The next couple of weeks went on as before, we worked in the garden and got recruited for chores around Jeep and Kitty’s property.
The acrimony over the use of the facilities at the rental trailer continued, so Woodley and I put additional effort into building a kitchen in my Housetruck. Since my RV refrigerator was functional on electric, we put it in the truck and started keeping snacks, juice and yogurt in it to relieve some of the pressure at the trailer.
If the beginning of June was heavy, the end was sublime. Saturday, the 29th, Sarge and Terri loaded us up into the truck to go out to the country for a festival, held each summer. We didn’t know much about it, but were told it was like Eugene’s Saturday Market, but held in the woods, and it went on for three days.
What the festival turned out to be was the Oregon Country Fair, known that year as the Oregon Country Renaissance Fair. We paid a modest admission fee, and were thrust into a completely different reality once inside. There were all manner of hairy freaks doing whatever they felt best at doing, playing music, making and eating amazing food, selling handmade crafts, performing juggling and slack rope walking, or just hanging out. Many of the fairgoers were dressed in fanciful costumes, political commentary was displayed openly, lots of beer got drank and the air had a particularly pungent aroma most everywhere you went. There was even a circus! I had found my tribe!
We spent most of the morning and early afternoon completely lost in the maze of footpaths winding among the trees, marveled at acoustic music at Shady Grove, got down loud and hard at the solar powered Main Stage, ate wonderful organic meals, and found ourselves a home at last.
Sarge and Terri had their fill by early afternoon, but Woodley and I wanted to stay a while, so they left without us, leaving us to our own devises to find our way home again.
Some time after that, I was walking along on the Left Bank, looking at crafts when I spotted something that interested me in the rear of a jewelry booth. The crafts displayed were earrings, bracelets, brooches and such, but what I inquired about was a small wood stove that had been imaginatively created from a 6 gallon water heater tank. The jeweler was from Coos Bay (whose name was Bill Gates, no kidding, but not THAT Bill Gates…) said that he did blacksmithing in the winter, and that he had brought the stove along to cook on, but that he might sell it to me. We settled on a price of $70, and I gave him a deposit, with the promise to return tomorrow, the last day of the fair, to pick it up.
Woodley and I made plans to return Sunday with my car to get the stove, but we probably would have come back for another day anyway, being at the Fair was like partying with family after months of feeling like we were restricted to a correctional facility of some sort.
We stuck our thumbs out at the exit gate of the parking lot and picked up a ride in short order, hopping into the back of an eastbound pickup truck for the ride home.
Thirty Years in a Housetruck
Moderator: TMAX
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lemmiwinks
Eh, thanks, some might say I go on too long...
Sunday, we went back to Veneta with my car to get in another day’s festing and pick up my new stove. While at the fair, we watched Moz Wright swallow swords and breathe fire and saw Avner the Eccentric conduct a collected audience of about a thousand people like an orchestra without ever uttering a word. Artis the Spoonman played his body in a frenetic dance that actually made melodies, and Reverend Chumleigh reigned over the circus at Chumleighland. The Flying Karamatzov Brothers juggled for the masses and performed Vaudeville skits while keeping an amazing array of seemingly unrelated objects in the air. Much good food was offered, and I was somewhat astounded to see a milk goat tethered in Kesey Park. When folks came out to the Fair with the family, they brought everyone along!
At some point Woodley and I bought a bunch of Queen Anne cherries, and got into a spontaneous cherry pit fight, eating the fruit as fast as possible, then using the pits as projectiles by squeezing between thumb and forefinger. About halfway through the battle, we realized that a crowd was gathering around to watch us, assuming that we were part of the scheduled entertainment. The cherries left semi-realistic red splotches when they hit, so it was kind of like a primitive paintball game.
Eventually, the day wore on, and we stopped by the jewelers booth to pick up my stove, carting it out the entrance and to the waiting car.
Back to town and the punishment farm, but with a new insight into what was possible in the way of alternate lifestyles here in our adopted home state.
