Jerry’S Ledger: a World Gone By

By Jerry Vermillion

Jerry was recruited by Gonzaga University during the summer of 1951. His thirty-year run as a basketball player, coach, and diversified educator in Washington State began in September of that year. The new coach, Hank Anderson, led the team on a long march to becoming the great nationally recognized basketball program that exists at Gonzaga University today. Jerrys memoirs show his enormous appreciation for Gonzaga University and his pride in being a part of that beginning greatness.
Jerry started as a freshman on the first Anderson team. During four years of competition, he amassed an incredible 1,670 rebounds. Sixty years later, that record still stands! Unbelievably, the next-closest player is 760 behind. This is a record that might never be broken! He is still in the top ten in scoring and a member of the over-forty-point club. At one time, he held all the scoring records. His standing jump was 11'1''. For those who dont know, thats 13 inches above the rim. At 6'4'', he jumped center for Gonzaga in over one hundred games and controlled 90 percent of them! The many great players who came later, including John Stockton and Frank Burgess, chipped away at his early records.
Describing the why, when, where, and how of his lifes chronicle fulfills a family need. Additionally, the players, students, and professionals Jerry met along his journey will be pleased to know more about his voyage.
During an evening visit to his son-in-laws home, Jerry discovered an inspirational force that set in motion an autobiographical explication dedicated to his family.
Todd Harrison, Jerrys son-in-law, showed him a brief composition written by Todds grandfather that described his life and the settling of a Mormon family in early Utah.
The manuscript is cherished by Todd and his family because it recounts the hardships, experiences, and successes of their ancestor.
It became obvious to Jerry that such a composition would be an ideal way to share parts of his boyhood and professional life more intimately with family. For whatever reasons, Jerry felt that he had not been able to fully share his life experiences with his family. He has stated, I just didnt talk much to the kids about other experiences in my life while they were growing up.
When Jerry began composing this book, the missed stories flowed effortlessly from his memory. In this text, he recounts personal stories about the conflicts, hardships, and successes he experienced while growing up and describes how he overcame a lifelong debilitating handicap. With sincerity and subtle humor, he recounts boyhood lessons learned and the gripping stories of peers known, players coached, professionals met, and experiences lived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781463446024

Jerry Vermillion

Jerry was recruited by Gonzaga University during the summer of 1951. His thirty-year run as a basketball player, coach, and diversified educator in Washington State began in September of that year. The new coach, Hank Anderson, led the team on a long march to becoming the great nationally recognized basketball program that exists at Gonzaga University today. Jerry’s memoirs show his enormous appreciation for Gonzaga University and his pride in being a part of that beginning greatness. Jerry started as a freshman on the first Anderson team. During four years of competition, he amassed an incredible 1,670 rebounds. Sixty years later, that record still stands! Unbelievably, the next-closest player is 760 behind. This is a record that might never be broken! He is still in the top ten in scoring and a member of the over-forty-point club. At one time, he held all the scoring records. His standing jump was 11'1''. For those who don’t know, that’s 13 inches above the rim. At 6'4'', he jumped center for Gonzaga in over one hundred games and controlled 90 percent of them! The many great players who came later, including John Stockton and Frank Burgess, chipped away at his early records. Describing the why, when, where, and how of his life’s chronicle fulfills a family need. Additionally, the players, students, and professionals Jerry met along his journey will be pleased to know more about his voyage. During an evening visit to his son-in-law’s home, Jerry discovered an inspirational force that set in motion an autobiographical explication dedicated to his family. Todd Harrison, Jerry’s son-in-law, showed him a brief composition written by Todd’s grandfather that described his life and the settling of a Mormon family in early Utah. The manuscript is cherished by Todd and his family because it recounts the hardships, experiences, and successes of their ancestor. It became obvious to Jerry that such a composition would be an ideal way to share parts of his boyhood and professional life more intimately with family. For whatever reasons, Jerry felt that he had not been able to fully share his life experiences with his family. He has stated, “I just didn’t talk much to the kids about other experiences in my life while they were growing up.” When Jerry began composing this book, the missed stories flowed effortlessly from his memory. In this text, he recounts personal stories about the conflicts, hardships, and successes he experienced while growing up and describes how he overcame a lifelong debilitating handicap. With sincerity and subtle humor, he recounts boyhood lessons learned and the gripping stories of peers known, players coached, professionals met, and experiences lived.

