1972 was a big deal. The Watergate break-in had happened. The war in Viet Nam was dragging on. Drugs, sex, and rock and roll were everywhere and destroying America. Yet, somehow, Nixon was reelected.
It was a big year for my family, too. I graduated high school in June. I voted in my first presidential election, being a member of the first eighteen-year-olds to gain voting rights. My family moved out of Portland. Portland was the only home my brother and I had ever known. It was my dad’s home, except for a few years in the Navy. My mom had arrived in Portland during World War 2 and had not left, until 1972. My grandparents, uncles, aunts, and first cousins all lived in Portland. All of us on the Eastside. It was home.
Summer of ’72 I was away from home working at a Baptist camp. While gone my parents formalized plans to move to Bend, in Central Oregon. Dad’s work relocation was driving the shift.
To us Bend was an unknown, possibly unpleasant reality. We heard talk about it as a vacation, recreation wonderland. To us it was a distant small town, on the wrong side of the mountains, the mountains that would be covered with snow for the long winter. It was too far from family, friends, my girlfriend, the beach, all the places we liked to go. It was too far from home.
September came with mom and John still in Portland. John had started his second year at Centennial High School. Dad stayed in Bend hotels during the week and went home on weekends. I made a late change in my plans and enrolled at Central Oregon Community College, staying in a makeshift basement apartment. My landlord was a kindly older woman who lived upstairs and taught at Bend High. She asked me to join her once to watch a Billy Graham crusade. Without a television in my basement room, I listened to Bill Schonley call Trailblazer games on my Philco clock radio late into the night.
My Dad was making more money, and the housing market was favorable for the move. They had found a builder with a house in process that was scheduled to be completed in early fall. My mother was ecstatic that the builder was “a Christian.” This rekindled her hopes that “this” connection would lead to my father’s salvation. A common theme throughout our family history.
Needless to say, the house was not completed in early fall, the builder disappointed (to put it mildly) my dad on a near daily basis. And my mom was blue at the dashing of another season of spiritual disappointment.
As Christmas neared my dad’s feelings about the builder and the process shifted from frustration to rage. In mid-December he announced,
“I don’t give a damn what it takes, we will be in the house for Christmas!”
The week before Christmas brought continued snow and cold, levels we had never experienced. The builder kept asking for, “a few more weeks.” Dad told him,
“We are moving in on the twenty-fourth, you can finish by working around us.”
As Christmas Eve approached dad had gotten a rental truck and loaded beds and other essentials. John and mom followed him over the mountain. I was in Bend, on school break, working. We met at the unfinished house and quickly moved in our basics.
Dad declared,
“We need a tree boys, come with me.”
We piled into the front seat of the pick-up and started driving out of town. It was dark, the wind was strong, snow was coming fast, covering the windshield before each blade pass wiped it clean. Dad was smoking and swearing. There was clearly no plan. As we continued away from town dads hand shot out,
“There, that one. It will work.”
We quickly did a U-turn, pulled off the road. Dad grabbed a saw from the back of the truck. Not one of us had boots, a hat, gloves, or a proper coat. The snow gave no sign of letting up. He pointed and we followed.
Dad stopped at a scraggly pine. He informed us that he knew he was violating the laws of the Forest Service, the state of Oregon and other possible agencies. And
“I don’t give a damn. We’re taking it.”
The tree was piled into the truck, and we made our way “home.”
Arriving back at the new house we took the tree inside and followed mom’s lead in decorating.
From that point my memory comes and goes. Not being in Portland brought an end to most of the gatherings, rituals and traditions I thought defined Christmas. We must have had dinner that evening. I think we stayed at the house all Christmas day. Gifts in the morning and meals. The four of us together, at our “new” house, on Christmas day. Just as dad had promised.
Christmas ’72 came and went. My family settled into life in Bend. Any mention of the builder sent dad into a raging fit. And dad still didn’t get saved.
If you are enjoying my posts and want to support my efforts and ideas, please click the button below, and buy me a cup of tea. Thanks!
I've been thinking about starting a Substack myself. Your posts always encourage me further to do so!