the second of six children and the oldest of three sons. What I once regarded as my simple life on the Montana prairie homestead, in retrospect has become complex indeed. The very fabric of American culture was woven from experiences, bitter and sweet, of others like me. Each decade of my life brought significant changes. The first ten years were idyllic and filled with expectancy and happiness. Early childhood days were sweet and hopeful. We were building something from the very arid and windswept prairie. There were hope, love, dreams, and even a sort of ecstasy in the very simple life. The second decade was fraught with pain and sorrow on the one hand while, on the other, I sought the education that prepared me for leaving the family. Grim and ominous changes created a far different pattern of problems and goals for each of my three surviving siblings. Decade three featured my separation from the farm life and the beginning of a marriage and a career. The fourth decade led me into World War II, from which I emerged a mature person, changed forever with a resolute and restless nature. The career-building fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth decades carried me far beyond the simple pattern of values derived from earlier rural life. This has been a continuing learning and educational process. In my eighth decade I have earned and enjoyed the privilege of having time to think. Please share my thoughts and commentary on a rich and rewarding life that began in the shadow of the Wright brothers and transitioned into the wonders of Cyberspace and the Information Highway.

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PART ONE:

MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

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PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

“An old wagon”

Page 10

Robert Midthun, 1985

1 A Sodbuster's Legacy

I

am almost as old as the airplane. I witnessed the transition from “steam and iron” to modern diesel and electric rail. I remember my first radio, the entrance of television. Vivid memories of World Wars I and II are mine. These and subsequent happenings grew into the modern age of the computer and the World Wide Web. Where it once took days to learn of happenings through a weekly newspaper, we now know and see them occurring in real time. Never again will a “sodbuster's” son live through such a succession of events and experiences. Mine is the rarest of privileges—to live, breathe, grow, and participate in a history spanning such momentous changes. Today, my recollections of being a dirt farmer's son raised on the high plains of Montana are vivid in my consciousness, and, in retrospect, I have drawn drastically different impressions as to their meaning. No longer am I self-conscious over my lack of college degrees, nor am I ashamed of my heritage and roots. There is no other way on earth to gain the rich experiences and memories. While I am not formally educated, I have gained an abundance of knowledge and wisdom as the years have rolled by. The buffalo skulls and bones that moldered and glowed in sunlight on the virgin pastureland were but objects that my dad wanted me to pick up, pile, and burn. From my childhood vantage point, I did not realize that such items were historical evidence of the western expansion and Indian wars that had occurred only a few decades before. A more pleasant task was the sifting of gravel in the dry creek bed that traversed our pasture. I filled baskets with arrowheads and flint tools that Indians had left in their encampment on the very ground beneath my feet. Our prairie homesteads had vanished in a grid of barbed-wire fenced sections and quarter sections. New red barns had replaced the log and sod buildings. Here and there, the few sod house ruins that remained had been converted into tool sheds and storage buildings. Every few miles stood a one-room clapboard school building with its belfry and cast iron bell. Here farm kids such as I learned the three R's and battled the winter snow and cold, the spring rains, and rising creeks and learned how to play “pom-pom-pull-away” and “antie-I­ over.” There was neither running water nor indoor plumbing and electricity. Locally mined Page 11

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

lignite coal fired the pot-bellied stove, and I recall carrying out two buckets of ashes for each bucket of coal carried in to the school’s stove. I complained bitterly at having been disadvantaged by such primitive educational facilities. Now, decades later, I am so thankful for the country "schoolmarms" who actually taught me how to read and love books, how to spell, and how to apply fundamentals of English grammar. Believe it or not, I could name all the countries of the world when I graduated from the eighth grade (June 1925). We had read and lived with The Literary Digest to whet our tastes. Was I underprivileged? Certainly not by today's standards, when it is rather common to procure a high school diploma and yet lack basic reading and language skills. The Froid High School, like my grammar school, lacked refinement in the way of facilities. There was no indoor plumbing, only outdoor toilets. Nevertheless, it produced during my four years two future generals of the Army in World War II, an editor of The Chicago Tribune, and a vice president of the Schick Razor Company. Scholastics took the limelight. I competed in numerous scholarship contests, learned public speaking, and actually won a gold medal for my original oration entitled "The Constitution, A Guarantee of Liberty to the Individual." By present-day social standards I was raised in poverty as an abused child. Wrong—while my father had a red-hot temper and often struck me in anger, I quickly learned to read the signals and obey his wishes. I simply kept my mouth shut around him. My parents normally bought only coffee, sugar and other staples at the town's grocery. Meat, vegetables and flour were abundantly available on the farm. I wore my Dad's cut-off overalls, and my sister wore World's Best Flour sack bloomers; but we were well nourished. Mother bought dozens of books at auction sales. We reveled in The Harvard Classics, various titles by Alexander Dumas and Zane Grey, and even law books from a local barrister's estate. In the long, frost-bitten winter evenings, we delved into things that no one else in our neighborhood could even comprehend. Mother became someone respected and admired for her wisdom and intelligence. She had been a grammar school teacher before marrying Dad. During World War I Mother bought a small hand-cranked grinder to make flour out of our high-protein spring wheat. The ad read, "Even a frail woman can crank it." It was a wartime patriotic duty for everyone to "do his or her own thing," and this seemed like a very good way for a farm wife to aid the war effort. I can recall many hours of effort spent straining every muscle to crank that grinder in order to produce enough cracked wheat for a batch of bread. The grinder was bolted to a plank suspended between two kitchen chairs. I had to sit uncomfortably astride the plank during this process. Mother couldn't operate the grinder that long. Neighbors acclaimed the bread she made as "the best bread in the county." We children hollowed out a loaf, drenched it with freshly churned butter, and feasted each time she pulled a dozen loaves from the big oven of the Royal Value kitchen range. We took all this for granted. Fifty years later, on one of my few return visits to Froid, I was surprised to hear so many compliments on her "best bread in the county." I treasure now the memories which I had neglected so innocently as a child. Mother was a frustrated normal school-trained teacher. She loved to teach from Webster's Dictionary and spent hours with each of us urging us to strive for excellence. I loved the new Page 12

CHAPTER ONE: A SODBUSTER’S LEGACY

words she taught me every few days. I became an avid speller. In seven years of grammar school I excelled in "spell downs," where we lined up against the blackboard and remained standing erect until a word was misspelled. Then we had to sit down one by one until a champion emerged. For four of the seven grades in which I was a participant, I remained the last one standing and won a silver pencil. My first defeat was the word judgment. I added an "e" and heard the teacher say, "Wrong, Robert. Sit down." This crushing defeat to my ego happened again the next year in the eighth grade. The word was chastisement. I remembered that adding an "e" to judgment had been fatal, so I omitted the "e" this time. I lost the prized silver pencil again! From that day forward, I was determined to master spelling at whatever cost. I became the one who often was asked to write important papers for professional associates because of my spelling and grammar skills. I refused to learn shorthand and typing despite Mother's coaxing. She loved these subjects, especially New Rapid Shorthand, an alternative to the then-popular Gregg system. Brother Kermit succumbed to her wishes and learned to take dictation as fast as one could speak. This skill, together with his excellent command of English and facile typing ability, earned him a job with the FBI. He was so outstanding as a short-term temporary employee in Butte, Montana, that Director Hoover summoned him to Washington, D.C., as a clerk in the Bureau, allowing him to enroll in classes at George Washington University and to become a Special Agent. Eventually, he transitioned to the Department of State as a Foreign Service Officer, serving in many roles all over the world. After serving as chief analyst of internal Soviet affairs for the State Department, he served as a civilian advisor in Viet Nam and an official in SEATO before retiring. Mother's persistence and patience paid off handsomely for him. The "good old days" I often speak of are the years from 1915 to 1925 that marked hope and prosperity for my parents. They had purchased a 320-acre farm, crops were regular and abundant, and they both had hopes and goals for the future. But in the succession of dry years, hailstorms, and worse, tragedy would cast a pall of gloom over their optimism. Father drifted into depression and cynicism. Mother had a child, Alice May, who developed a tumor on the base of the brain. Mother struggled to provide Alice May with love and care without electricity, plumbing, or running water. Our well was not even next to our house. Mercifully, Alice May passed away in 1936 at age nineteen. Mother died at 61 and is buried alongside Alice May, the two sharing one headstone. I benefited far more than the younger siblings, as I escaped the life-struggles that they were forced to endure. My recollections are of love and intimate companionship unknown to them. There was no poverty. Money was available for more than basic needs. There was laughter and a sense of community. This sharp difference in family life from my childhood and theirs escaped my attention during the many years I was engrossed in my own personal affairs. I thank God for such a special gift and apologize to my younger brothers for not taking heed of their problems. My marriage opened an entirely new and marvelous acceptance into Dolores' family. For the first time I found a loving and unified group of in-laws and relatives of hers. They ranged from Ph.D.s to an uncle who had never seen pavement. In between were musicians, medical doctors, engineers, and ministers. They were tied to one another, not by the distinction of wealth, but by love and respect. I shall always treasure 70 years of marriage to her, which helped me learn how to live happily with others. World War II and the Navy were maturing influences. In the war years I matured far Page 13

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

beyond spelling bees and high school idols. Two years at the M.I.T. Physics Department working as a naval officer under the supervision of Dr. Harold Edgerton opened new vistas that enriched me mentally and financially in the decades after the war when I entered the highly competitive field of business. Business was a challenging field to me. I was naïve and applied honesty and loyalty to my superiors in the same manner as if they were in the Navy. I did not recognize those few individuals who used me to their advantage. I succumbed to the trite, old assurance, "If you do this, Bob, I will take care of you when I become a . . ." I was slow to learn that many executives delighted in devising clever ways to circumvent rules and contractual obligations. I soon learned that one must keep a vigilant and constant perspective and rely on effort, honesty and integrity—not hollow promises. Today I am not truly cynical, just aware of that sort of person with whom business must be conducted. In 1977, I was invited to join the consulting and construction management firm of Paul A. Moote and Associates, Inc., of Santa Ana, California. At last I found someone who would become my role model and best personal friend for the past 29 years. Paul is talented, God loving, and honest. He says, "The greatest gift one can have is the privilege of having time to think." Now that I have had the chance to enjoy that special gift, please enjoy the following chapters that track my journey from sodbuster to Cyberspace.

Our young family in 1914. I am 18 months old, Hazel 3 years old.

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2 My Miraculous Life

M

ine has been a miraculous life. In retrospect, it seems that every obstacle or reversal marked a change for better understanding and better times. I learned to persevere in the face of adversity. The Midthun family can be likened to a few human seeds scattered upon the western prairies that sprouted, appeared promising, and then mostly withered and died. We children, who survived the ordeal, are the tiny harvest that drifted into fertile grounds and yielded a bountiful harvest. Dad and Mother seldom volunteered information about their own childhood days, their educational experiences, courtship, or marriage. Neither did they talk about our numerous aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins. Our parents seemed to be interested only in our scholastic efforts and achievements. My first morning was on a sunny day in May. The doctor had delivered me in the sod house on the Montana homestead claimed by my father. Dr. Collinson had come 12 miles from Culbertson, Montana, by horse and buggy. Neighbors had boiled water and tended the smoky kerosene lamps. Mother must have endured intense pain in delivering my ten-pound body. There was little to alleviate labor pains except a mask and drops of chloroform. Dad was not one to stand in the delivery room. He kept a silent vigil outside. He looked after my 17-month-old sister and cradled her in his arms. Mother, Edith Marie Steenerson, was born in St Hilaire, Minnesota, the second of five daughters of Knute and Ida Steenerson. She was of Norwegian stock also, but three or four generations away from the "old country." Two of her five brothers were older. Conrad, the oldest brother, was murdered. His fate was never discussed.

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PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

Grandpa Steenerson was a six-foot-four, raw boned and bearded man who made his living during early family years by selling the patent medicine "Hostetter's Bitters"1 from a horsedrawn wagon. He piled the kids and the bottles of bitters on the wagon and worked throughout several midwestern states. He eventually was elected as the first sheriff in North Dakota Territory. His colorful career is documented in the Minnesota Historical Society. One documented incident relates how he broke up an unruly mob by wielding a copper lightning rod, breaking a few arms but quieting the mob. Two great-uncles had prominent careers. Elias (Great Uncle Eli) Steenerson became a wealthy real estate developer in both Minnesota and Texas, starting a large pink-grapefruit growing operation in the latter state. Great Uncle Halvor was elected to Congress from Minnesota and served for many terms.2 He was reputed by mother as having sponsored Rural Free Delivery, the free-of-charge delivery of mail to rural homes and farmsteads that originated as an experimental service in 1896 in Minnesota and became a permanent nationwide service in 1902 with further expansion in 1913.3 Mother completed high school and attended normal school, where she earned a teaching credential. She moved to Culbertson, Montana, taught elementary grades, homesteaded 160 acres, and met and married Dad. Their first child, Anne Hazel, was born in 1911 in the sod shack Dad had erected on his claim. A clapboard addition was added to the sod shack in time for my arrival in May 1913. Dad, Aslag Nelson Midthun, was born in Øvre Årdal, Sogn, Norway, which lies at the head of Sognefjord, the largest fjord in the country. He was the oldest of 10 children born to Nils and Anna Svalheim Midtun4. In 1903 he immigrated to North Dakota, after finishing high school, to work for his uncle Ole Svalheim. Dad was nineteen. In the next five years he learned English and moved to Culbertson, Montana, to work on the Diamond Ranch breaking horses. The exact motivation for his leaving home is unclear. After all, he was the first-born son and therefore the rightful heir to the family homestead. Conflict with his father seems to be the main cause. On January 10,1910, he became a naturalized American. That same year he homesteaded 160 acres of prairie land and married Mother, a local schoolteacher. Dad was still learning English. Mother was a vivacious, fun-loving girl who had finished high school and a year of normal (teaching) school. Her forte was shorthand and typing. So my parents could be classified as typical young western settlers—the Scandinavian immigrant and his teacher bride. 1

“The original ingredients in Hostetter’s Celebrated Stomach Bitters were: Modest amounts of Cinchona bark, Gentian root, orange peel and Anise. The alcohol content, 47% by volume...” http://www.fohbc.com/images/hostetters.pdf#search=%22%3A%20%20Hostetter%E2%80%99s%20bitters.%22 2

HALVOR STEENERSON, Congressman. B. Dane County, Wisconsin, 6/3O/1852, son STEENER & B1RGIT (R0HOLT) KNUDSON. High school, Rushford, Minnesota; studied law In office and in Union College; law, Chicago; admitted to bar 1878; began practice in Minneapolis, Minnesota 1878; practice in Crookston, Minn., April 1880; interested in farming; County Attorney, Polk County, 1881-85; Minnesota's Senate 1883-85; City Attorney and member Board of Education, Crookston, 1880-90; 58th to 67th Congress (1903-23); Ninth Minnesota District; law firm, Steenerson & Neils. Died 11/22/1926. Excerpt from Who Was Who.

3

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rural_free_delivery

4

Dad apparently added the “h” in our version of the family name when he registered at Ellis Island, New York in

1903.

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CHAPTER TWO: MY MIRACULOUS LIFE

Mother had also filed a homestead claim, some eight miles farther west. She traded it for a team of horses, which, unbeknown to her, were blind and lame. Still, they became a welcome addition to the Midthun homestead. Prairie life was hard, but there were times of excitement as well. Both Mom and Dad loved to dance. They played whist with neighbors. Both had "stars in their eyes" for a bright future. They echoed the public relations ads of the Great Northern Railway that forecasted prosperity. The branch line to the small farm communities passed within a half mile of our sod house. No one seemed to realize that only a generation or two ago this territory was known only to roaming Indian tribes that flourished along the Missouri River banks some 12 miles to the south. Dad walked the 20 miles each day behind a "walking plow" turning over the ribbons of soil that had been cleared of rocks and boulders. Neat fencerows bordered the field. Discing and harrowing prepared a mulch in the sandy but fertile High Plains loam. The first crop of flax was sown by hand and carefully reaped. In 1915 they traded the homestead for some cash and a Maxwell touring car. Now they could drive to McCabe or Froid in minutes instead of hours by horse and buggy. With the settlement of more homesteaders came business entrepreneurs. There were farm implement dealers, blacksmiths, weekly newspapers, and bankers eager to lend money at high interest rates. The happy pair with a 4-year-old daughter and a 2-year-old son were caught up in dreams and promises of even more happiness. The homestead had given them roots. Five years on the debt-free homestead with small but ample wheat crops, a garden, and a few hogs, chickens and cows had provided a bare living. Now was the time to expand their horizon. They would buy a larger farm. The Ole Anderson 320-acre farm some eight miles to the north was an attractive sight to the young family. It was for sale for $12,000 and could be mortgaged at 12 per cent annually from the First Sate Bank of Froid. Mother blossomed in the new 14 x 18 ft. kitchen with hardwood flooring, a large Royal Value range, and an attached two-story ell with rooms for all of us. She loved the fact that the kitchen once was a one-room public school. I remember the red oilcloth on the kitchen table, the linoleum in the bedrooms, and the thick featherbed mattresses that kept us alive in the sub-zero Montana winters. Native lignite coal was abundant in a nearby mine. Dad erected a 30 ft. windmill on the alkali water well 200 yards down the slope from the bulky white house with the green trim. He added a barn with 10 stalls that could serve 20 animals: 10 cow stalls with stanchions and 10 stalls on the opposite wall for horses. A granary, coal shed, pigsty, and a small blacksmith shop were clustered nearby. The yellow outhouse was 100 feet east of the house. A grove of 100 cottonwood trees, a cluster of berry bushes, and a small vegetable garden were located north of the house. A dirt cellar beneath the kitchen was ideal for storage of potatoes, carrots, and beets. It was cool in summer and ideal for cooling large pans of milk, cheese, and butter. Dad and Mom went to work energetically and with high hopes. Alice May was born on my fourth birthday. Hers was a tragic 19-year destiny. A tumor on the brain occurred at age Page 17

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

seven. A total invalid requiring constant care, she passed away paralyzed and blind at age 19. Edith Blanche was born 2 years later, but died in infancy. Kermit was born in 1921, the last child delivered in the kitchen. Elmer Elias, the final child, was the only one born in the Dahl Hospital in Froid. The thrill of their own farm and their high hopes for prosperity kept our happy little family going until Edith Blanche died. Dad was not a businessman. He kept no record and purchased expensive farm machinery that was never paid for. He had not expected cutworms, hail storms, drought, grasshoppers, weeds and wild oats and rust (a fungus that killed the wheat). With all this, Dad became morose and dejected. His hot temper grew. He was a severe taskmaster to us. Mother's dreams of a rural social life faded under the burden of a disabled child, whose care occupied almost all of her day. The well was 200 yards distant and the water hard. The wheat harvests were unpredictable. For seven years in a row, disaster befell our crops. The livestock had to go as there was no feed or hay for them. I remember Dad working on the WPA (Works Progress Administration). Mother would remove the canned beef doled out in relief from the original tins and then re-can it in glass jars, so that her larder would show home-prepared goods. Her severe pride did not allow for charity. She ignored the fact that there were no steers to slaughter. Being an eternal pessimist, Dad meekly and sadly submitted to hard times. He would pace the fields each day looking for a miracle. Years of crop failures and poor commodity prices eventually did lead to default on their mortgage and foreclosure. Subsequently, when the Federal Land Bank was unable to find any buyers in those lean years, the farms were offered back to the original owners, who by and large had remained on as squatters. Dad bought the farm back for 10 cents on the dollar. With commodity price support during the World War II years and soaring post-war grain and cattle prices, bountiful crops, and good luck, he finally made a great deal of money. For the first time, High Plains Montana farmers like Dad and Mom were debt free and prosperous. However, the prosperity was short-lived for Mother. She died in March, 1947, after six months of hell on earth from stomach cancer. Mother had lovingly devoted fifteen years of 24-hour daily nursing care to second daughter Alice May under severe conditions—including daily washings in alkali water carried in buckets 200 yards "up the hill" from the well. Her back was bent and her arms were sinewy from the exertion. Her mind withdrew into a shell of deep depression, solitude, and loneliness. Once in a blue moon, her azure eyes would light up and a faint smile would appear after she had a rare glass of wine. For Alice May and the rest of us, she gave her life willingly with little or no recognition. Mother and Alice May are buried side-by-side in the family plot in Froid and share a common headstone. Whatever success I have attained in life, I owe a great debt of gratitude to Mother. She inspired and encouraged me. She sacrificed for me intellectually in the same way she sacrificed physically for Alice May. Father was a complex little man, five-feet-six, with small hands and feet, a fiery temper, and a mind filled with old European ideals. He never kissed a male child nor ever cried visibly. His discipline was sudden and brutal. At times he was gregarious, jolly, and the life of the party. This was in the presence of others, not with the family. He was an avid reader and kept current on topics of the day. He loved to be important to others. He was a precinct Page 18

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committeeman for both Democrats and Republicans at the same time. Dad never believed in taxes and never filed an income tax, as far as I know, until just a few years before he died. When he did finally file an income tax return, not only was he not penalized by the Government for failure to pay taxes (he kept no records), but he was given Social Security retirement benefits! Figuratively speaking, he "fell in" and came out smelling like a rose. I remember my dad in the early years as an egotistical, outgoing, and overbearing man. He loved to visit with others and actually sparkled and shone with wit and vigor. He had left Norway as the oldest of eleven children, apparently after a bitter argument with his father. The argument was just the final stimulus for his departure. He had rebelled against his dad for a number of years. Grandfather Midtun was a rangy six-footer with a shock of hair and a full beard. Grandmother Midtun was five-feet-two and a petite lady. Dad had her genes, and he resented being small: size-six shoes, size-six gloves, and a 38-inch belly. He had the temper of a bantam rooster and loved to argue, often with prompt entry into fisticuffs. Once, I saw Dad grab by the collar Mr. Renault, a six-foot-two métis5 (of combined French and American Indian ancestry) neighbor and throw him upward and behind into a straw stack. I saw him crawl out of his sick bed with influenza and rush outside in the snow and bitter cold to attack Mr. Carlson, dressed in a large fur coat, for a provocation I never knew. Dad was a fierce contender. When he whipped me, it was with fists, gritting of teeth, and flashing eyes that made me fearful of my life. I never deliberately crossed him. Always, it was my "inadequacy" that ignited his temper. If I didn't hand him the wrench he wanted, he would strike me with a fist. His explanations, instructions, and commands while we worked together on the farm often were not clear, but this made no difference. It was still my fault. "I've never seen someone so old who is still so stupid," would be his chastisement—or, "You are all "tums" (thumbs) and no brains." In 1955, 8 years after Mother had died at 62 from cancer, Dad married Betty Swartzenburger, a three-times divorced woman younger than my wife, Dolores. Dad was a very poor business­ man. Betty lived with him until the prosperity and money waned. After he suffered an incapacitating stroke that required nursing home care, she wanted to liquidate the farm for her benefit. Dad had never probated Mother's estate. His oversight was our family’s benefit. Under Dad and Betty on their wedding day, December Montana law, she owned only one-third 16, 1955, Froid, Montana. Witnesses: Peggy Cookson and Steve Rudolph.

5

The word Métis (the singular, plural and adjectival forms are the same) is French, and a cognate of the Spanish word mestizo. It carries the same connotation of "mixed blood"; traced back far enough it stems from the Latin word mixtus, the past participle of the verb "to mix." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9tis_people_%28Canada%29

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of the property. The four of us surviving Midthun children insisted that the only way the farm could be sold would be to put the proceeds in trust for his care in the nursing home. Frustrated by our decision, she divorced him and left for Los Angeles, California. She lost her life in an accident with a gun. We suspect she had been drinking. Suicide was a possibility. Unknown to us children, she had quitclaimed her share in the deed before she left. One day in California, I received a letter written by stranger in Los Angeles, who had received some clothes from the Salvation Army. He discovered the missing quitclaim deed in a pocket. In simple, broken English, he wrote that such an important appearing document should be returned to the rightful owner. The Ostby family, to whom we had sold the farm, had kindly forwarded the letter to me. It was a miracle that assured us four kids a clear title to the property and in turn the oil royalties. I wish that I could have been a dear friend of my father and that I could have known a dad and son relationship. He had moments of kindness and even love. But, his ethics and lifestyle looked with disdain on men who hugged, dads who kissed their sons, boys who cried. He never let himself have any emotional outlet other than a raging temper. I often search my very soul for traces of those qualities, which on rare occasions have manifested themselves in my own life. It took years for me to quit reacting to every problem, to curb my temper, and to apply reason rather than emotion. My marriage brought me into a new family relationship that was a model of kindness and forbearance based on God-given spiritual values. Dad had a stroke and died in a Billings, Montana, rest home in 1969. We children sold the farm to our neighbors, the Ostbys, but retained the royalty income from a newly discovered oil well near the farmstead.

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CHAPTER TWO: MY MIRACULOUS LIFE

“Wagon, team, & dog”

Page 21

Robert Midthun, 1982

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

This photocopy of Dad’s Ellis Island immigration record, courtesy of the Ellis Island Foundation, provides a glimpse back into time. When Dad arrived March 25, 1905 at Ellis Island after passage on the steamship Baltic, he was just 19 years old, and his occupation was inscribed as “laborer.” The Baltic had departed Liverpool, England, on March 15, 1905. His last place of residence was listed as Bergen, Norway, and his destination was Church Ferry, North Dakota to stay with “Uncle Ole Svalheim.”

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CHAPTER TWO: MY MIRACULOUS LIFE

The steamship Baltic, 1905. Page 23

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

“A country church” Robert Midthun, 1984

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3 Beginnings

M

y early recollections are hazy, but I shall never forget my baptism. I sat in a high chair in front of the nickel plate-trimmed potbelly heater in the front room. Rev. Hagen was a stout, short Norwegian with a stiff and formal discipline. He was about to anoint me from a cereal bowl of water that my mother had given him. At that very moment, I looked at the brass nameplate of the heating stove and read aloud, "Superior Oak Heater!" In a moment, I was out of the chair, my cute little Lord Fauntleroy pants were down, and my heinie was blistered—then back to the baptism in Norwegian, a language the folks used only to keep us in the dark. One other day stands out vividly. It was the time we attended a church service in a country school near the Bergstrom farm three miles south of our farm. The minister walked up to me in the front row, laid his hand on my head, and said, "Robert is a very special boy, and we will be hearing much from him in the years to come." Someone snapped a Kodak and recorded the group on film.6 There I am in the front row of the group together with the other children. I have a shock of unruly and tousled hair. I am scowling into a sun that highlights the large white collar of my corduroy Lord Fauntleroy suit. There are about two dozen persons in the group, posed in front of the building’s white clapboards. The year is 1916. I am three-plus. Near me is my sister Hazel in her crisply ironed dress with a brightly colored sash and with and a huge red and blue plaid bow in her hair. She is a large five-year-old. Her features are stern. Even then, she was a no-nonsense type of person, stubborn but energetic. The adults are standing left-to-right behind us kids. There is big Jim Ostby, melancholy Einar Bergstrom (later to become Jim’s lifelong enemy over some minor farm dispute), and then Dad, all five-foot-six in stature. Funny thing. Jim, a six-foot-plus rangy man with a 6

Ed. Note: Sadly, this photograph cannot be located. Dad’s description includes colors. It is possible that this was an early color image, since the technology was available at that time. A more likely explanation is that he remembers the colors of items that remained in the family for a long time and were worn often through the ensuing years.

