Kneebockers

By Chuck Blackburn

Kneebockers is a book about life. It is a name, and yet it is also a spirit within my being. The name was given to me at ten years old by another boy, probably based on what I was wearing at the time. I was a lad from the east, dressed in short pants, suspenders, shirt, sweater, and leather Buster Brown shoes, standing in the front of a two-room schoolhouse in the Wild West of 1946, where blue jeans were the norm. The incident, at the time, seemed to be just a short, quick response made by a group of school kids toward a boy who looked and seemed different. However, the name of Kneebockers stayed with me for a lifetime. I would not realize until years later, as I grew and matured, that the impact of the name on me would become bigger by the day. No one else, other than my father and those few kids, knew that I was Kneebockers.
Kneebockers was within mea spirit, a drive, an identity. A human being who was somewhat different. My father was a major influence on forming a path for Kneebockers. He provided a solid foundation for a young kid of ten and allowed me to mature through my teen years and into adulthood while safely bound to that basic structure.
The tales in this book tell a story of the bonds and love between my father, a tough, hardworking ironworker and welder, and me, his easygoing, innocent son. Together we headed west from New York State to Reno, Nevada, in 1946.
Wes Blackburn, my father, was my mentor, my rock, and my inspiration in a lifetime of experiencing how to really live and appreciate each and every day. My lessons began when living in and appreciating the vastness of the Nevada desert and the mountains in the West. Two people together who many times never saw another human being for days on end. The deer, coyotes, rabbits, eagles, hawks, and buzzards became our company. It was there that I began to discover who I could be on this earth and what I could learn about the earth. My classroom was nature, and the first topic was history. Prospecting was a vehicle for turning back the clock to the 1800s. Standing in an old mine with all of its strange tools still sitting intact against the tunnel wall due to the preservation of the dry desert air was more than just a reminder of days long ago.
These desert experiences formed a foundation for other exciting adventures that are a part of Kneebockerss life. This single book could be many books: Kneebockers, River Guide; Kneebockers, the Golfer; Kneebockers, the Teacher and Coach; Kneebockers, the Voice of the Warriors, or Kneebockers in the Political Arena.
Although this book covers only some of these episodes, it holds open the opportunity to find out what Kneebockers is up to in his later years. In this book, I have looked inside myself to share the overwhelming emotions that occur when drift fishing on the Smith or Klamath River for salmon and steelhead, hopefully, allowing the reader to experience pulling hard on eight-foot oars in heavy current while maneuvering through riffles, whirlpools, backwashes, and large rocks to put the boat in proper position to catch that spectacular fish.
I strive to share the butterflies entering the stomach as a golfer gets up to execute a one-hundred-fifty-yard golf shot, flying over a lake and bunkers, to hit a green and sink a putt to win a golf championship.
It is the spirit of Kneebockers that provides the drive, the incentive, the eagerness to tackle such challenges in life. I love the Kneebockers in methe energy, the drive to do my best. A saying comes to mind that pretty well sums up the Kneebockers in me: Lets be winners even if it must occasionally be in defeat. I used that mantra as a guideline for my coaching of players in both basketball and golf. I have used it as a guideline for my life in general.
I hope that these tales will provide a lightness to life in this stressful world. I hope that some individuals can benefit from the lessons of a solid relationship

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 17, 2008
• ISBN: 9781453506752

Chuck Blackburn

In 1946, ten-year-old Chuck Blackburn, a native of New York State, rode west with Dad in a ’36 Plymouth, all the way to Reno, Nevada. After acquiring the nickname of Kneebockers, Chuck experiences one adventure after another under his father’s love and guidance. Chub, the dock boy, river fishing guide, thirty-three-year veteran teacher and sports coach, KPOD radio voice of the Del Norte High Warriors, two-term supervisor for Del Norte County, and host of the local television program Sports with Chuck, lives on the far northwestern tip of California. His unbelievable life continues to be blessed by the good Lord.

Book preview

Copyright © 2008 by Chuck Blackburn.

