UT-OH! Chapter 17: A Pear Picker’s Guide to Happiness

April 17, 2026April 17, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 9 Comments

Ladder beneath ripe pears hanging from branches in a pear orchard — This is what you see when you are 5-6 steps down on a 12 or 14 foot pear ladder. Now, imagine climbing up and balancing one step from the top to reach pears in the top of the tree. UT-OH! (I’ve gone over to the dark side here. This is an AI generated picture. My challenge, as always when writing about my youth, is that the photos were few and far between. That’s hard to fathom in the digital age, when I can easily take more photos in one day that I have from the first 20 years of my life. When I pushed the key that asked WP to produce an AI photo for this post, it read my blog and came up with three good suggestions. That may be scarier than standing on the second step! It didn’t catch, however, that the ladder only had three legs. Maybe there is hope.

A number of things combined to pull me out of the puberty blues. For one, I ceased being a freshman. Hormones slowed down, my voice abandoned octave leaps, and I bought a pair of contact lenses. Academics were a plus, even during my freshman year. Lacking a social life, I studied full-time and managed to pull straight A’s. If I couldn’t be ‘ruler of everything,’ ‘sex symbol’ or ‘sports hero,’ maybe I could at least be ‘the brain.’ Was I driven or what?

I also believe that having a job helped. I began working in the pear orchards around Placerville starting the summer of my eighth-grade graduation and continuing through high school. It was a nine hour a day job of hard physical work, one more fit for an adult than a 14-year-old. Dealing with the 90-105° F summer heat of the Sierra foothills didn’t help. But I actually enjoyed the work. And the money. The general rule in our cash poor family was that the basics were covered. We were responsible for the extras, such as dates.

In addition to being hard, there was also an element of danger. Pear picking consisted of hazardous duty without hazardous pay. We were each given a 12-foot ladder, a sizing ring, and as many boxes as we could fill. The pears we plucked from the trees were placed in a canvas bag that fit around our front like a pregnant belly and carried up to 50 pounds. We had the option of working by the hour at $.90 per hour or by the box at $.20 per box. I opted for the per box under the assumption I could earn more.

The ladder was a suicidal three-legged device with two legs playing standard ladder while the third served as the balancing arm we threw out to provide ‘stability.’ I use the quote marks here because the stability was questionable. There was always a chance that you, your bag of pears, and the ladder would come crashing down. The first few rungs were solid; it was on the top four that life became interesting. Even here it was tolerably safe, assuming you focused on easily reachable pears.

The problem was that the best pears had a way of hiding away in the highest, most unreachable part of the tree. Such premium fruit couldn’t be left hanging, even if it meant taking risks. At least that’s how my ut-oh mind functioned. It was nothing that the boss required. Success meant performing a one-legged-ballet-balancing act. I became quite proficient at the move. Only once did I reach beyond the imagination of my ladder and follow a rapid descent path straight to the ground. Fortunately, the only limbs broken belonged to the tree. I wrote the experience off as a lesson in Newtonian physics.

A greater challenge was entertaining myself for nine hours a day. Reaching out and picking a pear requires a minimum number of brain cells and very few of those are located in the frontal lobes. My favorite ploy was singing at the top of my voice. Harry Bellefonte’s tune about picking bananas was a natural. I adapted it to picking pears. But I also belted out many other popular tunes of the day. “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight” was a mistake. I couldn’t get it out of my mind; I would wake up in the middle of the night humming it. To this day I have to be careful in bringing it up or it is right back there on the tip of my tongue, waiting to escape. Like now:

“Does your chewing gum lose its flavor
On the bedpost overnight?
If your mother says don’t chew it,
Do you swallow it in spite?
Can you catch it on your tonsils,
Can you heave it left & right?
Does your chewing gum lose its flavor
On the bedpost overnight?”

A more productive form of amusement was challenging myself to pear picking contests. The more I picked the more money I made. When the fruit was plentiful and well sized, I could pick 60-80 boxes a day and earn big money, $12-$16. By the way, that seemingly measly sum is the equivalent of $130 to $180 today. Once I even reached a magical 100 boxes. My goal was to try to match the professional pickers, the folks who made a living helping harvest crops. On really good days, I could.

Over my five-year career in the pear orchards I worked with Filipino crews, Braceros, and the usual contingent of semi-nomadic types who followed the various crops as they ripened from state to state. Most were good, even excellent workers. Of course, there was also the occasional guy who worked just long enough to buy a gallon of Red Mountain Wine and then disappear.

After my first year of working in the fruit orchards, I graduated to swamper status, which meant I delivered empty boxes to the pear pickers and took out their full boxes. I also learned such fine skills as tractor driving, tree trimming, sprinkler changing, post hole digging and crew bossing. And, I might add, enjoyed most of it. There is a certain satisfaction that comes from doing hard work, challenging your body, and being dead-tired at night.

I also gained a farmer’s satisfaction that comes from seeing a crop evolve from spring bloom to fall harvest. And finally, as my pear orchard responsibilities increased, the work helped me overcome the puberty blues and regain my confidence. Becoming buff and tanned didn’t hurt either. Working in the orchard with my shirt off, picking pears and stacking 50-pound boxes above my head on a truck guaranteed a tan to die for and muscles from my big toes to my hair follicles.

Almost on cue, girls reappeared in my life, with Paula being an example. Admittedly it was a slow process, in fact far too slow for my hormone driven fantasies. But there the girls were, tentatively giving me the eye and practicing a wiggle or two to see if anyone was home. There was. Down boy.

Next Monday’s Post: A jay by any other name is still a jay, plus 7 other interesting and fun birds of Costa Rica. This is Costa Rica’s Grey Headed Jay suggesting I don’t interfere with its breakfast.

Grand Tetons National Park: Next Wednesday, April 22 is special. It’s Earth Day 56. Please join me as I take you back to April 22, 1970 where I participated in Earth Day 1 on the Davis Campus of the University of California. Earth Day 1 changed my life and helped to change the world. Its message today is as relevant as ever, and possibly even more so, as so many of the gains we have made are now under threat.

UT-OH! Chapter 16: On First Dates and Squashed Skunks

April 15, 2026April 15, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 7 Comments

At this point, just beyond the speed limit sign, I ran over a skunk in the summer of 1958, undoubtably impressing the young woman I was on a date with.

As I suggested in Chapter 14, my freshman year of high school was something of a disaster. My social life tanked, dance class sucked, my political aspirations were reduced to running a friend’s campaign for class president, and my success in sports was mediocre, at best. My short legs and I suffered through a season of cross country running where I was lucky to finish in the middle of the pack.

Things had to improve.

Do you remember your first date in high school? Was it a roaring success, so-so, or an unmitigated disaster? How about off-the-scale weird? That describes mine. I had a double date with Paula, Mom and Boyfriend. And I ran over a skunk. It happened during the summer between my freshman and sophomore year.

