The Chehalis River Valley connects a series of rural communities in southwestern Washington primarily located along the aforementioned waters. Adna in particular is a peculiar region within the greater faction in the sense that its positioning between the progressive urban centers of Portland, Oregon and Seattle, it continues to remain sequestered along the coastal foothills west of development as it seems to always have been. Chehalis(Łəw̓ál̕məš), or otherwise known in the Tsamosan-Coast Salish language as shifting sands defines perfectly the experience residing along its banks. Like the constant flooding, meandering, destruction, and recreation of the land yearly, so too are the memories and histories of those who have settled here. This equilibrium is not a new phenomena to the area but rather has been a process of accretion and reciprocity for generations. This ethnography however, moves upstream through the past and acts more like bioturbation than a linear passage. Moreover, what attempts to be accomplished are the transgressions on time and space this community has encountered and how the experiences and actions of individuals through traumatic or pivotal events on the landscape has reinforced that perception.

Adna’s story is not the beginning but serves more as a continuation of diffusion that has existed in the region for countless centuries. Prior to the era of contact and later the homestead act in the mid 19th century the region served as a vital transportation hub for the indigenous communities throughout the northwest. Conveniently located through a relatively flat passageway to the south towards the Columbia connecting both land and waterway to the west, and safely through a series of trail systems through the Cascades controlled primarily by the Yakima peoples (through a balanced reciprocity system) linked together a crossroads of trade networks affixing the area with cultures’ commodities as far reaching as Mexico. This expansive trail system was observed firstly by Russian, French, and Spanish fur trappers and tradesmen as early as the 18th century and later the encroaching pioneers and cattle drivers who used the very same networks. By the mid 19th century the establishment of Claquato (now abandoned) and others to the north such as Tumwater, Alki, etc established the foundations for the present industry and roadways such as highway 30, Interstate-5, and others. As Pacific Union brought track lines to communities along the Chehalis the demand for officializing towns with railway structures gave Adna its name inspired by Edna Browning, an important early figure in the Euro-American settlers.

Predominantly agriculturalists and timber specialists were attracted to the area’s natural abundance of prairie lands, wildlife, and old growth and remains to be the majority of occupations held throughout Lewis county today. People mentioned throughout the pages to follow continue this legacy and are vital to the function of this community’s prosperity. The significance of traditions practiced in Adna by people such as Tom Paulin; a retired Yugoslavian-descended lumberjack as well as Mike and Liz Powell; German independent tree farmers are becoming more idiosyncratic to Adna and other surrounding unincorporated communities as the encroachment of land management companies such as home development firms and major players like Weyerhauser along with rising real-estate and other advances of modernity continue to permeate the countryside, the collective nature of core-values is changing while simultaneously shrinking the isolation and pastimes of the region.

Spring time in Adna is full of energy as the break in the dreary, wet winters experienced dissipate into fresh wind. Riding in the back wagon of Tom’s 1940’s Red International tractor leftover from his father the air is crisp and full of budding smells of wild grass, conifer, and flowers which traverse through the tips of your senses and passes by with the diesel fuming out the pipe. Heading into the grassy alfalfa pasture the sun hits the wall of evergreens in front of us like diamonds as the the fresh beads of rainwater shimmer and dance among the needles. Four hundred yards out leans a barn next to the creek which overflows into a large pond after storms. Brown and grey from weathering, yearning for a purpose again. “ My dad built this one right around ‘45 and was used for mostly grain storage in those days instead of all my nicknacks in here – watch yourself on the nails coming up” says Tom as we step over some scrap wood beams entering the dusty, dank, structure looking for spare parts to reinforce our chicken coops after the last storm damaged the rigged together frames.
“see originally this whole field including where Mikes’ and my trees are now used to be open for Cattle grazing until about the ‘70s when we sold ‘em off but now I just keep my lumber scraps in here until this place tips over for good, but that’s okay, I always got the other one down back at the house.” While continuing to determine which roofing tiles and spare beams would hold up the best I became intrigued with the scenery no longer in front of me and began to ponder about how the relationship with the land has changed throughout a lifetime, and how it has provided for the well being of the community.
“ Just about everyone in the area up to Galvin over there by Centralia opened up to Cattle back then but that all started to change with the protections of state forest lands so the incentives for timber rose up again and we all replanted, and that’s where I found my calling was working outside in the woods. I tell ya, I tried college for a little while, I was actually studying engineering but just one day hit a wall and couldn’t hack it so I dropped out and got work in a saw mill – and it paid pretty well too. It was tough work but by’golly I loved it. Even the winter jobs up in the Cascades where one time it snowed on us all night and by morning we were cuttin’ through logs with snow up to here (signalling with his hand to his chest) but that’s alright, it makes a good story anyways.”
Like many Pacific Northwest dwellers, the importance of trees and forests are personal and imperative to our understanding of the world, and most importantly the landscapes of our memories like Lou Paulin: Uncle to Tom and an original family settler to the property we all live on today who also greets us back at the more structurally sound barn next to the road strung up with white lights and painted with Cadillac Ranch along its side. Sitting at the cinderblock fire pit next to the original once white-now cream colored 1920’s bungalow home Lou waves to us and explains seeing us cross out into the field made him curious as to our adventure. Instantly after beginning to tell him about the transition to the lumber industry he chimes in; “oh you bet, I remember when we planted this one right here (pointing to the windy, curving Gravenstein apple tree) along with all them trees out there (pointing out into the field of 70 year old douglas fir and hemlocks). Of course there was more of these apple trees here then, we had an orchard here when we first moved to this place before the depression, and that’s what really fed us and our neighbors, this here is the only one left, the flood took out the other two still standing and one fell over from rot – what was it, 3 years ago now? anywho, I miss those times. It was the best time to be alive. People shared and worked together to get things done, and you could trust em too. We all knew each other. Not like it is today with how crazy everything is, I watch too much news ‘cause now I have nothing better to do and everywhere seems like they’ve lost their minds. You couldn’t pay me to go to Seattle now, you just couldn’t.”
After hearing what Lou told me it made all the more sense about his character as being my neighbor who looks out in the field of grass all day for no reason at all, his purpose became clear. He wasn’t seeing the land before my eyes, none of them were, but rather the ghosts of old workers, the faint sounds of field songs, and rumbling of old early century machinery.

