It’s still a miracle to me how my parents kept our family together during the 1930s. My mother cried when the price of eggs went from 10 cents to 12 cents a dozen. And my dad more than once risked encountering the law during offseason fishing and hunting to ensure our table had meat.
He taught me how to shoot his Remington pump-action .22 rifle when I was 7 years old. We both knew there wasn’t much future for me as a marksman when I couldn’t line up the sights — since I could only see one of the darned things. His guns were kept out of reach and sight, so I gave them little thought. But in the summer of 1940, when I was 9, that .22 rifle played a role in an event that is still etched in my mind.
Dad’s consuming desire was to go back to Montana. Mom finally agreed and they made a down payment on a newer car and got ready for the trip. The car, a 1934 Chevrolet two-door, was good mechanically but looked faded and dingy. Mom said, “I’m not going to Montana in that.” So Dad and his good friend Al worked for two days with the old Simoniz two-stage cleanser, and they turned it into a beautiful jewel of a car.
We left Kalama after school was out and, by stopping to visit relatives and friends along the way, kept expenses to a minimum. For two full months, we never stayed in a tourist cabin (motels hadn’t been developed yet), although we did some camping.
We traveled across Montana through Jordan and Circle to Glendive. On the way, Dad took a shortcut on a series of dirt roads. We literally drove through one creek to the other side — by doing this we saved about 80 miles, which was very important to the tight budget.
Dad tried to get some temporary work, but jobs were not to be found, so we started for home again. We were heading west when we ran over a rattlesnake. Dad braked to a halt, jumped out of the car, reached under the seat and took out the rifle — which I never knew we had with us. It was wrapped in a canvas and burlap bag. He ordered us to stay in the car, so we rolled down the window and could hear the rattler. I still remember its sound. The .22 finished off the wounded snake. The rifle was rewrapped and replaced under the seat, soon to be forgotten.
Our luck was not good. It had rained two days before and the little dry creek was too high to ford with the car this time. That was a real blow and meant miles of extra driving and more money — which we did not have — for food and gas.
We reached Helena. Dad figured we needed another $10 to reach my aunt’s place in Sandpoint, Idaho. We found the local welfare office and sought some kind of assistance. I can still remember the social worker coming out to look us over. “You’ve got a nice-looking car. Why don’t you sell it?” she said.
Dad patiently explained the need for the car, which fell on deaf ears. The stern lady suggested we get a cheaper car. She didn’t know there were two payments already owed on this one.
My siblings and I were each given a nickel hamburger, and we started driving. I’m quite sure neither Mom nor Dad ate. By the time we reached Missoula, it was past midnight and, with well over 100 miles to go, we were broke, hungry and out of gas. When I finally asked Mom if we could get something to eat, the dam broke. Dad abruptly pulled into a brightly lit, shiny white Standard station. Usually, we bought gas at cheap places, so this was an occasion. The station attended came over and asked, “Fill it up?”
“Not yet,” Dad said. He showed the man the .22 rifle and proposed an exchange for $10. When we made it to Sandpoint, we could get $10 from our relatives, repay the man and get Dad’s gun back.
But the attendant politely explained that it was against company policy to do such a thing. There was nothing he could do.
Dad’s tone changed: “Mister, that may be your company’s policy, but I have a hungry family and we need gas. If you can’t do this, I know how to use this gun and I’ll get what I need.”
Mom started crying and the man took a step backward. His partner stepped up and said, “Mister, you don’t have to do that. I’ll give you the money for the gun.”
“You can’t do that,” the first fellow said. “You’ll get fired.”
“I’ll take it out of my pocket,” the second man said, “so they’ll never know.”
The first man said, “OK, that’s your affair.” So the second man and my dad exchanged the gun and money and their names. We got gas and something to eat.
When we reached Sandpoint, the money we hoped for wasn’t there. After we made it home, a man came up from Portland and repossessed that shiny, great ’34 Chevy.
As soon as he could, Dad got the money for the .22 and sent it to the fellow in Montana — against everyone’s advice, I might add. Mom said, “You’ll never see that gun again.”
But three weeks later, the mailman honked and delivered a familiar looking canvas and burlap bag — the .22 rifle, still wrapped up. What a surprise! That’s the only time I ever heard Dad say to Mom, “I told you so, Grace.”
Dad wrote a thank you to the sender, but many times I’ve thought of the pleasure I would have to meet and thank him personally. I still wonder what would have happened if he had not stepped up when he did. Would Dad have actually carried out his threat to use that .22? We’ll never know, but I’ll always wonder.
Everybody has a story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 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. Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.
