Curandero: a Physician’S Life Journey: The Memoirs of a Pediatrician

By Don Blossom MD

Don Blossom, a certified pediatrician for more than four decades, relives a personal journey from childhood through a long career in medicine. Occasionally, over the course of his career, he came to think of himself as a curandero, a folk healer who serves Native Americans and Hispanic America.

Before he found his calling, however, Blossom had to survive his youthful exuberance including a tour overseas as a US Army Special Forces paratrooper. After several months, he yearned to catch a glimpse of an American girl. He got his chance when he was honorably discharged and met Ellie, a beguiling lass from New Orleans. In love, he faced a future in medical school and other obstacles before realizing his dream of becoming a doctor.

Blossom succeeded, becoming a doctor in private practice in a small New Mexico community, just as the field of medicine experienced some serious changes. He recalls his many adventures in medical diagnosis, the demands of a professional career in pediatrics, and the evolution of his private and family life.

In his manuscript Blossom targets physicians & nurses, healthcare administrators & medical educators, parents & teachers, as well as the evolution of healthcare in America. Explore the daily life and responsibilities of a pediatrician working in a small town and join Blossom as he reminisces about his experiences in Alaska, Russia, New Zealand and beyond in Curandero: A Physicians Life Journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450270731

Don Blossom MD

Don Blossom MD is a board certified pediatrician and a fellow of the American Academy of Pediatrics. He has been a practicing physician for more than forty years, working primarily in New Mexico. He and his wife, Ellie, have three children and five grandchildren.

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CURANDERO

A Physician’s Life Journey

The memoirs of a Pediatrician

By

Don Blossom MD

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Curandero: A Physician’s Life Journey

The Memoirs of a Pediatrician

Copyright © 2010 by Don Blossom MD

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-7074-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7073-1 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7072-4 (dj)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 11/23/2010

Table of Contents

Introductioni

Forewordi

Prologue

I THE EARLY YEARS

1. Origins

2. The War Years

3. An Active Boy

4. Reading, Righting, and Rithmatic

5. Summer Joy

6. Hunting, Howling & Harnessing Hormones

7. Character – A Work in Progress

8. Education, the Concept

II LIVE & LEARN

9. Frat Rat

10. The University of Washington

11. Paying for College

12. Dark Days Ahead

13. WSU

III IN TRANSITION

14. Uncle Sam Wants me?

15. The Shape of a Soldier

16. Geronimo

17. Screaming Eagles

18. Sneaky Pete

19. Pursuing My Dream

20. Life & Love

IV EVOLUTION OF A PHYSICIAN

21. Galveston oh Galveston

22. The Robert B. Green

23. The Making Of A Medical School

24. As A Medical Student

25. Graduation & New Responsibilities

26. Migration North

27. Competence & Confidence

28. Residency & Resiliency

29. Force Feeding

30. Home to Home

31. The Test

V A PHYSICIAN’S LIFE

32. The Practice

33. Settling In

34. The Value of One Life?

35. Policing Our Own

36. In the Heat of the Battles

37. The Practice of Medicine

38. F.A.A.P.

39. Building for the Future

40. Public Health

41. School Physician

42. Growth of Our Family

43. Our International Family

44. Heartache

45. Baseball & Medicine

46. The Changing Face of Medicine

VI MEDICINE ABROAD

47. Have Stethoscope…Will Travel

48. In Search of Medical Adventure

49. The Russian Experiment

50. New Zealand Medical Adventure: Part I: Acceptance

51. New Zealand Medicine: Part II: A Dazzle of Experiences

52. New Zealand Medical Adventure: Part III: A Broken System

53. New Zealand Medical Adventure: Part IV: Tragedy in the Midst of Tumultuous Times

54. New Zealand Medical Adventure: Part V: Life in NZ

Epilogue

Afterword

INTRODUCTION

I’m sitting at the computer starting to write my memoirs, as well as I am able to remember important (and unimportant) events in my life at the age of 67. I have procrastinated for years simply because of the daunting task of reviewing and chronicling one’s life experiences. And, much of my journal material was lost during the firestorm of 2000 that destroyed our home in Los Alamos, so my memory is crucial to this process. In addition, I must say, it is also a tad narcissistic. So the question arises: Why am I launching this mammoth project and what are my objectives? I suppose the most compelling reason is to leave some family history and sense of who I am, and have been, to my grandchildren. And maybe, in this story, I can share some wisdom that could be useful and entertaining as well. I certainly don’t wish to bore anyone with my thoughts and experiences, therefore I’ll try to spice things up from time to time, without altering the reality of the events. Of course, a prerequisite for the completion of this project requires some longevity over which I have very little control.