Tasia Siereveld

5-5-15

In Search of Lost time

Wing Luke: The Heart of Seattle’s Asian Pacific American Community

I’m strolling along in Seattle, but walking beneath the iron and glass pergola hugging the corner of Pioneer Square Park, I can almost imagine that I am strolling through a European metropolis on the cusp of the 20th century. This is something I love about Seattle, it’s many faces have a way of transporting you to a different time, and sometimes, a different place: The Beaux Arts of Union Station captures the love of Parisian architecture of the 1920s, the Space Needle takes you back to the post WWII era which marks the love affair so many architects had with everything outer-space. All of these stylistic expressions of Seattle have a special place in my heart and in my childhood, but the district of seattle which I formed an affection for in the closing chapters of my childhood can be found as I step out of Pioneer square, and into the International District.

It is difficult for me to clearly explain why I feel such a profound connection to the International District, which prior to the 1970s was still referred to as Chinatown. In truth, I think it is due to a whole host of reasons, some obvious and some hidden even from me. I suppose my love for the neighborhood began to form the first time I visited the area at the age of thirteen. In the 7th grade I had joined an after-school club for Japanese culture enthusiasts. Though I loved the idea of travel and foreign cultures, I had not formed any special interest in Japan(though I had family members who were Nipponophiles). The reason I joined was due to my great admiration for the teacher who organized the group, but I quickly grew very interested in the subject matter. At the end of the year, as the grand conclusion to the group’s time together we took a journey to Seattle’s International District(IND). Our first stop, the place I will always see as the heart of the district, was the Wing Luke Museum. The museum is dedicated to preserving the history and culture of Seattle’s Asian Pacific American community. The International District is one of the only communities of it’s kind on the US mainland, a remarkable collection of cultures are woven into it’s history, including not only Japanese and Chinese, but Filipino, Korean, Vietnamese, etc.  Because of the area’s complex population, there are many complex matters which the Wing Luke Museum, which is a community based organization, would have to consider as they design their exhibits. They are also questions I must consider if I am to better understand where I feel I fit into this community which I admire so much. In this paper i will be exploring some of the themes I can distinguish throughout a choice few exhibits, and why I and others like me have formed a connection to the IND through this museum.

Expanding and Strengthening Community

Upon my return to the Wing Luke Museum this year I rediscovered that feeling I had at 13 when I visited, the feeling of connectedness, the notion that I was a part of the community I had come to learn about.

Walking up King St. on my way to the museum i could smell the roast duck that was hanging in the window of the Fortuna Cafe, as well as the heady aroma of dried spices wafting out of a small chinese grocery. The heavy wooden doors leading into the Wing Luke Asian Museum causes a rush of air to be dragged into the building as they swing open, sending the massive colorful wind chime overhead into a frenzy. I inhaled deeply, as I usually do when stepping into when stepping into what I call “a learning place.” I do the same thing when I step into a library or a theater hall. There is something intoxicating about the smell of books and the silent energy of minds at work. I walked up to the front desk eager to begin my own learning journey, and purchase my membership. I informed the girl at the front desk of my mission, to explore the museum and it’s representation of the community. The young women looked genuinely pleased with this, “Well we certainly appreciate your interest.” she said. She told me that she could get me in touch with the director of educational outreach, and that they would make sure I got access to all the resources I would need. She then handed me a small map of the museum and gave me some information on the exhibits and upcoming oral history tour. I noted how warm my welcome was, as opposed to the rather stuffy receptions I have received at some other museums. I glanced at the pamphlet for new members, “It’s Your Museum!” it read.

I decided to spend the few minute I had before the begin of the oral history tour in one of my favorite exhibits. To reach the exhibit one must climb a set of stairs which on a sunny day seem to ascend into the brightness of the sky. The stairs look to be made of old recycled dock wood, and I can easily imagine them leading out to the puget sound. At the end of the staircase there is a landing bathed in the sunlight shining through the panel of glass which forms the ceiling. The installation is titled  “The Letter Cloud”, and was designed by Susie Kozawa and Erin Shie Palmer. The walls of the hall also look to have been pulled from an old seaside shanty, covered in tar and ornamented with frosted windows glowing with candle light. The azure sky shining through the skylight is meant to represent the blue of the ocean. Hundreds of paper letters are suspended overhead by fishing line, and dance in the wake of an artificial breeze. From the end of the hall comes the sound of a gentle voice, but the words are lost in the sound of the waves until you reach the bench at the back of the hall. The voice was that of a woman reading an old letter from a young man to his love across the sea. Other readings from other immigrants followed, often read by their children or grand children. The matters of which they wrote were so relatable and timeless that i couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of solidarity with them and their struggles and their successes.The letters were read in their original tongue as well as in english, increasing their accessibility.  “A cloud of paper floats these letters across time and space…” reads a portion of the description on the wall.

