Dogs

First a brief apology for the large time gap in my blog postings. My computer had a major failure and I had to reformat my hard drive. In the process all of my contact information was lost: telephone numbers, mailing and e-mail addresses,… I am still in the process of recovering.

Here is the posting on which I was working before the computer meltdown:

Well, folks, you have already been introduced to Alexander, Chico, and Lil Maya . Today I want to introduce you to Gina Lee. Gina Lee’s “parents”, Sharon and Richard, have just moved from New York City to San Diego. Evelyn and I dog sat Gina Lee for a couple of months until Sharon and Richard picked her up last week.

Gina Lee is black with a small white blaze on her chest. She is a pug on both ends, head and tail, and something else in the middle.

Having four dogs in the house is something of a circus. Gina Lee and Lil Maya love to play tug of war with Lil Maya’s rope toy. The two also spar with gentle nips. During these bouts Chico tries to join in but doesn’t quite know how. So he resorts to trying to hump Lil Maya. These attempts are not well received. Alex tends to hang back, apparently not wanting any part of the activity. However, when Lil Maya is not engaged with Gina Lee she will chase Alex all around the house and when she catches up will chew on Alex’s ears and neck.

On occasion it got a bit crowded in bed with all four dogs wanting to sleep with us. I guess you can tell that we are dog lovers.

And here is the latest update:

Evelyn and I will spend Christmas day with Sharon and Richard in their new apartment in San Diego. We will bring Gina Lee home with us for a week or so. Sharon and Richard are catching the red-eye to San Marten Christmas night to spend a week with Richard’s parents.

Our Move to the Chicken Ranch

In June of 1943 my mother, brother, and I moved from Santa Rosa to join my father on the chicken ranch in Petaluma. (Actually it was about six miles outside of Petaluma.) With forty thousand laying hens producing over twenty-two cases of eggs every day it was a relatively large chicken ranch for the day. Today one would have to have a million or so laying hens to be called “relatively large”.

I do not recall much about the time between June and September. In September Jerry and I enrolled in Cinnabar School. Cinnabar was a three-classroom school, only two of which rooms were in use. I do not recall the name of the teacher in charge of the first through third grades. The principal, Miss Anderson, was in charge of the fourth through sixth grades. (Incidentally, Cinnabar is now a theatre, hosting small plays.) The school was a relatively short, two or three-mile walk from the ranch.

Not too long after starting school, all of the students were given a tuberculosis skin test. I tested positive. After several weeks of intensive X-ray and fluoroscopic exams I was “incarcerated” in the Oak Knoll Tuberculosis Sanitarium in Santa Rosa. From October 31, 1943 until May 1, 1944 I was confined to a bed, not allowed to get up and walk ten feet to the bathroom. For six months I had to suffer through bed pans, urinals, and sponge baths.

During this time my attending physician, Dr. Quinn, subjected me to countless X-ray and fluoroscopic exams. I was always transported from my bed in a wheelchair.

My room had originally been a nurse’s room. My roommate was Douglas Atkinson. Doug had suffered from tuberculosis of the bone and was undergoing a series of bone graphs – removing a section of bone from his “good” leg and grafting it into his infected leg. He was in a cast from his chest to his ankles so he could not have walked to the bathroom had they let him.

For those of you too young to remember, WWII was raging during this period. My mother, in her mothering way, sent me news and comic strip clippings on a weekly basis. I don’t think that I ever thanked her enough for her thoughtfulness.

Upon release from the sanitarium I was confined to “house arrest” for six more months. At the time my mother was a part-time librarian at the Petaluma Public Library. (She had graduated from U.C. Berkeley with a degree in library science.) She brought home books and I read them – at the rate of one or two books a day. I do not recall all of the books but I do know that I read all of the works of Zane Grey and Raphael Sabatini.

The only formal schooling I recall from this year-long adventure was studying U.S. geography with a series of maps. I guess it did not stick very well. Now I could not draw a decent map of the United States.

When I have the inspiration to dig further into my history I shall bring you another episode in the life of Robert Niel Beatie.

Mel's Passing

This is a sad time for me. Yesterday I got the message that my friend, Mel Salvat, had passed away. While Mel could be a monumental pain in the ass at times, he had a great love for animals and wrote engaging stories. I invite you to read them on his blog at http://melsal80.blogspot.com.

Our move to Northern California

Well, fans, here is a continuation of my childhood memories.