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© 2012 by Jerry Vermillion. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/10/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4603-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4594-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4602-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011961766

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Part I Child And Boyhood, 1931-1951

Chapter 1 Minnesota

Chapter 2 Wyoming

Chapter 3 Montana

Part II Professional Journey - Washington 1951-1980

Chapter 4 Spokane (Gonzaga University)

Chapter 5 Westport (Ocosta High School)

Chapter 6 Shelton (Irene S. Reed High School)

Chapter 7 Olympia (Saint Martin’s University)

Chapter 8 Tacoma (Laughbon High School)

Chapter 9 Olympia (South Puget Sound Community College)

Chapter 10 Yelm (Yelm High School)

Part III Related Adventures 1931-2010

Chapter 11 Fishing

Chapter 12 Snakes

Chapter 13 Hunting

Chapter 14 Jobs

Chapter 15 Pp&R (Politics, Philosophy, And Religion)

Part IV Epilogue

Epilogue

Credits And Permissions

Dedication

Scarlette, Scott, Mark, Lynne, and Carol, this autobiographical story is dedicated to and meant for you and your families. I also pledge the same heartfelt loyalty to the many players I coached.

Introduction

Reluctantly, I left lengthy descriptions of our family associations and experiences growing up together out of this story. The stories here are written from my perspective about information that family members likely missed or were not fully informed about. It is a story to fill in the blanks and maybe someday pass on. I have consistently resisted the urge to include descriptions of many of the great and memorable times we had together.

I am not being guided by an author’s skill and discipline. The stories will ramble, but nonetheless I hope they give more completeness to your sense of our family and our lineage.

We each have our own experiences of our interactions as a family. This information about my thinking and experiences is intended to fill in more knowledge about me and our family heritage. There is much that you already know and will tie into these new stories. Of course, all the athletes and students I taught are another important audience for this book.

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Our family in beginning times with the first first-grader.

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Our family in grown-up times with the last high school graduate.

PART I

CHILD AND BOYHOOD, 1931-1951

Chapter 1

Minnesota

On May 4, 1931, at 7:00 a.m. on a farm at the edge of a small historical village in Wilkin County, Minnesota, Mel and Teckla Vermillion’s first son was born. On that day, as my mother told me many times, old Flory had a colt and Mel had a son; a happier man he never was. The name they picked was Gerald Joseph, in reference to saints’ names, of course. My mother was steeped in the religious lore and mysticism of the Catholic faith. She was imbued with tradition, pious love, and most importantly, an aggressive sense of heaven and hell. This mix supported her simple lifestyle. These transcendent values and beliefs helped hold me together throughout my life. They centered my agonies and successes.

More than seventy years later, this village, McCaulyville, is much the same as it was in 1931. Many of the houses still remain; a few new ones have appeared, but their design marks the continuity in time of the living process. The historic Red River runs through farmland and homes for a mile or so before flowing past old Fort Abercrombie and on toward Fargo, North Dakota, and Moorhead, Minnesota. As it rushed past the Vermillion farm, it greatly affected the lives of all who lived on its banks. It was beautiful or angry, depending on the season, but always bountiful. Over the years, its flooding has received much national attention.

The original Fort Abercrombie has been restored. It lies less than one mile west of McCaulyville, next to the present-day berg of Abercrombie, North Dakota. The town’s population is over three hundred, and today it is generally the same as it was in the middle of the Great Depression. Obviously, the picture of this time period fit my family accurately.