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deeply-etched, pleasant face, is in shirt sleeves. Einar and Dad are in blue serge suits and wearing soft felt black plug hats. Their baggy pants are too long; my father's drape carelessly over his black, high-topped kangaroo shoes. (Dad wore those very same shoes for dress for twenty-five years.) Dad's coat was too large and hung halfway to his knees. The other men in the picture were dressed from shirts and trousers to overalls. The women wore hats and long dresses or skirts and frilly blouses. Mother had a black straw hat with a red artificial flower. She had a sober expression that belied her outgoing and gregarious nature. The group picture is symbolic. Here was a group of homesteaders turned farmers, assembled for one of the few occasions where they were mutually friendly and cooperative. They all were eagerly striving for the prosperity they believed would be theirs. I can only remember one or two gatherings of this group in subsequent years to celebrate the Fourth of July at a picnic in Jarshaw's Grove. There is a special meaning of all this to me. I clearly remember what my sister Hazel and I termed the "good old days." Father was optimistic and walked the fields daily in summer to assess the wheat crop prospects. He enjoyed a new 1917 Overland Model 90 touring car that had replaced the 1915 Maxwell. The light one-horse surrey was seldom used and sat fading and rotting in the corner of the farm yard. He loved to dance, tell stories (some of them with a bit of truth), and play Norwegian whist7, a popular card game in the area. Mother was an avid club woman She was always meeting with other farm women in sewing bees, cooking sessions, Ladies Aid, and school activities. The house on those occasions was filled with farm women and often their husbands. The red oilcloth table cover was filled with goodies, lemonade, pies, cookies, cakes, and the like. Father was jolly when these affairs took place and enjoyed visiting with the menfolk while the ladies were meeting in the front room. She had a keen sense of humor and a sharp intellect. Hazel, Mom, & Dad. We subscribed to many popular magazines including Redbook, Good Houskeeping, McCalls, The Saturday Evening Post, Capper’s Farmer, The Country Gentleman, and The Farm Journal. Father was short tempered. He didn't waste words. His rage was instant, and we all learned not to ask him something twice, or sometimes even once. His reply was a slap across the face! He always got his copy of the Norwegian weekly, The Decorah Posten of ved Arnen.8 each 7

"This game is very popular in northern Minnesota, where it is just called Whist. It is extremely similar to a Scandinavian game listed in card game books under the name Norwegian Whist, the main difference being that in Europe the meaning of red and black cards is reversed - red card for high, black for low." http://www.pagat.com/whist/minwhist.html

8

“The Decorah Posten was a notable Norwegian language newspaper, published in Decorah, Iowa, United States. It

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week, and this was one time not to disturb him. I cannot remember a time when my Mother wasn't trying to teach us something. She was a shorthand teacher using what was called the New Rapid System, but somehow or other I missed out on it, though brother Kermit used it later to good advantage. When the local lawyer died, Mom bought a good portion of his library that included The Harvard Classics, many of the works of Alexander Dumas, and other great works of literature. She did the same thing when the dentist passed away, and we then had a rather limited but often sought-after “doctor book,” which all of us relied upon. Dad had traded his 160-acre homestead for the 1915 Maxwell touring car. As I mentioned earlier, we had moved from the old sod and frame shack into the two-story clapboard house that came with the purchase of the Ole Anderson farm. Mother delighted in the 14 x 18 ft. kitchen. The large nickel-plated Royal Value range had a deep reservoir to heat water and an oven big enough to bake a dozen loaves of bread at one time. The kitchen had originally served as a one-room school before the Andersons added the two-story ell with two rooms downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs. There was a red and black oilcloth on the table to one side, set with shining glass kerosene lamps. The large Superior Oak heating stove stood in the "front room," as we called the space adjoining the kitchen. The other kitchen door opened on the narrow, steep stairs to the upper story, where I was the master of the east bedroom and Hazel of the west bedroom. Dad and Mom had the downstairs bedroom. At an early age, I had the chore of carrying in buckets of lignite coal mined nearby to fuel the front room heater. For every bucket of coal carried in, two buckets of ashes were carried out. The stove was red hot in winter, but the area of warmth was only a five-foot radius away. One register in the ceiling was supposed to heat the upstairs! Water froze in the commodes during the winter. We were snug and warm in feather beds, but the first twenty minutes in bed were torture. No wonder we were reluctant to get up in the morning until we could hear the roaring draft of the heater downstairs or smell the aroma of ham and bacon drifting up the stairwell. There were severe thunderstorms in the northeastern Montana plains. I vividly remember chain lightning striking the outbuildings with brilliant flashes of blinding light, accompanied by hailstones the size of eggs that rattled the shingles and smashed against the windows. After the house was set afire in one such storm, the Andersons had wisely installed lightning rods on the house, the only two-story structure on the place. The hopes and dreams of the A.N. Midthuns were dimmed each year that passed. There was seldom enough grain, even in abundant crop years, to provide seed for the next year's planting and pay the taxes and the interest on the mortgage. I would often go into the barn and cry in sheer frustration over the hailstorm that took the crop, the lack of rain, the cutworms that ate the seedlings, the wild oats and weeds that choked the wheat, or the "rust" fungus that destroyed the stems. Despite adversity, Mom and Dad tried to overcome the circumstances. Sadly, their solution was founded by B. Anundsen and widely read by Scandinavian immigrants in several states. The Decorah Posten ceased publication in 1972 when it was purchased by Western Viking. Decorah, Iowa is today home to a sizable Norwegian-American population and Luther College, with more than 2,600 undergraduates, founded in 1862.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decorah_Posten

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was to abandon horse-drawn equipment and go into debt for "modern machinery." I was eight years old when that huge pile of iron, the Avery tractor9, was driven into the front yard. This veritable monster was so heavy that the 6-ft. drivers sank two inches into the virgin prairie. It belched black smoke and made a thunderous noise with a pom-pom rhythm of its two cylinders. Disaster personified was the theme of the Avery. Its cast iron drive gears stripped their teeth at the slightest error in shifting gears. The daily production of plowed field was only a wee bit better than that of a six horse team, and it ate fuel and oil like it was going out of style. I fell off the tractor and split my scalp. The scars are still there. Some bumps on my skull lead me to believe that I had also survived a fractured skull. Dad nearly killed himself on the plow. A lever slammed across his head, inflicting a four-inch gash in his scalp, despite the thick wool Scotch cap he wore. Mother fainted when she dressed the wound. It healed without benefit of medical care. Dad always had a great talent for doing precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time. It began with the Maxwell, then the mortgaged farm, next the Avery tractor, and finally the combine harvester. To follow was the 1926 Overland Whippet sedan10, a "EuropeanAmerican" light car. What a joke of a car. I left home in 1929, so I was not present for the future Kaiser and Frazer automobiles. Dad had an equal talent for ignoring the necessities of life. He never dug a well close to the house. Mother carried water 200 yards up a hill in buckets to wash clothes by hand in a back-breaking washboard and tub. He was slow to accept Rural Electrification. The beginning prosperity during World War II made these improvements feasible. Only after Dad had married Betty Swartzenburger in 1957 did any of these things come to pass. There are many interesting and untold facets to our family. I spoke earlier of the "good old days" enjoyed by Hazel and me during our early years on the Anderson farm. Dad and Mother were a happy, expectant, and optimistic couple with great hopes for establishing a prosperous rural estate on the rolling plains. They were in their late twenties. Others in the community felt likewise. There was much camaraderie and good fellowship. Farmers shared labor, machinery, and good will. All worked extremely hard and paid little heed to hard times and debts. In a sense, they were actually living true pioneer experiences. For years afterwards, we bragged on the abundant crops of '24. We had so much wheat that year that we had to build extra cribs in the farmyard to hold the grain until it could be hauled to the elevator and sold. There were new clothes, and, for a few weeks, the Midthuns returned to the "good old days." There was an almost imperceptible creeping gloom as reality set in to the young hearts. In our own family, Hazel and I were the only ones to live in an air of expectancy. Alice May 9

Ed. Note: The pictured tractor was likely similar to the one my father describes. http://members.tripod.com/Rumelypull/TractorPICS1.html#3060 10

Advertisement shown on the opposing page for the 1926 Whippet Overland Coach courtesy of the Willys Overland Knight Registry. http://clubs.hemmings.com/clubsites/wokr/gallery/96coa10.htm

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arrived on my fourth birthday. She was to become afflicted with a brain tumor and pass away at age 19, after 11 years of total helplessness, paralysis, and blindness—a slowly progressive decline that demanded and got all of my mother’s energies, mental capacity, and physical strength. Two years after Alice May came Edith Blanche, who lived only 19 months and died one winter night in my mother's arms. So Kermit, eight years my junior, came into a family trapped in desperate and hopeless circumstances. He never knew the ringing of happy laughter in the house, the fiddle music and square dancing, the picnics and parties, and all the similar things that characterized the "good old days." Elmer, the baby, was born when I was 13 and a sophomore in high school. He was the center of attraction for Dad, whom I shall always remember holding Elmer on his knee while he ate at the kitchen table. Kermit, age 6, was left to shift for himself. Mother was several years into her full-time preoccupation with Alice May's problems. Dad and Mom said few words to one another and none of them kind. There were violent arguments and debates. Fortunately for Hazel and me, we "bached it" about 6 months of the school year in a rented shack in Froid, thereby avoiding long winter commutes in frozen weather from the farm into town. Kermit was with us in the first and second grades. This removed us from the conflict and depressing circumstances. In the months we spent at home, Hazel stayed close to Mother, helping her and defending her in the family arguments. I spent as much of my day as possible avoiding the others and took care of chores or wandered around the fields, daydreaming of how and what I could do to get away from it all. Under these family circumstances, with little or no money and constant bickering, I hesitate to accuse Dad of being a childabuser. He had a violent temper, and the blood would drain from his face as he would grit his teeth to strike me with a closed fist. I dared not resist but would run away as fast as I could to stay out of his sight. If I returned too soon, the abuse would continue even more severely. Actually, I feared he might kill me, not on purpose, but in the spontaneous course of events. Hazel graduated with me. She went into a Catholic hospital in Butte, Montana, and earned her R.N. the hard way, tending bedpans and slaving long hours each day over patients in long wards. Kermit and I never really discussed his life on the farm after Hazel and I left. To this Page 29

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

day, I suspect he never believed that there were "good old days," which still bring joyous memories to my mind and heart and tended to mitigate the sorrow of the later days.

“Another view of the old homestead” Robert Midthun, 1983

From L. to R.: Kermit, Father, Kermit, Dad, & Mom. & Mother Page 30

CHAPTER THREE: BEGINNINGS

Dad, age 67 and Elmer, age 27, May 1952.

“Our kitchen” Robert Midthun, 1982

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PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

“Rhoda School, District 62” Robert Midthun, 1987

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4 A Prairie School

O

ne September day, Mother and Dad packed my 6-year-old sister Hazel and me into the rear seat of the horse-drawn spring wagon, announcing that we were starting elementary school together. Accompanying us were a quart Mason jar of water, some cookies, and two sandwiches. Mother had already taught us both to read and write. I had learned the summer before in 1917. I was 4 months past my fifth birthday, and Hazel was 3 months shy of her 7th birthday. Nineteen months separated us in age. So began our next seven years. Dad wheeled the mile and a quarter along the rutted wagon road past the Jensen farm, down Carl's Shack Hill, and across a dry branch of Sheep Creek to reach the shabby oneroom Rhoda School, District 62. Maude Helton, a strict and seasoned school "marm," entered our names in the roster. I, a bewildered boy leaving my parents for the first time, was literally dragged to a desk by Hazel as our parents drove away. Our parents started me a year early and Hazel a few months late so that we could walk together. It was a wise decision on their part to start us in grammar school together, since the Montana winters were rugged, blizzards were commonplace, and we would be safer as a pair from coyotes and stray dogs. From then on, Hazel and I trudged each school day a mile and a quarter from our farm, rain or shine, to this one-room country schoolhouse, carrying our lunches and drinking water in small salt sacks. The Montana winters were harsh. Frostbite was commonplace. Our Mason jars of water often froze solid those frigid days. The teacher was Maude Heffner, later to become Mrs. Nolan Helton. She was a nononsense person with pince-nez glasses and hair in a bun. She wielded a heavy device called a “pointer” used at the blackboard, and kept in a firm hand a yardstick-length ruler. Her discipline was severe. Some of the kids reacted, primarily those who had to go to school under Montana law until they were 18 or passed the eighth grade. Many were full-grown man-sized “idiots” with great physical strength, and from time to time they would be compelled to stay after school as punishment for their bad deeds. On at least two occasions they tied her to her chair after school and left to devise an escape. Of course, they were expelled, but that was exactly what they wanted. There were about 30 kids in the eight grades. We sat in four rows of hardwood desks, each Page 33

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

row sized to fit a certain body size, with about eight seats per row, all screwed to the pine floor. At the very front was a blackboard and on each sidewall another, smaller blackboard. Two long benches for recitations were between the desks, and the blackboard with the teacher's desk centered in front of them. Right away I became a problem to Mrs. Helton, my teacher. With ability to read, curiosity abounding, and nothing to do as a first grader, I listened to all of the recitations, read everything on the boards, and even interrupted classes when someone was groping for the right answer. This always provoked a scolding and, on second try, a slap across the open palm with the dreaded ruler. My other diversion was to put things in the braids of the Johnsen girl who sat ahead of me. The teacher never caught me, but that redhead would slap the tar out of me at recess, being smaller than she. The second school year both Hazel and I were advanced, or “skipped,” a grade, and we began to get into some more meaty endeavors. I liked to spell, and mother drilled us by the hour on the lists. Each year I tried my best and occasionally won the school championship spelldown where the entire school lined up against one wall and each of us took his seat when he or she missed a word. The prize was a silver mechanical pencil that must have cost three dollars. Recesses were terrifying at times. We never let ourselves out of sight of the teacher or cheerfully took part in the silly little games she supervised. The older "idiot" boys took keen delight in taking away our lunches, holding us up by the heels, chasing us around the school. They were almost a "gang" to us little fellows. We had to become cagey. After being hung head down once over the toilet seat, I learned to keep away from this bunch. I quickly learned not to go to the outdoor toilet during recess, when the “gang” was loose. Rather, I would raise my hand to get permission to go during the school sessions. I could run fast enough to avoid the older boys, as long as I had a head start. I had one year that was extremely difficult, because the teacher, Mrs. Hansen, boarded at our house. My parents, without question, repeated every punishment I got at school. I learned a great deal about deportment that year. We played outdoor games under the teacher's watchful eye. We had several kinds of tag games and played a game with a tennis ball called "anti-I-over." We kids formed two teams, one on each side of the sparse, faded school building. We would toss the ball from one side to the other and try to capture players on the other team. Catching the ball before it bounced on the ground allowed a player to run around the other side of the building to try to tag one of the other team members. The other game was pump-pump-pullaway (also called pompom-pullaway). We crisscrossed to opposite bases, tagging others as they passed. When all were on one base, the game was won. Some of the students were “half-breed” American Indian boys. They rode horses to school and hunted small game off the school grounds during recess periods. It was fascinating to me to watch them skin a rabbit and cook it in a tomato can over a small bonfire of "cow chips" gleaned from an adjoining pasture. The schoolyard was a 2-acre plot on one corner of a pasture. There was no well, no electricity, no plumbing. Water had to be brought from home. The High Plains of Montana had no timber but provided an abundance of soft black lignite coal. It was a great fuel, but Page 34

CHAPTER FOUR: A PRAIRIE SCHOOL

the main drawback was that each scuttle of coal yielded two scuttles of ashes. Education was confined to basic "readin’, writin’, and 'rithmatic." We concentrated on geography, and always had a long spelling list to memorize. Our home literature, as I mentioned earlier, included The Literary Digest, Country Gentleman, Cosmopolitan, and Capper's Farmer. There was no reference encyclopedia, but we did possess a giant Webster's Dictionary. Otherwise, we relied upon whatever the teacher brought. There was a portable orthophonic Victrola. We would carefully hand wind it; but we had only 3 records to play. I still reverberate to "Carolina Moon.” The teachers were paid a very small salary, perhaps $40 to $60 a month. Board was supplied by one of the nearby farms for $10, or so, per month. In those hard times, we luckily recruited out-of-work professionals in addition to the usual normal school graduates. I remember Harry Nail, a lawyer, who during the fifth grade enriched our minds with tales of his legal experiences. Fortunately, the presence of this tall and muscular man stopped the horseplay of the older boys that seemed to always plague many of the female teachers. He was followed by a number of others, and in the eighth grade I was taught by Elizabeth Sorensen, one of my schoolmates in the upper grades when I first started school. She was talented, beautiful, eighteen, and became one of my first "secret heart throbs." The one-room Rhoda School, District 62, with thirty pupils in eight grades, was not an educational handicap. Each day I listened to eight grades recite. The teacher's words, "Rise, turn, and pass," still ring in my ears, as each grade’s students would move from their individual desks to the bench facing the large blackboard to begin a particular lesson. In just seven years, at age twelve, I graduated from the eighth grade along with my sister, Hazel. Mother's home schooling had definitely given us a head start. After listening to eight grades for seven years, I now like to claim fifty-six years of grammar school education! Geography as of 1925 was mastered. Most of the words in Webster’s Dictionary were familiar and readily spelled. Two first-prize Eversharp silver pencils attested to my skillful spelling. We memorized and retained a great many things, ranging from Shakespeare to Longfellow and Hawthorne. This would possibly be the last and most obscure place one would look for finding a lifetime gem: a one-story frame building with two outhouses in the rear, standing weatherbeaten on 2 acres of uncultivated, virgin Montana prairie. There was neither electricity nor water, not even a well. The rusty bell clanged each school day at 9 o’clock as the teacher stood on the front steps and pulled the bell rope. A lignite coal-burning furnace provided warmth in cold weather, but there was no means of cooling during the scorching fall months. The community often used the schoolhouse for social events. Pie socials, basket socials, and the like took place, with baked goods provided by the ladies being auctioned off to the community males by competitive bidding. The buyer would then sit with the lady whose tasty food he had purchased. The funds were used to buy special things for the school, such as books and magazines. Music was by fiddle or accordion, illumination by old-time mantled gas lanterns, and merriment and sociability reigned. During my early adult years, I honestly believed that my grammar school years contributed less than a minimal amount of substance to my education. Apology and embarrassment arose whenever I was compelled to admit that I earned my eighth grade diploma in a one-room prairie school amid a settlement of Montana high-prairie homesteads. Page 35

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

Now, in my twilight years, as I compare the quality of my early education with that of present-day elementary schools, it is apparent that my self-styled primitive schooling actually had equipped me with family values, a sense of right and wrong, and a grasp of the "three R's," which are partially or wholly lacking in today's financially endowed urban schools. How did I learn to read at age four? By my mother’s tireless repetition of letters and their phonetic sounds. My father stimulated my perception in quite a different way: "If you ask me that question again, I'll take you to the woodshed.” My expert spelling ability, mastery of world geography, and facility with decimals and fractions were basic skills that I now see as special tools which aided me in meeting and exceeding competition in life's endeavors. My last visit to Froid, Montana, July 1-2, 2000, revealed not even one trace of our school on that 2-acre site where I had spent so many days with my sister. Gone were the fences; waves of grass and weeds obliterated the wagon tracks that once we followed. It had become a patch of greenery accessible only by memories from 75 years ago. I would have to resurrect the old school and its clanging bell in watercolor or let the image fade into oblivion. Thank you, Rhoda School District No 62, Froid, Montana.

“Barn & wagon”

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Robert Midthun, 1985

5 Boyhood Memories

T

he style for us children in the summer months was to go barefoot. We gathered eggs, watered the hogs and chickens, opened and shut gates, and weeded the garden. We had to wash fresh dung from our bare feet after doing our barnyard chores. My humble beginning as a “hick farm kid” filled me with a compulsive desire to learn how best to fit into society. Farm boyhood experiences are indeed treasures in the true sense of the word. Present-day listeners are intrigued, if not confused, when they hear me talk about wagon wheels singing on icy, snow-packed roads or the rhythmic rattle of a mower sickle or my toasting of my chilled feet by the oven of the kitchen range. I still smell the exhaust of the 2-cylinder, fuel-oil burning John Deere tractor and recall its rhythmic “pom-pom” exhaust sound. Father was always in need of help, so he trained us boys at an early age to harness and drive a two-horse mustang team pulling the mowing machine. We also learned to ride the cultivator or plant grain with a four-horse team on the 10 ft. drill. In my final years at home, I plowed fields with the John Deere tractor and 3-bottom plow. When harvest came, I manned the 12ft. McCormick-Deering combine with 8-year-old Kermit driving the tractor. Many times I dream of Buster and the Dahley mare, who towed the farm implements around the field with poise and dignity. In springtime, they pulled the corn planter and cultivator or the walking plow in the cultivated fields. Other times they were instrumental in “breaking" (or sod-busting) the few acres of unbroken virgin prairie on the south quarter section of our farm. Two additional mustangs were added to this team to make a foursome for handling larger implements like the Van Brunt drill for planting wheat. I stood atop its grain box braving chill spring winds or fresh spring breezes. As I dreamed of great future happenings, I pretended that the little valley in which I was working would some day be mine. Despite all this, I was still a “hick” to the townspeople and their kids. Whenever city kids came to our farm to play, they had no idea how to drive a team of horses, clean the barn, or deliver a calf. Usually they didn’t have sense enough to close the gate to the pasture when returning to the farm house. Who, then, do you believe were the genuine hicks? When I was six, Dad bought a single shot Remington .22 caliber rifle for me. It had three Page 37

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ammunition choices, but I was never permitted to shoot anything more powerful than .22 shorts. Summer days often included my roaming over the pasturelands to hunt gophers. Sometimes I'd see a jack rabbit, but it was a rare occasion when I could get near enough to shoot one. One winter day I had my chance. The ground was covered with snow, and the plowed fields were blanketed so that only a few lumps of soil showed through. But, on top of the straw stack, I saw rabbit ears. I approached quietly and carefully, dropped to one knee, aimed and fired. Funny, I thought, the rabbit only shook its ears. I fired a second shot. Same thing. Then, a third shot. The “rabbit” reared up and whinnied. Heavens sake! It was Charlie, our white lead horse, and he was angry. I had been putting .22 shorts into his topknot! Fortunately the bullets were so low powered and the horse’s hair so thick that it frightened him more than hurt him. The .22 rifle had a safety catch which I was supposed to use at all times. I often forgot, and on this occasion I forgot one time too often, to my dismay. The barrel was heavy and therefore naturally pointed downward. Being an ardent hunter, I cocked the gun and took off the safety catch so I could fire it in an instant. I saw a gopher. The gun fired before I could raise it to aim. Blood was trickling from my shoe. I had shot myself in the foot. Luckily it was between 2 toes. I did not dare tell my dad. He didn't care about the wound. "The foot will heal—the shoe won't!" So I carefully concealed the whole episode. Kermit, one of my brothers, broke his arm. He didn't tell Dad either. It was a bit more difficult to hide a broken arm, but he did his daily chores. No one was any the wiser. I think his arm now has an extra curve in it. Summers were uneventful times, and I spent many days and hours with a team of horses cultivating the scrawny corn stalks that were trying their level best to overcome the weeds, the cutworms and the hot dry spells between rain showers. These and the times spent with a three-horse team on the sulky plow preparing the five-acre patch below the barn for planting of corn, clover and potatoes. They were days of daydreaming. I would take my little Remington single-shot rifle and wander about the 320-acre farm. My mind would conjure up visions of what I would do to the farm and to the little valley in which it was located. My daydreams helped disguise my main goal: to stay away from the house and to avoid becoming involved in the cold war between Mother and Dad. Only now am I fully aware that I scarcely knew either Dad or Mother. We seldom talked about controversial episodes. Our family history has therefore had to come from relatives, and much of our cultural heritage was never experienced while we were children. Every week there were the chores of cleaning the cow dung from the barn and putting in fresh bedding. There was the task of keeping the windmill pumping water into the stock tanks. It seemed that there either wasn't enough wind or too much wind and water would overflow the tanks and form mud puddles. My farther didn't like either condition and always commented upon my ancestry or some other disparaging remark. Forty acres of the farm were virgin prairie land. They sloped gently upward to the south. We called this plot “the pasture.” Our favorite pond, a glacial pothole typical of the High Plains, was at its center. Each spring the snowmelt filled the little slough. Soon it was waistdeep, full of pollywogs, water snakes, and fringed with moss and reeds. I made a raft out of railroad ties and poled about on its surface. The antique Edison phonograph with the cylindrical records and large tin horn was sacrificed to provide a small spring-wound motor Page 38

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for a miniature paddle-wheel boat. My dad and mother had no idea that the phonograph was motorless because they were interested in tinkering with the battery-power Crosley radio. We would listen until late into the night. The game was to see how distant a station could be heard. We logged Chicago, Pittsburgh, Los Angeles, and Denver at times but only in fragmented, static-ridden reception. A branch of Sheep Creek also ran almost diagonally through this area, but there was seldom any flow, except in the spring run-off or during a cloudburst. A hobby was screening the gravel beds in the creek bottom for arrows, scrapers, clubs and tomahawk relics left by generations of Indians long gone. A few buffalo skulls still dotted the area. There were a lot of large badger holes. The badgers had been eradicated years ago as homesteaders settled the land, but the holes remained. They were at least a foot in diameter and the chief danger to saddle horses, which might stumble in one of them and break a leg. The banks of the creek sloped gently, and there were still patterns of cobblestones arranged in circles for Indian tent encampments. It never occurred to me that these were historical sites in the virgin prairie. To me it was the place where endless rocks had to be dug out by hard labor with pick, crowbar, and shovel and then piled along the field perimeter. I spent many days each summer between age 10 and age 16 removing the stones and hauling them on a "stone boat" platform of planks on 8 x 8 timber runners towed by a team of horses. Finally came the day when Dad said, "Hook up the team to the sulky plow and break the prairie." I had to figure out where and how to start. None of us ever asked how to do a task. If we asked him, we always got, "How can you be so old and know so little?" We preferred to get the beating for doing it wrong rather than asking him first. We became fast learners. I used to ask a couple of kind-hearted neighbors who enjoyed showing and telling us about things like this. Dad never knew how I figured out how to start the 40-acre plowing job! Three horses and a "walking plow" were used to "break" the prairie. The soil, impacted by generations of roots and compacted by ages of lying undisturbed, was turned over and laid, roots-up in the adjoining furrow by the specially shaped plowshare on the sulky. Each ribbon was about 20 inches wide and 6 inches deep. There had to be considerable moisture in the soil to accomplish this, so we had only a few days at a time after summer rains to work the plow. In order to plant the first crop, the sod had to be further broken up by disking, harrowing, and cultivating. So the mere act of sodbusting was but the first of many steps. The first crop planted was almost certain to fail. For some reason I never understood, Dad insisted that the first crop be flax. What I never realized until years later in life was that I, like the original homesteaders, was a "sodbuster." I am very proud now to have earned that distinction. Often I would lie down on a hillside to gaze at the clouds, wishing and wondering what I would do and where I would go when I decided to leave the farm. I knew that once I severed the ties, I would be free but on my own in every aspect of life. It was exciting and dangerous to think as I did, but my imagination told me to prepare for a permanent exit at the earliest opportunity.

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The farmstead as it looked in 2000 under ownership of the Ostbys.

Photo: Richard Midthun

A view to the south from the farmstead.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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CHAPTER FIVE: BOYHOOD MEMORIES

A view back from the south to the farmstead.

Photo: Richard Midthun

Approaching the old homestead (center of frame) from the north. To our left would have been the old Renault spread, where I was rescued from the runaway buggy by my hero, Telesphore Renault. Behind us on the right (out of view) would have been the mailboxes where I would travel daily in fair weather to pick up the mail.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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Class membership display at the Froid all-school reunion in 2000. Note that my class of 1929 list shows only 10 students. I recall 12 of us graduating. Unfortunately, no photos for our class were found. Photo: Robert Midthun

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6 High School Days

F

roid High School boasted about 60 students. Our schoolmates included two future generals in World War II, a janitor's son who became editor of a Chicago daily, and a banker's son who became vice president of a multinational corporation, and one sad character who was hanged for murder. My classmate and sister, Hazel, was always just a tad better than I. She was valedictorian. I settled for salutatorian. High school proved to be a cultural shock for this twelve-year-old, with an ego that only his mother could have built into him. Among other cultural equipment I took with me that first day was bigotry. If you weren't Norwegian, you just weren't anything. Danes, Germans, Swedes, Russians, and Native Americans were almost untouchables. I was smart, and my personal pride and superior brains would carry me on through the next four years, I thought! Alas! In Algebra I my first semester grade was 50 (grading on percentage), General Science under “Prof” 0. Lloyd Gillespie was a 75. My ship had sunk! Thanks to some dire fears and a sudden awakening that one had to study and understand each lesson before the next one, I soon learned that effort was far more important than a big ego and feet firmly planted in the clouds. In due time learning became fun! At twelve I was a hundred-ten pounder, not even 5 feet tall. Athletics was out for me. So was romance! Being small and two years junior to all others in the class, I soon found my way to "glory" had to be with whatever brains I had! My small world expanded further, since my sister Hazel and I had to bach in town each school year during the months with the most severe weather. For the five school days each week, we stayed together in a rented shack, cottage, or apartment. On those winter weekends we were taken home in the sleigh with Buster and the Dahley mare prancing in the snow. There were animated conversations over the coal oil-lamp-lighted table in the kitchen as we recounted events of the previous week to our parents. Also we had the chores of laundry, ironing and food preparation for the next week to perform. In the favorable weather of early fall and spring, we abandoned the baching and commuted to high school in the 1917 Overland touring car. It had no brakes, and there were two methods of stopping and parking it. One was to "shoot a landing.” It was tricky to estimate Page 43

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when to slow down and how far the vehicle would coast before it came to rest against the log in the parking place. The other was to cast a four-by-four timber beneath the rear wheel at just the proper moment. Hazel was not too well coordinated, and she would have difficulty in casting it in place while I screamed at her. She never leaned to drive. Perhaps these experiences had something to do with that. Dad had a peculiar set of values, to say the least, in choosing places for us to bach in Froid. The first was a 10 x 12 ft. clapboard shack with a door, two small windows, and a potbellied heater standing in a weed-covered lot across the street from the Jack Wulf residence, a large two-story house on a couple of acres, complete with outbuildings, barn, well, and garden. Wulf, who owned the Froid Mercantile Company, a general store, was a rangy, dry, taciturn dry-goods man, who was as tough and crusty as the gnarled cottonwood trees along Sheep Creek. Mrs. Wulf was mother's best friend. They liked to chat about intellectual things. Esther Wulf was much younger than Jack, and her time was occupied in raising a family of ten children. The Wulfs never owned an automobile. In spite of the large business and hard work, they always seemed "hard up." There were some fine rugs, Haviland china, and good furniture in the house, and the children were always well dressed. When Jack died in later years, an amazing story unfolded. He was a bigamist, and his other (legal) wife collected his entire estate. She had blackmailed him throughout his life. That is why they lived so frugally. It was a very tragic thing. From what we learned as time went on, all of the children were able to cope with the situation and eventually led normal and happy lives. Back to the shack. No icebox. No well. No fuel. We carried our own lignite coal each week along with kindling to start fires. We carried one bucket of water at a time from the WuIfs’ well. It was very hard. Tea was bitter and funky tasting. When you washed your face, it felt like you had a mask on. But it was wet. We divided the small room into two spaces with an old blanket hanging on a wire. The stove was always on one side, and that occupant really had a “hot time.” We lived simply. Mother sent roasts, bacon and eggs, and home-baked bread and pies with us each weekend. The fresh meat was kept outside in a covered pail that stayed frozen during the winter. In warm weather we would get some weenies or sausage or hamburger from Albert Zelt's meat market. He was as bald as Yul Brynner, rotund, and florid-faced. His handlebar mustache drooped sharply, and his German was interspersed with few heavily accented English words. But he was friendly and often gave us "butcher's candy," a bit of weenie or sausage. We slept in metal cots with sides that raised and lowered so that the bed could double as a settee. The feather ticks kept us warm. We did not bathe. Sponge baths were the only luxury we had when the shack was warm. Either drafty and cold or stiflingly hot, the room was never moderate or comfortable. We never even considered that we could be suffocated by coal gas from our little stove. Our studies were done on a card table beneath the drop cord bearing a 50-watt bulb. The electric power came from a town-operated “one-lung” diesel-powered generator. By the time the current was carried to our location, it had lost so much power that our little light flickered. In windstorms it would go out completely. We therefore reverted to a coal oil lamp. Those freshman and sophomore years were trying in the Wulf shack. It was very depressing. We were on the edge of town, and our nearest neighbors were the poorest family in Froid. The Finleys were good people, but lacking education and having a large family made Page 44

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it impossible for them to provide a decent standard of living. We would take the leftover food from each school week to them. I shall always remember the stunted, pale children and the prematurely aging parents with sad, wrinkled faces. Our home for the junior year was a rented cottage with its own well, cooking range, and heating stove. There was no running water, and we did not connect the electricity. We divided the cottage in two parts, with the Ostby boys, our farm neighbors, occupying the other portion. They were very good friends and models of good behavior. Their father was active in politics and for years was our senator in the state legislature. They were interested in sports and all athletics. We had little in common during high school years, except for our friendship. Kermit had turned six years old, and it was a happy thing to have him with us in town to attend grammar school. The days of the one-room Rhoda school were past. The very first day of school I witnessed him engage in a rough and tumble conflict from my second-story window vantage. The high school was on the upper floors and the grammar school on the ground floor. He had been backed into a corner. Fists flew and feet kicked. Pretty soon he had subdued his assailants. Kermit was a tough little guy and very quiet by nature. His youth had no "good old days" like mine. He had a keen mind and used it well. In later years we would become fast friends, when eight years of age difference made no difference. At last I would be able to understand his quietness and determination. Like me, Kermit had resolved to leave the farm and Froid at the earliest opportunity. For our senior year, Hazel, Kermit, and I occupied a very small apartment upstairs over the large Olson residence. The Olsons were a respected and distinguished family. One son, Clarence, was a colonel in the National Guard. His brother, Hardin, had graduated from West Point. Both were generals in World War II. Their sisters were very pretty, well educated, and intellectual achievers. The Olson apartment was the first one that had modern plumbing, water, and electricity. There was no bath, but that was no problem to farm kids who had their own Saturday night ritual. We did not connect the electricity by meter, but short-wired the stub ends of the wires that once were on a meter. Lo! We had power. Father bought a small hot plate, and we stole the power to do our cooking. He got a great thrill out of his perversity! I might add that we high school kids had little respect for the Froid electric system. The parents of one of the kids had a barn in which the power wires and insulator were exposed. We played a game to see who was the bravest by joining hands in a human chain. One end of the chain would contact an exposed wire, and the other end would touch the remaining terminal. The idea was to not let go. I can remember the surges of electricity through my arms. It is wonder enough that we were not killed. But by standing on hay in the barn loft, we apparently were saved. That gang was too sophisticated for me, a thirteen-year-old, so I chose to spend my recreational time with another farm boy my same age named Donald Nordman, who boarded with his brother during the school year. Donald had fallen from a saddle horse as a youth, and it apparently had affected him mentally. He was one who would climb the 80-foot windmill tower on their farm when the folks were gone or who would ride yearling calves in the corral until they panted in exhaustion. He dared me to duplicate his feats. I did. But I got severely punished when my parents found out about it. On one occasion I thought I was going to die. We were riding double on his spirited pony Page 45

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when we spotted their prize shorthorn bull in the pasture. We decided to tease the bull. In Montana at that time, wheat was threshed in the field and the straw piled in a tall, loose, coneshaped stack. The residual grain in the straw attracted livestock, and the cattle would trample the straw under foot to eat from the stack, leaving a tall, cupcake-shaped pile. We chased the bull into the stack. He had difficulty running in the loose straw under foot. The pony was agile and could wheel on a dime and bolt like blazes. We were having the time of our lives. Then as the horse bolted, I slid off his back and onto the straw. Donald perversely wheeled away from the stack, leaving the bull and me at the stack playing "peek-a-boo" for real. I would hear him snorting and puffing, and then I would run in the opposite direction. The bull would reverse his path looking for me. It seemed like ages to me to play this exhausting tag game. Donald just sat on the horse and laughed at me. I knew I'd have to let the bull gore me. Just as I was about to collapse, Donald rode up and pulled me on board. Donald controlled me, and I have never figured out whether it was his persuasive manner or my weakness and willingness to find excitement in disobeying the rules of common sense. For example, one evening we were downtown visiting the two pool halls where the local townspeople played pan and poker. There were slot machines that vended tokens and dispensed cheap candy. Once in a while we would have a quarter to squander (for weenies at Zelt's). On this particular evening, neither Donald nor I had more than a few pennies. We stopped in the Liberty Theater lobby to get a gumball out of the vending machine. The machine jammed. Donald said, "Robert, watch the door". Then he dismantled the machine and cleaned out the forty-two pennies it contained. "Hey, Robert, we're in luck," he said. We went a block to the Froid Mercantile and purchased two Nickel Nut candy bars and some pencils. The theft was not unnoticed. Lyle Miller, a fellow student who did janitorial work for Gilbert Rogney, the theater owner, reported the incident to his boss. Donald was in deep trouble and was threatened with reform school and other penalties. I lived in mortal fear, having been an accomplice. Each day I expected Rogney to confront my parents, and that would have been traumatic, indeed. But he did not. Rogney was the Great Northern Railroad station agent at Froid. In the year to follow, I would sneak around him every time I entered the station. I would cringe when I took a load of wheat to the elevator across the street, for fear he would notice me. In adulthood I went to see Mr. Rogney and told him I had suffered much guilt over the taking of the money. He was genuinely surprised and said, "Robert, we never even knew you were involved!" What a lesson! My high school portrait.

