Oregon relatives: (top row) my Dad, Cousin Christy, Uncle Sam, (middle row) my Mom, Aunt Hilma, Grandma, Granddad, and Aunt Helen (front row) Lisa and me
At least twice a year our family loaded up the station wagon and headed to my Dad’s family in Oregon. I loved the journey north, winding through the northern California redwoods on Highway 101.
The trip usually took two days. We stayed at the Thunderbird Lodge in Eureka, dining on pancakes in the morning. It was on to the Trees of Mystery Gift Shop, guarded by a gigantic statue of Paul Bunyan. The final leg of the journey we traveled along the rugged southern Oregon coast.
Our most memorable journey north was at Christmas time in 1964 when torrential rains flooded the roads. Fortunately, we stayed a few hours ahead of disaster on Highway 101. The Klamath Bridge collapsed behind us, its landmark, sculptured, bears floated down the river.
When we arrived, the Coquille Valley in southern Oregon was completely flooded. We could only see the roofs of houses and barns barely showing above the swollen river. As we pulled up to my grandparents' home, nearby flooded neighbors paddled by in canoes.
We waited out the storm for several days, trying to escape home on Route 5 through the Siskiyou Mountains. But heavy snows stopped all traffic at Ashland, as huge semi-trucks jackknifed on slick, icy roads. Dad turned around and, as family lore has it, found the last remaining hotel room in Ashland. While my parents worried if we would ever make it home, my brother, sister and I played in the snow at Lithia Park.
In later years, my Dad admitted that driving through the storm was one of the stupidest things he ever did; however, I remember the trip through the eyes of a ten-year-old as a great rainy adventure.
We always received a hero’s welcome when we visited Grandma and Granddad. Grandma put out a huge home cooked meal and capped her extravaganza with a lemon meringue pie, baked especially for me.
After our meal, I sat in my Granddad’s workshop, where we built a wooden model of a stagecoach. “Did you know that my uncle was a stage coach driver in Wallowa?” my Granddad said, as he told his stories of growing up in eastern Oregon.
“How did you lose your thumb?” I asked.
“Chopping wood on the ranch as a teenager.” He replied.
And so, the conversation went late into the night, until all of us kids were bedded down in sleeping bags on my grandparents’ living room floor.
For the first few years, my Aunt Hilma, Uncle Sam, and cousins Jimmy and Christy, lived just a block away from my Grandparents in Coquille. Later the Shultz’s moved to the nearby seaside town of Bandon, Oregon.
I loved the summers in Bandon, especially visiting the local beaches. My aunt and uncle’s home was on several acres. In their back yard were two or three head of cattle. They were supposed to provide steaks at a future time, but always escaped their fate by endearing themselves to the family. In addition to cows, there was an old pickup truck, which my uncle let me drive around his pasture.
By the time I was in middle school I was begging my parents to stay longer in Bandon. My parents agreed to let me spend a summer with my Aunt and Uncle. I slept in my cousin Jimmy’s room, as he was away serving in the Navy. On weekdays my Uncle Sam would wake me up at the crack of dawn. He would cook us a full breakfast of eggs, potatoes, and bacon, before we set out to sell cars. Some mornings we checked in with his dealership in Coquille, but most days we would drive into the green Oregon countryside, talking to farmers and ranchers about Buicks, Volvos, and Jeeps.
These long excursions gave Sam a chance to educate his nephew about cattle. I soon became the only kid in Mill Valley who could distinguish a Hereford from a Holstein or knew the anatomical details of how a bull became a steer. Sometimes in the afternoons we would stop at the local livestock auctions, my uncle warning me not to raise my hand or speak, lest I inadvertently ended up buying a sheep or a cow.
I loved my Uncle Sam. He was a huge man, of German stock, heralding from the Midwest. He had slogged through the mud in Europe, fighting Hitler’s army during WWII. You could tell he was crazy about my aunt Hilma, whom he called “Clemmy.” He gave her a huge bear hug every time he returned home.
There was only one area where Sam and I didn’t see eye to eye. He was an outspoken Republican, and I had been raised in a Democratic household where Franklin Roosevelt was revered. So, Sam and I debated whether the New Deal had saved the nation or led the country to hell in a handbasket.
The evenings were reserved for discussion with my aunt Hilma. She told me stories of working in the Portland shipyards during WW II as a “Rosie-the-Riveter.” She sat at the dining room table with a twinkle in her eye, coffee in one hand and cigarette in the other. We talked late into the night about books, politics, or family until I headed off to bed to get a few hours’ sleep.
One morning Sam was in front yard working on an old truck propped up on blocks. His legs jutted out from under the front of the car as he asked, “Davey, hop in and turn on the engine for me, so I can see if I’ve got it working.” I got in the truck cab, and turned the key. The engine started, the chassis shook, and the truck fell from the blocks. Before I could get out of the truck to see if I had crushed my uncle, Sam popped up from under the truck grinning.
At the end of the summer I returned to the Bay Area. My parents let me take the Greyhound bus home all by myself. I peered out the window spotting a herd of cream-colored cows. “Those are Charlets, imported all the way from France.” I authoritatively told my adult bus seatmate.
Paul Bunyan still stood stoically guarding the Trees of Mystery Gift Shop as we continued down the redwood highway. We passed Eureka and the Thunderbird Lodge until late in the evening we arrived at the Mill Valley Bus Depot.
“Can I visit Uncle Sam and Aunt Hilma again next summer?“ I asked my parents as I jumped from the bus.
I was sure I just needed one more summer to convince my Uncle Sam that FDR really had saved the country.
— 2010