Tuesday

Stayed All Summer

A Bit Of Porcupine History, Part 2

In the beginning, Porcupine differed from the other federally regulated parks in that you could set up 'squatters rights' and stay 'til the snow fell, if you so desired, which many seasonal campers did. Nature so arranged Porcupine that swimming, boating and camping are all done in one spot. It was interesting to see how the habitual ones came as soon as school was out and took choice spots by the water's edge, then stayed all summer, rent free.

Usually Porcupine Bay kids raised there during the choice growing season were a healthy, happy bunch that didn't get into trouble, except for digging sand holes for night strollers to stumble into.

Wally Sowers, a Spokane fireman commuted to work so his family could have the whole season to enjoy summer's dog-days at the Bay. That fall one of his daughters, Jeannie, didn't want to go back to the impersonal life of city schools. She stayed with us so she could enjoy a year of high school life, country style.

With so many semi-permanent residents taking over Porcupine, it finally got to the point where campers were beginning to slide into the lake. There were just too many people wanting to enjoy what the Bay had to offer. First come, first serve. A blockade had to be enforced. When rules of limitation and fees were tacked up, sounds of upsetness could be heard around the Bay. However, most of the old summer squatters realized their free days of stays would forever disappear.

(continued)

A Bit of Porcupine History, Kik-Back Country p. 81

Walt Kik

"...swimming, boating and camping were all done in one spot"

Walt Kik


Phil Krogh

My photo from 1971

Saturday

Knocked Your Eyes Out

A Bit Of Porcupine History, Part 3

During the years our National Recreational Resorts have been a retreat for interesting people. Porcupine was no exception. A quite a few summers ago, a group of Hungarian refugees sort of took over Porcupine on weekends. How could that happen? Well, in a way the Russians were responsible for it. These rebels got tired of having the Russians sitting in their country. So they took pot shots at them. But they were outnumbered and had to run like heck for their lives. The Catholic Diocese of Spokane took them under their wings so they could survive and find jobs.

When the Hungarians arrived in Spokane, they let homesickness set in 'til one of their leaders, Egon Batai found Porcupine Bay. The following weekend most of them made the maiden trip to this spot. These run-a-ways were a tightly knit tribe and lived all their lives near a beautiful lake, so Porcupine was an exellent substitute. Continually on weekends, these happy Hungarians would load themselves down with arms full of picnic stuff, tents, and lots of bathing suits.

The Batais had two daughters that knocked your eyes out. The rest came in various shapes and sizes. They were all highly skilled in their trades. Egon painted portraits that were more real than real. Through Gonzaga, arrangements were made for Bing Cosby to sit a spell for Batai so he could paint him with a pipe in his mouth and a fishing hat on his head. When Jack Kennedy got shot, Egon, with the aid of photos, painted a larger-than-life size picture of our dead president. It was sent back to widow Jacqueline. She picked Egon's portrait over other entries and it is now hanging in the Kennedy show-off room. Egon was also the fussiest picture taker I ever saw. Down at the Bay, he used special reflectors and always looked in every direction before clicking the camera. The enlargement he made of Sugar and me did look a little shinier. 


A Bit of Porcupine History, Kik-Back Country p. 81

Walt Kik

Walt Kik
Photo Courtesy of Estate of Egon Batai

Monday

One Special Day, There It Was!

In the fall of 1927 an inexperienced teenager saw pictures in a farm magazine where power from tractor wheels were being used for pulling purposes. An obsession hit him. He wanted a tractor in front of his plows, and other things, instead of horses. There was no way to be happy without a tractor. He talked his dad into mortgaging the farm.

The half-size farm did have enough value to guarantee a 15-30 tractor. It was the biggest one International Harvester built at the time. It took weeks before it arrived on a flatcar.

One special day, there it was! A shiny new tractor sitting next to the Davenport depot. While dad was busy putting all the wheel lugs into the back of our old Essex, I was pouring water into the empty radiator. It took a lot of cranking before we found out there was no gas in the tank.

The tractor was steered down the road where it was going to spend the rest of its life. Before reaching home, Jack Telford flagged me down. He wanted to know if I really intended to farm with that rig, and what I was going to use for traction when the ground got soggy.

The next day, horseman Brandy stopped in to let me know that this tractor would be of some use back in the corn country. Butterfly feelings hit my stomach as lugs and rims were being installed to the tractor wheels.

