No Ordinary Joes (4 page)

It was a magical setting, but Bob felt isolated from kids his age. His brother, Darrell, was four years older and rarely had the time of day for him except to use him as a punching bag. At night Bob often stayed alone in the cabin, with no books or radio, while his dad played poker with the crew. Discipline came from a leather belt. He liked coming down out of the mountains to town. On this day, his grandmother had promised to
serve him apple pie and homemade ice cream later, and to read to him. He liked the attention she lavished on him.

His grandfather reappeared on the front porch and glared at him. Bob watched him walk to the shed at the side of the house and disappear inside, then reemerge carrying a big sledgehammer. He motioned for Bob to get out of the wagon. Then, with one mighty swing, he brought the head of the big hammer smashing down, shattering the wagon into a hundred pieces.

Bob stared up at him, his tear-filled eyes pleading for an explanation.

“There’ll be no noise on the Sabbath” was all that his grandfather said.

Ten-year-old Bob Palmer sat in a chair at the foot of his mother’s four-poster mahogany bed in their small, clapboard home in Medford, a town of 5,000 in southern Oregon, twenty-nine miles from the California border. Her skin was gray, her eyes barely open. He touched her hand and she felt cold. “Please don’t die, Mama,” he whispered. She struggled to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. His father got up and closed the shades.

It was hard for Bob to see his mom like this. She’d always been the backbone of the family, the steadying, nurturing force during these hard times. His father hadn’t said much about what was wrong, only that she’d had her appendix taken out and something had gone wrong, possibly an infection from a dirty instrument the doctor used.

To Bob, it seemed that his father was madder at the doctor for chopping off his mom’s hair than for any medical mistake. His mother had not cut her hair for years in adherence to church rules, and it fell below her waist. But as she lay on her bed, twisting and turning in pain, she had become entangled in her hair, so the doctor cut it, incurring the wrath of Bob’s father.

Keeping vigil at his mom’s bedside, Bob and his brother were not allowed to leave her side. Her breathing was labored. Finally, she summoned Bob’s father. He leaned in close to her, and in a voice barely above a whisper, yet loud enough for Bob to hear, she spoke: “Don’t beat the kids.”

Those were her last words.

For four unsettling days, Bob and his brother were made to sit next to her body, surrounded by grieving family—first while she lay on her deathbed, then when she was transferred to a cheap, gray casket. They watched their father take the hair the doctor had cut and clip it back on.

In the weeks following the funeral, Bob saw her cold, ashen face reflected in store windows, mirrors, and lakes. He couldn’t escape it.

Bob stood in the corner, his punishment for not cleaning the pinecones off the porch as ordered. Cora, his new stepmother, glared at him, and he braced himself for the next verbal barrage. She and Bob’s father had met when she was the cook for the Crater Lake crew, and they’d married less than a year after the funeral. She was always belittling Bob, always making him feel unwanted. His father did little to ease his discomfort.

“You’re stupid!” Cora yelled. “Stupid and lazy!”

Bob tried to block out the words. He didn’t think he was dumb, but maybe she was right. He struggled in school, disengaged, out of step, behind in his reading. Kids teased him.

He looked at Cora, her hair in a bun so tight that it pinched her face. He resented his father for marrying her; he resented her for not being his mother. Most days he avoided her as much as possible. His mind was made up. As soon as he’d served his penance in the corner he would take off.

The family was spending another summer in the stone cabin near Crater Lake. Now fourteen, Bob was supposed to move down to the Rogue River valley to go to Medford High next year, and he was dreading it because the plan was for Cora to go with him while his dad would stay at Crater Lake. When Bob questioned the move, his father ignored him.

Bob could go off into the woods for hours at a time without his father knowing or caring where he was. And that was what he was going to do now—disappear into the woods.

He picked up his hand-cranked Victrola and loaded it into a large canvas bag with straps, then hoisted it on his back. He had used the bag the previous summer for carrying large bottles of water up and down steep
trails to players from the Chicago Cardinals pro football team. The Cardinals had come to Oregon for preseason training, and as part of their regimen, they cleared mountain trails, hauling large buckets of rocks. By carrying water to the men, Bob had earned enough to buy the Victrola. Listening to music was his favorite way to pass the time alone in his room.