What a friend I had in Lyle Miller, but I regret Page 46

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that I never knew him or thanked him for protecting me. The Liberty Theater was the cultural center of Froid. It was a large, rectangular frame building with a ceiling high enough and a floor wide enough for a basketball court. The same space served as the National Guard Armory for company "L" of the 163rd infantry, Montana National Guard. Drills were held each Monday night. When a movie was shown, the folding chairs were set up. The small stage at one end was the site for many a school play or the locale for a debating or oratorical contest. Prom and graduation took place here. By age fourteen I was as tall as Dad, all of five feet six inches. I had become more muscular and had a keen desire to earn some money. The National Guard recruited members from the high school. So I fraudulently enlisted in the Guard at age 14 by stating I was eighteen. For the first time in my life I had good wool shirts that fit, a warm overcoat, sturdy shoes, and an income of a dollar a week plus two weeks encampment each summer in Fort Harrison at Helena, Montana. Every three months I cashed my $13.00 check for thirteen drills at $1.00 each. It was "manna from heaven," that much money. My heart was in the military life. I yearned for and dreamed of becoming an officer so that I could have tailored breeches and shiny riding boots and a Sam Browne belt. The commanding officer of "L" company was Leslie Stephens, a chiropractor from a nearby town. His adjutant was Edmunds Geiger, the son of Froid's only dentist, Dr. J.C. Geiger. Edmunds was also Leslie Stephens’ brother-in-law. Both of these men were excellent role models and exemplary citizens. They were influential to all of the high school kids and, furthermore, were college educated. My trust in these leaders was implicit, and Fred Engler, an older man who had the rank of sergeant, became almost my second father. I could talk openly and freely with him, something I could not do with my own dad. Fred is one of the great men in my life. He was influential in having me promoted to supply sergeant after only two years of service. I had charge of all equipment, stores, uniforms, guns, ammo, and the like. It was the first taste of power I had ever had. We went to our encampment in the first week in July. On the eastern slope of the Rockies with an elevation 4000 feet above sea level, the mornings were nippy and frosty. The sun was warm and afternoons were in the seventies, certainly a problem with choker-style World War I uniforms, breeches, and wrap leggings. Discipline was strict. The one incident that stands out above all others in my military life was a field combat exercise of the three battalions of the 163rd infantry. We were advancing over the cactuscovered arid ground. The method was called infiltration, in which we rose from a prone position, advanced 30 yards, dropped to prone position behind some bush or obstacle and fired blank rounds from our 30-06 Springfield rifles. When the rest of our company had advanced 30 yards, we would repeat the process. In between advances we yelled to one another and waited for the next command. The little guy next to me was a kid who had a lot of spunk. He chewed tobacco and smoked cigarettes that he rolled. My dad would have beaten me to death if I smoked, so I was an abstainer. He yelled, "Robert, have a chew" and tossed me a small plug of champagne-cut chewing tobacco. I was a sergeant and could not give him an excuse. So I bit off a chunk and tossed the plug back. We made two more advances by infiltration. I became excited in the action and accidentally swallowed my quid. Boy, was I sick! I turned green and began to vomit. The little guy laughed hard, came over and took my rifle and stuck the bayonet in the ground and put my campaign hat on the but. That was a signal to the medics that the ambulance was needed. Retching in Page 47

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agony, I remember the company advancing away from me in the distance. The ambulance wheeled up in a cloud of dust. The medics placed me on a stretcher and took me to the infirmary tent. I shall never forget the doctor's instant diagnosis: heat exhaustion. I am thankful to this day that the truth was never evident. Between twelve and sixteen I had changed from a towheaded, slender child into a more adult appearance. Two things kept me from participating in sports. My parents took a dim view of athletic events. Father would say, "Pish, damn fools play games." The other was my slender body and lack of coordination, either of which would have kept me on the sidelines if I had been permitted to enter sports. I weighed at most 120 lbs soaking wet. Even if things had been different, my small rural grammar school had no semblance of organized sports to prepare me for later athletic endeavors. So when I entered Froid High’s freshman class, I knew which path to follow. My mother and the talented schoolmarms of Rhoda School, District 62, had equipped me with a knowledge and love for grammar, spelling, and the written word. I did excel in diligent and meaningful lesson preparation and study. So scholarship was my natural desire, although my initial commitment to that path was shaky. Since we shared the same classes, Hazel and I were in competition from the very start. She had a yen for English and poetry. We both did a lot of writing. She was a disciplined student and carefully did her homework. She kept a diary in a code of letters and numbers that I never could decipher it, even after hours of speculation and espionage. After the first semester in high school, in which I garnered some fifty percent scores, because I did not study and considered classes as a mere exercise for my brilliant mind, I, too, became a serious student Barred from athletic competition, I concentrated on scholarship, oratory and debate. Excelling in all three fields I soon earned my "niche" in the school. Hazel and I were on the honor roll and were required to be in the building only during classes and general assembly periods. One most appealing and inviting temptation was the annual countywide scholarship contest embracing the 12 basic high school subjects mandated by the Montana Board of Education for sophomores and other upperclassmen. This was my goal—to enter and win honors in the written tests on the subjects in my class group. I won first place in geometry, English, and civics and second and third ranking in many other subjects. This earned me a Scarlet “F” letter sweater. Our school colors were cardinal and black. I now had recognition in the scholastic field, just as the athletes who lettered in the various sports did on the athletic field. Another high school challenge I enjoyed was stock judging. I took to it naturally from my farm experiences and excelled. I earned many trips to other schools to represent Froid High in these competitions. Often I traveled with the athletic teams, they to the physical and I to the mental competition. As a senior, I entered the Montana Oratorical Contest sponsored by The Great Falls Tribune, a leading Montana daily newspaper. Each entrant had to write and deliver an oration of his choice on one of several listed topics embracing the United States Constitution. My subject choice was “The Constitution, A Guarantee of Liberty To The Individual?” It was an easy win on the Froid High School stage, but my next contest at Wolf Point, the county seat, would be against the runner-up, second place medallist in the previous year’s state Page 48

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contest in Helena. Principal O. Lloyd Gillespie himself drove me to Wolf Point. He was a stern man and a disciplinarian. His presence boosted my courage, and I won the gold medal, defeating Bernard Geisen, the previous year's second-place medallist. I treasure the gold medal and am very happy to have earned it. My victory at Wolf Point meant that I would go to the state finals in Great Falls. Dad wanted me to have a new suit for the event. Mr. E.E. Perlin's clothing store, next to the First State Bank, sold Curlee brand ready-to-wear suits. We went in and tried on a few. Dad settled on a size 36 blue pin-striped, three-button model. It had two pairs of pants, so he followed Mr. Perlin's suggestion that one pair be tailored to fit Dad and the other to fit me. Both of us were the same height, and the coat could be used by either of us without alteration. The coat and vest, size 40, were right off the rack. The trousers were altered so that one pair was size 36, the other, size 28. The arrangement was that whichever of us had the priority occasion would wear the vest and coat. The other would wear a white shirt, tie and the pants with whatever dark jacket we possessed between us. When I got the pants, I discovered, to my dismay, that the alteration was done in a manner that placed the trouser creases on the outside of my legs. Perlin had merely cut a triangular vee-shaped piece out of the trouser seat and closed the gap. Dad said, “Quit your bellyachin', they're all right!” That didn't bother me as much as the pink felt hat he got on sale for $3.. It was very pale in color, but noticeably pink. Dad said, "Shut up, it's a good buy!" I had learned to shut up since our knock down and drag out affair on the previous Christmas. Next came my first pair of dress shoes, Oxfords no less! But they were bright yellow with rectangular eyelets, plaid laces, and heels a peculiar shade of lavender. My new red four-in-hand tie had a few gravy stains already built in. I figured that I could use my National Guard Dynashine cordovan liquid dye to lessen the shoes’ visual impact, but I didn’t know what to do with the pink hat, except to forget it or lose it. Eventually, I did just that. My carping and suffering finally brought some attention from my father. He said, one day, “If you don’t like that nice suit, ve’ll get you another vun for you.” I was thrilled and grabbed the Montgomery Ward catalog. “No, not that,” he said. “Ve'll go into town (Froid).” “Dey have lots of goods at the Froid Mercantile Company.” My heart nearly quit beating. Here we go again. I knew that feeling deep down in my innards. We went to see Jack Wulf. The “Merc” as we called it was a dark, pungent room with only the front windows admitting any light. There were overhead fans that twirled lazily and large glass domed light fixtures, illuminated with 20-watt bulbs. Hardwood counters that had been worn and grooved with years of use, perhaps second hand when the store was built, ran back about 30 or 40 feet along both sidewalls. To the right were canned goods, coffee, salt, beans, crackers in a barrel, weenies in a barrel of brine, and crocks of butter traded by the farm women (some of the butter was rancid, little was sweet, and everyone knew enough to ask for Mrs. Swanson's butter, please). The left side of the store had dry goods, including overalls with high backs, low backs, jeans, caps, hats, bolts of flannel, gingham and terry cloth, harness gear and tack axle grease, shovels, hoes, rakes, brooms, and so on. The farther one went into the store, the more musty, dusty, and dark the merchandise became. Page 49

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When Dad and I entered the store, I just knew they didn't have any suits! I had never seen such a thing. Wrong! Mr. Wulf said, “I've got a few suits in the back that I'll give you a real good price on and which will be the right size for Robert.” I wanted to bolt out the door. I dared not cry or gripe, because by father had a violent temper and wouldn't hesitate to beat me with his fists in a white hot-rage. I was l-i-c-k-e-d again! Out came a slate-grey, homespun garment with stripes faintly threaded through the fabric in shades of yellow and blue. The cut was “ecstatic” for the gay nineties. The coat had five buttons and cute little lapels that wrapped smartly under the chin of the wearer. “You only buttoned the top two or three buttons,” Mr. Wulf said. He must have remembered his father's suit, I thought, to know about that! The vest had small lapels, too! I secretly hoped the price would frustrate Dad. Six dollars didn't! “Try it on,” asked Wulf? “Naw,” Dad said. “It’s the right size.” But dad never noticed that I had remodeled the suit with scissors and a hot iron. I folded the small lapels all the way down to the third button so I had a two-button appearing suit. I cut the lapels off the vest, but that did not work, so I quietly threw it in the rag bag. In a few months I had managed to corral $14.00 from odd chores at the local store, picking turkeys for Mr. Wulf, and for similar tasks at 50 cents each! No hourly wage--just “tips.” The sporty gray suit with the pin stripes that looked so good in the catalog finally came! It was a dream suit that almost fit perfectly. Wide lapels, two buttons, neat vest. Wow! Then I sat down to relax and savor the event. Alas. when I arose, I noticed that my image in the mirror indicated I was still sitting! Now, I had a “stand-up” suit. Whenever I wore it, I was certain that no one could persuade me to sit until the very last thing. Then home and back to the iron. Many times my friends and family have asked me why I am so particular about my clothing and my appearance. You have the answer. The other thing I longed to have was a barber-shop haircut. For the big event in Great Falls, I did go the Cosper's Barber Shop next to the post office, intending to get the "clippers all around job." Its twenty-five cents price was more than I could afford, so it was Dad’s "soup bowl style" with me sitting on an old beer case in the barn while he applied his unmatched tonsorial skills. When I finally went to Great Falls to compete in the state contest, I was photographed with Governor John Edward Erickson on the steps of the auditorium. Dressed in my pink felt hat and my new Curlee suit and wearing the yellow Oxfords with fancy laces, I must have looked the "typical hayseed." We met many other state officials, dined at banquets, and were housed in the Hotel Rainbow. Some 5,000 souls crowded into the auditorium for the contest. It was a humbling experience not even to place. I had had my chance and felt like the prizefighter who, after losing the championship fight 20 seconds into the first round, told his mother the next day, "I came in second." I have warm and fond recollections of my honors in debate and oratory. In these four years, I had accomplished many small successes. All of these brought attention to me by the local banker, John W. Schnitzler, who would enable me to go to college. These pursuits enriched my talents and earned me a great career in later years.

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CHAPTER SIX: HIGH SCHOOL DAYS

“Meadows and fields in springtime” Robert Midthun, 1986

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Dad and Elmer.

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7 The Schnitzler Scholarship

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y adulthood was sudden and final. High school graduation a few days after my sixteenth birthday placed me in a tremendous quandary. On graduation night in the Liberty Theatre, I delivered both the salutatory and valedictory addresses, since Hazel the valedictorian was confined to her bed with black measles. Then and there, the realization finally hit home that there was no way I could go on to pursue a college education. I had no money. Mother and Dad were in a deep state of gloom, and a hostile mood prevailed. It was cold war time. That summer of 1929 was disastrous to the spring wheat crops for which the High Montana Plains were noted. When crops properly materialized, the wheat brought premium prices for its high protein content and its special milling qualities. However, 1929 was so dry that we didn't even have hay for our three cows or our four horses. The wheat was brown and stunted. It barely yielded enough to replace the seed, and certainly not more than a few bushels to the acre for expenses. The crops were mortgaged. That meant we could not sell any grain to our personal account. In fact, our 320-acre wheat farm had already suffered seven years of complete crop fai1ures from drought, hail, dust storms, cutworms, to name a few. One or a combination of these wiped us out each year. We had to sell the livestock because we couldn't grow any hay or feed for them. We kept the cow hoping that she would live and provide us with milk and cheese. The chickens and turkeys shifted for themselves, living mostly on the pests that were eating our crops. Dad kept two teams of horses, and we scrounged and connived to find enough to keep these alive. By August news of the impending stock market crash was in the press It didn't matter to the Midthuns. We had no stocks, no money, and practically no hope. Our aim was survival. Fortunately some public construction projects entered the picture, and Dad managed to get work for his four horses and himself. He was paid $4.00 per day, and each horse earned an additional $2.00. It was like manna from heaven! $12.00 per day! On top of this, a governmental relief project provided canned beef in large gallon tins. It was not gourmet food but was most welcome. Mother always had a lot of poise, and it disturbed her to open the tins. Page 53

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It was common knowledge to all who visited us that the beef was government issue. Nevertheless, she got out the Mason jars, sent us kids out in the pasture with gunny sacks to pick up cow chips for fuel, and then cold-pack canned the beef in our own jars. I never could reason how she meant to hide this little ruse, as we had not one steer or calf to butcher but only the one milk cow. I remember once Dad in a pair of new overalls with a roll of small bills he kept in his pocket. This time he was our “Champ,” and his renewed spirits cheered us a good deal. Yet, just a few months previously at Christmas time, when I was still 15, my dad and I had the final showdown physically and, for my part, mentally. This was the one and only time I challenged Dad. He had struck a blow at Mother, and I grabbed him. His face filled with purple rage. We were fighting in earnest. I believe he would have killed me if I had given him the chance. The whipping I took was quite brutal. Somehow Mother stopped us. I was afraid he would strike her, but he didn't. I feared for my life as I ran out of the house. In fairness to Dad, I never saw him strike her, but I have seen him cock a fist and threaten her many times. That day, I realized I would have to leave home forever after graduating from high school, and as soon as I could think of a way to do it. My parents were very downcast and depressed. So was I. There were many bitter tears in my life then. I felt trapped. The good mind God had given me had been trained by a persevering mother, and the little high school had whetted my desire to learn. It was years later before I learned what an excellent job had been done on me at that time! My sole assets were $25 that I had saved from cutting corn and doing odd jobs for Bob Insteness, a neighbor who had a daughter but not the son he always wanted. He was a kind and generous man (later to die in a mysterious barn fire, which many suspected was a murder). Buster and Dahley were my mowing team. One afternoon, after cutting some odd patches of grain near the Renault place, I was trying to mow some Russian thistles (an obnoxious thorny tumbleweed) in order to feed the cow. If we got them early enough, they were good for two things: greens, that Mother could cook for a vegetable, and some fodder for the cow. The wind always blew in Montana, and most days were partly cloudy and warm at sunrise in early summer. By mid-afternoon, the temperature would climb to the high nineties. Little wisps of straw and a lot of dust whirled in the "dust devils” that danced about in a perverse and beautiful pattern. It was stifling on the mower. My thoughts were that I would never escape a life of rural poverty. There wasn't even the remotest chance to go to college. It was too early for the customary hot tea, homemade bread, and homemade Norwegian cheese (Gamel-Ost) which Mother always brought us men in the field. I shall never forget her silhouetted figure, tired and bowed, as she plodded over the knoll. Her hair was blowing across her face. Her gingham dress was torn and patched. She had hemmed it with a mismatching material, probably from one of the World's Best Flour sacks. The heavy men's shoes, turned up at the toes, seemed to be made of lead. As she neared me, it was obvious that this was no ordinary lunch break. She gestured for me to come in from the field. She was sobbing. Tears had stained her dusty face. "Robert, stop what you are doing," she said. “Unhitch the horses. Bring them in or turn them loose. Come home at once." “Why,” I asked? “What's wrong?” Page 54

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE SCHNITZLER SCHOLARSHIP

"You must go to college,” she replied. “We have some cream and butter money you can have for the ticket out of here. If you don't leave now, you will always be here!" My heart leaped within me. My mind raced furiously. I tried to thank her, but she hurried off, leaving me in a swirling state of elation, depression and confusion. Perhaps I could somehow get an education. I would escape from the growing conflict between my dad and me. In my later years I would realize that this was an unselfish and supreme sacrifice for a mother to give her child. I still didn’t know exactly how I would pull it off, but I was determined to find a way—somehow. Dad had some qualities that I've always admired. One of these was to look after his family by whatever means was available. I made a number of trips by Model T Ford truck to grain elevators other than at Froid—McCabe, Culbertson, Bainville, all nearby in Montana, and even Williston in North Dakota. Had he not done so, we would have been penniless. The grain elevator managers were sympathetic to impoverished farmers and winked at receiving mortgaged grain. They, too, were probably indebted to the local bank or the Federal Land Bank that held the 12 per cent mortgages on their property. There was no love for the local banker. Funny thing, my means of leaving home came through the kindness and provision of the very self-same hated banker, Mr. John W. Schnitzler, owner of the First State Bank of Froid, Montana. Schnitzler was one of the founders of the town of Froid in 1910. He intended to open a newspaper but wound up opening and owning the First State Bank of Froid. His keen mind and business acumen, plus 12 per cent or more interest on farm mortgages, soon earned for him personal wealth as a millionaire. He knew how to enjoy his wealth. Small of stature and a dapper dresser, he lived well with homes in Froid and also in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and with trips around the world each year. Republican Party politics fascinated him. He was not only a State Senator, but he also was a Republican National Committeeman. He loved to show off in a quiet but noticeable way. His 12-cylinder Lincoln limousine was always parked at the curb in front of the First State Bank. He hired loyal persons to work hard and do the "dirty work" of collections for him. One never came before John Schnitzler to transact business unless it was to his advantage. The one tragedy in his life, as I learned in years to follow, was that the Schnitzlers could not have children. He longed for a son to follow in his footsteps. I did not realize how close I came to becoming a role model, if not that son. Thanks to Mother, we children were motivated to scholarship and mental achievement. She believed that the only way we could escape the sad destiny of farm life was to obtain an education. I read at four, started school at five, completed the eighth grade at 12, and graduated from high school at 16. My scholastic record at Froid High School was such as to earn a bit of local fame for me as an individual. Mr. Schnitzler had a talent for selecting people. A young man who earned his wings in the Army Air Corps at Randolph Field became his personal pilot to fly his Ryan monoplane. It was similar to the aircraft Lindbergh piloted for his famous flight. He hired brainy persons to run the bank and assist in his political ambitions. One day, when I was "bootlegging" a load of wheat to the Farmers Elevator, he passed my wagon in his black limousine, stopped, and flagged me. "Robert, what are your plans?" I was Page 55

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almost shaking with fear and respect for this tycoon, who had spoken to me only a very few times and then only to congratulate me briefly on winning a scholarship contest, a debate, or an oratorical contest. I meekly said, "I don't know what I'm going to do, but I don't want to become a farmer." To this he replied, "Come in and see me at the bank. I'll be expecting you at ten o'clock tomorrow." When I reached home, I decided not to tell my parents about the encounter. Dad would have been very upset about the banker seeing me with a team of horses and a grain wagon near the elevator. So I kept mum and spent a sleepless night. Next day, I told the folks I was driving the Overland to the mailbox one mile away. I not only picked up the mail, but I went on into Froid and to my appointment. Schnitzler's pale blue eyes twinkled as he greeted me. His blue pinstripe tailored suit and red silk tie were immaculate. I noticed his gold watch and chain across his vest. He had a large signet ring and a chocolate leather chair behind the desk. The mahogany furnishings were a sight I shall never forget. Right then he was becoming not only my hero but also my lifetime salvation! "Robert, I have a business proposition for you,” he said. “Please keep it a secret between the two of us. I want you to do your level best to work your way through college. I will help you only as a last resort, because I want you to become a self-made man. You are going to have your own checking account here. Just sign my name and yours beneath it, and we will honor the checks. Keep withdrawals as small as possible. Don't worry about the money, because Mrs. Schnitzler and I want you to pay us back only when you become wealthy. Also, Robert, I have set up a scholarship in your name at Intermountain Union College in Helena. It is a $2,000 trust fund, the interest of which will pay your tuition. Is that okay? "One more requirement, Robert. I will pay your way through graduate school in one of the finest universities, yours to choose. But you must work for me after that, and you will be well rewarded financially and in every other way befitting your station." I signed the checking account, picked up the book of checks, and left the bank with tears streaming down my face. I was walking on air! I had a solution for my desire to leave home. My folks knew of the scholarship, because I was permitted to tell them. But the rest of the Faust-like pact remained secret. Here is the point where adulthood began for me. It started with "drinking out of a fire hose," an expression that was to characterize most of my adult life.

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CHAPTER SEVEN: THE SCHNITZLER SCHOLARSHIP

“Wagon relic”

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Robert Midthun, 1987

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

Our family when I visited in the years after college. Clockwise from top left: Dad, me, Hazel, Mom, Kermit, Alice May, and Elmer.

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8 The Bonds Are Broken

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other with 2-year-old Elmer in her arms, Dad in his overalls and work shirt, invalid sister Alice May (who remained in the two-door Whippet), and Kermit bade me goodbye on the Great Northern station platform at Froid. Mother was only 44 years old, but she had a tired look. Her arms were sinewy and muscular from taking care of an 80-pound invalid and a two-year-old child. Dad stood by, downcast with a sad countenance, and said very little. He did not kiss me goodbye. Men never kissed or showed emotion. Men did not cry, so I reserved my crying until the train was a couple of hours out and on the main line of the Great Northern. It happened when I tried to eat my lunch. The cardboard box had a cantaloupe, two plums, and a pear. Then I saw the cheese, bologna, and some of Mother's whole grain bread. She had gone to great pains to give me the best she knew. I felt the pangs of sadness that she lived with, and I was deeply aware of the sacrifices she had made so that I could actually fulfill her dream of a college education her children. The trip to Helena, Montana, was about six hundred miles long and would take some 30 hours of sitting in a day coach with the smell of coal smoke burning one's eyes. There was grime, soot, and no ventilation. I never ate my lunch. I tried to give it to other passengers, but no one seemed to want any part of it. During the night I slipped out between the cars and passed it to the plains animals. My maroon cardboard suitcase with rubber straps held a pair of baggy tweed pants, a pair of corduroy trousers, some BVD underwear and socks, two shirts, and a sweater. I was wearing the gray Montgomery Ward suit that didn't hold a press and bagged at the knees. On my head was my pink hat and on my feet the yellow Oxfords that I had attempted to convert to cordovan brown. The Dyanshine polish only streaked them. Dad said, "Shut up and wear 'em; the soles are good." The monotony of clicking rails and the blinking lights at last put me to sleep. I was very careful of my wallet with my $25 in cash. The Schnitzler scholarship and checkbook were tucked inside my shirt. My cardboard suitcase was pressed close beside me in the coach seat. It contained the sum total of my worldly possessions, and the least touch by an outsider Page 59

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would have awakened me. The next afternoon at 4 P.M. the train backed the half-mile into the Helena Station at the foot of Last Chance Gulch of gold rush fame. Tired, grimy, and confused, to say the least, I scrambled onto the platform and into the station. By way of a wall map, I noted that it was a good two-mile hike from the station to the Intermountain Union College campus, way out east on Eleventh Avenue. The steep grades out of the canyon and onto the more rolling terrain required a lot of energy. With suitcase in hand, I trudged wearily to the college. There were only two buildings. On the north side of Eleventh Avenue was the main edifice, which housed admin­ istrative offices and classrooms. The girls' dorm was the other two“Helena or bust!” story brick building, across the Robert Midthun, 1985 street. There was an athletic field on the campus, but no grandstand seating or other structures. C. H. Crittenden, the controller and business manager, peered earnestly at me when I approached the admissions counter. He was an austere person with narrow-rimmed glasses and red-rimmed eyes, but he was cordial and welcomed me, taking my papers. I would have to come in the following day to register, as this was a weekend day. He gave me a list of rooms to rent, since there was no men's dorm. I selected one at 1821 Jerome Place in the city's Lenox Addition. It was a half-mile from the college, up a nine percent grade. I proceeded to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Collins and presented myself. Collins was the Prohibition Enforcement Officer for the Helena area. They were splendid people and accepted my ten bucks warmly and thankfully. There were two sons. The older son was a junior at Intermountain, and his brother was a high school senior and respected athlete. The daughter was a high school freshman. They had a Studebaker touring car. It was long and almost impossible to shift into low gear. The transmission growled and groaned. I went upstairs to my room. It was garishly wallpapered and had high Victorian windows. The homemade quilts and the cotton spread reminded me of home. It was two hours before I stopped sobbing and fell asleep. I was alone for the first time in my life. I had fifteen dollars. I was hungry and tired, mentally and physically. Rod and George Absher had the room next to mine. They were students at Intermountain and very friendly. They invited me to ride to and from the campus in their Essex two-door sedan. It had so little power and the motor spun so very fast that one would think it was a racing car. Going downgrade was wonderful. Coming uphill was tedious and noisy. The Absher boys' dad was a geologist exploring for oil in the Athabasca tar sands, eight hundred miles north of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Holes were drilled in the soil and a burner was inserted to heat and free the oil from the sands. The idea was to distill the vapor and recover crude. I was in awe of these two rugged individuals and eagerly listened to their tales of Page 60

CHAPTER NINE: OUT OF THE HARBOR AND INTO THE DEEP: FORT PECK

adventure. The next morning Rod and George knocked on my door. They had meal tickets at the dorm. My twenty-five cent breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee tasted like a feast. At 4000-ft. altitude, the cool, thin air was bracing. I rushed in to register and meet many kids, some of them from Froid’s neighboring towns. Intermountain Union College was a Christian school founded by the Methodist Episcopal and Presbyterian churches.11 The curriculum was centered on preparation for the ministry, with education a secondary purpose. Majors were offered in history, science, and music. There were many musical groups, and students formed a glee club and a large choir. There was always a musical group leading us at morning chapel. My college goal was to obtain a bachelor's degree in something, probably math and physics, though I knew it would be a struggle. I would then proceed with the Schnitzler plan. It would be graduate school and on to a profession at some great university. But I also had a secret alternative. I wanted to be in the military service and get a fine and free education at one of the academies—first choice, West Point, second choice, Annapolis. It was my thought that whichever opportunity was first would be the one to follow. But the immediate problem was how to do this on $14.75 (after breakfast). Hamburgers were 5 cents and milk shakes were 15 cents. I could make it for 20 to 30 days, I rationalized. I needed a job fast. Having to work was a way to quickly mature a 16-yrear-old freshman. The employment office at the college was helpful. Many large Victorian homes had coal furnaces. These had to be stoked and fired at 5 o'clock in the morning and the ashes cleaned out each week. The usual pay was $10.00 per month, and, if one were lucky, one could get three or four of these homes in the same locality. However, I had never even seen a basement furnace, much less learned to stoke, fire, and clean it. Here the Absher boys taught me one of the biggest lessons in my life. They took me on their rounds for "show and tell" training and went with me a few times on my own jobs to guide me. One afternoon I spotted a sign in front of the Ford agency that read “Help Wanted.” I saw the guys lounging on the street with placards, but it didn't register in my mind that they were pickets. I knew nothing of labor unions, scabs, et cetera. The man in front motioned me to the shop. A large fellow in greasy overalls said, “Kid, what do you know about Model T Ford trucks? We service about 20 Model T city garbage trucks, and I need help real bad!” That question was duck soup to me because my father and I had taken one in payment for some farm work we did for a neighbor, and we considered ourselves experts. We kept it going with a monkey wrench, some baling wire, used oil, and no money. The job was mine, if I could “cut it," as he said. Up to that time I never had been employed by the hour. I merely got tips of 50 cents or a dollar for a particular farm or grocery task. I thought I was rich! The job was easy. They furnished a bucket of clean solvent, a full set of tools, new parts, and fresh oil and grease. With the Model T all you did was clean the timer, set the coil points, adjust the planetary bands on the transmission, clean up the magneto, and, presto, a quarter-turn of the crank made it purr like a kitten. 11

Rocky Mountain College, Billings, Montana, is the present day descendant of Intermountain Union College.