Sunday, we went back to Veneta with my car to get in another day’s festing and pick up my new stove. While at the fair, we watched Moz Wright swallow swords and breathe fire and saw Avner the Eccentric conduct a collected audience of about a thousand people like an orchestra without ever uttering a word. Artis the Spoonman played his body in a frenetic dance that actually made melodies, and Reverend Chumleigh reigned over the circus at Chumleighland. The Flying Karamatzov Brothers juggled for the masses and performed Vaudeville skits while keeping an amazing array of seemingly unrelated objects in the air. Much good food was offered, and I was somewhat astounded to see a milk goat tethered in Kesey Park. When folks came out to the Fair with the family, they brought everyone along!
At some point Woodley and I bought a bunch of Queen Anne cherries, and got into a spontaneous cherry pit fight, eating the fruit as fast as possible, then using the pits as projectiles by squeezing between thumb and forefinger. About halfway through the battle, we realized that a crowd was gathering around to watch us, assuming that we were part of the scheduled entertainment. The cherries left semi-realistic red splotches when they hit, so it was kind of like a primitive paintball game.
Eventually, the day wore on, and we stopped by the jewelers booth to pick up my stove, carting it out the entrance and to the waiting car.
Back to town and the punishment farm, but with a new insight into what was possible in the way of alternate lifestyles here in our adopted home state.
NOT Time to see if I can get another episode in this play written. The action is about to take a radical shift, bringing this chapter to a close.
The date is Tuesday, July 1, 1975. The Country Fair is over, and it’s time to settle back into "life as normal". This particular normal afternoon, Woodley and I returned home from a trip to the grocery to find that the electrical power to the Housetruck was off. When I asked Sarge about it, he told me that his dad, Jeep, had turned it off while he was working on a circuit in the office building.
My purchase of the wood stove the previous weekend meant that we now had a means to cook food without the use of the rental trailer’s kitchen, and we had bought food with which to prepare meals, hoping to further extract ourselves from the discord over menus and diet. We put the food, which included some fish, into the ever-warming RV refrigerator in the Housetruck, and waited for the power to be restored.
Late in the afternoon, I began to be concerned about the food spoiling, and went down to the office to see if Jeep needed help figuring out his wiring problem. He was never very proficient at electrical jobs, and I frequently had to bail him out after his circuits proved defective. I found him noodling around with something not related to electrical wiring. When I asked about the power to the shop and my truck being turned back on, I got some vague excuses that didn’t mesh with what Sarge had told me, and which didn’t indicate that there was really an electrical problem to begin with. Jeep then launched into a diatribe about several unrelated subjects, the most distressing to him was the fact that I had done laundry that morning and hung it on a clothes line next to the Housetruck to dry. "What will anyone driving by think if they see your clothes hanging there?" he asked. Several replies came immediately to my mind, including "That I have clean clothes?", but what I said was what I thought he was thinking: "That a bunch of hippies had moved in" I didn’t hang around waiting for a response from him, but headed up to the trailer to let Sarge know that things were awry.
At the trailer, Sarge asked me what I had said to Jeep to piss him off. I told him and said that I didn’t understand why the power was still off, either. Sarge replied that his dad had just called up to the trailer as I was walking up the hill and said that he told me I was evicted, then both Sarge and Terri began to laugh.
Well, that was it then, the old man had cut the power, then let his son do the dirty work. I told Woodley that I was evicted, and his response was that if I was leaving , so was he. Of course, now that the cat was out of the bag, Jeep locked us out of the toilet and shower room. Sarge and Terri came down and made unconvincing sympathetic noises, like "Oh, you can still use our shower, and the kitchen too", but we all knew that it was over and done with.
I think that night, Woodley and I cooked up the fish on the new wood stove, using a fry pan set into the open top of the stove where the eye had been removed. Made sense to salvage the most perishable of the food goods first. I believe that I also tried to wash my hair in a basin, and had a pretty miserable time of it. We were going to have to find another place to live in short order, because neither of our housetrucks were completed enough to sustain us yet.
The date is Tuesday, July 1, 1975. The Country Fair is over, and it’s time to settle back into "life as normal". This particular normal afternoon, Woodley and I returned home from a trip to the grocery to find that the electrical power to the Housetruck was off. When I asked Sarge about it, he told me that his dad, Jeep, had turned it off while he was working on a circuit in the office building.
My purchase of the wood stove the previous weekend meant that we now had a means to cook food without the use of the rental trailer’s kitchen, and we had bought food with which to prepare meals, hoping to further extract ourselves from the discord over menus and diet. We put the food, which included some fish, into the ever-warming RV refrigerator in the Housetruck, and waited for the power to be restored.
