Everybody has a story: The weather may have gotten icy, but the cows were feeling no pain

My story begins with, “How cold was it?”

It was so cold that the Columbia River had frozen over. And this wasn’t the first time that happened, just the one I can remember. My dad told us about walking across the river from Vancouver to Portland. I am not sure if that was in 1909 or 1919, the year I was born. The river had frozen over several times before that, as documented in the 1800s.

My dad was an adventurous man, always trying out new things. He loved sports, had done amateur boxing back in Wisconsin, and worked as a “River Rat” on the Kickapoo River there. You really had to be athletic to do that. It’s the art of being able to roll the logs, after they are in the river, into place with your feet and a pole to form a raft.

When we lived in the Green Mountain area, he played on a local baseball team and also on one from Forest Hills. He saved a picture of them from The Columbian, taken in 1912. He worked at the shipyards during World War I, building spruce airplanes, as he was a carpenter. He stayed at a boarding house in Vancouver and came home to Skamania on weekends.

I was born in Skamania on a ranch down by the Columbia River in 1919, the eighth of nine children. Mrs. Sams, a neighbor, brought my baby brother four years later in a basket over her arm. At least, she came to help my mom, and when she left her basket was empty and there was my baby brother, Jiggs — another redhead. His name is really Floyd, but his hair stuck up like the Jiggs fellow in the funny papers, so he’s been stuck with that nickname ever since.

When we were still quite young, the family moved to a ranch and farm along the Elochoman River at Cathlamet. There was still no road into Cathlamet from outside, and one really cold winter the Columbia River froze over so there was no boat traffic. There was usually a ferry boat over to Oregon. We had no way to get supplies. Finally, arrangements were made to have a small plane fly over and drop supplies by parachute onto the school grounds. It was an exciting day for all the school kids. Most of us had never seen a plane up close, let alone a parachute, and we got to go outside the building and watch.

The following weekend, we heard sleigh bells and a lot of whooping and hollering coming down the road. Pretty soon, two fellows in a big sleigh, pulled by a mule with sleigh bells on, came into sight. They had some supplies for the town baker and had come over the logging roads from the Stella area. They also brought whiskey with them — to help keep them warm, they said — and they were feeling no pain. They were almost as entertaining as if it really had been Santa Claus ‘jingling’ over the snow.

As I look back on those times, I realize that the whiskey was probably bootlegged, as I remember Dad having trouble with some guys that built a still up above our ranch. They put the mash in the creek, and our cattle drank from it and got drunk. The cows looked funny staggering around and leaning on the fence. Dad rode up to find the source and asked them not to dump any more mash in the creek. He didn’t care what they were doing but didn’t want any more drunken cows.

Our family moved to Vancouver in August 1930 and life continued as the family all enjoyed playing music, dancing, horseshoes by car headlights, baseball games in the street and just generally settling down. Some of my brothers formed the Seeley Family band and played for dances all over Clark County.

I was 90 in October and my baby brother, Jiggs, and I are all that’s left, but we have great memories.

EVERYBODY HAS A STORY welcomes nonfiction contributions up to 1,000 words maximum and relevant photographs. E-mail is the best way to send materials so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA 98666.