Library of Congress Control Number:  2008901371

ISBN:                            Hardcover           978-1-4363-2290-4

                                       Softcover             978-1-4363-2289-8

                                       Ebook                  978-1-4535-0675-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Contents

Dedication

1 Looking for Kneebockers

2 Finding Kneebockers

3 Here Comes Kneebockers

4 Kneebockers—A Visit to Working Mines

5 Kneebockers Hits Sacramento

6 Kneebockers, Dad, and Yosemite

7 Kneebockers Finds Golf

8 Kneebockers Finds Castroville

9 Kneebockers—Camping in a Graveyard

10 Kneebockers Hunts Ducks

11 Kneebockers—Eighth-Grade Graduation Speech

12 Kneebockers Returns to Sharp Park

13 Kneebockers Finds the Klamath

14 Kneebockers Tackles Jeff High

15 Kneebockers Golf Champion

16 Kneebockers—Dock Boy

17 Kneebockers and the Great Race

18 Kneebockers—The Challenges of Golf 1955

19 Kneebockers—The San Francisco City

Golf Championship

20 Kneebockers—The Challenges of Golf

21 Kneebockers—River Guide

22 Kneebockers—Back to Crescent City

23 Kneebockers—The Lumberjack

24 Kneebockers—Education and Family

25 Kneebockers—Teacher and Coach

26 Kneebockers Revisits the Klamath

27 Kneebockers—A Boy, a Teenager, a Man

28 Kneebockers—Cutting Wood with Dad

29 Kneebockers—Dad and the Future

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my Heavenly Father and to my earthly father, Wes Blackburn. I also dedicate this to my mother, Laura; my deceased younger brother, Wes Jr.; and my elder brother, Bill, whom I left in 1946 to go out west with Dad.

I would like to extend a special dedication to my wife, Missy, who encouraged me for over two years to empty my heart about my upbringing. I also dedicate this to my kids—Char, Danny, Lynn, and Angie—for the continual love that they show their dad.

This book is also dedicated to an unnamed student in Reno, Nevada, who gave me the name of Kneebockers. It certainly is a good name, and as I have gone through life, I have accepted the name and spirit of Kneebockers.

A special thanks to Sherrie Potter, a friend and retired educator, who stepped forward to proofread my text and prepare the written material for the publishing company.

Preface

Sitting here on a deck overlooking the northeast coast of Kauai at Kapaa has given me the incentive to reflect back on my unbelievable life on this planet. The constant sounds of the surf brought on by the trade winds create magic in my mind, an opportunity to relax and reflect on who I am, what I have done, what I am doing, and where I am going from here.

As I grow older—I turned seventy on July 8, 2006—I have been afforded opportunities to reflect on how much I have grown during my lifetime and what events and experiences led to my growth. Growth in life is not only through positive events, but many times traumatic episodes have caused me to look inside myself for personal faith and inner resolve.

The breaking of the waves in the ocean are never the same, and they change each day with new weather and ocean patterns. Life, for me, is similar, a daily creation of excitement in me as I look toward a new day and new experiences.

I am going to share the unique adventures that were mine because of the influence and guidance of my Heavenly Father, my earthly father, and other special people who have had an impact on me as a person.

Many times, in my later years, I have said, I don’t have any ’moss on my feet,’ which means that my feet, my mind, and my body are always active, even when at rest or asleep. Moss grows when there is a stagnant condition, and just such a lifestyle choice is made by some people, like an ocean with no surf or waves or a river with no riffles or current.

1

Looking for Kneebockers

Any story about life is really a series of stories. This particular story really separates itself from my first nine years of life. Those first years started in North Creek, New York, a small town in upstate New York, close to Glens Falls. My birth occurred in 1936 to Wes and Laura Blackburn. I was preceded by my brother, Bill, by seven years and followed by my brother, Wes Jr., when I was two years old.

Dad was away from home a lot, doing welding, during the war. My mom raised the three of us boys in his absence. Dad phoned one morning and talked with Mom for about ten minutes when an urge struck me that I wanted to talk to my dad. Mom handed me the phone, and I said hello to Dad. Out of the blue, I asked him if I could go with him. Boy, where did that come from? Dad talked to Mom, after our conversation, and said he would drop by the house the next day.