Will my writings have wider appeal than just family, friends, and colleagues? Included will be many medical adventures, diagnostic mysteries, the rigors of a medical education and training, the changes in healthcare over several decades, as well as, personal stories and vignettes. Those interested in a medical career or medicine in general may find a compelling read.

Another goal is to see if I can learn anything from my reflections. It seems likely that I will have to do some research to accurately tell the story. Will I discover things about myself of which I have not been aware, and will I be more content leaving this legacy to my descendants? I certainly have a lot of idle time on my hands to complete the task. And a lot of water has passed under the bridge, some turbulent but mostly tranquil. For the most part, I have lived an interesting and adventurous life that is well worth telling. I have been blessed with loyal loving family, friends, teachers, and colleagues who have shaped the kind of husband, father, friend, and physician that has emerged. I would very much like to share this exciting life with my children and grandchildren. And, I do love to write! So, if nothing else, I hope it’s a good read.

As I write I will try to organize everything chronologically. But my writing production will be considerably varied. With me, writing comes in surges. Some days I am very lucid and ideas are pouring through my brain like the flood waters of a Colorado stream in springtime. It may be a specific issue, theme or event that is vivid in my memory and yearning for expression. This has always been true for me even as a physician. There have been times when, after gnawing on a diagnosis all day, it will suddenly reveal itself to me in the middle of the night. So my subject matter and productivity will vary from moment to moment. And I will write when I feel compelled to share an idea, a theory, a recently recovered memory, or an event. So, let’s get started, and if I bore you with any of this then just raise your hand. For my grandchildren, think of it as a very long conversation with Papa.

FOREWORD

A Posthumous Talk with my Children (Grandchildren)

It often has occurred to me as I grow older; there will come a day when I am not available, as wise counsel, to my children and grandchildren. I’m not troubled by the inevitability of such an occurrence, but I would relish the opportunity to be of some aid. This may represent my greatest motivation in writing an autobiography and all the trimmings. One lives for decades and accumulates a wealth of information much of which is useful in living successfully. In doing so, it becomes clear to us, that our experiences are not only of interest to our family, but, often, of great value and applicable to their circumstances. How often do we repeat the mistakes of our parents? Does History always have to repeat itself? Can’t we recognize and avoid the pitfalls of past generations? Why are we not receptive to information from the old & wise? These questions apply not only to my descendants but to societies and nations at large.

When I am gone in body, I hope my spirit will remain. I yearn for the best part of my legacy to enlighten, motivate, and give hope and instruction to those who follow. This can only happen if I have set the proper examples in life, mentored well, and lead my family towards reasonable goals, towards fulfillment, productivity, and happiness. This demands patience, wisdom, and honesty. Patience has been a weakness during my life, and will be cured with my absence. I’ve always been willing to share my thoughts, though careful listening has been more difficult. For that, I apologize, though I assure you, I’ve heard more than was suspected. But, my writings can remain, to be used whenever necessary, or when the listener is receptive. The preacher can be edited at will. There should be no fear of rejection or judgment. The recipient (reader) can choose what applies and discard the rest, that is, take the best of the instruction and that which is relevant. Is this the way to have a conversation with my children after I’m gone? Too often the conversations in real life appear to be ordeals to endure, potentially threatening engagements, and exercises in misunderstand. At times, the value that lies within is obscured by a variety of reasons, none of which address the content of the conversation.

After decades on this planet, if you are paying attention, if you’re alert, you learn, and you come to preliminary conclusions. The word preliminary is very important here. It realizes that there are few absolute truths, and as we continue to accumulate knowledge, we will modify our conclusions on a continuous basis. These conclusions are referred to as opinions. And they are opinions. If you’re an honest person and continue to seek knowledge these opinions are very plastic. They grow in wisdom as you grow in knowledge and application. So the concept that someone is opinionated requires deeper examination. Are these ideas subject to new understanding or simply calcified, hard-headed, unyielding pronouncements? Opinionated can represent stubbornness or enlightenment. Either way they are only as valuable as the evidence on which they are based.

