THE MEADOWS

By DELL ARTHUR

            It is a unique quiet, serene bucolic place. The field appears natural in every way and wild flowers of every sort bloom and the ground is covered with undisturbed grass and ferns and weeds and swaying wheat-like strands softly bowing to a gentle wind. The name of this field is simply called “The Meadows.” It is described as a natural green burial cemetery.

            You would think that such a place would emote a sense of sorrow, hurt or pain. True, cemeteries do leave that sense of fatalness but somehow the Meadows conveys a different feeling; a feeling of peace and rest. The quietness and beauty of the natural surroundings offset the harsh reality that here consigned are those who are no longer of this world.

            Located at Ferndale, Washington State, the site is situated at the far-east side to Greenacres Memorial Park. The Meadow, is a 40 acre piece of pasture land completely undeveloped and dedicated exclusively for natural burials.

Greenacres, owned and operated by the Moles family, was originally founded over 100 years ago by John Moles and has continued service to the community throughout all those years in many ways. Currently the great grandson, John Moles, is president of the organization and a few years ago, with the assistance of his general manager in charge of The Meadows Brian Flowers, came about the first such natural cemetery of its kind as a natural burial ground in Washington State and it is only one of 12 such sites in the United States.

“I come from a cabinet and furniture making background and came in contact with John who wanted to purchase plain pine caskets,” Flowers explained. After discussion about the lack of such a burial site, Flowers soon joined the funeral home and was instrumental in development of “The Meadows.”

Flowers, an affable caring man said that the reason for the development of such a burial site was a genuine need. “There are many people who wish to be buried in a way that gives them a closer relationship with the land, and there are others who have ecological reasons,” he said. Also there are many who believe in the scriptural principal of “ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” Whatever the reasons, most family members left behind wish to be entombed the same way.

Flowers said that those who choose to be buried at The Meadows are given several choices. However, there are certain requirements as well. Decedents must not have been embalmed or if they have, the procedure must have been with nontoxic products.  As for burial containers they must be 100 per cent biodegradable and non-toxic. No metal caskets and fasteners or synthetic linings or formaldehyde glues or high volatile organic compounds are allowed according the companies brochure. As a result the funeral home has three choices for internment; a plain pine casket; a hand woven wicker or other natural material container or a burial shroud made of muslin and Irish linen. There are no prohibitions for those who wish to construct their own caskets as long as they meet the required standards. About 70 percent of people choose to be buried in a shroud, Flowers said.

As for the burial sites a great deal of care is utilized. The Meadows allots about 300 burial sites per acre whereas conventional cemeteries intern as high as 1000 burial sites per acre. And there is a good reason for it. Burial liners are prohibited. Also when a new site is being prepared the neighboring grave site is undisturbed. In addition, according to the company, the density separation also lowers the concentration of nutrients being placed in the ground. “Everything is mapped by surveyors,” Flowers explained, and each and every grave site is recorded.

Regarding tombstones; again every natural material is incorporated. Most headstones are river rock boulders weighing anywhere from 100 to 500 pounds. Individual or two people inscriptions can be engraved depending on the size of the rock. The boulders are harvested from a river source and not from a quarry. This, said Flowers, conforms to the natural aesthetic and environmental specifications of The Meadow.

In addition Flowers said families can choose any tree, shrub or groundcover from a list the cemetery furnishes. According to the funeral home families and loved ones are encouraged not only to participate in the planting of these “living memorials,” but also assist in the actual burial as well.

When the deceased is prepared it is placed on a wood carrier that has been used since the late 1890’s, and transported to the gravesite. Originally this same cart was used to transport caskets from town to the outlaying cemetery covering a distance of over three miles. Mourners would follow behind accompanying the casket. Today the same procedure is used by Greenacres. Once reaching the grave site family and friends surround the open grave and commence services. Once completed the body is usually lowered, with the help of friends and family members, into the final resting place and then filled.

“We encourage families and loved ones to participate in the closing of the grave if they choose,” Flowers said. He believes there is a certain therapeutic benefit when the family actually takes part.

As for himself Flowers plans to be interred at The Meadows when the time comes. And as his business card says, it is “The natural way to say goodbye.”

