The Atomic Hamburger

By Federico Sanchez

The Boyers, a sheepherding family in Idaho decide to move into the fast food business when the Federal lands they used to graze their sheep are turned into a Federal nuclear energy research center. Hence the name of their diner, The Atomic Hamburger. Hoping to become rich with the expected economic boom of the nuclear research facility, their diner becomes the main place where the characters meet and interact.
A young man, Howard McCracken, after the suicide of his mother, decides to become a psychiatrist and he ends up on the front-lines of World War II working under General Patton
Two young nuclear scientists mentored by Einstein go to Idaho to work in the nuclear research facilities and end up lunching at The Atomic Hamburger and...
The novel focuses on the war periods of World War II, Korea and Vietnam as it follows several families from the 1920s through the 1970s while it explores mental disorders and posttraumattic stress as it relates to combat experience and other situations and their relations to suicide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483651019

Federico Sanchez

Federico Sanchez Seabrook was born (1951) and raised in Mexico City. He graduated as a Mechanical Engineer from Tufts University in 1975. For the most part he has run his own businesses as varied as silk screening, a cement block company, a grinding plant for nonmetallic minerals. Since 1987 he runs a design, manufacturing, wholesale and retail business of sterling silver accessories, Pat Areias Sterling, with his wife Pat. Since the death of his son Mitchell in 2002, he has studied the problem of how the brain works in general and suicide in particular. He lives in Carmel, California.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Arco 2010

I hadn’t thought of The Atomic Hamburger as I drove from Jackson Hole, Wyoming to Sun Valley, Idaho to do more late-spring skiing. I had committed to stop for lunch in Arco, approximately halfway. As I drove along the boring, flat, straight part of highway US 20, I couldn’t believe thirty-five years passed since the last time I was here in 1975. Back then, even more so than today, the link barbed-wire fence with curling, razor-wire on top, running for miles along the highway—with the occasional sign of Trespassing Forbidden or Radioactive Danger or Government Property—was, again, mysteriously daunting. The horizon behind the fence stretched as far as the eye could see with endless flats, yet no buildings were discernible.

What was back in there? What secrets did the link fence guard? I had wondered, as I did again today. This time—in March—the skies were clear. Back then, in May, there was a huge electrical storm to the north. I remembered the distant thundering brilliant flashes of light illuminating the plains while closer huge jagged lightning bolts strobe-lit the flat landscape under dark, black, ominous clouds that mirrored my gloomy mood and the reason why I had come to Arco so long ago.

A big billboard—green and yellow—advertised The Atomic Hamburger, and served as a public reminder that there were very few towns, much less places to eat in these God-forsaken, barren plains. The billboard nudged your thoughts to eating and even if you weren’t desperate for something you should stop there.

As I approached Arco, the simple, pastel-green framed old sign "Welcome to Arco (in red letters) the First City in the World Lighted by Atomic Power (in black letters, below)" greeted me. The rocky cliffs, lifting out of the plains north of town, advertised all the High-School-Class Years since 1920 painted in white on the round boulders that loomed proudly, high to the right of the highway. The numbers followed a 7 degree upward climb from right to left as I drove into town reflecting the tilt produced by millions of years of geological actions. The last time I had been here, ‘50’ and ‘70’ prominent in size, were clearly visible and still dominated the white numbers on the cliffs. I could see clearly above, and in between them, a big, but less prominent ‘86’, and to the left a much smaller ‘34.’ It seemed like they were going to run out of rock face to paint any more Class-Years. I could also see a big white ‘00’ and a smaller white ‘06’ higher up.

South of the highway I could see on top of the green building with a two-level roof a small white-sign, "EAT with yellow letters. In front, close to the highway, a prominent yellow sign with green letters announced proudly The Atomic Hamburger" with the mandatory flagpole flying the obligatory Star-Spangled Banner next to it. I pulled into the dirt parking lot and parked my rented four-wheel drive. I walked into the diner with Number Hill, as the locals called the cliffs looming across Front St. It felt like I jumped into a time-warp where I was thrown back to 1950, to my childhood, or perhaps even a few years before; even back in 1975 it had felt like that. The big bar counter was green Formica; the steel-chromed, bolted-to-the-floor stools were covered with matching green leather; the walls were painted an electric yellow. There were a few tables with aluminum chairs and a few booths along the wall with their tops also in green Formica and the seats covered with matching green leather. The floor, cream-colored linoleum, was a bad match with the walls. It was like the old soda fountains of more than a hundred years ago where they dispensed medications, including coke in a sweet elixir to mask its bitter taste. It was fantastic, revealing, it made me wonder… Yet, I knew, no one would understand. But, I felt it was a part of me. I could not pull away, not now. I was drawn into my conflicts, into my eternal, seemingly, endless grief. Drawn to the basics of what my life was about—into my deepest pains—into the love, which remains unshakable after death. I shook my head and stopped my reveries. It was too long ago and yet it was too close to the present.

A woman stood behind the counter. She was about forty, perhaps a few years older; she obviously had been very attractive, but now she was a little overweight, shoulders slightly stooped, and her big shapely breasts, sagged imperceptively pushed up by her bra. Her face was etched by the toll of many years of work, and, in her eyes, a redness you could guess, was the result of years of drinking and partying. Her voice was raspy, probably from heavy smoking. Overall, her demeanor told me she had enjoyed it to the fullest, but the results told me she had overdone it.

At one of the green-Formica tables sat a well-endowed woman in her early sixties with orange dyed hair in a yellow dress showing off her cleavage. She talked casually to a man at the next table. He was bald, of Hindu origin, and reminded me of a well-fed, slightly overweight Mahatma Gandhi with a friendly expression, a thick moustache and a very round, shiny, baldhead with a little bit of jet-black hair on his temples. He wore a white linen suit, a white short-sleeve shirt, his jacket carefully placed behind him on the chair’s backrest. They were relaxed, enjoying each other’s company without intruding on each other, and it was obvious they practiced this ritual often. In another booth next to them, against the wall, a man sat with thick glasses and a long curved nose. His black, straight hair shot out in all directions. The glasses amplified his black eyes and reminded me of a wizened old owl, his nose in place of a sharp beak. He wore a white shirt with a blue bow-tie with yellow dots. He laughed at ‘Mahatma’s’ response as he looked up from the thick book he was reading. An old rancher with cowboy boots sat on a stool at the bar, his Cowboy hat, hung on the wall to his left. He was familiar with the banter of the three characters behind him as he slowly dipped a spoon into a bowl of vegetable soup. He smiled when he swiveled to face me; a huge oval, silver trophy-buckle adorned his wide belt.

