My Memoirs: From Two to Ninety Two

My Memoirs

From Two to Ninety Two

Betty J. Erickson

AuthorHouse™

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© 2015 Betty Erickson. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse   11/19/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5896-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5897-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918121

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Contents

Preface

Early Years

On Baldwin Street

Ah - Ha!

Young’s Woodcraft Shop

In The Mirror

All The Stuff We Needed To Know

Did She Or Didn’t She?

The Very Nice Bootlegger

Freckling In The Sun

The Broken House

In Scotts Valley

Scotts Valley School

The Cabin Above

The Creek

Nooooooo…

Our Cozy Cabin

No Tresspassing

Amazing Grace

Back To Scotts Valley

Mushrooms Become Things Of The Past

Dodging A Meeting Of Minds

A Big Penny For Mother’s Day

Miss Rickey

A Life Changing Day

The Driving Lesson

Girl Talk That Never Should Have Happened

College Days

Movin’ On

Thanksgiving Turkeys

The Children’s Home Of Stockton

Stinky Potatoes

My First Year As A Teacher

Yes!

When At First I Didn’t Succeed…

Oh What A Relief It Is!

Rapid City, South Dakota

Terry

If I Must Worry…

S-P-L-A-T

Pamela Sue

Custom Mary

Toddlers On A Spree

Still Stuck In The Past?

Eight Native South Dakotans

Surviving Bellevue Years

Goodbye, Rapid City, Hello, Bellevue

May I See Your Id, Ma’am?

Stubborn Woman - Good Nose

Never Waste Kid Power

The Flip Side Of Praise

Early Days In Virginia

Trapped

Confession Time

Enter Deacon Jones

The Pancake Flipper

Problem Solved

Once Upon A Bed

Tim

Changed Preaching Habits

Power Of The Dance

Later Days In Virginia

Stranger Than Fiction

Tommy And The North Wind

A Special Bonus From Writing Children’s Books

Maggie And Jiggs

The Flight School Ring

Joy Ann

Visit From Frank And Kathy

More Mellowing

Winston

A Ride I Will Remember

Blessed Be The Glue That Binds

Take Care Of Your Mother

The Crash

My Faith

Our Family

After I’m Gone

Dedicated to my late husband

and best friend,

Richard B. Erickson

Preface

Hi kids, grands and greats, younger brothers, cousins, and all you in-law and out-law types. Just in case you think this will be a tell-all document… it isn’t. This collection happens to be MY MEMOIRS and since it’s MINE, I can write anything I choose to write providing it’s the honest-to-God truth, as close as I can recall truth, and all from my point of view. So… if you’ve got your mind set on discovering closeted skeletons, the only ones you’ll find are those I choose to let you find. So there.

Each chapter stands alone as a vignette; a scene I recall from the past. I believe that if the experience has remained in my memory all these years, it just might be interesting to readers. I’ll start with my earliest memories and place them in chronological order as best I can.

I have never had a desire to track down ancestors and to brag or to admit I descended from them, so if you are looking for this in my memoirs. Sorry!

You won’t want to read beyond this preface. BUT, if it’s genealogy you want I can tell you where you can find it. My cousin Jacque, (Jacqueline Revis) in Salinas, California, has a treasure of knowledge and pictures that will tell you about our Grandma’s side of the family. Jacqueline has no computer and no desire to learn how to use one no matter how hard I try to peak her interest. So, pack up your laptop and pay her a visit. She would be delighted to have you scan her pictures to your laptop and share with anyone who is interested. Jacqueline is a beautiful person both inside and out and she, unlike me, has great interest and knowledge of our ancestry much further back than grandparents.

Jacqueline Revis

My mother’s maiden name was Erva Edna Lincoln and she was born on Halloween in 1899 in Calaway, Nebraska. Her family settled in Clearwater, California (now called Paramount) when she was ten years old. My maternal grandfather, Frank Allen Lincoln, was a school janitor, and my maternal grandmother, Linore Farrell Lincoln, boarded teachers. They invested wisely, owning four houses - two houses facing their other two houses on each side of Paramount Boulevard.