I knew as I looked into Mom’s eyes that she was shocked that I wanted to leave home, but she loved me and gave me a hug before she went to prepare a suitcase of clothes for me. I don’t really feel that, as a young boy, I had any idea what I was doing.

As I have grown older, I think back to that day and that decision; and I have to think that the good Lord provided me with a new, open door in my life. Throughout my later life, I have had several similar new, open-door experiences.

My father picked me up the next morning, and I hugged my mother and two brothers and said goodbye.

Dad told me that we were going to Olmstedville, New York, to stay with my uncle Bob and his family for a few days. I wondered if this was our destination, but Dad quickly shared with me where we were going.

Son, he said, we’re leaving tomorrow for Reno, Nevada. Way out West! I didn’t have any clue where Reno, Nevada, was; but Dad knew that it was a long ways away. Boy, was he right. Five long days of driving in the old ’36 Plymouth.

We ran into severe thunderstorms in Western New York, and I saw a lightning bolt strike a fuel tank and set it ablaze. We drove all night that first night, and we parked and slept in the car the next morning.

This was all new to me. I was like a kid in a candy store, wide eyed and full of questions. My father was always there to answer my questions. We stopped in Indianapolis, Indiana, and stayed with my aunt Kittie.

We had to delay our departure for several hours because the Missouri River was flooding, and water was covering part of Interstate 40. This gave us more time to visit with Aunt Kitten, my grandfather’s sister on my dad’s side of the family.

The mighty Missouri looked all of that as we finally crossed it at midday. We drove forever, it seemed, through vast cornfields in the Midwest. I thought that the whole country was cornfields and flat as a table. Over and over I kept commenting to Dad about how big this country seemed to be, and yet we were only halfway across it. I got an eyeful west of the Missouri as Dad pointed out a large spout coming out of the clouds. Tornado, he said, watch it closely. Dad shared that we were safe because the tornado was moving north of us, and thank God, it seemed as if there were only cornfields ahead of its path.

The next day I was looking off in the distance and saw what looked like dark shadows on the horizon. Before I could ask Dad what they might be, he had followed my eyes. Son, those are the Rocky Mountains. They are taller than any mountains that you have ever seen. Many of these mountains are up to fourteen thousand feet tall. I knew that Mount Marcy, in upstate New York, was New York’s tallest peak, over five thousand feet tall; but this sight ahead of us was mind boggling.

We stopped for lunch in Denver, Colorado, and then tackled the Rockies. Remember, I was like a kid in the candy store. I wish that I would have been in an open jeep to take it all in, but the old Plymouth had to do, with its side windows open. Oh, how great that mountain air smelled.

I kept asking Dad how much farther it was to Reno, Nevada, and he responded, Just a bit more, son. We slept in the car again near Salt Lake City, Utah. We drove out of the mountains, and all I could see westward was a lake and a lot of sand. Dad did take a few minutes to drive by the Mormon Tabernacle. It was certainly a large and beautiful building.

As we drove west, I was impressed with the white sand of the desert. It went on forever. We had all of the windows open, and it was HOT. I’m glad this trip was in the spring of 1946, and not the summer, as I cannot imagine what that would have been like without air-conditioning.

As we were driving west through the desert, the old Plymouth started to sputter, and the engine finally stopped. I think my father already had a clue about what was wrong before he opened the hood and checked things out. Darned fuel pump, he said, and he got his tools out and removed the pump. I asked Dad what we were going to do, and he replied that we had passed a small service station several miles back. He told me to stay in the car with the windows open while he hitchhiked to see if he could find a matching fuel pump.

To my surprise, Dad returned in less than hour; and luckily, the service station had that very style of pump. WOW! Dad replaced the old fuel pump with the new one and told me he had to blow into the fuel-tank line to force fuel into the pump. He blew hard as I pressed the starter, and then he came up coughing and spitting as the line burped back at him, filling his mouth with fuel. As an old ironworker and welder, he had a few expletives to say. Dad rinsed his mouth with water, and we both shared a laugh together.

Onward we drove in the old Plymouth, headed to Reno, Nevada. Another day passed and late afternoon arrived. Again my eyes focused on another tall range of mountains in the western United States. Dad shared that these tall peaks were the Sierra Nevada, separating Nevada from California, and that Mount Whitney was the tallest mountain in the forty-eight states.