It started with Paula calling me. There was no way I would have called her. Girls still left me quaking in my tennis shoes. ‘Curt, would you like to go to dinner with me in Sutter Creek?’ Sutter creek was a town in Amador County, about 20 miles away from Diamond Springs over curvy Highway 49. It would be a double date with her mother and her boyfriend. That seemed strange, but somebody had to drive. How could I say no…

I remember very little about the drive or dinner— other than it was at an Italian restaurant. After we had our fill of spaghetti and conversation, we returned to the car. I had visions of sitting in the back and snuggling up with Paula on the way back to Diamond.

Mom and Boyfriend had another idea. They hopped into the back seat and promptly told me, “You can drive home, Curt!” Like they were offering me the opportunity of a life time. It did away with my bold plans. But there was more…

“Um,” I noted nervously, “I only have a learner’s permit.”

“That’s okay, it will be good practice,” Mom jumped in before I could add that I had only obtained it four days before.

Paula, meanwhile, was waiting for me to open the door for her on the passenger side of the car. It was a plot. She gave me a dazzling smile— and my options dropped to zero. Any further hesitation would be ‘unmanly.’ After doing the gentlemanly thing for Paula, I dutifully climbed into the driver’s seat and miraculously found the keyhole and lights. Gear grinding got us out of town and onto the open road. I breathed an audible sigh of relief. It was short lived. We had just made it past the small town of Plymouth and were on our way down to the Consumnes River when I ran over the skunk.

If you drive a lot on country roads in skunk country, you’ve probably noticed that dead skunks are a significant part of road kill. It goes beyond the fact that they are easily recognized by their smell. There really are lots of them. The primary reason for this is that they believe they are omnipotent. Who in his right mind will hassle a skunk? It’s like petting a porcupine or teasing a rhino.

Unfortunately, skunks fail to recognize the damage a 3000-pound vehicle can do, and how difficult it is to stop, or even swerve when traveling 60 miles per hour or more. Last, but far from least, they don’t realize how easily drivers become distracted. A teenage boy just learning how to drive with an attractive girl sitting next to him is an excellent example.

While my encounter with the skunk was in the summer, the most likely time to find them crossing the road is in late winter or early spring. This is when the males come out of hibernation and go in search of true love, or, at least, sex. The Loony Tunes cartoon character of yore, Pepé Le Pew comes to mind. Skunks are willing to travel 4-6 miles to find a hot date. This often means crossing a road with a focus that has nothing to do with fast moving vehicles. Not being able to see clearly beyond 10 feet doesn’t help either. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. And it may all be for naught. Females often reject would-be suitors as poor material for contributing sperm for future generations, or for some other skunk-ish reason. The rejection is brutal. They have a particularly potent form of spray they reserve for the purpose. “Try to climb on me. Ha. Take that you skunk!”

The skunk I ran over had a similar reaction. He reeked revenge in his final seconds by becoming a virtuoso of glandular activity.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Boyfriend said as the first powerful whiffs of eau de skunk came blasting through the air vents. “It happens all of the time.”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled to myself through tongue-biting teeth, “young men always run down skunks on first dates, especially first dates with Mom and Boyfriend along.”

Fortunately, I made it home without further incident.

One might assume that running over the skunk would have ended my relationship with Paula. But there was one more date. It was a testimony to how much Paula’s mother was committed to the relationship that she loaned us her car. I drove it illegally on my learner’s permit. Paula and I went on an old-fashioned picnic to Buck’s Bar, a 49er-mining site on the Consumnes River. I actually had a young woman, out in the woods, alone. Talk about fantasy. As far as I can recall though, and I would recall otherwise, I behaved myself disgustingly well. So did Paula.

Fridays Post: A Pear Pickers Guide to Happiness.

Crested Guams and Chachalacas: Here’s Looking at you… The Birds of Costa Rica

April 13, 2026April 14, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 6 Comments

When Peggy opened the drapes on our first morning in Nuevo Arenal, Costa Rica a few weeks ago, this is what greeted her: A hungry Crested Guam demanding an apple, an orange, or a pineapple. We immediately noticed the Guam’s bright red wattle, eyes and long tails. The ‘laidback’ feathers on its head can stand straight up when the Guam is excited. Thus the description ‘crested.’

Actually, there were three of them. (They hung out together the whole time we were in Nuevo Arena.) Peggy immediately grabbed her camera and caught this photo of them backlit by the sun.

I must say, they were quite polite, just standing there, staring at us.

But we couldn’t escape the hungry look. It’s sort of like ‘Feed me or else…’

We were soon sharing apples, pineapple, oranges…

And even watermelon with our new ‘companions.’

Even when they weren’t on our walkway, the Guams monitored our behavior from the lawn and picnic table in front of our Villa.

From the lawn. Note its raised wings. I think it was about to chase a Grey-headed Chachalaca that was chowing down on a bite of pineapple the Guam considered its lunch. (See the two videos at the end of today’s post.)

They also watched us from the trees behind the villa. Note the long tails.

We met this Guam on a hike by Lake Arenal. It was preparing to show off its crest.

In full display! “Aren’t I beautiful/handsome.”

Some grooming is required. For birds, it’s called primping and is used for feather maintenance.

Even down to keeping them oiled! Is the other Guam massaging its legs with its tail feathers? It’s obvious that these big birds like each other, in fact they are monogamous. But I doubt that includes tail-feather leg massages. (Any Guam experts out there that would know?)

The primary dining room for the Guams and all of the other fruit eating birds in our neighborhood was a bird feeding table that we and our neighbors kept supplied. Fortunately, it was right in front of our villa. We could sit inside or on our porch and take bird photos all day if we wanted to. You’ll be seeing a few…

Normally, the crested Guams (Penelope purpurascens) are not as tame as the ones that have found an endless supply of food at the Lakeview Villas where we were staying. Nor are they ground dwellers, preferring to live high up in the forest canopy and feed off of fruit they find up there, like the figs from the ficus trees we featured in our post last Monday. Similar to the Gray-headed Chachalacas (Ortalis cinereiceps) that you will meet next, they are members of the long-tailed family, Cracidae. Above them on the animal classification system they are also related to chickens, turkeys and other Galliformes, which is hardly surprising, given their body shape. They range from Mexico in the north to Ecuador and Venezuela in the south.

The smaller Chachalacas look a lot like the Guams minus the wattles and crests. At first we thought they might be their kids, especially given their obvious love of fruit. Closer inspection and a little research quickly defined them as a different species. Beyond looks, another defining characteristic is that they travel in groups ranging in size from 6 all the way up to 20. Ours was around 12. When these large birds make their way through trees, they sound like a herd of marauding elephants (slight exaggeration, but they are noisy.) It’s said that their name, Chachalacas, is derived from a sound they make early in the morning and late in the evening. We didn’t hear it in Nuevo Arenal, but I did one evening in Monteverde. I love the name.

