Aberdeen High Jinks

By Steven C Stoker and Kimberly R. Shumate

More fun from the author of "Aberdeen Stories: Growing Up Right in Small-town America."

When he entered high school, he was unsure of himself, looking for romance, broke, unemployed and had no direction in life-no goals whatsoever! Read and enjoy the sometimes joyous, sometimes sad, but always poignant look at the teenage antics of a student trying desperately to overcome his own insipid existence! Experience again the humorous and questionable recollections of high school through the eyes of a teenage boy in a small Idaho farming community. Share his wretchedness and despair as he endures unrequited love, contact sports, failing grades, ever-changing music departments and an ongoing battle with his own mediocrity! Watch him emerge onto the world stage after four long years of high school and a year of college! He was unsure of himself, looking for romance, broke, unemployed and had no direction in life-no goals whatsoever!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 10, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469762647

Steven C Stoker

Steven C. Stoker is a disabled Vietnam veteran and makes his home in Arizona. He enjoys working on a variety of computer projects and watching movies with his wife, Peggy. He also enjoys visits from his daughters, Chris and Kim, her husband Russell, and his two grandchildren, Sierra and Jeffrey.

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CHAPTER 1

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Transition

It was large, green and mysterious! It loomed like a monument over the south end of the football field. It was Aberdeen High School! I had finally earned the right to attend classes there and I was anxiously waiting for that autumn day when I could begin those classes. I savored that rite of passage. However, I still had an entire summer to wait—an entire summer! It seemed like an eternity!

I had finished the eighth grade, acquired a driver’s license, and discovered that spending time and energy on girls was generally a good thing to do. In fact, girls had crept right up there on my list with music and hamburgers! I was at that stage where I knew I needed girls in my life but I was still somewhat perplexed about the reasons why. I was not likely to learn those reasons during an Aberdeen summer. My social life became somewhat limited during the summer. Perhaps that was not the fault of Aberdeen, however, but me. I didn’t know.

The summer of 1961 was special in several ways. It was not just the prospect of imminent high school adventures that made it remarkable, but it was to be the last summer of my life that consisted more of play than of work.

It was also a summer of change throughout the world. Fidel Castro had made a deal with the Russians and confiscated millions of dollars worth of U.S. owned property in Cuba. We had a new young president named Jack Kennedy who took the communist threat in Cuba very seriously and stood strong against it. In April, our country even backed a failed invasion attempt called the Bay of Pigs invasion in an effort to thwart the communist threat.

Protests against racism were heating up in the South. East Berlin built a wall to keep their people from leaving. Alan Shepard, our first astronaut, actually went into space. There was a brand new record company in Detroit called Motown.The Coca-Cola Company had come out with a new lemony-limey drink called Sprite that looked as though it would give 7-Up some competition. Instead, it just caused my favorite, 76, to disappear forever. There was even a new cartoon show called The Flintstones that came on at night during the week instead of just on Saturday mornings like other cartoons.

Yes, all kinds of things were happening, but for the most part, I was only concerned with my little corner of the world—Aberdeen. Except for a constant need to be aware of what was going on in the world of music, I was able to ignore most of what went on in the world outside of Aberdeen. As a potential high school student, perhaps I should have felt obligated to learn all I could of world events. However, I restricted my investigation to the Aberdeen social scene—not that complicated a task.

I was fourteen years old and at an age when I was faced with one more important realization—that money was a necessity. Moreover—if I was to have any I would have to get it myself. With six children to clothe, feed, and cajole into adulthood, and with farming as his vocation, my father would not be sharing part of some nonexistent fortune to keep me entertained. That left my income solely up to me. It was a daunting thought! I was going to have to work!

My father helped by making my availability known throughout the community—and with the help of good neighbors across the road, I managed to do some odd jobs here and there. Those netted me enough income to squander freely among the Aberdeen merchants and still leave enough left to create a regular stipend for Fawson Music in Pocatello. Fawson was diligent in taking my earnings and supplying me with records, both 45’s and albums. Such recordings became somewhat of an obsession with me, perhaps even more than the Superman Comics I purchased regularly at the Rexall Drug Store.