Just about my last memories of my childhood in Southern California were (are? I’m not quite sure of the grammar.) about Pearl Harbor Day. The family was visiting with the Prindles (Sp?) in Gardena. We had been to the beach that day. I recall being upset because their son had “stolen” my name: Robert Neal vs Robert Niel. And I vaguely recall Roosevelt’s “…a day that will live in infamy” radio address.

While I do not recall having been consulted or even being offered an explanation, the decision was made to relocate to Northern California in 1942, specifically to Santa Rosa. I can only assume that the reason was for my mother to be closer to her aging parents in Petaluma. My father gave up his teaching position at Riverside Junior College and took a similar position at Santa Rosa Junior College.

I recall very little about our home in Santa Rosa other than it was on a corner lot at 642 Dexter Avenue. It had a two-car garage behind the house, facing on the side street.

Speaking of the garage reminds me that over the Thanksgiving school recess my father drove to Oregon to visit with his family. While there he harvested a trailer load of Douglas fir Christmas trees from his 100 acre parcel. He towed the trailer home to sell the trees out of the garage. Incidentally he hid a box of apples under the trees to get by the agricultural inspection station.

The garage also reminds me of my first bicycle. My father bought it for me for $2.00.

My brother, Jerry, and I walked the few short blocks to school. We typically took a short cut through an apricot orchard. There was a small clearing inside the orchard that was planted with what we thought were green onions. So we helped ourselves and ate several samples. It turns out they were garlic and we reeked of garlic for some time.

Our departure from Santa Rosa comes with an interesting story. As I have noted, my father was teaching at the junior college. In early spring of 1943 he flunked the first five members of the basketball team in his Spanish class. The president of the college called him into the office and explained that “We don’t do that around here.” My father’s response was that students who do F work in his classes got F grades. He was not going to change the grades. The president’s response was “In that case we will be missing you around here next year.” To which my father responded “In that case you will be missing me a lot sooner than that.” He went to his office, packed his things and left.

Jerry and I finished the school term in our Santa Rosa school before joining our father on the chicken ranch in Petaluma that my parents had purchased from my maternal grandparents.

An interesting technical note: the electrical power frequency in Riverside was fifty cycles per second while the frequency in Santa Rosa was sixty cycles. So we had to get new clocks to keep accurate time.

I shall have to spend some time organizing my memories of life on the chicken ranch. There is so much to tell. (You have already heard about Woodrow.) More to come.

Introducing Lil Maya

Although Riley and I became good friends in her old age, she was always Mama’s dog. Alexander was a cute puppy but he grew up to be a bit aloof. And while Chico has always been a needy, cuddly dog, he clearly has adopted me. So, Evelyn wanted a “her dog” to replace Riley. As a volunteer at the local animal shelter Evelyn let it be known that she really wanted to adopt a girl Boston.
On April 1 of this year we heard through the grapevine that a very pregnant girl Boston had been picked up and was up for adoption. We hurried down to the shelter and immediately fell in love with the little girl. We rushed through the adoption and took Lil Maya to a dog sitter after having her checked out by our vet. We were going to Mexico the next day to spend a week with our daughter in Cabo San Lucas.
While we thoroughly enjoyed our visit with our daughter and her family in Mexico, we were anxious about Lil Maya and were on the phone several times a day to check on her status. On April 6 Maya began delivering puppies. In all she had seven puppies. Unfortunately none of the five boys survived. They were much too big for Lil Maya’s delivery system. So when we returned home from Mexico we picked up Lil Maya and two puppies: Sasha and Meesha. (If I can manage the mechanics there will be a picture of Lil Maya nursing them, somewhere around here.)
Lil Maya is obviously a purebred Boston. She had a microchip that never was registered. We have since registered her with AKC. She also had been running loose for some time because she was terribly emaciated. She weighed in at twelve pound, very pregnant, when we first had her checked out by the vet. Her spine stood out like the knuckles on your hand, only more so. Lil Maya’s age was estimated at three years, so we have adopted April 1, 2006 as her official birthday.
After eight weeks of nursing the two remaining pups we had her checked out again by the vet. She weighed in at seventeen pounds this time. Just shows how much underweight she was when we got her.
My daughter’s two children have now adopted Sasha and Meesha and are doing a great job of caring for and training them. So they are still in the family.
You may wonder how Lil Maya interacts with Alexander and Chico. She an Alex have become very close. Lil Maya insists on play fighting with Alex, biting him (very gently) on the neck and front legs. They sometimes race lickety split around the house and yard. Chico for the most part just stands aside, out of the way. On occasion he participates in a quiet “licking” party with Alexander and Lil Maya. Alexander and Lil Maya love to play in the water. Chico avoids it.
Lil Maya has a distinctive white streak on her right ear. Evelyn says that she has an “I didn’t do it, Mama” expression. I agree.
So life goes on with Alexander, Chico, and Lil Maya in our Thousand Palms household.