The first job the tractor had to do was to pull some plows. It was quite a sweaty job steering around all those fence posts as the field was being opened up. Clumps of neighbors began to show up and were waiting by the starting corner of the field. They were wanting to see how the stubble was getting plowed without the aid of live horse-power.

After clutching the tractor out of gear, it was like parking in a group of critics. A ray of encouragement came over me when Herman Maurer said he wouldn't mind having a tractor like mine if he had all level land.

The rest didn't think that way. "It will pack the soil too much," they said. Also, "It burns gasoline. Hay is cheaper." "If I run out of hay, I can get my fields plowed on stubble pasture." Fred Koch asked, "Why do you want to take on more farm expenses?" He stated he had to tear down his combine motor every season after averaging only three weeks of running. The rings and bearings were shot by then.

In those days, good air cleaners were not invented yet. Homemade ones usually had to do. The Fred Koch Special was a gunny sack placed over the intake pipe. It did keep out straw, and other flying objects, allowing only clean dust to enter the motor.

Before the year was out, lo and behold, my tractor started making smoke instead of power! All that unfiltered dust had ground the rings down to a thin image of themselves. Even the lowest gear was too painful for the dusted out motor. The tractor did manage to limp back to the barn, where it was parked in the back stall for an overhaul job.

The partly finished field caused Quentin Maurer to ask why I took a vacation from farming. I don't remember how I answered that question. It must have been a vague one. After all, it was sort of a classified secret to save the reputation of future tractors. Later, an intake pipe was installed, reaching a height of eight feet above tractor height. A decent air filter was then bolted on.

Anyway, the seeds for future tractors finally got planted out here at Rocklyn. The next year Charlie Rux got antsy and swapped his string of nags for a Holt 30 tractor. Soon to follow was the Grob brothers. For a spell, the Great Depression checked the flow of tractors taking over the farms. Finally, when Roosevelt pulled the right economic levers, sounds of tractors could be heard in about every field.

"The Hazards of Rocklyn's First Tractor" Kick-Back Country, p. 75


"...an intake pipe...eight feet above tractor height."

Walt Kik

 Patent # US155961



Friday

I Advanced from Tying Granny Knots

The only one I know who should have been allowed to haul [sacks of] wheat was Walt Kruger. His body had 50 pounds more muscle and bone reinforcement than the average sack lifter. He was built high enough that a sack of wheat came level with the truck bed when he straightened up.

The last few days of harvest empty sacks were not needed for refills, so I was able to test other jobs Orlin put me on. Indian Jim, the horse skinner, was quitting because rodeo time was coming up. Seemed like he loved to get thrown off bucking horses. Windy Anderson then got a chance to advance from sewing sacks to showing his skill of driving 24 horses from the swinging crow's nest. With the help of Bill Riddle, I advanced from tying granny knots for ears on the sacks to a rather neat sack sower.

The last days of harvest Windy Anderson got the "harvest itch" and quit to go looking for women and to raise hell in general 'til his harvest wages disappeared. This gave Riddle a chance to be scared when he drove all those horses on steep hillsides. He got a spooky feeling when his crow's nest nearly touched the wheel team when going up over steep draws.

Tractors were threatening the horse farmers that year. On the last day of harvest, when we finished a long pull up a steep hill, Orlin hollered at Riddle to call a halt to all those horses. He spotted neighbor Carl Grob's Holt 30 tractor fast approaching a steep hill with a combine tied on the back.

We had a choice view of Carl trying to snake the tractor to the summit. When the Holt wiggled and dug for traction, a smile of contentment came over Orlin's Face. It was replaced with a surprised look when the tractor made it to the top with the combine still hooked on. Orlin's patience had to wait 'til times got better before flirting with a tractor.

"Harvest Was In The Bag" Kik-Backs, p. 8

Thursday

A Drag and a Mistake

In 1932, due to hard times, I decided to retire my under-powered wheel tractor and the Deering combine during that harvest season. Orlin Maurer and I consolidated our harvest operation that year as a form of survival.

After burning the midnight oil, an agreement was reached that Orlin would cut my crop for one buck an acre. That is, if I furnished hay-type fuel for his horses. In return, I took an oath to pick up all his wheat for a flat rate of one-cent a sack, if he would keep the gas tank full. My truck held 30 sacks. For every load I delivered to Rocklyn, I was credited with 30 cents worth of non-inflated currency.