The ‘here’s looking at you’ pose of a Chachalaca. Impressive nose hairs.

They would arrive at the food station en masse. Any fruit was quickly disposed of…

Tails down and looking around, at half mast and breaking fast, fully up and having sup. (A little humor for my poet friends who follow this blog.)

Grooming/primping Chachalaca style. Were they getting ready for a group photo?

Maybe. Grin. You may wonder what the Crested Guams felt about the Chachalacas showing up and gulping down all of the fruit. The following videos will give you an idea. The first demonstrates the greed of the Chachalacas at the food table and the Guams’ response. The second shows what Peggy and I found to be a rather hilarious chase scene where the Guam kept losing track of the Chachalaca it was supposed to be chasing! (Click on the photos.)

BTW: Wednesday’s UT-OH! Post is on “first dates and squashed skunks!”

As you might have expected the Guams had little tolerance for the Chachalacas scarfing down the fruit!

UT-OH! Chapter 14: Surviving Baseball Bats and Dynamite Caps

April 8, 2026April 9, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 28 Comments

This donkey was hardly dangerous. I was offering it a carrot. The stacks of lumber in the background, at Caldor Lumber Company’s drying yard, had potential, however. One of our sports was climbing to the top of the stacks and leaping between them.

That we survived childhood wasn’t necessarily a given. Racing up and down a 75-foot-tall tree, leaping between 20 foot high lumber stacks, joyriding on railroad push carts, avoiding being shot, playing on a 50 foot high trestle and other similar activities aren’t particularly conducive to a healthy childhood. On a scale of 1-10, I would have placed Marshall’s chances of harm at 9.9 while mine were more like 4.4. I took my share of risks, but rarely without considering consequences. Marshall rarely did. Pop provided some perspective years later.

“If Marshall screamed, I ran. When you screamed, I walked.”

Except for the dog bite and stepping on a rusty nail once, my serious injuries were more in the nature of stubbed toes. Not that I am minimizing the pain of a stubbed toe, mind you. They hurt like hell. There is a reason why flaying skin was a form of torture in ancient times. I’d have certainly been willing to confess things I had done, and lots of things I hadn’t.

I did have a baseball bat used on me once, however. My parents were semi-serious Republicans, semi in the sense that they didn’t devote their lives to the cause but they did vote the party line. The family tradition went back to Abe Lincoln and the founding of the Party. A quote in a book written by my Great Grandfather stated, “We have always been Republicans, and we always will be.”

My indoctrination started young with the 1952 campaign of Dwight Eisenhower against Adlai Stevenson. According to Mother, Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman were responsible for most of the bad things that existed in the Country, and Ike was going to right the wrongs of the previous two decades. I, of course, accepted this view whole-heartedly, and had all the makings of a fine Young Republican. Naturally I was eager to share my correct or ‘right’ perspective with fellow students and proudly wore an I Like Ike button to school.

They weren’t particularly interested.

After all, what do nine year olds know or care about politics? One student, whose parents were avid Democrats, was ready to take me on, however. He wore a button that declared Adlai was Our Next President. Our debate started in the boys’ bathroom when we were lined up at the urinals, and continued on to the playground. Things began well. Even then I was a high verbal, and the points I didn’t win on logic, I was taking with volume. But the situation deteriorated rapidly. My fellow debater did what most politicians do when they appear to be losing ground— he started slinging mud.

“Eisenhower is a blankety, blank,” he declared with a smirk to underline his cleverness. It was his mistake; now we were talking my language.

“In that case,” I argued with glee, “Stevenson is a blankety-blank, blank, blank.” I had more blanks. Marshall, and Allen had taught me every swear word in the English language and a few in Spanish. I could go on for minutes without repeating myself. In fact Allen and I had challenged each other to a contest once to see who could swear the longest and the loudest.

There was a vacant lot filled with tall grass down on the corner where Missouri Flat Road ran into Highway 49. We got down on our hands and knees and chased each other through the grass while shouting obscenities at the top of our lungs. We were so engrossed in our efforts that we didn’t note that Marsh had time to run the block home and retrieve Pop to listen in on the exchange. He was not impressed with our command of the language or our volume. My thought about Marshall for telling was that he was a blankety-blank, blank, blank, blank, blank. A real asshole.

Anyway, I was not to be outdone in the mudslinging department; I had a bright future as a campaign manager. I demolished my opponent. Regrettably, I was about to learn an important Hobbesian lesson in power politics: Never start political arguments with a person carrying a baseball bat, which he was. When I continued to hassle him out on the playground, he wound up and swung the bat like he was going for a home run, whacking me across my right leg. Down I went onto the playground and off I went to the hospital as my leg muscle knotted up to the size of a softball. Fortunately, he didn’t break a bone— and my man Ike won the election.

Marshall’s scariest accident happened at Caldor’s logging camp. One summer, Pop arranged for the family to use a house at the camp for a week’s vacation. It was a great opportunity. We were surrounded by El Dorado National Forest, and we could wander to our heart’s content.

The first day out, we discovered an old miner’s shack that had long since given up any pretense of being useful. It was leaning precariously. Naturally, we had to explore it. There might be a treasure. Dark and musty comes to mind as my first impression. Floors creaked in objection on our entrance. A pack rat had set up home in one corner. A treasure for Tickle the dog, perhaps, but not for us.

A table in the opposite corner held more promise. We found an old Phillies Cigar box on top, which was a treasure in itself. Inside there was more: Dynamite caps! Think Big Bang. Caps contain a small amount of an explosive material that when lit by a connected electric current, cause a blast that sets off the dynamite. BOOM. My immediate reaction was to get out of the shack. Marshall’s was to take the box with us. I assumed he was going to give it to Pop so he could dispose of the caps. It was never wise to make assumptions about what my brother might do.

Mother was putting dinner on the table and Marshall was still outside when we heard a loud bang followed by a louder scream. Pop ran. Marshall had held a match down to the dynamite cap to see what would happen. He found out. The whole front of his body from his groin to his head was covered in blood. The only thing that saved his eye sight was that he was wearing shatter-proof glasses. A neighbor, who had come out at the sound of the blast and scream, immediately volunteered to take Nancy and me for the night. My parents jumped in our car and rushed off to the hospital in Placerville, 20 miles away.

Marshall spent a couple of days in the hospital as the doctor removed brass splinters from his body. We returned home. So much for our idyllic vacation. The important thing was that Marshall survived the experience— possibly a bit wiser. Occasional splinters of brass were still making their way out of his skin when he was in his 20s.

UT-OH Chapter 13: Your Mother Chases Fire Trucks

April 3, 2026March 31, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 11 Comments

While the Diamond Spring’s Firehouse has been rebuilt from when we were children, it still stands in the same location. It was about a block away from where we lived. The siren was loud. The sign at the top says Station 49. It’s appropriate. Diamond’s first firehouse was built in 1849 along what is now Highway 49.