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The family pictured in the mid-1930s. From the left: Millie, Dad, Jerry, Mom, and Elayne

The surrounding field crops, grain elevator, residences, and businesses to support small farms are much the same today. It is still a postcard picture of a rural farm hamlet in Midwestern America. Better transportation, TV, and communications technology are the only noticeable improvements.

One mile east of McCaulyville is the little town of Kent. It is off the river, but it has an access point to Interstate 75, which runs north forty miles to Fargo and Moorhead and then points west. Thirteen miles south are Breckenridge, Minnesota, and Wapton, North Dakota. The Great Northern Railway bisects Kent from east to west. In my fantasies, the railroad was the means of accessing the rest of the world. A fifty-mile circle enclosed my world of small towns, rural farms, the river, and the small lakes out east. These surroundings were the only spaces I knew until my twelfth birthday.

The small towns contained churches, post offices, and farm support businesses. Social events were held at the churches. There were very limited recreation areas. A few private park areas along the river and a baseball field were my world. I was told that Breckenridge and Fargo had some city recreation facilities, but I had never seen them. Our recreation activities were summer baseball and the winter sports we played on the frozen river. Of course, hockey was my favorite; I usually had to find and cut my own stick. I grew up without playing fields, sidewalks, asphalt roads, TV, computers, airplanes, microwaves, electric stoves, refrigerators, water toilets or any indoor plumbing, and, in the summer, without shoes.

In the winter, a large part of our social life was spent intently listening to the radio. All-time radio favorites were The Phantom, The Lone Ranger, Bob Hope, and Milton Berle. Church services and functions were the biggest time takers. There was a lot of prayer, especially during Lent. We also exchanged visits with neighbors to play cards and other parlor games.

We had great fun sledding, ice skating, ice fishing, and hunting. I spent many nights on the river ice skating with friends. We would make large bonfires and eat camp-style fish we had caught in the river or rabbit deep fried in butter. Those nights were incredibly fun. The older kids and young adults who lived on the river would join us in singing and playing crack the whip, white fox, and circle tag on the ice.

All of my family loved the river, especially my dad. One of my first and most lasting memories is of standing near him by an ice hole while he held a fishing spear in his hand. In the summer, we skinny dipped after long days in the fields, letting the shallow, cool water wash away the grain chaff as we lay looking up at an inspiring summer moon. We fished the river all year round. We swam all summer and fall, meeting our friends for mud fights, fishing, and cookouts at our favorite swimming holes. In the winter we trapped muskrat, mink, and raccoon; we hunted ducks and pheasants in the fall.

I remember my grandfather cutting big chunks of ice from the river and, with a hired hand, sliding them up onto a horse-drawn sled to be buried in an old chicken coop filled with sawdust. When packed in sawdust, the ice would last throughout the hot part of the year. Getting ice in the summer, especially on the Fourth of July, for the hand-cranked ice cream maker was a favorite chore.

In the past, our fields above the river had housed parts of the original Fort Abercrombie. Many old houses associated with the fort had been on our land. When plowing our fields, we turned up old bottles, arrowheads, coins, and beads. My dad had a beautiful collection of old coins and flint arrowheads that originated from the early settlers and Indian traders who had lived on our land. The trappers and traders had dug in to winter in the riverbanks near the fort, leaving many artifacts between McCaulyville and Fort Abercrombie. The towns I have mentioned were named after army personnel, government workers, or early traders and trappers.

I truly grew up in the fields and river bottoms; I spent most of my waking hours outdoors, even in the winter time, staying inside only for school and on a few bitterly cold winter days.

The early frost began in September. When frost covered the ground, it meant the end of barefoot days. While getting the cows in each morning, I would jump from one bed-down spot to another because the ground would be warm where each cow had been lying.