The tour started on the ground floor in front of the biographical exhibit for the museum’s namesake, Wing Chong Luke. Only two other people were waiting for the tour, so the group was small. Our guide, Don, was incredibly personable; he asked where we were all from and chatted about his wife and where he was from. His casual conversational style lent itself perfectly to the tour. Throughout our time together he kept us engaged by asking us questions rather than just giving us answers, this allowed us to recognize when we were learning something new, as well as occasionally add a bit of our own knowledge to the tour. In this way we were a community of learners rather than passive recipients of information.

Don’s background was also an important factor in his aptitude as a guide, because as it turned out, he had a personal connection to the museum’s subject matter   Don’s family actually hails from the same province of China as Wing Luke, and are amongst the many families to have immigrated to the area. His memories of the area as a child brought the subject matter quite literally to life as it was embodied by him. Learning about the area’s history and culture from a person with roots in it inspired in me, as I am sure it does in others, a sense of solidarity, and connection. People help us connect because compassion is a gateway to enlightenment.

The Wing Luke museum understands the importance of  people in the learning and preservation process, which is why they make sure that the community of Seattle’s International District plays a key role in the museums design. In 1995 the museum won the National Award for Museum Services for their “cutting edge work in fostering broad-based participation in the development of exhibitions and programs.” The museum’s goal is to get the Pacific Asian American communities and the public at large to become engaged with learning about the cultures and histories tied to the IND and to participate in the growth of the museum. One way they do this is by using the Community-based Exhibition Model. Community members are involved in the process of making exhibits every step of the way, from brainstorming ideas to installing exhibits, to outreach and publicity. The team of people that puts together an exhibit always includes not only staff members, but “core community members,” which make up the Community Advisory Committee(CAC). The members of this group all have some personal connection to the subject matter of the exhibit to be created. They are the ones with authority over the the content of the exhibit, and what it’s main messages are. The CAC is also charged with branching out further into the community, inviting others to contribute their talents or stories to the formation of the exhibit. On occasion, a leader is necessary for the group to run smoothly. Such a person is chosen based upon their strong role within the community rather than a history in museum work. They will facilitate group meetings, help the museum connect further with the community, and generally sharing their wisdom.

As I learned about the process  the museum goes through to design their exhibits, and how much they value the community in the process, I began to further value where I fit into the equation. As a patron  of the museum I support it not only financially, but I come as a vessel for the knowledge and the wisdom its stories would bestow upon me. I matter in this community for the simple and powerful fact that I care. Because I care so deeply about this community and their stories, I carry them with me, and thus bring parts of the museum with me wherever I go. I  am not the only one of course, many others share my role, but our role is also an important part of the process because our passion for the museum spreads awareness to others, who in turn become interested in visiting the museum. In this way, stories and community keep history alive.

I remember it was July and Mount Rainier was in the height of visitor season. From Longmire all the way up to Paradise, the park was teeming with people. The snow had receded up the mountain to reveal all the upper hiking trails and making it easier for climbers to navigate their way to the top. The visitor center at Paradise was buzzing with activity and across the way the Paradise Inn with its majestic old growth beams and tall narrow roof was completely booked for the weekend.

I pulled the government sedan into a “reserved for employees” parking spot tucked behind the Visitor Center. The parking lot was completely full and Law Enforcement Rangers were directing people down to the lower lot to park. My windows were down and the smell of fresh mountain air and hot dogs wafted into the car. I sighed inwardly to myself before grabbing my backpack and opening the door.

I’d worked for Mount Rainier National Park for three years doing Northern Spotted Owl surveys for the Wildlife Crew. This year however, was very different. I was chosen to create a program to address the issues in the park regarding wildlife. As in all National Parks, the wilderness is preserved within the boundaries of the park, however when people enter, they bring with them ideas and cultural attitudes that at times can conflict with this idea of wilderness. At Mount Rainier, things had gotten to the point where funding had been set aside to deal with these conflicts.

I placed my pack on the ground and began to rifle through it. I noticed with slight embarrassment that my hands were shaking. I wasn’t sure if it was because of fear or excitement, maybe both. I pulled out the odd contraption that was supposed to be a sling shot. It contradicted the pictures I had in my head from movies and cartoon strips. This device was made of a formable black plastic, with extra hinges and knobs that I had no idea how to use. I was scheduled to go to the shooting range with the Chief Law Enforcement Ranger next week to learn how to shoot rubber bullets with a real gun. For now I had been (in my opinion) irresponsibly armed with a contraption resembling a sling shot with no instruction booklet and a large bottle of bear spray. I decided to go with the spray.

