Growing up in Heaven

Editor’s note: Due to the length of this column, we will print it as a series. The second portion will run next week.

As a member of the Green River Historic Preservation Commission, it is my turn to write our monthly article on some aspect of Green River’s past.

Usually we are allowed to write on whatever subject that is of personal or general interest, which is later published in the current issue of the bound series Echoes from the Bluffs. However, Brie Blasi asked me to address growing up in Green River in the mid 40s and 50s.

Wow, what exactly do you write about? Where do you actually begin? The topic is huge, every detail and aspect is important. The writer’s views and memories are bound to be rather subjective; memories can be tricky. Everyone perceives things in their own less than perfectly objective manner.

Since the topic’s bedrock is the town, the location, the climate, the available resources, the time period, the people and changes are all part of the environment we grew up in, so they must be noted as the background, matrix, the stage on which this drama streams through.

Green River was “Mom’s apple pie,” homemade, warm, yummy, and definitely organic. It was a great garden to grow kids, and for kids to grow. There was great dirt, plenty of nourishment, such as the family, the church, and school, especially peers, plenty of water, and involved, caring gardeners, such as parents, teachers, cops, and once again the peers.

All in all it seems like the crops did well – a plentiful harvest, I feel. But then Green River has a reputation for turning out high caliber individuals. To me it seems as if something made Green River a gem and not just another Wyoming jewel.

Growing up in Green River was not difficult. Nietzsche’s maxim of “that which does not kill us, makes us stronger” was taught, but with patience and a piece of Mom’s apple pie to help it go down.

It was a small town with a population of 2,500 to 3,500, fifty or sixty families. The town grew slowly, population turnover was small. Consistency and stability seemed the norm. Everyone knew everyone and everything about them. Strong family ties and friendships lasted through generations. Sharing the good and the bad together knit the people together. A strong identity developed.

The population was balanced, more or less homogeneous in life and in belief patterns. They shared values and norms, belief in hard work, family, church, the importance of education, honesty, and the value of keeping one’s word. Old fashioned perhaps, but very workable.

The town felt safe and secure. It was a green oasis in a narrow valley, with a river running down the middle. Beautiful, but also a potential danger.

Before the Seedskadee Dam was built, the river was feared for its spring flood, almost dry by deep summer and ice covered all winter. Flooding could, and often did, cover the south side area of town all the way to the railroad tracks. Swimming was warned against but it was done, and kids died. Between these events, we fished, trapped muskrats, played and camped in the Scotts Bottom, on Big Island and the pipeline swinging bridge. We hiked there, slept out at night with groups of friends or school sleep outs. There was hardly a road to what is now the FMC picnic grounds. In the winter there was ice skating in Hoffman Parks, located directly below the Palisades. It was a fairly large river oxbow created by Highway 30. We would skate and have a big fire, surrounded by friends, and absolutely frozen. Summer brought huge carp, and fishing with cousin Jack or Rod Trumble that lived in a trailer at Hoffman’s Trailer Park.

Physically, the river ruled; it brought the earliest commerce and supported the rest. I like to think that the river’s spirit is wild but free, loved yet feared, for its power pervaded our souls and became part of the spirit of Green River.

Now the river divides the town into two parcels: the old north side and the new south side. The railyard used to divide the town. There was next to nothing on the south side of the river, except several corrals, the city dump, and a gravel pit. The wagon bridge, a two span, single lane iron and timber structure, led to the dirt road that went south to Manila and McKinnon. Development there began after World War II and vets came home. The El Rancho subdivision went in and a new bridge was built. Two things that have changed, at least on the surface of Green River: the expansion of the soda ash investment and the building of the Flaming Gorge Dam. Of those two, only the young soda ash industry occurred in the 1950s, and brought even more people here. The town began to change visually, economically, socially, and an awareness of the rest of the world developed.

Green River has always been connected to the outside. The transcontinental highway went straight through town; the Lincoln Highway was our Main Street.