In comparison, this is the firehouse not all that different from what it looked like when I was a child, which I featured in my last post. As I recall, they did rebuild it once when I was a child. Pop wired it.

If it sounds like parental supervision of our bad behavior was somewhat lax in my growing up years, that’s because it was. There were times when our parents, or at least Mother, provided tacit approval of our misdeeds. Returning the cherries we confiscated from Pagonni’s orchard or the frogs from Pavy’s Pond was never an issue. They were quietly added to the pantry and happily consumed by all, including Pop. No questions asked.

Once we were even encouraged to break the law.

Because the dirt road we lived on circled the graveyard, the County decided it should be named Graveyard Alley. No one living on the road was asked for an opinion or informed of the decision. The signs simply appeared one day. Mother was infuriated and fired off a letter to the County Board of Supervisors. She was not going to live on Graveyard Alley! Nothing happened, there wasn’t even a response.

Marsh and I were given marching orders: Sometime around midnight go out and remove the signs. We carried out the charge with enthusiasm. No neighbors complained about this obvious act of vandalism since they weren’t particularly happy about living on Graveyard Alley either.

The County replaced the signs. We made another raid and this time the County got the point. They changed the name in honor of an old fellow, George Croft, who was an original resident. We all liked George. It became George’s Alley, which it still is today.

I’m convinced we inherited our trouble making potential from our mother. Pop was a good man who had avoided marriage until he was 38. He was the type of guy who served on the Vestry of the Church, was a Boy Scout leader, and was always available to help out a neighbor. I am sure there were times he wished he had avoided marriage for another 38 years. A lesser man might have said bye-bye and been on his way. But he took his role seriously and pushed on, through thick and thin.

Mother could be something of a ‘wild child,’ wilder than her wild children. Going to fires in Diamond Springs was an excellent example.

Pop was a volunteer fireman for Diamond. As an electrician, it was his job was to show up at burning houses and shut off electricity. When the siren wailed, he was off and running, as were all the other volunteer firemen in town. It was serious business.

For Mother and for us, it was high entertainment. We also took off at the sound of the siren, jumped in whatever old car we had, and sped along behind the fire truck. The time of day and activity of the moment didn’t matter. If it were three in the morning, we would jump out of bed and throw on our clothes; if we were eating, the meal would be abandoned; if we were playing, the toys would be dropped. Nothing could compete with a good fire. Our devotion to disaster was right up there in the same league as it is with today’s news media.

The star performer was someone’s house. There was excitement, danger and pathos. Firemen blasted away with their hoses in a desperate attempt to save the home while the unfortunate family looked on in dismay. But the climax, the Fourth of July finale, was when the roof and walls would crash down and shoot sparks and fire high into the sky. I did keep my oohs and ahhs to myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind a small voice whispered that our family outing was not totally appropriate.

“Your mother chases fire trucks,” one of my little buddies jeered at me in an argument.

My response at the time had been, “So…,” but later in life I would ponder what the towns-people must have thought about Mother, two or three kids, and a dog always showing up. Pop must have been terribly embarrassed. I remember him telling Mother once to stay far behind the fire engine and far away from the fire. He did it under the guise of being concerned for our safety. I now suspect he hoped we wouldn’t be recognized. But he never did have much success in telling Mother what to do. The siren’s call was not to be denied— for either one of them.

Monday’s Post: It’s back to Costa Rica where Peggy and I will show you a ficus, which I would bet is unlike any ficus/banyan/fig tree you have ever seen before unless you have been in Monteverde. No photos this time, I’m keeping it as a surprise. Here is a banyan tree we visited on the Big Island of Hawaii last year, however…

UT-OH! Chapter 12: Bob Bray and the Wham-O Caper, plus Who Shot Tony Pavy’s Prize Pig

April 1, 2026March 31, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 16 Comments

Bob Bray with his wife Linda and the world traveling Bone. Bob and I have been friends since the first grade. Here, he and his wife, joined in supporting me on my trek down the PCT to celebrate my 75th Birthday. (The trek ended up being 750 miles instead of 1000 because of several forest fires in 2018.) We would have been 12 at the time of the Wham-O-Caper.

While I had graduated from my would-be juvenile delinquent days, I was able to pull off a couple of capers without my brother’s influence. The first involved living up to Bertha Bray’s expectations.

For some unfathomable reason, Bob’s parents bought him a Wham-O Slingshot. I mean, how in the world can you expect a kid to be good when he starts playing with his Wham-O? The fact that I owned a Wham-O as well almost guaranteed trouble.

Bob and I agreed to meet for a clandestine hunting expedition. It had to be clandestine because I was still on Bertha Bray’s ‘do not invite’ list. Things were going great until we came upon the old abandoned hobo’s shack that was next to the Southern Pacific railroad track about a quarter of a mile from Bob’s home. Typical of such structures, it had been created out of anything that was available for free: old metal roofing, miscellaneous boards, an occasional nail, a thrown away mattress, etc.

Bob and I looked at each other and had a simultaneous thought. Out came the ammo for the Wham-Os: A shiny new marble for Bob and several BBs for me. We took careful aim, counted down, and let fly, using the derelict old building for target practice.

The Wham-O actually comes with a manual that tells you how to use it. It’s a serious slingshot!

To this day, Bob claims he saw his marble harmlessly strike the building while my BBs were smashing a window to smithereens. I of course saw Bob’s marble hit the window dead on while my BBs weren’t even close. The current occupant of the not abandoned home, who was washing dishes behind a willow bush in a small stream, saw something entirely different: two little boys smashing his pride and joy.

He let out a bellow and came charging up the trail. As he should have. Once again, the Mekemson Gang, along with its newest recruit, was on the run. The good news is that we escaped. The bad news was that the hobo recognized Bob. He went straight to his house. Mrs. Bray’s worst fears had been realized. (For the 50^thAnniversary of our Wham-O Adventure, Bob sent me a slingshot. Bertha probably rolled over in her grave. Or maybe she chuckled.)

A prize 4-H pig at the Modoc County Fair in Northern California.

Tony Pavy’s prize pig was another case where Marshall was totally innocent. Tony had a large pond with bullfrogs, a hundred or so acres of scrubland, and a wooded hillside that housed a number of gray squirrels and blackberry vines loaded with the sweet, juicy fruit. His attitude was similar to that of Jimmy Pagonni: Children were not to be heard or seen on his property.

As with Pagonni, we didn’t allow Pavy to keep us from our appointed rounds. We would slip in at night to harvest his bullfrogs and during the day to harvest blackberries or bring down a squirrel. Tony had a very effective way of getting rid of us. In a very loud voice he would yell, “Mama, get my gun!” and we would streak out of there.