Setting off down a trail, his Victrola strapped to his back and a fishing pole in his hand, he felt relief. He loved Crater Lake’s dramatic cliffs and deep blue waters. Some days he hiked to the rim and sat on the edge for hours, watching the sunlight shimmer off the transparent water and the eagles riding the thermal breezes. He also loved to fish, hiking into Lightning Springs or Annie Creek, tributaries of the mighty Rogue River. He often caught twenty rainbows or Dolly Vardens a day using mealie worms for bait and selling his catch to the tourists for a nickel a fish. He didn’t get an allowance, so whatever money he had was the result of his own initiative. Frequently, he hung out near the new tourist center and lodge, and he learned to get the black bears to come and eat right out of his hand while the tourists, the men dressed in white suits and the women in full-length dresses, stood beside their Hudsons and took pictures of their very own Huckleberry Finn. Sometimes they paid him a nickel. He kept his savings in a tin can, using some of the money to buy a new pair of shoes every year.

On this day, his destination was a small cave hidden off the trail. He came there often, his secret place of solitude. Slowly, he unpacked his Victrola and set it on the ground. Then he pulled out a record by his favorite recording artist, torch singer Ruth Etting, and placed it on the turntable. He cranked up the phonograph and, sitting alone in a cave deep in the woods, sang along to the record.

He returned home just before dusk without anybody noticing he’d been gone.

Bob headed out the back door of Beck’s Bakery toward the truck, ready to make the afternoon deliveries around Medford with his buddy Fred Beck, the son of the owner. It was early spring 1937, Bob’s junior year at Medford High. He was now living in town with Cora, their relationship unimproved.
His grades were barely passing and he didn’t play sports or take part in school activities. He received no encouragement or help at home with his schoolwork from Cora. His dad, a fifth-grade dropout, was unconvinced of the value of an education, and anyway, he was still working up at Crater Lake.

Bob had started hanging around the bakery after school hoping to score day-old doughnuts and pastries. Cora rarely fixed him breakfast or lunch, and many days he hadn’t eaten anything by the time he left school. When Fred asked if he’d like to drive along with him on his routes, Bob accepted. It wasn’t a paying position, but snacks were guaranteed. He and Fred didn’t socialize away from the truck, but it was something to do, a way to avoid going home.

As Fred started up the engine, Bob got back out. “Wait,” he said, “I’ll be right back.” He returned with a hose and began washing down the dirty truck, which was covered with a layer of black soot emitted by the thousands of smudge pots in the nearby orchards. The Rogue Valley’s major product was pears—Bartlett, Bosc, and Comice—and in the early springtime when temperatures dipped too low, “smudge crews” went into the orchards at 4:00 a.m. to hand-light pots of oil to heat the air around the trees to keep the pear buds from freezing. Bob worked on one of the crews, regularly getting up at 3:00 a.m. to go to work. He often came home with red eyes and a hacking cough, looking like a coal miner, but he always cleaned up before heading to school. He was fastidious about cleanliness and grooming. On weekends he worked part-time at Spencer’s Clothing, even doing a little modeling at big sale events in exchange for shirts and pants.

As the truck headed into downtown Medford, Fred turned on the headlights. With almost no wind, the dense, suffocating black smoke of the smudge pots had blanketed the town, turning the afternoon into night and leaving a dark film on the streets and sidewalks.

Riding in the bakery truck, Bob and Fred were silent. There was something about Bob that Fred couldn’t quite put his finger on. He didn’t know anything about Bob’s home life other than that the family was poor and Bob didn’t like his stepmother. But he sensed that Bob was lonely and suspected that he rode along with him more for the companionship than the
jelly doughnuts. That was okay with him. He enjoyed the company, too, especially on the days when they rode to Roseburg or Klamath Falls, trips that took several hours.

As much as Bob missed the clear crisp air of the mountains, and as much as he disliked living with Cora, Medford High offered something the wilderness didn’t: girls. Bob had developed a flirty way with the opposite sex. He had thick dark hair, blue eyes, big dimples, and a lean frame. He took pride in dressing well—he usually wore a coat and tie or a sweater to school—and he was a good dancer. He was also polite and had a natural charm and a way with words. The girls took notice.

