Momma

The Road to Grandpa's Farm

Five Mile Run Road, Parkersburg, West Virginia

October 22, 2007

On Saturday, January 10th, 1914, Ethel Mae Stephens took her first breath at the family farm north of Parkersburg, West Virginia.  It was her mother's thirtieth birthday as Estella Espie McAtee was born on Thursday, January 10th, 1884 also in the Parkersburg area.  Grandma always said that momma was the best birthday present she ever received.  Momma was born on the family farm, off Five Mile Run Road, north of the city.  When I researched the property at the Wood County Court House, I was surprised to find that the farm passed from the Jesse Kincheloe family to my great-grandmother, Mary Elizabeth Stephens, née Phelps, and she in turn passed it on to my grandfather, Olin Orville Stephens.  Mother was the fourth of six children, and when she was three, just prior to my Uncle Virgil's birth, the family moved into town, moving to a house that I still think of as Grandma's house in the Beechwood section of Parkersburg.

Momma attended Parkersburg High School, and was proud of the education she received there.  Somewhere I have her senior year portrait, but apparently it's not scanned onto this machine, and I cannot find the large print I made and gave her for mother's day several years ago.  The print I worked from was in black and white, and when I scanned it originally, I gave it a sepia tone.  Mother's reaction, once she stopped crying, was to say "I thought that dress was blue."  How would I know?  I wasn't there at the time.

I believe my parents met when Mother was a senior.  I know the story about the blind date that led to a lifetime love affair, but other than the fact that Mother was 18 years old at the time, I really don't want to go into details.  Most of the pictures I have of her show the two of them together.  This shouldn't be a surprise as Mother lived with Poppa for 54 years, much longer than she lived with her parents, or alone after Poppa's death.

Poppa and Momma as a young married couple

No idea when or where this was taken

My parents were married on February 4, 1934, in Parkersburg, and for the first eight years of their marriage, they continued living there.  Poppa worked for Ames Baldwin Wyoming, and became foreman of the paint division at the shovel manufacturing plant there.  This position allowed my parents to build their own home in Vienna, West Virginia, a suburb of Parkersburg.  Poppa always said that the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life was ask Momma to give up their home so he could go to college.  Both my parents believed strongly in education, and Poppa had felt the call to the ministry, so they sold their home and moved to Buckhannon, West Virginia where both my parents attended West Virginia Wesleyan College.  Poppa graduated in three years, but Momma just completed two.  I'm not sure why, although my guess is that she didn't begin her classes right away.  When Poppa matriculated at Boston University School of Theology, Momma's professors at WVWesleyan told her that if she could somehow scrape together enough money to pay for one semester's tuition and books, that would be all she'd ever have to pay. She'd surely get a full-ride scholarship to finish her schooling.  Unfortunately, that was not possible in 1944.  But mother got her education, if not a diploma.  She read every text book that Poppa brought home.  To this day, Momma remains the smartest person I've ever met, and that includes all the professors I knew at UC Berkeley and The University of Montana.  If only she'd had a chance.

Poppa received his STB (Bachelor of Sacred Theology) from Boston University in 1946, and had every intention of returning to the Mountain State.  Before they could pack up to leave Massachusetts, a District Superintendent recruiting new ministers asked Poppa, "Why do you want to go back to West Virginia?  There's a Methodist Church on every street corner.  Come out to Montana where we have wide open spaces and need people to fill them."  For whatever reasons, this appealed to my dad, and after driving back to Parkersburg to say good-bye to family and friends, my parents moved West.  Poppa's first church out of seminary was in Stevensville, Montana, and both Momma and Poppa fell in love with the Bitterroot Valley.

The Young Minister and His Wife

No idea as to where or when this was taken

It must have agreed with them, because three years later, I was born.  The pregnancy was difficult.  Three different times they rushed Momma to the hospital in Missoula, over thirty miles away in those days.  My parents had been married over fifteen years when I was born, and had lost two boys at birth years earlier.  The story I grew up with was that the doctors had told Momma she couldn't have children after the second son was born blue.  Yet here I am.  When I first saw the movie Steel Magnolias, I immediately caught the line from the Christmas Party scene where the other women surround M'Lynn saying "I thought the doctors said Shelby couldn't have children."  M'Lynn, played by Sally Fields in the movie, responds "No.  They said she shouldn't have children.  There's a difference."  The next time I saw Momma, I asked if I had misunderstood all these years.  That's when I found out parents often change their stories as their children grow.  Momma's response to me was "I don't know why you would think that.  Your father and I never stopped trying to have children."  Well, apart from the fact that no one wants to think of their parents having sex, there was only one reason I had that thought.  Someone (Momma!) planted it in my head.