I smiled back and sat next to the rancher. The woman behind-the-counter approached, looked at me, grinned and said, Do I know you, hun?

I doubt it. The last time I was here was in 1975.

I was six years old. They told me it was a very bad year, she said sadly but added brightly, Can I get you something to drink, hun?

A cold beer will do.

She fetched a Heineken out of the stainless steel refrigerator with a big handle, expertly flicked a bottle opener and with a practiced motion shot the cap into a trashcan. She slid the Heineken down the counter and it stopped neatly right in front of me. She laughed coquettishly.

The door opened and Dr. Roman Theodore Zajac walked in. I don’t know why it surprised me—he was after all, as old as my father, approaching eighty—his hair was all white; it was wavy and long and combed straight up, reminding me of Cosmo Kramer of Seinfeld—but an older version with white hair and blue eyes. He nodded to the woman with orange hair, Sally. To the Hindu, Saleem, and to the man with the bow tie, Whiz. Then, Joe, to the farmer next to me at the bar.

Doctor, they all answered almost in unison. The woman behind the counter smiled at him, wiped her hands on a towel, and came around to greet him.

Teear, it’s good to see you, she said affectionately as she stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

I’m the lucky one, Teear said as he put his arm around her waist and held her longer than necessary. She obviously enjoyed him doing this. He kissed her on the forehead. How’s everything, Kate? I see, you met Fred, he said motioning with his head towards me.

I’m not sure, Teear. He said he was here in seventy-five.

I know he was here, but everything back then is still fuzzy. You might have met him, perhaps not. You were too young and I’ve told you how out of it I was, Kate.

Don’t worry, Teear. It doesn’t matter.

Everything matters, Kate, Teear said with a smile. I’m just old, trying to remember what matters and what not. I feel like Proust.

Proust?

Never mind, Kate.

You know I forget all about those legendary physicists.

Proust was not a physicist. Kate tilted her head questioning. Ah, don’t worry, Kate! He was a philosopher of memories. Teear said good-naturedly waving his hands, I’m just getting old and senile.

You’re never old, Teear—and you can still dance around me with all your ideas. I love you, Kate teased him.

I got up to greet him and stretched my hand out, Dr. Zajac!

Call me Teear! This Dr. Zajac routine makes me feel old. Consider me your buddy. I would like that very much. His eyes smiled and made me feel welcomed.

He moved past Kate and hugged me tight and long. This surprised me. I had only met him once, back in 1975. But then again, perhaps I should’ve expected this; with everything that had happened to us. Finally he let go of me, pulled back, put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. I can’t believe it has been this long. His eyes filled with tears, I thought Teear was going to cry, but he regained his composure. Come, let’s sit at my booth.

Kate brought my beer and some menus. You want your usual, Teear?

Absolutely, Kate.

As I studied the menu, even though I knew I must order The Atomic Hamburger, I kept looking around me at the strange menagerie of characters having lunch here.

Suddenly, three young girls aged, I guessed, between fourteen and seventeen came running in. The oldest one kissed Kate on the cheek and asked excitedly, Can we borrow the car? It was obvious this was a ritual argument Kate lost daily since her oldest daughter got a driver’s license. The middle daughter raided the cash box for the keys and a few dollars. The youngest one just followed her older sisters. They all laughed loudly as young women tend to do.

Just be sure to be back before seven, she yelled after them as they fled to the parking lot. All the customers smiled at me. I felt as if they apologized for the actions of the young girls. I looked out to the parking lot as they left leaving a cloud of dust.

Teear smiled and asked, What are you thinking?

I feel like I’m in a time tunnel, almost as if I can tell what the future of those girls will be. Almost as if they are trapped in this… I waved around the place. As if this is their destiny.

The Magic Hamburger, Teear clarified, nodding his head up and down knowingly, slowly.

Magic? I asked puzzled.

The atom is magical. We can’t see it or touch it or feel it. Yet, we know it is there, magically creating everything we sense, everything we see, touch and feel… and remember. Think about it, where there are atoms there is thought, even happiness. That is magical.

And deep sorrow. Grief. I added uncontrollably.

Spoken like a true engineer. Teear said without missing a beat. What must go up must come down. Yes. Life is full of surprises; you can never truly tell. Kate brought a glass of red wine to the table and presented it to Teear. He smiled and took a small sip. Kate addressed me, Are you ready to order?

Yes. I will have the Atomic Hamburger with cheese and fries.

I’ll send you some pickles—my great grandmother’s recipe. It is the best thing we have here. Everyone loves them.

I’ll just have the cream tomato soup, and don’t forget to send me a couple of pickles, Teear added. Kate went back behind the bar and started preparing our food. He looked out the window to the Numbers Hill north of town where the high school graduating-years were painted boldly in white. They have added a lot of numbers since your last visit. He looked yearningly for 71 which I knew could not be seen from this angle. He sat in silence for a minute.

"What are you thinking?" I asked to break the spell.

I am old, and I know some things that need to be passed on. About this place, Teear circled vaguely his right hand in the air. About me, about my son. I thought you might be the right person. I can’t be sure when my time is coming.

You scare me talking like this.

You needn’t worry. I don’t mean I’m dying now, or even soon. Occasionally, when too many small consecutive mistakes happen, born out of ignorance, or arrogance, these can lead to lethal, unplanned catastrophic events. Generally, little mistakes don’t matter, but sometimes they accumulate and we pay an exorbitant price. There was sadness in his voice I could easily identify with. Yet, little did I know where these words could lead to, or even comprehend their cryptic meaning. Yet, I would become embroiled in a quest to understand.

Are you talking about chaos theory? I asked to keep the conversation going.

