50 Years with the Wrong Woman: The Life of Nevada Bob: Adventures with Family, Friends and Foes

By Nevada Bob Gordon

This tongue-in-cheek titled memoir celebrates the highs and lows of a spirited, challenging life. Nevada Bob Gordon, a husband, father of seven, Navy man, police officer, cattle rancher, gold mine assayer, hydrocarbon well analyst, and now author and country music singer, recounts his family's peripatetic life in the Western U.S. Over the course

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert D. Gordon
• Release date: May 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985453812

Nevada Bob Gordon

Bob Gordon (Nevada Bob) was born in Alaska in 1939. As a young Navy man, he traveled the world. Stateside, he met the love of his life, Carol Newton, a tall black-haired beauty and the heroine of this ironically titled memoir. They married, and Bob became a Seattle cop. After being fired for improper conduct-around the time his astronaut cousin Richard Gordon was orbiting the moon on Apollo 12-he vowed to change his ways. Bob moved Carol and their four kids (eventually, there were seven) to Oregon, marking the beginning of an adventurous, hard-working life. After Carol died in 2020, Bob wrote and recorded a song for her for his fourth album, Long Train To Nowhere. Today, Bob continues to write and record country music, travel, and enjoy the love of his children, 9 grandchildren, 9 great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandchild.

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Introduction

On March 7, 2020, my beautiful wife of 58 years died from cancer at 77 years of age. Two days later, on Black Monday, the stock market suffered its third biggest drop in history. Global markets suffered staggering financial losses in a single day, and even more through the rest of the month, but my loss was greater.

Carol Gordon caught my eye at a college dance, a tall black-haired beauty with dark blue eyes. I married her later that year and she remained a classy, loving woman all her life.

Carol really had a heart of gold. An earnest Christian, she loved her religion and was the epitome of what a wife should be. I could never have found a more perfect woman to share my life with. She was the mainspring that kept me going.

When you read my stories here, you’ll see that I was a little shy of being a perfect husband. Her presence in my life made me a better man than I ever could have been otherwise. And we had a lot of fun times.

I’ve lived a full and multifaceted life. After Carol’s passing I began writing down all the things I’ve seen and experienced. It wasn’t long before I realized that I was writing a book.

As I look back, it’s apparent that I’ve been most fortunate. There are any number of ways my life could have been cut short or ended up very differently. The two things that kept me going were my family and an attitude that life should be fun.

I enjoy storytelling and I hope you enjoy reading my stories as much as I’ve enjoyed setting them down on paper. Nothing here is exaggerated. Every one of these stories is true.

Prologue

My vintage 1930’s Ford truck was a would-be killer. It tried to destroy my family twice, and twice was enough. In deference to safety, I would never drive over 25 miles an hour because it had no brakes. Now this truck was not road legal in any state. Two poles eight inches in diameter and 16 feet long were attached to the frame to form a boom with a pulley attached at the end. With cable from the winch threaded through the pulley, it was possible with a measure of difficulty to lift loads in excess of 4,000 pounds. The first near-death experience involved my wife, Carol.

At the time, she was about six months pregnant with our fourth child, but she could still move fast and get around really well. On this particular day, I was loading two-by-fours cut from a sawmill, which were vying with the truck as to which could kill someone first. Sandvik Lumber Seattle would buy all the lumber I could produce. We owned 30 acres on South Whidbey Island and were making our living in the lumber business.

The green lumber was heavy, so I had to weld brackets to the front in order to support a 55-gallon oil drum filled with water as a counterbalance. I casually asked Carol if she would add to the counterbalance by climbing up on the front bumper to straddle the barrel of water. She could hang on to the radiator cap for stability and a little bit of safety. She agreed to the challenge, primarily because we desperately needed the $600 paycheck. Sandvik Lumber would send a flatbed truck to pick up our product.

The truck would accommodate six bundles of lumber (or packages, as we called them)—four on the bottom, side by side with two bundles set on top. I needed additional weight in front of the boom truck because this lumber was exceptionally heavy. That’s where Carol came in. I had already loaded the bottom four packages with the old truck literally groaning and grinding as it tried to resist lifting the heavy green lumber aloft. The truck came off the ground in front about a foot and floated without control as I loaded the bottom bundles, which was always unnerving.