I feel strongly (opinion), having opinions is to participate in life. It means having enough courage to express yourself. And, it means having enough courage to be wrong, the honesty to recognize the mistake, and the initiative to acquire additional knowledge to modify or retract your view. Often, in medicine, we arrive at a preliminary conclusion when confronted with a difficult diagnosis. We make a list of the most likely possible diagnosis and arrange the list in the order of probability. This is called a Differential Diagnosis. As we gather new data, history, physical exam, laboratory results, X-Rays, and more, we modify our DDx based on newly acquired evidence. It is not unusual for us to act on the basis of a Differential Diagnosis because of the serious consequences that may result from inaction plus delay. This method of prioritizing our opinion list (conclusions) is imperfect but necessary to avoid many medical disasters. Algorithms help guide us through the pitfalls of diagnosis but are imperfect. And algorithms are based on the evidence that supports the differential diagnosis. You can see that formulating preliminary conclusions has been a necessary part of my thinking and I have grown comfortable with it. And, this method applies to understanding and solving the varied issues presented during one’s lifetime. It is a reliable model for problem solving as long as one continues to pursue and refine their knowledge and information and apply it.

If you can agree with any of the above drivel then please cut Papa some slack for being opinionated. My lifetime of experiences may be of some value to you. Look more carefully at my conclusions and the underpinnings of knowledge and understanding that form their foundation. If there is not sufficient evidence to support my conclusions then they should be discarded. But if they are valid, determine if the lessons apply to your situation. If so……………..let’s talk. Maybe I can be of some help. I’ll be listening. Will you?

Prologue

The Ambulance careened around the final corner on its pell-mell journey to the Medical Center Emergency Room entrance. The siren blared in the crisp midnight air like a harbinger of death. Inside the ER orderlies and nurses scurried from cabinet to cupboard collecting and organizing the equipment they would need. Preemptive planning was nearly always the key to any successful outcome in a life or death circumstance. However, emergency Caesarean Sections done in a little used operating room adjacent to the ER treatment room were nearly outdated. It had been over a year since the facility was used in a emergent C-section and the appropriate equipment had laid dormant; cleaned, tested, and maintained to be sure, but, nonetheless, unchallenged in a recent major surgical procedure with neonatal resuscitation.

A sleepy Obstetrical Chief Resident scrubbed feverishly in front of the OR scrub tub and a second year Anesthesiologist neatly arranged his syringes, induction medications, endotracheal tubes and laryngoscope. A Family Practice Intern in his second week of training scrambled up the back stairwell to wake his supervising Pediatric Resident. He despised pediatrics but it was a required rotation. He was completely flummoxed by pediatric care, especially newborns. These little creatures couldn’t answer questions. Examination of a five pound newborn was a delicate task and, God knows, occasionally a two pound premie would wander into his path. They were barely human beings! The Intern’s anxiety mounted as he crashed into the dark room where the resident laid breathing slowly in deep slumber.

The Resident slept in his OR scrubs for comfort and convenience. For the previous two years he had become accustomed to abrupt awakenings and he understood that time wasted dressing meant precious life saving seconds. The Intern’s voice was frantic with panic as he informed the Pediatric Resident of the impending emergency C-section. A 36 week gestation mother in labor with profuse vaginal bleeding had been diagnosed with placenta previa by a nearby clinic and fetal monitoring had demonstrated significant fetal distress. Little else needed to be said and none was. The Resident was wide awake and briskly moving down the stairwell while the Intern fumbled behind. The Resident did not discuss the case with the Intern, rather he went through a mental check list of the equipment he would need and the sequence of action that would follow the baby’s delivery. There would be time for discussion afterwards. Now there were only precious seconds available for preparation.

The ER doors flew open as two orderlies bolted down the hall to the pre-OR staging area pushing a gurney carrying a moaning semiconscious pregnant mother. Two nurses quickly disrobed the patient, skillfully placed two IV’s, one in each arm, and scrubbed her pregnant abdomen with a syrupy amber antibacterial soap, Betadine. The Anesthesiologist and Obstetrician waited patiently inside the OR, gloved hands raised, sterile gown and mask in place, with the large sterilized C-section packet opened and ready for some serious cutting.