I was responding to a report from a ranger that a bear was hanging around the back of the Paradise Inn where the commercial sized dumpster sat. This was a favorite hangout spot for the kitchen staff to take their breaks and eat their lunches. One of these employees had experienced a very uncomfortable, up close visit from a bear less than 30 minutes prior. I had been immediately called via radio to come deal with the situation.

I strapped my pack on and headed uphill toward the Paradise Inn. I can still see my shadow, on the asphalt as I walked; the sun bright in the clear sky.  I was wearing the park’s green and grey ranger uniform with my gold badge pinned prominently on my upper right chest.  I am sure I looked very professional yet I felt like a fraud. Wildlife crew members don’t get uniforms. There is no funding for it and besides we are not in direct contact with visitors, we are usually hiking around in the back-country doing surveys. However, my new position required lots of direct contact with people and so I had been given a uniform, just like the Law Enforcement Rangers and the Interpretive Rangers.

I walked passed the front of the Inn where people milled around in hiking shorts and sandals. It never ceased to amaze me how unprepared visitors were. We often heard reports over the park radio of medical teams being called up the Paradise trails where foolish visitors, with no water and poor choice in footwear were unable to make it back down to their cars. This cluelessness of wilderness was one of the many reasons I had my job.

Around the side of the Inn the asphalt gave way to gravel alongside the edge of a sharp upward slope covered in sub-alpine flowers. A young Asian kid barely eighteen was sitting nervously on a picnic table alongside the building waiting for me. As I approached he jumped to his feet and I remember noticing how tanned he looked from hours spent on the mountain. He repeated the story I already had heard over the radio. The only new information I did extract, involved the fact he was eating his lunch when the bear approached him. I then pointed to a large garbage bag sitting in the sun beside the back door to the kitchen.  Yes, it was garbage. Yes, he knew it wasn’t supposed to be there. No, he didn’t realize the smell from the bag would tempt the bears.

After watching the boy place the bag into the dumpster and crank back down the lid firmly, I left him with clear instructions to inform the staff I would be back another day to teach them bear etiquette. The boy had pointed toward the far end of the Inn, where the outdoor porch was for visitors to relax, eat and enjoy the Mountain scenery. I pulled the bottle of bear spray from my pack and held it up to read the back. Bear spray, according to the information sheet I had been given was a “sophisticated delivery method utilized to create an atomized blast which produces a pepper cloud slow to dissipate. More effective than foam, stream or cone sprays. The bottle will distribute a large amount of high pressure spray into the target area, requiring less accuracy than other methods”.

On the bottle the instructions read as follows:

• aim toward the approaching bear; adjust angle for downward wind direction
• steady your arm and depress trigger with thumb
• deploy in 2 – 3 second bursts when the bear is 30 feet away;
• aim the spray slightly above his head as gravity will effect the placement of the spray
• try not to use the entire contents as more than one application may be needed.

A safety warning at the bottom read:  “persons contaminated with bear spray will experience the mucous membranes of the eyes, nose and lungs to swell and be irritated. The eyes will involuntarily close and tear, the nose will run profusely, coughing will result. It may take up to 15 – 20 minutes before relief from the symptoms are felt. If the symptoms persist seek medical attention”.

This was surely going to teach any old bear who was really boss in this park I thought.  I plucked the safety tab from the nozzle and creeped toward the end of the building. I could hear the chatter of visitors on the porch; laughter, kids squealing, silverware clinking on plates. Since I didn’t hear any screaming I knew the bear was not on the porch. Unfortunately where the porch ended the meadow started. Large bushes and a few trees flanked the beginning of the meadow, tall enough to block  an old employee only  dirt road that headed off down below the parking lot. As I reached the road I could make out distinct bear prints in the dust.

Joe, one of the volunteers for the Wildlife Crew once said to me “the best action to take around a bear is to go in the other direction”.  The memory of him telling me this came back to me as I stood there looking at the bear tracks. My job at the park was to teach people how to be safe around wildlife, and to teach wildlife to stay away from people. To do this I had to go against everything I was teaching!

My love of wildlife is deeply rooted in my childhood. I’ve admired nature and all its creatures big and small, ferocious and docile. As a veterinarian technician I have wrestled rottweilers and as a wildlife rehabber I’ve caught bald eagles the size of a 3 year old child.  I’ve stalked around the back country at night hooting for owls when cougars are active and I’ve been up close and personal with captive wolves, through all my experiences I have never been truly scared. Standing there alone with my bear spray, aimed and ready, I found myself feeling for the first time a slight sense of distress.

   Introduction

My name is Richard Wark, and I am the Safety Coordinator, a guide, and one of the founding members of the Heroes on the Water North West Chapter. To fully understand this writing, there are a few things you should know.

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental health condition triggered by a terrifying event. The person suffering from PTSD may have been the victim of this event, or simply a witness. Although people have no doubt been suffering from this disorder since the beginning of time, it wasn’t until the American Psychiatric Association wrote the third edition Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders in 1980 that PTSD was considered a sickness or disability.

Traumatic brain injury (TBI) is typically a physical injury caused by a sharp blow or jolt to the head, and are often related to PTSD due both to the terrifying event leading up to the injury, and because PTSD is often viewed as a physiological injury to the brain. Anyone may suffer from these disabilities, but they most often belong to the men and women of our armed forces, police officers, firefighters, and emergency medical technicians.