NOT JUNK ANYMORE

By DELL ARTHUR

            Most folks have a hobby. It can be stamp collecting, golf, knitting or just loafing on the sofa watching television. But for others, like Chuck Denson Sr., his hobby takes on another hue. He spends his free time working in his back yard garage, taking a load of junk and making a customized truck out of it. His latest project is a brown 1935 Ford pickup fabricated out of two wrecks he found scrounging for parts.

            “One of the pickups was beyond doing anything with so I used it for parts. The other pickup had a lot of rust and I had to do a lot of cutting, welding and fabricating,” he recalled. Now after three years of work his pride and joy is finished. Currently he can’t legally drive the pickup until he gets it licensed.

            “Right now I have to put it on a trailer whenever I go to a car show. I’m in the process of getting it licensed so I can drive it around as a ‘driver,” he said. And that is where the fun begins.

Every one needs a hobby and here
Chuck Denson, Sr. is shown tinkering with his
fabricated 1935 Ford he built part time
in his back yard garage. (Photo by Dell Arthur)

            The difference between a restored vintage car and a customized vehicle, Denson explained, is the restorer puts the vehicle back to its original factory condition. “Say you have a Model A Ford. You would restore just like it came out of the factory,” he said. Another example; cars dated back to the 1950’s that once sold for $2,000 or less from a dealer and now restored can fetch a price as much as $100,000 or more.

For the custom car builder they are limited only by their imagination with no restrictions. As far as value is concerned some customized cars are priceless. But for Denson the money isn’t the factor for creating his own version. He simply loves to fabricate. “I just like doing it. I can work whenever I feel like it or just leave it.” The work, as much as he enjoys it, takes a lot of time and effort. For his ’35 pickup he fabricated the frame, tore down and switched parts, cut, welded and formed panels to his satisfaction.

In addition to remaking most of the parts he installed a 1986 Ford 5 liter V-8 engine and automatic transmission. These things you won’t find in an original 1935 Ford pickup!

Denson said he has been around cars all his life. He recalled he has been working on cars since he was 15 years old. His dad was a mechanic and ever since he was old enough to pick up a tool he had the bug for creating. “My first customized truck was a tractor puller,” he recalled. This rig was huge! Denson took it to truck pulling competitions and wowed the crowds.

The first car he worked on was a 1941 Chevrolet 4-door. He said he rebuilt the engine but forgot to put in the crankshaft shims.  When he started the engine it promptly “blew.”! That ended his love affair with Chevies he said. What really captured his interest was customizing.

A few years back his brother Dick introduced him to a club dedicated to customized cars. Later Denson joined another club, “Northwest Classic Trucks,” with membership restricted to truck owners only.

“We have a lot of social activities,” Denson continued. “We go to a lot of car shows around the northwest. We also visit nursing homes where the older folks like to see old trucks.” A lot of these cars and trucks remind residents of the times of their youth and carry a lot of happy memories, he said.

Denson will go just about any place to find parts. Trading stories with other customizers at car shows gives him a lot of leads. “Folks are helpful finding parts,” he continued. Sometimes talking to the right person can save a lot of time looking for parts. “I went to Olympia just to pick up a pair of fenders for my ’35 Ford,” he said with a chuckle. One of the main commandments of customizing is “…don’t throw anything away!” he added.

With summer comes other car shows. Denson, along with his brothers, who also own classic cars, the family will load his ’35 Ford pickup on a trailer and head out. At the meets old friends will congregate, share stories and find out who is working on a new project. For Denson he hasn’t made up his mind yet about taking on a new project. But being the artist and fabricator he is, Denson isn’t going to let his garage set empty for too long. What he has in mind, when the urge moves him, will come when his imagination kicks into high gear.

"THE BOYS!"

By DELL ARTHUR

            Memories of growing up on our farm bring back many pleasant and wonderful memories. The smell of surrounding fields, the serine beauty of a rising sunrise, the sight of horses and cows resting and feeding in green pastures recapture times of innocence when life wasn’t so complicated. Even winter had its magic. When the northeast subzero wind would blow down from the Canadian mountains and snow covering the ground, our place would be transformed by to what was called a “silver thaw.”

            This silver thaw would form ice on telephone and power lines, trees and buildings an inch thick or more. When the sun would finally break out in a cloudless blue with the sun brightly shining the ice and snow glistened in a spectacular array of color. The whole countryside would appear as a huge fairyland fantasy and no picture or postcard could do such a sight justice.