Late in the afternoon, I began to be concerned about the food spoiling, and went down to the office to see if Jeep needed help figuring out his wiring problem. He was never very proficient at electrical jobs, and I frequently had to bail him out after his circuits proved defective. I found him noodling around with something not related to electrical wiring. When I asked about the power to the shop and my truck being turned back on, I got some vague excuses that didn’t mesh with what Sarge had told me, and which didn’t indicate that there was really an electrical problem to begin with. Jeep then launched into a diatribe about several unrelated subjects, the most distressing to him was the fact that I had done laundry that morning and hung it on a clothes line next to the Housetruck to dry. "What will anyone driving by think if they see your clothes hanging there?" he asked. Several replies came immediately to my mind, including "That I have clean clothes?", but what I said was what I thought he was thinking: "That a bunch of hippies had moved in" I didn’t hang around waiting for a response from him, but headed up to the trailer to let Sarge know that things were awry.
At the trailer, Sarge asked me what I had said to Jeep to piss him off. I told him and said that I didn’t understand why the power was still off, either. Sarge replied that his dad had just called up to the trailer as I was walking up the hill and said that he told me I was evicted, then both Sarge and Terri began to laugh.
Well, that was it then, the old man had cut the power, then let his son do the dirty work. I told Woodley that I was evicted, and his response was that if I was leaving , so was he. Of course, now that the cat was out of the bag, Jeep locked us out of the toilet and shower room. Sarge and Terri came down and made unconvincing sympathetic noises, like "Oh, you can still use our shower, and the kitchen too", but we all knew that it was over and done with.
I think that night, Woodley and I cooked up the fish on the new wood stove, using a fry pan set into the open top of the stove where the eye had been removed. Made sense to salvage the most perishable of the food goods first. I believe that I also tried to wash my hair in a basin, and had a pretty miserable time of it. We were going to have to find another place to live in short order, because neither of our housetrucks were completed enough to sustain us yet.
The next morning, I went into town to buy some ice and stock up on non-perishable foods. Neither Woodley nor I wanted to use any of the facilities at the rental trailer, and we would need to feed ourselves.
I also wanted to check out some of the bulletin boards around town, particularly those at the natural foods stores to try and find a new living situation.
In downtown Eugene, on West 11th street was an alternative mall called “Scarborough Fairâ€
I also wanted to check out some of the bulletin boards around town, particularly those at the natural foods stores to try and find a new living situation.
In downtown Eugene, on West 11th street was an alternative mall called “Scarborough Fairâ€
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TMAX
Thirty Years in a Housetruck
Sharkey, you should have been a writer. Your story so far has been impossible to dismiss as I as well know "Sarge" (Kim). Truth is "by far" more strange and impelling than myth.. / T
A tiny postscript to this latest entry.
I found out some time later after talking to TMAX that Fat Frank had found one of my old telephone bills after he moved into my rental house in LA, and extracted Jeep and Kitty's and Sarge and Terri's telephone numbers from the long distance portion of the bill. Pretty much from the beginning of our residency in Oregon, Frank had been making frequent calls to them and filling their heads with lies about how Woodley and I were going to steal everything that wasn't nailed down, and how we had to leave LA because the police were looking for us, etc.
Some gratitude, I give the guy a great little rental house, which is very difficult to find, and donate my couch, stove and refrigerator, and he poisons my new situation in Oregon out of jealousy. Tsk, tiny minds have little better to do...
I found out some time later after talking to TMAX that Fat Frank had found one of my old telephone bills after he moved into my rental house in LA, and extracted Jeep and Kitty's and Sarge and Terri's telephone numbers from the long distance portion of the bill. Pretty much from the beginning of our residency in Oregon, Frank had been making frequent calls to them and filling their heads with lies about how Woodley and I were going to steal everything that wasn't nailed down, and how we had to leave LA because the police were looking for us, etc.
Some gratitude, I give the guy a great little rental house, which is very difficult to find, and donate my couch, stove and refrigerator, and he poisons my new situation in Oregon out of jealousy. Tsk, tiny minds have little better to do...
You really need to compile this into a book, I'd buy it! This is some of the most entertaining narrative I've ever read and what makes it better is it's non-fiction! 