I was backing perpendicular to the truck to load the tiedown bundles on top. Carol was in position in front as additional ballast. The truck driver was guiding me back to position the boom truck. I had to pop the clutch to slow down a too-rapid approach. At the last minute, I raised the load 12 feet in the air to clear the bottom bundles. Suddenly, the front end of the boom truck went straight up 15 feet as the load sat on the ground. The truck driver’s look said he was about to witness impending doom. His eyes were as wide as silver dollars as he searched for a ladder to rescue my wife from her perch.

The barrel threatened to knock her off the truck as it rocked back and forth in its flimsy bracket. Then the carburetor ran out of gas and the engine died. The impact of what could happen at this point surged through my brain. If the cable broke, the truck would come crashing down. Carol and barrel would meld together on impact. There is no doubt she would have been killed or seriously injured.

Carol’s face revealed pure terror. She was trapped aloft with no way to escape. The look on her face as she looked at me through a dirty windshield said in no uncertain terms, What in the hell is going on? I need to help my husband, but my God, how much can a woman do?

Though I was unable to assist her in her plight, I sure didn’t want to lose this sexy, tall, dark-haired beauty for just a load of lumber.

Carol stood 5’9" tall and had that good-looking way about her that she kept all her life. She was a sophisticated city girl thrust into this unfortunate circumstance. Thankfully, the cable held, and she quickly climbed down a ladder the driver provided. When I recovered enough to think of it, I turned the ignition key and, by engaging the battery, gradually lowered the front end to the ground.

We were still faced with finishing the load, and by God, Carol climbed right back on that bumper, leaning over the barrel with her hands choking the radiator cap. We finished the load without incident. Needless to say, the situation we endured enabled our family to have funds for pressing bills and to continue to go on into very interesting but often challenging life experiences.

The second and last attempt by the truck to take a life occurred in the winter of 1971. I was cranking the heavy boom into position with a hand powered winch. This required a lot of muscle, power, and desire. Unfortunately, I was facing a relentless driving rain that fateful day, which made the crank handle of the winch extremely slippery. The handle was L-shaped with a one-foot grip. Suddenly, it slipped from my grasp and pounded my head with at least three quick strokes before I could fall away. Had I been leaning into the crank handle any farther it would have struck the top of my head and would no doubt have been fatal. As it was, I was struck just above the hairline, creating a 1-inch gash which bled profusely. I staggered from the barn to the house, a cold wet towel stopping most of the flow.

I felt the relief one feels when you narrowly escape death, and the event was beginning to leave my mind when I heard a knock at the front door. We lived well off the main highway on a dirt road which ended at our farm. I couldn’t imagine who would be out in our remote area on such a cold and clammy, rainy morning. Those visitors ultimately brought me a hell of a lot more trouble than that killer truck ever did.

Two men in suits appeared and immediately asked if I was Robert Gordon. I responded, I am. They immediately produced identification that confirmed they were FBI agents and informed me that I was to appear at the federal courthouse in Seattle for a secret grand jury at 1 PM that day. I was told I couldn’t bring an attorney.

They appeared nervous as they explained their mission, as if I might present a problem of some kind. They then handed me a subpoena, departing as quickly as they appeared. I was numb, with my thoughts extremely troubled as blood from my fresh wound trickled down my forehead. This bleeding would plague me all that day.

I drove to Seattle and immediately sought my attorney. I spoke to him about my one o’clock appointment as blood once again trickled down my face. Needless to say, I have had happier, more fulfilling days in my life.

The federal courthouse was a media circus when I arrived. I felt like a mafia gangster as I made my way to the elevator to go to the 10th floor and await whatever was to come. In fact, I was no mafia gangster, but a former Seattle police officer caught up in an investigation which would eventually lead to the conviction and imprisonment of our assistant police chief, Buzz Cook.

I listened to the grand jury along with many other notable Seattle politicians, including the head of the Sheriff’s Department. I was the lone ex-patrolman in the mix. When called to testify, I was asked a very simple question, Did you ever participate in a payoff for allowing illegal gambling?

I responded, No.

Then they asked, Did you ever observe a police officer receiving payment for allowing illegal gambling?

I again responded, No.

I realized I had committed perjury, but I chose to protect my fellow police officers. They then thanked me for my responses, and I was dismissed.

If I remember correctly, my picture was on the front of the Seattle Times that evening. There were many reporters outside the courtroom. Obviously, this secret grand jury was certainly not so secret. Thankfully, blood did not run down my face as I testified in front of the jury. This experience was the beginning of life-altering events that were about to unfold for my family.