A couple of friends and I were hunting for the squirrels on his hillside when the unfortunate incident with the pig took place. But before I tell the story, I need to digress and provide some background information.

Growing up in Diamond Springs in the 50s meant having a gun and shooting things. At least it did if you were a boy. We graduated from BB guns and 22s to deer rifles and shotguns. Obtaining your first rifle was an experience similar in importance to obtaining your driver’s license, except you could get one a lot earlier. Before we were allowed to hunt, however, certain rules were pounded into our heads. We had to take a course sponsored by the National Rifle Association. These were the years when the NRA’s primary concern was about hunting and hunter safety, not promoting the use of automatic weapons.

I learned from the NRA instructor that it is important to know what you were shooting. This might seem obvious, but flat-landers out of Sacramento often had trouble making the distinction between a cow and a deer. Of a much more serious nature, every so often one would mistake another hunter for a deer. Wear red hats and bright clothes, we were taught. There were other things we weren’t supposed to shoot as well. People’s houses for example. Robins were also high on the list. They ate their weight daily in bugs. It was okay to shoot ‘vermin’ such as ground squirrels, jackrabbits, coyotes and the scrub jays that pecked away at pears. In fact there was a bounty on jays, $.25 per head. Marshall used it as a money-maker.

My usual preference was for watching wildlife, not killing it. I made an exception for gray squirrels. The thrill of the hunt combined with my appetite for a delicious squirrel and dumpling stew my mother whipped up overcame any reservations I had. All of which brings me back to the pig.

Gray squirrels have about the same appreciation for being shot that you or I might. To avoid this unhappy circumstance, they take off leaping through the trees. The one we had marked for dinner was jumping from limb to limb in a live oak tree on the hill above Pavy’s with all three of us shooting at it when we heard a bellow from the barnyard.

“Mama, get my gun! They shot my pig! They shot my pig! Hurry, Mama!”

I don’t know how fast Mama moved but we flew. By the time Ernie Carlson, the County Sheriff, and a Diamond Springs resident, caught up with us we were far away from Pavy’s and about as innocent as newborn piglets.

“Excuse me, boys,” the Sheriff remarked when he pulled over in his car and rolled down his window, “I don’t suppose you know anything about Tony Pavy’s pig being shot.”

“No, sir,” we replied respectfully in unison. We had rehearsed. Besides, we were technically correct. We hadn’t shot Pavy’s pig; we hadn’t even shot the squirrel. It was a ricocheting bullet that did in the pig.

Ernie looked at us dubiously.

“Pavy told me there were three kids about your age,” the Sheriff said as he continued to build pressure, hoping that one of us would break.

“We’ve been out in back of Ot Jone’s Pond,” I argued indignantly. And we had been. So what if we had arrived there out of breath.

“Well, you kids behave yourselves,” the Sheriff said with an ominous I know you’re lying tone.

We breathed a joint sigh of relief as he rolled up his window and drove off. Once more we had avoided a fate we probably deserved. I suspect now that Ernie was not one hundred percent dedicated to finding the alleged pig murderers. Tony was not universally loved in the community for several reasons, of which threatening to shoot kids was one.

For example: My father did some electrical work for him for free. As he was leaving, Tony asked, “Would you like one of my geese for dinner?”

“Sure,” Pop had replied, assuming Pavy was offering it as thanks for his four hours of work.

“Good,” Tony had replied, “that will be five dollars.” Pop was more than a little irritated. He had a hearty laugh years later when I told him about our adventure with the pig. I wisely avoided telling him at the time, however. His perspective on our miscreant behavior softened substantially with distance and age.

Friday’s Post: One of my classmates in grade school insults me by saying “Your Mother Chases Fire Trucks.” So what if it was true.

An early photo of the Diamond Springs Firehouse with Volunteer Firemen. The siren that called the Volunteers, including Pop, is on the right.

Vipers and Scorpions and Tarantulas: Oh My, or Is That— Ut-Oh!… Into the Jungle Night: Costa Rica

March 20, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 26 Comments

Night tours are big in Monteverde, Costa Rica. Every corner seems to advertise one. Take a dash of the exotic, throw in a pinch of danger, add a competent, knowledgeable guide— and how can one resist? No wonder there were at least 10 companies to choose from. There is big money to be made. We paid our $300 and off we went. We had an excellent guide, Marvin. He found us each of the big three, don’t mess with me, attractions, plus more.

This iridescent, blue-green fellow was one of the creatures we came across. Actually, our youngest grandson, Cooper, spotted it first. Our son Tony claimed ‘That’s because Cooper is closest to the ground.” You will recognize this blue-green insect for what he is. A scorpion. I’ve seen many over the years. But never one of this striking color. They all pack a mean sting. Costa Rica claims that no one has ever died in the country from a scorpion. Well, except for that one girl…

This one seemed almost tame in comparison. Our grandson, Chris, found it crawling up the wall behind him where he was watching TV at our VRBO. “Grandpa,” he yelled, “You have to see this.” “Well, hello,” I said, to the scorpion, and sent Chris scurrying for something to catch it with. He came back with a martini glass, i.e. large top, shallow bottom. Not ideal for catching something that packs a wallop in its tail, but great for a double martini if you get stung. Make it a triple. I slapped it over the top of scorpion but missed the offending appendage. It was swishing around trying to find me. I turned the glass right side up and he slid to the bottom, looking thoroughly peeved. “Just be glad it’s me,” I told him. “Anyone else and you’d be a grease spot on the wall.” It waved its tail at me in a single digit salute. I took him over to our balcony and tossed him out of the glass into the shrubs below. Chris, Peggy and I made a pact not to tell anyone else in our household. Mom might have had them packing.

Next, on our pitch dark night, Marvin found a baby green pit viper known by the scientific name of Bothriechis lateralis, or if you prefer something you can pronounce, a side-striped palm pit viper. Apparently, they like to hang out in palms. Note its distinctive triangle shaped head: A sure sign you are dealing with a viper. Translate poisonous. There would be no trying to catch it! Least of all in a martini glass. I took this photo.

Marvin, carried a spotting scope that gave us another view of the side-striped palm viper. He used Tony’s cell phone to take a photo through the scope. Here, you can see the stripe along its side. We each carried flashlights so we could see the trail plus light up whatever we wanted photos of.

Not too far down the trail, we found an adult side-striped palm viper and Marvin took this photo through his spotting scope.

I focused in on the upper part of its body. The viper, like New World monkeys, has a prehensile tail. It can use it to wrap around a limb while it dangles and relaxes. Or, he can whip it out to wrap around and retrieve dinner in the form of lizards and small rodents. While poisonous, few people die from its bite. Not so the lizards or a tasty mouse.

The final member of our trio, a Costa Rican zebra tarantula, also known as the striped-knee tarantula. Peggy took this photo. These large spiders dig deep burrows into the ground which helps regulate temperatures. It’s reported that they often live together in large numbers. One was enough for us, but I must say, it was quite striking.