After an abbreviated abdominal scrub the mother was wheeled into the OR, carefully lifted onto the OR table using her bed sheet as a hoist, then positioned for airway access. Modesty represented an extremely low priority. The Anesthesiologist slammed home his selected induction medications through the IV and skillfully intubated the patient connecting her endotracheal tube to the anesthetic gas de jour. The Obstetrical Surgeon began his incision during the crash induction. There was no time for fetal monitoring. Based on the fetal rhythm strip sent from the outlying clinic this would have lead to wasted lifesaving seconds.

The Pediatric Resident and Family Practice rookie had no time to scrub but donned sterile cap, gown, gloves, and booties. The nurses had opened a sterile neonatal resuscitation packet and all of the necessary equipment, which had been debated and selected by the Resident weeks before, was accessible in well organized parallel rows. Less than three minutes after the crash induction and initial incision the Obstetrical Surgeon plunged an oversized hand deep into the patients open abdominal wound and began lifting a cantaloupe size head out of the womb. The Pediatric Resident had just enough time to drape a sterile towel over his outstretched arms and received the lifeless form from the Obstetrician. The infant whose skin was covered with white cheese-like vernix was draped over the Pediatricians hands like a rag doll, dripping with blood, amniotic fluid, and thick yellowish brown meconium. Quickly the baby was placed on a small open infant warming bed and quietly the Pediatric Resident went to work. The Intern stood by, mouth agape and horrified.

He’s dead, said the Intern unwittingly. The Resident said nothing. Indeed the baby was lifeless. There was no need to listen for breath sounds or heart rate. It would only waste time. The Resident quickly, skillfully, and calmly began his lifesaving routine: 5 seconds briskly drying and stimulation; suctioning the airway was impossible, the meconium was too thick; a finger sweep of the oral pharynx produced a large thick brown glob of meconium the consistency of cookie dough; immediate endotracheal intubation was preformed with a small laryngoscope and a 3 mm breathing tube; manually ventilating the infant with an Ambu breathing bag using oxygen enriched air. Throughout his routine the Resident was continually accessing the neonate’s status.

This was a small-for-dates infant, only four and a half pounds and poorly nourished for a 36 week gestation baby. The mother may have been a smoker or a cocaine addict but this could be determined later. The meconium represented an intrauterine infant bowl movement prior to deliver which could have been induced by a number of stressful events. In any case this infant was much better off on the outside rather than the inside. The intrauterine nutrition was poor and the womb now represented a hostile environment. The Placenta previa only further complicated the picture. Had there been any fetal blood loss during the labor or was it all mothers’ blood?

Now that an airway was established and the infant was being ventilated the luxury of a more in-depth evaluation was available. The infant heart rate began to rise rapidly with each puff of oxygen. Adrenalin and cardiotropic medications would not be necessary. The pale pasty skin began to flush. The flaccid hypotonic muscles began to gain tone as oxygen perfusion entered the musculature. The Pediatric Resident continued silently and calmly to apply other therapeutic measures as the neonate improved rapidly. By five minutes of age the infant was a ruddy pink and fighting the endotracheal tube. Clearly, infant blood loss was not an issue. The infant was extubated, the breathing tube discarded, and only blow-by oxygen was streamed near the baby’s nostrils. Now the infant was crying lustily, pulling its knees into its chest, and voicing his displeasure of the team that rudely introduced him to his extra-uterine existence. His bright pink color and lusty cry were the signals to the world that he was here to make his mark. The medical team sighed and smiled, except for the Intern who scowled and kept muttering, He was dead! He was dead! He didn’t understand; was it smoke and mirrors or just dumb luck? The Pediatric Resident was silent and reflected on all of the hard work that had preceded his present understanding and performance. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t a miracle. But what was it? How did he arrive at this level of competence? How did he overcome all of the obstacles that seemed to litter his pathway? He mused and glowed with satisfaction. He said nothing. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to review the case with the Intern. Now, as exhaustion overtook him, he needed sleep, precious sleep, just a few hours.