CHAPTER 1

Growing Pains

I was born in Alaska in the fall of 1939. My dad was working in a gold mine in Juneau, and my mother had recently graduated from high school. I was brought to the lower 48 after I was born. By constitutional law, I could never run for president because I was born in a territory. As my life unfolded, however, it was clear early on that running for president would be left on the back burner.

During the Second World War, my parents moved to Seattle where my dad worked for Boeing Aircraft. When the war was over we moved to Kingston, Washington—a little picturesque town of 400 people located across the bay from the town of Edmonds.

My dad grew up in Kingston, with my grandparents being some of the earliest settlers. They came from a background of logging in Michigan and Wisconsin, and headed west to find a new logging environment.

My grandfather had many stories about living in Kingston in the 1920s. Apparently, one Halloween, three high school rowdies were threatening to put his early-model lightweight family car in the blackberry bushes next to his barn. When they appeared that night, Grandpa was ready with his shotgun. He told them that they had better leave, but they advanced.

Gun-toting grandpa (top row, third from right) with my dad’s brothers, sister and grandkids in Kingston, Washington.

He blasted all three with rock salt. The rest of their evening was spent in the nearest town hospital—Port Gamble—having shotgun and rock salt plucked from their backsides. Some 20 years later, while having a medical issue addressed in Port Gamble, I actually met and talked to the very doctor who recalled the rock salt incident.

Grandpa once showed me a .45 caliber pistol he had shoved into the face of two salesmen who had conned several other Kingston residents into purchasing poorly manufactured tile. This was during the 1930s. Money was tight for everyone back then.

Grandpa caught up with them in the ferry line, waiting for the boat to go back to Seattle. He jumped up on the running board of their car with his pistol and demanded the money back. They gladly complied with his request. He then told them they should come to his house as they had to reclaim their product. He got his money, they got their tile back, and the two red-faced hustlers left town.

For the most part, though, Kingston was a great place to grow up during the depression years of the 1930s. A milk cow, chickens, a garden, and the sea would provide all the food a family would need. Fresh food from Puget Sound was hard to beat.

Four of the happiest years of my young childhood were spent in that sleepy scenic little town. Now that it is a bedroom community for present-day yuppies it has lost its charm through development. But back in the ’40s the dock was constructed of wooden planks that swayed back and forth when heavy vehicles rolled over them. The beaches were free of people, and open to anyone for clam digging, picnics, etc. Young kids made rafts and sailed around the little harbor without interference. One of my rafts had a big, square sail I had copied from the movie Kon-Tiki, which was popular at the time.

I didn’t have a care in the world. My cousins and I spent our time playing games with our grandparents. We were very fortunate to live in such a fabulous environment. There was no crime. The sheriff came to town on Thursdays just for the hell of it. No drugs, no theft . . . essentially a very contented way of life. A lively Fourth of July was always in the works: lots of firecrackers and buzz bombs exploding in the sky. We also had our town Little League that competed with other small towns within a 25-mile radius.

We didn’t have TV while I lived in Kingston. We entertained ourselves with our surroundings. We had caves to explore on the cliff walls. Some of the caves in these cliff walls were unstable, and occasionally collapsed. I received several severe spankings for investigating these caves, as they were hard-to-resist attractions for a young boy.

Life in Kingston was good. Not long after I turned ten my father’s job sent us moving back to living in Seattle, and that chapter of my life was over.

Our house in Seattle sat on a unique lot. At the rear of the large property, there was a canyon about 60 to 80 feet deep filled with maple trees. When I was fourteen years old and home sick with the flu, I was bored and came up with an idea. I took a brown shopping bag, tore off a 16-inch chunk, and drew a map on both sides. It was copied almost exactly from my school’s Spanish book. It showed North and South America as viewed from knowledge available in the 1500s. It was complete with sea monsters placed in unknown areas of the ocean.

I spent many hours drawing in the details with India ink. It was not a treasure map; that would have been unrealistic and hokey. When I completed the map, I burned the edges and soaked it in oil to give it that old time map appearance. I then placed the map in an old whiskey bottle and buried it in the bottom of our canyon, where it lay for most of the year undisturbed.

