Part 7 - Hazel's Last Years

Mom lived three more years. I was on my way for a visit in the spring of 1997 when I received a phone call upon getting into Los Angeles. It was Don. He told me that Jodi Spiegel, Ellie’s middle child from her first marriage, had died suddenly of a brain tumor. She had been having severe headaches for weeks. Don had helped raise Jodi and her two sisters since she was eight years old. They were still at the hospital, in shock, and not sure they would be able to pick me up as planned. I told them not to worry, I’d find my way, but they managed, and were waiting when I deplaned in San Diego.

 I stayed with Mom at her one-bedroom apartment. Her rental was in a small retirement community of four two-story buildings that enclosed a beautifully landscaped courtyard - rather charming. There were gates at each corner, one lead conveniently to a strip mall and grocery. Don and Ellie lived only a couple miles away.

The clan gathered at Don and Ellie’s place each evening during those sad days. The core group included more than a dozen people: Ellie’s surviving daughters, Stephanie and Susan, along with their families, her first husband, Jerry Spiegel, and Don‘s sons, Lee and Dennis Buckingham, who flew in from Indiana. They planned a memorial service for Jodi at Dog Beach in San Diego, a favorite of Jodi as she had often taken her dog there. It was an entertainment to see the dogs frolicking in the waves, seemingly with
out a care in the world. A pavilion was pitched on the beach, and the service consisted of friends and family taking turns telling remembrances of events that they had shared with Jodi.

 One evening, as I was helping Mom into the car to take her back to her apartment she let me know she would be interested in trying some pot. This was a bit of a surprise. She had been a smoker all her adult life, but never showed the lease interest in the stuff of Reefer Madness. She had, no doubt, smelled the characteristic aroma of the weed wafting through the group that night, and I suspect her dormant curiosity became aroused. Maybe she had always been curious, but the opportunity had never presented itself at a convenient time. But she was in California now, land of liberalism, so why not join in. Besides, what did it matter at that stage of her life. I told her I would see if someone could help her.

Jerry Spiegel was known to be a connoisseur, and the next evening he presented Mom with a joint. She immediately took a puff, inhaled deeply and started coughing. She coughed for several minutes, loud and hurtful hacks, with big tears rolling down her cheeks. She never finished her joint, never got to experience a marijuana high. Most everybody smiled sheepishly, and I think all felt sorry for her, though the sympathy might have followed different paths of reasoning.

Mom never got into the California niche, once admitting to me of feeling overwhelmed by the move, and not able to make herself get involved. She was depressed and withdrawn.

There were plenty of activities at the senior complex. Don said they passed the community room on one occasion where a number of residents were playing cards and kibitzing. It looked like a lot of fun, but they were on their way to dinner, and didn’t stop. He regretted not taking her in as it was a perfect opportunity to introduce her to the new neighbors as Mom was not the type to boldly go in on her own.

Mom stayed in the apartment for a little over a year before Don moved her into a care facility. She had a series of small strokes that robbed her of short-term memory. Don was devoted in his caretaking, going over every day to spend time with her. I visited a last time a few months before she died, and took our newly adopted boy, John. We visited at the hospice. Mom was confined to a wheel chair. We strolled with her out the walk around the facility. She stopped to ask about the name of a flower along the path‘s edge. Don said she asked that same question every day. Mom died a month later on May 5th, 1999, four and a half months short of 86.

William (Buck) R. Buckingham - Part 3, The Hobo

On June 1st of 1935 Dad began one of the great adventures of his life. He had just graduated from Ball State teachers college, and for want of a little adventrue, started to hitch-hike and hobo across the country. Mom once said that he kept a journal about the trip but destroyed it after Don and I were born because he didn’t want us to see it.

I don’t know why he told her that. I found it in the attic years later, and there were no skeletons in his closet. The journal was written in an old composition booklet from his recently finished college days. The first four or five pages were a combination of notes from a math class, names and addresses of a dozen fellow students, and doodles. He then began his journal.

Dad’s itinerary shows he made it to California and back in just thirty-three days. It started out with a list of where he stayed each night. Many entries refer to “box car”, so he apparently was in transit on those nights.  He wrote quite a lot on the first two days of his trek, but sadly it ends there. He added nothing more other than the list of places he stayed at each night.

The following is a lightly edited version of what he wrote.