I

THE EARLY YEARS

1. Origins

I was born on October 6, 1940 at Mercy Hospital in Denver, Colorado to parents Viola Mary (Roach) and Harry Winn Blossom. There were no apparent problems during delivery but, as the old joke goes, The doctor delivered me, held me dripping upside down by the feet with my butt in full view, looked me over carefully, and then slapped my mother. I was the first son after my two sisters, Dixie Lee and Bonnie Mae. I suspect; my early years convinced my mother to have no more children! My parents named me Donald Roach after my maternal grandfather’s surname. I have been none too happy about that middle name moniker ever since. They named me after an actor and popular tenor singer of the day Donald O’Conner, a goofy looking guy with a great voice. My oldest sister, Dixie, named after Dixie Lee Crosby, would dote on me, as is the right and duty of the oldest female sibling. (I always wanted a little brother but I was never in a very good negotiating position until about the age of 21.) Bonnie, on the other hand, would simply beat up anyone in the neighborhood who was a threat to me. I suspect that her name came from the book and movie of that generation, Gone with the Wind.

My mother was raised on a small Texas panhandle wheat farm until she was of high school age. Her father, Fountain Roach (yes, it’s true) had grand plans for his only daughter and bought a home in Colorado Springs primarily for mom’s high school education and, I secretly suspect, to improve her social opportunities. Her only brother was Curtis O. Roach (yep), 10 yrs her senior. He was in the military and spent 20 yrs as a career soldier, eventually reaching the rank of Colonel. Mom, know as Vi to her friends, had many health problems in her youth. She had Rheumatic fever that eventually progressed to Mitral Stenosis in her adult years, as well as Idiopathic Scoliosis which required a year in a body cast when she was a junior in high school. She was constructed with a frail build but was very bright, energetic, and a good student. My father was mesmerized by her delicate nature contrasting with a Texas-tough spirit. She was a pretty little thing but tough as nails.

My father, Harry Winn Blossom (names were difficult for my ancestors), was the younger of two brothers that grew up in Oxford Nebraska. His father, George Blossom worked as a conductor on one of the railroads in Oxford and was later transferred out to Denver. Denver was where my dad met my mom while pumping gas at a filling station. She and some of her sorority girlfriends (Delta Delta Delta) from Colorado Aggies College in Fort Collins were romping through Denver at the time and I’m certain it was love at first sight for Dad but my mom was probably overcome by gas fumes. Nevertheless, it never wavered for the next 50 plus years.

My parents were married sometime during my mom’s senior year at CSU. So the story goes, one day they were discovered in her room at the sorority house and they were forced to announce that they had eloped and were married the previous weekend………..a likely story indeed! In those days, premarital relationships were grounds for expulsion, but for 50 years, that’s their story and they’re sticking to it. And there has never been any doubt about their commitment to each other.

Mom received a college degree, with a major in English, but dad dropped out of the University of Nebraska after two years to earn a living. It was the 1930s and the Depression era hit hard. Dad eventually moved to Denver where he first worked at a gas station and then got a job in a munitions factory just before the war broke out. By the time the US was embroiled into WWII, he had three children and received a military exemption. It is unlikely that he would have been drafted anyway because of his history of Asthma. Dad told us many stories of his and mom’s adventures in Denver during the depression and prohibition period. They would go to the speakeasies (illegal dance hall and gambling dens that served alcohol) and dance the Charleston till dawn. I’m sure my father’s love of an exciting dice game began here as well. And Mom allowed his indulgence since he was always careful to minimize any losses and usually won modest amounts. They lived on very little income and were quite content. Children didn’t enter the picture for 3-4 years.

After Dixie was born, my parents lived in a small house in Denver that my grandfather, Fountain, had purchased for his precious daughter. This was one of his many well intentioned interventions into my father’s role as breadwinner of the family. In later years my grandfather bought mom a large diamond ring that Dad never could afford in their early years of poverty. Dad never said anything but he was a proud, hard working man and I’m sure he quietly resented this intrusion. But for Pop (my grandfather) nothing was too good for his little girl. Fortunately, Mom never became a Prima Donna as a result of Pop’s overindulgence. She was always very practical minded and down-to-earth. My Dad put food on the table, my Mom planned and implemented the family’s future and together they were a good team.