Last but not least, I am a disabled veteran who honorably separated from the Air Force after 13 years active duty service. I do not suffer from a TBI, nor PTSD, but hold a very special place in my heart for those that do.

It was June of 2000. I was a young 22 year old convalescing on my mother’s couch after an inguinal hernia repair. There had been a motorcycle accident a month prior leaving me with this nasty groin tear. The surgery was soon to be the least of my worries though. At 22, and not in college, I was no longer blanketed by my mother’s health insurance. To add insult to injury, my chosen profession at the time was to be a server and bartender. This was the most fun a young adult could have in the area while still earning a substantial amount of money. I lived on Florida’s Space Coast, so tourist and snowbirds were in no short supply. The problem here was the lack of benefits. Namely medical at his moment. We all made enough money to carry our own plans, but that’s not nearly as much fun as spending in night clubs, trips, and hotel stays! This was soon to bite me in the ass, while at the same time carving a tremendous fjord trumped only by the Rongku Glacier of Mt Everest too steep for escape.

I’d found the proverbial rock and hard place we’ve all been warned of. While my freshly repaired body weighted mom’s couch as if it could float away in my absence, the medical debt began to accumulate. It was small at first. Maybe $150 for the initial family practice consult. Then there was a referral to the general surgeon. After that the hundreds became thousands, became tens of thousands. Unfortunately there were no gratuitous customers visiting her small two bedroom apartment which had become my prison. Even if there had been, the recovery instructions were to lift no more than a gallon of milk for a minimum of six weeks. What an impressive spectacle I must have been…

There were lots of friends who would break the monotony of pain killers and television with their visits. They would tell stories from their daily adventures, and I could vividly picture it since these were things we often did together. Although the company was always welcomed, I was steadily slipping into a darker place each time they left to do any number of fun things leaving me behind assuming the role of living room furniture. The majority of these friends earned their living in the hospitality industry hustle just like myself. We had all met in the restaurants, and bars where we shared a common thirst for tips and good times. Except for one.

Ryan was in the Air Force, and was assigned to Patrick Air Force Base in the Security Forces Squadron. For those of you not versed in military speak, he was an Air Force police officer. Ryan would frequently surf and fish within this circle of friends, and occasionally ventured into Orlando’s night life when his schedule would allow. It wasn’t that he was uptight, he just happened to be the only one with a “real job”.

This was the first time I had been removed from the hustle and flow of daily life. The steady combined flow of party friends coupled with Ryan’s visits really allowed me to look in from the outside. As much as I enjoyed the fast easy money associated with serving, there was something to be said for Ryan’s comparative way of living. I didn’t know what it was, but it looked right. He dressed nice, was in great physical shape, drove a late model sports car, and all of his sporting gear from fishing rods to surfboards were always a step above the rest. Maybe there was something to this Air Force thing after all.

For whatever reason, asking Ryan in depth about what he really did, or how he truly felt about being a Staff Sargent (E-5) in the Air Force didn’t feel right. This was incredibly silly in hind sight, because we were pretty good friends. At the time though, I just absorbed all the details to paint my own picture. Soon I could drive to the recruiter’s office on my own.

You will forever remember your recruiter if you went the distance. I’ve had people tell me they couldn’t recall certain details like the recruiter’s name, or rank. Maybe they were telling the truth, but I immediately wrote that off as a display of chauvinism. Too many people can recall minute details from “their” recruiting office to buy into the macho garbage of “I’m too cool to remember such things”. Mine was Senior Airman Josh Harbin. He was a tall quasi chubby guy (chubby for the military anyhow) with dark red almost brown hair and blue eyes. His face was somewhat round with big puffy cheeks and small’ish teeth. His appearance always reminded me of a 230lb four year old. He was a quirky guy, and his Air Force Specialty was Dental Hygienist. You don’t simply enlist as a recruiter. It’s a special duty assignment that must be applied for later in your career, and only occupied for a short tour. Other branches do things a bit different, but in the Air Force it takes an intelligent person with the right drive to fit the bill.

During our initial meeting, Josh was concerned by my hernia repair, the amount of time since taking the Armed Service Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test, and what this medical debt might do to my credit if not reeled in. Once over the age of 21 he had to run a credit report on potential enlistees. Bad credit equals no Air Force career. Neither of us wanted me to accumulate any further medical debt, so he devised a plan to do this all on Uncle Sam’s dime. If he could get me into the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS), they would conduct a physical entrance exam. First thing’s first. The ASVAB.

Timing was critical. We couldn’t move too fast otherwise I’d blow the physical. However if things took too long my credit could be negatively effected. Josh might have looked like a big child, but he was smart and good at playing this game. Two weeks after our initial meeting and I was in a quiet testing room for the first time in over 4 years. Nothing about the ASVAB was overly difficult, but it still felt like a test. A month later the results were in. 96 out of a possible 99! I was in there like swimwear! Off to the first of several trips to MEPS. This was not the norm for most new recruits. Usually your first trip to MEPS is your only one. They move you through the process, and right out the door to Basic Training. Not me though… Not this time.