Saturday, June 1, 1935 - Box car in Greencastle, Indiana.
Sunday, June 2 - St. Louis Monday, June 3 - Kansas City, MO
Tuesday, June 4 - Junction City, KS
Wednesday, June 5 - Driving
Thursday, June 7 thru June 9 - Denver (Probably stayed with Aunt Lelah Buckingham)
Monday, June 10 - Box car
Tuesday, June 11 - Salt Lake City, UT
Wednesday, June 12 - Box car
Thursday, June 13 thru June 19 - Maryville, CA (Stayed with brother, George Buckingham.)
Thursday, June 20 - Fresno, CA Friday, June 21 - Long Beach, CA
Saturday, June 22 and 23 - San Diego, CA
Sunday, June 24 - Yuma, AZ
Monday, June 25 thru June 27 - Box car
Friday, June 28 - Tucumcari, NM
Saturday, June 29 - Amarillo, TX
Sunday, June 30 - CCC Camp
Monday, July 1 - East St. Louis, MO
Tuesday, July 2 - Indianapolis, IN
Wednesday, July 3 - Home

“June 1. Started today. 1st ride took me to Milton - Fellow had another hitch-hiker. A guy in a milk truck picked us up next (Fellow hitch-hiker and myself), and took us to Dublin as he was only going to Cambridge. He was just one of those helpful hands.
 
Baking truck stalled. Mechanic too dumb to fix it - I fixed the fuel pump for fellow who was very pleased, and gave me two pies which I put in my pocket as I was not very hungry at the time. Got my clothes greasy! I next got a ride into Greenfield in a stock truck with neighbor Earl Abernathy. He gave me some donuts. They also went into my pockets.
 
I didn’t have to wait very long in Greenfield as I was soon picked up by a drug salesman and I was very glad when he took me clear thru Indianapolis to some small town on the other side. And who do you suppose picked me up there? No one but my teacher, Billy Crone, who took me about 5 miles out in the country where he left me - out in the dark. At last I got another ride, this time with a couple of fellows going to Greencastle, although it was out of my way. They were a cheerful lot - told me about a pal of theirs who had served on the notorious Georgia chain gang because they had caught him hitch-hiking thru that state. They advised me to catch a freight out of Greencastle and were so obliging to even take me down to the yards.
 
Thought I would catch myself a “side-door” Pullman in Terra Haute that night and inquiries told me that one would be thru the yards in about two hours. Well I got into an empty box car and laid down to wait - That’s all.”

“June 2nd - I was awakened by a freight train pulling out but I was too late. I got up and walked the tracks a distance along an upgrade so I could easily catch the next one because it would be going slower uphill. I laid down under a tree with my little suit case as a pillow and went to sleep.

Again I was awakened by a freight train pulling out, but it was day light now so I hopped on this one. I saw a hobo riding just ahead of me so I ran up and started to talk to him. The first thing I learned from him was that I was on the wrong train - this train was headed south.

It was a rough old road but it seemed to be plenty fast. I road upon the top, and after a short time it started to rain. The fellow bo (hobo) was pretty friendly after he found that it was my first experience. He explained where the “dicks” would be found; mostly at the division yards. I met my first “dick” in Bloomington. It was raining like hell and he ordered me out of my dry place and out of the yard. It sure was raining and I stood under a tree just outside the yard. Although there were none there at the time, it was a bo’s jungle. As soon as the train gave the hi-ball (two sharp blasts of the whistle) I made across the yard for it. I had been told of this by my fellow “bo”. I stayed with this freight until I came to the town in southern Indiana where the B&O lines crossed the Marmon lines. (I was on the Marmon). It was not yet noon when I arrived here - My first thought was to clean up, particularly to shave, but I didn’t care to spend the money for a hotel.

I went out to the yards and there a “brakie” showed me where I could get some water. He was real friendly after he found that I wanted to clean. He even let me use his own private wash room. Well, I went down town and got something to eat. I sure was hungry. That afternoon I met several bos down around the railroad track. They all seemed to be gambling - using the old army game. One fellow seemed crazy. They all told me how hard the “dicks” were out west.

That afternoon I saw passenger trains “blinded” - that is, to ride right in back of the engine. It looked real good and fast riding to me, so I “blinded” the next passenger train going west. Three CCC boys had already “blinded” it , but they were just going a short distance. They were just kids but good fellows. They were dressed up and were they black. The four of us stood in a space about the size of a doorway.

After about 50 miles they left me and the next 250 miles sure was hell. I did everything but stand on my head After riding about six hours we got into St Louis. I didn’t know enough then to get off - went across the Mississippi. It looked a mile wide, and then into a damned tunnel. I came out of there sweating and black, and right into the railroad yards. I got off and made for the streets. I was in negro town - I stopped some negro (that’s all there were) and asked him where the transient camp was. He, thinking I was a negro also, directed me to the negro transient camp. I soon found out my mistake or rather the negro’s mistake, but I had to show the fellows in the transient camp that I wasn’t a negro by pulling up my sleeve. They told me where the white camp was a couple of miles up town.