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The pickets underestimated the young 5-footer from Froid when they waylaid me behind the shop to beat me up. I saw them skulking about one afternoon and figured I'd have to defend myself. A Model T axle is a fine weapon, about 24 inches long with a knobby gear on one end and a nut on the other that made a perfect handle. I could swing it like a ball bat. I wrapped this steel shillelagh in an old newspaper, tucked it under my arm, and slipped out of the shop. Although it was during Prohibition, there was a lot of booze and home brew being made. I had noticed the pickets had a supply and liked to stay somewhat plastered. The two men who stepped in front of me to assault and torment me were unarmed, surly and condescending. I had not heard such foul language since my Uncle Bob had tried to teach me to swear when I was four years old. I jumped back, grabbed my Ford axle, and made a swing like at a high curve ball, catching one of the guys at shoulder level. I bolted, ran, vaulted over the wooden fence and was gone. There was never any more physical challenge, only verbal, as they knew what I carried in the paper sack. It wasn't booze. The best job I had was cleaning a confectionery store, which entailed lighting the ranges and candy vats. Joe Brady was a small, Jewish gentleman who had keen eyes that matched his keen intellect. The building was about one hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, with a full basement. The store fronted on Main Street, and the cafe and candy counters extended forty feet or so back from there. The next room was the kitchen and confectionery, and the final room was the chocolate-dipping room, where a dozen white-gowned girls sat on stools and created some exquisite candies. It seemed unreal at first. I was given my board for doing windows and mopping the floors. I was paid twenty-five cents per hour for helping Art, the candy maker. I was told to order from the menu but never steaks or chops or fancy desserts. And I was to eat in the kitchen. Lizzie Rickman was the head chef. She would tell me to sit behind the big range so as not to be seen by the Bradys, whose apartment was upstairs, and then would come an elegant porterhouse steak. She had a teen-age boy who was on the high school basketball team. Mr. Brady never caught on. Art, the candymaker, drank a lot, but I wasn't aware of that problem for many weeks. He liked me and taught me how to set up six hundred pounds of candy canes in the big copper vats, wear the traditional goatskin gloves, and pull the candy on big hooks on the wall. I learned how to color canes and put them through the roller dies that stamped out all sorts of shapes. I helped make all sorts of candy: caramels, nougats, Turkish paste and such. Trays of these were given to the girls for chocolate dipping each morning. It wasn't long before I almost became nauseated from the smell of chocolate. I had to carry it up from the basement in huge, fifty-pound slabs. The coconut also was in slabs and had to be shredded into wide, flat strips that resembled noodles. Mr. Brady had rare insight when he fired Art. He called me in and offered me forty cents per hour if I would help him or his son at odd hours and on weekends. I jumped at the chance, not realizing that Art's career was reduced to a shambles. Between Lizzie, who fed me royally, and the good wages as assistant candymaker, I was able to save some money. Carfare was a nickel. It was one and one-half miles to classes. I bought some roller skates and thereby made the commute in a relatively few minutes, except in midwinter, when sidewalks were icy. And each skating trip saved me a nickel bus fare. It was satisfying to have enough income to pay board and room, averaging $35.00 per Page 62

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month. Most places I boarded at let me use the washing machine and ironing board in exchange for simple chores like bringing in the milk, dumping the trash, and raking leaves. The landlady didn't mind if we sat in the front room or joined the family for evening radio broadcasts. In fact, we became virtual members of the families we boarded with. Shortly after arriving in Helena, I had transferred my National Guard duties to the Regimental Headquarters Company, where I met a diverse collection of interesting fellow guardsmen during my college years. The Lay brothers built their own airplanes. Red Morrison had a Lockheed Electra and flew supplies to Forest Service crews. The company skipper was a prominent engineer. Their fellowship was beneficial and educational. One man, Howard Firebaugh, operated a flight school using a Kinner Fleet biplane. On weekends I would go out to the field and help with the chores of gassing up, washing the plane, and tidying up the hangar. In return he gave me some "stick time," and one day I soloed! But that was all I could do, as I had no spare cash for more lessons. My enlistment in the Guard expired after my second year, and I did not reenlist. his was a blessing in disguise. Years later, in World War II, the Montana National Guard would become a part of the 4th Infantry, U.S. Army, and many of its personnel would be in the Bataan Death March. My first truly fortunate break was to board and room with the T. H. MacDonald family. They were from Kalispell, Montana. Mr. MacDonald was the Assistant Attorney General of Montana. Judge L. A. Foote was his boss. Both of them were on intimate terms with the Governor. Mr. MacDonald's $3,000 per annum salary didn't cover the cost of a daughter at the State University or the education of two younger sons. The board and room income was necessary, and the whole family did other work on a part-time basis. Their son, Hugh, was my roommate. He had just graduated from high school and was taking part-time courses at the Catholic Carroll College in Helena. Yet, he worked full-time for the U. S. Weather Bureau. He was bright, competitive, and aggressive. When I showed him my calculus textbook, he had a keen desire to take up the subject; and, he did. Mr. MacDonald was a very good golfer. He would spend hours on weekends teaching Hugh, his brother, and me the fundamentals of the game. I had never even seen a golf club. He also loved to hunt. He was a sportsman of the old school, giving game a sporting chance. First day out in the field, I shot a dove sitting on a fence. My lecture, to flush the bird with the dog and then shoot it on the rise, lasted a good 15 minutes, and he took the gun away from me as an object lesson. Through the MacDonalds I had some social exposure that now seems miraculous. Hugh and I escorted the Governor's two daughters to the Governor's Ball. We borrowed the formal clothes from fellows in the Intermountain Union College Glee Club. I met about all the ranking Republicans in the legislature when they came to the MacDonalds socially. The two years that I spent at Intermountain were without dates, otherwise. Simply this: I was too poor! To boot, I didn't have any appropriate clothes. At school I wore parts of my National Guard uniform—shoes, shirts, overcoat and such. My baggy tweed pants and black-and­ white, diamond-patterned pullover sweater were my church outfit. The social events at local churches were great for me. There was fellowship, young people (many high school girls), and often a lot of food and refreshments. The events were well chaperoned, but there were opportunities to walk girls home. My stay at the MacDonalds ended rather abruptly, because of an offer I just couldn't Page 63

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refuse. One of the odd jobs that I was fortunate enough to have was that of night watchman at the Barnett junk yard. It paid $5.00 per day! Harry Barnett was short and about as wide as he was tall, it seemed. He had a gorgeous head of gray hair and a bristling mustache. He wore his hat squarely on his head, as many Jewish men did. His businesslike manner covered his real sensitivity as a kind and loving family man. His three daughters were married to successful Jewish merchants. Benny, the oldest boy, was trying to get into show business in New York. He was a big disappointment to the Barnetts. Their pride and joy was Sammy. He was two years my junior and played a mean C melody saxophone. One day, Mr. Barnett called me into his office to ask how I was doing in school and a lot more questions, some of which seemed as personal as a dad would ask his son. Then he said, "Bobby (he called me that), our house is so lonely with Benny gone and Sammy never having time to be home. Would you come and live with us? We have a spare bedroom (Benny's), and our cook will prepare food for you. We are a kosher house, and you can have kosher food with us; or the cook will prepare whatever you like. But you will have your own special set of dishes." This was to be one of the highlights of my life, as I now remember my stay at the Barnetts' home. I tutored Sammy in high school math because I had mastered algebra, trigonometry, and calculus in my two years at Intermountain; and it was the one way I could show my gratitude to the Barnetts. I had Benny's old bedroom, and the closet was still filled with some of his fancy suits. It made my two pairs of tweed pants and two sweaters look like some rags that had found their way into Benny's closet. The Barnetts must have noticed my lack of clothing, because one day Mr. Barnett said to me, "Bobby, come with me and help me buy a new 'sutt' (suit)." I quickly declined his invitation on the grounds that I had some studying to do. He insisted that I postpone the schoolwork and come with him to Nifty Bill Christie's Tailor Shop. Bill Christie's tailor shop was reputed to be one of the finest in the city of Helena. Mr. Barnett insisted that the bolts of material be draped over my arm, “so that I can make the best choices of material." It was boring, but I obeyed dutifully. Two weeks later Mr. Barnett said, "Bobby, come with me to Nifty Bill's to pick up my 'sutt'." Again, I tried to escape what to me was a boring chore, but this time he spoke firmly. I quickly jumped into the front seat of his Cadillac. When we arrived at the shop, I was flabbergasted, to say the least. There was a new suit, new overcoat, a pair of dress shoes with spats and a new hat, all my size and all tailor-made! I was overwhelmed and burst into tears. At Intermountain I was a member of the debating team. My heart swelled with pride as I countered my adversary in my elegant outfit in full view of the Barnetts and their friends, all sitting in the front row of the college auditorium. My team easily won the debate. I was on a thrilling "high" that evening. One morning Mr. Barnett said, "Bobby, today I am going to the old gold mine to show and sell the machinery to some Jews from the east. It is 60 miles up in the mountains, and I would like for you to come with me. We will need all the cash I can lay my hands on. So, Bobby, if you have any cash, I could use it today."

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I went up to my room and took the $40 I had saved from several weeks as night watchman in the Barnett Iron Works junkyard and handed it to Mr. Barnett. I was perplexed that he would want to borrow the small sum of $40 from me when the sale of the used mining machinery would likely run into thousands of dollars. The Cadillac sedan was comfortable, and we were at the mine by midafternoon. We trudged about the rusting hulks of old mining machinery, and there were many heated and loud discussions between Mr. Barnett and his customers. We adjourned to the old mine shack for the actual closure of the business at hand. I had never before seen so much cash in large bills, and it was a learning experience that I shall never forget. The meeting closed at 5:00 PM, and Mr. Barnett and I boarded the Cadillac homeward bound. As we drove away, Mr. Barnett said, "Well Bobby, we didn’t do so bad. Here is $500 for your share, and I did all right, too." I almost fainted. $40 had become $500, and I had been an actual partner in a substantial business deal! It was Mr. Barnett's way of giving me some cash, and my heart was filled with joy at the very thought of the My college portrait. kindness of an Orthodox Jew for a Christian boy. To this day, I still treasure the kindness of Mr. Harry Barnett in our spur-of-the-moment business deal. My secret benefactor, Mr. Schnitzler, who was now a national committeeman from Montana in the Republican Party, kept in touch with me throughout those years. He sent me cables from his Atlantic crossing on the Graf Zeppelin. I received postcards from him in various parts of the world, and he usually called me at the college to get a first-hand report. I shall never forget the time he invited me to his suite at the Placer Hotel while he was serving his term as a state senator. It was a banking committee meeting, and there were prominent Republicans and Democrats present representing banks throughout Montana. The cigar smoke left a blue haze. The aged whiskey flowed lavishly. Mr. Schnitzler said, "I have great pride in presenting my protégé, Robert Midthun from Froid. He is attending Intermountain Union College on a scholarship arranged by me." Will Powers, Democrat from Bainville, 16 miles south of Froid, stood up and greeted me with a warm handshake. The two bankers were rivals in both business and politics. Mr. Powers said, "Robert, I am happy to meet you; but, if you are John's protégé, why in hell aren't you better dressed?" He then grabbed a hat and passed it around the room. "My fellows, let's buy this boy something to wear," he said. I shall never forget Mr. Schnitzler's red face and tightened jaw muscles. After Mr. Powers counted out and handed me the $120, I was both walking on air and terribly embarrassed at the same instant. Just as soon as I thanked the politicians, I left. This had to be one of the happiest moments in my college life. It was also one of the most awkward. The most tragic moment came a few months later. Mr. Schnitzler and his pilot Albert Hedburg died in a crash of his Travelair biplane on a mountain side in northern Montana. That news ended my dream of fame and fortune. Within weeks, I received a telegram from Page 65

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the executor of the Schnitzler estate, demanding payment of $185 that had accrued from the checks drawn on his account in nearly two years. I was terribly distressed by their demand. It was then I made the decision to drop out of school in order to pay off this debt. I did, and I did not again enter a college classroom for fourteen years, until I was a naval officer attending nuclear physics classes at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Many years after Mr. Schnitzler's death, I chanced to meet his widow, a truly elegant and caring lady. She asked me, "Robert, why did you drop out of college? John and I intended to carry out his plan for you, and I would have done so after his death." I then explained to her how the executor of the estate had threatened me with legal action and, as a result, how I felt compelled to earn the money to pay off the debt. She wanted to refund the money with interest, but I would have none of it. The matter was closed. I never realized how deep their commitment to me really was. Nor shall I even speculate on what might have been my fate in life had I been able to continue on at Intermountain Union College.

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“A farm reverie”

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Robert Midthun, 1988

PART ONE: MY JOURNEY FROM SODBUSTER TO CYBERSPACE

The inlet side of the massive overflow spillway of Fort Peck Dam.

Photo: Robert Midthun

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9 Out Of The Harbor And Into The Deep: Fort Peck

M

y life has been filled with surprises that emanate from small and almost trivial pursuits. It is astonishing to me that so many things or events that I had not planned or even anticipated ultimately shaped my career and brought success. I had planned on taking college courses in math and physics that would enable me to successfully compete for an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point or the U.S. Naval Academy. This goal eluded my every effort. I wound up first alternate on two tries. Things never seemed to turn in my favor. It was June, 1931 when my sophomore year at Intermountain ended. I had some of the Schnitzler debt to pay off. It was very difficult for me to keep going. Mrs. Barnett had passed away just a short time previously, and it was necessary for me to terminate the kindness of the Barnett family. I decided to go back to Froid with the National Guard. During the encampment I fractured my left ankle in a scuffle with another Guardsman The medics taped it. It was so painful that I knew I could not work, much less stand. Injured, back at Froid with no job, I felt condemned and trapped. It was now my choice, give in or get out. My stubborn will said, “Get out of the harbor and into the deep.” But how and when? Father and mother, Alice May, and the faded blue Whippet picked me up at the Froid railroad station. Kermit, 10, and Elmer, 4, had stayed home. It was a cultural shock to see the reality of poverty in my own loved ones: their grimy hands and faces, the tattered and ragged overalls on the boys, shoes run-over and misshapen, and Mother's faded gingham dress. Dad looked about the same, dressed in bib overalls, chambray shirt, and rough work shoes marked by the odd miles and jobs they had traveled. I didn't dare cry openly, but my whole being ached. At the farm there was no Ted, our faithful shepherd dog. He had been crushed by an insurance salesman's car. Kermit had grown what seemed like a foot. Elmer was bare from the waist down, wearing only some kind of undershirt. There was the wash tub and washboard. There were the coal oil lamps. I was intensely aware of circumstances both in Helena, where by comparison I was living in luxury, and at my childhood home, which was a scene of frustration. Page 69

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Somehow I fell into the old routine, I left the house each day and stayed away for hours, often driving a team of horses pulling a cultivator or mower or a sulky plow used to turn over small plots of ground. Sometimes I would take my rifle and wander around the fields, always thinking how to rise above it all. Mother, bless her heart, would wash my faded I cords and cotton undershirts so I could play Sunday baseball with some other farm kids. Our team was the "Sheep Creek Ticks.“ We played in the Hippe or Gangstad pasture with one old bat, an assorted group of tattered mitts and gloves, and a few threadbare baseballs. She almost never went along with Dad and me. There was Alice to take care of! In midsummer Hugh MacDonald, my friend from the days when I roomed with his parents, sent me a letter and an employment application for a job as “airways observer” in the Helena branch of the U.S. Weather Bureau, where he was working. It paid $2.50 per day. It was not a civil service job but a political appointment. Mr. MacDonald, the Montana assistant attorney general and Hugh’s father, had arranged for letters of recommendation to a certain federal judge in Havre, Montana, who would make the selection for appointment by Secretary of Agriculture Arthur Hyde of the Hoover cabinet. The politics were right. The job was mine! I signed up in Helena on August 18, 1931, a day that became a landmark—my first career job. I was “out of the harbor” at last. Hoover would be replaced by F.D. Roosevelt and his New Deal in the 1932 election. As a Republican appointee, my way was getting more difficult each month. The economy program of a 15 per cent pay cut for federal employees included me. My pay had been cut already to $2.00 per day, and the 15 per cent was applied on top of that. There were some New Deal make-work jobs that looked like heaven to me. One of these Civilian Works Administration jobs involved our Weather Bureau office. Six persons were to be hired at $30.00 per week. ONE DOLLAR per HOUR! I was chosen to supervise the statistical records and assist this group. When I applied for the job, I was laughed at and told, “You are a Republican. No dice.” This was a lesson I have never forgotten. And to this day I have little or no use for politicians and political parties. It was almost two years before I was able to find another job. It was a very difficult twenty-four months. As an airways observer, I had been required only to read weather instruments, pencil data on reports, and telephone this information to the airlines. For the little typing I was required to do, the "hunt and peck" style satisfied my needs. One day the meteorologist called me in and said, “Robert, you will have 60 days to learn how to type or you will have to resign.” The Weather Bureau will require every observer to pass a test at 45 words per minute and operate a teletype machine. Horrors, I thought, but my pal and expert typist Hugh MacDonald came to my rescue. He could type 100 words per minute. He said, "It's easy. I'll teach you in no time." He gave me a typing manual and showed me how to place my hands on the keyboard and keep my eyes on the notes to be copied. He took time each day to give me lesson assignments. I worked every spare moment at the typewriter keyboard. In only three weeks, I was doing 40 words a minute, but I had to look at the number keys (and I still do to this day). Hugh sat in the back of the room where the Civil Service test was conducted, and I gained a lot of confidence from his being there. I passed! Hooray! In later years, my own high school son would learn touch-typing in two weeks one Christmas vacation. He wanted an electric typewriter. He earned one. "Dad, if you could do it, so can I." There was no increase in pay Page 70

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for my newly developed skill. I simply had to continue almost to starve or to hope soon to pass higher-paying Civil Service tests.

Wide angle view of “training barrier” that lines the channel directing water from spillway.

Photo: Robert Midthun

This was a "show and tell" example. There would be others and quite soon. In order to get on a civil service register, I had to pass an examination if and when one was announced. One day there was a notice on the bulletin board: Jr. Calculating Machine Operator, $1,440 per annum. Again, only 30 days remained to learn how to run a calculator, and one had to bring his calculator to the examining room in the Federal Building. We weather observers worked 24 hours around-the-clock. We knew everyone in the five-story building. A geologist in the U.S.G.S., on the third floor, slipped me a pass key to the office, and every night I would go down after my late shift to practice calculating on weather charts from our office. He arranged Page 71

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permission for me to borrow the calculator for the exam. I passed with something like a 72 percent grade, just making it! Until then I had sort of drifted and somehow daydreamed rather than mobilized all of my skills and instincts. From that time onward, miracles and surprises began to happen. The telegram from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers offering me a job as junior clerk, $1,440 per year, arrived on March 4, 1934. Fort Peck Dam, across the Missouri River near Glasgow, Montana, and only 100 miles from Froid, was a multimillion-dollar public works project. This would be the highest and largest earth fill dam in the world, and the lake behind the dam that would back up the river for 12S miles. It took barely 10 minutes for me to run into Western Union to wire my acceptance. It was a moment of elation and one of pain. For the first time in my life, I would be able to establish a normal and comfortable life style. On the other side of the coin, I would be saying goodbye to some of my very best friends and to Betty, my girlfriend for two years, who had been a wonderful companion. She, like me, managed on a very small budget, and we did most of the things that did not require over a dollar—a milk shake, a hamburger and a show, a coke and walk through the park, or many social functions at several of the churches. It was early on March 15, 1934, when the Empire Builder pulled into Glasgow. There was ice and snow on the platform, and the baggage handlers were bustling around the string of cars, pulling the express hand trucks typical of midwestern stations at that time. Surprisingly, I had about the same baggage that I took from home to Helena three years before. I had eked out a meager existence and, while I owed no money, neither did I have any money saved. I checked into the hotel a block from the station and tried to get a bit of rest before reporting to the Corps of Engineers. The multimillion-dollar Fort Peck Dam Project had overwhelmed the small county seat city. Every building seemed active. Heavy trucks rolled down the streets, and cars were everywhere There were crowds of people on the street at the employment offices of the project. At the height of construction, 10,000 laborers were on the government payrolls. The field offices at the damsite, 30 miles away, were under construction, and the Corps leased about every building and warehouse in the city. I found the Civil Service office in a ramshackle building two blocks from the city center. It was crammed with desks and crowded with people. A Mr. Casner, a hyperactive, skinny individual with piercing eyes looking over a very large nose, met me and hurriedly completed my papers. He said, "Go right over there to that desk and go to work. You will be processing applications for laborers. You do type, don't you?" In that first hour I learned a surprising fact. Almost all of the executive and key personnel in the Civil Service, were imported to Montana from Vicksburg, Mississippi. Julia Ragsdale, whose husband was the top civilian engineer on the project, was in charge of all Civil Service employees. We would break only 30 minutes for lunch and didn't leave the office until after dark, sometimes as late as 9 P.M. I had to argue long and hard to get time off for a few hours to rent a room. A very nice family about a mile from the civic center rented me a clean room for $10.00 per month. I had to eat meals in local cafes and cafeterias. The typing I did was filled with overstrikes and errors. I was on probation and worried that I would not be accepted for permanent employment. The other task was to pull red tags off the files where the reference vouchers had been returned. Even that was not one of my great skills. It hadn't Page 72

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taken Ragsdale and Casner long to see that I would not be a promising clerk. Then it happened. They asked me if I would like to be transferred and be appointed a N.I.R.A. (National Industrial Recovery Act) labor relations inspector on the 356-mile power line the Corps of Engineers was building to bring electric power form Great Falls, Montana, to the Fort Peck

Grading the top of the earthfill.

Photo: Robert Midthun

Dam. I almost jumped out of my chair. I was interviewed promptly by Mr. Geigel, the project engineer, and accepted. What a job! Same pay, but $5.00 per day expense allowance and a Plymouth sedan. My gross pay and expenses would amount to $270.00 per month. I would live in about 15 different small towns as the 154-kVA power line was advancing. This was a great experience. My job was to visit every worker every day to be sure he was getting the right pay for the job he was doing for the general contractor. Sixteen men, the others being electrical construction inspectors, would form a gang and a camaraderie that produced some hilarious times and lasting memories. In September we tied the 154-kVA power. transmission line to the bus bars at the Fort Peck switchyard.. My good fortune had ended. I was back to $120.00 per month and would be assigned to a new job. I was offered another inspection job on the 160 acres of steel sheet piling being driven along the two-mile centerline of the dam. Being a Montana lad born only Page 73

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125 miles away, I knew the winter would involve many days well below zero temperature. That and the earsplitting noise from the powerful McKiernan-Terry steam-powered pile hammers going “ka-whoom,” “ka-whoom" to drive the pilings to refusal depths of 160 feet turned me against becoming a sheet-pile inspector. Another opportunity appeared, but it seemed unlikely to reach fruition. Tom Claggett, project photographer in the Historical and Progress Section, needed a new assistant. In order to transfer to photography, I had to show a certain number of months as a photographer. This seemed impossible. After all, my only experience in photography had been using the little brown Kodak camera that the Eastman Kodak Co. gave to every child in America who had a 12th birthday, as my sister had been given in 1924 and I in 1925. Tom Clagett was determined to get a warm-bodied assistant to carry all the gear and drive the car, and he was a very resourceful schemer. He took a liking to me. By the time he helped me complete This postcard was issued by the Great Northern Railway. the application papers, I had the Apparently the government sold my image to them. Someone added the clouds—way before Photoshop! required experience. My time on the high school annual as editor and some work in college arranging class portraits was artfully transformed into “photographic” experience and turned the trick. He was a transfer from New Orleans, Louisiana, a southern gentleman, and a protégé of the Ragsdales. I passed. Clagett was a sandy-haired, burly southern gentleman. He had a penchant for telling stories punctuated freely with many southern idioms. He was active in the Army Reserve, Masons, and many community enterprises. He was the Fort Peck correspondent to the Great Falls Tribune and the Glasgow Courier, both daily papers. His willingness to teach me photography opened many opportunities for moonlighting, and I was eager and willing to help him. It was exciting to be "in on" every significant happening on the project, from construction details to public relations affairs This Public Works Administration project drew worldwide attention. Fort Peck Dam would be the largest earth-fill dam in the world at 120 million cubic yards. It would take five years or more for the fleet of four pipeline dredges and assisting inline pump boats to place the hydraulic fill. The crest would span two miles across the Missouri, plus another two miles of wingdam dike at the north end. Some ten thousand workmen would be needed, first to construct the dredges in a boatyard, then to build miles of trestles, open a rock quarry 100 miles distant, and finally bring in electric power lines 286 miles from the rainbow substation at Great Falls, Montana. A hundred-mile-long lake would be created, providing flood control protection, improved navigation, and much-needed electric power. The newly constructed government town of Fort Peck had some 300 houses and dozens of dormitories to house workers. The neighboring small towns of Glasgow and Nashua provided only a fraction of the additional housing, warehousing, and other services that would be Page 74

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required. Local landowners near the dam site opened boomtowns with saloons, stores, and countless paper shacks for the workers, who numbered about 10,000 and who drove the tunnels, manned the dredges, and operated the trains and several hundred trucks. Wheeler was the largest and most publicized boomtown. It was notorious for the Wheeler Inn, owned and operated by Ruby Smith, reputed to be from the Klondike. Joe Wheeler, a local barber, founded the town of Wheeler on a quarter section of land that he owned near the dam. He became a well-known public character. Lesser boomtowns scattered about the dam site included Square Deal and New Deal, named after the New Deal of Franklin Roosevelt. There were numerous red-light districts, the best known of which was called "Sleepy Hollow" and located just downhill from Wheeler. Photography was now the vehicle providing the training ground for my later constructionengineering career, but I would not realize this fact until years later. The Fort Peck project drew worldwide attention. President Roosevelt visited twice, and I prize a photo printed in the Saturday Evening Post showing me photographing the President with an 8 x 10 view camera. We had dozens of visiting groups. Russian, Japanese, and European dignitaries came. College professors visited the project.

A photo of me taking this image of F.D.R. with my view camera was published in the Saturday Evening Post. Photo: Robert Midthun

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Two journalistic endeavors involved Clagett and me. For two weeks, he and I personally escorted Margaret Bourke-White, famed LIFE magazine staff photographer, around the project. Her photo of the massive dam face appeared on the very first issue of LIFE magazine (November 23, 1936) that featured Fort Peck Dam. Ernie Pyle of Scripps Howard News also covered the project. We spent a week with him. He wanted to cover not only the construction site but also the surrounding boomtowns and their rowdy, roughshod life. It was an experience to remember the rest of my life, and I was saddened to learn years later of his death during World War II on Ie Shima, an island off Okinawa Honto, as the result of machinegun fire from an enemy sniper position. Three of us, Clagett, Paul Harper (the project historian), and I, pooled our dollars and published the "Story of the Fort Peck Dam" at Christmas time. We had the publication approved for release by the Army and printed in St. Paul by Buckbee Mears Co., the St. Paul publisher of the Froid High School annual. (So, my experience as editor of the annual had paid off!) The souvenir publication was a huge success. We sold 11,000 copies for fifty cents each with a cost of seven and one-half cents per piece. My one-third share of the profits, $1,500.00, resulted from my original investment of $100.00. I had a taste of wealth, and I spent it freely and with great gusto!

A view of the outflow side of the spillway structure.