My Mother’s Family

I shall return to my family’s move to Northern California at a later date. At the request of my sister-in-law, Linda, I shall take a slight detour and recount my recollections of my mother’s family. I apologize for the lack of dates, but I remember very few.

My maternal grandfather, Niels Nielsen, was born in southern Denmark. The story was that it was a part of the country that was German as often as it was Danish, and my grandfather left to avoid conscription into the Kaiser’s army. He entered the U. S. through Ellis Island. He made his way to San Francisco and, as I have mentioned in an earlier post, he owned and operated a drayage business there. Niels married my grandmother, Eunice Caltoft. Eunice was born somewhere in Sonoma County, California, of Danish parents.

My aunt Catherine was born in 1902, I think. My mother, Irma Marie, was born in 1904.

After the 1906 earthquake, Niels and family moved to Petaluma, California. There Niels bought and operated the bottling works for several years. After disposing of the bottling works, my grandfather purchased a forty-acre chicken ranch just outside of town on Magnolia Avenue.

Carl Westerberg, a retired ships carpenter, was the ranch foreman. He and his wife lived in a small house on the property. His crew consisted of two single men, typically parolees from San Quentin prison.

My grandfather was a member of and an officer of the Poultry Producers of Central California. This was a marketing cooperative selling eggs under the trademark “Nulaid”.

My grandmother was a founding member of the “Magnolia Heights Social Club” or some similar name with “Magnolia Heights” a prominent part of the name. The ladies from up and down Magnolia Avenue would gather at one or another of the ladies homes on a regular basis for tea and/or coffee. Like so many Danes, my grandmother was an excellent cook – especially pies, cakes, and cookies. So you can imagine the goodies that accompanied the tea and coffee. My grandmother had a rather large quilting frame and on occasion had a house full of ladies for a quilting bee.

Grandma and Granddad moved into a modest house at 506 Melvin Street in 1942, or about then. Aunt Catherine and her husband, Herbert Mikkelsen, moved onto the ranch and ran the operation for a short period of time before my parents bought the property.

In town, my grandfather continued to drive his Buick. He repeatedly scraped the right side of the car backing out of the garage.

Granddad died of a massive stroke. He had been standing on the back porch at 506 Melvin Street when he jerked violently backwards and fell about ten feet onto his back on the gravel driveway. I was there when it happened.

Aunt Catherine was my mother’s only sibling. She married Herbert and had two sons: Stanley Willis and Jon Keith. Jon is nineteen years younger than Stanley. When Aunt Catherine and family left the ranch they moved to Ferndale, California, where Herbert ran a sporting goods store.

The only extended family of which I am aware was several of Granddad’s brothers/cousins living in Hollister, California.

There were a number of people related by marriage, the exact connection of most I do not remember.

My Great Uncle Louis-in-law, Louis Lausten, whom I have mentioned earlier, was my grandmother’s brother-in-law. Louis sister, Cina (?), was married to Ted Ward, an Englishman. Ted and Cina had two children, George and Helen, neither of whom ever married. George was a very expensive dentist in San Francisco. He was a next-door neighbor of George Burns. I shall probably have something further to write about George Ward at a later date.

Somehow related were two Lausten brothers, Caltoft and Leonard. At one time Caltoft was an executive at American Can Company. I seem to recall that the two of them lived in Burlingame, California or close thereby.

Returning to Aunt Catherine’s family, the last I heard, Stanley was living in Eureka, California. I believe he has three sons, the oldest of whom is named Todd. I do not recall the other’s names. I lost track of Jon years ago.

And so you have been subjected to yet another rambling of an old man.

Healthcare Reform

I interrupt my reminiscences to address the issue of healthcare reform. Putting aside my displeasure at the inability of our congresses and administrations to effect any change over fifty years of deliberations, the nation is not having an honest debate. We have been and are dancing around the question: “Should every resident, or citizen, of the United States have access to the latest and greatest of medical care?” If one only considers the altruistic and politically expedient aspects, the answer is clearly “Yes.” However one must consider the fiscal consequences. If, having considered the fiscal issues and arrive at the same answer, and I do not think that is the right answer personally, then taxes must be increased substantially. If taxes are not increased overtly, then the most insidious of taxes, inflation, will take care of the problem.