Economic development brought not only an impressive money flow but also an influx of new outside people with new ideas. Perhaps. The values and work attitudes were not different from the ones already held here. Assimilation was painless for the most part. The town just got bigger and stronger, and the “newbies” welcomed and accepted. Main Street remained Main Street and the downtown remained the center of town. The center of town was the focus point with its concentration of businesses, entertainment, restaurants, several gas stations and not at all least, Zimmerman’s Sugar Bowl, the teen hangout on Main Street. There were many small businesses then, hence many jobs. Rock Springs was too far away for many to go to work there. The road was not like it is now and took twice the time in travel.

Downtown included Railroad Avenue and Second South, with its two grocery stores, bars, and house of ill repute, Cat’s Cat House, owned by Cat Willis who had one blue eye. Railroad Avenue had several bars, Karician’s Green Gander, a Chinese restaurant, Mr. Cosa’s Cozy Club to gamble, the passenger depot and the freight depot as goods came by train then and not trucks.

The mail drop at the depot and the Post Office on Main Street are where people came to talk as much as send mail. They were where the town met. Everything was face-to-face then. Green River was small and tightly knit. Neighbors did not always agree but neighbors did help neighbors and whoever asked for it. Helping others was normal. I call it the Green River spirit, but of course it is the Wyoming way and the western way.

Main Street started at the east city boundary. This was the location of the Husky Truck Stop. It served great fries in its restaurant, good pie and coffee, plus a meeting place for teens. Physically this is about where the Main Street,also known as Flaming Gorge Way, and Uinta Drive intersection is located. There were no houses above Main Street west of Seventh Street. Town ended just behind the Lincoln football field. The western city boundary was someplace up the hill where the Desmond Motel is now, then a gravel pit, a good place to turn around and back down Main Street, only to make another U-turn, on and on. The act was called “dragging Main Street.” There also was another activity referred to as “drag down Main Street.” Always eastbound, the quest here was looking for action in the form of acceleration.

Where the Desmond Motel stands is a deep physical feature many would call a gully. But it was known to all as the Ditch. The Ditch contained an intermittent stream, but was very dry most of the time. The Ditch drains a large area of the top of White Mountain. The stream then flows down First Spring/Wild Horse Canyon, and over a flat stretch of flood plain underlain by an impervious bed of very hard conglomerate. Just across West Third North it leaves the conglomerate bed behind and then due to a steep stream gradient cuts a great mini canyon for several hundred yards ending at Main Street/Lincoln Highway road bed fill.

The Ditch was the best playground ever. Every kid in town knew about it – you could play or make believe anything and do almost anything play wise: cowboys and Indians, outlaws and the law, build forts, or cook a wiener for lunch. The only rules were, don’t hurt anybody or let them get hurt, don’t get hurt yourself, and if it gets cloudy and dark on White Mountain or town leave the Ditch immediately, count heads, and go directly home to report in – always. We were taught the buddy system. Everyone knew the rule, was expected to follow it, and did so, as we had all witnessed its dangers and wild unbelievable power after a big rain storm. Flash floods are always scary and violent, but the picture of huge trees, limbs, big rocks, and roaring brown waterfalls will engrave indelibly in your mind.

All the traffic from the east to the west coasts, California to New York, came right down Main Street. I don’t remember stop lights if there were any, and traffic wasn’t really heavy but you should look both ways before running across as the traffic came in spurts.

Snow came early most years and didn’t melt until late April. This led to a long sledding season. We all had sleds that we had gotten at some past Christmas. Santa, I believe it was, had given me a cool American Flyer. The best sledding hills were the ones down from Lincoln, Jefferson and Washington schools. Once new snow packed on the old you could really move. The fall line streets were bisected by lateral streets with stop signs. The drivers were careful, the sledders had spotters,and you could start at the very top of the hill, across Main Street, and down another block or two. With luck you could get almost to the underpass. I don’t recall any sled/car collisions but Don Sharrod passed under a slow moving semi. The town then started putting cinders across intersections.