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Photo: Robert Midthun

CHAPTER NINE: OUT OF THE HARBOR AND INTO THE DEEP: FORT PECK

In addition, I pasted Ernie Pyle's articles on a sheet of poster board, photographed it, and sold two thousand postcards. Souvenir literature, postcards, group photos, news writing, and a guide service kept Clagett, Harper, and me in ample spending money. The guide service was an escorted tour of key stations on the project. The trip lasted an hour, and the fee was $2.00 per car. The guide got a buck, and we kept the other. The guides were young inspectors and engineers who had time to spare, a good knowledge of the project, and a need for a few extra dollars. Bear in mind that the average laborer's wage at that time was about $5.00 per day, so there was a waiting list of would-be guides to work for us. For a few months’ time I lived a lavish life with my new-found affluence. I purchased a nifty Ford V-8 coupe from the estate of a local football coach for $490.00 cash. The money was withdrawn from my postal savings account, which paid 2 percent interest. The postmaster gave me the money all in five-dollar bills. When I counted them out on the table at the Ford dealership, I nearly grabbed them back and told the man to keep the car. With wheels I was emancipated. Now I was a completely self-sufficient individual and mobile. My life as well as my lifestyle would change dramatically and rapidly. I fell in love with the cameras and was excited at each new event on the project, such as launching the first dredge, starting the fourmile-long tunnels, or blasting trainloads of riprap from Snake Butte (the quarry near Harlem). More memorable to me than these construction firsts was the parade of visitors. F.D.R., Bourke-White, and Pyle were just the most famous of the many who inspected this one-of-a­ kind project for its day. It was exciting and interesting. There were also sad times. I was shooting a crane on a 65-foot trestle placing a girder for the next span when a cable snapped. Down came the steam crane, girder, and all in a cloud of dust, fire, and steam at my very feet. Another time, I was at a tunnel face when the entire face of Bearpaw Shale caved in, killing several workmen. I was just out of danger. In retrospect, the valuable experience gained at Fort Peck was beyond photography. I had learned by osmosis a great deal in the field of engineering. Not only had I photographed all of the laboratory tests, but also I had interviewed many engineers for information to include in the technical captions. And I had assisted them in co-authoring articles and papers for engineering journals. Many of the engineers, unknown at that time, became world famous for their work later. I had received a technical education far beyond my comprehension at the time. Photography was the medium. Hard work, lots of luck, and a rather indolent boss helped me further my ability and skills. I was out of the harbor and into the deep.

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An aerial view of the main dam structure looking westward with Milk Coulee Bay in the foreground. Just out of view to the right would be the intake for the spillway. Photo: Robert Midthun

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A welder at work.

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Another aerial view showing the spillway and outflow channel running north northeast.

Photo: Robert Midthun

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This is the outflow channel for the powerhouse turbines, looking southerly to the east end of the Photo: Robert Midthun dam.

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Above and to the left, some shots I made of the engineers and other officials involved in this record-breaking project Unfortunately, I don’t have any record of their names. Photos: Robert Midthun

Below is the U.S. postage stamp issued in honor of the Fort Peck Dam project. Margaret Bourke-White’s now famous photograph graced the cover of the very first issue of Life Magazine.

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Power transmission lines constructed with the dam.

Photo: Robert Midthun

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A view of the spillway control towers under construction, looking westward with the dam running lengthwise into the distance and the yet to be filled reservoir to the left in the background.

Photo: Robert Midthun

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“Angles, lines, & symmetry”

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CHAPTER NINE: OUT OF THE HARBOR AND INTO THE DEEP: FORT PECK

“Study in light and shadow”

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“Hoist gears”

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CHAPTER NINE: OUT OF THE HARBOR AND INTO THE DEEP: FORT PECK

A spring day near the Fort Peck dam site.

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My glamorous Dolores at age 18.

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Photo: Robert Midthun

10 A Marriage Under The Stars

M

y marriage to Dolores Angeline Bradford on December 22, 1935, provided new adventures and a most happy home. Her sister, Vera Newland, and her brother-in-law, Clarence (C.D.) Newland, owned and operated the Green Hut Cafe, a government concession in the village of Fort Peck Dam. It was an oasis of elegant dining. The Newlands were well-to­ do and highly acceptable socially in the official community. They entertained often and graciously. They were favorites of the military and civilian officials of the Corps of Engineers. There was a shortage of acceptable females, and perhaps 5,000 single men were looking for companionship and dates. I was one of these and often whiled away an odd hour or two sipping on a Coca Cola in the Green Hut. Vera Newland had told me that her younger sister and a girl companion were coming from Las Vegas to visit them. Her recent high school graduation photo showed an 18-year-old “dream gal” with raven tresses. I could hardly wait to meet her. So I spent more than the usual casual time at the Green Hut soda fountain. Often, I was in the company of a friend or fellow worker. My lucky day was in September on Friday the 13th. My workday ended at 5:00 o'clock. I locked the photo lab and drove my black V-8 Ford coupe to the Green Hut, hoping to get a chance to see, if not to meet her. I picked up Freddie Anderson, a lanky six-footer friend with a blank expression, and off we went to the Green Hut. We were on our second Coke, when, lo and behold, two beautifully dressed and tanned girls entered. It was Dolores and her best friend, Pauline Honrath. They were having a spirited conversation and were oblivious to our presence. Dolores was about to address a card at the small oak table near the entrance. As Dolores was getting ready to sit down at the table, Pauline unintentionally took away the chair, and the beautiful Dolores sprawled on the floor. I rushed to her assistance and said fatefully, "You fell for me like a ton of bricks." There Page 91

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was instant anger and uncomplimentary words. I knew I had "blown" it. Summoning all my reserves, I said, "Let's go out to dinner and dancing. I know just the place, the Los Angeles Club, near Glasgow. Pauline, you and Freddie are welcome to join us." I shall never know just how I persuaded this dream gal to give me a second chance. Luckily, I was one of the very few young bachelors who owned a car. Mine was a year-old V­ 8 Ford black sport coupe with a chrome hound on the radiator cap and bright yellow wheels. So we shoved off, Pauline having to sit on Freddie's lap in the single-benchseat coupe. She was precisely the opposite of Freddie. She was petite, feminine and very pretty. He was gangling, awkward, and a very poor conversationalist. My energy and imagination were flowing at full speed. I was thrilled to have the beautiful Dolores by my side. My former girlfriend, who lived 500 miles away, had told me when I opened the topic of a possible engagement, "I don't want to leave my room now that my mother has fixed it up." I then realized that whatever romance had existed between us was gone. When we arrived at the Los Angeles Club, I had to help Dolores out of the car on the driver's side, because Pauline and Freddie were untangling and debarking from the passenger side. As I took her in my arms, I said, "I want to marry you." She surprised me with the reply, "Ask me later, I'll think it over." Hoagy Carmichael's new hit, "Stardust," was playing as we entered the club. Dolores had a very pretty red dress. So the band, seeing her on the dance floor, switched to "The Lady in Red," another popular tune. We had a wonderful Pauline Honrath’s high school senior photo. evening. (Pauline never did tell us how she fared, but it must have been a boring evening for her.) I managed to get a date for the next day, and we dated every night except one for the next 3 months until our wedding on Sunday, December 22nd. Dolores kept stalling me on my proposal. This went on for weeks, and it was frustrating for me. In November, winter had already come to Fort Peck, Montana, and the rising water in the lake behind the dam was frozen over and crusted with snow. One evening date, I drove out on the ice and began "spinning" the little coupe on the ice. I told her I would keep this up until she agreed to marry me. Torn between being late to come home to her mother by enduring the scary auto ride or consenting, she said, "Yes." Dolores honored her word and made me commit myself to honoring it also. Before meeting me, she had promised another man to go with him to a dinner dance in the recreation hall where Stan Kenton's big band had booked. So I grudgingly agreed and jealously consented, but I attended the dance and was very much in evidence, to her dismay. For over 60 years, I have been the target of her scorn for that act. Page 92

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My adversity had become the setting for the happiest marriage imaginable and a wonderful family that would be ours. Only a short while before midnight, on December 22, 1935, our wedding party of three cars crossed the world's largest earth-fill dam that formed the bridge between Valley County on the north and Garfield County on the south. This was the culmination of several hours of confusion resulting from the fact that Dolores and I had obtained our license in Jordan, Montana, an inland town off the railroad. Montana law decreed that one had to be married in the county that issued the marriage license. There were ten thousand workmen on the Fort Peck Dam Project. Housing was non­ existent. We decided to keep the marriage a secret until we could find a place to live. So we went to the obscure ranch-country county seat that Sunday morning and aroused the Clerk of Court to obtain the license. Near sundown, we returned to Vera and C.D. Newland’s home in the government town of Fort Peck. We had planned on a Christmas day affair, but the Newlands quickly changed our minds. Christmas day would be so busy that they could not attend. I didn't need urging to call the Baptist minister 30 miles away in Glasgow to ask him to come out to Fort Peck and marry us. He arrived about sunset. We chatted for a while before he asked for the license. His surprise exclamation was, "I cannot marry you here with this license." So I frantically got on the phone and tried to reach the Clerk of Court in Valley County. No avail. I did reach the District Attorney, but he confirmed the fact that my Garfield County license was valid only in that county. Fearing that my eighteen-year-old fiancée was slipping through my fingers, I asked him in desperation if my license would be valid anywhere I might find a patch of Valley County. Hooray! I could be married anywhere in that county so long as I was certain to be in that jurisdiction. Being the project photographer, I chose the nearest survey marker as the site, and we all drove there. The three cars pulled off the dirt survey trail (now submerged 250 feet in Fort Peck Lake) and, with headlights aglow, we exchanged our vows under the stars. This was, and always will be, the supreme moment of my life. At midnight, we caravanned back to the Green Hut Cafe to celebrate. Dressed in our best attire, we attracted instant attention in the restaurant. The marriage was public knowledge. My roommate, an engineer who also was a special correspondent to the Associated Press, put it on the wires. Next morning the daily newspapers in Montana carried the feature story, "Stars Glitter down on Northwest Pair." I received letters, telegrams, and many other congratulatory messages as a momentary celebrity. This notoriety helped us find a furnished apartment in Glasgow the next day, and we began the 30-mile round trip daily commute in subzero, snowy weather.

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“A winter dawn” Robert Midthun, 1987

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11 Moving West

O

ur days at Fort Peck were interesting and exciting and afforded us a few luxuries hitherto beyond our grasp. Dolores and I were always invited to the Newlands’ social affairs and, in turn, to the officials’ homes when invitations were reciprocated. We rubbed shoulders with a colonel from Kansas City (whose name I cannot now recall) who was in charge of the Missouri River Division and a number of large projects for the Army Corps of Engineers. T.B. "Tip" Miller, a multimillionaire contractor from St. Paul, was another social contact. There were many others who were influential, but to a lesser degree. It was in the era of the big dance bands, and the Recreation Hall at Fort Peck hosted cabaret dances with now famous orchestras: Ted Fio Rito, Paul Pendarvis, and the like. The military officers carried on their usual social and cultural affairs and there were stage plays and charity affairs of a wide variety. Lest I give the wrong impression, the cultural and social events were limited to the "reigning few." Beyond the 386 houses on the federal townsite of Fort Peck were hundreds of shacks and dwellings of the laborers and workmen. The "boom towns" included Wheeler and New Deal and many other squatter communities. There were roadhouses, red light districts, and saloons of every sort, reminiscent of the Klondike or the Gold Rush days of early California. Crime and gambling were rife. Law and order were difficult to carry out. The government city of Fort Peck had only one native tree, and a man hanged himself on that tree! The social and work environments left deep impressions that were to follow and affect me the rest of my life. By 1938, Dolores and I were restless. Fort Peck Dam was nearing completion. It was time to move on. Vera and C.D. had already left town to start a new restaurant in Washington state. As he had done before at Boulder, Nevada, and here in Fort Peck, C.D. Newland was building a new Green Hut Cafe at the construction site of the huge Grand Coulee Dam in Coulee Dam, Washington. This massive concrete structure would harness the mighty Columbia River, providing flood control and irrigation water for the fertile downstream plains and hydroelectric power to the Pacific Northwest. Woody Guthrie would sing about the project. A famous photographer, Ben Glaha, visited Fort Peck on a special assignment from the Page 95

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Department of the Interior at Boulder Dam, Nevada. Dolores, Vera, and C.D. knew him well, and he was not only a friend of the family but also an avid customer of the former Green Hut Cafe in Boulder City. Ben was to be assigned as chief photographer of the Central Valley Project in California and was seeking photographers to assist him at Shasta Dam near Redding, California. The introduction by my vivacious and beautiful wife led to a fine interview and to a formal transfer between the two Cabinet departments. The opening was mine! Glaha would arrange the inter-department transfer at my expense, and it would be processed early in 1939. That alone was a miracle for which I shall be forever grateful to her. Then came days and weeks of waiting for the papers to come through.

This photo shows the intact dam during construction. The disastrous landslide would occur at the far eastern end, located top center in this image. Photo: Robert Midthun

Dolores was pregnant with Barbara and undergoing prenatal care in Glasgow, Montana. We didn't want her and the baby to be stranded in Montana, so she went to live with Vera and C.D. in Washington. She would have Barbara in Spokane, Washington, at the Deaconess Hospital. I would remain in Fort Peck with our dog Snooky until my transfer came through. Little did we realize that eight weeks would elapse before that occurred. My final days at Fort Peck were lonely and stressful. There had been a failure of the nearly Page 96

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completed dam when 11 million cubic yards of hydraulic fill in the mass of the dam slid onehalf mile into the rising reservoir. The Corps of Engineers was trying to set a world record in completing the dam. Every day I took progress shots of the operations. Huge pipeline dredges were cutting deep channels in the Missouri River flood plain and pumping the mixture of earth and water at the rate of several thousand cubic yards per hour. The two-mile length of the 200 ft.-high earth fill was almost a plastic mass. The bulldozers working on the berms occasionally rode standing waves ahead of and behind the powerful railroad locomotives as they pulled many cars filled with quarried rock boulders used to face the upstream slope of the dam. The fill had begun to quiver. The slide occurred only a half-hour after I had driven along the upper berm to the south abutment. My 16-mm movie camera was in place and running. I saw the mile-long railroad tracks on the berms slowly start to twist in morning sun. I realized then what was happening. My camera recorded the event. I took still photos, too. I rented an airplane to take aerial photos. It was a disaster I shall never forget. Entire locomotives, freight cars, and pump boats and their crews were swallowed up in the mud. I knew many of the men who lost their lives that day and were never found. They are buried there to this very day.

The slide took the lives of 8 men. For engineering details, visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Peck_Dam.

Photo: Robert Midthun

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directed and censored. I never saw the 16-mm film I shot, nor did I get any explanation from top brass why it had been confiscated. The investigation of the slide and soil mass was very thorough. Dr. Arthur Casagrande of Harvard was employed to study the area and recommend reconstruction methods. I worked closely with him and his aides. The slide area was investigated by drilling 36-inch diameter cores at dozens of locations. The earth was frozen by means of brine pipes sunk in a circular pattern around the proposed holes. The large cores were cut with a calyx drill, removed, sawn in half, and then aligned in a storage area. My job was to photograph the cores and also to go down in the holes on a bosun's chair with an electric floodlight and a camera to photograph the texture of the walls. The holes were up to 200 feet deep. Sitting on a 2 x 8 plank, 24 inches wide, suspended at the end of a cable attached to an Air Tugger winch, I photographed about two dozen holes. Each time I was in mortal fear of a cave-in. Hazards were shorts in the electric line that stung my hands and arms and caused sparks to jump to the wire suspension cable, and the uncertain skill of the Tugger operator. I had arranged that should I jerk on the signal line, he was to reel me up at full speed. It was New Year’s Day in 1939. Capt. Richard A view of a fracture line associated with the Lee had ordered me out to photograph more slide, taken by me on one of my subterra­ frozen holes. I went down 185 feet and nean adventures. completed first assignment. On the next, pebbles kept dropping on my hard hat, startling me, and sparks were arcing periodically. On the way up, I determined never to repeat the event. He ordered me to go down again. "By your leave, sir, I am through doing this,” I said. “I am joining my wife and child in Washington." Capt. Lee had a serious speech defect; he stuttered badly. He said something about insubordination, turned, and walked away. I knew I was through at Fort Peck. It was only a matter of days until my transfer would come through. A new chapter would begin, and I could hardly wait. Barbara Ann, our first child, arrived at the Deaconess Hospital in Spokane, Washington, on Saturday, January 28, 1939. As I recall, the hospital bill was about $10/day and the physician's bill was a hefty $50. I passed out cigars and celebrated her birth outwardly, but inside I was lonely and missed Dolores terribly. Until now, we had not been apart for even one night in more than three years. It was 10 degrees below zero, and a brisk wind blew small, dust-like patches of snow across the pavement as I headed for Spokane on March 3rd in our two-year-old 1937 Ford V-8 Tudor. Snooky was in the back seat and up front, too, as the mood struck her. The journey to see Barbara Ann and Dolores was long overdue. I had my transfer papers in hand, a few dollars in cash, and faced some 900 miles of driving. I would drive straight through, stopping only to get hot coffee and rest a few minutes while I gassed up. Snooky was grateful for these not too frequent stops. Page 98

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The snow and wind cleared during the evening. Stars hung so low in the sky that I could almost touch them. My heart was bursting with joy, and the moon lit up the snowy landscape like a fairyland. In just hours, I would be on the winding road from Spokane to Coulee Dam and to my six-weeks-old daughter, whom I had not yet seen. The trip seemed to take forever. In late afternoon I rolled through Grand Coulee, a squatter's village, then past the world's largest concrete structure, Grand Coulee Dam, and at last into the parking lot at the Green Hut Cafe. Dolores, baby Babs, and Bebe, my mother-in-law, were sharing rooms above the restaurant. I dashed upstairs two steps at a time, burst into the room and, then, as is my usual suicidal tendency, uttered these words that haunt me even to this day: "She's so little!" Actually, she had gained a good bit of weight in the six weeks. Dolores and Bebe looked at me in disgust. I didn't ask Snooky what she thought. She was displaced by a child and made no effort to hide her scorn, but she would not harm Babs. The Newlands were our "symbol of security" throughout this trying period and all through our later lives. Their generosity will be remembered as long as I live. There were a few days of R and R and then off to California. I had to report in Sacramento, California, on March 15th. Snooky, and Babs in her crib, shared the back seat of the compact two-door. Dolores and I traded driving chores and occupied the front seat. We had very little in the way of baggage, and all of our clothing was intended for cold climates. We had had Snooky for at least two years. She was spoiled rotten and was very jealous. She loved to retrieve any object, from a ball or a match to a 4 x 4 plank. In time, we would train her to growl when she heard the word “Hitler” and to bark when she heard “Roosevelt.” It was near zero degrees Fahrenheit when we left Coulee Dam. It was 100 degrees Fahrenheit in Sacramento. We were far from ready for that warmth when we pulled up to the Old Federal Building at 7th and K streets after our three-day drive. Awe-struck best described me as I gazed about the California capital. I had never been out of Montana, Idaho, or Washington before, except on our 1936 honeymoon to Los Angeles via Yellowstone and Las Vegas (where Dolores had graduated from high school in 1934). Next day we drove the 180 miles back to Shasta Dam, and I performed my first day's work. The Bureau of Reclamation offices were in the government town named Toyon, about six miles from the dam site and some 12 miles north of Redding on highway 99. We were deeply disappointed that no federal housing was available. We had to shift for ourselves to locate a place to rent in the "boomtown" of Central Valley on the outskirts of Toyon. The “Tandy” cabins were rustic and ramshackle and featured knottypine board for interior trim. We An old snapshot of our neighbors at the Ganim settled for one of them. I shall never cabins. like knotty pine. The facilities were minimal, and Dolores had to wash Page 99

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diapers and take care of the baby under the most adverse conditions. The neighbors were an odd lot of young people, and we were tired, lonely, and more than slightly afraid. Somehow we managed to live as only strong-hearted youngsters can under such primitive conditions. She still remembers the strange young lady next door. There was little fellowship. Within a month we located some new cabins on a hillside above the Tandy shacks. They were small, one-bedroom affairs, but they had water, electric lights, and gas. They were comfortable. Our landlord, Phil Ganim, was an odd but kind man. Dolores, looking at his flat head, once said, "Bob he looks like a worm." It rained a lot in northern California, and on rainy days the hillside was too slippery for the little Ford. The red dirt typical of the region made a sticky mess. One didn't make tracks but rather took them with him! In a relatively short time we were offered a small, one-bedroom government cottage in Toyon. It was the nicest place that we, as a young couple, had lived in. The rent was modest, and electricity was very cheap, a boon since it was used for heat. The houses were designed in the Denver, Colorado, offices of the Department of Interior by an older, unmarried architect. We counted eleven doors in the small house. One hallway had five doors which, if all doors were closed at once, formed a 4 ft. by 4 ft. cubicle. A large screened porch was attached to the rear. We made a second bedroom out of it and settled in. In due time we would be assigned a newer model with slightly more room. Tiring of the small house, we managed to purchase a two-bedroom house on South Street in Redding. It was a dream house to us. We moved in and purchased some additional furnishings on credit. The house payments became a burden, and I worked part-time at Montgomery Ward store in Redding to help ends meet. Each Saturday I earned $10 selling hardware. With my earnings I purchased an Ironrite ironer (also popularly called a “mangle”), and this helped Dolores with some of the handwork. When the house payments finally became an almost unbearable burden, we put the house up for sale. The ad ran only one day in the Redding paper, when the one and only couple to look at the house decided to buy it on the spot. I was in the Naval Reserve and attending drill that night. When I came home, my bride was in tears. She had $2,500 in paper money and was a nervous wreck. But we were elated and moved back to Toyon, some $2,000 richer from the profit on our house. The Ooleys were the new owners. They owned a tavern and paid cash. A few years later, their payoff made it possible for us to reestablish our G.I. loan and move into a nice home in Stockton. The massive, 602 ft. high Shasta Dam, nestled in the rocky walls of the Sacramento River canyon, was a photographer's dream. The project officials were so different from the military regime at Fort Peck. We mingled with top brass on a first-name basis. Many unique engineering feats were initiated, and there was a variety of activity over a 30-mile range from the headwaters of the future lake to the dam site. It was a wilderness region on three beautiful rivers, the Sacramento, the Pit, and the McCloud. Mt. Shasta rose 14,000 ft. skyward in the 40-mile north horizon. I was excited, challenged, and thrilled to have the responsibility for documenting this great project in black and white, color, still, and motion photography. My first week on the job brought tears of apprehension. I had the misfortune of having my primary camera smashed in falling from a cliff. With fright and fear, I rushed back to the office with the pieces, fully expecting to be chastised and even fired. But Ralph Lowry, head construction engineer for the dam, was almost fatherly with kindness and understanding. He listened to my sad tale and then said, "Get busy and have a replacement here as quickly as you Page 100

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can." There were hundreds of visitors to the project. National radio broadcasts were often scheduled from the construction site. I remember one episode especially, because a radio reporter, Chet Huntley, almost forgot his lines. Famous novelists, writers, and magazine people who needed an escort were often turned over to me. Seeing the possibility of a fulltime public relations job just handling visitors and journalists, I applied for and was promoted to Public Information Officer. A diorama of the Central Valley Project and an adjacent grandstand with public access facilities were built. We registered more than a million visitors each year. My heart was not fully separated from the photographic duties, but the extra $50 monthly income more than soothed my longings—until Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941. Having been a one-time National Guardsman and having been influenced by Reserve Army Captain Tom Clagett, I could not see America at war without my participation. The armed services were anxious to recruit photographers. The U.S. Naval Reserve quickly accepted my application, and, to my surprise, offered me a commission as ensign even though I had not finished college. The rigorous physical standards overwhelmed me. A skin rash on my back caused some concern, and I had to change shirts twice a day for several days in order to pass their requirements. My having only 28 teeth instead of the normal complement of 32 was noticed also. Being a civil servant with a 3-A draft deferment on a vital civilian project, I may never have had to join the military. Also, being a father, I could have obtained a deferment. Dolores, in the later years of our marriage, revealed deep resentment over my volunteering for naval service. She still believes to this day that it was my old childhood dream of getting an appointment to Annapolis that selfishly caused me to become an officer. Despite my best arguments to the contrary, she will likely carry that view all her days.

“A Chinese store out west” Robert Midthun, 1986 Page 101

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A portrait of me in the photolab taken by one of my buddies.

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12 Photo School—The Navy Way

M

y commission as ensign, AVS, USNR, dated October 1, 1942, put me into that organization as an aviation specialist in photography and came with orders to report to NAS, Pensacola, Florida, for training at the Naval School of Photography. Nearly a year had passed since Pearl Harbor, and I had made countless trips to San Francisco for medical tests, oral examinations, and interviews before boards of officers. One delay was caused by a scandal in which a celebrity supposedly had given a Studebaker car to the officer in charge of personnel. I am almost certain that naval intelligence people had looked thoroughly at my application papers, inasmuch as I would receive a commission without a college degree. We sent our household goods and furniture to storage in Redding, California. Dolores and Barbara went to Coulee Dam, Washington, in our 1941 blue Pontiac Metropolitan sedan. The Navy travel request authorized $0.09/mile from Redding to Pensacola, from which I had to purchase tickets, sleeper-car berth, and food. It was a long way to travel, and I remember the good feeling I had as the clicking of the rails totaled up mileage earned and a small profit over my actual expenses. My minimum layout of uniforms, purchased at ship's service store on Treasure Island, California, in the San Francisco Bay, consisted of a hat, gabardine raincoat, one "dress blues," and two khaki service uniforms. Trains were crowded with military personnel and civilian passengers. While I had a reserved seat with a berth, I could not bear to see mothers with small children standing in the aisles and between the cars. They welcomed the invitation to use my seat, and I stood most of the time, sitting only when I managed to get a seat in the diner. After reporting to the Air Station Administration Building No. 18, I was somewhat surprised, if not shocked, to find out that I would have to spend four weeks at the Marine and Navy indoctrination unit rather than start classes at the photography school. My hair was cut short. All insignia were removed from my uniforms. We wore issue sweatshirts and pants and began rigorous athletic drills at 4:30 a.m. One hour of free time was ours every other day. Dolores sent me registered letters, and this meant that I had to run to the station post office and then back to the barracks within that one-hour interval. There Page 103

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would be no relaxation for me. Athletic directors were professional sports figures who had volunteered for duty with the Navy. Mine was Lt. Ted Cook of tennis fame and husband of the great lady tennis player Sarah Palfrey Fabian. In the early hours of the morning, we would lie face down and arch our backs so as to let us rock our bodies. I was neither limber nor athletic and couldn't do it well enough to please Ted Cook. He would kick me in the ribs and yell some disparaging words. The morning run took us across a gully, over various tire and lumber hazards, and through a maze of crooked paths between bushes and trees. The athletic directors kept a stopwatch timing record of each day's run, a fact that was unknown to me. Priding myself on being resourceful, I would dash to the gully in the dim dawn light and crawl a couple of hundred yards at right angles to the track. Then, when I heard the "thundering herd" approaching the gully, I would dash out and join the crowd on the home stretch. Ted Cook was impressed that I, a 28-year-old man, was consistently coming in with the first third of the group and not showing undue exertion. I shall never forget the morning formation in readiness for the run when he stood face-to-face with me and said, "This morning I am going to run with you. I want to learn how you older fellows perform so well.” My heart almost stopped, and a cold chill ran up my spine. I kept up with him, but it was one of my life's biggest challenges, and I was far from refreshed at the finish. He had punished me enough and did not inflict any additional exercises. To this day, I wonder whether or not he knew of my little trick. Anyhow, his “chaperoning” of my run had worked. I no longer cheated in my routine. Photography school lasted four months. About 200 photographers, comprising all ranks from seaman to Navy captain, were enrolled each month. I was in Class 6-43, Starboard Wing. What I had learned or knew in eight years of civilian employment had been essentially self-taught. This would be my first formal training in the classroom and in the field under experts from career naval personnel and prominent civilians serving as uniformed instructors. Classes were from 7 a.m. to noon and field assignments on the station or in the air each afternoon from 1 to 5 p.m. In the evening, we did lab work and printed our shots. Upon completion of my indoctrination and athletic training, I sent for Dolores and Babs to live with me during those four months of photo school. She made the rugged drive from Coulee Dam to Pensacola over icy mountain roads and into long, desolate stretches with a four-year-old in a car that had no heater. She had only one flat, and that was in a service station. Tires and gasoline were rationed. In all the years of my service, we managed to drive the Pontiac on original tires. They had been recapped often and logged over 80 thousand miles of road wear. The formal training expanded and distilled my knowledge. I loved it immensely and did my very best. On April 1, 1943, in graduation formation on the parade grounds, I was shocked to hear Lt. Cdr. Bill Harlow, commanding officer of the photo school, announce that Ens. Robert A. Midthun of California was to be commended for graduating at the top of his class! Tears welled in my eyes, and I was excited beyond all imagination. The orders handed me thereafter were to "report to NAS, Kodiak, Alaska for further transfer to Fleet Air Wing Four." My excitement waned rapidly. It meant that Dolores and Babs would have to travel once more alone in the Pontiac on well-worn tires all the way to Page 104

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Coulee Dam, Washington, while I would be heading for Alaska via Norfolk, Virginia. Dolores, Babs, and I drove to Mobile, Alabama. From there they headed for Coulee Dam and, by the grace of God, made it without event but with plenty of hardships. On my way to Alaska, I was suddenly ordered to “Naval Air Station, Norfolk, Virginia, to Photographic Squadron Two (VD-2 Navy designation) for temporary assignment.” Comdr. McElroy, who headed VD-2, welcomed me aboard and handed me a new set of orders. Alaska was canceled. Now I was to report to NAS, Quonset Point, Rhode Island, for further transfer to AirAsDevLant, a top secret antisubmarine R & D unit, whose mission was to clear the Atlantic of U-boats. Dolores was flabbergasted when I called her with the news. Yes, I wanted her and Babs to come to Rhode Island. I had found a two-story duplex in Yorktown Manor near the air station. With a little friendly persuasion and skullduggery, I checked out tables, chairs and beds from Navy stores to furnish the place. Again she drove across the continent—from Washington to Rhode Island. Babs and her mother Bebe accompanied her. A General Electric engineer who worked on the Grand Coulee Dam turbine generators accompanied them and helped with the driving. He was headed for his family in Pennsylvania. They arrived at Yorktown Manor and had a hectic several hours finding me. It was wonderful to see and have them with me again! AirAsDevLant had a complement of 129 officers and 200 enlisted men. I was one of four ensigns (soon to be junior lieutenants). I never had met, let alone worked with, so many toprate professionals. They came from the Navy, universities, and industry. Cdr. DeFlores, inventor of 100-octane gasoline, would soon be promoted to rear admiral and head the Office of Naval Research. Nelson Aldrich, grandson of John D. Rockefeller, was in charge of personnel. John Meyer, administrative assistant to Capt. A. B., Vosseler, our skipper, was senior partner, J.P. Morgan, and Com. Charles Lockhart, who was married to Kitty Du Pont, handled all Du Pont charities and served on our team. On and on, it seemed each one had a pedigree except me. Oh yes, our librarian was novelist and author Roark Bradford. The work was so secretive that many of the experiments could only be photographed by a commissioned officer (usually me). My special projects involved intimate interfacing with Massachusetts Institute of Technology scientific staff, primarily Dr. Harold E. Edgerton, inventor of the strobe light for high-speed night photography. Another project took me to the Ladd Observatory of Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. A civilian cinematographer, Gordon Avil of the Jam Handy Corporation, was a special assistant in slowmotion photography of aircraft rockets. AirAsDevLant was commissioned to develop a new aircraft solidfuel rocket by uniting the work of British and California Institute of Technology rocket developers. Our pilots included highly decorated officers who had served in the RAF and had in turn come back to the Navy when America declared war. Our mission soon expanded to include training of Navy squadrons in the tools we had developed. Frequency-modulated radio sonobuoys could be dropped in a pattern about a submerged enemy submarine to relay its position to aircraft overhead. Although many of these secret inventions have been publicized in journals and magazines since the conclusion of hostilities, I am still bound by an oath of secrecy that I took some 60 years ago. I shall let it rest there. The Atlantic antisubmarine war was well under control by 1944, and I longed to get some Page 105

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sea duty. My application for an aircraft carrier billet was denied, and I was again ordered to stateside duty as photographic officer for VD-2 Photo Recon Training Unit in New Cumberland, Pa. Dolores and I packed to drive to New Cumberland, Pennsylvania, on Christmas Eve in 1944. We found a small upstairs apartment in a red brick rowhouse in nearby Harrisburg. I not only paid rent but also stoked the furnace for landlady Mrs. Rousch. We shared the apartment with two other Navy officers and their wives, thus filling all rooms to the limit. Dolores was about 4 months pregnant with Rick, and it was a very trying time for her. With lots of trying and looking, we eventually found a three-story duplex close to the base. The owner was a very kind and gracious businessman. He let us have it for 35 dollars a month. Hospital corpsmen from the base often visited us and brought goodies such as butter, candy, and medicines for colds. When I was away on temporary orders, the shore patrol would keep an eye on my home. They were wonderful friends. Each month a new fighter squadron would come from the Pacific for photographic training. The pilots were seasoned veterans with a yen for a little fun. They often took the photo assignments very casually. One day I announced to a group of pilots, "It is easy for me to tell who are the best and most skillful pilots by the manner in which you bring back your photo assignments. This is a test of your piloting skill." All ears perked up, and I had the most eager and competitive photographers after that. They would keep the engine oil off the camera lenses, see that full magazines A clipping, unfortunately truncated, from the base were on the cameras, and hang around newspaper. the darkroom long enough to view one another's pictures. On May 8, 1945, my thirty-second birthday, the war in Europe ended. On August 17, 1945, the Japanese surrendered. All officers with combat decorations were eligible for immediate release from the Navy. I had earned only American Theater and WWII Victory medals and a Letter of Commendation ribbon. The squadron would promptly be decommissioned. The aviators and planes were gone. But I was given the Administrative Command of closing the remainder of the base. Now I had a son, Richard Alan, born July 8, 1945, in Harrisburg Hospital, and a six-year­ old daughter. Dolores's mother had not come to Pennsylvania with us this time. She had Page 106

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returned to Coulee Dam. Dolores decided to fly back to Spokane, Washington, with our two children. Vera Newland would meet them and take them to Coulee Dam. It was a harrowing trip as Dolores tells it. Long delays enroute as the DC-3 laid over in frequent stops. The sound of sick and crying kids, the worry of traveling 2,500 miles alone, and the lack of money were a burden almost too great for her to bear. My brother Kermit, freshly discharged from the Air Corps, joined me for the long drive home in the Pontiac with no heater. We wore purloined flight suits and face masks. We went by way of Froid, Montana, to see Mom and Dad. It was a cold and brutal journey over the frozen highways of the Northern Plains. Thus ended both my Navy duty and my professional photography career. Photography had provided me with an excellent education, not only in its technical aspects but more importantly in what I had learned from the subjects I photographed.