My mother was their only daughter. She graduated from Compton High School in Southern California. Before she married my father in 1921, she was employed as a secretary. I think her boss was a lawyer, but the only thing I know for sure about him is that he smoked cigars. Mother learned that good cigars smell pretty good but cheap cigars smell really, really bad. Mother also taught children to play the piano.

My parents had two daughters, I was the first in October of 1923 and my sister, Joy Ann, came along in December of 1928. Our mother died of pneumonia in 1938, (before penicillin was available in Santa Cruz.)

My paternal grandmother, Margaret Douglas Couper (her peers called her Maggie, and Couper was changed to Cooper) was born in 1865 in Auchenlia Lanarkshire, Scotland, and she married James Monroe Young in New Mexico in 1888. They had four boys and three girls. My father, number six, was born in Jackson, Mississippi. in 1899. They named him John Cooper Henderson Douglas Young. I wish I had asked Grandma why she loaded my father with all those family names after naming the son one year older, Gay - without as much as a middle initial - just plain Gay Young. My paternal grandfather died when I was too young to get to know him, but Grandma Maggie Young became my beloved role model.

I don’t know how old my father was when his parents moved from Mississippi to southern California, but he graduated from Gardena High School near Gardena, California. Gardena was an agricultural high school at that time, but its mission could have been to train students for any career that popped up. My father was curious and equipped with a lot of good ole horse sense and I wouldn’t be surprised if his high school diploma were equal to, or even superior to diplomas from universities today.

My father was too young to enlist during World War 1 and too old to be drafted in World War II. His first adult job was driving a school bus in Taft, California, and at that time he was younger than some students on his bus. He had excelled in wrestling in high school and never let any training go to waste. When one of the older boys was acting inappropriately on his bus,

he dealt with it promptly. He threw that kid off the bus, wrestled him to the ground and told him to walk home. Maybe that was proper punishment at that time, and maybe not. His bus driving career was brief.

Next, my father went to work in the oil fields near Taft, California. I don’t remember who told me this, but I suspect it’s the truth. He informed his superiors how to perform a task in a better way once too often, so they canned him.

My Maternal Grandparents            My Parents in 1921

If you are looking for more genealogy, well… you can find tidbits imbedded in vignettes that follow. But your best bet is to fly our to Salinas, California, and talk with my cousin, Jacqueline Revis. I’ll be happy to give you her address and phone number.

EARLY YEARS

ON BALDWIN STREET

AH - HA!

Here I am at Three Years Old

I’m thinking my way back through a bunch of decades to the time when I was no more than three years old. No one had warned me to be wary of strangers. Some strangers were interesting and some were not. Some spoke softly and some yelled. Some spoke to my parents and some were compulsive head patters. I hated that. Some strangers looked at me and smiled and my mouth wanted to smile right back at them. However, for a reason I can’t possibly explain, I thought smiling at a person who was not a friend of mine was something I simply must not do. So, I stared back determined to muzzle my grin.

On a Sunday noon, my life changed forever. At last, the preacher was done and we walked out into the sunshine. I stood at the corner on Front Street in downtown Santa Cruz holding Mother’s hand. Mother was talking to a member of our First Presbyterian Church and I knew her name was Ruth Hacking, but she was Mother’s friend, not mine. When Ruth Hacking looked at me and smiled, I gave her my straight, steady look. She studied me a moment and then squatted down with her face so close to mine our noses nearly bumped, and she whispered,

When somebody smiles at you, you are supposed to smile back at them.

Ah… . . ha!

An ear-splitting smile ripped across my face. Had an angel popped down to jiggle it loose? Do angels have wrinkled faces, names like Ruth Hacking and smell like coffee? Angel or no angel, my mouth was free to do what it always wanted to do. That was my first ah—ha moment! After that Sunday, the first thing people noticed about me was my whopping, big smile.

YOUNG’S WOODCRAFT SHOP

By the time I was two years old, my dad realized he had to be his own boss. He moved us from sweltering Taft to cool Santa Cruz by Monterey Bay and used his high school shop training and a heaping supply of good ole horse sense to set up his own business, Young’s Woodcraft Shop, located on Front Street in Santa Cruz. He managed to serve satisfied customers even during The Great Depression years. I loved to visit his shop and breathe in the smells of newly cut wood and make trails through soft sawdust.