My folks were primarily strawberry farmers. Our place was nestled between some pear, apple, cherry and peach trees. This fruit produced the most delicious jelly and jam preserves anyone could ask for. I remember in summer times my mom filling quart after quart of preserves in preparation for the coming winter. The smell of the kitchen had a delicious odor that permeated throughout the old farmhouse.

And there was her cooking and baking; in the wintertime mom would bake cinnamon rolls and donuts and she and my dad and I would sit around the old oil burning kitchen stove and munch on these delicious treats and sip coffee. It was a grand lifestyle.

These were the happy times.

But since strawberry farming is seasonal my dad, at the urging of a neighbor who was a huge chicken farmer, convinced him to go into the chicken business. So, with the help of my uncle Walt they built a large building capable of housing 5000 laying hens. And that is when work really became work!

We would gather eggs morning and night. Then we had to clean and package them ready for market. And then there was the fun of cleaning the chicken house floor—my job!

The result of all of this is, at this point of my life, was my belief the best place for a chicken is in an oven basted with the appropriate spices.

Such was life until I became a teenager and “the boys” came into my life.

On the farm we had several animals. Of these creatures I remember with a particular shudder the four geese my dad loved. There were three ganders and one female. Dad called the males “the boys.” It was with pleasure my father would hand feed them. They would gather around his feet honking and nibble on the grain that fell on the ground. They adored my dad.

As for myself all four hated me. And to be honest the feeling was mutual and for good reason.

On weekend evenings I would get together with my friends and we could go to town, see a movie or go to a dance or just drive around and do the usual things kids did with the freedom of their first car. Usually my dad had a curfew. The magic witching hour was midnight. And like most kids curfew was seldom met. The adventure and excitement of exploration was too much and time passed too swiftly. Usually I got home only a few minutes late but there were times when the clock struck 2 a.m. before I realized I had better get home.

And this is where “the boys” and I had a real run-in. Getting home late I would try to sneak down the driveway with the engine turned off so as not to make any noise. The car would cost to a stop and I would gingerly close the door. As I would sneak towards the back door of the house “the boys” would put up a honking noise that could be heard miles away! And sure enough the light in the kitchen would switch on and there, standing in his pajamas was my dad with a look on his face that spelled disaster!

Caught again.

And as soon as this happened “the boys” would ruffle their feathers, stop their infernal noise and return to their nest gloating, no doubt, “…got ya again kid!”

This went on for about a year. My relationship with “the boys” only degenerated further. Every time I left the house the largest of the group would sneak up behind me, nip my rear end and beat me with his wings. Believe me, a gooses’ slap can get your attention. There seemed to be no justice and I resigned myself to the fact that this experience would continue forever.

And then it happened.

A few months later I returned home late in the afternoon. Pulling into the driveway I got out and, astonishingly no noise from “the boys.” Stepping into the house my mom was busy in the kitchen preparing the evening dinner and causally mentioned that there had been an accident. Our neighbor related what happened: It seems the boss of the geese—the one who liked sneaking up on me—was standing smack dab right in the middle of the road in front of the house. The neighbor, who was watching all of this from his driveway, said in the distance was a pickup truck casually motoring along in no hurry when the driver saw the goose. Honking his horn the goose turned, put his head down to the ground and started hissing and flapping his wings at the truck.

The goose wasn’t about to give up its territory!

The driver tried to avoid the feathered cantankerous spectacle of arrogance and promptly plowed into him. As the neighbor reported; the goose was DOA before he hit the ground!

That evening we sat around the kitchen table and my dad was unusually quiet. Mom brought over a platter with my former adversary beautifully filling the plate to the edges, displaying a lovely brown hew and embalmed with my mom’s delicious bread dressing.

It was the best goose dinner I will ever recall.

ONE CARELESS MOMENT

By DELL ARTHUR

            It has been a number of years since I flew as an “ag pilot.” But during the 14 years I spent in the cockpit I had the joy of meeting and knowing a lot of airmen from different backgrounds. A common concept of a “crop duster,” as usually held, is one who holds a devil-may-care attitude, smirks at danger and defies death with abandon. But for the most part shining knights they're not! Most of the pilots I knew were ordinary people with ordinary hopes and desires who applied an extraordinary skill to help feed America’s families. As agriculture pilots they simply are no more than “farmers” utilizing an airplane rather than a tractor or plow to do their work. But as with other facets of farming there also lurks real danger and there are rules that are absolute.