As was said, truth is stranger than myth, and this story has more plot & character twists than anything out there in alleged "entertainment land"!
You're an amazing person, Sharkey, thanks for all the smiles you provide and thoughts you provoke!
HAPPY NEW YEAR! *throws bio-degradable rice paper confetti*
As was said, truth is stranger than myth, and this story has more plot & character twists than anything out there in alleged "entertainment land"!
You're an amazing person, Sharkey, thanks for all the smiles you provide and thoughts you provoke!
HAPPY NEW YEAR! *throws bio-degradable rice paper confetti*
~(G)Q Arduously Avoiding Assimilation
July 3, 1975
Morning, we took my car down into town to buy last minute supplies, check the bulletin boards again, and stop by the University to shower at the Men’s Gymnasium. No new housing adverts, so our eggs were still in the Creswell basket for the time being.
Back at Sarge’s, we gathered up the last of our belongings and made arrangements to return to pick up my car once we had settled somewhere. Not for the first time, I longed for a method of hauling the car along behind the Housetruck.
Since Jeep had turned off the power, and because his electrical acumen was so miserable, I decided to leave him a little going away present. Before we left the shop completely, I reached up and unscrewed one of the exposed 100 watt light bulbs from the ceiling fixture, placed a penny on the tip of the bulb’s base, and screwed the combination back into the socket. Now he had an actual electrical short circuit problem to figure out when he turned the power back on, and I wasn't going to be around to help him find it!
By early afternoon, we had completed our packing, and prepared to drive away. As I passed Jeep and Kitty’s house, I honked the horn, and they waved. I waved back. The difference in our salutations was that they were waving with all of their fingers raised.
I don’t remember how we arrived at the idea of spending a couple of days at the Oregon Coast, but we pointed our trucks more or less west, and drove for a while, intending on taking back roads to the beach. A few miles west of Loraine, Woodley pulled off the road and talked me into camping there for the night. I wanted to see the ocean, but we didn’t have a map, it would be dark soon, and we didn’t really have a lot of money to be spending on gasoline. We pulled off the road near a bridge over the Siuslaw River, and set up camp for the night, assembling the wood stove and stove pipe on the ground behind the truck to cook dinner. A Forest Service or BLM ranger stopped to see what we were doing, and was only concerned that we wouldn’t be starting an open campfire. I had installed a couple of shelves in the back of the truck, and mounted stereo speakers on them, so opening the back doors of the van body gave us audio entertainment.
I didn’t know it at the time, but we were only a mile or so from Siuslaw Falls, which offers some pretty nice unofficial camping and is well off the road. It was probably a good thing we didn’t try to go all the way to the coast that day. The road does eventually go there, but it’s a lot of back road driving, and steep and twisty as well.
Morning, we took my car down into town to buy last minute supplies, check the bulletin boards again, and stop by the University to shower at the Men’s Gymnasium. No new housing adverts, so our eggs were still in the Creswell basket for the time being.
Back at Sarge’s, we gathered up the last of our belongings and made arrangements to return to pick up my car once we had settled somewhere. Not for the first time, I longed for a method of hauling the car along behind the Housetruck.
Since Jeep had turned off the power, and because his electrical acumen was so miserable, I decided to leave him a little going away present. Before we left the shop completely, I reached up and unscrewed one of the exposed 100 watt light bulbs from the ceiling fixture, placed a penny on the tip of the bulb’s base, and screwed the combination back into the socket. Now he had an actual electrical short circuit problem to figure out when he turned the power back on, and I wasn't going to be around to help him find it!
By early afternoon, we had completed our packing, and prepared to drive away. As I passed Jeep and Kitty’s house, I honked the horn, and they waved. I waved back. The difference in our salutations was that they were waving with all of their fingers raised.
I don’t remember how we arrived at the idea of spending a couple of days at the Oregon Coast, but we pointed our trucks more or less west, and drove for a while, intending on taking back roads to the beach. A few miles west of Loraine, Woodley pulled off the road and talked me into camping there for the night. I wanted to see the ocean, but we didn’t have a map, it would be dark soon, and we didn’t really have a lot of money to be spending on gasoline. We pulled off the road near a bridge over the Siuslaw River, and set up camp for the night, assembling the wood stove and stove pipe on the ground behind the truck to cook dinner. A Forest Service or BLM ranger stopped to see what we were doing, and was only concerned that we wouldn’t be starting an open campfire. I had installed a couple of shelves in the back of the truck, and mounted stereo speakers on them, so opening the back doors of the van body gave us audio entertainment.