We were herded from station to station much like live stock at auction. They consisted of shot records, preforming various physical activities depending on branch of service and section desired, medical physicals, and then to career advisors to help pick jobs. This was also the first time I interacted with my peers also enlisting. Their stories of “why” were things like; fresh out of high school with no other ambitions, wanting to provide for a young family, needing escape from a troubled past, and the number one reason was college. Some as a way to attend, and some utilizing programs to consume student loans. The least common although it did come up was for the military experience or heritage passed down through generations.

Surprisingly I made it through all the physical challenges! Even Josh’s plan for an Air Force doctor to clear my hernia repair was as simple as an awkwardly placed hand, turn of the head, and forced cough. It’s in to see the career advisor! I had aced the test, and all physical challenges, so I knew he would be generous with offers. I wasn’t expecting what came next though.

Four three ringed binders not less than five inches thick. These contained laminated sheets with job names, descriptions, and proper Air Force Specialty Codes. The career advisor and I thumbed through these books discussing jobs for a solid two hours. During our time, I compiled a short list of jobs as they would peek my interests. Just when he began to apply pressure for a final decision, I took my list and walked out. He was irate! “This isn’t how the process works! I wasn’t about to jump both feet into a job strictly based on his advice and a basic description, but this was Josh’s grand plan all along.

A few weeks later and it was back to MEPS, but once again this wouldn’t be the big day. It was early November, and this time we stayed in a hotel overnight. The closest MEPS was in Jacksonville, FL about 3 hours north for me. The hotel was one all local recruiters sent their new enlistees. We soon banded together for games of football and ultimate Frisbee. The hernia had heeled nicely and I was working and playing again. While bonding with my newfound group of brothers, the typical conversations of “why” would arise, and the answers were all the same as before.

In a slow pace she collects her crochet needles in her hand and pulls the different colored yarn through the whole of the octagon shaped organizer. She grabs for the Venetian red yarn holding a strand of it between her ring and index finger. The color brought me back to the seventh grade, sitting in the front office awaiting her arrival. When suddenly I hear the click-clack beat of stilettos on the tile floors leading to the office. From where I rested my head on the wall to the principle’s office and closed my eyes I could only imagine her fine posture held together in a form fitting black and white pinstriped pant-suit and the venetian red stilettos. The click-clack of her stilettos stopped and I opened my eyes to find her there both hands placed on her hips, her purse supported by the pit of her forearm. I couldn’t help but smile, at her confidence and at her simple beauty. “Come on baby, we have things to do” she held out her hand and I took it. I placed my fingers in between hers like I did when I was younger, to feel her firm grip but to play with her many rings. Her beautiful long finger delicately glides from the opening of the organizer and up to the tip of the red yarn. She attaches it to the needle beginning on another of her projects. I can’t help but wonder if she can make me a bag while she sits there. Not a word was said; there was only the silence around us. She clears her throat and the soft clicking of the crochet needles working away then grew audible. Finally she takes a deep breath; “ It was July 21^st, 1979 I was fourteen years old and we were at the Liberation Day Parade and Carnival. My mom wanted me to find my sister Darlene, so my cousin Carmen came with me to find her. We were walking around the graveled carnival, passing the many booths and vendors. I think we might have passed by the same game booths before we found her, because the same girl as before was standing at the gambling booth while the attendant announced, ““Place your bets, place your bets, bets down! Hands off the counter! And the lucky color is red! Pay Red, pay red!” When I found Darlene she was not at the carnival in fact she was talking with some friends that she met on the CB. They were sitting in the bed of their dad’s truck. She introduced me to Joe (my husband), his brother Tom and their two friends. Politely, I greeted the four of them and went on my way. The next day Joe came over with his friends to talk to my sister Darlene. He wanted to see me again so he made some lame excuse to my sister to get me out of the house. She called into the house for me to come say hi; which exactly is what I did. I came out said, “Hi, “and ran back inside. Now that I think of it, he might have been into me but I had other options going on at the time. A week later on the 29^th of July, Governor Paul Calvo was having a fiesta at Ypao beach for his birthday. The way this man partied was unbelievable. It wasn’t exclusive; in fact it was open for everyone and I kid you not the entire island was there. When we arrived at the party, the parking lot was already filled up with cars. A lot of the guests were already parking outside of the lot leading up to the facility on the beach. My sister Doll was driving and signaled to the rest of the cars that followed us to park next to the big coconut tree that surprisingly had enough room for all of us to park together. The minute we got out of the car, I could feel his eyes already on me. It wasn’t in a creepy way, but I knew he wanted to talk to me. So I slunk back to where he was away from the group we even walked around the party together. Our conversation was normal, it was as if we were on our first date by all the questions we had for one another. At one point he asked me if I would walk with him along the beach. I didn’t see why not so I followed him. The sun had already gone down when he asked to hold my hand, just in case there was something ahead that might make me trip or as if he thought I was afraid of the dark. Regardless that I wasn’t scared of the dark, I held his hand anyways. We wondered into a cavern on our adventure on the beach but that was when the memory of us get’s a little fuzzy but I do remember him saying, “Once I’m in a relationship I’m in it all the way” he wanted to know if I wanted to go out with him and I thought he was cute, so I said yes and we shared our first kiss. That following Monday he walked to my house after he got off at summer school. At the time my family had a five-gallon aquarium, and my task was to clean it. He helped me clean it; he liked to do things like that with me. From that point forward he was at my house every day, night and after we got out of school. We attended two different schools (especially since he’s three years older than me) so around the time I got off the bus; he would call to make sure I got off the bus okay to assure my safety. I found it charming and sweet of him.