No, Teear shook his head slowly from side to side. After a few minutes, "You are staying for a few days, Fred? Teear stated, more than asked, interrupting my reverie, with his white, thick raised eyebrows. This caught me by surprise, since I planned to go skiing the next day. I hadn’t contemplated staying for longer than lunch, but the panoply of characters at The Atomic Hamburger intrigued me. Perhaps, it should merit a one-night visit. I hadn’t planned anything specific, Dr Zajac," I answered vaguely on purpose.

Call me Teear. Teear corrected. It stands for Theodore Roman. Well, then, it is settled. You are staying with me, he declared authoritatively. All of this, what I will relate to you, is relevant to your last visit here. You are all I have. And more importantly, and perhaps you don’t know this, what little I ever had, I owe it to your family.

My family?

Teear nodded gravely and looked out the window. I took a deep breath, and followed his eyes out to the cliffs.

You should see Number Hill in the Winter, the pristine white snow meeting the dark cliffs and covering its top, framing the white numbers, looking like a white-and-black picture.

I could see 04 on a small outcropping, low on the cliff. I wondered if that was 1904, then I remembered that the earliest year was 1920. By the increasing pattern of danger, meaning higher on the cliffs as the years went by. I had to guess that 04 was not an enterprising class. I had graduated in the class of 1975 as a Mechanical Engineer from Tufts University, which would be the equivalent of the high school class of ’71, the same as James’. Because I had taken a year off and traveled around South America my high school class was one year before. Or, maybe James had skipped one year. I was beginning to forget. He was so bright. The fact was I was one year older than him. But now, he was forever twenty-two, frozen in time. Like my son.

Yes, I was counting on staying with you Doctor. I appeased my conscience.

Teear, Teear corrected.

Why else would I be here? I wondered, after all, where was I in my own life? Answering that was more important than getting some Spring-skiing in… . Or was it? So what are you guys doing at the atomic labs?

Oh, we’re engaged in a number of things. We are conducting the light water reactor sustainability program, aimed at prolonging the life of all 104 current nuclear generating plants.

Chapter 2

Jules Boyer

Jules Boyer was born on his father’s Flat Top Ranch near Arco, Idaho in the summer of 1913. Flat Top boasted a good-sized sheep operation, going back to 1895. Flat Top was started by Jules’ grandfather, Bellevue and his wife Mama Boyer, and with the help of his two sons, Peter and Paul expanded the holdings. Mama Boyer was a hard-working, tough, conservative and deeply religious woman—hence the names of her two sons. Flat Top was a 620-acre ranch a few miles northwest of Arco and was contiguous to a large tract of federal lands in Eastern Idaho. With the acquisition of another ranch, unimaginatively called Flat Top Two Ranch of 430 acres a few miles northeast of Idaho Falls, also contiguous but on the Eastern side of these federal lands, the Boyers could brag of being able to drive the sheep on winding, long trails of almost 100 miles in length. At the height of their production they boasted 70,000 sheep. Both ranches had water wells powered by Chicago Co. windmills. Each ranch’s wells produced barely enough for two thirds of the sheep and all the men; they supplemented the water from other sources nearby in the Federal lands. Grazing the sheep through these lands from Flat Top to Flat Top Two and back was the trick to sustaining such large flocks. They had an astute agreement with the US Land Management Bureau that allowed them to move the sheep from one of their properties to the other. Who was to say the sheep couldn’t graze or drink when in transit? Generally, they moved the sheep in flocks of about three thousand at a time—sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less—a flock this size needed at least 12,000 acres of good pasture, impossible to do without the federal lands.

The only draw back was that these lands included a Navy gunnery range. Luckily, it was seldom used. The Boyers could relate how they heard the big cannons occasionally, slightly south of where they normally roamed. Why the hell would the Navy have a gunnery range in the middle of Idaho? was a common joke among them. The navy firing in the middle of the continent, with no water near?

One or two cowboys on horseback with the help of two sheepdogs could handle three thousand sheep at a time. The sheep’s gregarious nature kept the flock together. The dogs and rider roamed the fringes of the flock. The terrain was mostly rolling hills, grassy with a few bushes taller than sheep itself. From the riders’ vantage point, it was easy to see all the sheep in the herd moving slowly through the bushes. At Flat Top three kinds of sheepdogs were used; the Old English Sheepdog was a good sized dog, generally long-haired with a white head, front shoulders, chest and front paws and the rest black; the Wyoming Sheepdog, is about half the size, with similar markings, but with more black and shorter hair; and the Australian Shepherd, which looks somewhat between a Collie and a Russian Husky, with clear, light blue eyes, with brown, black and white markings, and about the same size as the Old English Sheepdog. The Aussies, as the cowboys called them, were the best, as they both herded and protected the sheep from the wolves. Sheep losses to wolves were small and generally happened at night when no Aussie sheepdogs were present.

In the summer months the sheep would be taken to higher grounds, above six thousand feet above sea level, where the pasture was lush. Flat Top Ranch was a few miles northeast from the cliffs directly north of Arco where traditionally, Butte County High School class’ years were painted on the rocks. Flat Top was at 5000 feet, and the winter was relatively mild due to the close proximity of a small range. Directly east from Flat Top, for a few miles, were mountains reaching up to 6,500 feet. From there, when the Boyers did their weekly sheep runs, the terrain dropped down to 5,600 ft. The Boyers had to find the appropriate passes, which Bellevue knew as well as the palm of his hand and could find blind in the night, to pass through several small gorges: Combe Canyon, Braithwaite Canyon and Jack Wright Canyon. At that point, moving eastwards, you could climb up another small range of mountains, or stay low and follow Sutton Canyon. If you followed Sutton Canyon for a few miles, you would see a high mountain that reached up to 7,000 feet. On the other side you could drop down to Deadman’s Canyon at about 5,800 feet. You could stay up on high ground with a maximum altitude of 7,200 feet, or stay lower following Left Fork Eightmile Canyon, which would lead to Eightmile Canyon proper, surrounded by flatlands at 5,200 feet. Eightmile Canyon and its Left and Right forks carried water almost year round—occasionally, it could freeze, or in very hot weather dry up. The altitude is important for two reasons. In winter the low lands have higher temperatures where the sheep can survive. In the summer, the higher altitudes provided better pastures. In the spring and fall it was up to the sheepherders to decide what was best for the herds. Winter pastures were at either Flat Top Ranch or Flat Top Two Ranch and in the lower Canyons.