I worked with dynamite for a few days on a job for the Aberdeen-Springfield Canal Company. They didn’t hire me directly because of my age, so one of their regular employees, Joe Lipman, hired me to work for him. The job was short and difficult, but I learned a lot and enjoyed some real earned cash for a change.

I worked for one day as a spotter for a crop duster. Occasionally, I worked for the Clayton family that lived almost directly across the road from us on their dairy farm. They had some desert land planted in potatoes and grain and sometimes they asked me to help them move sprinkler lines around. That consisted of stacking approximately thirty-three pipes on a pipe trailer pulled by a tractor. Then we hauled them to the opposite end of the field and hooked them up so they could start another trip through the field, sixty feet at a time.

The process doesn’t sound too complicated until one realizes that each pipe has to be individually disconnected, carried to a moving trailer, and properly placed on the trailer so as not to damage it. That task is accomplished while plodding through mud so perilous that it attempts to suck the worker into oblivion. Putting the line out on the other end of the field is drier, but made difficult by the need to connect each length of pipe properly so that it all stays together when the pump is turned on. That is when the water pressure hits the line’s end like a shotgun blast!

After just a few of these experiences, I began to develop a feel for handling the pipe sections and the process became faster. That was a double-edged sword in a way because more speed meant fewer hours of work, yet the increased tempo impressed Mr. Clayton. The issue became inconsequential, however, when his two older sons approached me about working as a regular pipe mover. I accepted and was thrilled to do so! It was a regular job with regular pay and I looked forward to it—the pay that is. As for the job, it was an unavoidable side effect of receiving paychecks!

I enjoyed working with the Clayton brothers. They enjoyed the work and made it fun for me, though I was a much slower and younger worker. They included me in their conversations and even in other non-work activities, like shooting and off-road fun in the little red International Scout that we used for our trips to the desert. We became good friends and I valued that friendship.

I don’t want to give the impression that it was all work and no play that summer, for I played a lot. I spent the daylight hours between pipe moving duties doing a variety of things. My brother, Mike, and I spent hours playing with Wallace and Chick, the two younger Clayton boys. We spent hours in our pasture playing baseball or running around the makeshift track that we built.

I enjoyed running. There was something invigorating about the process of sprinting over the ground faster and faster, until it felt as if I were floating above it, not touching it at all. Running was one of the few things that I felt I could do well, no matter where or with whom I ran. I was unable to participate in high school track. However, I felt that if Dad had permitted me to take part, I would have done well. I think my brother, Mike, felt much the same way about his abilities, although we never discussed what might have been.

Instead, we built a makeshift track in the small pasture to the south of the house and we ran at home. It was not a pretty track by any stretch of the imagination, but it served us well. We measured it as best we could, but it certainly was not a regulation track. We did our best to make it a 220-yard oval, marking it with old shingles, dead branches, cow chips, and whatever else was available.

We took turns timing each other on 220, 440, and 880 yard runs. The World Almanac listed records for running such distances and we had dreams of having our own names included in that famous book.

It was a summer filled with activity involving both work and play, but the only social events I participated in were church-sponsored softball games every few days. Even so, time seemed to move so slowly that I began to wonder if I would ever get to start high school.

CHAPTER 2

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Dusting Crops for Fun and Profit

Airplanes were a source of amazement and fascination to me for as long as I can remember. My brothers and I raced outdoors to get a better look whenever they flew over close enough so that we could hear them. We became experts in identification by arguing with each other about whether an airplane was a Cessna, Bellanca, Beechcraft or whatever, and then trying to find ways to prove to each other which of us had guessed correctly. At times, we even invested our hard-earned pennies on magazines like Modern Pilot or Flying that we could use to back up our arguments.

When we were younger, we considered it a real treat to see larger airplanes, those with multiple engines. We took delight in guessing who or what they might be carrying and what exotic destinations they might have. I am sure our imaginations created far more interesting scenarios than the facts would have allowed.

The most excitement, however, was generated by the rare appearances of those aircraft that had no propellers. We merely called them jets, having no knowledge of them other than the fact that they made a marvelous noise, a sound that was often heard far behind the plane that caused it. Usually they flew very high, and the white trails they left assumed beautiful colors and shapes, especially in the early morning or at dusk, when the sun’s rays reflected off those trails from below the horizon.