One day, shovel in hand, I led a couple of our neighbor kids to the spot and suggested that they dig for treasure right there. The kids were 10 to 12 years old and were not very observant. They dug up the bottle and were ready to give it a toss when I pointed out there was something rolled up inside. A cursory inspection still left the contents of the bottle unnoticed, so I suggested they break the bottle. When the bottle broke and the map fell out, the not-too-observant 12-year-olds opened up the map and became mildly excited. I immediately tossed the 1954 vintage whiskey bottle away; it didn’t possess the proper hand-blown look.

The kids took their findings to their father and I followed. It should be fun, I thought, to see his reaction to what his kids had discovered. He was very curious, but I didn’t think he bought into the idea. I was just about to signal him to play along when he laid the map out on the table and flattened it with his hand. He muttered something about conquistadors that obviously came sailing up our canyon, which was located not all that far from Puget Sound centuries ago. He then took a corner of the shopping bag map and tore it very slowly, proclaiming in a solemn tone that they don’t make paper like that anymore.

Me with my mom, dad, and sister Judy. 1948.

The map was found in the early afternoon. By nightfall, everyone of consequence in the kids’ lives had been notified about their remarkable historical discovery, including Irma Guenther, a professor of some renown at the University of Washington. An appointment had been secured—Professor Guenther was to authenticate the map. A neighbor who could read and speak Spanish was brought to the scene and he was busy deciphering. Their home was filling up with curious friends.

One little boy declared the house stunk—that it smelled like fuel oil. He was right, but the crowd wanted to believe it was olive oil. This charade went on for three days. Eventually, one evening, my mom could stand the game no longer and blew the whistle on my caper. That disappointed everyone there. They reluctantly went home. I’m sure Professor Guenther would have labeled the map a phony the minute it appeared before her eyes.

In the summer of my junior year of high school I had the opportunity to stay and work at a cattle ranch north of Spokane in eastern Washington. I learned to love the lifestyle. The hard work trimmed me down to a lean 180 pounds on my 6’2" frame.

One weekend afternoon, I was with two other young hands and we were on horseback moving a herd of cattle. Over on a hill across from us, on a scenic site located under scattered trees, was a station wagon. The Little Spokane River meandered around the area and a family was setting up a picnic. A blanket was spread on the ground loaded with various picnic type foods.

We young boys thought the scene in front of us could provide us some fun. We could drive our cattle into a stampede and ruin the picnic being set up. After all, they were on our ranch land. (In hindsight, I realize that this was a lame excuse for this kind of fun.)

Kingston, Washington. Me in front of the wash house we used in those days. 1948.

After the stampede had begun, the family raced frantically for their vehicle and safety. They had plenty of time to make it, but the blanket of food didn’t have a chance. I saw the station wagon rock a little as the critters passed through. As we were putting the herd back together, I spotted the dusty station wagon heading upcountry, probably toward a more civilized area where manure would not be tolerated.

One of the income sources on the ranch was the sale of timber to a sawmill in Newport, Washington. Three of us young boys loaded 16-foot logs onto a 1948 Ford truck. We chained on as many logs as was practical and headed for the Newport mill. We had to go into western Idaho to make this journey, and the only way through was on seldom-traveled dirt roads.

Our driver was a 16-year-old whose name I don’t recall. He was accompanied by 14-year-old Johnny Schaefer and myself, a 16-year-old. I was sitting next to the passenger door and Johnny sat between the driver and me. This truck was engineered to have a high-speed range and a low-speed range, known as a two-speed Brownie. High-speed range was for highway driving, and low range was for climbing steep inclines. On this occasion, we happened to be driving at 60 mph, which was too fast for the road conditions, and had a relatively sharp turn to negotiate ahead. Seeing this, our driver attempted to get into low range after taking it out of high gear to assist in the slowdown of the truck, but we were going too fast. He then tried to go back into high range without success.

He was forced to use the brakes when the gears failed, and he quickly burned up what remaining brakes the truck possessed. Without any gear assistance, and with basically no brakes, he managed to make the turn at around 70 mph. This was a miracle by any standard.

We were now heading down a narrow dirt road with a full load of logs and going up to around 85 miles an hour. The road was elevated 3 feet, so we couldn’t just pull off to the side. We leveled out and started back up the next hill and got about three quarters of the way up the hill before the truck slowed almost to a complete stop. I jumped out, trying to find a rock large enough to block the truck. Our emergency brake was of no use. I couldn’t find a rock that would work to stop the truck, so the truck started back down the hill in reverse. The driver jumped out of his seat and stood on the running board, steering the truck through an open window. Johnny said it got up to 45 miles