A great many people seem to think that universal health insurance will fix the problem. Health insurance does nothing to reduce the total cost of health care delivery. On the contrary the administrative cost of insurance management and associated profits only add to the overall bucket of costs associated with health care delivery. (One potential exception is the cost reduction associated with preventative care, should the incentives influence more individuals to take care of medical issues before they become extreme.)

Why should I have the right to a heart transplant any more so than I have the right to an eight-thousand square foot mansion on a beach with expensive cars in the five-car garage? I should and do have the right for either one if I can afford it.

On a constructive note, I think that the major efforts should be to reduce the total cost of health care delivery. After all, these costs are paid for in only two ways: by the healthcare recipients and taxes. No, insurance does not pay for any of these costs, it adds to the overall cost. I like to take a thermodynamic view of healthcare delivery costs. Draw a boundary around all of the costs:
• Hospital buildings
• Bedpans
• IV kits
• Doctors, nurses, dentists, etc pay
• Hospital administrative costs
• Insurance company administrative costs
• Insurance company profits,
• Etc. (and there are many etc's)

These costs are paid for by healthcare recipients (deductibles, co-pays, insurance premiums) and by taxes (federal, state, and local.) The only way to reduce the amount to be paid is to reduce the costs within the thermodynamic boundary described above. So let us argue less about how all of these costs are to be paid for and focus on reducing the total cost.

Memories of My Early Childhood

First Memories

In April or May of 1935 I recall standing in the dining room of a small house at 4200 Ramona Drive, Riverside, California while my parents were negotiating the purchase of that house. My recollection is that my mother was very fat. It turns out that she was pregnant with my brother, Jerome Caltoft (Jerry), who was born on May 30, 1935.

4200 Ramona Drive

4200 Ramona Drive was a two-bedroom, one-bath house. Facing the house from the street there was a driveway along the left side leading to a one-car garage. I remember at one time my father, who was an avid gardener, had a row of poinsettias along the side of the garage. One winter night there was a hard freeze. All of the poinsettia foliage that was not directly under the eaves was burnt black by the frost.

On occasion a young man would show up on the back stoop looking for any kind of work in exchange for a meal. Although I was very young I do remember the Great Depression. In order to make ends meet, my father sold his blood for $20.00 a pint. He was O-negative blood type. Once, in an emergency, he was called upon to “donate” twice in one day.

In those days many people still had ice boxes, rather than refrigerators. The ice man would drive down the street every few days delivering large blocks of ice.

Ramona Drive ended in an orange grove. There was a large vacant lot just before the orange grove. Shortly before time to harvest the oranges a large pile of wooden orange crates appeared in the vacant lot. The youngsters in the neighborhood took advantage of the opportunity to create elaborate forts using the orange crates. This brings to mind the favorite “toy” that our father brought to Jerry and me: a pickle barrel. That fifty-cent purchase became, in turn, a submarine, a tank, a castle, or anything that a young child’s imagination could concoct.

Every afternoon Jerry and I were supposed to take a nap. One day we decided to sneak out and go play with the neighbor kids. So, I opened the window and, in the process of climbing out, knocked the screen from the window. While I held the screen, Jerry followed me out of the window. It turns out there was a sharp metal flashing around the edges of the screen. Jerry landed on the corner of the flashing and opened a very large tear in his leg. We did not want to alert our parents to our situation so we took a large quantity of adhesive tape and tried to put his leg back together. Needless to say that did not work.

The Petersons lived next door. Mrs. Peterson was a piano teacher. My parents decided that I should learn to play the piano (both parents were aspiring opera singers.) My recollection is that I spent a great deal more time reading comic books at the Petersons than I spent at the piano.

As I have mentioned, my parents were aspiring opera singers. Their voice coach, Norman Spohr(?), had a story about another of his pupils. He said that he once told her that “I am playing on the white keys and I am playing on the black keys and you are singing in the cracks!”

I went to kindergarten and grammar school a few blocks away. There were no school busses at that time so we all walked to school. There were interesting thing along the way to school; among them was a potato chip factory. We would occasionally pause on the way home from school to watch the owner cooking potato chips on a large griddle, and, if we were lucky we were treated to a few samples.

Between the potato chip factory and the school lay an old “China Town”. There was a single street with very narrow, two-story buildings on either side. Only one or two of these buildings had any occupants. One day, one such occupant invited us to come in to see some “firecrackers”. Nothing like a case of dynamite sticks to kick up the adrenalin.