Even rarer were the large jet-powered transports and passenger planes that made a noise loud enough to upset the sheep and send them scampering. When such aircraft flew over, we never failed to get excited.

We lived just off Airport Road and less than a mile from the small airport that was used by those residents of Aberdeen that had the means to fly their own airplanes. Some airplanes were actually shared by multiple owners. There were so few of them that we knew who owned which planes and could easily identify them when they flew over. Ernie Vanslaughter, Warren Hollingsworth, Clint Phelps, Stan Clayton and others became celebrities in a way. Those of us who admired their aircraft also envied them their good fortune.

Stan Clayton, the oldest of the boys from across the road, got his pilot’s license. I was beside myself with envy and even endured a smidgen of hero worship as I watched him dip the wings of his airplane whenever he flew over.

In our part of the country, the most admired pilots were those that dusted the crops. It was an interesting process to observe. We could watch them for hours, amazed at the precision with which they flew. It was not uncommon for them to fly inches above the plants they dusted, veering away from telephone and power lines at the last moment. On more than one occasion, I actually witnessed one of those pilots when he elected to fly under the power lines! I marveled at the seeming carelessness of crop-dusting pilots.

One summer day, I was given the opportunity to work with one of those crop dusters. I was only fourteen, and I guess I was just in the right place at the right time. His normal flagman had taken ill and he asked my dad to break himself loose for the day and work with him. Dad had water to change on the sugar beets and could not do it, but he suggested that I was capable. The pilot diverted his offer to me and I jumped at the chance!

I hopped in the pickup with that total stranger and rode to the airport with him. It was a short drive, but he managed to train me on the way, explaining what I needed to do for him. It sounded quite simple, and I suppose it was, but I was excited at being asked to do it. I did not want to foul it up!

We pulled right up to his yellow biplane and while he pumped insecticide into the appropriate tank from the back of his pickup, I admired his plane. It was bright yellow, and the first biplane I had ever seen close-up. There was a good deal of extra hardware on its wings—tubes and nozzles for spraying his cargo over the crops. The radial engine was so large that it looked too big for the housing that encased it. In fact, I guess it was too big, for it stuck out all over!

When the tanks were full, I watched as he started the engine and let it idle. He shouted to me, trying to give me directions on where to go. I managed to hear them above the din. The field he was to dust was about five miles away, and I knew I would have no trouble finding it. I drove away in his pickup, barely avoiding an accident almost caused by my trying to watch his take-off in the rear view mirror. Moments later, he buzzed me and then left me behind as he headed for the job site.

He wasted no time when he got there, for he made a couple of passes even before I arrived. I parked the pickup as far to the side of the road as I could and quickly got out, grabbed the two red flags from the back, and found the spot where both moisture and stench indicated his most recent pass.

At first I was very nervous, ducking as the plane came right at me and squinting for fear that the spray would come right down on top of me. Soon, however, I realized that he knew exactly what he was doing and I was able to stand tall as the plane blew by just a few feet above my head.

For the next few hours, I walked along the road as he dusted the crops, holding up the red flags to show him where he needed to start each pass. I could smell the spray from the plane, but the pilot was adept at turning on the spray at just the right time as he passed me, just a few feet over my head. Very little of the substance landed on me—only enough to ensure that I was sticky and stinky!

We returned to the airport three times to refill his tanks. Each time, I had to drive his pickup back to the airfield. The joy juice as he called it, was contained in a tank in the back. On one of those occasions, he also had to refuel the airplane and as he did so, we had a chance to talk.

He had been flying all his life and still loved it. He also told me how tempted he was to just land on the little-used road and pump in a new load right there at the pickup, but he was afraid of being reported, and so decided against it, though it would have made the job go faster. Frankly, I wanted it to take another day. I was enjoying myself and making money at the same time, a new feeling for me.

The field was finished by late afternoon. After that great pilot drove me home, there in our driveway, he handed me two tens and a twenty. He told me I did a good job and that he appreciated my bailing him out of a tough spot. I said Anytime, and meant it. Then I watched as he drove away.

I made forty dollars that day, more than I had ever earned in a single day, and for the simplest job and least work that I had ever done. I am certain that to be a flagman every day would be quite tedious, but for that one day, I found it to be exciting, rewarding, and an unusual chance to learn something new and different.