I didn’t know it at the time, but we were only a mile or so from Siuslaw Falls, which offers some pretty nice unofficial camping and is well off the road. It was probably a good thing we didn’t try to go all the way to the coast that day. The road does eventually go there, but it’s a lot of back road driving, and steep and twisty as well.
July 4, 1975
Morning arrived, and we considered what we should do with this first day of our new independence. I was still interested in going to the coast, but Woodley wanted to go back and see what Rosalie and her house mates had decided about allowing us to move in. Since we had no idea how far away the ocean was, but knew that it was only ten miles or so to our possible new habitation, we eventually decided to go that route, taking back roads over the ridge and into the Camas Swale valley, arriving some time around mid afternoon.
Since we didn’t want to be too forward, we parked our trucks on the side of the road below the house and walked in. Rosalie told us that the house mates didn’t hate the idea of renting to us, and that they were more interested in what type of people we were than where we slept. She also told us that there would be a House Party that night in celebration of the holiday, and that we should plan on staying so we could meet the other residents.
We told her that our house trucks were parked alongside the road, but not really all the way off the pavement, and that we were uncomfortable leaving them there after dark. She told us to pull them up into the driveway to clear the road.
The party that night was mellow, we met the other residents, whom I will introduce over the course of the next few installments. Rosalie’s boyfriend, Chuck was there, and perhaps a few other acquaintances, and/or neighbors. There was a vegetarian meal of organic, home made vegetarian pizza with hand-cranked bananna-carob goat's milk ice cream for dessert. Party favors included red wine and beer and other consumables. Music and lots of talk.
A bit after dark, a vigorous thunderstorm blew into the area, and we all went outside to the deck on the south side of the house watch the "natural fireworks". Everyone was getting off on the aerial displays and crashing thunder until the bolts from above started hitting the top of the small ridge behind the house, about 500 or so feet away. I’m not sure that we were any safer inside the house than out, but being that close to such a large amount of raw energy was too much for our heightened senses, so we took cover in the living room.
The night wore on, the wine and beer ran out and the consumables were put away while there was still some left. Everyone packed into cars for the trip home or shuffled off to their room/cabin/housetruck, and the night, the party and the holiday were over.
And that was that. We were moved in. No one ever even asked about it again, we were just accepted into the household.
Morning arrived, and we considered what we should do with this first day of our new independence. I was still interested in going to the coast, but Woodley wanted to go back and see what Rosalie and her house mates had decided about allowing us to move in. Since we had no idea how far away the ocean was, but knew that it was only ten miles or so to our possible new habitation, we eventually decided to go that route, taking back roads over the ridge and into the Camas Swale valley, arriving some time around mid afternoon.
Since we didn’t want to be too forward, we parked our trucks on the side of the road below the house and walked in. Rosalie told us that the house mates didn’t hate the idea of renting to us, and that they were more interested in what type of people we were than where we slept. She also told us that there would be a House Party that night in celebration of the holiday, and that we should plan on staying so we could meet the other residents.
We told her that our house trucks were parked alongside the road, but not really all the way off the pavement, and that we were uncomfortable leaving them there after dark. She told us to pull them up into the driveway to clear the road.
The party that night was mellow, we met the other residents, whom I will introduce over the course of the next few installments. Rosalie’s boyfriend, Chuck was there, and perhaps a few other acquaintances, and/or neighbors. There was a vegetarian meal of organic, home made vegetarian pizza with hand-cranked bananna-carob goat's milk ice cream for dessert. Party favors included red wine and beer and other consumables. Music and lots of talk.
A bit after dark, a vigorous thunderstorm blew into the area, and we all went outside to the deck on the south side of the house watch the "natural fireworks". Everyone was getting off on the aerial displays and crashing thunder until the bolts from above started hitting the top of the small ridge behind the house, about 500 or so feet away. I’m not sure that we were any safer inside the house than out, but being that close to such a large amount of raw energy was too much for our heightened senses, so we took cover in the living room.