Fountain Roach has a colorful history from the mid 1800’s as a young cowboy corralling four legged Herefords and then eventually owning his own wheat ranch in the Texas panhandle. At roundup time all the ranchers would hire local cowboys to gather all the livestock for a cattle drive to the railroads at Lawrence Kansas. Their drive would be several hundred miles through the Oklahoma pan handle to their destination. On one early trip, when my grandfather was in his late teens, they came upon a lone Indian riding in the prairie. One of their men decided to shoot the Indian. (I think many of the settlers of that generation harbored real hatred for Native Americans and felt they were no better than a wolf.) The Indian was killed and the cattle drive moved on with little regret. The next day they were confronted by a band of Indians armed with rifles. Their leader demanded that they identify the individual who had shot one of their brothers or, they would all be massacred. So…………….the guilty cowboy stepped forward, rode off with the Indian war party, and was never heard from again! His demise was most likely a lengthy and painful process. This was frontier justice in the 1800’s. These are just some of the stories that our grandfather told us. Pop Roach was a tough ol’ bird. These stories and many others from my family (and my wife to be, Ellie’s) shaped our parents’ social and racial attitudes. And, the two of us had to overcome these shortcomings as young adults. I’m happy to report that we have been successful.

My memories of Denver and the wheat farm in the Texas panhandle (my first 4 years) are pretty fuzzy. In Denver, I remember a large weeping willow tree in our front yard that draped gracefully to the grass creating a chamber around the trunk. This was a magical hiding place for a small child. A secret club house where we, the children, were independent and free of adult supervision. And, I do have memories of my paternal grandfather, George Blossom, returning from his job at the railroad with a pocket full of red & white stripped hard candies. I lost one of these delicious treats between the grates in the floor heating vent and to this day I can see that unreachable treasure slowly melting away. I think I have been severely psychologically damaged to this day. My interest in sweets is minimal.

We visited the Texas farm from time to time. The panhandle country was (and still is) flat, windy, and unattractive prairie. The farm house was a simple single story three bedroom rectangular wooden home with a pitched roof and a canopy covered front porch. There was a fence enclosing the grassy front yard that contained a Billy goat who was employed as a lawnmower. This goat was very territorial and aggressive. As a toddler with a bright white diaper covering my bum I was a favorite target for the goat’s charges. It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Alas, more psychic trauma to poor little Donald. We did have a small barn on the property and, as was typical of the farms in the area, we had an underground cellar for storing fruits & vegetables that were cooked and placed in mason jars. There was also meat in the cellar and if one looked carefully a jug of spirits or two. The cellar also functioned as a storm cellar for the occasional tornado. Pop would intrigue us with astonishing tales of the devastating twisters.

I have only one memory of my grandmother Roach and it may simply be from pictures painted by family stories. I can see her lying in bed suffering from terminal cancer that had either originated in the bone in her leg, or more likely, metastasized to the bone. I don’t remember any stories about her. Maybe it was a sign of the times, a hard working frontier wife toiling in obscurity. I never knew her. I can’t even remember her name.

My dad loved the mountains and we would spend some of our weekends in areas surrounding Denver. The Garden of the Gods was close by in Colorado Springs in addition to Pikes Peak and the tram that went up the side of the mountain. One of Mom and Dad’s favorite trips was to Estes Park next to Rocky Mountain National Park. This is a temple of majestic scenes of snow covered peaks, tall Douglas Fir and Spruce forests, and crackling mountain streams coursing through meadows laced with purple thistle and wild daisies. I was a wobbly toddler with a frightful face pocked with eczema, delighting in this world of allergens as they worked their evil spell. My nose was a water fall to behold. Ah, my first love of the mountains!

In 1940 my Dad was an important contributor to the Defense Department as a worker at a munitions factory in Denver. After Pearl Harbor, and the American entry into WWII, the US began to embrace more ambitious weapons development projects. American scientists (with collaboration from many Eastern European refuge scientists) found a way to split the atom at the University of Chicago and the idea of a super bomb developed. But they needed to produce a significant quantity of plutonium before a successful weapon could be tested. These discoveries spawned the development of Hanford, Washington along the Columbia River and Los Alamos tucked secretly into an isolated mountain range in New Mexico. (Ironically, I would come to live in both areas.) My Dad was offered an opportunity to work at Hanford which included a considerable pay raise. It meant leaving the family for 6 to 8 months while the project was being built but it was a job opportunity that had an economic future. In 1943 he and many other workers who had been selected traveled northwest to the now historic ghost town of Hanford. It was as patriotic a lifetime decision as it was dangerous and the origins of my family began to take shape in a stark desert carved millenniums ago by a great (Columbia) glacier.