Sheep were shorn once a year in the shearing shed—adjacent to the main barn—at Flat Top Ranch. The shearing would take place before lambing in the spring. This makes it easier for lambs to nurse, and it avoids overheating in the summer. To be a good shearer required great strength and stamina. Bellevue and Peter were the best shearers, but they had trained several of the cowboys and they could do a good job of shearing when needed. Bellevue’s record was 40 seconds to shear one animal, but Peter could consistently shear fifty sheep in one hour, then a fifteen-minute break and another fifty sheep. Peter’s record was seven hundred sheep in nine hours. Some days up to three thousand sheep wore shorn. Occasionally, one or two professional shearers were brought in to help out.

Paul, Jules’ father, traveled quite a bit, primarily to California, as he was the main sales force behind moving the sheep’s wool and meat. His uncle Peter and his grandfather Bellevue were in charge of the everyday operations of Flat Top. On one of Paul’s travels he passed through Carmel on his way to San Francisco. There, he met and fell in love with his future wife, Dorothy Cabot. Dorothy’s mother had inherited quite a bit of money and when she divorced she moved to Pebble Beach in order to get away from the East Coast.

Shortly after a brief courtship, Paul and Dorothy married and moved to Flat Top. It was quite a change for Dorothy. She went from playing golf and tennis to life on an isolated ranch. The marriage was doomed from the start, but both Paul and Dorothy gave it their best. Being young and without much else to do at Flat Top Dorothy soon got pregnant. She spent the winter in dread of the freezing temperatures—with the chill factor it could easily become minus forty-five degrees. She was young and in love and she managed that first winter. Paul became luckily a father in the summer. Dorothy decided to name her son after Jules Verne, as she believed he would be a dreamer. Dorothy knew in her heart that if she hadn’t had Jules, she would have returned to California before her second winter.

A few months later, in Dorothy’s second winter in Idaho, in January, early in the morning when it was still dark, Bellevue and Peter discovered a flock of sheep had broken out of one of the big paddocks. They saddled two horses and went out to track them down. Soon it was obvious a pack of wolves had pushed the flock into a panic and they had dispersed. Two English Sheepdogs were found dead. Later in the morning, they came across several kills, but didn’t set eye on any of the wolves. The wind picked up, and they discussed returning to the main ranch house. They decided to push on for a couple of hours and see if they could catch up with the sheep. This proved to be a mistake. The weather turned for the worse and it started snowing heavily. That night, when neither of the two had returned, Paul knew the brutal freezing cold wind had gotten them. With luck, they might have found somewhere to hide out, but it would be impossible to go look for them in the stormy night. The next morning, the fierce wind had died down but snow still fell heavily. Paul set out to look for them, but with the continuing snowstorm there were no tracks to follow. At midday, as he returned to the main ranch house he saw the two horses standing near one of the paddocks. A few yards away, he found his brother Peter frozen to death. Apparently Peter hadn’t realized how close he was to home. Bellevue was found in the spring when the snows melted about a mile from the ranch house. For Paul this was a turning point. Losing a sibling and a parent simultaneously was a soul-breaking experience. He felt guilt about not going with them or following close behind them; he was angry at his fate. He naturally paid attention to the departed and not the living as the pain was for the living, not the dead. His loss made him question all that was accepted practice. From now on he would need to question his existence. ‘Why?’ would become a rallying cry?

After this terrible tragedy, Dorothy swore she would never again spend a winter in Idaho. She never did get pregnant again. Jules would spend his first years commuting between Arco and Pebble Beach. Eventually, when it was time to go to school, he would spend the school year in California and just the summers in Arco with his father.

Mama Boyer, with the help of several hired ranch hands, and an ample supply of home-distilled potato vodka was able to keep the sheep operation going, while Paul continued to travel selling the wool and meat. Paul made sure he spent about equal time in Pebble Beach and in Arco. Mama Boyer understood the strain her son’s marriage was under and had a tennis court and a swimming pool built near the ranch house at Flat Top Ranch hoping to make Dorothy’s visits more satisfactory and hopefully spend more time in Arco. But, over the years their marriage disintegrated slowly. It was inevitable their different backgrounds clashed: she from a wealthy East-Coast family moved-to-California; he a descendant of sheepherders from Idaho.

The Boyers, meaning Mama Boyer and Paul, and the hired hands, continued distilling vodka from potato peels in a distillery in the back of the main barn. Vodka was just a natural thing to make. Potato peels were abundant as they were a daily staple of their diets. Especially in winter, vodka really eased the boredom when there was not much else to do.

When Prohibition was enacted, in 1919, Paul convinced Mama Boyer it was necessary to take some precautions. She agreed. As a result, Paul built a double wall with an invisible door at the back of the main barn where the distillery was installed. Only very careful observation would reveal the double wall and the hidden door. The vodka operation augmented their income substantially in the following years, and attracted a lively group of cowboy-sheepherders, and the occasional shearer that insured Mama Boyer permanent manpower for a smooth operation. Over the next decade, security breeches were not a concern, as all who were in the know depended heavily on the vodka produced. They were surely not going to shoot themselves in the foot.

Idaho’s farming sector, including sheep and cattle, went through severe economic distress between 1922 and 1929. So when the depression hit, Idaho was already in a weakened condition. Luckily, the Boyers, of a naturally conservative mind-frame, hadn’t borrowed money to expand like most of their neighbors. Bellevue had instilled good practices, and Peter and Paul managed to expand the ranch operations by good management of their flocks. Mama Boyer continued to insist to run things and to grow the business using the conservative practices she learned from Bellevue. In spite of all this when the depression hit Paul was under great stress. The sheep business slowed down substantially, and they were barely able to make the Flat Top Two’s mortgage payments (as Flat Top had been fully paid). Everyone had to take a cut in pay. In 1929, as the economy collapsed, Paul was forced to come back to Arco full time and help out at the ranch with the everyday operations. Jules was taken out of school and required to work also. At this point, Dorothy demanded a divorce, and gave Jules her blessing to go help his father’s family survive the economic turmoil. Dorothy moved in to her mother’s house in Pebble Beach. The California Cabots would weather the economic storm easily and without Jules.