As children, we walked everywhere, all the time, in all weather. We walked to school in the winter with a ton of clothes for warmth, we walked downtown to get fountain drinks, to go to the movies, the library and the early teen dances at school or the monthly Saturday one at the LDS Church across Main Street from where the new police station is. We usually went over the rail yards on the viaduct. The viaduct and the underpass were the only passages across the tracks. There was a lot of soot, ash, and smoke then as all the train engines burned coal, then later, oil. A cinder in the eye was normal, but burning cinders caused fires and holes in clothes. Sometimes an engine under the viaduct would do its thing and blow burning sparks at us as we walked across and then we’d run. Soot and cinders covered downtown several inches deep.

On special occasions, we would be driven by a parent. Families usually had one vehicle, maybe two, a car and a truck. Everyone worked, but cars were expensive.

The Island was used for picnics. The Pavilion was used for dances, roller skating and parties. The town swimming pool, an outdoor pool, was next to the river. Most kids took swimming lessons or at least learned to swim there. Parents and peers were a driving force, as we all knew of people the river had eaten.

The pool was pretty big, had a tower diving platform and board, along with one that was perhaps two feet high. The water was unheated and ice cold. When you turned blue and had uncontrollable shivers you got out of the water and lay on your towel in the sun to dry and warm up. They employed the town’s youth and you could buy hot dogs, hamburgers, soda pop and ice cream bars.

There were always grown-ups around with little kids, or lifeguards. Next to the pool was a large open area called Evers Field. This is where the town ball diamond was located, both hard ball and fast soft were played by local teams sponsored by local businesses, bars, stores, beer distributors.

Many people attended. The area was used for just about everything, all kinds of small town events: school bonfires, demolition derbies and rodeos.

School, sports, the opposite sex, and the outdoors occupied the minds, motives, and actions of the older students. Their new driver’s license and – hopefully – access, opened a new door. Mobility, personal space, and freedom could be yours! So we all worked to get enough money for a car and gas. If lucky we got the old car when the family bought a new one. However, to get full benefits of it you had to go, and stay, in school. In order to stay in school, and sports, you had to get good grades. Sounds easy enough but the distractions were many.

There were two grade schools, one on each end of town, Washington on the east, and Jefferson on the west. The junior high or middle school, grades 7-8, and Lincoln High School shared a building next door. The mixing of the two grade schools when they got to the higher grades was seamless. Every kid knew every kid, and there had never been rivalry in the grade schools.

During most of the year indoor socialization consisted of school, dances, ball games, movies at the Isis Theater, and stuff at the churches. As kids we walked to the Saturday matinees, as teens we rode to the night shows. There was no TV, radio stations were few and reception poor during the day but better at night when you could get KOMA and other popular music stations. 45 RPM records were “high tech” and transistors were real time science fiction. Pop music was oxygen to the teen.

We never had a “loser” team. Green River consistently had good teams in all the sports and other competitions like debate and music. Many times Green River excelled in their various interschool competitions. Most of the rivalry was quite peaceful, however on occasion relations between towns went kinetic. Older adolescents and young adults just out of school, and beer plus competition, didn’t mix well at all.

Younger kids waited all day long for the magic warm summer nights. The streets covered by the mighty old cottonwoods, like tunnels, even with dark walls all around. The corner street light became the center of focus and action. All the kids in the neighborhood would gather and play night games until they were called home. We lived for the night games: Hide-and-Seek, Mother May I, various tag or running games, Red Rover, Kick the Can, Capture the Flag, and anything else we could make up. There were several games played with cow pies: the Team Cow Pie Battle, Cow Pie Duel, Cow Pie Tag, and many others. First you looked for good ammo: flat, rounded edges, the center must be soft but firm. You’ll need to stock the good ones. They are thrown like a Frisbee, but much more gently as you want them to either strike the target with the whole projectile or have it fragment close to the target. A pie with a more or less liquid center seemed to be the most effective.

Sometimes my cousin Jack and I rode our horses from across the river in the evening. People then didn’t go ballistic if there was horse crap on the street.

City playgrounds were few and equipment – a teeter totter, slide and a couple of swings in a dirt vacant lot – were where we also played ball. Around schools were hopscotch, rope jumping, marbles and jacks. I think why we don’t see kids playing marbles now is because there’s no dirt. Everything is paved or grass.