The night wore on, the wine and beer ran out and the consumables were put away while there was still some left. Everyone packed into cars for the trip home or shuffled off to their room/cabin/housetruck, and the night, the party and the holiday were over.
And that was that. We were moved in. No one ever even asked about it again, we were just accepted into the household.
So, a description of our new home.
"The Schoolhouse" was just exactly that, a one-room schoolhouse built in 1906 to serve the community of Creswell, Oregon and it’s surrounding area. It was a typical stud-frame wooden building with shiplap siding on the exterior and interior. At some point in the not-recent past, the interior of the building had been partitioned off into three separate bed rooms, with a common living room/kitchen/dining area. The original twelve foot high ceilings had been lowered by the addition of framing and lath and plaster, and the old ceiling-high sash windows had been cut down to accommodate the new ceiling height.
The living room was basic, with an old, overstuffed mohair couch, a not-exactly matching arm chair, a set of bookshelves, and a leaky old wood heater that would fill the room with acrid smoke every time it was used. The floors were badly worn softwood flooring, and most of the time they looked more like the ground outside, being covered with dirt, and being horribly chewed up and weathered by sixty nine years of hard use.
There was a big set of hand built shelves separating the kitchen from the living room, stocked with all manner of bulk foods. A pair of rough hewn benches straddled a pole-and-plywood kitchen table. The table top was a 4' x 8' sheet of ¾" plywood with the corners rounded off to form an oval. It was huge, and gave lots of room for kneading bread, chopping vegetables, or grinding grain. It also allowed large number of hungry hippies to load up on vittles without crowding things.
Kitchen appliances were few, an old enameled steel cabinet with built-in single basin sink, a 1950's-era refrigerator, and an antique, classic wood burning range. No sissy electric or gas cooking around here, if you wanted hot grub, you had to put the time into chopping kindling and feeding the fire. This actually worked out to our advantage mostly, because the women of the household didn’t really care too much for having to tend the fire while cooking or baking, so it was usually up to the men-folk to keep the fire stoked. We also got duty cranking the handle on the grain mill a lot. Impolite as it may sound, the division of labor by gender was in full force. This is not to say that the women always cooked and the men just ate, any time there was a group meal being prepared, everyone got into the act in one way or the other. Many fine meals prepared by both sexes came out of that kitchen, with no Cuisinart in sight. Some of my fondest memories in that kitchen are of making giant batches of home made granola, baking it in the oven, and of hot fresh loaves of bread, both of which required a roaring fire to maintain the temperature required.
When it was built, the building had a wide covered entry stairs on the east side, which had been removed. The original entry doorway was roughly closed off by a wall, but the area where the gabled roof overhang had been gaped open to the exterior. The bathroom was in the front of the building to the side of where the entry stairs had been, accessed off of the long entry hall, and contained a old clawfoot tub, as well as the traditional porcelain conveniences. Also in the hall were the washing machine, a wood box for firewood, and after we moved in, Woodley’s table saw.
The property was three acres, located three miles west of town, set on a bank above the road. There were mature fruit trees, two garden areas, upper and lower, a pump shed and a couple of sleeping cabins, one of which used to be the old stable when educational classed reigned. A disused chicken coop and run, and a small pen to hold Rosalie’s goat, Rachel, were uphill from the front porch. There was a nice big Marijuana bush in the upper garden.
We are now entering the time zone of which I have the beginnings of a photographic history. My camera was a cheap snapshot rig, without proper viewfinder, zoom lens f-stop or exposure settings. I think it was a gift from my mother, who realized that the only way to get me to send photos was to supply me herself with the tools to do so. Since she worked in a drug store, she got an employee discount on film and developing, so I would send her the exposed film for processing.
Anyhow, here’s a grainy, badly lit and poorly framed, barely focused image of the Schoolhouse looking from the upper garden south of the house:
The original, covered entrance was attached to the right side of the building in this view. The side of the house facing the camera had a large wooden deck built on the ground (it was mostly rotten) and the main entry of the building was the door on the right side of that wall. Rachel the Goat’s shelter is in the center foreground of the photo and the pump shed can be seen on the right.. The rear quarter of my Housetruck is barely visible behind the house on the left hand side (it’s kind of yellow). There’s a blue school bus parked behind it, which belonged to Phil, one of the later roommates. The two tracks leading off into the background in the right side of the photo are the neighbor’s driveway on the other side of the road. More about them and their property later.