At first, the transition was difficult for Jules because of the long hours and no pay. But he trudged on heroically, as he convinced himself it was his business and he needed to learn all aspects of it, including handling his father’s Colt 45. In case of rattlers, Paul told his son and instructed him in all that he did. But slowly, and imperceptibly, he became disenchanted with the sheep business, just as he didn’t get any pleasure out of guns. Shepherding was too much work with too little reward. There must be better ways to make a living, he told himself repeatedly. However, he found there was one interesting part of the Flat Top Ranch sheep operation: the potato vodka distillery that Paul ran in the big barn. Jules, as a boy, had not been aware of this moonshine business. Paul explained lamely, Son, Prohibition was passed in 1919. Ten years without any booze! Imagine, what an existence if you wanted to lead a legal sane life. Prohibition is a joke; everyone that wants to drink drinks. The only thing Prohibition guarantees is that booze gets more expensive. And, that’s the point, son: you need to think of the extra income for us… aside from the benefits of having our own vodka, available anytime in any quantity. Do you think our hired help would hang around if we didn’t provide some form of relief? For free? Paul laughed.

Paul quickly introduced the young Jules to the secrets of potato vodka. Now that you’re sixteen, you’re a man. And as a man, you need to shoulder a man’s burden. I’m sure you’ll be able to carry it. You see this here? Showing him how to open the hidden door. You push it down and sideways, and then the door opens. Once inside the secret compartment, Paul pointed to a 10 gallon copper container. You mix the potatoes with water and a little bit of sugar and cover and stir. Paul pointed to a large pile of potatoes, and some sacks of sugar piled as high as a person. The mixture ferments slowly and produces ethanol. The process takes about ten days. When it is ready, you siphon off the liquid and distill at 182 degrees in this copper tubing, which at this altitude is basically boiling point, so it’s real easy. You can’t screw up. There are no tricks. If you tried it in Pebble Beach, you would need to control the temperature, but not here. This produces concentrated yeast.

Isn’t the yeast alive? It must come from somewhere.

Oh, you’re smart.

I’m only looking for ways to make money, father.

Okeedokeey, you’re very smart, Jules. I love that. Keep in mind selling is tough. The wool, the meat, the vodka. Every business needs sales and yet, there is no college that offers a degree in Sales. Unbelievable. Sales drive everything. So stay close to me and learn the tricks of the trade. Then, for sure you’ll get somewhere.

But, father where does the yeast come from? Jules asked more interested in vodka production than in sales pitches.

Oh, yes. Paul returned to the subject at hand. The yeast seems to be in the air, and it gets into the mixture as you stir it. Best results for the starter yeast are obtained in late spring. The yeast then eats the food and shits alcohol and multiplies quickly. It’s fantastic. Paul emphasized the words hanging both his left and right index and middle fingers in the air—as a gesture for quote-unquote. Just think if we could shit alcohol. What a life! Paul bellowed at his joke and continued, At this point you need to be careful not to expose your mixture to air, as other—I’m not sure what—might get in which produces vinegar instead of alcohol. Vinegar is bad. Alcohol is good. So make sure the mixture doesn’t come into contact with air. If you can taste the vinegar, then the batch is bad. Throw it out. It can’t be salvaged. Sometimes it will smell like rotten-eggs. That’s worse, which means other bad shit got in there. Once you have alcohol, squeeze as much liquid as you can out of the mix, distill it slowly, and you’ve got drinkable vodka.

The depression affected Idaho less than other parts of the country because their economy was primarily based on agriculture, whereas the industrial and urban areas were hit harder. At that time about two out of three people lived on farms.

In the summer of 1930, Jules met Magdalene O’Connor, a recent graduate of Butte County High School. Her father had been a cowboy at one of the ranches nearby but was laid off because of the economic times, and her mother had passed away a few years back. Magdalene—Lene to her friends—was a year older than Jules, and she pursued the relationship aggressively. A meal was a meal, and given the economic hardships of everyone in Arco, she did all she could to formalize her relationship. Jules was a good, decent man, and his family owned land and had no debts. Before the summer was over she would be pregnant and Jules offered to marry her. Paul was happy to have a woman come and help with the multiple chores at Flat Top Ranch, but pretended to object to the marriage just so Mama Boyer would not give him a long morality lecture about his failure to educate his son properly. Of course, Paul didn’t dare remind Mama Boyer that she had Peter when she was sixteen and if you did the counting, she also had to get married.

Lene was grateful for her new existence and worked hard to contribute to the success of both Flat Top ranches. Lene developed into an excellent cook, and quickly became an indispensable member of Flat Top Ranch. In early spring Lene gave birth to Maggie. With no form of entertainment, not surprisingly, in quick succession, eleven months later she gave birth to another baby girl, Lorna. One year later she had a third daughter, named Dorothy in honor of Jules’ mother.

Slowly the Great Depression passed with the help of FDR’s New Deal. Jules and Lene settled in to ranch life, however tough it seemed to take care of three small children and everyone else at the ranch. They were young, in love, idealistic, and nothing could stop them from trying to make a solid home for their girls.

Mama Boyer, with Jules and Lene’s help plus the ten hired, hard-drinking cowboys—they didn’t like to be called sheepherders—ran a successful sheep operation, that if it didn’t run a profit in those tough years, it kept all of them fed and alive. Now that Prohibition was over, there was little money to be made selling vodka so Paul returned to his sales trips, now extending to the East Coast and Chicago. He would come home and regale Jules with tales of exotic new businesses to be seen in the big cities; department stores, ready-to-wear clothes, elegant restaurants, drug stores with fancy marble-covered soda fountains.

It was then, that the first seeds were planted in Jules’ mind. Late at night, lying in bed after making love, he turned to his wife Lene, Maybe, someday we can open a restaurant. You love to cook.

Cooking in a restaurant, Jules would be very different than preparing one big meal for a dozen people.

