One of the things that I didn’t expect when I started my writing adventure was how entertaining history can be. I don’t mean dry dates and locations of where this-and-such happened. No. I mean stories told of a logging camp back in 1850 where men worked long 14-hour days in the forest, then played king-of-the-ring. Punching, fighting, biting ears, and jumping on each other with their spiked-caulk boots until they knew who was the toughest, all in the name of fun. Ohhh and the songs they came up with.
…learning about men riding logs down the rivers to the mills, or sliding massive tree-bearing sleds down a frozen mountainside pulled by draft horse or oxen without a brake. Yikes!
…learning about how much my sleepy little Clackamas County played such a huge part in settling the west. To hear so many stories of people who placed one foot in front of the other and did what came to hand and to brain, shaping and bending our land into what it is today.
I also never expected to find friends amongst my search for history: Mr. George A. who supplies me with old books that I feel like I have to confess that I read. (Not because of the content, but because WHO reads those boring old tombs?) The Yoder brothers who still burn a torch for their family history. Mr. Dave J. who knows what a peavey is. AND my father-in-law who is equally entertained by local history and listens endlessly to me prattle on about nothing.
I love how these now-a-days fellas come alongside me and let me in on their world of experience. It always makes me fondly reminisce about the few years I’ve spent around our four-generation hunting campfire.
Men working like dogs and playing like boys no matter their age. What a great surprise to find amidst all the writing.
My own boys playing king-of-the-hill…all ears intact. (Three on one. They got him, but it took a while.)