2. The War Years

My Dad lived and worked in a town of 50,000 (nearly all men) that no longer exists. Hanford was a temporary town of construction workers who eventually built seven nuclear reactors along the banks of the Columbia River in a remote area in central Washington. The nearest town was Richland Washington 50 miles down stream (south). The men at Hanford had been thoroughly screened by government security teams and the knowledge of Hanford’s existence and purpose would remain a secret for many years. Dad couldn’t even reveal his job description to his family and I was 15 years old before I knew what my Dad did for a living. He was a loyal and patriotic American and he didn’t even tell Mom. We did know that it was a big deal and that it had something to do with the war effort.

The area in Washington was selected because of the isolation, but more importantly they needed an enormous amount of cold water to pump through and around the reactors to keep them from over heating. And, years later I learned that this is precisely what my dad did at Hanford after the nuclear reactors were constructed. He ran the cooling system for one of the reactors. I guess you could say he was a high-tech plumber. Reactor meltdown was always a real fear and this underscored the importance of his role at Hanford. During the construction phase the men lived in long rectangular single floor wooden army barracks (50,000 men!!). And, for after hours enjoyment they did have a bar, only one bar, but the longest bar in the world. They took dozens of these long skinny barracks, gutted them, laid them end to end, and then constructed a bar inside. My Dad said you could stand at the bar drinking a beer (Prohibition had been repealed by then) and you could look to either side and not see the end of the bar. And, I imagine, after a heavy night of parting, it was even difficult to see the bar in front of you! It would be a tough place to rendezvous with a friend. Where the hell were you last night, Charlie? I was there……….next to the Old Milwaukee sign. Are you blind???

There are many other stories about Hanford and I believe there have even been a few books written about this town that no longer is. One of my good friends, Chuck, had a German grandfather who ran the only grocery store at Hanford in the early days. His store was located in a hastily built warehouse, and he ran 15, or so, cash registers 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to serve the needs of the workers. He was the consummate business man and he made a ton of money that his son, Chuck’s dad, used to purchase his own grocery in Richland years later. Hanford, the town, was abandoned a few years after the project was completed and now only the concrete foundations and the ghostly images of 50,000 residents remain.

The Columbia River was a large, deep, swift river nearly a mile across near Richland. It was the perfect cooling source for the reactors. In ancient times the Columbia had been a large glacier, miles wide, oozing slowly from British Columbia to Oregon and carving a 100 mile rocky scar east of the Cascade Mountains. From Hanford or Richland you could see the symmetrical cone shaped 14,000 ft. peak of Mt. Rainier to the northwest and the low smooth silhouette of the Blue Mountains to the southeast. The area is semiarid with sage and tumbleweed since most of the Pacific moisture was sacrificed to the mountain ranges of the Olympics and the Cascades before limping across the parched skies of central Washington.

The town of Richland existed before the war broke out. It was no more than a couple of thousand people, the northern most towns in the region known as the Tri-Cities. These three towns (Richland, Pasco, and Kennewick) were located where the junctions of two tributaries, the Yakima and the Snake Rivers, poured into the mighty Columbia. The area is historically the sight of Lewis & Clark’s journey to mouth of the Columbia in search of the Pacific Passage. And, here lies the stomping grounds of the famous Nez Perce Indian leader, Chief Joseph (the name of my Junior High School). Lewis & Clark’s guide and interpreter, Sacagawea, has a park in her honor overlooking the mouth of the Snake River and my first elementary school (spelled Sacajewea) was named after her.

Richland was a boom town during the war. Homes had to be constructed to house the families in waiting for those who would work at the Hanford Site as it was called. They needed schools, churches, roads, and the infrastructure necessary to expand a community from 2,000 to 20,000 residents. Most of the homes that were built were boxy unattractive duplexes and apartments. We, eventually, moved into an A house which was a wooden two story duplex with three bedrooms and a bath upstairs, 1409 Thayer Drive. There was an unfinished basement with a coal bin for our furnace. Between our house, and our neighbors on the corner, was a small gravel parking lot. This was the sight where my friends and I would run barefooted in the spring to toughen our feet for the summer ahead.