Just so this post doesn’t give you nightmares, our night tour also produced less threatening species. This is Lesson’s Motmot seen through Marvin’s spotting scope.

An owl butterfly. Marvin told us it was one of the largest butterflies in Costa Rica. It has large spots on the lower parts of its wings that resemble owl’s eyes when its wings are open.

Next up, the Mekemson Kids Did It: Something go wrong in Diamond Springs? Who do you blame? Like the gunslingers of the Old West, we developed a reputation that far exceeded our capacity for mischief.

The Sculptures of Burning Man

February 23, 2026February 23, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 23 Comments

Art comes in many forms at Burning Man— from massive sculptures, to mutant vehicles, impressive buildings, costumes, performances, photography, murals, etc. There is no other place in the world that inspires as much creativity for a one week period.

Today, I am going to consider some of Peggy and my favorite sculptures from our 12 years of visiting The Black Rock Desert.

Where else could one find oil tankers welded together?

Not a ‘do’ you could get (or want) from your local hairdresser.

Can you imagine the amount of work that goes into putting these creations together?

While Medusa may give you nightmares, many of the sculptures are created with a sense of humor. Meet the Queen Bee with enormous boobs.

Or join me as I photograph the nostrils of the sphinx…

A 20 foot tall goofy rabbit. (Tom Lovering took this photo.)

As I recall, these colorful characters were outside the Silicon Valley Village. Was there a message for us? The one on the left looks a bit like Elon.

It isn’t surprising that a flying saucer crash landed at Burning Man. It is located, after all, in the Nevada desert and all the ETs wandering around have to come from somewhere.

This baby flying saucer, on the other hand, was a bit surprising.

Was the Man keeping an eye on Junior from his flying saucer perch? There is plenty of mischief one can get into around Burning Man. Adult supervision is required…(Photo by Tom Lovering)

Like dancing to this wild rabbit fiddling away at Center Camp. It’s not the dancing that would impact baby flying saucer, it was dancing into the wee hours as Burners do. Babies need their sleep. (Photo by our friend Don Green.)

This guy, listening to the rabbit, came close to losing his pants while getting down to boogie.

The little fellow might run into a dragon.

Or, worse, a dragon guarding its egg! That’s one ferocious momma.

Then, there is pitchfork man who was seriously unbalanced…

And monstrous bugs hatching and spreading out over the Playa. (Photo by Don Green.)

One certainly wouldn’t want to run into this horny spider with crossed swords after dark.

Or a Texas longhorn emerging from the Playa.

The little guy needn’t worry, however. There is plenty of love at Burning Man.

For example, this monster robot was just out walking with his dog and carrying a flower.

The large pink rabbit let a little kid run up and hug its leg.

And the giant butterfly invited folks to relax and enjoy the view. (Photo by Don Green.)

A 50 foot tall couple was willing to share hugs…

And the ferocious looking Coyote was only howling at the moon.

Babies (inner children) reached out to each other, providing hope…

And lots of aliens cleverly disguised as topless Burners were available to look out for baby saucer. (Otherwise, they might be stuck on Earth, which they had serious doubts about at this time.)

A lighthouse was available to provide guidance…

To wherever in the world the little guy might want to travel…

There were plenty of bicycles to borrow for local transportation (some fixing required).

And a rocket ship to provide a boost into outer space if needed.

And now that the baby flying saucer has been taken care of, here are some of our other favorite Burning Man sculptures…

These blocks seemed to be reaching for infinity…

A head made of bricks was Earthy, according to his forehead.

A mask with glowing eyes stared out at passing Burners.

Not sure what this was meant to signify, but it has always been a favorite of mine. One wonders where all of the Burners are. But if you get far enough out on the Playa, they are few and far between.

Big feet, big heart? Yes, there is a person up there. A general rule at Burning Man is, if it can be climbed, it is climbed.

Ghost tree made out of bones. No climbing this. A sign told Burners to stay off. But….no guarantees.

Mirror image. Every time we passed by this sculpture, someone was taking a selfie. Usually posing. I took a photo of myself taking a photo of myself while sitting on my bike.

Lotus flower with a distant view, which brings us to…

Giants. This was from 2006 Burning Man. Several giant male and female statues were facing an oil derrick. The oil tankers shown at the beginning were from the same year. “Hope and Fear: The Future” was the theme.

The human body has fascinated artists forever. Burning Man was blessed with these sculptures. There were three in the series. This was known as Truth Is Beauty.

And she was beautiful at night as well as during the day. The sculpture was constantly changing color.

R-Evolution was another of the three giant sculptures by Michael Cochrane.

A close up. Note the internal structure, which also shows up prominently in the two photos above.

And finally, Bliss. My favorite because she is obviously having fun.

I’ll conclude with this close up. I had fun playing with both the form and colors. Like much that happens at Burning Man, these sculptures rightfully received world-wide attention. I was surprised to find that one of my photos even showed up in a French poetry magazine. (They didn’t ask, but they did give credit.)

Next in the Burning Man Focus Series, we’ll take a look at the striking and unusual Temples of Burning Man.

On Thursday, I’ll post the next in my UT-OH! blog-a-book series: The tale of how MC the Cat barely avoided having his danglies cut off, which, much to his dismay, would have ended his tomcatting ways.

UT-OH! Chapter 3: Hiring the Family Pets Scare the Away the Graveyard Ghosts: Part I (It’s Friday the 13th)

February 13, 2026February 12, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 17 Comments

Here I am with Tickle and my mother, sitting on the edge of the Graveyard. Tickle was my constant companion when I wasn’t at school. That included nights when I slept outside in the summer where he joined Pat the Greyhound and Demon the Black Cat in keeping the ghosts away.

First Grade was not the highlight of my school years, thankfully. Things had to get better. And did. My second and third grade teacher turned out to be my Godmother. There is a commandment issued on a mountain somewhere and written in granite: She had to like me. My attitude toward education made a dramatic leap. I actually became something of a teacher’s pet, which surprised everybody. Me, most of all. But back to the wilderness, er, Graveyard.

Between the third and fourth grade, I discovered a new way to enjoy nature. I moved my bedroom outdoors in the summer. It was partially to avoid sharing a room with Marshall and partially to escape my father’s house shaking snores. But the real reason was that I loved being outdoors. I would move out as soon as school was over and stay until it started, or later if parents and weather permitted.

At first I slept on the ground in a cheap cotton sleeping bag. The ground was hard, the nights cool, and the mosquitoes persistent, but these were minor drawbacks. I was free. If I had to pee, I’d climb out of the sleeping bag and find the nearest bush. If I woke up thirsty, a convenient garden hose was nearby. I would go to sleep watching the stars and listening to a giant bullfrog that lived in the ditch in front of our house. I would wake up to the cool morning air and chirping robins. Life was good.