Perhaps we could have one single dish for each day.

Well, if I was paying for a meal, I want it to be whatever I fancied. And I would like to be served promptly.

Oh, look at you. Now you’re a fancy, picky eater.

Your mother is right, Jules. You’re a dreamer.

Maybe. Lene, but I hate this shepherding farm. Well not the farm, the shepherding business. She gave him a surprised look. Don’t get me wrong. I love working with my father and it isn’t so bad going out with the cowboys. But I do enjoy helping you in the kitchen a lot more.

That’s because you like to grab my ass. Lene laughed coquettishly.

I can’t deny that.

Tell me, Jules, Lene looked into his eyes carefully, Do you want more children?

Maybe later, my love. But I think, for now, we have our hands full with three daughters.

You got it. Lene said conspiratorially. Jules looked at her and decided to remain silent, wondering what this comment meant. It doesn’t mean we won’t have sex, just that I’ll be careful to not get pregnant, Jules. Lene added to avoid what she thought would be Jules’ main objections. Now let’s go to sleep. She turned on her side, and as was her habit, was soon sound asleep, her breathing slow and deep.

Lene had just gotten a diaphragm, a dome-shaped rubber cup with a flexible rim. When inserted, it covered the cervix and was held in place by the vaginal muscles. Lene hoped that Jules would not even notice, as she knew his manhood would be challenged. The doctor assured her that her husband would not detect anything. Spermicide was added to increase its efficacy, and it was estimated that in one year, only sixteen percent of woman would get pregnant (compared to 100 percent without contraceptives of any sort.) The doctor recommended leaving the diaphragm in overnight, but never more than twenty-four hours. Margaret Sanger had introduced the device from the Netherlands in 1916. She and her husband illegally imported them for years. It wasn’t until 1932 that it became legal, and the diaphragm was finally manufactured in the United States, but, following some of the arcane (or twisting) laws of prohibition, the diaphragm could not be mailed interstate. In 1936, Sanger arranged for a Japanese manufacturer to mail a diaphragm to a sympathetic doctor in New York. The package was confiscated and in 1936, in the court case United States vs. One package of Japanese Pessaries, a federal appellate court ruled the package could be delivered. Lene was one of the first American women to use this form of contraceptive. In four years, before the involvement of America in World War II, almost one-third of all American women would be using it.

Life at Flat Top was not easy, but it was satisfying in many basic ways. There was family; there were friends among the cowboy-sheepherders, and the sheep. The seasons followed each other, each with their own task and rituals. It was hard work and required making the hired hands part of an extended family. And, the cowboys were glad to help with any chore; cooking, cleaning, and even baby-sitting the girls.

Their three daughters grew playing outside at Flat Top Ranch during the spring, summer and fall months and made a huge racket in the winter when they weren’t allowed out of the main Ranch House. Then, it was time to take Maggie to Arco Elementary School on the corner of Highway 93 and Sunset Dr. It was a small school, but it was close enough and it would have to do. Maggie’s sisters followed; Lorna one year later and Dorothy a year after. They were known in town as the Boyer girls.

When war was declared on Japan, Jules was twenty-eight years old, was head of household with five dependents (three daughters, a wife and a grandmother—Paul, who was too old for the draft, was counted as unemployed landlord) and ran a strategic business that would provide food for the armed services. His lack of education further contributed to his not being called up for active duty as the country prepared for war. He was consulted on some matters relating to New Zealand and Australia providing lamb meat for the forces operating in the Pacific Theatre. All he could do was whistle at the rock-bottom prices the allies were offering. Still, after consulting with his father, he volunteered to offer half his production at that price, but argued, successfully, that he needed to sell the rest domestically to help sustain his operation.

The army contracted to receive 5,000 tons of meat and the navy another 5,000 tons. For the price contracted, Jules had to deliver the lamb, standing on the hoof, at the railroad station in Idaho Falls. For six months of the year, he could deliver the sheep sheared. In the winter months, the sheep needed their coats to survive transport. Jules and his father Paul tested the survivability of the sheep with a reduced coat. The gregarious nature of sheep ensured they would flock together, especially in new environments. This allowed them to cut some of the wool off, as the body heat of many sheep bunched together would ensure their survival in the open railroad cars. The rest of his meat production, roughly about another 10,000 tons, he could do whatever he wanted. Times were tough, but still he was able to command a respectful price and show a good profit. War was good for the Boyers, as it was for many Americans. Paul’s sales efforts quickly diminished, as half of his production was committed, and the Armed Services would buy all else he could provide, if he wanted. He decided to spend more time with his mother and son, and help get the sheep production up. Flat Top Ranch began to prosper once again.

Things were going so well that in 1943, Jules indulged the family by buying a brand-new, wine-colored Oldsmobile. It boasted beige leather seats and wood panels with a Motorola radio. Maggie, Lorna and Dorothy, along with thousands others, first heard Frank Sinatra singing on the car radio. Lorna fell in love immediately with The Voice. Maggie fell in love with any boy that would pay attention to her, while Dorothy watched her two older sisters, not quite understanding either.

Once a month, Jules and Lene would try to take the girls to the movies in Idaho Falls. Jules and Lene were careful about what the girls saw on the big screen. Out of the question were movies like, I Walked With a Zombie, or Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man. At the movie house the Boyer girls would have a chance to see their idol on the screen as he became a sensation. Along with all the news on the War before the main feature started, Sinatra was a welcome scene for the girls. On this Saturday, My Friend Flicka, starring young Ken McLaughlin, was the main feature. Acceptable movies, a few months later, were Lady Takes a Chance and The Song of Bernadette, as well as Lassie Come Home.

Maggie enrolled at Butte County Middle School and promptly began dreaming about kissing and more with the boys in her school. She saw her two younger sisters as living in another age, or another planet for that matter, and she felt her parents had no clue about life, and much less, about sex.

Dorothy, influenced by what she heard about famous performers, began fantasizing roles. Alone in the barn, she would perform imaginary scenes, some of them lasting for an hour. Her favorite one was about a mother who loses her child. She wailed, cried, frantically ran around looking for the imaginary child. She called out, Magrite! Magrite! but the imaginary daughter never answered. She would never be found. Dorothy wailed and rolled on the floor.