It sounded great, but it was a drag and a mistake. I wasn't designed to lift a whole crop of wheat off the ground. Those sacks weighed the same as I did.

Being a health nut, already in those days, I had one heck of a problem to survive while working away from my independent farm. My idol, Bernarr Macfadden, was a big-shot physical culturist in those days, but he wasn't very popular with the meat-and-potato farmers.

"You got to eat meat or you won't have the strength to load those wheat sacks," my cousin Orlin would tell me with some authority. True, with a peanut butter and fruit diet, I was just barely able to get 10 loads a day to the warehouse, enough to keep up with the combine. I still believe, with a steak laying in my stomach, I would have fallen behind by a load or two.

Going semi-nude was no fun either when it came to loading sacked wheat. Legs got scratched up with stubble. Gunny sacks worked like sandpaper on exposed wrists and knees when used to pry those awkward sacks up and onto the truck bed. It didn't take long to learn to slip into a pair of pants and shirt, then sweat it out 'til the truck got loaded.

"Harvest Was In The Bag" Kik-Backs p.80

Walt Kik

Tuesday

I Already Appreciated America

Working on Knott's Berry Farm, Part 3

More than four decades had passed before Sugar and I got down there for our first long visit with my dad. While scanning the local paper, I noticed that Walt Knott had just been out visiting Norco Grange. Feeling I missed a chance to yak old times with him, I grabbed Sugar and beat it down to his now famous berry farm. After spotting a security guard, I started telling him I knew and worked for Walt Knott when he was a little shot. Could we see him please? He thought it was possible if he was not out politicking and gave us a pass to his office. We sat in his office waiting room for one heck of a long time; finally his secretary said that Mr. Knott does not keep track of his former employees. After letting her know my aquaintance went back to the Model T and dirt roads when only a few of us worked for him, finally she said, "Just a minute please." My heart started carrying my blood around real fast. I thought now I can talk to him about old times, goody goody.

But things didn't go that way when I got into his office. He recognized me and we agreed it had been a long time. I had a feeling I had better say something brainy. Noticing a large picture of Ronald Reagan on the wall, I commented that "You folks have got yourselves a new governor." He said "Yes, we worked hard to get him in." And added that Reagan owed the Republican party a lot of gratitude. Finally, he asked what I was doing and where I lived.

Immediately he branded me as a Washington wheat king of some sort and started telling me to work hard for the Republican party, as it's out to save the nation. He told me to get in touch with certain politicians in Spokane and Seattle. Also wanted to know if public power was interfering with my farm operations. To the last question I never could figure out what it had to do with my scab rock farm. I sorta stumbled around and said something about the Roosevelt administration did save me from going broke. That brought silence.

To break the spell, I told him I would have gone out to the Grange if I had known he was going to be there. He figured the Grange had lost its pioneer spirit of progress. After some visiting about his Calico holdings, I wanted a picture of him. He posed, business like, behind his rather interesting desk, then handed me a couple of passes and said, "Here, take your wife and see Independence Hall. It will make you appreciate America."

I already appreciated America, so Sugar and I didn't take time to see it. I was anxious to attend Grange the following Saturday. I asked what they thought about Walt Knott. The master said, "We kind of put the screws on the old boy. We were happy to have him out here to give a talk, but he has the idea that everyone can make it big. He doesn't realize someone has to be around to do the work."

Walt is getting pretty old by now. I don't think I'll go back and ask him what he thinks of Jimmy Carter.

"Working on Knott's Berry Farm" Kik-Backs, p. 10

visitbuenapark.com


Monday

Buy Two Acres, Get Rich

Working on Knott's Berry Farm, Part 2

At that time, Knott was busy fooling around trying to cross a bunch of stickerey old bushes. He finally did come up with his now-famous boysenberry, which he took credit for creating. He was an easy guy to work for as long as you looked busy. He loved Model T's, mules, horses and strawberries.

On strawberry picking days, he would drive up in his chopped off Model T that had a cupboard built on the back. It held 40 flats. One day, when the last of the strawberries were being picked, (he just hired the four of us) we decided to pick a couple of flats for ourselves, saving all the large berries. That afternoon Knott drove up to the field. I had the habit of counting and telling how many were picked. When he asked, I forgot to subtract our flats. A little Mexican boy, that was following us around all day eating strawberries, spoke up and told Knott the other two flats were way out in the weeds. So I fetched the missing berries and was told to pour the oversized berries over the other flats, as he said they were not full enough. He must have forgiven me, as the next week he hired my tractor and me to do some field work. [He] also trusted me to keep track of the hours.