Everyone was out on those summer nights, dogs and cats also, because that’s the way it was. Families were all outside doing something. There was no air conditioning. They worked in the yard, sat on the steps or porch swing, took walks, watched everything and discussed (or gossiped about) the rest.

We learned and developed our self confidence and of our self limitations. There should always be a balance between the two – at least that is what I learned at D.U.: Dirt University, Green River Campus. Dirt: We first crawled in the dirt, we dug foxholes and trench mines in the dirt, we had all natural dirt as well as homemade mud cakes. We were always playing on Castle Rock’s slope, Eagle’s Rock, Tea Kettle, any place that lizards and horned toads might hide. Mom just wanted to know where you were going, when you would be back, and who you were with.

When we finally got our bicycles nothing much changed except we could explore more range and do things farther afield, then farther and faster and farther. We would push and carry our heavy fat tired Columbias and Schwinns up Telephone Canyon and First Spring Canyon to the very top, then probably go down to the spring, eat our peanut butter and jelly Wonder bread sandwiches. When done playing we could literally fly back to town. First Spring Canyon was the steepest, hence the best. Hair-raising sometimes. My cousin Jack Evers rode all the way down the west slope of Castle Rock without wrecking. The trip did break the bike’s fork. Jackie only did it once. Nick Kandris fell off the face of the Rock and rolled to the bottom, suffering a concussion and bruises. No dirt road was left unexplored. The rock and dirt, mountains and desert were natural, and we were free.

In those days Green River city law enforcement consisted of two police officers: Chris Jessen was the town marshal – he had the day shift – and Ray Cameron had the night watch and was also the fire chief of the volunteer fire department. A low crime rate prevailed, most offences “petty,” as in stealing crab apples or garden carrots. The hobo camps went almost unnoticed, by the kids anyway, but then we avoided them, detouring around the camp under the railroad bridge.

As the police did not have two-way radios, “dispatch” was the local telephone operator; if the cop was on patrol she would turn on the two red lights on each side of town, one on the Tomahawk building and I think the Independent Market on 2nd South, to notify the cops to call in on a land line. The operator/dispatcher would follow his instructions, perhaps turn on the alarm siren or call out the fire fighters. I think the Union Pacific would use its steam whistle to relay the target location. The “Number, please” operator, a real live person, played a largely unnoticed but essential service because it worked well. Since every call in or out had to be switched by hand from one party to the other, both sender’s and receiver’s numbers would be known. Before there was 911, she would find the family doctor if he wasn’t home, she could find somebody’s way late kid. She was always on duty, you could count on that!

The police were seldom called. The parents and the peer group defined and enforced accepted behavior. If a problem or complaint arose the police would personally and informally speak to the parents – and that was most often the end of that, period. Hence, the cops were not normally perceived by youth as the big, bad, authoritarian, bully, boogie men, but instead for the most part as a potential source of friendly help if necessary.

All in all, the town was safe, secure, and home. No one locked their doors at night, they left windows open, left keys in the vehicle, the windows down and the ubiquitous rifle hanging in the rear window of the pickup. This casual behavior persisted at least until the booming ‘70s. Changes came slowly, many times you did not notice them until it was a done deal: an example was the new widespread use of dog leashes which seemed to happen overnight but had been developing all along.

Kids everywhere find changing and growing up very difficult at times but I feel that Green River made it smoother if not a little easier. The whole scheme – the teachers, the schools, the parents, the authorities, scouting, and perhaps especially one’s peers – all worked together to enhance, not stifle, development of strong, self-reliant, responsible individuals with the ability or team work. A general purpose person, ready and excited to take on the world.

Whatever violence means today, it was defined more narrowly during this time period. “Violence” did not include normal childhood, teenage dust-ups, including social ranking or pecking order, physical contact, i.e. fist fights. This was accepted, the norm. It happened, the police were rarely called, the fights seldom of a truly serious nature and seldom resulted in grave bodily harm. Cut lips, bloody noses, black eyes and banged-up knuckles were badges of honor. It really didn’t matter if you won (that was best, of course) or lost. What was really important was that you fought hard and with determination. Win respect and you have won the whole point. Most of the time there was no clear winner. Most fights started quickly and ended the same way, as friends on both sides broke it up by some unspoken agreement. The point was made so the fight must end. Serious injuries were very, very rare. Weapons were not condoned, neither gun or knife, kicking when down, head pounding on the ground, use of rocks (rock throwing was for little kids). These acts were minus points for respect, and since the point of the fight was respect and honor, you could lose even if you won. Fights were often after school and off the school grounds.