Then it got better. My grandparents bought me a real bed— a wood framed, steel spring army cot, complete with mattress. Looking back, I think they may have been embarrassed that their grandson was sleeping on the ground.

My paradise was marred by one thing, the Graveyard. It was always there on the edge of my sight. White tombstones glared at me.

As hard as I pretended, the cemetery and its frightful inhabitants would not go away. So I developed a set of defenses. The first was to sleep facing the opposite direction, or hide under the covers, ostrich like. A more sophisticated approach was to locate the bed where I couldn’t see the Graveyard. Our well-seasoned cars worked in a pinch, but they weren’t quite large enough. Bits and pieces of the Graveyard would creep around their sides, peak over their tops and slink under their bottoms. A trellis built by my father, Pop, was much better. Its luxurious growth of honeysuckle created the perfect screen. I set up a permanent residence behind it.

But even the trellis wasn’t enough to calm my imagination. More drastic action was called for. I hired protection. It came in the form of various family pets. Their job was to chase the ghosts away. Payment was made by allowing them to sleep on my bed. Apparently, the scheme worked. The evidence is irrefutable: No ghosts attacked me in the years I slept outside.

The downside was that I didn’t have much room. Two dogs, a cat, and me on a one person army cot constituted a menagerie, or a zoo, if you counted the fleas. It was difficult to move. At first, I was very careful not to disturb my sleeping companions. I became a circus contortionist frozen in place with body parts pointed in every direction. If this meant a sleepless night, so be it. It was a small price to pay for keeping the ghosts at bay.

Gradually, my attitude changes. I grew larger, the bed space shrank, and the animals started sleeping on top of me. Meanwhile the ghosts, who tend to hassle little people more than they do big people, became less of a threat. Therefore, I needed less protection. Neither of these factors led to the final banning of the animal kingdom, however, it was the shameless shenanigans of Demon the Cat and Pat the Greyhound.

Demon, the alpha family cat, was as black as the darkest night. As such, she was appropriately named and attired for Graveyard duty. In fact, she spent a good deal of her life there, stalking mice, lizards, birds and anything else she could get her claws into with impunity. Captured prey would then be brought home for approval, or as gifts. My job was to dispose of the half devoured carcasses, preferably before Mother saw them. I would sometimes tie a string around the unsolicited gifts and run around the yard with Demon in mad pursuit. (Okay, this was admittedly weird, but I did receive high marks from the cat.)

Depopulating the Graveyard was not Demon’s claim to fame, however. Motherhood was. She had kittens often and everywhere. I suspect that half of the cats living in Diamond Springs and El Dorado County CA, today, can trace their lineage back to her.

Two instances of kitten production bring back vivid memories. The first took place on the living room floor. Demon was a young cat at the time, and a neophyte at motherhood. Her impending delivery was quite apparent from her large belly and ceaseless exploration of clothes hampers, closets and other dark places. With high hopes of avoiding a misplaced litter, Mother had arranged her bedroom closet as a maternity ward.

It was my duty to show Demon her new home several times a day. I would carefully pick up the very pregnant cat, carry her to the closet, and deposit her in a box with well-used clothes. Demon didn’t buy the program. It seems that my bedside manner was faulty. She would climb out of the box, glare at me, and stalk out of the room.

When the joyous day finally arrived, I was home alone. Demon was practicing her would-be mother waddle walk across the floor when she suddenly stopped, squawked and squatted.

Neither she nor I was ready for what followed. After all, how prepared can a young kid and a first-time mother be prepared for birth? In a massive surprise to both of us, a tiny, black bundle of fir emerged from Demon’s undercarriage. Surging emotions paralyzed my seven-year-old mind.

One thought stood out: The closet! If Demon hadn’t memorized her delivery lessons, I had. I jumped across the room, grabbed her by the nape of the neck, and dashed for Mother’s bedroom. As fast as I ran, it wasn’t fast enough. In the middle of the kitchen, the new arrival completed her journey and was heading for a crash landing. Somehow, somewhere between Demon and the floor, I caught the warm, wet ball of fur in my free hand. After that, my memory fades but I know that the three of us made it to the closet. I left Demon busy licking her new baby. Demon accepted her new home and four more kittens followed the first, although in a less dramatic way. Diamond’s cat population explosion was underway.

Part 2 of Hiring the Family Pets to Keep the Graveyard Ghosts Away will be posted next week on Thursday’s blog-a-book day. Tune in to learn about my second vivid memory of Demon’s kitten production, how Pat the Greyhound became a member of our family, and how Pat and Demon’s bad behavior led to the banning of animals from my bed. Sort of.

Head shot of large mutant rhino vehicle at Burning Man. — Monday’s focus post will be on the wonderful, weird, and often whacky mutant vehicles at Burning Man. It’s a blog you won’t want to miss.

UT-OH! Chapter 3: Do You Feel the Vibes, Tonto? A Train Is Coming. –The Lone Ranger

February 5, 2026February 5, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 10 Comments

Here we are in the first grade class of Diamond Springs Elementary School in 1949. I’m in the middle of the back row with my hands in my pocket, crunched together between two girls. Rudy is one person to the right of me. Robert is in the middle of the first row. Joe is on the far right, bottom row. My life-long friend Bob Bray, who you will meet in future chapters, is sitting in the front row just right of Mrs. Young.

My endless vacation came to an end the fall of 1949. It was time for the first grade. Mother was delighted. Mrs. Young, not so much. A number of the little boxes on my report card that reflected good behavior were marked ‘needs improvement.’ Mrs. Young had decided I needed a lot. Is neat: needs improvement. Shares: needs improvement. Is polite: needs improvement. The list went on. I was a little savage.

The ‘neat’ part was particularly sensitive. My shoes were falling apart, my pants had holes in them (this was before it became a fashion statement for young women), I smelled like a little boy who only bathed once a week, and didn’t wear any underwear. You might wonder how Mrs. Young knew about the latter. It wasn’t that she did an inspection. The zipper was to blame.

I was in the bathroom one day, had finished peeing, and was zipping up my pants when my poor little guy got stuck in the zipper. Damn that hurt! I screamed like the six year old man I was and made a beeline to Mrs. Young to solve the problem. She must have been delighted and wondered where in her contract it stated “Must be available to liberate little boys’ penises from zippers.” Anyway, she did her job. I suspect a not-nice note was sent home to my mother. Anyway, underwear became part of my attire, forever after.

I thought of naming this chapter, Free the Penis! But my editor/Peggy (wife) thought not.

Once, I got spanked. “Reading and writing and ‘rithmetic taught to the tune of a hickory stick” the old song School Days proclaimed. My classmate Joe and I had disagreed over who was top dog. We fought it out on the playground. I thought I was doing Mrs. Young a favor by clarifying the issue. Joe was even more uncivilized than I. She thought otherwise. The only justice I could see was that Joe got it in the end as well, so to speak.