In the fall of 1927, working for Walt Knott was fast coming to an end. My dad was going broke in real estating. It was chicken ranch country only on paper. The saying was "buy one acre and be independent, buy two acres, get rich". I just didn't work out that way. If it weren't for my aunt taking over dad's holdings, we would not have been able to come back to Washington.

Dad bought an old Essex car so he could haul my mom and a big fat load of earthly belongings. I took the body off of our old 1915 Model T that had seen four previous trips to California, made it into a "bug", as it was called. To do that, I just moved the gas tank back, put a board in the front of the frame, and used it as a seat. The gas tank was used by my sister and I as a back rest. Of course, the steering wheel was way up in the air and had to be tied down to a two-by-four across the motor frame. My sister had no choice but to wear pants, that, or ride back to Washington with a skirt in her face. Before leaving, I bought a new cowboy hat. (It did work as an unbrella through the rains in Oregon.)

The day came for the two outfits to head north. We drove by Anaheim to say good-bye to the gang. They were working down there picking the last of the watermelons for the season. Years and years later, that same field became the home of an exact replica of Independence Hall in Philadelphia.

"Working On Knott's Berry Farm" Kik-Backs, p. 9


Leaving California


Sunday

Renting My Muscles Out

In 1919 my dad got a brainstorm and rented the farm out, then moved us all down to southern California. That depressing event lasted 'til 1927, when luckily, my dad got wiped out. That caused us to move back to good old Washington.

I worked for Walt Knott for two years. The only experience I had of renting my muscles out for twenty-five cents an hour. The old guy got to be quite a big-shot after I left California, and came back to the promised land.

Since then, he moved in a whole pile of shacks and what-not from the desert and opened up what is now known as "Knott's Berry Farm". I still think the most interesting place to see is the restored mining town out in the Mojave Desert called "Calico". When I saw old man Knott seven years ago, he sais he turned Calico over to the state of California and it is now operated the same way as the Hearst Castle at San Simeon.

While living down south, my folks, in the spring of 1925, bought a 15-acre ranch and accessories including an old-time International 8-16 tractor. A Mexican named Jim was thrown in on this package deal. Jim farmed this place until I legally quit school upon reaching the age of 16.

I no more got to tear around a little with the old tractor when my dad decided to divide and sell most of the ranch into two-acre tracts. I was sorta left flat footed. A ray of sunshine entered my young life when this little guy Knott rented 15 acres across the road from us. A few tears before he had rented ten acres down the canyon near Anaheim where he lived with his wife and four sprouting kids.

This valley was full of honest, hard working folks that came from Oklahoma or Missouri with pockets empty, but were satisfied if they were allowed to survive. Walt Knott and his family came from this same background, but he seemed to have more guts, and must have had a little silver in his pockets. We were the only family around there that came from up north. Two of our neighbor lads rode out with their folks and step-kids from Missouri in a broken down old truck.

A typical young, lanky okie that always had a large chew of tobacco in his mouth; he hauled his mother and some tame rabbits out from Oklahoma in and old Hupmobile. He wanted to marry my sister, and later when we left, he became a foreman for Knott. A few years agfo he stopped in to visit us. Now he happily owns his own berry ranch in Oregon.

Anyway, after Knott rented this vacant field, these neighbor lads and myself laid for him and, when he finally showed up, he gave us a job. We were put to work digging out sand burrs and putting in new strawberry plants. Besides us three, the other neighbor was added, also and old guy, and three Mexicans. The crew stayed the same during those two years, except at the height of strawberry picking time, when he would hire some of the poor starving chicken ranchers that were scattered throughout the valley.

During the slow days he would put us to work down at his Anaheim place. He had already built an open, winged shed by the road that ran past his place, and was selling mostly strawberries and watermelons. Soon Knott put up a shed-like stand where we lived. I sure got hooked on strawberries while working for him. I have never taken a withdrawl cure yet. So when the first strawberries hit Davenport each spring, I gotta have a strawberry fix. Sugar and I get away with more than two flats a week all season long till I frantically cannot find anymore. (continued)

"Working On Knott's Berry Farm" Kik-Backs p. 9

Saturday

The Bella Abzug of Her Time

Old Lady Marcellus, Part 3

After six years of Rocklyn living, old lady Marcellus found the scab-rock produced only rock roses, and the farmland was too thin to keep her two dependants fed Missouri style. She sold out and bought Sandy's Model T Ford agency in Davenport, appointed Frank to sell Fords, and retired Archie.