Ranking fights were fought by both sexes but never co-ed or mixed sex. When the girls fought it was total – actually scary – the boys prudently avoided any chance on an attack by an angry girl.

Summer was spelled O-U-T-D-O-O-R-S. Symptoms of Cabin Fever faded. Families spent a lot of time together in the summer: picnics, trips, hiking, biking, fishing, chasing the rare, elusive Wyoming rocks. Probably one of the reasons the whole family went on these outdoor activities together was because of logistics. It took a lot of people because of the work load, a lot of “man” hours planning, organizing, transport, erection of tent and camp, plus tear down. All the gear was very heavy and bulky, and everything you might need must be taken with you. Many drove as far as they could get, then set up camp. The tents were very heavy duty water resistant wall tents, sleeping bags rectangular canvas and down, cast iron pans and Dutch ovens, tin table ware, axe for wood, clothes – wool for nights – heavy canned food, gear for the horses. It took team work and strength. We are talking tonnage and camp trips were often for a week or so in the mountains. Work together, live together, and survive more or less in comfort and safety.

The annual elk season and hunt was a very big deal. Most families hunted as well as fished. Guns were a normal part of our life, there were several in the majority of houses: one in the truck, one in the car when traveling, one in the barn. All realized their value as a weapon, but were thought of first as a necessary tool, pure and simple. We grew up with them, we learned of their value and danger. We handled them and respected them, knowing what they can do. Gun safety and skills were drilled into us from an early age. Our own very first gun usually arrived for Christmas some time in grade school. It was usually a single shot bolt action .22 rifle. The larger center fire, large game calibers, came when we were ready for them. Everyone in most families learned to shoot. Many moms could shoot better and hunt harder than the male family members.

Hunting seasons were long, game was plentiful. We went out often, after school and before school, weekends, whenever possible we were out in the field (hills). Sage chicken and elk were favorites and the most looked forward to. The annual elk hunt was a very big deal. School was let out for about 10 days. Families locked the front door of the town house for the only time of the year and disappeared up into the mountains to their traditional hunting areas and traditional hunting camps, perhaps generations old. Everyone in the family old enough to get an elk license was in the field with rifle and tag. The harvest was the focus, as the winter meat was always needed. Meat, especially wild meat, was a large part of our dietary life and in old Green River a family could eat several elk in a year. Veggies came only in cans with few expensive fresh vegetables on the market. Wild meat was “organic,” plentiful, fresh tasting, and in a strange way, cheap. Flavored by the spices of the memories. However, the whole picture would include family and good seasonal friends’ reunions.

The district basketball tournaments held every year were the teen social equivalent of the family elk hunt. A very big, exciting time, a big deal! The tournament drew teams, cheerleaders, support personnel, fans, friends, and the families of those involved. The town was simply swamped with the visitors. The motels were filled to capacity in both Green River and Little America, as well as everyone’s spare bedrooms. Restaurants filled, businesses were busy, and cars were everywhere. The event lasted several days, the various classes, by size of the school, were all represented, the games well attended, the atmosphere jovial, excitement and anticipation filled the air. The kids in cars circled town on Main Street, the decorated cars, painted up and with crepe paper streamers in team colors, filled with same sex passengers, blowing horns, honking, yelling, screaming, singing team chants, waving the school’s colors, and neither last nor least checking out and flirting with the passengers of cars filled with the opposite sex.

Ritual proto mating dances in cars and mock ritual warfare went hand-in-hand. The weapons small arms – potato guns and water pistols, water filled balloons as grenades, and fire extinguishers were heavy machine guns, I guess. Yoyos were common bait, shiny and used to display skills, and as an attractor/distractor. In an escalation of fire power, surprise drive-by H2O attacks were common, spontaneous shootouts with potato guns at the drop of a yoyo were not unknown. No body counts were attempted – it was too dangerous. Then one morning after the championship games it was quite dead. Everyone was gone. Normal was back home.