Mother and Child (Re)Union

Boulder River, Sweet Grass County, Montana

Summer, 1950

Poppa was busy as a minister.  In June, before I was born in October, Bishop Glenn Randall Phillips appointed Poppa to the yoked parish of Laurel-Park City, Montana, some 300 miles east of the Bitterroot and just fifteen miles from Montana's largest city, Billings.  While Momma was giving birth to me, Poppa gave birth to a new church building in Laurel.  Under his leadership, the Laurel church grew in size to the point where it no longer needed to be yoked to another church.  After five years at Laurel, Bishop Phillips appointed Poppa to Mountain View Church in Butte, a church that had been the largest Methodist Church in the state.  Both my parents were unhappy in Butte, and after a year and a half, Poppa accepted a special appointment as Executive Vice President at Rocky Mountain College in Billings.  And we moved again.  We actually moved three times in the three and a half years we lived in Billings, and my parents bought a beautiful home near downtown, but never lived in it.  In 1959, Poppa again got wunderlust, and we moved to Stockton, California where Poppa took a position in the President's Office at the University of the Pacific.

The job at Stockton turned out to be not at all what Poppa thought he was applying for, and before the year was out, Poppa asked Bishop Phillips for a church.  Phillips was happy to hear from Poppa, saying I need you in Ogden, Utah.  Poppa refused to move to Utah with a ten year old son, but Bishop Phillips would not be swayed.  "You'll take Ogden or nothing.  That's where I need you."  Poppa chose to move his membership to California, and we ended up moving to a small farming community 75 miles northwest of Sacramento, Colusa.

Colusa is in the Sacramento Valley and sits right on the Sacramento River.  In the summer time it's ungodly hot, and even though the community is a very prosperous faming town, raising primarily rice, almonds and prunes, the people have a poverty consciousness--or at least did back in 1960.  When my mother was told "We can't afford the best teachers," she was outraged.  She had a son going into junior high school.  "How can you afford to have anything but the best teachers," she asked.  After two years in Colusa, we moved again.   This time to the San Francisco Bay Area, the town of El Cerrito, to be specific.

El Cerrito did have excellent teachers, and my parents, who would never have considered moving to San Francisco prior to this, were happy there.  They ended up staying in the Bay Area for eleven years, and moved to California's North Coast in 1973, when Poppa was assigned to the church in Smith River.

Smith River is the last town in California as you head north on US 101 toward Oregon.  It sits almost exactly half way between Crescent City, California and Brookings, Oregon.  It was while they were in Smith River, that Poppa suffered a series of cardiac arrests that left him mentally damaged and unable to continue his pastorate.  For the last twelve years of his life, Momma was his sole care-giver.  When he died in 1988, I fully expected Momma to follow him to the grave.  They had been married for 54 years.  Her comment was "I'd gladly give him another 54."

50th Wedding Anniversary

Smith River, California

February, 1984

I stayed with Momma for two weeks after Poppa's death.  Each morning I woke up wondering if I'd find her dead, but toward the end of my stay, she took me aside and said, "I will get better!  I want you to take me to Ireland."  She did get better, but we never made it to Ireland, I'm sorry to say.  Momma lived for another 19 years after Poppa died.  When Poppa became incapacitated, my parents bought a lovely home in Smith River, and that's where Momma lived out the rest of her life.  She lived in Smith River longer than she had lived anywhere.

As long as Poppa was alive, I never heard Momma complain about anything, but after his death I did learn just how hard it had been for her living with him.  More to the point, following him from church to church, town to town, state to state.  All of Momma's siblings died in the same town where they were all born.  Where my grandparents were born.  Where at least some of my great-grandparents were born.  Most of my cousins living and dead never left Parkersburg.  Following her gypsy husband all over the country had to be difficult.  I do remember hearing Momma say "I want to go home.  I just don't know where home is."  I tried to get Momma to go back to West Virginia with me before my cousins Betty Lee and Lucille died, but Momma wouldn't hear of it.  She was settled now, and that was that.

