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The Homesteaders Cabin, Old Pitchers, and Bees By: Jeff Moore on 12/9/2002; 4:33 PM In 1970, when all their five kids had grown and moved away, my grandparents, on my mothers side, moved to Eugene, Oregon. My mother and sister and I lived in Coos Bay, Oregon. My aunt was in Portland, and one of my uncles and his family were in Eugene. Moving to Eugene seemed to put Grandma and Grandpa in the geographical center of three out of five of their kids, so off the went. Grandpa owned the Main Auction in Boise, Idaho. He sold it to a nephew on Grandma's side of the family, and they used the money to buy 40 acres just off the Loraine Highway, about 10 miles outside of Eugene. The land had originally been part of an early Oregon settler's homestead. The homesteaders cabin, and their outhouse, were still standing. While the new house was being planned and built, Grandma and Grandpa, people who had lived in one room shacks before, as poor Nebraska ranchers, moved in to the cabin. Of course, this was only after a lot of cleaning, and the eviction of a family of packrats. They bought an old wood burning cook stove, and put it just inside the door. Then they added a table, a couple of chairs, and a double bed. Finally, Grandpa hung an old canoe paddle, various old license plates, and some rusted farm implements on one of the outside walls. Although it wasnt any bigger than the office in which I now sit writing, it became their home for about a year. I remember only bits and pieces of those days. We didnt visit as often as wed have liked. A visit could only be for a day, as there was no place for guests to sleep. Also, if you had "business" to attend to, you had to walk the trail, 50 feet or so, to the outhouse; Grandpa had a two seater. I remember Grandma pulling blackberry vines around it to make the perimeter walkable. At one point, she pulled one too hard, and cracked one of her ribs. It didnt slow her down too much. I also remember digging in the homesteader's garbage dump. We found many old bottles and cans of bygone days. I once found half of a broken, orange carnival glass pitcher. Some months later, my cousin found the other half. If the homesteaders had modern glues, they'd have done as we did, and put it back together, as good as new. It now sits on the shelf of some family member, recalling memories of our amateur archaeological digs. My most vivid memory is that of a visit we made one hot summer day. The carpenters were framing the roof joists on the new house. Grandpa took my sister and I out for a walk on one of the old logging roads that ran from the building site up through the forest to the ridge. My sister and I spent our time visiting with Grandpa, probably begging him to sing one of the many old songs with he entertained the family. We also kept a sharp eye out for rattlesnakes, as they were the chief danger of those woods. On the way up to the ridge, Grandpa was stung by a bee. My sister and I were unnerved, having had previous experiences with bees, but we walked on another 1/4 mile or so. The road came to an end in thick brush, so we turned around, and headed back. At about the same place in the road where Grandpa had been stung before, he got stung again. Then my sister did. Then I did, and then I did again. Then my sister did again. We had managed, as part of our little jaunt through the woods, to step on one entrance of an underground yellow jacket nest. The yellow jackets decided it was important for us to leave the area, and, making brilliant use of their second entrance, swarmed us with all the vengeance of mindless insect creatures. I took off running as fast as I could toward the house. So did Grandpa. My sister, though, who was totally wrapped in a blanket of terror, froze on the spot. She stood in the middle of the swarm, screaming and flailing her arms in an unsuccessful attempt to scare the bees away. I, of course, only know this via the stories told later. I was 1/2 a mile away by then. Grandpa, showing infinitely more bravery and altruism that I had, turned around, ran back into the swarm, and rescued my sister. Eventually, Grandpa got her to stop flapping her arms, and instead flap her legs, in the direction of the house. Everyone was waiting for her. Aside from the fact that I made it down the mountain well enough ahead of Grandpa and my sister to tell the horrific story, everyone said they knew something was up by the screams of apparent death coming down through the trees. (My sister was never one to be accused of silence in a panic.) The workers said they heard her screaming right over the pounding of the nails, and cutting of the saws. Knowing Grandpa only as well as any child knows his Grandfather, I couldn't begin to recount his life's sins to you. I do know, though, that any evil he may have previously committed was erased, at least in my book, by that one heroic deed. (My experience with bees, and my neurotic fear of them, was already extensive by then. A series of stories that will wait for another time.) When all was said and done, I had received around twenty stings not my worst experience with bees. While looking me over later, the grownups found bees still in my hair and even my socks! Although I don't really know, my sister and Grandpa must have each sustained half again or twice as many as I did. Thankfully, none of us were allergic. Whatever other memories of Grandma and Grandpas year in the cabin may have faded, this one sure stays with me.
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