I walked the longest distance without seeing anyone as it was after midnight. I finally saw a white fellow and ask him where the transient camp was and he said he was going up by it. We walked along and he asked me a million questions. I finally asked him if he knew where there was a cheap hotel as I said I didn’t care to go through the red tape of getting into one of the transient camps. He took me to a good clean hotel were I got a room for 25 cents. He was leaving me he showed me that I had been in good company - he was a plain clothes man (a policeman??). I went into the hotel and asked for a room and was given it. I then asked for the bath room. After I had cleaned up I went to the lobby and the clerk called me to the desk and changed my room. It seemed that because of my dirty appearance he thought that I was one of those kind of bums who never take a bath and he had put me in the section with them. He apologized and gave me another bed, and although it looked the same I noticed that the fellows around me were much cleaner.

They kidded me about looking like a negro before I cleaned up. They agreed that the “blind” was not a very good place to ride, and I was thoroughly fed up with trains. I resolved to go back to hitch-hiking the next day. I went out and got something to eat - a greasy stew.”

Monday, June 3, I awoke about 7 o’clock.”

His journal ended there telling only about those first two days. His trip lasted another 31 days. Mom told about how he hitched a ride for several days with a guy who drove a vehicle with a frame only, no body, and they sat on wooden boxes. The guy stopped at night and syphoned gas from filling station tanks.  There were probably other adventures - lost now, never to be told. I wish he had completed his journal. It would have made a great story.
GO TO: Part 4, The Father I Knew

A Forty-niner Travels to California - Part 3

From Uncle George’s we headed west for a fast look at the giant Red Wood trees in Sequoia National Park and then south across the Golden Gate. The convention in San Francisco probably lasted no more that a weekend. We must have stayed in a hotel there. Other than the first night out and the cold night in Yellow Stone I have absolutely no memory of where we stayed. Some streets of San Francisco were so steep you could see nothing past the long hood of our Pontiac. Stopping at some intersections was like rolling up to the edge of a cliff - looking into an abyss. Mom was near hysterics a couple times. The only other memory of San Francisco is of us sitting at a park bench overlooking the bay. A well dressed, matronly type woman came walking by, stopped in front of us to look around, and passed gas in a very audible way. She then went on her way without revealing any awareness of her anal expletive. Mom and Grandma Frank broke up laughing, and concluded that the lady must have been deaf.

Yosemite National Park was the next one we visited. My main memory there is that I came close to dying. That is the way I remember the event as it was occurring - I was going to die. There was a pool below the great falls and large boulders lay scattered about in the vicinity. We were climbing around on them and I came to one that was a height that I could easily climb. I got to the top, swung my legs over and started to slide. I realized it was a lot further down on that side than it had been on the approach, but I was not able to stop. It was terrifying for several seconds, but I did not scream or yell out. I silently slid down the smooth surface of that rock, stopping without to much of a jarring crash when my shoes contacted another sizable rock at the bottom.

Dad’s sister Annis lived in Los Angeles. She had migrated to California in the mid-thirties. Dad said that Annis loved the movies, read movie magazines when she was a teenager, and was so captivated that she moved to L.A. to be close to the glamour of Hollywood. Annis, her husband Frank Nickolas, and their three year-old daughter, Sarah Jane, lived on top of a high hill overlooking the city. I remember the street up the hill was narrow, with cactus growing along each side. Sarah Jane was too young to enjoy our more sophisticated toys, so we had no one to play with except each other. Air pollution had already come to L.A. in 1949. My eyes stung all during our stay.

The return leg of our expedition was an arc through the southwest following Historic Route U.S, 66. We took a few side trips off it. One to gaze down into the Grand Canyon, Another to purchase a piece of petrified wood while in The Petrified Forest, and marvel at the Painted Desert. (We used the rock for years as one of our two door jams in the house. The other was a coconut my Uncle Joe brought back from the Philippines after WWII, its outer husk polished shinny.)

We drove through the grass filled prairies of Oklahoma stopping only for a visit to pay respect to the memory of Will Rogers. I think it was through Oklahoma that I remember seeing derelict houses, but in truth, I noticed them all through the trip. It seemed like there were a lot of abandoned places, and many looked to be in good shape. Most stood alone in forlorn country with tall grass clogging their yards. There was a lonely sadness about them. I wondered why anyone would want to just get up and leave such perfectly good homes. I did not know enough history when I was nine. I did not know how much the last twenty years had transformed America - the Great Depression, The War, and I did not know we were entering an era that would transform it even more.

The trip probably ended in August. I had more than a dozen new States to add to my brag list, and hundreds of memories to cherish the rest of my life. It sowed a seed of wonder and wander that yet compels me to want to look at what’s around the next bend in the road.