In my eyes Green River school policies were fair, the teachers were knowledgeable and supportive. They were leaders, not only teachers. It seems the system worked well, you don’t get superlative graduates unless you have a superlative system with superlative teachers and administrators. The Green River schools and its graduates have always been top tier. The people demanded it.

We have all had special teachers who stood out and were a deep and lasting influence on us. Green River had many of that quality. For me the list of significant teachers would include, Miss Helen Haines, Mr. Ed Proctor, Miss Eunice Hutton, Tony Katana, Mrs. Fromm, and a Miss Tottam who taught geology one year. Along with the special school teachers I listed, I’d like to add Donette Butters Peterson, who taught me of the power of homemade 100% rhubarb pie, especially the ones she gave me as a birthday cake. They were supreme, but she would never share the secret thing that made them “Super Pie.”

I would also be remiss if I did not mention the invaluable knowledge, skills, values and experience that Boy Scouting gave me in growing up in Green River. Green River had two scout troops, the old original Troop #1, and the newer Troop #20, if I remember correctly. They were both good troops with the same goals but with completely different approaches. I was in Troop #1 with friends. Our Scout master was Abe Beckstead, who had been an infantry sergeant in WWII and Korea. In sum, he taught us the skills and knowledge of the real world, both inside and out, that would ensure our survival in many ways. To him, self confidence and team work was what it was all about. Reality and action, real things not abstractions. Get down (head and bull down) and get with it, that was Abe.

One very important aspect of his teaching was the teaching of the absolute importance of trust. The knowledge that you can definitely trust yourself and your buddy, and vice versa, then you have real strength. Trust is all and it must be built one increment at a time. Proof is in the pudding.

As an example, Troop #1 and Troop #20 and others were attending a jamboree. The contest this day was fire starting and building one that would burn apart a taut string about 18 or 20 inches above ground level. The winning team got a very nice double pit falling axe. We wanted it badly, they wanted it just as bad. The troop scattered to get wood, twigs, etc., and stockpile it for handy retrieval while others made the fire pit, set up the sticks supporting the string. Troop #20 wore complete clean, pressed uniforms, pants, shirt, shoes, all shined and pressed. None of us save one had a complete uniform, maybe a shirt and probably just a kerchief. We just hung around the fire pit getting ready. Troop 20 built a beautiful fire in the tepee/square batten fire structure, beautiful textbook quality, engineering correct. We made a fairly high tepee structure, packed with thistle cotton, and dried pine pitch. The secret is focus on the string’s destruction, that came first.

The signal was given, both sides using flint and steel quickly got a spark and ignited the fires. Theirs burned beautifully. Ours literally exploded, plus the bunch of dried grass we had quickly placed on it after the contest began and the fires lit (we had sort of hidden it) flashed with a fire ball and the string just vaporized – poof. Without a smile on our lips but in our heart, Troop #1 had struck again.

Abe worked us through future plans and problems we were supposed to solve. Many do’s and don’ts sounded like fortune cookie inserts. Keep focus, maintain a low profile, stay out of the skyline, avoid being back lit, beware the water hole, always remain balanced, etc. Many hikes were survival skills. We had some cold, cold outings with him, tracking, exploring. I think scouting was needed and cool. Common perhaps, but helpful wood skills galore were offered us, and most stuck. We got really good at what we did. “Capture the Flags” became an art, how to see at night, when to freeze and listen, how to really see or hear. He taught us self reliance, buddy reliance, self trust and trust in a group. It doesn’t sound like much to be taught but its importance cannot be over stated. But above all he taught us awareness, usually underrated. Both Abe and Dick Bennett were big on awareness, whatever that is.

As the south side of town grew, so did the importance of Uinta Drive and the strip malls, draining the importance from downtown Green River. But Green River retained a small town atmosphere, a frontier spirit, still with neighbors looking out for their neighbors.

I believe that growing up in Green River was basic training for life’s struggles, tangles, conflicts, triumphs and defeats – well, let’s just say, life.