CHAPTER 3

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Scooting the Scout

I enjoyed working for the Clayton family very much. They had so many children, though, that I often wondered if I was really needed. However, I worked hard, did many jobs that were not very attractive, and felt as if each paycheck was well earned.

By midsummer, I was working primarily as a pipe mover for Mr. Clayton. He had honored my work ethic by offering me a more permanent position, which I readily accepted. I was excited at the prospect of having a real income and before I moved my first pipe, my head was flooded with possible purchases—items I could never before have imagined.

The job itself was never boring and that was because the two older Clayton boys made it fun. Sometimes they would bring their .22 caliber rifle out to the desert with us and spend some time shooting at jackrabbits or field mice. If none were readily available, rocks or clumps of sagebrush would suffice. I have to admit that I did covet that rifle. It was a beautiful semi-automatic carbine and I was able to shoot it with a high degree of accuracy. I added it to the mental list of acquisitions that I wanted to purchase with my first million.

Another favorite activity of the boys, especially Hal, was to take the Scout out into the rock piles and see just how much it could do.

It was an International Scout with four-wheel drive. In later years, such vehicles were called utility vehicles, but in 1961 it was merely known as the Scout.

Hal took pride in trying to drive it over obstacles that were not meant to be driven over. He enjoyed that activity so much that his delight could be heard for a mile as he hollered, yelped, and laughed his way over and through whatever he chose for that day’s challenge.

The only thing that gave Hal a bigger thrill was to have me in the passenger seat. Then he could really chortle when he saw my fear! Blood rushed from my face as the terror caused by his recklessness found its way to the I want to live part of my brain! I was not fond of the sensation that came to me just before the Scout tried to roll over or flip backward in some misguided effort to climb a ninety-degree cliff!

Over the summer, I began to realize that Hal knew what he was doing and the Scout would, more often than not, respond favorably when he picked an obstacle for it to overcome. It did not make it easier for me to ride with him, but deep down I realized that he was not jeopardizing any lives—at least not in the desert rock piles. There was a day, however, when his safety record with the Scout went right out the window, along with a glove, three boots, and me!

We had just finished moving pipe. Hal’s brother, Chick had come along to fill in for the oldest brother, Stan, who was out taking a flying lesson. We were on our way back home on North Pleasant Valley Road. As we came down the hill toward the main highway between Aberdeen and American Falls, Hal lost control of the Scout. It happened on a little S curve containing a bridge over the canal. Hal took the curve too fast, no question, but he had taken it the same way for weeks.

The difference on that day was that new gravel had been dumped on that very curve earlier that day. That gravel turned the normally sure-footed Scout into a ton of gravel-surfing machinery that had no hope at all of staying right-side up! We almost made it! The Scout crossed the canal, turned too far to the left, then turned on its side. It bounced and slid for what seemed like hundreds of feet, but was really only about sixty. It broke fence posts and gathered wire as if it had been assigned to remove the fence along the canal.

When we finally came to a stop, it only took a moment to realize we were all alive, relatively uninjured, and very, very lucky. I was lying on top of Hal, whose head was resting on a clump of wire from the fence. He was moaning, not in pain, but in disgust for what happened. Chick had an ugly bump on his head, but he was OK, too. He quickly climbed out the back. I climbed up and out the window on the passenger side and shortly after, Hal followed.

We climbed back up onto the road and as Chick and I looked on, Hal grabbed two pieces of that new gravel and flung them angrily at the prostrate Scout. It was as if he wanted to punish the vehicle for disobedience. He even abandoned his strong religious upbringing for a moment and renamed the Scout, using a moniker that I’ll not repeat or forget.

We took a long look at the damage the Scout had sustained and realized that it would take some help and hard work to restore it to its former glory. So we took leave of it and began walking toward the highway. There was a farmhouse at the intersection, raising hopes for an opportunity to call Mr. Clayton for assistance.

We reached the farmhouse in minutes and Hal called his father. Unsuccessful, he tried to contact his older brother—another futile attempt! They could not be reached! Unbeknownst to us, Stan had been flying overhead and he watched as the accident happened. He cut his lesson short and returned to the airport immediately. Because we all live near the airport, it was only a matter of minutes before help was on the way. In fact, Mr. Clayton and Stan found us shortly after Hal returned from his unproductive phone calls. We all piled into the back of Mr. Clayton’s pickup and rode to the accident scene.