"The Schoolhouse" was just exactly that, a one-room schoolhouse built in 1906 to serve the community of Creswell, Oregon and it’s surrounding area. It was a typical stud-frame wooden building with shiplap siding on the exterior and interior. At some point in the not-recent past, the interior of the building had been partitioned off into three separate bed rooms, with a common living room/kitchen/dining area. The original twelve foot high ceilings had been lowered by the addition of framing and lath and plaster, and the old ceiling-high sash windows had been cut down to accommodate the new ceiling height.
The living room was basic, with an old, overstuffed mohair couch, a not-exactly matching arm chair, a set of bookshelves, and a leaky old wood heater that would fill the room with acrid smoke every time it was used. The floors were badly worn softwood flooring, and most of the time they looked more like the ground outside, being covered with dirt, and being horribly chewed up and weathered by sixty nine years of hard use.
There was a big set of hand built shelves separating the kitchen from the living room, stocked with all manner of bulk foods. A pair of rough hewn benches straddled a pole-and-plywood kitchen table. The table top was a 4' x 8' sheet of ¾" plywood with the corners rounded off to form an oval. It was huge, and gave lots of room for kneading bread, chopping vegetables, or grinding grain. It also allowed large number of hungry hippies to load up on vittles without crowding things.
Kitchen appliances were few, an old enameled steel cabinet with built-in single basin sink, a 1950's-era refrigerator, and an antique, classic wood burning range. No sissy electric or gas cooking around here, if you wanted hot grub, you had to put the time into chopping kindling and feeding the fire. This actually worked out to our advantage mostly, because the women of the household didn’t really care too much for having to tend the fire while cooking or baking, so it was usually up to the men-folk to keep the fire stoked. We also got duty cranking the handle on the grain mill a lot. Impolite as it may sound, the division of labor by gender was in full force. This is not to say that the women always cooked and the men just ate, any time there was a group meal being prepared, everyone got into the act in one way or the other. Many fine meals prepared by both sexes came out of that kitchen, with no Cuisinart in sight. Some of my fondest memories in that kitchen are of making giant batches of home made granola, baking it in the oven, and of hot fresh loaves of bread, both of which required a roaring fire to maintain the temperature required.
When it was built, the building had a wide covered entry stairs on the east side, which had been removed. The original entry doorway was roughly closed off by a wall, but the area where the gabled roof overhang had been gaped open to the exterior. The bathroom was in the front of the building to the side of where the entry stairs had been, accessed off of the long entry hall, and contained a old clawfoot tub, as well as the traditional porcelain conveniences. Also in the hall were the washing machine, a wood box for firewood, and after we moved in, Woodley’s table saw.
The property was three acres, located three miles west of town, set on a bank above the road. There were mature fruit trees, two garden areas, upper and lower, a pump shed and a couple of sleeping cabins, one of which used to be the old stable when educational classed reigned. A disused chicken coop and run, and a small pen to hold Rosalie’s goat, Rachel, were uphill from the front porch. There was a nice big Marijuana bush in the upper garden.
We are now entering the time zone of which I have the beginnings of a photographic history. My camera was a cheap snapshot rig, without proper viewfinder, zoom lens f-stop or exposure settings. I think it was a gift from my mother, who realized that the only way to get me to send photos was to supply me herself with the tools to do so. Since she worked in a drug store, she got an employee discount on film and developing, so I would send her the exposed film for processing.
Anyhow, here’s a grainy, badly lit and poorly framed, barely focused image of the Schoolhouse looking from the upper garden south of the house:
The original, covered entrance was attached to the right side of the building in this view. The side of the house facing the camera had a large wooden deck built on the ground (it was mostly rotten) and the main entry of the building was the door on the right side of that wall. Rachel the Goat’s shelter is in the center foreground of the photo and the pump shed can be seen on the right.. The rear quarter of my Housetruck is barely visible behind the house on the left hand side (it’s kind of yellow). There’s a blue school bus parked behind it, which belonged to Phil, one of the later roommates. The two tracks leading off into the background in the right side of the photo are the neighbor’s driveway on the other side of the road. More about them and their property later.
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Dennis The Bus Dweller
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Jones'n4chrome
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