We generally expected some snow by November and plenty of snow by Christmas. I don’t remember a Christmas without snow in the twelve years I lived in McCaulyville. The winters were cold, cold, cold! My dad would insulate the house, the pigpens, the chicken coop, and part of the big barn with a straw bank to keep out Ol’ Jack Frost, as we called the biting air. It helped a lot, especially for the house. Ol’ Jack Frost was definitely an enemy. I was always cold. I longed for the hot summer, and to this day I love the heat of summer and the climates of southern latitudes.

To sleep comfortably, I would burrow tightly under a big feather tick and shape a funnel for an air hole that would become all frosted over from my breath. When I was called in the morning, I would leap from my bed, grab my clothes, run downstairs, and jump up on the water reservoir at the end of our wood stove. Shivering, I would dress there for the day. My dad would have started a fire, and the room would just have started feeling survivable. One day when I was half awake, for some sleepy reason I walked onto the hot end of the stove. The icy cold floor was usually painful, but at that time it suddenly became a true friend. I don’t think at any time in my life I became wide awake so quickly. Fortunately the icy floor prevented serious blisters from forming.

After dressing, I headed for the barn to help milk and feed the cows and other livestock. A dozen sheep, three or four penned feeder beef, chickens, ducks, and horses made up the animal menagerie, along with numerous cats plus two dogs.

The cold stayed with me, not just during each long winter but for a lifetime. I can still hear the crunch of snow underfoot and the rattle of windblown snow that skidded across the yard and fields.

The summer weather was hot and humid but much more enjoyable than snow and cold. Each spring began with big-time barn and pen cleaning. Next came the seeding of the fields and garden. Wheat, barley, oats, and corn were the basic crops, but we also planted hay varieties, beans, beets, etc. At the mature age of ten or eleven, I was put on a one-row cultivator and given a team of horses to care for. I had to stand on a bushel basket to harness them.

I started on one side of a twenty-acre field, moving one row down and one row back. The cultivator shovels were partly held in the ground and steered by your body weight and strength. When I had finished the whole field, I went back to the beginning and started over on the weeds that had by then grown harmfully large. This was my summer job, and I stayed with it until harvest time in late August. During harvest time, a neighbor kid about my age and I ran a team on the grain bundle rack. We hauled grain to the threshing machine. The two of us took the place of a man and team. We would try to beat the adults so we could rest longer in line. We worked both weekends and after school

My other field work was driving. Starting at age ten, I rode a modle 10-20 McCormick Deering tractor, which was big for the time. I usually worked in the fields alone but sometimes pulled the grain binder along with my dad.

Taking care of the horses was a big responsibility for a twelve-year-old. However, I had learned good basic horse skills from my dad. He broke horses for various neighbors. We generally had eight to twelve horses in our pasture in any given month.

I don’t have many criticisms of my dad; he was good to me, and I loved him dearly. Nonetheless, I did not approve of the way he handled animals. I thought he was too rough and negligent. In season we worked those horses from daybreak to dark. In the winter, I often rode to town in extremely cold weather to get groceries and attend church.

One day I was riding Old Jigs, who was spooky and well named. I had a big sack of groceries under one arm. Every time the sack rattled, he would jump or sidestep. I was terribly afraid of getting thrown off because the snow was deep, there was no broken trail, and the temperature was twenty degrees below zero. The memory of that day has stuck with me. But I made it okay when he finally settled down.

The land was mostly flat with a few coolies and rolling slopes near the creeks and drainage areas of the river. Most of the trees were oaks, elms, cottonwoods, willows, or box elders. The oak tree bore great nuts. In the fall, we stuffed ourselves on them as a delicacy. There were scattered wild plum, apple, and chokecherry trees. All of these produced good, tasty fruit that we practically lived on during the season. Another great favorite was wild gooseberries. They could be eaten green or ripe. We loved them, especially in pies.

The land in that area of the Red River Valley is the ultimate in growing and production. It is said to be unmatched by any other place in the world for production, flavor, and nutrition. Irrigation is not necessary because of the consistent and timely rainfall.