We remained quiet as Mr. Clayton paced back and forth along the edge of the road, clicking his tongue and shaking his head as if he were scolding a child. He was, however, a loving and patient father and said nothing. He just returned to the pickup, motioned for Stan to drive away, and we returned to our respective homes.

The next day, the Claytons recovered their Scout and towed it home while Hal remained behind repairing the damaged fence. Hal spent the next several days in his garage, unwrapping wire and making the vehicle all better again. Soon we were once again using it to go to the desert for our pipe moving, but something had changed.

I am not sure whether Hal lost confidence in the Scout or himself, but he never again drove off-road and into the rock piles. I often wondered if perhaps his reluctance was the result of some pact he made with his father to avoid more severe punishment.

CHAPTER 4

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The Party Line

One aspect of living as a happy teenager in Aberdeen virtually hinged on reliance that each kid in town could communicate almost instantaneously with any other kid in town. We all became experts at using the telephone to spread the latest rumors or to make plans for an evening’s activities. Most kids became quite adept at telephone usage by the time the sixties rolled around, but it wasn’t always so convenient or easily accomplished. The earlier years saw great strides in our telephone service. I remember the first one we had.

Life was good. My father had finally broken down and ordered telephone service for our house. He resisted for a long time, not because he was against new technology, but he honestly was not convinced that it was a necessary expense. He viewed those who had telephones as being a bit lazy and self-indulgent. He knew that in a community the size of Aberdeen, that information of any import would spread quickly through the usual rumor mill. To his way of thinking, that made the newfangled telephone an unnecessary and expensive luxury.

Aberdeen wasn’t part of that great Bell conglomerate that existed. The Matson family, relatives of Grandpa Frank, privately owned the entire Aberdeen telephone exchange. It was a relatively new business enterprise, creatively called the Aberdeen Telephone Company! Because of that distinction, things did not always operate according to Hoyle, as Grandpa Frank would have said.

It was exciting to watch the installation of our first telephone. In truth, I had no one to call and hadn’t yet made enough inquiries to even know whether any of my friends had telephones in their homes. The subject had never come up in the course of school or play. Therefore, I can think of no specific reason why I was so excited!

I suppose just the idea of being able to talk clear across town over a wire without even leaving home was enough to cause the excitement I felt. After all, it had to work much more efficiently than tying a string between two cans. Actually, my family had once had a telephone when we lived in Utah. I even learned to use it to call my Utah grandparents, but I could not remember those early years. Nor could I remember how to use the telephone.

The men that installed our telephone did most of their work outside the house, climbing poles and stretching a wire from the nearest pole right to the corner of our house, way up high near the roof. Finally they came inside and began to snake wire through our walls. I watched with fascination as they worked, but the highlight of the job was when they opened the box and withdrew the telephone itself. I managed to force myself into a small space behind the man so I could see clearly, as he removed the wrapping from the phone. It was a shiny black box with a small cradle-like place for the handle to rest on.

Finally, with all wires connected, the man lifted the receiver from its cradle, tapped a little button a couple of times, and spoke into it. He was quiet for just a second or two, then said OK into the mouthpiece and placed the handle back in its place.

Both my parents were there, also watching with great interest. When the installation was complete, the telephone man sat down at the kitchen table across from them. First, he presented them with an Aberdeen telephone directory, which was about the size of a steno pad with all but four pages removed. Then he began to instruct them on how to use the phone. I listened as intently as my parents did; trying to absorb all I could about the new contraption.

I had seen telephones on television, and in magazines. All of them had one of those dials where you could stick your finger into a small hole and dial a number by pulling the dial around to a small tab, then releasing it so it could return to its original position. This telephone did not have one of those dials, and I just could not see how it was going to work.

After just a few moments of eavesdropping, I began to understand why our telephone had no dial. The equipment for our phone service was secondhand, bought from a company that had modernized its own phone service. We were not to have automatic dialing until later, when more telephones were being ordered and more lines installed. For now, we were to share something called a party line! And we didn’t need to dial a number, for there would always be someone called an operator on the line to connect us to whoever we wished to talk.

I didn’t quite understand the concept of a party line yet, but the instructions for making