“Solitary lighthouse.”

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Robert Midthun, 1989

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13 Secure The Navy—Back To Civilian Life

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fter our short vacation rest with the Newlands at Coulee Dam, Washington, ended, we headed back to Redding, California, and Shasta Dam. "Welcome back, Bob, we have saved your old job for you," the personnel director of the Bureau of Reclamation informed me. There had been a couple of small administrative promotions for the position during the three and one-half years of my absence. I was not only the Public Information Officer but also had charge of the security guard force on the project. Once again, I lectured every hour at the grandstand overlooking the massive concrete structure that had risen a couple of hundred feet in elevation. The curve of the dam glistened in the sunlight, and the 460-ft. high, crimson colored head-tower radiated a web of half-mile long cables over the site, enabling the delivery of concrete, forms, men, and materials to the huge structure. A million visitors a year poured down the winding approach road to see the sights and hear the lectures. Authors, reporters, writers, and photographers came in a steady pattern. Politicians and celebrities found the dam irresistible. With completion of concrete placement, Shasta Lake began to rise. A boat concession was granted, and the National Park Service and Forest Service operated large barges on the lake. Among the celebrities given the "royal Dolores performing in a skit for a grammar treatment" were members of congress, politicians school fund raiser in Toyon, California. Photo: Robert Midthun like Jimmy Roosevelt, Earl F. Warren, our governor, and members of the state legislature. With no money in the federal budget for entertainment of such persons, it was a collateral duty of mine to raise funds from individuals, Page 109

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chambers of commerce, political groups, and others. We even collected beef from ranchers for barbecues on the barges. These activities were no small task left only to me. During my absence a district manager layer of bureaucracy had been added. This afforded a higher level of supervision of the project apart from the construction engineers. Each of the several district managers was selected for political savvy as well as management skill in public and legislative affairs. When Shasta Dam was completed, I was transferred from the Sacramento Valley District to the Delta District at Stockton, California. It was a substantial promotion in salary and scope of work, but most unappealing to me. I was expected to favor the liberal Democratic regime in Congress and to help in every way I could think of to promote their candidates. The last straw for me was being asked to help elect Helen Gahagan Douglas to Congress. Her opponent was Richard Nixon, a Republican. I decided to leave federal service after 20 years all told, including my navy years. Unlike photography, which challenged my imagination and creativity, public affairs became increasingly boring. It seemed to me that finding employment would be a snap, because I knew hundreds of prominent persons and dozens of contractors. Was I surprised when not one of these leads would do more than listen quietly and then say, "We cannot use someone who has never managed money, operated under a controlled budget, or worked in a business.” My employment opportunity came in a routine slip tucked in a life insurance billing for a policy I had purchased some ten years previously from California Western States Life Insurance Company. It read, "If you are between 28 and 40 and are interested in earning more money than you are now doing, call this number." I did. It seemed like a good way to launch a career. Three months training in selling the product, a 90-day draw for expenses and income, and no obligation to pay back any shortfall in earnings worked for me. My strict minimum-salary requirement of $350.00/month was accepted by management. With my "canned speech" presentation and a system for finding leads and getting sales interviews, I was able to earn more than my budgeted draw and even more than my $466.60 monthly Civil Service pay. In fact, I had earned over $10,000 in cash and deferred renewal commissions by the end of my 90-day probation. Long hours, many disappointments in closing sales, and the uncertainty of income often brought periods of depression. I can still remember coming home each day and having my 11­ year-old son ask, "How many 'apps' today, Dad?" He knew that "apps," or applications, meant cash earned. The company taught us that constant effort at a steady and intelligent pace would pay off handsomely and not to worry about a few dry spells, because there would also be periods of abundance. Two years passed and I began to question my wisdom in pursuing the insurance career further. Dolores was unhappy and uncertain. She was also tired of a tight budget and lonely evenings. A bright light appeared in the form of her cousin, the Reverend Sam Bradford, minister of a large church in Denver, Colorado. Again, Dolores had come up with what seemed like an excellent solution to our dilemma. Dr. Sam Bradford suggested that Beth Eden Baptist Church, of which he had been pastor for many years, could well use a business manager to coordinate affairs of the 1,800 membership, including a weekly TV program ("The Baptist Hour"), a Bible College, and a summer camping program. Page 110

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Dolores' dad had been a Baptist minister. Shortly after Dolores and I were married, I took a lot of interest in her testimony and began to look into church membership. In March, 1936, I accepted Christ as my savior. Until then I had held back, perhaps in rebellion to her always urging me to study scripture and become a practicing Christian. It was my immaturity at its worst. Now that we both were most unhappy in life insurance sales as a career and very frustrated over our quality of life and lack of money, I was game for an escape. We prayed about my going to Denver and interviewing for business manager at Beth Eden

“Saloon and wagon.” Robert Midthun, 1982

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“A study of form, texture, and light”

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Photo: Robert Midthun

14 A Call To Christian Service

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al-Western Life management was shocked at my resignation, since I was one of their most promising agents. They could not understand why I would relinquish claim to several thousand dollars of renewal commissions that would be mine as time passed. Nevertheless, I had decided to leave the insurance business with no "ties to apron strings" that would weaken my Christian witness. I was going to Denver. The little 1937 junker coupe that I had bought from Mr. Fife across the street for a hundred bucks was the vehicle that took me the 800 miles. My interview went well, and I was hired by Beth Eden at the remarkable salary of $500/month. Dolores and the children followed soon in our 1949 Mercury. We found a rental and settled in. It was exciting, indeed. There were constant meetings with deacons and trustees and with staff employees. It was a vibrant congregation with lots of music and a flair for the dramatic. There were 200 men in the Men's Bible Class. Many were top executives in major enterprises. The youth activities were many and well attended. My first building project was to remove the sloping floor from the old sanctuary and convert it into a basketball court and gymnasium. I was expected to be there night after night to supervise the volunteers. There was great fellowship in this project, but not for Dolores and the children. With no prior experience, I found myself in charge of a 5-times weekly TV broadcast. My spot was a five-minute update on news of interest to the Christian community. There was always some unexpected problem and always a last-minute solution, thank God. Financing of the broadcast was undertaken by a gentleman who owned the largest mortuary in Denver. His weekly gift to the Baptist Hour was $750.00. He was a Presbyterian and did not even attend our church. We were very thankful for his generosity. Dr. Bradford had founded Rockmont Bible College in Denver many years before my time. Political differences with the college board caused Dr. Bradford to resign his ties. Now, he was attempting to found Baptist Bible College, using the church buildings as the founding location of the new school. With practically no funds whatever, and with only three dedicated Page 113

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church members having Bible college degrees, the new college was announced. There were only a half dozen youngsters who enrolled in the first freshman class. I remember with great admiration two young men from a small southwestern Colorado town who gave themselves fully and ardently to the new institution. The summer camp in Coal Creek Canyon, high in the nearby Rockies, was a cluster of dilapidated stone and frame structures. There were rodents living in the dormitory buildings, and the site was overgrown with weeds and brush. It was remarkable how this nondescript place blossomed after our hard work completed its restoration. One hundred or more kids were brought up each week in June and July. Donations and contributions had to be raised for expenses, and that was no mean task. Pastor Bradford "twisted a few arms" to balance the ledger. Almost immediately upon my taking office, I became aware of several small but tightly organized and controlled groups competing for leadership in the congregation. I was expected to break up these cliques and weld them into unity. It was not only difficult but practically impossible. Again in my life, I realized that a great injustice had been done in hiring a business manager. I soon discerned that the real need was not to have a manager efficiently handle business and finances, but to have a recruiter draw as many church members as possible into volunteer tasks with spiritual goals. The business manager was also expected to be a manager of the congregation. Sadly, I realized that I must resign. After just one year, I left Beth Eden and returned to our home in Stockton, California. With some humiliation, I approached Cal-Western asking to be reinstated as an active agent. To my surprise, they welcomed me with open arms, reinstated my renewal commissions, and even paid me for renewals that had accrued during my year's absence. The elation and excitement did not last long. Very soon we were once more in the same old rut. The search for a new job began in earnest. Dolores had taken a job as sales clerk in a major department store to help us meet expenses. Our budget was so tight that we had little or no spare funds for new clothes, much less for recreation. The newspaper ad by United Concrete Pipe Corporation recruiting a manager for its Stockton plant immediately appealed to me. During my photographic career, I had worked on many projects wherein United was prime contractor. With a bad case of pneumonia, I interviewed at the Stockton Hotel. After two later sessions, I was taken to the home office in suburban Los Angeles for the final interview and hired at $700/month. So began my "drinking out of a fire hose." Photography had equipped me with all of the right answers, and Cal-Western sales experience was just "the ticket." The Company needed a man who could meet people and obtain business. There were plenty of manufacturing people who could make the product once the sales orders were executed.

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15 Drinking Out Of A Fire Hose.

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he new concrete pipe plant manager's job was a true challenge. I had made dozens of photographs of pipe installations manufactured and produced at my plant. I could rattle off performance statistics until the "cows came home," but my professional training and manufacturing skills were nil. Nevertheless, I was selected from some thirty applicants, as I later discovered, on the basis of the excellent sales record I established with the insurance industry. It seems that since the pipe company had had such good results from recruiting U.S. Bureau of Reclamation engineers as managers, they more or less assumed I was an engineer also. Funny thing, no one asked me about my Bureau experience, only about my sales ability. "We have plenty of people who can make pipe, but we need someone to promote the products and bid the jobs so that the plant can operate," they explained to me. The vice president of sales conducted the initial interview, and I was taken to Los Angeles headquarters for the final interview by the president of the company. He never asked me a question. He spent an hour telling me how great he was, how he was the largest individual stockholder in United States Steel Corporation, and how he had worked his way up from a shop-floor machinist to a multimillionaire industrialist in just a few years with only an eighth grade education. He was handsome, with a shock of white hair and ruddy complexion that glowed from his expensive blue suit. His company car was a Cadillac convertible. His only handicap was his 5 ft. 6 in. height. I realized why his desk was elevated, and I sat at a lower level on a very low couch. Before he said, "Glad to have you aboard, and good luck!," he called in his son, a Stanford University student working in a summer job, and had him show me his $300,000 stock portfolio. As a follow-up gesture, the vice-president of sales reduced my $12,000 salary by $100 per month. He would be my corporate boss, a man who had avoided World War II service by being in an "essential industry." A rugged ex-pro-football player, my new boss had a serious inferiority complex. He seemed to have no more reason to be with the company than I. All of us reported to the president, and personnel management consisted of pitting one man against another. Salaries were secret, and one never knew just what was the status of any other Page 115

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key official. I look back on my corporate time as being just another animal in the "circus" under an egotistical and ruthless animal trainer. Later on, I was to be privy to the workings of the corporation in a system that made the Mafia look like a "pushcart operation." I returned to Stockton and was assigned to Fred Quinn, a 25-year vice-president of the company, stationed 38 miles away in Modesto, California. He had responsibility for the eleven so-called "small" plants in California, Utah, and Washington. This was the name given to the plants that produced culvert pipe and small-diameter concrete irrigation pipe for the Bureau of Reclamation projects. He had no jurisdiction over the company's pressure-pipe plants like mine at Stockton, which manufactured large-diameter pressure pipe for major projects such as the Hetch Hetchy aqueduct from Yosemite Park to San Francisco or the East Bay Municipal Utility District aqueducts some 50 miles long between Pardee Dam and Oakland. I realized what was before me in the new career when I first unlocked the gate to the forty-acre site with its idle steam locomotive cranes, the 300-ton concrete batch plant, and all of the rusting iron. There were cows grazing in the plant. A squatter hurriedly herded them out. Fred was in his fifties, a quiet and stern western type, from manner of speech and dress to administration of his domain. He had a depth of experience that held me in awe. We spoke very little. Fred showed me around the area, discussed production operations, and indoctrinated me in company policy. The bookkeeper actually clued me in on the product and the pricing. With the backing of the home office in Los Angeles, I used my sales skills, honed in the insurance industry, and my personality, polished from working in Reclamation project public relations, to quickly get our pressure pipe specified in new projects and entered in bids. This pleased the company, because they lacked people who could do that part of the promotion while 400 miles from the Los Angeles home office. In three months time, I had succeeded in obtaining the first manufacturing contract at Stockton, and I wisely chose “old hands” from employee rosters of similar facilities to staff this plant. Needless to say, the days were too short and the work and learning were endless, week in and week out. Fred died out in the field from a ruptured aorta. I was shocked and dismayed. He had been my symbol of security and confidant. Fred had noted my insecurity and had wisely assured me that all would be okay. I was acutely aware that I now was on my own, a greenhorn 400 miles from the home base and doubting that I would marshal the skills and self-confidence to carry on. But my fears were short-lived. We were seated at the dinner table one Sunday shortly after the funeral. It was the company president on the phone. "Bob, are you prepared for a shock?" "Yes" I said, knowing that I was about to be fired. "Shoot!" "We are giving you Fred's 11 plants. Get off your ass and start digging." The fire hose seemed like an aqueduct. I was speechless, and worried. All eleven smallplant managers had at least 15 years time with the company. I had been asking them naive questions. Now they looked at me with sneering smiles, as if to say, "You won't last long." One by one, the plant managers were summoned into Fred's old office. When each one sat down, the conversation was brief and to the point. I knew that each of them believed himself Page 116

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to be better qualified than I. "I just want to tell you two things," I said. "First of all, I will be outside the plant getting work for you to produce. You will be responsible for everything behind the gate, and I expect you to improve your quantity and quality. The second thing, I set your salary, and I want you to be well paid for using your skills. We are now a team with a new coach, and I'll do my part." Fred's management style had allowed no interplant visiting or communications between the managers. I encouraged the opposite. To offset jealousy and strife between managers, I said, "It's like playing golf. Each of you will be judged solely on your own plant's performance. Helping one another with ideas and exchanging equipment will help each one of you. You are not competing with other plants, only with your own fifteen-year production record." We increased our sales the first year by 30 percent and our bottom line net profit by 20 percent, and all plants were in the black. Hired in June, promoted in August, I received no change in salary until my first anniversary. Then my salary was doubled. I was told to buy a new car, but not a Cadillac, and I wisely chose the top of the line Chevy with air and a phone. The "little giant" president liked that very much and bragged to the other executives that "Bob didn't buy a Buick, like you, and he drives many more miles!" In that first year, I had learned the rudiments of concrete design, studied the engineering textbooks my son brought to me from Stanford University, and learned a great deal about specifications. I was well known in the industry, had attended national conventions, and had been sent into Canada to investigate the possible purchase of an existing concrete pipe plant. I was given a virtually unlimited expense account. United Concrete Pipe Corp. kept a suite of rooms in a major San Francisco Hotel for entertaining guests. The dinners and events sponsored for city officials paid off handsomely. Because the brightest city engineers were often from Asia and not extensively trained in American social and cultural behavior, they were often passed-by for executive promotion. Those moved forward were often the lessqualified, mediocre talents, but they were the politically and socially savvy ones. The Asian employees had no opportunity to learn Western cultural behavior as applied to business. I provided a mechanism to correct this in our frequent business soirées. One day I was called to the home office for an important meeting. The vice-president of sales took me aside after we finished lunch at the Jonathan Club, a prestigious, private businessmen's haven. To my amazement, I was introduced to key executives of the five major competing concrete pipe plants. It was called "administered pricing," and each company had an established share of the market, based upon the many years of manufacturing experience. Because any one or two of the concrete pipe companies had production capacity to satisfy the market, it was agreed that each one would adhere to an established percentage share. Production and promotion (marketing/bidding) records were kept but not shared. It was the gentlemen's agreement that sales records would be pooled and from them the shares determined. The group assured me that administered pricing was legal; for instance, gasoline stations of all companies had identical prices, etc. With a comfortable salary well above anything I had experienced and with a family to support, I eagerly grabbed the new fire hose for another drink! My immaturity and the ego of the position I held blinded me. Had I the opportunity to retrace my steps, that meeting would and should have been my last one. In retrospect I can safely say the concrete pipe industry made the Mafia look like a pushcart operation. With growing executive skill, I guided my 11 plants well and even opened a 12th Page 117

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one to service the Kaiser Steel plant at Napa, California. Our products were of highest quality and were manufactured with the latest technology. The list of projects included several engineering marvels of the time: the Hetch Hetchy aqueduct from the Yosemite valley to San Francisco, California's first aqueduct; the South Bay Aqueduct from Tracy to Livermore, California; and the Russian River Aqueduct. The smaller plants installed hundreds of miles of irrigation systems for the lands opened by the Bureau of Reclamation in the western United States. United was owned by the largest U.S. producer of cast iron pipe, U. S. Pipe & Foundry of Birmingham, Alabama, which had purchased it from the three original Slavic owners. The president of the company was a dynamic man, an eighth grade dropout, who had become the largest individual stockholder of U.S. Steel Corp. He, in turn, recruited executives to staff the corporation from his friends in the various steel and petroleum companies. They were a wellinformed and aggressive group who knew how to run large businesses. Their contacts with our major competitors in the steel industry gave our firm a front row seat in the competition for the large aqueducts which had been traditionally built by the steel companies using welded steel pipe with coal tar enamel lining and coatings. It was the greed of the five major concrete pipe companies that drove the steel industry to the wall and forced the latter to refuse to share this lucrative market with the smaller concrete pipe companies. It all came to a head in a series of anti-trust lawsuits filed on behalf of all cities that had been customers of the steel and concrete companies. Many of us in the middle management group were subpoenaed to testify before the federal grand jury. The cities won the lawsuits, and the defending companies paid heavy anti-trust penalties, often with triple damage provisions. Monday, November 6, 1965, was the day two men walked into my office and confronted me with a surprising dilemma. My options were to (1) resign or (2) be fired. There was a modest severance check and a cashier's check for my retirement fund contributions. I said, "Fire me." My ten-year contributions to the pension fund were in my hands—I had lost my pension. The two home-office goons took my car keys after having me clear out my personal belongings. I called a cab and went home. I had taken the last sip out of the fire hose and was a sadder, wiser, and unemployed executive. My leaving was under a cloud, since I had been granted immunity for my grand jury testimony; and, like the others in middle management, we had cleared our personal slates. All of us in the middle management group were fired or resigned. All of us were blackballed in the concrete pipe industry. No other company could or would have touched any of us. Before the week had ended, Quinn Wire and Iron Works, a concrete pipe machinery manufacturing company in the Midwest, offered me a job as general manager of their 85 yearold industry. In California, my plants had set production records using their machines and forms. We had innovated and invented many cost-cutting methods and improvements. I was a logical and natural man for the job. To boot, I was to be given a small percentage of the profits of the business in addition to a salary. A major competitor in the machinery bushiness two years later purchased our factory, and I was out of a job again. This time it was by my request. I had been offered an excellent job in the new group, but I wanted to return to California. My manufacturing experience had topped-off a wide and thorough knowledge, and I Page 118

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was free to pursue once again in California a career that I vowed would be honorable and, to my surprise, would lead me eventually into honest "gut-level" competition with my former employer, United Concrete Pipe Corporation.

“Summer day”

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16 All-American Status At Last

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fter returning from Iowa to Stockton, California, I was employed in short order by Beall Pipe and Tank Corporation of Portland, Oregon, as a salesman for steel pipe conduits with the western United States as my territory. I loved the job and the corporation executives. This position further rounded out my practical and engineering pipeline knowledge. Now, at last, I had gained valuable experience in almost all types of pipe used in the waterworks industry. However, Beall used only Japanese steel stock in manufacturing their line of welded-steel pipes; and, with sudden sharp price increases by Japanese steel suppliers, Beall was forced out of business. For a third time in fewer than 5 years, I was again unemployed. At 57, it was becoming more difficult for me to face unemployment. This was the real world. There was no way to rationalize failure, despite the fact that the company, not I, had failed. Catching my breath, I took a quick inventory of the situation—with dismal results. My liquid cash was down to only $10,000. My brilliant and talented Phi Beta Kappa son, Rick, was midway through Stanford University School of Medicine. I owned nary a stick of real estate and was paying stiff rental fees on our modest apartment. The gold 1962 Cadillac sedan was showing fatigue. I would soon have to tap the modest savings for another shot at med school tuition. This was the time for fervent prayers set in motion by positive action. I went into immediate action. There was one possibility that dawned on me as if by magic. The cast-in­ place concrete pipe industry, formerly my fiercest competitor, had made a positive impact on the concrete pipe market in just 15 years since an enterprising man conceived the idea of slipforming the pipe directly in a shaped trench by a continuous extruded monolithic pour. What a clever idea! It should have been advancing by leaps and bounds, but a severely critical publicity campaign from the precast (factory-made) pipe industry was almost defeating the new product. The cast-in-place concrete pipe (CIPCP) industry was owned and promoted by patent owners who issued franchises in the western United States, Canada, Mexico, and the Union of South Africa. As long as the patents were in force, the business grew at a steady pace fueled Page 121

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by license fees issued to private entrepreneurs. The word was out that an industry leader was looking for a chief engineer to help take their business out of their business-as-usual mode and into a new, bold growth phase. Up to that time, the promotional strategy of the CIPCP industry had been very passive. Their counter to the precast industry's criticism was to present the results of nationally recognized engineers' field tests and load-bearing demonstrations. To this reactive defense, the brilliant precast product engineers only needed to stress the fact that CIPCP had no steelreinforcing cage. This seemed to effectively close the matter in the minds of many municipal, county, and other governmental engineering staffs who were to be the new customers of CIPCP. The contest was at a virtual impasse. The At age 61, I begin a new career as an CIPCP promoters had no positive and engineer. convincing answer to refute this lack, other than to repeat—and repeat again—physical demonstrations by large overloads on the CIPCP product with never a distressed conduit; i.e., there had never been a failure. This lack of credibility in the CIPCP product was especially harmful for the industry's attempts to enter the lucrative market for large-diameter concrete pipe systems. In my former 10 years with United Concrete Pipe, I had devised every engineering trick that I could imagine without effective results, to block this product. In those 10 years, I lost 90 percent of my smaller concrete culvert and storm drainpipe volume to CIPCP. These smaller-diameter products never did need any steel-reinforcement in their design. CIPCP had the clear advantage, but the market was small, primarily that of farmers needing crop field irrigation and drainage. In the larger diameter product markets, CIPCP product had never been a competitor. No governmental engineer wanted to stake his career on big pipe with no internal steel. Now I found myself asking for employment as chief engineer for the CIPCP system inventor, Mr. G. D. Williamson of No-Joint Concrete Pipe Co. I intended to be the one to break the impasse to industry-wide acceptance of this new technology. Both Mr. Williamson and I were well acquainted from the bitter strife I had caused him over a previous 10-year period. He was taken aback that I had nerve enough to ask for such an important job. His patent would expire in fewer than 2 years. The franchises would no longer be viable then. This was my key point. With my earned "All-American" status in the broadest phases of the precast industry, I could gain access to the highest governmental agencies and unlock the doors presently closed to the innovative CIPCP product. I was hired and given a choice of basing operations in either Atlanta, Georgia, or Los Angeles, California. My $15,000 salary was modestly small, but the opportunities seemed limitless. The southern California franchise owned by Neill Johnson became my base of operations. Page 122

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He was one of the finest men I had ever known, and we soon became fast friends. He lacked formal academic training, but Neill demonstrated zeal, abounding energy, and the personal insight and wisdom that accounted for his million-dollar-plus net worth. In Hawaii, a territory franchised to another operator, I soon became acquainted with Walter Lum, a nationally recognized consulting engineer in soils and, more importantly, in soft-ground tunneling. Walter was brilliant in his knack for simplification of difficult problems. He showed me that CIPCP was not a concrete pipeline laid in a trench and then backfilled with mechanically compacted earth, but rather a "concrete lined soil tunnel" placed directly against the undisturbed earth walls of its shaped trench. This concept triggered my development of the static and dynamic engineering analysis that would eventually convince governmental engineers throughout California that our product was as good as, if not better

The process of cast-in-place pipe manufacture underway. The central slip form, about which the pipe is formed, is being positioned for the next segment. The whole machine is pulled forward, leaving freshly formed, continuous pipe in the trench. Photo: Courtesy of the Moote Group

than, steel-reinforced pipe in load-bearing capacity as well as durability, when used with the correct soil. We had always held the advantage in cost. It was my good fortune also to have become personally acquainted with Dr. Rolf Eliasson, a Stanford professor and member of a prestigious New England sanitary engineering consulting firm. He had been a special consultant to United Concrete Pipe on the largerdiameter conduits and aqueducts. There are many others I should name, but suffice it to state that "show and tell" contact with many brilliant minds gave me an insight and a solution to promoting CIPCP. The correct concept of a concrete-lined-soil-tunnel, together with sound, established soils engineering principles and a sound quality-control procedure, finally broke the CIPCP sales log jam. Page 123

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When the patents expired, there was an opportunity to move the CIPCP industry from a proprietary status to one of open competition from many individual operators. Mr. Williamson in his 90s passed away just about coincidentally with the patent expiration. He was a man who enjoyed his CIPCP "toy," making millions of dollars while pursuing his hobby. His real wealth came from manufacturing precast concrete pipe, ranching and rice growing, and investing in savings and loan banks. My miraculous good fortune took another all-American upturn when Neill Johnson sold his CIPCP business. In 1977, I was invited by Mr. Paul A. Moote, a prominent southern California civil engineer, to become an associate in his newly formed construction management consulting group, Paul A. Moote and Associates, Inc., of Santa Ana, California. I would become the fountainhead for the CIPCP phase of the Moote group's business. At last I had found someone who would become my role model and best personal friend for my final career years. Paul is talented, God-loving, and honest. He says, "The greatest gift one can have is the privilege of having time to think." Paul Moote generously helped me to become a world-class expert in cast-in-place concrete pipe. During my years of association with Paul, I was invited to sit on a prestigious national committee of the American Society of Civil Engineers as an honorary member. To assist the firm's growth, as well as the industry's improvement, I developed novel, computer-based spreadsheet engineering tools and became an early adopter of Internet technology to reach these ends. Through our multi-year, mutually beneficial association, I was able to reach the apex of distinguished and long career. Today in retirement, I prize the national recognition of being an expert in the design, manufacturing, and installation of slip-formed, cast-in-place concrete pipe and the financial security it has afforded me. Through the twists and turns of life, I truly have traveled from "sodbuster to cyberspace." With this, my legacy is concluded.