Ethel Mae Spellman died the Saturday after Thanksgiving, November 25th, 2006.  I miss her dearly to this day and I always will.  The best mother anyone could ever have.  By the way, the color photograph above of Mother and me on the Boulder River was taken by my father, a very talented amateur photographer.  It's my favorite of all the hundreds of photos I have of his.

Up the Coast and Along the Siuslaw

God on high, hear my prayer.
In my need You have always been there.
He is young, he's afraid.
Let him rest, heaven blessed,
Bring him home, bring him home.

--Alain Boublil & Herbert Kretzmer

Umpqua Lighthouse
Reedsport Oregon
Taken 6/17/07

Sunday, June 17^th, dawned bright and clear. It would be a good day for a drive up the coast, but first there was something I had to do.

That particular Sunday, Father’s Day as it turned out, was also Michele Holloway’s last day in the pulpit of the Smith River United Methodist Church. After serving the congregation for four years, she was leaving to further her education at a seminary in Ohio. She had asked me to serve as organist for this special occasion, and with some trepidation, I had agreed. In the interest of full disclosure, I need to state that I am not an organist, and while I enjoy playing the piano, no one with any musical experience would consider me a pianist either. It’s odd how I can talk about the most intimate subjects to a room full of total strangers, but when it comes to sitting at a keyboard in front of a friendly and uncritical church congregation, I seize up and become a bundle of nerves. Furthermore, while I will be a Methodist to my dying day, I am currently on the outs with the denomination because of the continued battle that rages within the church over the issue of whether homosexuals have a place in the organization. That is the subject for another posting, however.

Originally, in agreeing to play at church, I had thought of learning the hymns (most of which I already knew) and using other hymns for the occasional music (prelude, postlude, processional, offertory, etc.). As Sunday approached, I decided to add two pieces of special music and started practicing “Bring Him Home” from Les Misérables for the offertory. I had another piece in mind for the postlude/recessional, but couldn’t find the sheet music locally. I finally bought it online at musicnotes.com, and printed out the four pages of Lennon and McCartney's “Michelle.” “Bring Him Home” is, after all, a prayer, and given the war in Iraq, it seemed appropriate for Father's Day. My reason for choosing “Michelle” should be self-explanatory—besides, it’s a beautiful piece of music that would serve well as a recessional. As things turned out, by the time I played it, Michele the minister was outside the church shaking hands with congregants, and I don’t think anyone still in the sanctuary had any clue what the music was. Oh well. I told Michele what I had done and until now it’s been our little secret.

Following the service there was the usual fellowship hour, complete with root beer floats and hot dogs (aren’t those traditional after church foods?). People asked about Gypsy, and I explained that I was leaving for Montana to pick her up. I got home around 1:30 and finished packing the car getting ready to head north and east to Missoula.

After a quick stop in Brookings to let Jeff know I was headed out of town, I drove north on 101 taking notes for future travel blogs on Gold Beach, Port Orford, Bandon, and Coos Bay. A geocaching stop on the dunes north of Coos Bay took a bit of time from the road, but got me out along the shore of Bluebill Lake. That Annual Pass I bought at Whiskeytown came in handy as this is a fee area run by the feds. Having found the cache and signed the log book, I continued my northward drive, stopping finally in Florence, Oregon for a dinner break. Along the way I kept checking gas prices and was surprised that in Reedsport several stations were selling gas for less than $3.00, $2.97 a gallon to be precise.

Weber’s Fish House in Florence appears to be a very popular spot. There were more diners than the two waitresses could comfortably handle, so service was a bit slow, but friendly. Many of the folk looked to be local, and I couldn’t help but notice the number of tables where two men were eating together with no women or children present. I expect to see men breakfasting, or even having lunch together, but dinner is a family activity. Maybe that’s why my gaydar kept going off. The couple seated across the aisle from me was noticeably foreign, both through their clothing and their accents. Turns out they were from England, at least according to what I overheard when the waitress pointed out their “otherness.” My meal was fine, but one of these days I’m going to have to remember that I don’t really like crab cakes. I keep ordering them, but I never really enjoy them. Wonder why that is? Maybe I just haven’t met the right crab cake.

