A common sight in some rural communities is a huge letter and sometimes a set of large numbers gracing a hill overlooking town, decked out with white rocks, depicting the graduation year of the current senior class of the local high school. But in the early 1900s the Pendleton High School class with the most moxie was the one displaying their graduation year, painted on the roof of the old fire hall south of the school.
On April 11, 1918, the reigning class of seniors was issued a challenge by the junior class. The seniors had led the school for two years, since their previous defeat of the senior class of 1916 as sophomores. The junior class decided it was time to unseat the champs, because if “1918” remained on the fire house roof after graduation day, it would stay permanently.
The combatants collided on the evening of April 12, and though the seniors were outnumbered two to one, they had the size advantage over the junior team. The goal was to climb onto the fire house roof and maintain control long enough to paint the class’ graduation year over the top of the previous victors’ numbers. The juniors, thinking to get an early advantage, made a dash for the fire house at 8:45 p.m., hoping to take their opponents by surprise. But the upperclassmen were expecting the ploy and were ready for them.
A great many onlookers from all the classes watched the battle shift many times, as boys from both classes wrestled each other to the ground and then tied the hands and feet of those bested. Boys standing by for either side would then drag the losers off into the weeds where they couldn’t cause any more trouble. Some of the senior girls assisted their classmates, wielding barber’s shears on the unlucky captives and “disfigurating their heads for weeks to come.” Most of the fighting, however, was entirely good-natured and no one was seriously injured.
About 10 p.m. the class of 1919 decided they were beaten and gave up one by one. The seniors, with a cheer, clambered onto the roof of the fire house and repainted their numbers in triumph.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Black bear stars in fast-moving nature drama
A duo of forest rangers wanting to film the awakening of a hibernating bear in April 1937 got more drama than they were expecting when the star of their amateur documentary awoke in a rather grouchy mood.
The saga began in November 1936, when state game supervisor Frank T. Wire and Umatilla National Forest supervisor Clark Martin were hunting near Bear Wallow in the Blue Mountains. They found a hole dug near an uprooted pine tree, neatly lined with grass, and a clump of debris set aside to cover up the entrance to the den come hibernation time for black bears. Wire and Martin marked the spot, determining to return in the spring to film the bear coming out of hibernation.
On April 6, 1937, Wire and Martin made the seven-hour snowshoe trek back to the bear’s den, accompanied by forest ranger Clarence Huston and Martin’s terrier, through several feet of snow. After considerable ax work, Martin announced to the others, “Betcha he’s right under here,” and proved his point by promptly sinking deep into the snow, right into the bear’s bedroom.
“I never saw a man in such a hurry,” Wire said later. “Clark must have jumped ten feet and he was no sooner out of the way when the nose and ears of Mr. Bear appeared.”
With the terrier barking at the hole, the rangers grabbed ropes and waited for the bear to reappear. As soon as he came out of the den far enough, Martin and Huston got one rope around his hindquarters and another around his neck. Then the rodeo began.
The bear woke up mad, and fought and bucked like a bronco. Martin managed to cut the rear rope, Huston slackened the neck rope, and the bear leapt for safety, climbing a nearby 10-foot tree with the terrier in hot pursuit. From there it jumped to the roof of a nearby ski shed, then jumped to the ground and dashed back to his hole.
The rangers carefully cut the neck rope and leapt back. The bear charged back out of the hole and made for the hills. The trio later found the bear’s footprints, crossing and re-crossing in the snow in his haste to escape.
Wire got 300 feet of film during the escapade, and promised to show his nature documentary to Pendleton folks in May.
The saga began in November 1936, when state game supervisor Frank T. Wire and Umatilla National Forest supervisor Clark Martin were hunting near Bear Wallow in the Blue Mountains. They found a hole dug near an uprooted pine tree, neatly lined with grass, and a clump of debris set aside to cover up the entrance to the den come hibernation time for black bears. Wire and Martin marked the spot, determining to return in the spring to film the bear coming out of hibernation.
On April 6, 1937, Wire and Martin made the seven-hour snowshoe trek back to the bear’s den, accompanied by forest ranger Clarence Huston and Martin’s terrier, through several feet of snow. After considerable ax work, Martin announced to the others, “Betcha he’s right under here,” and proved his point by promptly sinking deep into the snow, right into the bear’s bedroom.
“I never saw a man in such a hurry,” Wire said later. “Clark must have jumped ten feet and he was no sooner out of the way when the nose and ears of Mr. Bear appeared.”
With the terrier barking at the hole, the rangers grabbed ropes and waited for the bear to reappear. As soon as he came out of the den far enough, Martin and Huston got one rope around his hindquarters and another around his neck. Then the rodeo began.