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“A quiet winter morning”

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REMEMBRANCES

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“Horses in the pasture”

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17 Mustangs And Broncos

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ixteen years on the 320 acres of broken prairie have enriched my life with many tales. Six decades later the tales have taken on a patina of exaggeration, humor, and tragic comedy that molded my life. The personalities of the draft horses that plowed the fields, sowed the wheat, and reaped golden waves of grain are vivid memories. Mustangs only a few generations removed from a cross-breed with wild Indian ponies and heavy draft horses came in bays, blacks, sorrels, and palominos with sharply contrasting manes and natural gaits that ranged from clumsy, plodding draft horses with extra large hooves to dainty, high-stepping prancers. Charlie and King were the lead pair on a six-horse team. Charlie was a light gray with a white mane. King was coal black with a white star on his forehead and white stockings. They were large and feisty and seemed to enjoy being the pacesetters. Little wonder that Dad, only five feet six inches tall and a mere 150 pounds, had many sleepless nights from restraining the big guys with taut reins. Behind Charlie and King were four assorted and individual broncos that seemed to emulate the spirit of the lead team. There was Jack, the comedian. He had broken into a grain bin as a colt and foundered himself. He had gorged on pure rye grain. For a few days he groaned in agony and drank water like he was in the Sahara Desert. His gait was stiff, and for the first half-mile in the field he literally shuffled along. Next to him was the Dahley mare, named for the man who sold her to our dad. She was black with white-trimmed nose and feet and an attractive, shiny black mane. Her feet were trim, and her gait was almost that of a saddle horse. The Dahley mare was an all-around gentle and talented athlete. We just started calling her Dahley for short. She served in the team hookup and was excellent on a two-horse team mowing grain or pulling a hayrack or wagon. Whenever a saddle horse was needed, she was chosen. The horse next to the mare on the six-horse team was Buster. Buster was a shiny bay, plump, with black ears, tail, and mane. Buster moped around the barnyard, ate constantly, and enjoyed life. He changed into a spirited charger as soon as the harness and bridle were fitted. He was one of my favorites. When I mowed hay in the summer time, I always chose Page 129

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Buster and Dahley. The five-foot cutter of the McCormick mower sang a tune for all of the 22 one-mile rounds we traveled around the hay field. We paused only for one hour during the middle of the day to water the team and get a bite of lunch. Each of the horses had a strong will. They rather reluctantly sallied forth in the early morning to do their work in the fields, but they eagerly hurried home at the close of the day. I recall one very vivid impression that none other than Jack left with me. I believe he really meant to destroy me! Jack and I were sent to get the mail from our RFD mailbox a mile and a quarter away. I was about 9 years old, and I rode bareback on his sleek bay back. Jack, who had stiffened ankles, put on a great act. He would stumble along a step at a time, turn his head, and try to nip my bare leg. He had the bridle-bit so firmly held in his mouth that my jerking did not affect him, other than to stimulate his ornery disposition. About every hundred yards, he'd pull over to the shoulder of the graveled road and nibble at whatever plants he could find. Then, without warning, he would heel around and try to bolt for home. It took a good hour to get him to the mailbox. On the return trip, I think he believed he was a racehorse. What a ride he gave me: stiff-legged trot, a rough lope, and an awkward gallop. Jack wheeled into the farm gate and headed for the barn. The barn was a rambling wooden building with a large sliding door in each end. I was terrified when I realized that he was intending to go through the barn. Though appearing high from a ground level approach, the top of each doorframe was too low for a rider to clear on horseback. Jack headed for one side of the open door as if not only to bash my brains out but also to scrape my leg as he passed through. I dropped the mail and threw both arms and legs around his neck, hanging upside down and screaming wildly. Funny thing, as soon as Jack cleared the far barn door he stopped abruptly. My father heard my screaming and came running to the scene. He was white with rage, first at me, saying, "You are so dumb," and second at Jack, "I'll show you what it is to have a rider." For the next hour, Jack and Dad did a good imitation of a cavalry charge. The air was blue from the array of expletives, and Jack was frothy with sweat. They charged up to the open barn door, and Jack applied anti-lock brakes, stopping "on a dime." All well and good. I never rode Jack again after that. For a couple of days, I was scarcely seen or heard. I knew I had my punishment coming "for being so dumb and knowing so little." My greatest near-catastrophe was the runaway that occurred a few hours after my fourth birthday. Buster and Dahley were the buggy team used by my visiting uncle Bob to get the mail. He invited me to go with him. In the wee hours of May 8, 1917, Mother gave birth to my third sister, Alice May. From my upstairs bedroom with an ear glued to the register in the floor, I heard Dr. Munch console our mother as she called out in agonizing pain and heard the neighbor women calling for boiling water. As the sun rose that morning, the moans and screams suddenly stopped, and the doctor called us downstairs to see the beautiful 8-pound girl. Worn and tired, the neighbor women and the doctor departed to get some rest. Dad, who usually got the mail himself, had his hands full taking care of my 5-year-old sister Hazel while completing a multitude of extra chores. There were cows to milk, livestock to feed and water, and many more chores to finish that normally were left to Mother and us kids. Uncle Bob (Robert Steenerson) was visiting us a few days before reporting to the Army as Page 130

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a draftee in World War I. A romantic fortune hunter and a chronic boozer, Bob was an imposing six-feet-four-inches tall figure. He could spin yarns about his travels, mostly when "tanked up." Under it all was a lazy, mean-spirited individual who loved to tease us kids. Only the day before, he was teaching me how to swear in return for which he promised me a sack of hard candy. Mother caught him in the act. She flung me over her knee, and, as she paddled my bare behind, I remember biting her in the leg. Then I really got it—the razor strap. To Uncle Bob she fired off sharply some words about ". . . getting shot in the war." Today Uncle Bob was different. “Alex, I'll hitch up Dahley and Jack to the buggy and get the mail.. Robert can go along for company,” he offered. Dad readily assented, knowing that the camel-colored Dahley and the bay and black Jack were unusually gentle, if not downright lazy. When Dad harnessed the team and hitched them to the spring buggy for Uncle Bob and me, he overlooked a most significant fact, that neither Buster nor Dahley knew Uncle Bob with his gruff, rough manner and heavy hands on the reins. Furthermore, the team disliked anything other than a wagon or a farm machine. It was almost inevitable that their Indian pony heritage was to be triggered, and they intended to show Uncle Bob who was boss. Uncle Bob used the short buggy whip with a rawhide thong on its tip to start the team on its way. Buster and Dahley shook their heads angrily and snorted in response, and I could feel their deep resentment by the way they arched their necks and broke into a trot. The graveled, graded road was strange to them. They preferred the softer shoulder, since they were unshod, and this irritated him. Our rusty galvanized mailbox was in the middle of a row of assorted-sized boxes with red flags and located on the southwest corner of the crossroads. To the right was the Renault place. Telesphore Renault was a métis (a French/Indian mix), and his wife a full-blooded Sioux. Dad always referred to him as the "breed" and to her as his "squaw." They had many children, only 160 acres of prairie with about 100 acres tillable, and they owned a number of sprightly Indian ponies. One of these Mr. Renault named Dan Patch, after the famous racehorse of that day. The Renault men and boys were horse lovers. They never used saddles or bridles. They guided the horses with a single hackamore (a halter made by wrapping the tether rope in a half-hitch around the horse's nose) and often a surcingle (rope around the horse’s body just behind the front legs). The horse and rider were as one. The ponies responded promptly and obeyed voice and hand-slap commands. I owe my life to the bravery of Mr. Renault and the speed and daring of Dan Patch. As the buggy drew into the crossroads, Uncle Bob halted the team and jumped onto the ground, dropping the reins, probably while in some kind of an alcoholic fog. Buster and Dahley had never known slack reins. Believing they were free, they wheeled right, bolting in a gallop down a steep grade, and then dashed into the adjacent gully on the Renault farm, smashing through a barbed-wire fence. I screamed in utter terror as I bounced high above the light buggy seat and crashed into the floorboards, breaking them. The screams further panicked the horses. The buggy seat flew off, and the flimsy vehicle began to shed bits and pieces over the ground. It happened in moments, but, to me it was hours of terror. Then I heard a voice, "Hang on, Robert, I'm coming to get you." A backward glance showed Mr. Renault on Dan Patch, only a couple of yards behind the buggy. I could feel the moisture from the pony's distended nostrils and hear his breath like compressed air escaping from a vessel. The next moment, Mr. Renault vaulted like a gymnast over Dan Patch’s head and into the wrecked buggy. He Page 131

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clutched me in his arms. There were no reins in the buggy. He had no way of stopping the runaway, so he leaped from the bouncing wreck onto the weeds, while shouting to me, “Hang on, we are getting out of here.” It was all over! Both of us were covered with blood from a gash in his arm that ran from the wrist to the elbow. I had never seen such a wound or so much blood. Speechless and dazed, I clung to him as he wrapped the laceration with a bandage torn from his shirt. He carried me the 200 yards to the nearby roadway, where we both sat on a big rock. Soon a big, black Mitchell touring car came down the road. They put us in the back seat and drove us back to the farm. Mother, crying and hysterical, met us at the gate. Meanwhile, Uncle Bob had discarded his lethargy and had run home, arriving before we were rescued. As we turned into our gate, Mother was crying and literally crawling along the driveway. Dad had taken off across the north quarter to find the team and bring the rig back.. In a half-hour he appeared. Except for lathered bodies, the old “plugs” were the same docile, plodding plow horses. The buggy was a total wreck. It never was used again except as a plaything for us children. We would push it up a hill near our well and then coast a hundred yards down the slope. Dad was frightened and furious, but most thankful to see me safely returned in the black Mitchell touring car. I could not hear what he said to Uncle Bob, and I am glad I didn't. Bob left next day in response to his draft notice for World War I. I never again heard Dad refer to the Renaults as "the breed and his squaw." To this very day, Mr. Renault is my special hero.

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18 Hogs Running Wild

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or many years I have regaled my family and friends with tales about life on the family farm. One day, my brother Kermit and I entertained the Commanding General of the Strategic Air Command in Omaha, Nebraska, by telling him about the night on our boyhood farm when the “hogs broke out of the pen." Otherwise, it was a dull dinner meeting with twelve potential career diplomats seated at the huge round table. They were the elite group in training for ambassadorial posts and other equally high career diplomatic posts. Kermit, a member of this group, had invited me to visit him for that evening in Omaha. I was living in nearby Iowa. Even the red wine failed to spark anything other than polite, "intelligent" conversation. "Mutt" (as I called Kermit) impishly smiled and then said, "Bob, let's talk about the night the hogs broke out." We did. And they laughed. The old farmhouse was on top of a rolling southerly slope. About a hundred yards downslope was the pigpen and hog house. For whatever reason, perhaps rooting beneath the board fence, the hogs broke out of the pen and were roaming up the slope. It was night and the moon was full. Dad heard the grunts and squeals from his bedroom window. Clad in his blue chambray shirt and long underwear in which the slept, he dashed outside and commanded all of us to round up the escapees. If you have ever been "touched" by a 200-pound hog at full gallop, then you know how it is to collide with a giant bowling ball. My sister, two brothers, and Mother came to the battlefront. We circled the strays and began moving them downhill in the moonlight. But one of the older animals decided he would bolt through the line and caper around the farmhouse. I was down the slope. I have the recollection of looking up to see my father, shirttails flying and silhouetted against the full moon, sprinting after that one seemingly airborne pig. All of a sudden, Father's pitchfork flew out of his hand, and he flipped horizontally, falling semi-conscious to the ground beneath the clothesline that had "chinned" him. Mother was screaming, “He's dead! He's dead!" It was hilarious, but none of us dared to laugh. Father was now standing erect and in a temper-rage and far from dead. Page 133

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“A sleepy farmyard”

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19 Dolores Buys A Hog

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ne day Dolores came home excitedly saying, "I have bought a hog, and you can butcher it and make hams, just like on the farm." I was astounded and dumbfounded. Actually, I had never done more than stand by and watch my farther do it. But, the hog was ours out on Frank Walker's small-acreage farm in rural Redding, California. Frank was an old acquaintance of Dolores from Boulder Dam days. He had a small orchestra and played regularly in small clubs in the area. Dolores had paid him $12.00. Now it was my turn to "fish or cut bait." Mr. Cooper was an aging, wizened Missourian who worked as a janitor in the government offices. He had lost four fingers on the left hand and two on his right hand. With both thumbs intact and the remaining stubs of fingers, he did admirably as a janitor. I said, "Mr. Cooper, have you ever butchered a hog?" "Yes," he said, so I made him a proposition: "If you will help me butcher a hog, I will give you the liver, some pork chops, a ham and five dollars." Next Saturday morning just after sunrise, we drove to Walker's farm. I had my .22 rifle, some bullets, and a couple of large butcher knives. The plan was that I would shoot the hog in the forehead to knock it down. Cooper was to stand by with the knives and then rush in and “stick” the animal, so it would bleed rapidly and completely. He said he was ready. I aimed the rifle at close range and pulled the trigger. Cooper had one knife in his teeth and the other in his best hand. The hog dropped as planned, but Cooper could not maneuver the knife. The animal raised up again. I had to do everything by myself—shoot and stick the hog. What seemed like the worst three minutes of my life thus far were but a prelude. The worst was yet to come. Near the killing site we had a fifty-gallon barrel of water leaning at an angle and resting on a bed of hot coals. The scalding hot water was letting off vapor. Everything looked good. The hog weighed about 150 pounds. Cooper and I dragged the animal over to the barrel, lifted the carcass, and lowered it into the barrel. But Cooper let go of the pig, and it Page 135

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disappeared into the steaming water. The plan was to quickly immerse the pig and pull it out so that we could scrape off all the hair. But I had to get it out of the water by myself and the animal was partially cooked by the time I managed to get it out. Cooper did help dressing the animal, as I didn't know a kidney from a liver or lungs from intestines. The finished carcass was a sight. Partly skinned, with some patches of bristles still remaining and a kind of pinkish and gray blotchy texture. It was noon when we stacked the pieces in his small truck and took them home. He was delighted with the head, the feet, the liver and a few pork chops. Now I realized I had another problem that I wasn't fully confident in performing. Dolores wanted bacon and hams. We had two 20-gallon crockery vessels that looked okay. I put the pork in, layer by layer, with copious quantities of smoked salt between them. Fieldstones were added on top the compress the contents. About a month later we removed the rocks and looked at the product. It looked normal and smelled good from the smoked hickory salt. We baked a ham and served it at a dinner for a few friends. It was excellent. But what an ordeal! That was the one and only hog-butchering in my whole life. I have taken a lot of flak over the years for this episode, and I promised myself that it would have to be my butchering "swan song." So be it

“Stone barn in winter light”

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20 Where Has My Childhood Gone?

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or years I had related many tales to my family and friends about the early days on the farm. The personalities of the horses that we used to till the soil, plant the grain, and harvest crops; the cattle, pigs, and fowl that provided our daily fare; the smell of the barn on a cold winter's day when steamy warmth drifted out the open door and the chickens fluttered down from their perches high above the livestock; and the restless noises from cows with udders aching and asking to be milked It was a shock, indeed, as my son Rick, brother Kermit and I approached the old place in July, 1985 on our first trip to a Froid all-school reunion. Kermit and I had last been there together at the end of World War II in the winter of 1945. I had gone once again in the winter of 1969 to bury my father. Rick, a young doctor, had never been there, but he wanted to see his father's "roots.” The old house, needing paint when I lived in it in 1931, was shabby, weathered and alone. It had been repaired, modified, and patched. The cellar was no more. The old yellow outhouse was gone. No garage existed, and the coal shed had long since become kindling. It was impossible to find more than a trace of the old gray shiplap barn that housed some ten horses and a dozen cows. The windmill and pump had been replaced with an efficient electric pump on a new well that no longer yielded a peculiar kind of mineral water with unbelievable laxative properties. The old red granary that slouched over a foundation of large rocks was evident only in the remaining rocks that now seemed small, but were rather frightening when as a lad of ten I found myself wedged between two of them on a "spelunking" childhood venture. There was a shiny metal shop building with modern tools to repair tractors and machinery parked in neat rows, and large a few large pickup trucks were standing in formation. Where once we grew potatoes, cucumbers, peas, and carrots and picked gooseberries and currants from the bushes in the garden, now glistened a green, waving stand of hardy spring wheat. Not a living creature was in sight, only green growing grain, alternating with patches of fallow ground. The fences had disappeared. The big red barn to the east and the pale blue house in the cottonwood grove, the Insteness place, was gone. Only a dilapidated, crumbling heap of weathered wood remained of the Jensen farm to the west. But most of all, where were the Page 137

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fences? In the distance the other farms on the horizon were no more. The one-room school a mile and a quarter away was gone. Even the road was gone. The present economy of the wheat country seems to be only a few direct routes along graded and graveled roads. And then I realized--the days of my childhood memories had been erased, even "sanitized." The countryside looked like a crazy quilt of green and fallow ground. Farmers now lived in the small towns, drove pickup trucks, flew airplanes, turned satellite dishes to the sky for news and entertainment, had college degrees, and used scientific methods and genetically improved crops. Suddenly I thought, "Where is the junk pile? That has to be where my fondest and dearest recollections can be revived!” And so it was! Jim Ostby who now farmed the "old place" took us to a nearby ravine. There was the rusting hulk of the old combine my brother Kermit, then 8, and I, then 16, took into the fields to harvest wheat. Nearby stood the corn planter which had distinguished itself long ago as the centerpiece of a quarrel, feud, and destruction of friendship with one Sid Hardy, who had returned it in a condition less than satisfactory to my dad. Mother’s yellow Monarch range was there, rusting, but still elegant in the tawny weeds. I remembered how we used to drop the oven door, put our feet literally into the oven during the cold winter days when the temperature dropped to -30 degrees Fahrenheit, even colder at times. There was the McCormick mower with its 5 ft. cutter bar that used to sing as I made hay in the summer time riding behind Buster and the Oakley mare, two mustang draft horses descended from Percherons and Clydesdales, but whose ancestry had been diluted by several generations of Indian ponies. I once stood atop the Van Brunt drill with its disks and grain box that we used to plant our grain. I stood high on top of the grain box and guided four other mustang-types down and back across newly plowed fields. I remember the raw brisk north wind, the low flying stratus clouds, my beet-red face, and hunger pangs that gnawed deep into my insides until mother brought out a dish of hot soup, cheese, and delicious homemade bread. On my recent visit, old timers told me they remembered her for the "best bread in the county." I looked around and found the old Oliver sulky plow with its once shiny moldboard, now a rusted pile of junk. This was the plow that I used to "break" the virgin prairie remaining south of our barn. Father had never tilled that piece of ground because it was literally "paved with rocks," ranging from head size to two ton boulders. Removing the rocks had been my lot for several prior summers during vacation, and the fence line was lined and supported with them. It was tedious work, breaking the ground. The plow share would hit a buried stone, the plow would buck like a bronc, and I would land on my back in the hard sod furrow while the faithful old nags, dying for a rest, would stop in their tracks and immediately drop their heads in sleep. Jack was a shiny bay with black mane and legs. He had broken into the granary one day and foundered (gorged himself on rye grain) leaving him crippled and lame. But dad said he wouldn't run away or stampede. Charlie was coated with a camel-like colored hide with bleached mane and tail to match. At 12 years of age he was no longer frisky and liked to match his laziness with that of Jack. Between the two of them was the Dahley mare, a chameleon-type of black and white coloring, who acted exactly like the other horses in the team. When dad took the plow horses out on the two-bottom gang plow, he had Charlie and King as the lead team. That team paraded and pranced along the fields, and father, a small Page 138

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wiry man of 150 pounds, had just about all he could handle in going 22 miles per day around the fields, all the while holding them back with taut reins. It was an equal shock to learn that I was one of only two living males from my high school class of 1929. In the cemetery, I paid my respects to my old friends and playmates of yesteryear: Irving, Leland, Ray, Leo and all the others. Yes! I know where my childhood went! Its symbols are the junk pile and the cemetery. Its reality is within me, and only within me. That is why I tell my story.

Top row left to right: Van Brunt seed drill, old wagon wheels and axles. Middle row L to R: The Royal Range, combine harvester, harvester reel.

Bottom row L to R: More wagon parts, the harvester sickle.

Photos: Robert Midthun

During our visit to the old homestead, we found remnants of our childhood still present.

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Rick snapped this picture while I was waiting for my official class of ’29 photograph.

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21 All About The Froid All-School Reunion

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n July 1st and 2nd, 2000, Froid, Montana celebrated the entry of this small community’s schools into the 21st century. A major portion of the town spent two months’ time and a great amount of volunteer labor to make the two-day affair a gala event. More than 90 years had lapsed since the founding of the town with the advent of the Great Northern Railroad branch line running north from the main line at Bainville, Montana, some 16 miles distant. This opened a vast territory on the High Plains to settlers. Under strong promotion by the Great Northern Railroad Co., hundreds of immigrant pioneers, like my mom and dad, filed and improved their homestead claims, married and settled down on their own acreage, and began to grow the finest milling-quality spring wheat. I recall taking many 60-bushel wagon loads to the Farmers Elevator. It was a slow process, to break the soil into root-filled ribbons of sod, pulverize and harrow it, and plant the initial crop of flax as a precursor to the fine quality Marquis amber-grained wheat. Fifteen years earlier, my son Rick and I had attended my 56th all-high school reunion, class of 1929. Now he was taking me to my 71st anniversary as a very special gift. He organized the trip and was my driver, bodyguard, and physician. We have complete videos and photos of the trip along with memories that have compelled me to write this essay as a final tribute to my life of 93 years. The flight from Los Angeles, California, to Denver, Colorado, was on a luxurious 747 airliner. The second leg, from Denver to Williston, North Dakota, was in a small Beechcraft 1900 turboprop airliner that bounced about in the fleecy clouds. There I met my brother, Kermit, whom I had seen only once in the past 15 years, and I was looking forward to meeting my youngest brother, Elmer at the reunion in Froid. I hadn't seen Elmer for even more years. He was driving from Salt Lake City by way of Helena, Great Falls, and Wolf Point, Montana. This would be the first meeting of Kermit, Elmer and me in 31 years. Each of us left the farm in Froid upon graduation from high school. When I headed off to college in 1929, Elmer was 2 years old, and Kermit was an 8-year-old third-grader. It was two years later that I finally Page 141

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had enough money to spend a brief vacation at home. Our paths went in diverse directions, and fate decreed that our career paths would differ and not cross again for another 31 years. Kermit had retired from the United States Foreign Service, and Elmer had retired from the U.S. Civil Service, where he had worked as an economist and land expert. Except for the few days we had shared company in those intervening years, we were virtual strangers. It was exciting, and my mind raced to and fro over what they would look like, have to say, and how we would react to one another. Kermit drove the rented car the 60 miles from our Williston, North Dakota motel to Froid on July 1st. As we turned off US Route 2 to Montana 16 at Culbertson, my heart began to pound. In just 14 more miles we would pass the cemetery plot where Mother, Dad, and our two sisters were buried. And, in only two more miles, we would be in Froid, a town that had not changed its population of 500 or so since 1910. (The standing joke for this stable population status is that whenever a woman has a baby, a man must leave town.) Yes, there was the Farmers Elevator, where I had hauled dozens of wagonloads of wheat with Buster and the Dahley mare, or hauled oats to grind for feeding our horses. The grain dust was like an itching powder, and I could almost feel it Kermit and I pose before leaving for the first day of our again. The other town elevators reunion. were gone, but a new one, the Photo: Robert Midthun Farmers Union elevator, now stood in their place. We entered on Main Street, just across the railroad tracks, and the old brick First State Bank building was unchanged except for a new sign and name. Across on the other corner was the one-story frame building I once knew as Buck’s Grocery, now bearing the name of The Mint, a beer hall. On the northeast corner of the intersection was another familiar building I once knew as The Farmers Market. Further up Main Street were the Congregational Church and the Norwegian Lutheran Church, where I attended Dad’s funeral in 1969. I recognized the Liberty Theater that housed during my time “L” Company, 163rd Infantry, of the Montana National Guard. There, onceupon-a-time, I had advanced to the rank of supply sergeant and had earned a dollar a week, which comprised most of my spending money in those days. Two blocks beyond the theater was the barely recognizable Geiser house, home of Froid’s only dentist. When the dentist died, Mother bought his library at an auction sale, and we pored over the volumes on many long winter evenings. We really enjoyed the works of Alexander Dumas, and my sister Hazel and I took keen delight in acting out his colorful Page 142

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characters before our Rhoda grammar school classmates, who appropriately judged us eccentric. Gone were the large two-story frame dwellings that housed the town’s grocer, banker, and printer. Present were dozens of small prefab residences and numerous rigid frame buildings. Streets were numbered and signed, and the high school I knew had been replaced by a new brick gym and school building. My brother Elmer was the only Midthun born in a hospital. It was a pleasure later to photograph him standing in front of the Dahl Hospital, virtually unchanged in some 80 years. There were trees along the streets, now that My brother Elmer stands before his place of the town had a water tower. I saw nothing else birth. Photo: Robert Midthun that I would remember, such as the old shack Hazel and I had bached in during winter months. Froid was in the 21st Century with a new face and a new personality. We registered at the “new” Froid High School, filled with milling graduates. Elmer's name was not on the register, and we believed him to be a late arrival. After all, he was driving hundreds of miles from Salt Lake City, Utah. We decided to cruise around town while waiting for Elmer to arrive. Kermit drove, and Rick sat beside him. I was in the back seat, peering out the window to see what I could

The present version of our old home bears little resemblance to what exits in my memories.

Photo: Robert Midthun

recognize. Not much existed that had withstood the ravages of time. Froid now had a water system, sanitary sewers, commercial electric power, and dozens of prefab homes on numbered Page 143

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streets. There was not even a hint of familiar houses, outdoor toilets, wells and cisterns, and coal burning furnaces that were standard features of the townspeople's two-story frame structures when I was in high school. On the way out of town as we turned east on the country road, Kermit let out a yell. This is where the Ostby Maxwell sedan skidded and rolled over on our way to school in 1927. He was six and began his schooling in Froid by living with the Ostby boys and us in a small rented house owned by the Shoemaker family. Kermit hurriedly dashed out of the wrecked car and took off for school. He did not want to be late. I had a sprained wrist. Marion Ostby crawled through the broken plate-glass window holding the steering wheel in his hands and saying, “The car! The car!" My sister Hazel had gone through the cloth fabric in the sedan’s top and was lying prone in the ditch with both legs pinned down by the inverted car. With some help from the Ostbys, we lifted the car enough to free Hazel. She regained consciousness and stood up, but, to my shock and horror, not erect. She stood with both feet turned on their sides. She soon regained a normal stance, and she and I walked the half-mile to the school, leaving the Ostbys at the wrecked car. Almost all of the small farms had disappeared. Only the unpainted crumbling remains of the old Holley house were still standing. Three miles more, and we were at the Renault corner where I had survived the horse and buggy runaway at the age of 4. Our right turn soon took us the ½ mile distance past the Renault farm and finally to the white two-story Midthun farm house, now owned by the Ostbys. It was like a picture book and did nothing to stimulate my memories. The decades had erased reality and replaced it with remodeled buildings and green foliage. Glenn and Vivian Ostby met and welcomed us. They invited us in the house for a Pepsi. Again, I felt no recollection of the old home I knew. It had disappeared years ago, being replaced by a newly painted and remodeled house. Now trees formed a grove nearby. And we learned that Elmer had been there that morning. We knew we would find him at the Froid reunion banquet that evening. So we went back to Froid and the gymnasium for the banquet. There he was, with his grandson. It was only the third time I had seen him since 1929, when he was a two-year-old. Next day Elmer and his son, David From center clockwise: Jim Ostby, his son, & Midthunder, returned to Froid, and they invited Kermit help me recall old times in what used us to a tour of the surrounding area. We drove a to be our oil lamp-illuminated kitchen. Photo: Robert Midthun crazy pattern of section line roads, as there were no well-marked country routes. Some of the sights were the old Rhoda School site and the original homestead (where Hazel and I were born in a sod shack that Dad had erected). It was now only a green wheat field. Gone were the Nordman farm and the Dahley School. We did see the Dane Valley Church that had been the centerpiece of the local Danish settlers when I was a small lad. Page 144

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Back to Froid and a short stop at the Mint bar, where we said goodbye to Elmer and David Midthunder. They were going back to Wolf Point to pick up Cynthia, Elmer's wife, and David Eagle Cloud, his grandson, for their trip home. With Rick and Kermit in the front seat and me lounging in the back, we headed east out of Froid on our return to Williston. We decided to return on the back roads via McCabe and then to find Sugar Top, a family-honored landmark near Culbertson, where Mother, Dad, and I often went to harvest choke-cherries and climb that "mountain." On the way, we passed our manicured and remodeled farm, noted the Russian olive trees near the house, and were almost dazzled by the clean, white paint on the old house. There were no outbuildings left from my childhood. New prefab sheds and buildings had replaced them. New hay stacking machinery dominated the farmyard. I fondly gazed at the pastureland where I had cleared rock and broken soil as a young lad. It was here that I became a true pioneer breaking the virgin prairie. Then we passed the two McCabe oil wells that have given us small royalty checks each month since they were drilled in 1969. The old Ostby farm was still there to see, but the Bergstrom farm, the Blowers' place, and the country school were gone. We had to wind about on country trails and work our way south and east as best we could. The fences were gone. The old landmarks were gone. Eventually, we turned onto a familiar road that ran westward to Highway 16 and Froid. Lo and behold! We came upon what was once the town of McCabe. All that remained was a boarded-up country school and some abandoned buildings. Here my dad bought his John Deere tractor and other farm equipment. The big grain elevator on the branch line railroad was gone. I almost wept from the sad memories. Now we had our bearings and headed for Culbertson, hoping to intercept Sugar Top. Just another five miles on better country roads, and there it was—Sugar Top in all its grandeur. Funny thing, it was far too small to match my recollections. Besides, the roads around it that seemed too steep for our Model “T” truck to safely navigate had somehow flattened dramatically. How fickle are the memories of childhood! After a few snapshots to memorialize our rediscovery of Sugar Top, we drove on to Culbertson and the motel in Williston, where we bade goodbye to Kermit and prepared to rest overnight for the return flight to Los Angeles next day.

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A fallow field makes me think of the virgin prairie of my childhood.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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From left to right: Elmer, Kermit, and I enjoy the reunion evening ceremonies in the Froid High School gym.

Photo: Richard Midthun

The grain elevators are the most visible landmark of Froid.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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This building used to house the Bank of Froid where Mr. Schnitzler laid out his proposition for me one day long ago.

Photo: Richard Midthun

The entrance to the property of one of our neighbors evokes distant memories.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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On our way home through McCabe, Kermit approaches an abandoned schoolhouse with the two outhouses out back, one for girls and the other for boys. Photo: Richard Midthun

Rick, my son, and Kermit flank Mr. Ostby and his son for a group shot at the side of our old home.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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A lonely relic of a farmhouse reminds us of the changes that have occurred in rural America.

Photo: Richard Midthun

One of the McCabe field oil wells that has provided us a small income stream over the years.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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Success in our search! Sugar Top rises from the mists of time in the background between us.

Photo: Richard Midthun

One last glimpse of majestic Sugar Top before heading home.