Siuslaw River East of Florence, Oregon
Taken 6/17/07

I had a decision to make at this point. Having logged into Travelocity.com before leaving Smith River, I had booked a room at the Banfield Motel in Portland. Now I had to decide what was the best route to take. In the past I’ve always driven 101 to Lincoln City, then turned northeast on Oregon 18 to connect up with I-5 at the southern edge of Portland. With my renewed interest in scenic drives, however, I’ve been taking other routes across the coastal mountains. Two possibilities presented themselves at Florence. Oregon 126 heads more-or-less straight east to Eugene, and takes about one hour to cover. Near Eugene, it crosses the southern edge of Fern Ridge Lake. That was the route recommended by my waitress. One of these days I’ll have to drive it.

What I did instead was head east on 126 to Mapleton, about fourteen miles inland from Florence along the Siuslaw River. The Siuslaw was so beautiful in the early evening light, that I fell in love. When I first started planning this post, I was going to say that I have a new love. And indeed the Siuslaw was so photogenic that I kept stopping about every five miles or so to take more pictures. At Mapleton, I turned north on Oregon 36 in order to keep following the river.

Lake Creek (above the falls)
Along Oregon Highway 36, Lane County
Taken 6/17/07

Oregon 36 is a much narrower, twistier, and slower road than I assume Oregon 126 is, at least judging by the map, and it terminates at Oregon 99 twelve miles north of Eugene. On the way it passes through the towns (or widespots) of Swisshome, Deadwood, and Greenleaf, and the resort area of Triangle Lake which looked to be a lovely place to vacation—if you could get past all the privacy fences that front the highway. The Episcopal Church has a conference ground at Triangle Lake. Maybe they could get us to walk on, or at least in, the water.

Along the way I stopped to take pictures at a roadside park in Mapleton, at a covered bridge near Swisshome, and at the Lake Creek Falls fish ladder near Triangle Lake. I was spending so much time stopped with my camera out that I began to worry that Portland would be a long ways away. And it was.

Fortunately, after Triangle Lake the light was getting too dim for good shots, so I put the camera away as I crossed Low Pass. At 1,022 feet, Low Pass is actually lower than most of the towns west of the pass, but what the hey, I didn’t name it or designate it a pass. There is a High Pass, or at least a High Pass Road to the north, but I didn’t take that route, and my maps don’t show any actual pass with an elevation given.

Lake Creek Falls Fish Ladder
Along Oregon Highway 36, Lane County
Taken 6/17/07

Once at 99, I turned north to drive through Junction City and was prepared to stay on 99 all the way to Albany when I got to Harrisburg. Seeing a sign directing me to I-5, I turned east off 99 and promptly got lost in a small town. Go figure. As I doubled back, I noted that there was a miniscule sign directing travelers seeking I-5 to turn left at one intersection. Don’t know how I missed that. Eventually I merged with traffic headed north on I-5, and with one stop for a root beer float at Albany’s A&W, I reached Portland around midnight. Hmm, two root beer floats in one day. I may be getting addicted.

I’d like to say that having checked into the motel, I immediately climbed in bed and fell asleep, but that wouldn’t be accurate. I stay at this particular motel because it is within walking distance of my favorite Portland playground (an indoor, Adults only, playground, and we won’t go any further). Having stowed computer, suitcase and camera bag in the room, I drove to Steam with the idea of relaxing in the hot tub and steam room before calling it a night. As I said above, the motel is within walking distance of Steam, which is to say that the two establishments are about one mile apart. At midnight, after spending ten hours on the road, I really didn’t feel like walking two miles round trip. Especially since I didn’t expect the place to be open. But this was the day of Portland’s Pride celebration and the joint was rockin’, as they say.

Eventually I did get back to my motel and all I can say is that I’m no longer 21. Staying up till 3:30 am is not good for my system. But I did have fun, and as Edith Piaf sings, “Non, je ne regrette rien!”

Stay tuned for further adventures along the Columbia, Snake, Salmon, and Weiser Rivers.