The bear woke up mad, and fought and bucked like a bronco. Martin managed to cut the rear rope, Huston slackened the neck rope, and the bear leapt for safety, climbing a nearby 10-foot tree with the terrier in hot pursuit. From there it jumped to the roof of a nearby ski shed, then jumped to the ground and dashed back to his hole.
The rangers carefully cut the neck rope and leapt back. The bear charged back out of the hole and made for the hills. The trio later found the bear’s footprints, crossing and re-crossing in the snow in his haste to escape.
Wire got 300 feet of film during the escapade, and promised to show his nature documentary to Pendleton folks in May.
Monday, March 12, 2018
Bank heist foiled by night policeman
A bank robber made a monumental effort to rob a Milton, Ore., bank vault in April of 1929, but a vigilant policeman on the night beat prevented the heist and hauled the battered thief to jail.
A veteran bank robber calling himself S.L. Fisher cased the First National Bank in Milton, Ore., on April 7, 1929, and about 9 o’clock that evening broke into the Knights of Pythias hall above the bank. Using tools appropriated from blacksmith shops in Milton and Freewater, he began cutting a hole through the floor of the hall into the bank vault directly below.
Police officer Walter Woodward, walking the night beat that evening, realized something fishy was going on at the bank building when he noticed the door to the lodge hall had been jimmied. By the time Woodward entered the building to investigate, Fisher had already removed three layers of heavy brickwork over the bank vault and had started sawing and drilling through a layer of railroad iron.
Woodward exited the building and called several people to help, then laid in wait for the thief. Fisher, eventually realizing he had been discovered, tried to escape through a second-story window, swinging out on a rope. The rope broke in mid-swing, and Fisher crashed to the ground, breaking several ribs on landing.
Fisher was arrested and taken to the Pendleton jail by Umatilla County Sheriff Tom Gurdane, where he admitted he had previously served time at Folsom Prison in California.
A veteran bank robber calling himself S.L. Fisher cased the First National Bank in Milton, Ore., on April 7, 1929, and about 9 o’clock that evening broke into the Knights of Pythias hall above the bank. Using tools appropriated from blacksmith shops in Milton and Freewater, he began cutting a hole through the floor of the hall into the bank vault directly below.
Police officer Walter Woodward, walking the night beat that evening, realized something fishy was going on at the bank building when he noticed the door to the lodge hall had been jimmied. By the time Woodward entered the building to investigate, Fisher had already removed three layers of heavy brickwork over the bank vault and had started sawing and drilling through a layer of railroad iron.
Woodward exited the building and called several people to help, then laid in wait for the thief. Fisher, eventually realizing he had been discovered, tried to escape through a second-story window, swinging out on a rope. The rope broke in mid-swing, and Fisher crashed to the ground, breaking several ribs on landing.
Fisher was arrested and taken to the Pendleton jail by Umatilla County Sheriff Tom Gurdane, where he admitted he had previously served time at Folsom Prison in California.
Friday, March 9, 2018
Heppner ‘gold strike’ creates havoc for landowners
Heppner ranch owners who discovered a cache of gold coins on their property in March 1968 quickly discovered the “strike” was almost more trouble than it was worth.
Mary Colleen Greenup, her sister Ilene Wyman and brother Bob Kilkenny owned a ranch purchased by heir father, John Kilkenny, in 1914 from Preston Thomson. Rumors abounded for years that Thomson had buried money on the place, and a 1968 article in True West magazine brought fortune hunters to the property in droves. Greenup said that many people, from all over the country, phoned for permission to search the ranch and others simply showed up at the door.
Two men from Minnesota who read the article teamed up with Greenup in the first week of March 1968 to search for the buried treasure, first with metal detectors and finally with a bulldozer. A cache of 28 coins was found buried under the ranch’s fish pond, with dates ranging from 1870 to 1896. Fourteen of the coins were $20 gold pieces, nine were $5 coins and five were $10 coins, for a total face value of $375. One of the pieces, with an 1891 mint date, was valued at $500.
And it wasn’t the first find on the ranch. Ten years previously, two grade school boys fishing at the pond found four gold pieces. They kept them, and Greenup at the time didn’t try to recover them.
Greenup split 14 of the new stash between the two men (whose names were not available when the March 9 article was published). An advisor later said the government would require the money to be turned in, the finders receiving only 15 percent. Another said that each member of the family could keep one piece. With three owners and 12 children between them, there weren’t enough coins left to go around.
Considering the two finds, it is reasonable to assume that the hunt for treasure continued.