While living in Davenport, Alice started to mess around in politics. A Democrat to the very core, her convictions were simple and forceful. She practiced a "live and let live" policy. For local humor and some facts, I wish she were around to help us Democrats today. The local opposition candidates used to walk on the other side of the street when she came downtown. She was the Bella Abzug of her time.

The old lady was never inside a church 'til her funeral. She claimed she had too many irons in the fire to take time out for such things as religion. Alice used to say, "If there is an ornery devil in the supernatural world, I believe I can handle him."

Husband Archie grieved her death considerably, and spent many an afternoon up at the Davenport cemetery. "It's that constant sound of her voice that I miss," he would tell my dad.

Gray-haired Frank, with the old lady gone, felt free to marry that teenage Borck girl. She had been sitting on the sidelines waiting. Upon selling the Ford garage, the newlyweds placed father Archie in the back seat, and drove to Long Beach, California, where he didn't last very long.

Frank bought an acre of ground on Signal Hill and opened up a service station. Soon a wild-catter drilled a hole and struck oil. This made it possible to pile up more money than he could handle 'til a bunch of professional crooks relieved him of that burden. When Frank died, he was financially as naked as when Alice Marcellus bore him back in Jesse James' country.

"Old Lady Marcellus" Kik-Backs, p. 75


ALICE wife of
ARCHABALD MARCELLUS
Mar 12 1852
Sept 13 1917

Thursday

Only Blockheads Would Do Such a Thing

Back east, before the turn of the century, where logic prevailed, farmers never sacked their wheat. They caught the threshed grains in large wagon boxes as it came tumbling out of the separators. We older farmers out west don't have to recall very far back to remember that there must have been a cog missing between our ears.

How come we didn't rationalize that it wasn't very smart to drop our threshed wheat in 140-pound bags flat on the ground from the combine? Later we had to go back and hunt for them in the tall stubble. Then by using brute strength, we picked the sacks up with our bare hands and lifted them into the wagon or truck.

For some of us that same practice was going on when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. It makes my back ache just thinking about it. Nowadays only blockheads would do such a thing.

"Harvest Was In The Bag", Kik-Backs p.80


Wednesday

Liberated Women and a Hen-Pecked Husband

Old Lady Marcellus, Part 2

Let's go back to the turn of the century, then step into the razorback hog country in Missouri, to where they produced genuine, old-time, liberated women. That's where Alice Marcellus fed her little son, Frank, until he got to be a big guy. She then told her husband, Archie, it was time to trade in their holdings for a bit of Washington land, so Frank could get a better start in life.

The Todd family also followed the Marcelluses to Davenport. Alice and her hen-pecked husband made a payment on an established scab-rock farm right next to our place. The Todds settled in Davenport and the two daughters took up school teaching. Later, they married a couple of well-matured Gunning boys, and settled on farms where the grass was greener.

Alice figured they could farm better with mules whose ancestors came from Missouri. She found such discarded tall and skinny mules from farms in the Harrington district. When Archie, or son Frank, needed a rest she would slip into a pair of overalls and drive a string of mules 'til suppertime.


"Old Lady Marcellus" Kik-Backs p.75


Photo: Google Images

Monday

She Chewed Tobacco

As a young lad, I never knew women were not supposed to be equal. Mother never complained. Also, my tender years were spent in the atmosphere of a slim but over-powering Amazon neighbor that was liberated from day one. Rocklyn citizens were kind of scared of its free-swinging woman. We always called her the "old lady" even though she was only in her late 50's. Alice Marcellus was her name.

We young ones felt safe having old lady Marcellus as our friend and neighbor. That's because she was hard-boiled in a positive and protective way. She chewed tobacco, and we kids figured that's what made her brave and tough. Alice claimed to be related to Jesse James. In those days, being related to some famous crook gave a person certain prestige.