Now, across the crowded dance floor of the Dreamland Ballroom, Bob watched a girl dance, riveted on her every move. He liked her looks—5 feet 2 inches, light brown hair, blue eyes, and a great body. He asked about her and learned that her name was Barbara Koehler and that she was a junior at nearby Central Point High, five miles north of Medford. She was popular, a good student, and active in choir, plays, yearbook staff, student government, and cheerleading. The previous summer she’d been crowned Miss Southern Oregon, and he remembered seeing her picture in the newspaper.

Not shy about approaching girls, he waited for the five-piece orchestra to play a slow song and then made his move. She accepted, and beneath the large crystal ball shimmering overhead, they danced slow and close to “Stardust.” She liked the way he moved, and the way he looked so stylish in his sport coat and tie and nicely shined shoes.

They danced the next dance, and all the rest of the dances that night. Bob made a point of holding Barbara extra tight during “I Don’t Know Why I Love You Like I Do.” When the dance was over, he walked her outside to the parking lot. She’d driven there in her father’s ’37 Ford with her cousin Margie. Standing next to the driver’s door, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small flask of gin. He took a swig, then offered one to her. He wasn’t sure how she’d respond—maybe she came from a religious family and wouldn’t approve.

Barbara remembered what her father had told her—that she shouldn’t drink, but if she did, she should make sure to drink only bonded whiskey, the “good stuff” that had been aged at least four years. She didn’t know if this was “the good stuff,” but she took a big swig anyway, and then passed the flask back. Bob smiled. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

Sitting across from Barbara’s parents in their living room, Bob felt as if he were on trial. He’d met the Koehlers several times when he’d come to pick up Barbara for a date, but this was the first time he’d sat down to talk with them. He desperately wanted to make a good impression. Barbara was an only child; he knew that her parents doted on her, and that she would do just about anything not to disappoint them.

Like many families in the Rogue Valley, the Koehlers had been hit hard by the Depression. Barbara had spent her early years living in a two-story farmhouse in the apple and pear orchards outside Central Point. It was a rural, bucolic setting. The family had hogs, chickens, and cows, and from her upstairs bedroom window she could see Mount McLaughlin. In the summers she played on the banks of nearby Bear Creek and pushed her cousin Margie in the swing her dad had hung from the big oak tree in their front yard. But when the Depression hit, the family lost the farm and moved into a small house in town. That’s when Mr. Koehler went to work for Greyhound.

Mr. Koehler asked Bob what his plans were after high school. Bob thought for a moment. He’d already worked at a number of jobs, but all of them were seasonal and none of them interested him as a career. His newest job was delivering jugs of milk in the morning for Hansen’s Dairy with his friend Swede. He was now living in Swede’s unheated garage, sleeping on a cot next to Swede’s ’31 Chevy. Anything was better than the verbal abuse from Cora.

“I’m not sure of my plans,” he said.

Judging from Mr. Koehler’s scowl, that wasn’t the right answer. And Bob didn’t dare tell him that he’d just been suspended from school for a semester and there was a chance he might not even graduate. A couple of
weeks earlier he’d ducked into one of the boys’ restrooms between classes to take a few quick nips from his flask of gin, only to have the principal walk in and bust him. The worst part of it wasn’t getting tossed out of school, it was incurring Cora’s wrath.

The idea of joining the service had occurred to him. Across the ocean, British prime minister Neville Chamberlain was ceding Czechoslovakia to Hitler and declaring that he had secured “peace in our time.” A Gallup Poll showed that most Americans approved of this act of appeasement. Maybe this would be a good time to join. But Bob wasn’t yet eighteen, and as much as Cora seemed to want him out of her way, she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t sign the necessary release form.

“What sports do you play?” asked Mr. Koehler.

“None, sir, I have to work after school.”

He had the feeling this wasn’t going well. The more questions Mr. Koehler asked, the more intimidated Bob felt by his stern demeanor. Mr. Koehler had just gotten home from work and was still dressed in his Greyhound uniform, not a stitch out of place, like a commandant in the inquisition room. Even his white gloves were spotless. Mrs. Koehler, who’d recently started work as a secretary for a cousin’s fruit-packing company, seemed kinder. She even seemed to like him.