The high point of my year was that I made my first two friends who weren’t family or buddies of my older brother. Rudy and Robert were a pair of Hispanic brothers who lived in a small house out in east Diamond. We had hit it off immediately and on a Saturday toward the end of school, the boys and their parents invited me up to their house to spend the night. It was my first official play date and my first ever sleep-over. I was nervous. My mother took me up and dropped me off to a royal greeting by the boys, their parents and their siblings.

“Quick,” the boys urged, “we have to go stand by the railroad tracks.” We could hear the train’s whistle as it approached Diamond.

The tracks were part of a narrow-gauge railway Caldor Lumber Company used to bring logs from its tree-cutting operation 20 miles up in the El Dorado National Forest to its lumber mill in Diamond Springs. When the company was established in the early 1900s, it had located its sawmill in the forest near its logging operation and used mules for hauling the logs. It had then switched to oxen, and finally a giant steam tractor. The tractor made so much noise that the company was required to use outriders a quarter of a mile in front to warn people so their horses wouldn’t be spooked.

Understandably, the company switched to the railroad when it relocated its mill to Diamond Springs, 20 miles away. The train, in turn, would lose out to logging trucks in the 50s. At the time, however, little kids still had the joy of watching the engines and their line of rail cars carrying massive logs out of the forest.

Caldor’s steam engine and its load of logs. Note the size of the logs. (Old newspaper photo)

My father had a close connection with the railway. As one of Caldor’s two electricians, he was responsible for maintaining phone service along the track between the lumber camp and the mill as well as the massive machinery the mill used for cutting up logs and producing lumber. When there was a problem with the phones, off he went to check out the 20 miles of line. A hand cranked generator was necessary for creating the electricity to make calls. We inherited one when the line was replaced. Marsh and I would invite our little friends over, crank up the machine, and have them touch the outlet. They got the message. It was shocking.

Pop’s favorite railway task was clearing snow off the tracks each summer when the logging camp opened up for the season. “We had a diesel-powered rail car with a snow plow on it,” he explained to me later. “We’d back up and take a run at snow banks, crashing into them, and hopefully breaking through. Often our car would jump the tracks. We’d all pile out and lift it back on.” Some fun; he loved it.

While watching the train was high entertainment, the primary attraction for us was that the engineers carried an ample supply of wrapped hard candy that they would throw out to the boys and girls standing alongside the track. It was a tradition.

The train was near. We could hear it chugging along. Rudy, Robert, their brother, sisters and I sprinted the hundred or so yards over to the tracks. Being a smart ass, I laid down and put my ear on one of the rails. It was a trick I had learned from the Lone Ranger and his side-kick, Tonto. You can actually hear the vibrations and supposedly judge how far away the train was. I needn’t have bothered since the train came into view a hundred yards away while my I was focused on the ‘vibes.’ I’m sure the engineers saw me.

“Get off the track!” Rudy and Robert screamed. We started waving vigorously. One of the engineers dutifully leaned out of the cab and tossed us candy, lots of it. We scrambled around picking it up and shoving it in our pockets. At least the ones that weren’t shoved into our mouths.

After we had collected our candy from the train, dinner was a long hour off. I suggested to Robert and Rudy that we head out to the woods behind their house and ride trees. Who needs horses? My brother and I had learned that we could climb up to the top of young, skinny pines and make them sway back and forth by leaning out. The farther we leaned, the more they swayed. It offered a free carnival-like experience 10 feet up in the air. Even more could be accomplished by throwing our feet out in the direction the tree was swaying and hanging on for dear life. If the tree was skinny enough, two of us could make it bend all of the way down to the ground, where we would drop off and allow it to snap back up. It took a while for me to persuade Rudy and Robert that the sport wasn’t going to kill them.

I suspect the trees didn’t enjoy the experience nearly as much as we did. Years later when I read Robert Frost’s poem about children bending birches, I fondly recalled our pine tree horses— or bucking broncs if you prefer.

“It’s dinner time!” came the call so we rushed back to the house and made use of an outside water faucet to wash the pine pitch off our hands. Sort of. Pitch has a way of sticking like super glue. It’s the pine tree’s revenge. Mother had a box of Boraxo at home for the task. Hand inspections were held afterward.

“You have to try this,” Rudy enthused, dashing into the house and coming out with a red pepper. I should have been suspicious when the rest of the kids gathered around. But what does a first grader know? I gamely bit into the pepper and was introduced to habanero-hot. The kids roared as I made a mad sprint for the faucet and drank a gallon of water, becoming a major part of the evening’s entertainment. It would have served them right if I’d peed in their bed later.

I forgave them when I had my first Mexican dinner, however. I still love Mexican food. And I’ve come to enjoy habanero-hot on foods ranging from burritos to spaghetti.

As the night progressed, it soon became time for bed. I was about to flunk sleep-over etiquette. The boys slept on the same bed. Admittedly it was bigger than my small single at home, but I had never slept in a bed with another person, much less 2 others, or maybe it was 10. That’s what it felt like. They put me in the middle. I was mortified, but I tried. I really did. Ten o’clock came and there I was, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, body frozen in place, and midnight, and two, and four. At five, I gently nudged Robert.

“I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept all night,” I confessed. “I have to go home.”

“Ummm,” the half-awake Robert had moaned and moved.

I got up, dressed, and slipped out of the house by 5:30, careful not to wake anyone else. It was close to dark outside with only a dim light announcing the morning. Home wasn’t that far away, maybe a mile and a half at most. But I still remember the journey from a first grader’s perspective: It was long and spooky, my first great solo adventure. I followed the dirt road over the railroad tracks out to the Pleasant Valley Road. Not one car zipped by. Fortunately. They probably would have stopped and driven me home. Everyone knew everybody else in Diamond Springs with its population of 750. “Sorry to wake you up, Marge, but I found Curt out wandering in East Diamond.” By noon, everyone in town would have heard the story.

I walked past the hill with the cross on it and picked up Highway 49. Halfway home, I came to Tom Murphy’s grocery store. Sodas were stacked in wood boxes in front, waiting to be moved inside. I looked around furtively; I was totally alone. So, I helped myself to a Coke; I deserved it. I continued on my journey, walking by the post office, Dub Walker’s store, the barber shop, Scheiber’s hardware store, the historic Pony Express stop, the firehouse and Gust Brother’s Garage, eventually reaching the dreaded Graveyard. I clutched my coke and crossed the road, preferring Pagoni’s mean dogs to the ghosts.

Arriving home, I carefully hid the soda outside. It wouldn’t do to have overly inquisitive parents discover the purloined drink and ask questions. I happily enjoyed it later in the day, feeling much less guilty about stealing than I did about abandoning my friends. I suspect there was a bit of consternation when Rudy and Robert’s parents woke to find me missing. Imagine what would happen today.

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

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