Summers in Petaluma and Oregon

My father was a language instructor at the local community college so we all had long summer vacations. Typically we would drive from Riverside to Petaluma where we would spend a week or two with my maternal grandparents on their chicken ranch. We did not stay longer because, I am sure, while my father was a true-blue Democrat; my grandfather was a right-wing Republican.

From Petaluma we would drive to my paternal grandparents’ place outside of Oregon City. Sometimes we would stop at Castle Crags State Park and camp for the night before continuing on to Oregon.

My grandparents lived in a house that my father had built for them, along with my father’s least favorite brother, John Myers Beatie (Uncle Jack) and Uncle Jack’s wife, Ada. There was about forty acres associated with the house. My Uncle Bob (Robert Hood Beatie) raised hay on the land not occupied by the house and truck garden. Uncle Bob had about one hundred acres across the street where he raised strawberries, black raspberries, and filberts. Next to Uncle Bob’s place my father had one hundred acres of timber and live-oak trees.

Move to Northern California

…more to follow.

Woodrow

When I was a young boy my grandfather had a chicken ranch in Petaluma, California. And on that farm he, my grandfather, had a draft horse named Woodrow. The name should tell you how long ago that was and how old Woodrow was at that time. Woodrow was a large, white gelding. Of course he was a fine draft horse because my grandfather knew a lot about draft horses. He had owned and operated a drayage business in San Francisco before the 1906 earthquake. Woodrow was used to pull a wagon from chicken house to chicken house while the hired hands fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, and cleaned the watering troughs, and so on.

When I was ten years old my father purchased the farm from my grandfather and we moved in. By that time Woodrow had been retired to pasture. He had been replaced by a 1925 Buick touring car, converted to a pickup.

Woodrow was a gentle giant. He readily allowed my brother and me to ride on him. Bareback, of course, because there was no saddle that would fit him.

One episode stands out in my memory. Woodrow and I were plowing the “south forty”. I don’t remember why we were plowing; it was probably just for fun. Anyway, there we were, Woodrow hitched to the plow and I walking behind. Suddenly the point of the plow caught in the root of a cottonwood tree. Woodrow pulled with all of his might, his belly only inches from the ground. SNAP!!! Both chain traces broke and Woodrow went tumbling head over heels. Neither of us was injured, but we didn’t plow any more.

It was a sad day when one icy morning as my father and I were on our way to milk the cows we found Woodrow lying dead by the cow barn. While it might have been sentimental to bury the old horse, on the farm pragmatism reigns and his remains were hauled off to the tallow works.

And so you have read another story about animals in my life.

Alex and Chico

I introduced Alexander as an eight-week old Boston puppy in my earlier posting: “Memories of Riley and Luci”. Living in Thousand Palms without Riley and Luci we focused more attention on Alex. Without Riley to play with Alex had become even more hyperactive. So we hired a trainer to school Alex, my wife, and me. The trainer was much more successful with Alex than with my wife and me. Alex received a diploma. If I had been grading, Evelyn and I would have received failing grades.

For some reason it seemed that we needed to get a playmate for Alex. Being fond of Bostons we scoured the web and came across Boston Brigade Rescue. They had a Boston mix who, at the time, was undergoing intensive veterinary care. We filled out the adoption questionnaire and agreed to wait. After several weeks the folks from Boston Brigade Rescue showed up with Chico. While they conducted a facilities check to assure that it was a safe and secure place, Chico managed to crawl under the back gate and take off across the golf course. It took about twenty minutes to retrieve Chico. I immediately blocked the hole under the gate.

Although Chico was fairly thin with his ribs showing he was, and still is, a remarkably handsome dog. He and Alex hit it off well from the start. They are very well matched, both weighing about twenty-five pounds. They played and romped with no sign of aggression, not even over the food dish.

Although Alex had been something of an escape artist, together Alex and Chico were amazing. With the front door open only slightly, they would both dash between ones legs and take off across the golf course. In one such instance it took almost three hours, until about 1:00 AM, to retrieve them. We have become much more careful so they rarely escape these days.

Alex and Chico have distinctly different personalities. Alex is somewhat aloof, only occasionally seeking attention. Chico, on the other hand, is very needy. He constantly seeks attention and frequently jumps into my lap. Alex is a glutton. He will eat anything and everything. Chico is a very picky eater, frequently eating grass and then upchucking. Contrary to what I would have expected, Alex submits to PediPaws (sanding down his toenails) while Chico will have none of it. Alex loves to play in the water. Chico does not.

So here we have another chapter in the lives of the Beatie pets. When next we visit I shall introduce Lil Maya.

Bob Beatie