I remember baking a cake for him on his eighteenth birthday. We celebrated at my parent’s house. That was when he told me that he never had a birthday cake before because his family couldn’t afford it, and that made me sad because I couldn’t empathize to him.

My husband joined the Military after his nineteenth birthday. He went over seas to Germany for basic training and I was only in the eleventh grade. We talked a lot over the phone while he was over there it built up a large amount on the phone bill, but Joe would send money for the bill. After a while, the phone calls didn’t come as much and I got tired of waiting on him, especially since I was in high school and was being asked out being in a relationship with him was holding me back. So we broke up.   He came back on Valentines Day two years later. I only knew he was back because I overheard my little brother Raymond talking to my mom that, “Joe called! Did you tell Mary Lou?” I freaked out, “What do you mean Joseph called is he here?” I darted for the landline and dialed his house number. When he answered I yelled at him for not calling me when he landed. “You better get to my house by five o’clock. If you don’t, don’t bother ever coming over!” He didn’t come over by five, he actually came over at eight. I figure now that he probably was trying to spend some time with his parents and siblings before he came over. I didn’t shun him away though, we actually talked and got back together that night. He was to leave for Fort Lewis, Washington shortly after we started dating and that was the day when he came over to my sister’s apartment. While they were inside he asked me if he could marry me. After he left for Washington I was thinking that we would get marry in a couple years. Then November came, and he calls me. He told me that his parents were going to fa’mai sen saina (to ask my hand in marriage) But in the mean time, Joe called my house and talked to my dad over the phone for his blessing and permission to marry me. When ended up getting married a month later on December 17^th, 1983. We Left Guam ten days later after we got married to our first duty station in Fort Lewis Army Post in Washington State.

Washington was a entire new experience for me, I’ve never lived anywhere else but Guam. I especially didn’t know about sales tax in the states, but I needed to buy snow boots. I found a pair of boots at the PX. The boots price were $19.99 and I had a twenty dollar bill. The lady was expecting me to give her two dollars and some cents more. “No I get a penny back, I have a twenty.” The lady looked at me and said, “But sales tax.” “Oh, well we don’t have sales tax in Guam.” Then she started explaining what it was and I came back later that day with the rest of the money for the boots. You see I didn’t do much when we moved to Washington. All I did was stay at home and wait for my husband to get home. One day when I was doing the dishes, I saw my neighbor walking by and she noticed me too. She stopped and chatted with me. She was telling me that she was going to the Paperback Exchange and if I would like to go with her. I didn’t have anything else to do and jumped on the opportunity, The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough was the book I bought. Late one night when Joe was out working. He was driving the Colonel to the airport. I was sitting in the dark of our living room looking out the curtain waiting for him to return; because there wasn’t anything else I could do we had no television or radio. When he came home, he saw how sad that I was because I wasn’t use to being by myself. I’ve always had my siblings with me. The next day we bought our first television and rented furniture.

Andrea Allen
4/28/15
Memory Assignment (Draft)