We drove through Sparks, Nevada, just a few miles east of Reno, and came to Virginia Street with a portal across the street saying Reno, Nevada—The Biggest Little City in the World. Boy, did that catch my eye. There were also railroad tracks that paralleled the interstate, and sitting stationary on those tracks was the largest black diesel engine that I had ever seen. It had a cab for the engineer at the front of the engine, and it was hooked up to an extremely long train. My dad shared that these giants of the rails pulled the freight cars over Donner Summit in the Sierras on their way to California.

I had a chance, years later, to stand next to and under one of those engines in the railroad museum in Sacramento, California. Those engines gave way to other diesel engines in the late fifties and were pulled from service. They were so magnificent in size, weight, and pulling power. I can still see them pulling trains up Donner through the snow tunnels, usually with a lead engine, another engine in the middle, and one close to the end of the train. I can hear the strong diesel engines labor with all of that weight while fighting their upward climb to the seven-thousand-foot summit. What a mark they have made in railroad history.

We passed under the portal and immediately entered a different world. On the left was the world-famous Harold’s Club Casino, and on both sides of the streets, there were blinking lights and billboards of other casinos and nightspots. All of it quite an experience for a young kid from northern New York.

2

Finding Kneebockers

This story is a story within itself and occurred after my father and I arrived in Reno, Nevada, in the spring of 1946. We had spent five days traveling across the United States from northern New York. Dad rented a room at a small motel on South Virginia Street, away from all of the casinos and nightspots. We had the Carson City-Virginia City train running right behind the motel. This was a steam-driven engine with early 1900 cars behind it. It was a real treat to hear it coming with its whistle blowing at crossings and then watch it rolling by, close-up. As a ten-year-old boy, I fantasized about being the engineer.

Dad got a job as a welder in Sparks, Nevada. He was noted for his welding ability during World War II. My father was a hardworking and a very proud man. Just before his first payday, we walked toward a local greasy spoon restaurant. Dad dug into his pocket and brought out a small handful of change. He looked at me, with a smile, and said, Well, son, it looks like we have enough to buy a couple of bowls of chili. What a positive statement to make to a young boy when actually, this was all of the money he had. Later in life I came to really appreciate his attitude and his way of turning a negative into a positive. I can tell you that the bowl of chili really tasted good.

Dad did get paid, and we now had weekends to spend time together. How many dads would take their son prospecting in the desert? That is what we did for many weekends.

We would get up at daybreak on Saturday mornings and load up our old Plymouth with handpicks and shovels, duffel bags, food, and a pup tent. Then we would park close to Harold’s Club and walk down a back alleyway to the Bank Cafe. What a great breakfast we had each time, in preparation for a full weekend in the desert. One day as we were eating breakfast, I asked Dad why we always ate at the Bank Cafe, and he replied, See those plates sitting above the big cookstove in the kitchen? They put those there to warm the plates so that your breakfast stays warm while you eat. In later life, I ate many a breakfast on a cold plate; and truly, a cold-plate breakfast is not as good as a breakfast on a hot plate.

This particular weekend of June 1946, we headed northeast of Sparks, Nevada, toward Pyramid Lake. Pyramid Lake is fed by the Truckee River, which originates in the snowfields of the High Sierra and runs northeast through Reno and then on out into the desert to Pyramid Lake. Like the several other rivers that flow eastward from the Sierras into the desert, each lake that is formed, like Pyramid Lake, has a large salt content because the lake is a dead end for that stream. Continual evaporation of the water and its stagnant nature create its saltwater qualities.

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Kneebockers and the old ’36 Plymouth on the Nevada desert

We reached a prospecting base site to set up our tent for that night’s stay and headed out toward the mountain range just north of us. We followed a draw up into the mountains and took occasional samples of rock out of the cliffs, looking for minerals, particularly gold and silver. The weight of the rock samples would give a clue about the possibility of minerals inside the rock samples. Gold, silver, lead, copper, and other minerals are quite heavy.

Dad put several samples into his duffel bag for further study after the trip. I was always looking ahead for the presence of rattlesnakes