A Forty-niner Travels to California - Part 2

The caravan turned south into Wyoming and the next stop was Yellowstone, Old Faithful, panhandling bears and a night of camping out. We had a tent but had not considered bringing enough blankets - after all it was summer. I remember shivering in the cold all night. Mom spent an uncomfortable time in the Pontiac and I didn’t think anyone else had a pleasant campout. I didn’t see the tent the rest of the trip.

The Rocky Mountains came next. I was excited when we first spied them on the western horizon, but they seemed to go on forever. The road slowly climbed up one slope, inching its way around the side of one mountain, only to reveal another. I kept thinking there could not possibly be another mountain, but there was another, and another, and yet another. I started to get frustrated. They were never going to end. Once, traffic stopped us on a slope and a big truck in front started to roll back onto us. I don’t think it went very far but Mom was screaming for Dad to do something. Whitey, who was right behind, called out to Dad that his Studebaker could hold both cars - something about his clutch , and that we should roll on back - but the truck stopped and we were saved from participating in that experiment.

Somewhere about that time we rolled into Reno, Nevada. It seemed that every commercial establishment had at least one slot machine. I remember being in a small café, sitting at the counter, and Don had a dime that was burning a hole in his pocket so he asked Grandma Frank if she would put it in the slot machine. He hit the jack pot, four bars, but nothing came out. We thought the proprietor would give him the winning amount, but all he did was give Don his dime back. Whitey and Idabell sat at the counter and ribbed the guy the rest of the time we were in the joint. They were talking to each other, like they were carrying on a private conversation, but their voices were loud enough that the guy could hear every word, and they were not all that kind.

We entered northern California not long after leaving Reno. I vaguely remember Donner Pass as the drive over it was our most likely route. We crossed a few more mountains and found ourselves in the Sacramental Valley. Dad’s brother, George had moved to California in the early thirties and was living in Oroville. Marysville lay about 30 miles south and I understand he moved there some years later. George and his wife Violet had two sons and two daughters, all with red hair and older than Don and I. Since they were older, their toys were more sophisticated than ours, so we had no one to play with. I remember playing in the yard and marveling at the giant spiders that dwarfed the Indiana specimens that I had seen. Mom wanted to pan for gold so Uncle George took us to the nearby river. She knelt by the river sluicing away, but quickly learned that panning is hard work. Uncle George kindly credited her with finding a little “color”, and since she had stuck it rich on the first try she didn’t feel it necessary to toil over another pan.

GO TO: Part 3

A Forty-niner Travels to California - Part 1

Our first big motor trip was in 1949. I was nine years old and it was to be the big event in my life for a long time afterward. I marked events as being either before or after the California trip. Dad was the secretary and manager of the Moose Lodge in Kokomo. He had taken the job three years before, and was to remain in that position for more than thirty years. I literally grew up in the Moose. The Lodge had its annual convention in Chicago every other year. That was because Moose Heart, the orphanage the organization supported, lay just a few miles south of Chicago. In 1949 the convention was held in San Francisco, so Dad and Mom planned a cross-country motor trip. I don’t remember how long we were gone - it seemed like the whole summer, but brother Don said it was only two or three weeks. I still have difficulty in comprehending how we were able to squeeze so many experiences into such a sparse amount of time.

I was too young to track our route, but I know we left Kokomo in a two car caravan heading west. We would have passed through Illinois, but whether we swung north through Wisconsin and Minnesota or on west into Iowa has been lost to me. I remember the first night on the trip. We stopped that evening and rented a cabin. It was flat country and a railroad track passed near the cabins. Don and I stood outside that evening watching a steam engine pull a freight train across the prairie. It was a warm summer end-of-day, and the sun was going down behind the train - a moving silhouette against a darkening blue sky. The Locomotive sang a forlorn tune as a ribbon of smoke trailed behind its stack. Two hobos sat on top of one of the last boxcars, their legs dangling over the side. That looked like so much fun. They seemed so free and carefree as they sat up there watching the land roll by, and then they were gone. That night I noticed the sheets and blankets smelled different. They weren’t like the ones we had at home. Eventually though, we started across South Dakota. Whitey and Idabel Cook accompanied use in their new Studebaker convertible. I'm not certain of their last name any longer, but Cook seems right. They were a married couple, affiliated with the Moose, and accompanied us all the way to California. We passed through the Bad Lands, where they charged as much for a glass of water as they did for a Coke, the Black Hills that didn‘t really seem black; Mount Rushmore to view the larger than life faces of four past Presidents; on to a place called Custer’s Last Stand; and finally to Dinosaur Park to gawk at life sized statues of ancient beasts cast in cement. I look at a map and notice that all those points of interest lay near Rapid City, South Dakota, so I guess we probably stuffed them all into a couple days of power-point sight-seeing. GO TO: Part 2