            The backgrounds of the folks I met and befriended ranged from a professor of mathematics at San Jose State College who sprayed artichokes during the summer for extra money, to a hydraulic engineer who simply loved to fly. And there were the World War II pilots who flew combat over Europe and the Pacific theatres who continued their aviation careers in agriculture work rather than fly with the airlines or a desk.

Some of these people had experiences that tested not only their courage but their ability to function normally as well.

            One such pilot I knew flew in Salinas, California. He was a former Navy fighter pilot who flew off an aircraft carrier during the Second World War. He was a handsome man with delicate features, dark hair, broad-shouldered and charming smile. In uniform you could imagine women swooning over him. After the war he came home, married and found his services for shooting down Japanese Zero’s not needed so he decided to become a crop duster.

            Following the war there was a huge surplus of military airplanes. The most sought after were the bi-wing Stearman trainers. Removing the 220 horsepower engine and replacing it with a more powerful Pratt-Whitney 450 H.P. engine, removing the front cockpit and installing a metal hopper capable of holding up to 300 gallons of material and adding spray booms, you had the perfect spray plane. You could buy such a plane for $500 and go into business.

            “Ag flying” is a specialized facet of aviation. There is more to it than whizzing a foot or less across the ground. Temperature and wind also play an important part. And then there are also other rules not associated with general aviation. And these rules play an important role in safety or in some instances, death.

            It is all a calculated risk.

            In many fields in central California there are irrigation pipes running in line with a row. Some of these pipes stick up as high as eight feet or more. Knowing where they are located is a key to how the pilot will work the field. In addition, spraying is usually done early in the morning for several reasons; the wind is calm and the temperature is cooler. These are some of the benefits. On the other side are the disadvantages; a rising sun blinding a pilot, power and telephone wires hidden by the background, and other distractions. A wary pilot will usually scout the field for obstacles before “dropping in.” A mistake can be very costly.

            This particular day my friend was anxious. The morning dawned without a cloud in the sky and there was only a breath of wind. Loading his Stearman he set out to the field. The rows were running east to west and he decided to make his first pass towards the east—into the rising sun. Dropping over the line of telephone wires he leveled and opened his spray booms. About 100 yards in front was a line of irrigation pipes that blended into the color of the crop. He smashed headlong into the first one at 100 miles per hour.

            The last thing he remembered he said, was a horrific thump. The airplane smashed into the ground and nosed over spewing wreckage across the field. Gasoline from the upper wing tank splashed all over the wreckage and himself. Heat from the engine ignited the fuel and the next thing he knew he was swamped in the center of flames. Unbuckling his safety belt he crawled away but soaked by the gasoline his overalls caught fire. Rolling on the ground he managed to extinguish much of the flame. Injured he lost consciousness. The only thing protecting him was his crash helmet and goggles. It was the goggles that saved his eyes.

In a nearby field farm workers saw the accident and rushing to the scene they pulled him from the inferno. It was two days later he woke up in the hospital swathed in bandages. The doctors kept him sedated to ease the pain but the damage was massive—especially to his face. Following several months and operations he finally was released from the hospital. Looking in a mirror his once handsome features reflected only ugly scar tissue.

            After a period of convalescence he returned to the company and took a job in the office. Months went by. Each morning he would look out the door and watch colleagues warming up their airplanes in readiness for the day’s work. One morning, after following this routine for a number of weeks, he abruptly left the office, went into town, went into a bar and consumed a few drinks. Returning to the airport he walked out to the ramp, climbed into a parked Stearman and took off.

            It was reported by some pilots that he flew as good drunk as he did before the accident. But the fear in his belly belied such a claim.

           

One afternoon when the work was done we were sitting in the shade of the hangar away from the sweltering heat. We talked about flying in general and specifically crop dusting. I ventured to ask why he continued to fly. He answered simply, “…I don’t know how to do anything else.”

            It was about 10 years later when I again ran across this good man. He no longer flew but owned a small crop dusting operation and employed three pilots. He had quit drinking and had found peace within himself. His scarred face showed a sense of relaxation and contentment. He won his greatest battle—a form of courage that allowed him to accept the tragedy of one careless moment.