"Old Lady Marcellus" Kik-Backs p.75

Walt Kik
Spokesman Review April 30th, 1915

Sunday

A Scary and Nutty Thing to Do

In the search for  Sugar, I just had to do some moonlighting between my Saturday night cargo. By vacating the car down to one passenger, I was then able to locate a Fayetta, then an Evelyn, thus proving to myself that I could handle dates. 

The real break came when Bob Hardy found his Edna. That caused Bob to get married, and that caused the neighborhood to give them a Shivaree. Wanting to see what a bride looked like spurred me to show up. After the traditional noise and destruction of a Shivaree, and meeting Bob's brand new wife, I got to thinking that was no place to start a political argument, so I just gawked around, saying hello to everyone.

All at once, a smiling face met my face. It was Sugar. I thought to myself, "Could she be that stretched-out girl who not so many moons ago, waved at me out of the school bus window?" She sure did look different since all her equipment had arrived. I knew her when she was a timid little girl. Once I offered my knee to her as a chair, but she rejected me by walking away, carrying her doll upside down. 

A week after Hardy's Shivaree, we attended a high school carnival at Creston. In less than a month I took Sugar to a wobbly old justice of the peace and got married. A scary and a nutty thing to do, but I found my Sugar.

"Restless Days" Kik-Backs p.3





Friday

Ego-Filled, Hairy-Chested Husbands

This time of year with its long days and the smell of coming harvest, and the memory of events creeps in. Much has been written historically about men, so how about paying special tribute to the pioneer women of bygone days?

At best, it was tough sledding for those early day wives. Sugar and I visited many an old time cemetery and found stacks of tombstones describing departed young mothers. Many babies dot these old cemeteries too.

Pioneer families usually grew to double-digit size. There was no birth control knowledge. No equal rights laws or ERA movements to help those over-burdened and over-worked women. Sure, a lot of progressive husbands treated their wives the best way they knew how. Yet, the wives' brain power was weighed one notch lower by their ego-filled, hairy-chested husbands. It was a no-no for a woman to vote, or to express her rights.


"Old Lady Marcellus" Kik-Backs, p.75

Wednesday

I Was Their Daddy-o

Over four decades ago, to find Sugar, I traded off my Model A convertible, minus the side curtains, for a closed-up car with windows and the works. After some solo dance practicing behind the barn, I was once again ready for North Star Grange. Those lovely volunteer dance instructors at the Grange Hall were very tender with me. 

Soon I became good with my feet and body bounce. Later the tunes of “A Tisket, A Tasket” and the “Beer Barrel Polka” kept ringing in my ears long after the orchestra turned itself off. 

Before developing enough intestinal fortitude to see if a Sugar existed, a couple of high school girls asked for a ride to the dance. Later their girlfriends asked to pile in too, and soon the names of Clara, Olive, Pete, Wyonia, Irene, and Theresa became familiar to me. 

This load of future wives always came home with me. They were just scouting around and I was their daddy-o. A mother figured that a four-to-one cargo ratio had some built-in safety features. So that left me with an image that I had to live up to. My duty was to get them all home safely in time for some sleep before church time rolled around.

"Restless Days" Kik-Backs p.3

(What3Words Map)

Tuesday

Boy, Oh Boy!

What did most of us do for recreation in those early days? For some of us, we would hit the dusty trail to Crab Creek. No one went that far, unless they owned an automobile. We kids would ride in the back seat, where the dust would just love to whirl around. The last half mile consisted of bouncing over rocks and dry grass, 'til we all got to a green spot near the creek edge. Blankets were spread out on the grass and lunch baskets were set on the lumpy blankets. We all sat on our knees and ate lunch "Indian style".

A well-heeled farmer, who owned an ice-house, would bring a large wooden freezer that was loaded with homemade ice cream. Boy, oh boy! Did that frozen stuff taste good.

After picnic-lunch, the men would converse about how the crops looked, while we kids went on a grasshopper catching spree. Finally the water sports would begin. The males would roll up their pant legs, and the females would hold up their dresses to wade into the creek. A big deal! In those days it would happen about once a year.

Before heading home, a line-up took place in front of some rustling Quaking Asp trees for pictures. For me, the trip back home was filled with dreams that maybe my dad would build an ice-house. Then I could help him put up ice the next winter so we could have ice cream every day when it got hot.

"Early Day Outings" Kik-Backs p.66

Crab Creek is sometimes referred to as the 
"longest ephemeral stream in North America".
(Wikipedia)