My great grandfather Percy Vere Broughton was born in June of 1890 and he was one of the many sons of his father John Broughton who was born in England. Percy was very young when he and his father traveled by ship to America. Percy grew up in Kansas and after he married his wife Emilie Watts Broughton (Heaton) and they had a few children, Percy left the farming fields of Kansas and followed a friend across the plains northwest to Washington State, where he and his family settled into the country side near Kelso. Percy began working alongside his friend at the local saw mill for quite some time before he was offered a new and dangerous position within the company, a position in which another worker had recently been killed. Having five children and a wife depending on him, he turned down the job and quit the mill. Even though my grandmother was not born yet, she remembers him very distinctly saying “No I don’t believe a man with 5 children has any business doing that type of job.”
My Grandmother Vivian Louise Broughton was born on June 19, 1928, a year before the Great Depression. She was born in a large, one room shack, on a small farm outside of town. when she was a young girl the one room shack became the family chicken coup and a new, larger home was built nearby. “The new house seemed quite large to me at that time, even though large back then was nothing compared to the houses now a days.” She told me with a small chuckle, as she sat across from me, her hands gently folded in her lap, her greenish-gray eyes sparkling beneath her lightly rimmed glasses. She paused and glanced upwards, obviously trying to remember the old shack but not being able recall any details. Shrugging, she continued on. “the new house had four bedrooms two upstairs and two bedrooms downstairs, a wood “heating” stove that was located in the dining room and a wood cooking stove that was located in the kitchen.” Her voice raised slightly as she continued her story. “The new house did not have running water and I had to gather it from a well, which was located outside the house quite a ways by using a bucket.” She laughs while make a flicking motion with her wrist when she explains to me how tricky it was and how it took a certain flick of the wrist to acquire a full bucket of water. The house also did not have electricity until later.
Her father was a farmer in Kansas on a very large farm, before moving to Washington. After arriving he acquired 15 acres and settled down. Her father did not have a job due to the Depression, so they grew lots of strawberries and my grandmother remembers planting and selling these to the Washington Co-Op Cannery when she was a young girl. “Strawberries and filbert trees,” she said with enthusiasm in her voice. “There were 2 types, one type which was shaped more like an almond but it was a filbert and you need both for cross pollination you see.” She explained to me. “I also had a Jersey Cow and a yellow kitten named Patsy she was given to me by my sister, she was such a little sweetheart and I remember when I was a little girl around the age of 6 and how one Christmas my sister’s bought me a doll buggy and a Shirley Temple doll and Instead of playing with my doll, I remember taking my kitten Patsy, putting her in the doll buggy, and riding her into the pasture down and all around.” Making a swirling pattern in the air with her fragile, age spotted hands that also had a slight bluish and peach tint to them, she continued speaking about other adventure with Patsy.
When my grandmother was in 1st grade she became friends with Gloria, Wauneta, Shirley, Bobby, and Preston, then in the 3rd grade she met Wanda, and they all became close friends and stayed that way till 8th grade. When asked about her experience in grade school she laughed and said with an abrasive yet excited tone “honey it was a two room country school with 4 grades in each room! One mile from the house, I walked every day to and from it.” Before 8th grade she worked for Bushman’s Farm picking strawberry, young-berry and raspberries. She saved every cent in order to purchase the bike of her dreams. When she had finally saved enough, her mother and father took her all over town to find the perfect one. “I Looked at Montgomery Ward, then went to the Sears in Portland, then returned back to Montgomery Ward and ended up getting the one there.” She said before she paused and pondered for a minute. “I was 2 dollars short when I went to pay the $29.00 for my bike, so my father covered the remaining balance.” Smiling then elevating her tone a little her eyes widened, “The bike was a top of the line bicycle, it had a basket, it had a place over the back wheel to tie luggage for your school books and so forth and as soon as I got it home I started riding it to school every day. “When it was time to go to high school, she no longer rode her prize possession, but instead she caught a Gray Hound bus by flagging it down on the side of the highway.
The clothing back then was nothing like it is today, she was happy to have clothes to wear, she wore dresses, skirts, sweaters, anklets (socks) and every once in a while she would wear a neck-less. She remembers riding a Gray Hound bus which she took to high school each day and seeing a lady named Yvonne Percy who was a little older than her wearing a nice pair of earrings. “she was a very pretty lady and the earrings looked very nice on her, but I never wanted my ears pierced so I never got them but I do remember Shirley’s mom, who lived just down the way from us, I remember her ears drooping downwards because she wore such heavy earrings.” letting out a high school girl giggle her face lit up and she scooted to the front of her chair. “Oh and those saddle-backs! See we didn’t have these Nike shoes back then, they were BEAUTIFUL! You could get a pair of nice brown or black ones.” Then as soon as her excitement faded a solemn look crossed her face and she stared down at her hands. “Well you know, during the war things were rationed, and shoes were rationed and you could only use ration stamps to buy them. The saddle-backs which were made mostly of leather became rationed because leather was used in the military and they needed to reserve it. You were only able to buy 1 or 2 pairs of shoes a year because of the rationing so instead of buying the saddle-back shoes my family started buying me wooden shoes.”
On December 7, 1941 my grandmother was sitting on her back porch with her sister Ruby looking out across the pasture, when a man who came from Portland to purchase chicken eggs told them that Pearl Harbor had been hit. “See no one in my family went over sees during the war, but my sister Ruby’s husband Clive, his brother’s Cal, Bob and his cousin Tom all went down and enlisted together on the stipulation they would all be kept together, they were Army Engineers and they were all stationed overseas on a Mediterranean island when his brother Cal came down with Typhoid fever. However, around the same time the ship with five brothers went down and the Army made new regulations denying family to be stationed together so just like that, the brother’s and cousin were split up.”
Grandma met my grandfather Earnest James Officer when she a junior at Vancouver high school. “We had locker monitors, I would sit in the hall and different ones that would want to come to the lockers during that time, would have to bring a signed slip. Your grandfather was home on leave and he was visiting the school and his old comraderies ya know, being a typical male he said “do you know what time it is?” I said NO why you don’t look at your watch! and your Grandpa Officer just grinned.” she laughs and continues ” All the time he was home on leave he would come back and visit with me while I was being a hall monitor and he wanted to take me out, but I would tell him no I live way out in the country and there is gas rations on. They she made a pause and said “so any ways we didn’t go out.” I couldn’t help but laugh, obviously they had gone out again or my mother or I wouldn’t be here. “Well hold on so he went back in spring back to the base. I was working that summer at Montgomery ward then about 2 weeks after school starts I am going out the door, when he was coming up the stairs and we just about ran into one another and knocked each other down! She pauses and laughs, excitement dancing in her eyes and in her tone. “We went together for a week and got engaged!”
Grandpa went to Idaho to see his brother Chuck who was also in the Army Air Core, they both came back and grandpa introduced him to Grandma. Grandpa went back to base after his leave was up after “Victory over Japan” in August. He was given orders to be stationed in Japan after arriving. “I’m in school, it was October, I’m in speech class and he comes walking in the door to my class.” Her eyes raised and her voice elevated. “I thought he was headed to Japan! He had been discharged and no longer was in the Army Air-Core. So we went together the rest of my senior year.” Changing her tone “Graduated Friday night and started the telephone company on Monday. Then we were married August 23 1946 I had just turned 18.”