Photo: Richard Midthun

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“A summer afternoon”

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Robert Midthun, 1984

22 “Show And Tell”

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his is my frank and honest admission of the things that I did, or believed I had to do, in order to find employment and survive. They could well fall under the general heading of "show and tell." The show and tell concept is an ideal way for children to learn and understand new concepts and tasks. When a child watches another accomplish a task, then he or she duplicates the process and in turn reports or demonstrates to the teacher and class that understanding has been accomplished. When I was eighteen and on my first job, I found out that I had to master typing with a proficiency of 40 words a minute in fewer than 30 days or lose my job. Hugh MacDonald saved my bacon. He gave me a typing manual and showed me how to place my hands on the keyboard while keeping my eyes locked on the notes to be copied. I worked every spare moment at the typewriter keyboard. In only three weeks I was doing 40 words a minute, but I had to look at the number keys (and I still do). Next, when I saw an advertisement for a Civil Service test for Junior Calculating Machine Operator that had a starting salary of $1,440.00 per year (less 15% for my non-Civil Service status), I jumped at the chance. Although I had never been within a few feet of a calculating machine, my newfound confidence and self-esteem urged me to learn that skill, just as I had learned to type. An engineer friend in the U.S. Geological Survey office, next floor above, slipped me an office key so that I could practice on his machine in evening hours. He volunteered also to teach me several shortcuts. My above-average passing grade soon earned a telegram from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers offering me employment as a Junior Clerk/Typist at the Fort Peck Dam Project 590 miles away on the Missouri River in northeastern Montana. After I reported to the new job, I was assigned to a clerk/typists desk in Personnel, and I never saw a calculator again! It was very apparent to me that my lack of expertise with the typewriter placed me near the bottom of my clerical group. So, when an opening for an NRA Labor Relations Inspector opened, the Personnel Director immediately found the opportunity to get rid of me. Both of us were happy, and I got a good sendoff from Personnel to the Chief of Inspection. Page 153

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The NRA job put me on the road building a 288-mile 154-kVA power line from Great Falls, Montana, to the Fort Peck Dam. The $120.00 monthly salary plus a $5.00 per day expense account was like manna from heaven. For the first time in my adult life, I earned more money than the bare cost of living. In five months we had built the high-voltage line to Fort Peck and tied it into the bus bars at the substation. There were no more NRA Inspection jobs open, and I could not qualify as a construction inspector with my clerk-typist status. It was time for the third episode of show and tell. On the bulletin board I noticed a new position for an assistant to the project photographer. Common sense compelled me to be indoors in Montana's below-zero winter months. I interviewed for the position, but inwardly knew I did not have the qualifying experience. How could I once more beat the system, so to speak? Tom Clagett, Project Photographer and soon to become my future boss, took a liking to me and helped me make an application acceptable to the Civil Service requirements. With his clever mind and knowledge of government "gobbledy-gook" coupled with an exaggerated account of my work on the Froid High School yearbook and the Intermountain College annual, I barely squeaked by. Clagett was a good teacher. He was also a rather lazy person who let me take over just as rapidly as I wanted. I learned photography by his show and tell, derived in turn from his own informal on-the-job experience. I remember how he taught me to time developing or other stages of the darkroom work by whistling stanzas of "The Star Spangled Banner." My education was far distant from a formal, academic setting. But, this humble, serendipitous beginning in photography brought me eventually into intimate contact with every aspect of the projects at Fort Peck and Shasta dams, from field construction to public relations. I had to interview the engineers to get caption material. Being a high school honor graduate, I already had excellent command of grammar and spelling. In short order I not only interviewed engineers for photo captions but was soon enlisted by them to edit, rough-draft, and even at times ghost-write professional technical papers. Importantly, each author patiently coached me on the substance of the papers. Many of these engineers later became top men in their respective fields. I was not immediately aware of the mass of information that I had accumulated or the understanding of complex problems that was mine. My photography and public relations experience, together with news and technical writing, made me one of the best-informed officials in the organizations I served. Some of the foremost engineers in the U.S. Government had taught me well. My intimate knowledge of concrete mixes and their applications, as well as modern construction machinery and methods, was gained by years of actually seeing and doing these tasks with my cameras. My sense and skills at problem solving had developed from the photographic on-the-job, show-and-tell training. I had become a well-versed engineer by "show and tell."

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I never deliberately used deception in succeeding interviews, but I answered important technical questions with a clarity and skill that masked the limits of my actual experience. It was only after a job interview for the position of plant manager with United Concrete Pipe Corporation at a much later time that I was hired as essentially a knowledgeable and competent engineer.

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My grand prize-winning composition for the weeklong art class given by Rex Brandt.

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23 The Joys Of Watercolor Painting

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olores and I moved to Southern California in the spring of 1970 and settled in Santa Ana in a rented apartment in the Tennessean, an elegant apartment complex owned by Tennessee Ernie Ford. My job as chief engineer of No-Joint Pipe of Southern California was an easy 40-mile commute in the green Volkswagen the company furnished me. Dolores had chronic health problems that kept us home a lot, and she also spent a good deal of time in Stockton, California, helping our daughter Barbara with our grandchildren. Bebe, her widowed mother, also lived with us and had her own bedroom downstairs. She was crippled by arthritis Babs (as we had nicknamed her in infancy) and her prominent dentist husband, Wes Chalmers, had sunk deep roots in Stockton. Babs had risen in her nursing career all the way to the directorship of surgical nursing for St. Joseph’s Hospital in Stockton. Wes was president of the Stockton Rotary Club. My spare time when Dolores was absent was largely spent swimming in the Tennessean pool. Once in a while, I would browse a builder's supply store adjacent to our complex. My interest was drawn to the art supply counter, as I had a keen interest in several watercolor prints on our walls that were brought from our little flat-top residence in Lincoln Village, a suburb of Stockton, California. Dolores and a decorator turned that small 3-bedroom cottage into the most attractive and homey place I had ever known. The decorator supplied the three watercolors that now hung in our living room. It occurred to me that I might find an interesting hobby and pastime in buying a few brushes and a watercolor outfit to duplicate the small, colorful paintings. My photography experiences and my engineering training provided an excellent base from which to start. I purchased several Foster Art Books on watercolor painting, color mixing, and old barns, as well as several sheets of watercolor paper and a few cheap brushes. Friends commented favorably on my crude efforts. I became addicted and kept working with watercolors whenever the notion struck my fancy. Some two years passed, in which I had not made more than casual copies and a few sketches. Rick had graduated from Stanford Medical School, completed his internship at Harbor General Hospital, and had married. He Page 157

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and Carolyn came to an amicable divorce and parted company. We met Suzette Beisel, his new girlfriend and now his wife. Sue took a real interest in my artwork. I gave her a couple of paintings, and she encouraged me to take watercolor painting more seriously. Another stimulation was caused by Babs asking for several paintings to show and sell at a Stockton Rotary Club auction. To my amazement, several of my paintings were sold for $75, some for even more! Sue actively promoted my work and encouraged me, acting as my agent in matting, framing, and selling my work. She bought me a dozen art books by famous watercolorists and sent me dozens of ideas for paintings. I carried a small camera with me in my work and shot barns and water tanks and landscapes by the score, then put them on paper. Sue and Rick gave me a birthday gift of sessions of on-location painting with the famous watercolor artists Rex Brandt and Joan Irving in Corona Del Mar. This not only afforded firsthand instruction but acquainted me with many local artists and, for the first time, provided valuable insight into the art world. Since 1974, my brushes have produced perhaps 3,000 paintings and earned me a following in the Conejo Valley where Rick and Sue live. I made 80 paintings for a new medical building in Thousand Oaks, California. Granddaughter Lauren and I spent many happy days each summer showing our work in art shows. The cash register often rang into the range of several thousand dollars in sales in each 3-day showing on the sidewalks of Thousand Oaks, California, on Conejo Valley Days or at special showings at the home of Sue and Rick in Westlake Village, California. Even in my engineering career with Paul A. Moote and Associates, Inc., clients asked me to do series of paintings of historic properties purchased and then demolished for new condos. It has been a real joy to become enriched and noted for my artwork. My paintings hang in hundreds of homes, even in far-away lands where collectors had moved. My accomplishments in watercolor could only have happened with the constant encouragement and promotion by Suzette Midthun and Dr. Rick. They have been generous in donating art supplies and equipment, paying for workshops with famous painters, and giving me a Macintosh computer with graphics and painting programs. Thanks to all my family, my paintings will continue to be seen long after my days on earth are over. May God bless all who have shared my joy in watercolor painting.

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My granddaughter Lauren helps me make sales at my art show in Mission Viejo, California in 1989.

Photo: Robert Midthun

“Sails at Newport Beach harbor”

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Robert Midthun, 1981

PART TWO: REMEMBRANCES

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24 Goodbye, Father

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ad left his large, traditional Norwegian family to claim the brass ring on the western homesteaders’ merry-go-round. He never realized that there was neither a brass ring nor a merry-go-round waiting for him on the plains of eastern Montana, and he stoically persisted in a fruitless pursuit. The starry-eyed pioneer of early years on the homestead became in time a sad, morose, and defeated soul. The late afternoon December sun's rays filtered through gray stratus clouds. My body was cold, my spirits low. December 12, 1969, could well be my last visit to my birthplace, Froid, Montana. I had come here only four times in forty years, now to bury my father, Aslag Nelson Midthun. This was the last of the Midthun family in Froid. “Will I ever come back,” I thought. A small mound of faded clay marked the open grave in the native-prairie cemetery plot that already had received two of my three sisters and my mother. Only a few sprigs of buffalo grass poked through the snow-draped native prairie where, a few hours before, laborers had chiseled Father's grave from the reluctant, frozen sod. The cemetery was treeless, a five-acre patch of prairie marked with steel posts and hog-wire and liberally sprinkled with a couple of hundred markers and weathered tombstones. This was the final home for many others, who, like my father and mother, had broken the virgin prairie, braved the cold, drought, hailstorms, and blizzards to homestead a quarter section of land. They also had planted flax and then wheat and borne children in makeshift, sod claimshacks. Their hardships and struggles, with rare exceptions, had passed unnoticed. The cemetery headstones silently held the stories of hopeful, rigorous, and often tragic lives. The 16 ft.-square Midthun family plot was surrounded by a variety of small granite and marble headstones and markers. Many had been badly eroded by severe winters and hot, arid duststorms. Others were tilted awkwardly or flattened in mute testimony to the hardships the forgotten residents endured. Our plot was spare but tidy. Edith Blanche, age 19 months, was the first to occupy the Midthun plot. Fifty years had passed since that cold, moonlit night when I heard Mother's soft sobs from beneath a shroud of homemade patchwork quilts, as the horse-drawn sleigh carried us home over snowdrifted Page 161

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dirt roads. Little "Eda Bant" had a heart attack in Mother's arms on the way home from a festive evening at a neighbor's home. Subsequently, Mother quietly lapsed into long, silent moods of grief, ate sparingly, and focused her unselfish love almost totally on Alice May, our pretty, but frail, three-year-old sister. Edith Blanche's funeral marked the end of what my sister Hazel and I often referred to as "the good old days." The card parties, Ladies Aid meetings, parlor games, and days of visitors ceased abruptly, never to return to our once happy household. The blow that took the last of Mother's quiet manner struck just two years later. Alice May was stricken with a brain tumor that left her lame, blind, and paralyzed. My "birthday sister," Alice May, was born on my birthday, May 8, 1917, and mercifully slipped away at age nineteen. Mother had given fifteen years of 24-hour nursing care to Alice May, including daily washings in alkali water carried in buckets 150 yards "up the hill" from the well. Her back had become bent and her arms sinewy from the strenuous physical exertion. She gave her life willingly, although she never received even a semblance of recognition from Dad or others in the family. Silence transitioned into deep depression. Only “once in a blue moon,” after a rare glass of wine, would her sad blue eyes gleam and a faint smile cross her lips—but only briefly. The dual marble headstone in front of me bore the names of both Mother and Alice May. It was Mother's dying request that she be buried next to the child to whom she had literally given her life. Cancer claimed Mother at 62. She pleaded in vain for me to visit her in the final days, but I didn't respond to her repeated entreaties, because I had erroneously rationalized that I could not afford the time away from work. That careless omission has pained me these many years. Strains of Mother's favorite hymn, "The Old Rugged Cross," reminded me that I was standing by my father's open grave. The young minister's voice brought me back to reality as he read the 23rd Psalm. I stood alone in the family section of the funeral group. None of the other three surviving children had been able to come. Sensing my loneliness, the handful of townsfolk behind me moved forward and surrounded me. Tears flowed freely from my eyes. At last I didn't care that Father had always considered it unmanly to show emotion. The wonderful group or neighbors and friends took me back to the Lutheran Church basement where there were tables filled with sandwiches, cake, and coffee. I was amazed that a few aged seniors who remembered me as a youngster were now regaling me with tales about Dad's life and achievements. Perhaps the greatest revelation was that I was actually a "sodbuster." I earned that title the summer I broke 30 acres of virgin prairie in our pasture. An aging classmate said, "Robert, you, too, are a sodbuster and son of a pioneer." Grandchildren of my closest boyhood neighbor drove me to the old farmstead that evening. The rutted snowbanks alongside the unpaved gravel road were sentimental reminders of the winter days when my sister and I "bached it" in a small wooden shack in Froid during high school days, because it was too chancy for us to make the daily five-mile trip. The familiar farmsteads were gone. Only rotting ruins remained. The barbwire fences that had enclosed the farms and kept the livestock properly contained were gone. It seemed as if the area had been denuded and sanitized. As we turned south on the last mile home, the Page 162

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: GOODBYE, FATHER

mailbox where I used to get the Sears catalog, The Country Gentleman, and the weekly Froid Tribune was gone. There were no mailboxes at all! Over the last rise in the rutted road, I was shocked to see our old, ell-shaped two-story house standing in shabby contrast to the crisp blanket of moonlit snow. The house stood about a hundred yards from the front gate. In the headlight illumination, a gleaming pair of eyes flashed a brief reflection, as a fivepoint buck bounded out of sight! I had never seen a deer on the farm and was so surprised and shocked that I shouted in amazement. With the removal of fences and livestock, deer were free to migrate northward from the Missouri River willow breaks. Bits of grain and fodder gleaned from harvest fields were a bounty now for deer and Chinese pheasants. Using flashlights, we entered a house that had stood unoccupied for the last five years while Father was in a convalescent hospital. Vandals had trashed my upstairs east bedroom. Artifacts and boyhood mementos had been torn and sprayed with paint. This was the room in which I lay for many days in 1918, hovering between life and death, in the influenza pandemic that claimed half of our neighboring farmers. I cried again.

Dad and Hazel in the kitchen at home, September 30, 1948.

Page 163

EPILOGUE

A love poem to Mimi, my lovely wife of 70 years.

We shared our wedded lives in daily deeds and thoughts, from young life’s passion, joy, and glowing splendor to later times, still bright, inspiring, and hopeful. Now, to deepest love our hearts must surrender. True, the years have raced by. Fondest family memories are kept spun tightly in our intertwined hearts that beat as one. Still youthful, our spirits soar to fight through misty clouds of time and some sorrow that try to hide our guiding sun. All these precious moments, a loving gift of God, have woven tightly our union as man and wife. With misty eyes we see the bright fabric of our lives and stand in final readiness for His gift of eternal life.

Page 165

INDEX

Air Tugger winch, 98

Bradford, Sam, the Reverend, 110

Alexander Dumas, 12, 27, 142

Buggy—my life threatening ride., 15, 17, 130, 131, 132, 144

Alice May Midthun, 13, 17, 18, 28, 29, 59, 69, 70, 130, 162

Bull, Shorthorn—escapade around the haystack., 46

birth, 130

Bureau of Reclamation, 13, 63, 70, 99, 109, 115, 116, 118

Anderson, Freddie, 91 Anne Hazel Midthun, 16, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 33, 34, 35, 43, 44, 45, 48, 53, 130, 142, 143, 144, 162

Buster, 37, 43, 54, 129, 130, 131, 138, 142

Antie-I-over, 11

Butte, Montana, 13, 29, 77

Aqueducts, 116, 118, 123

Cadillac convertible, 64, 65, 115, 117, 121

Årdal, Øvre, Sogn, Norway, 16

California Western States Life Insurance Company, 110

Arthur Casagrande, 98

Candy making, 62

Aslag Nelson Midthun, 7, 12, 13, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 33, 37, 38, 39, 44, 45, 47, 48, 49, 50, 53, 54, 55, 56, 59, 69, 70, 107, 110, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 138, 142, 144, 145, 161, 162, 163

Cappers Farmer Magazine, 26

Avery tractor, 28

Casagrande, Arthur, 98

Baching in town during the winter, 29, 43, 44, 162

Cast-in-place concrete pipe, 121, 124

Bacon, 27, 44, 136, 153

Central Valley Project, 96, 101

Bainville, Montana, 55, 65, 141

Charlie, 38, 129, 138

Bank, First Sate Bank of Froid, 17

Chet Huntley, 101

Baptism, 25

CIPCP, cast-in-place concrete pipe, 121, 122, 123, 124

Barbara Midthun Chalmers, R.N., 5, 96, 98, 99, 103, 104, 105, 157, 158

Civil Service, 70, 72, 110, 142, 153, 154

Barn, 17, 27, 37, 38, 44, 45, 50, 54, 130, 137, 138

Clarence (C.D.) Newland, 45, 91, 93, 95, 96

Barnett family, 64, 65, 69 Beall Pipe and Tank Corporation, 121

Coal, 12, 17, 27, 34, 35, 43, 44, 59, 61, 69, 118, 129, 137, 144

Bebe Bradford, mother of Dolores, 99, 105, 157

Collinson, Dr., 15

Bergstrom

Columbia River, 95

Butchering a hog for Dolores, 44, 54, 135

Carlson, Mr., 19 Carolina Moon song, 35

Clagett, Tom, 74, 76, 77, 154

Bergstrom farm, 25, 145

Conrad Steenerson, 15

Einar Bergstrom, 25

Corps of Engineers, U.S. Army, 72, 73, 91, 97, 153

Beth Eden Baptist Church, 110, 111, 113, 114

Country Gentleman Magazine, 35

Betty Swartzenburger, 19, 28

Crosley radio, battery-powered, 39

Betty, my girlfriend, 72

Culbertson, Montana, 15, 16, 55, 142, 145

Bill Christie's tailor shop, 64

Dahl Hospital, 18, 143

Billings, Montana, 20, 61

Dahley, 37, 43, 54, 129, 130, 131, 138, 142, 144

Blacksmith, 17

Dams, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 92, 93, 95, 97, 99, 100, 103, 104, 105, 107, 109

Boomtowns, 75, 76

Shasta Dam, 96, 99, 100, 109, 110, 154 Page 167

INDEX

Boulder Dam, Nevada, 95, 96, 135

Froid, Montana, 5, 7, 12, 17, 18, 29, 36, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 55, 56, 59, 61, 62, 65, 69, 72, 76, 107, 137, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 154, 161, 162, 163

Dan Patch, 131 David Eagle Cloud Midthun, 145

Furnaces, stoking and cleaning, 61

David Midthunder, 144, 145

G.I. loan, 100

Decorah Posten Norwegian weekly, 26

Ganim cabins, 100

Decorah, Iowa, 26, 27

Glasgow, Montana, 72, 74, 92, 93, 96

Deed, quitclaim, 20

Gold medal, 12, 49

Denver, Colorado, 39, 100, 110, 111, 113, 141

Good Houskeeping Magazine, 26

Diamond Ranch, 16

Governor of Montana, John Edward Erickson, Democrat 1925-1933, 50

Dolores Bradford Midthun, 5, 13, 19, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 98, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 110, 111, 113, 114, 135, 136, 157

Graf Zeppelin, 65

Donald Nordman, 45

Grammar school, 12, 13, 33, 35, 45, 48, 143

Dr. Collinson, 15

Granary, 17, 137, 138

Drill

Grand Coulee Dam, 95, 99, 105

Calyx, at Fort Peck Dam site, 98

Grand jury testimony, 118

Drill, Van Brunt, 37, 138

Great Falls, Montana, 48, 49, 50, 73, 74, 141, 154

Edgerton, Dr. Harold, 14

Great Northern Railway, 17

Edison phonograph, 38

Hackamore, 131

Edith Marie Steenerson, 7, 12, 13, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 26, 27, 28, 29, 33, 35, 38, 44, 53, 54, 55, 59, 69, 70, 107, 130, 131, 132, 133, 138, 142, 145, 161, 162

Halvor Steenerson, 16 Harold Edgerton, 14 Harry Nail, grammar school teacher, 35

Elias (Great Uncle Eli) Steenerson, 16

Harvard Classics, 12, 27

Eliasson, Dr. Rolf Eliasson, 123

Hawthorne, 35

Elizabeth Sorensen, 35 Ellis Island, 16

Helena, Montana, 47, 49, 56, 59, 60, 63, 64, 69, 70, 72, 141

Elmer Elias Midthun, 18

Hogs, 17, 37, 133

Ernie Pyle, 76, 77

Honrath, Pauline, 91

Farmers Elevator, 55, 141, 142

Horses

Farmstead, 20, 162

Buster, 37, 43, 142

Fauntleroy pants, Lord, 25

Charlie, 38, 129, 138

FBI, 13

Dan Patch, 131

Federal Land Bank, 18, 55

Jack, 44, 49, 129, 130, 131, 138

First Sate Bank of Froid, 17

King, 129, 138

Flax, 17, 39, 141, 161

the Dahley mare, 37, 43, 54, 129, 130, 131, 138, 142, 144

Ford automobile, 55, 61, 62, 77, 91, 92, 98, 100, 157 Ford V-8 coupe, black, 91, 92

Hugh MacDonald, 70, 153

Fort Peck, Montana, 69, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 98, 100, 153, 154

Indian(s), 11, 17, 19, 34, 39, 129, 131, 138

Frazer automobile, 28

Intermountain Union College, 56, 60, 61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 69, 154

Insteness, Bob, 54

Fred Quinn, 116

Controller C. H. Crittenden, 60

Freddie Anderson, 91

Iowa, 26, 27, 121, 133

Froid Mercantile, the, 44, 46, 49

Jack, 44, 49, 129, 130, 131, 138 Page 168

INDEX

Jensen farm, 33, 137

Kermit Steenerson, 2, 5, 13, 18, 27, 29, 37, 38, 45, 59, 69, 107, 133, 137, 138, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145

John Deere tractor, 37, 145

Richard A., M.D., 106, 121, 137, 141, 143, 145, 157, 158

John W. Schnitzler, 50, 55 Kaiser automobile, 28, 118

Robert Alexander, 5, 13, 25, 46, 47, 50, 54, 55, 56, 65, 66, 70, 104, 130, 131, 162

Kangaroo shoes, 26 Kermit Steenerson Midthun, 2, 5, 13, 18, 27, 29, 37, 38, 45, 59, 69, 107, 133, 137, 138, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145

Midthun family, 27, 28, 53

Kerosene lamps, 15, 27

Midthun, David Eagle Cloud, 145

King, 129, 138

Midtun, 16, 19

Kitchen, 12, 17, 18, 27, 29, 37, 43, 62

Midtun, Nils and Anna Svalheim, 19

Knute and Ida Steenerson, 15

Midthunder, David, 144, 145

Ladies Aid, 26, 162

Missouri River, 17, 72, 95, 97, 153, 163

LIFE magazine, 76

Model T Ford truck, 55, 61

Lignite coal, 12, 17, 27, 34, 35, 44

Moote, Paul A., 14, 124, 158

Longfellow, 35

Mower, 37, 54, 70

Lord Fauntleroy pants, 25

Mt. Shasta, 100

Los Angeles, California, 20, 39, 92, 99, 114, 115, 116, 122, 141, 145

Mustangs, 37

Lum, Walter, 123

National Guard, 45, 47, 49, 63, 69, 101, 142

M.I.T, 14

National Guard, the, 45, 47, 49, 63, 69, 101, 142

MacDonald, Hugh, 70, 153

Naval Reserve, 100, 101

Margaret Bourke-White, 76

Navy, 14, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109

Maxwell automobile, 17, 26, 27, 28, 144

New Cumberland, Pa, 106

Maxwell touring car, 17, 27

Newland, Clarence (C.D.), 45, 91, 93, 95, 96

McCabe, Montana, 17, 55, 145

Newland, Vera, 91, 107

McCalls Magazine, 26

Nifty Bill's tailor shop, 64

McCormick mower, 130, 138

Nils and Anna Svalheim Midtun, 16

McCormick-Deering combine, 37

No-Joint Concrete Pipe Co., 122, 157

Métis, 19, 131

Nordman, Donald, 45

Midthun

Oil wells at Mc Cabe, Montana, 20, 145

Midthun, Aslag Nelson, 7, 16, 161

Nashua, Montana, 74

Alice May, 13, 17, 18, 28, 29, 59, 69, 70, 130, 162

Ole Anderson farm, 17, 27

Anne Hazel, 16, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 33, 34, 35, 43, 44, 45, 48, 53, 130, 142, 143, 144, 162

Ole Svalheim, 16 Omaha, Nebraska, 133

Aslag Nelson, 7, 12, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 25, 27, 28, 29, 33, 37, 38, 39, 44, 47, 49, 50, 53, 54, 55, 56, 59, 69, 70, 107, 110, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 142, 144, 145, 162

Ostby family, 20, 25, 45, 138, 144, 145 Outhouse, 17, 137 Overland automobile, 26, 28, 43, 56

Barbara Chalmers, R.N., 5, 96, 98, 103, 157

Overland Model 90 touring car, 1917, 26

David Eagle Cloud , 145

Øvre Årdal, Sogn, Norway, 16

David Midthunder, 144, 145

Paul A. Moote, 14, 124, 158

Dolores Bradford, 5, 13, 19, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 98, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 110, 111, 113, 114, 135, 136, 157

Pauline Honrath, 91

Elmer Elias, 18

Pensacola, Florida, 103, 104

Pearl Harbor, 101, 103

Page 169

INDEX

Photo school, U.S. Navy, 103

Sheep Creek, 33, 39, 44, 70

Photography, 74, 77, 100, 103, 105, 107, 110, 154, 157

Sheriff, 16

Pigsty, 17

Shorthand, 13

Pink Hat, 16, 49, 50, 59

Silver pencil, 13, 35

Plow, 17, 28, 37, 38, 39, 70, 132, 138

Snooky dog, 96, 98, 99

Plow, sulky, 38, 39, 70, 138

Sodbuster, 5, 11, 14, 39, 124, 162

Pom pom pull-away, 11

Sodbusting, 37, 39

Prairie, 7, 11, 16, 28, 35, 37, 38, 39, 129, 131, 138, 145, 161, 162

Sorensen, Elizabeth, 35 Spell downs, 13

Virgin prairie, 11, 28, 35, 37, 38, 39, 138, 145, 161, 162

Spokane, Washington, 96, 98, 99, 107

President Roosevelt, 75

St Hilaire, Minnesota, 15

Principal of Froid High School, O. Lloyd Gillespie, 49

Stanford University, 115, 117, 121

Public Information Officer, 101, 109

Steenerson

Public Works Administration, 74

Conrad, 15

Quinn Wire and Iron Works, 118

Edith Marie, 7, 15, 17, 18, 27, 29, 107, 161, 162

Quitclaim deed, 20

Halvor, 16

Quonset Point, Rhode Island, 105

Knute and Ida, 15

Rabbit, 34, 38

Elias (Great Uncle Eli), 16

Range , Royal Value, 17, 27

Robert, 130

Redbook Magazine, 26

Stockton, California, 100, 110, 114, 116, 121, 157, 158

Redding, California, 96, 99, 100, 103, 109, 135

Stove, Superior Oak, 25, 27

Renault, Telesphore, 19, 54, 131, 132, 144

Strategic Air Command, 133

Republican Party, 55, 65, 70, 110

Studebaker automobile, 60, 103

Reverend Sam Bradford, 110

Sugar Top, 145

Rhoda School, District 62, 33, 35, 36, 45, 48, 143, 144

Suit adventures, 25, 49, 50, 56, 59, 64, 115

Richard A. Midthun, M.D., 106, 121, 137, 141, 143, 145, 157, 158

Sulky plow, 38, 39, 70, 138 Superior Oak Heater, 25

Robert Alexander Midthun, 5, 13, 25, 46, 47, 50, 54, 55, 56, 65, 66, 70, 104, 130, 131, 162

Superior Oak heating stove, 27

Robert Steenerson, 62, 130, 131, 132

Surcingle, 131

Royal Value range, 17, 27

Svalheim

Royalty income, 20, 145

Ole, 16, 17, 27

Ruby Smith, 75

Tandy shacks, 99, 100

Rural Electrification, 28

Telesphore Renault, 131

Rural Free Delivery, 16, 130

The Country Gentleman Magazine, 26, 163

Sacramento River, 100

The Decorah Posten Norwegian weekly, 26

Sacramento, California, 99, 100, 110

The Harvard Classics, 12, 27

Salvation Army, 20

The Literary Digest, 12, 35

Saturday Evening Post Magazine, 26

The Saturday Evening Post Magazine, 26, 75

Schnitzler, John W., 53, 55, 56, 59, 61, 65, 66, 69

Tom Clagett, 74, 101, 154

School marms, 33

Toyon, California, 99, 100

Shakespeare, 35

Tractors, 28, 37, 145

Shasta Dam, 96, 99, 100, 109, 110

John Deere, 37, 145 Page 170

INDEX

Travelair biplane, 65

Whippet automobile, 28, 59, 69

United Concrete Pipe Corporation, 114, 117, 119, 122, 123, 155

Whippet sedan, 1926, 28 Whipping, 54

Van Brunt drill, 37, 138

Whist, card game, 17, 26

Vera Newland, 91, 107

Williamson, G. D., 122

Victrola, portable orthophonic, 35

Williston, North Dakota, 55, 141, 142, 145

Walter Lum, 123

Winch

Watercolor painting, 157, 158

Air Tugger, 98

Wedding by the roadside, 93

Windmill, 17, 38, 45, 137

Wedding day, December 22, 1935, 92

Wolf Point, Montana, 48, 49, 141, 145

Well, alkali water well, 17

World War I, 12, 47, 131, 132

Wesley Chalmers, D.D.S., 157

World War II, 7, 12, 13, 18, 28, 43, 45, 63, 76, 115, 137

Wheat, 12, 17, 18, 26, 27, 28, 37, 46, 53, 55, 129, 137, 138, 141, 142, 144, 161

WPA (Works Progress Administration), 18 Wulf, Jack, 44, 49, 50

Wheeler Inn, 75

Zane Grey, 12

Page 171