One day Lorna heard her sister wailing and came to the barn to investigate. She found Dorothy crying on the ground, whimpering, No, no, it can’t be. My baby can’t be dead. Dorothy, as soon as she realized her sister was watching from the main door, composed herself immediately. I am just acting like I am one of the great stars, she explained lamely. Lorna just stood and stared uncomprehending at her younger sister. Movie stars. I am preparing myself for an acting career. Dorothy continued, slightly embarrassed, nodding vigorously.

You’re pretty good, Lorna admitted. Never be embarrassed. Not with me. She closed the barn door and left Dorothy alone.

Dorothy thought about how to be more secretive with her acting practices and looked around the barn thinking about possibilities. She felt she wasn’t ready to be seen by the public. As she was checking the back wall she accidentally moved the lever back and down that opened the hidden door to the secret distillery compartment. She pushed the door open and went in. It was dark and musty. After her eyes got used to the darkness, she could distinguish what might be a window. She tried dragging it sideways and it gave a little. A ray of sunlight illuminated the old, blackened copper distillery. This would be the perfect secret acting studio.

A few months later, Dorothy was practicing her acting skills in the secret distillery in the barn. On that day, she had lost her daughter Sylviana, coincidentally, her same age—ten years old. In this scene she lay immobile on the dirt ground, and tried to hold her tears back, but, as she had seen in the movies, a tear came, and would drop slowly from each eye. As she practiced this exercise, one tear at a time—and she had to start over a few times, as tears came out both eyes simultaneously—she felt, or she thought she felt, which was the same in her mind, a rat climb on her. As she remained immobile, more rats came. She concentrated on the tear—one eye at a time—and tried to ignore the imaginary (but for her, real) rats. For about one hour, she remained immobile, ignoring the rats, and trying to do the one-tear-from-only-one-eye trick. She was successful, and she imagined she had earned an Oscar for her performance. But her performance was so heroic, because during that hour she had let the rats bite into her calves, into her legs, and nibble at her fingers, all while she concentrated in producing the one tear—her friend, the director, her secret lover insisted she must produce one tear in each eye, and one tear only. When she was finished, she got up, closed the window, and locked the secret door. She walked outside and at the hand pump washed off slowly the blood from the wounds of the rats’ attacks. She was surprised to see how quickly she had healed as she inspected her wounds. There was no scarring.

Lorna came by and, What are you doing, Dorothy?

I am just cleaning all the blood from the rats’ bites.

Oh! You’re doing more of your acting. Call me next time; I’d love to see how you perform while rats bite you.

I was only trying to do what my director wanted; cry, from one eye at a time, one tear only. Dorothy shook and pointed her left index finger at her sister and then at her eye, one at a time, and then, when she realized her sister wasn’t getting it, stuck her tongue out.

Excuse, me! Lorna walked away haughtily.

I am the best. My director loves me, Dorothy shouted defiantly at her sister’s back.

That night, at the main ranch house, Lene held court as she served dinner. In one table for eight, her daughters, Mama Boyer, Paul and Jules and herself; at another table, the twelve cowboys who refused to be called shepherds. Shepherds were people from the Bible, not them—good Christians all, if you asked them, but not like the Bible shepherds.

How was your day, girls? Lene asked conversationally, as she always did.

Maggie as usual didn’t participate. She thought she was above it all. She was, like always, dreaming about sex and boys.

Dorothy got bit by rats. Lorna said as she forked some rice.

Jules stood up, alarmed. Dorothy, show me. We need to take care of this right now. Rats carry infections. You can get rabies!

Don’t worry, Papa. Dorothy put down her silverware and extended her hands for her father to inspect. See, there is nothing. I’m healed.

It’s all acting, Lorna explained. Dorothy thinks she is a great actress. Today she was practicing how it feels to get bitten by rats.

I was not! I practiced crying from one eye only. Dorothy challenged indignantly.

So, do you want to be an actress, Dorothy? Lene asked gently, steering the conversation into calmer waters.

Yes, I do, mama. I am really good.

 . . . Mama Boyer said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.

Well, enjoy. The rice and beans are perfect, Lene. And of course, the way you prepare lamb shanks in tomato sauce is the best. Jules, following Mama Boyer’s cue followed suit, dug into the food and encouraged everyone to do the same with yummy sounds.

No one in the Boyer family thought about the rats for years, except Dorothy. For Dorothy, the rats were part of her maturing experience as an actress. She learned how to twitch—off camera—to throw the rats off her body as she continued heroically with her acting sessions. The rats simply didn’t like her spasmodic twitching. For some reason that scared them, and they ran away. But still once in a while, in the middle of one of her scenes, a rat would bite her. She was convinced of this, but she held it secret from all others, as she learned painfully they all laughed at her and her acting ambitions, especially if she mentioned the rats.

Life seemed to be a repetitive cycle around the sheep. It was either wool time or meat time, and in between it was making sure that the animals produced the maximum of both.

Two years later, in the spring of 1945, two events disrupted Dorothy’s life; Lene got pregnant, and Lorna insisted in sharing the secret distillery room to get away from Maggie. But Dorothy did not want to share her acting stage, not with a sister that made fun of her and she worried about sharing her mother with a new baby. Lene took it philosophically, she felt lucky she hadn’t gotten pregnant for twelve years;

This is my room, Lorna! Dorothy yelled at her sister’s privacy invasion.

Says who? I can always ask Maggie to join us.

No, no. That would be the end of it all.

This is Grandpa Paul’s room, not yours. He tells me he helped Bellevue install all of this. Lorna pointed haughtily at the copper distillery.

He never comes here. You know I am the only one.

I’ll show you something that feels really good, and then perhaps we can share this room.

Like what?

Lorna pulled up her skirt, and pushed down her panties. Show me your hairs, Dorothy.

What?

Just watch what I’m doing. Lorna sunk down, and began rubbing her clitoris and vagina vigorously. C’mon, Dorothy. Do like me.

What for?