Our farm’s home place measured only eighty acres, but Dad leased 160 to 220 acres per year. In the depression times, when there were no markets, it didn’t make much difference how many acres you had or what kind of a farmer you were; you could hope only for subsistence, if you were lucky. Many of the farmers lost their farms to banks, and many just moved out and left everything as it was. Things got a little better toward the end of the 1930s. In 1942, with a good crop under their belts, my parents, like so many others, sold out and headed west.

The lakes northeast of our farm had a big impact on my life. I dreamed of going to the lakes. We fished, picnicked, and swam there whenever we could beg a trip from our parents or friends. There are lakes all over Minnesota; it’s called the land of ten thousand lakes. The closest one for us was thirty miles northeast; further north, there was an area with nice timbered hills and more beautiful lakes. Minnesota is a beautiful state. Today it has a great variety of lifestyles and businesses. There are good support resources and many activities.

The people who lived on the riverbanks were of European descent, mostly French, German, Italian, and Scandinavian. They tended to settle in areas separate from each other but came together as Americans in the melting pot. My grandfather, Anton Nordic, was an immigrant from Germany. He spoke English with a heavy German accent. I never knew my grandfather on my dad’s side, Evo Vermillion. He was also an immigrant, arguably Belgian or French. I remember others of different nationalities going to the local school at night in Kent to learn English from a volunteer teacher. It was well known and accepted that to succeed here, you had to learn English and get your citizenship papers as soon as possible.

There was a great pride in American patriotism. When we sang songs on the ice during a winter skating party, we always included America the Beautiful or God Bless America. This was all voluntary and done with great spirit. The immigrant families greatly appreciated what their new country stood for and expressed their appreciation in song and prayer whenever possible.

The different cultures were rivals, but usually in good spirits. Jokes and teasing were always brought forward; sometimes, but not often, there were fisticuffs over differences. We learned lots of new things from each other but were generally friendly and loyal Americans. My family was considered medium in size with five kids. Large families had more than eight, and small ones had three or fewer. By the 1930s, families had begun to intermarry. Today, there are not many pockets left of a single pure nationality.

According to my friends, my German character shines through. The learning of life basics at that time were promoted by my mother, the church, my elders, and my peers. Their influence was in that order.

My two older sisters—Elaine by five years and Millie by three—were beautiful, always popular, and well-grounded in their religious characters. I’m sure you remember them as your aunts. The inserted family picture was taken in Montana in about 1947.

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Pictured in front from left, Greg and Denny. Back row from left, Millie, Jerry, Teck, Mel, and Elaine.

Looking back at the experiences of my long life, it seems to me that the formation of character and personality takes place between ages one and twelve. Those are the shaping years. I guess this is well understood, but I have a need to confirm it from my own experience.

There were a lot of material things I could have had more of, and I generally had less than I wished for. Basically, all the kids got the same things and were treated equally. However, because I was a boy and my two sisters were older, I did go without until things got caught up. For example, one day we went to town to shop for school clothes. My big need was a pair of shoes. I had none as we always went barefoot all summer. When we were ready to return home, we discovered there was not enough gas to get home. It was decided to take my new shoes back for gas money. The next day, I went to our one-room country school barefoot. However, my embarrassment was relieved because I was not the only one without shoes; two other boys also came barefoot. We were all instructed to get shoes as soon as possible.

Work was God for us, and everything was presented to develop a strong work ethic. All rewards and punishment revolved around work. Work meant getting up early and physically doing your job for the day as best you could. If your work was hard, boring, or hurtful, that was a plus: it meant you could offer up pain as sacrificial credit against your sins for benefits in the next life. If you were bored and tormented with the long, monotonous hours on a tractor, you were told how and why to pray. I had a lot of frequent flyer prayer miles on that tractor, but I believed they really helped me in my life. And it stuck. As you know, I am still a strong believer in prayer. Although prayer is abused in some instances, nonetheless it proved mystically effective for