Mary Colleen Greenup, her sister Ilene Wyman and brother Bob Kilkenny owned a ranch purchased by heir father, John Kilkenny, in 1914 from Preston Thomson. Rumors abounded for years that Thomson had buried money on the place, and a 1968 article in True West magazine brought fortune hunters to the property in droves. Greenup said that many people, from all over the country, phoned for permission to search the ranch and others simply showed up at the door.
Two men from Minnesota who read the article teamed up with Greenup in the first week of March 1968 to search for the buried treasure, first with metal detectors and finally with a bulldozer. A cache of 28 coins was found buried under the ranch’s fish pond, with dates ranging from 1870 to 1896. Fourteen of the coins were $20 gold pieces, nine were $5 coins and five were $10 coins, for a total face value of $375. One of the pieces, with an 1891 mint date, was valued at $500.
And it wasn’t the first find on the ranch. Ten years previously, two grade school boys fishing at the pond found four gold pieces. They kept them, and Greenup at the time didn’t try to recover them.
Greenup split 14 of the new stash between the two men (whose names were not available when the March 9 article was published). An advisor later said the government would require the money to be turned in, the finders receiving only 15 percent. Another said that each member of the family could keep one piece. With three owners and 12 children between them, there weren’t enough coins left to go around.
Considering the two finds, it is reasonable to assume that the hunt for treasure continued.
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Long hair defense leads to pink slip
First Amendment rights aside, sometimes speaking your mind has consequences. A Hermiston man paid the price in April of 1972 when his wife took to the opinion page in defense of personal freedom, pitting independent thought against conservative Eastern Oregon values.
Rocky Hays, 23, had worked for Jerry Myers on his Butter Creek farm for 18 months, and his employer was more than satisfied with his job performance. Myers said Hays had come to work for him with little experience, but learned fast. But on April 2, 1972, a letter to the editor in the East Oregonian by Hays’ wife, Kathy, rubbed Myers the wrong way, and a shocked Hays was given his walking papers as a result.
Kathy Hays, an honor student at Hermiston High School and 27 credit hours away from a degree in education from the University of Oregon, penned a defense of long hair after reading two submissions to the EO extolling the short haircuts worn by Future Farmers of America members at a recent convention in Pendleton, arguing that “short hair sometimes means nothing more than the antiquated parental prejudices forced on young people.”
“Ask an FFA member what goes on at FFA conventions,” Kathy wrote. “The answer would probably curl your eyebrows. My husband is now a 23-year-old farmer and he knows those conventions ain’t tame!”
Myers took offense to her inference that “kids at FFA raised hell,” though he agreed that “boys will be boys” when they’re away from home. “I didn’t know the attitude behind the letter,” the conservative farmer said. “They have the new liberal — super ecology — outlook.”
Myers did give Hays $200 severance pay, and said that with his skills and ability to learn quickly, he shouldn’t have any trouble finding another job.
Pendleton attorney Dennis Hachler said Hays likely had no legal recourse, as his firing didn’t fall under the Civil Rights Act of 1873. “There is no constitutional right to work for a man,” Hachler said.
Rocky Hays, 23, had worked for Jerry Myers on his Butter Creek farm for 18 months, and his employer was more than satisfied with his job performance. Myers said Hays had come to work for him with little experience, but learned fast. But on April 2, 1972, a letter to the editor in the East Oregonian by Hays’ wife, Kathy, rubbed Myers the wrong way, and a shocked Hays was given his walking papers as a result.
Kathy Hays, an honor student at Hermiston High School and 27 credit hours away from a degree in education from the University of Oregon, penned a defense of long hair after reading two submissions to the EO extolling the short haircuts worn by Future Farmers of America members at a recent convention in Pendleton, arguing that “short hair sometimes means nothing more than the antiquated parental prejudices forced on young people.”
“Ask an FFA member what goes on at FFA conventions,” Kathy wrote. “The answer would probably curl your eyebrows. My husband is now a 23-year-old farmer and he knows those conventions ain’t tame!”
Myers took offense to her inference that “kids at FFA raised hell,” though he agreed that “boys will be boys” when they’re away from home. “I didn’t know the attitude behind the letter,” the conservative farmer said. “They have the new liberal — super ecology — outlook.”
Myers did give Hays $200 severance pay, and said that with his skills and ability to learn quickly, he shouldn’t have any trouble finding another job.
Pendleton attorney Dennis Hachler said Hays likely had no legal recourse, as his firing didn’t fall under the Civil Rights Act of 1873. “There is no constitutional right to work for a man,” Hachler said.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)