Here, lie next to me. Lorna patted the dirt ground covered with hay. Just pull your panties down. Dorothy’s curiosity was aroused and did as her sister asked. Lorna fingered Dorothy gently, not too deep, trying to arouse her. You had your period, didn’t you?

What’s it to you? Dorothy asked defensively, yet she didn’t push her sister away, she was getting aroused; it felt good.

I just thought its time to show you a couple of things. Lorna kept rubbing her sister’s clitoris, alternating, slow and then, fast, light and then hard. Dorothy showed more signs of excitement, and this excited Lorna. Soon she was fondling herself with her left hand and Dorothy with her right hand, trying to follow her sister’s excitement. Dorothy’s breathing became fast and shallow, and suddenly, as her muscles tightened and her pelvis convulsed involuntarily, she moaned through clenched teeth, Oh, my God, Ooooh. Don’t stop! Uuuuuuf, she cried out as she experienced her first orgasm. Lorna reached a climax almost immediately after and smiled conspiratorially at her sister.

The two sisters quickly established a weekly masturbating ritual in the secret distillery room.

Does Maggie know about this? Dorothy asked.

Maggie does it with boys.

That’s disgusting.

Lorna smiled at her sister and tussled her brown, curly hair.

Lene and Jules were not having sex very often—a couple of times a month. She had decided, erroneously, not to insert her diaphragm, and as a result, she got pregnant.

Lene complained of pains early in the winter morning. Peter, named in honor of Paul’s brother would be born shortly. This is high above my tummy. I don’t know if this is the real thing. It feels different. I am afraid, Jules.

We’ve been through his before, Lene. Do you want me to call Mama Boyer?

No. I’m sure you and I can manage.

I agree.

Yes. But, I feel hungry. You think you can fix me some sausage and eggs. I don’t think I can go through this on an empty stomach.

Don’t worry, everything is taken care of. Jules went to the kitchen and prepared quickly the eggs—sunny side up and sausage, thankful the girls weren’t up yet. He brought the breakfast to the bedroom on a tray.

I’m feeling the pain. I don’t remember my contractions feeling like this. This is different, don’t fret. Lene tried to calm her husband as she dug into her breakfast.

Lene’s complaint gave Jules pause, What could this pain be? He was estimating how long labor would take, given she had three children previously. Five or six hours might be a reasonable maximum. Five or six hours. It could be more, it could be less.

Jules could hear the girls talking as they walked into the kitchen. Let me check the girls. I’ll be right back. Jules rose from the bed and closed the bedroom door behind him. Can I get you some breakfast? I just got some for Mama. She is ready to have another baby.

Today? asked Dorothy.

Now? asked Lorna.

Maggie just raised her eyebrows. So you two (her parents) do it too. What cynics, trying to tell me what I can do or not, I am a woman and I have the right to decide to do whatever I want with my body—Maggie thought.

Yes. Today and now. Jules responded to the two questions, and ignored Maggie’s comment. So, let’s hurry. As far as I can tell it will be a couple of hours, maybe more. Jules quickly fixed them all, him included, another round of sausage and eggs. Then he went back to check on Lene.

Let me see how you’re doing. He inserted his fingers in her vagina and pronounced, You are eight centimeters dilated. You’re doing well. Are you sure you don’t want me to call Mama Boyer?

What about the pains she was having yesterday? Mama Boyer called from the kitchen.

I’m worried about a possible separation of the placenta from the uterine wall, but Lene’s doing fine. Everything seems normal. It should be a couple of hours more. Jules whispered out to the kitchen.

I’ll be here with the girls if you need me. I’m sure you’ll know if there are complications. Just call me. Jules had helped deliver thousands of sheep, and for Mama Boyer this was as good as it gets. Jules could take care of Lene.

Lene was lying on her back with her legs apart when a contraction started. Jules rushed to her and held her hand. She smiled in acknowledgment. She proceeded to burp, it smelled like sausage. She burped again. The contractions seemed to slow down and Jules asked, How are you doing, Lene?

I’m fine. I’m glad you’re here with me. I could start labor again any moment, and it wouldn’t be good for me to have a full stomach. But you know me, I’m always hungry. Jules cleaned the sweat off her face as she continued. I was starving. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you for eggs. I lied about my contractions for fear you wouldn’t feed me. But, there was no way I was going to deliver a baby without eating first!

Don’t worry, you’re doing fine, Jules assured her.

No, I’m burpin’ sausage. It’s awful. Another contraction silenced her. Another burp.

I see what you mean, Jules said as he got a whiff of the sausage. Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s it. You’re doing great. Breathe in. Breathe out. Try to relax.

After a few more contractions had ended, Lene said as she tried to get her breath back, That really hurt.

Just one or two more contractions and it will be over. The baby will be born soon. You’re doing great, Jules replied as he proceeded to apply a perineum massage to widen and stretch the birth canal. During the next contractions he applied pressure on Lene’s rectum to prevent hemorrhoids.

Two contractions, two more burps, and the baby’s head was out and breathing. Mother and child breathing in unison for the first time. The baby was breathing, huffing and puffing like a newborn bull. A burp and one more contraction later, and he was out. Congratulations, it’s a baby boy. The umbilical chord is very short. I am going to have to cut it before I pass him to you, Jules said. An instant later he laid the baby on Lene’s stomach, the two of them no longer joined by the umbilical chord.

Lene put her hands around his little body, and rubbed the white, waxy, vernix into his skin, she smiled and said Hi, Peter. She turned to Jules, I knew it was going to be a beautiful baby boy. Indeed he seemed to be.

Jules put the baby’s mouth next to Lene’s nipple and he sucked reflexively. A few drops of colostrum were suckled out, and Lene’s body responded accordingly; one more contraction and the placenta came out whole. Jules inspected it to make sure the placenta was whole and nothing was left inside and pushed his wife’s legs together as he placed the placenta in a bucket.

Everything is in order, Jules beamed and wiped the sweat off his brow. I’ll go tell Mama Boyer and the girls. Lene smiled and fell asleep with Peter suckling at her breast. Jules covered her up to her waist with a thin blanket.

In Peter’s first year, at around ten months, Lene noticed that occasionally he didn’t like to be held. Peter would stretch out and stiffen until she put him down. Peter began to walk shortly after his first