The war brought rationing to all families in America. Automobile tires were in short supply and were under tight control. Milk, bread, and eggs were in limited supply. Butter was not available and we would buy margarine instead. The margarine would come packed tightly in a plastic sack as a thick beige putty. There was a dime sized button of amber coloring dye inside the package as well. As kids, we loved to pop the button and then massage the bag until the margarine all turned yellow and looked like butter. As a child you never think about these hardships. Life is just as much fun without all the trappings of prosperity. And our parents were coming from the decade of the Great Depression era so they didn’t miss many material goods that money could buy. I never remember being deprived or unhappy as a child though I didn’t have much. A Schwinn bicycle at the age of seven was my only luxury and I treasured it. Poverty and war were never acknowledged in my boyhood; though I am sure they concerned my parents. And WWII converted a dismal economic era into a bustling postwar economy.

3. An Active Boy

Our family moved from Denver to Richland in 1944 when I was 4 years old. Our home on Thayer Drive was recently completed and we reunited the family with my Dad. The house was in a newly constructed neighborhood and there where families from all over the USA. Just next door was a single two story unit on the corner with a sizeable lot with four bedrooms designed for higher ranking (and salaried) employees at the Hanford Project. The Peabody’s were our neighbors, a family of two boys roughly my age and a younger daughter. Jerrold (my age) and Dennis (one year my junior) lived with their younger sister, Pauline, in a whitewashed wooden home that was a two story block house. Their father was a scientist, a physicist I believe, who worked in the laboratories that supported the Project, as it was known. Jerrold was like his father; analytical even as a child, not much fun, and aloof. He could never become a very good friend though we did play together in early years. His younger brother, Dennis, was the polar opposite, and he and I found lots of mischief to occupy our escapades. I remember several episodes that landed me in disfavor with my parents and hours in the penalty box and/or a few whacks on the butt. One such episode involved Dennis, taunting me from his 2nd story bedroom window. I was down below him standing in his yard next to the vegetable garden attempting to retaliate. I started throwing ripe tomatoes up toward him as he stood in the open window jeering. It was a game of dodge ball. He would duck just after each throw and then return to mock me. A few shots accurately zinged past his head through the window into his room but others splattered harmlessly on the pristine whitewashed shingles. For some reason (I think his mom called to him from the kitchen) Dennis closed the bedroom window and left his room to go down stairs and explain to his mother what was happening. Just at that moment I hurled a hard green tomato. It was a pitch to behold. Just the right amount of spin, excellent velocity, and the trajectory was perfect; any umpire in the land would have declared it a steeeerike! Alas, the window lay broken, the room was a mess, the white siding dripped of red pockmarked explosions, and my butt was in a sling. Ah, the joys of youth!

Though my neighbors were convenient companions there were no lasting friendships. In fact, Bonnie had to beat up one or the other of the Peabody boys from time to time just to keep them in line and establish the neighborhood pecking order. I learned early on to use guile, not brawn to avoid physical confrontation. As a skinny lad trapped in a delicate mainframe it became a matter of survival to use my brain and sense of humor to keep me out of harms way. But this didn’t discourage me from participating in shenanigans. Often, I was the author of some of our high risk adventures and always a willing participant. We would sneak cigarettes from my mom’s stash and experiment in our hideaways that were scattered about the neighborhood. When we couldn’t procure the cigarettes, we would improvise and light up some snake weed that was abundant in the area. In the warm summer evenings we played kick-the-can with other neighborhood kids and these legitimate activities could easily morph into less desirable behavior, never malicious, but often naively dangerous to ourselves or others. Much of this activity occurred in later childhood with my first real friend, Sonny.

Sonny, as he was known to his family, was officially named Charles Conrad Jr. and lived about 5 blocks away with his parents and younger sister, Kay. His mom was a full time homemaker, as was mine, and his dad, Charlie, was a policeman on the local force. I knew Sonny (aka Woody in adolescence) through a friendship between my parents and his. I’m not sure how the family’s friendship began, maybe at the Bridge table, but it lasted my lifetime. I suspect my mom and Louise Conrad met each other through one of many local civic activities. The Conrad’s origins were good ol’ country people from Tennessee (I think). They were easy going and tons