The old adage that a man's best friend is his dog has held a personal significance ever since I owned the Great Pal. Truthfully, he wasn't much to look at, black with white spots, a long fuzzy tail, and short fat ears. He was just a mongrel without the glory of pedigree, but with a past that was probably more interesting. It started the say he was born in a hollow three stump underneath the Grange Hall close by my Oregon farm.  Here the first two weeks of is life were spent, growing fat on his mother's milk. Safe and warm, he had no inkling of the hazards his mother had encountered in order to bring him in three squares a day. Spurred on by an intense mother love which would put some of us mortals to shame, his canine mother chanced the stones and bullets of irate farmers to steal chickens and turkeys with which to satisfy her own hunger and to supply the milk which a nest full of hungry puppies required. It was when his mother made the supreme sacrifice for her puppies that Pal had a change of address.
    One evening while driving the cows to the far pasture, I found his mother, a beautiful red Water Spaniel, lying bloated and motionless at the entrance of her abode. Some merciless person had poisoned her. Luckily, for her puppies, she was unable to return to them, for had they partaken of the fatal milk, they, too, would have died, and there would never have been the Great Pal. Being a dog lover since boyhood, I was grieved at the sight before me and stopped to investigate. Immediately, my grief changed to curiosity and then to intense delight when I feard the faint whine of the puppies. Quickly, I fell flat on my stomach and began to crawl under the building. It was a tight squeeze and a dark pull to the stump where the Spaniel had harbored her young. To my surprise, there were eight little puppies, fat, sleek, and hungry, a hodge-podge of color and design.
    Naturally, my first impulse was to execute a rescue. Backing out the same way I had entered, I hurried to a neighboring farm to borrow a box and a flashlight. My second excursion to the stump was not quite so hazardous as the first, but returning with a box full of squealing puppies under such low clearance proved to be quite a task. My arms ached by the time I had carried them the quarter mile home. Happily, I deposited my find in the middle of the kitchen floor, much to my wife's amazement.
    "Where did you get these?" she queried.
    "Found them under the Grange Hall," I replied. "Aren't they cute?"
    "But I don't understand," said my wife. "Where's the mother?"
    "Dead!"
    "How awful!"
    "You know about the stray dog who's been stealing the farmers' poultry lately," I reminded her.
    "Yes. You mean...?"
    "That's right. She's the mother of these pups. Somebody poisoned her. I found her lying close to the Hall."
    "Oh, the poor little things! What are we going to do with them?"
    "Maybe we could raise them and sell them" I suggested. "We've got lots of milk to feed them."
    "I guess we have no choice in the matter," my wife agreed. "We can't just let them die."
    The weeks sped by, and the pups grew like bad weeds, lapping up quarts of milk each day. When they were about two months old, I found homes for seven of them; the eighth I kept for myself.
    Like I said, Pal wasn't much of a dog. He never learned any fancy tricks like walking the tight-rope or balancing a ball on his nose. He couldn't hunt, being frightened to the point of trembling at the mere mention of a gun. But he was my dog! I came to know he was my dog when he was still a pup. One lunch hour I lay down in a stack of hay to rest, and Pal, climbing onto my chest, burrowed  under the folds of my coat to sleep.  From then on he was the Great Pal. I couldn't sit down im my Morris chair but what he'd walk around it two or three times to make sure I intended to stay. Then, curling up underneath it, he'd thump his tail hard on the floor each time I'd make a move, just to let me know he was keeping an eye on me. Worthy of his title, he was extremely jealous of the  affections of anyone else for me, man or beast, and I'm sure, had  it ever been necessary, he would have defended me to his death.  He had a lot of company during the dozens of lonely hours I spent on the farm. On the other hand, he couldn't talk back either. It flattered my ego no end to watch his admiring, worshipful eyes gleaming up at me. I was his god, and he loved me with all the love of his simple, canine heart.
    There was one thing, however, for which he never quite forgave me. He was helping me to drive herd, and in his doggish excitement, nipped the heels of one of the young heifers bad enough to draw blood. Not wanting a repeat performance, I lashed out in his direction with a long, leather whip, intending to fall short of him. Unfortunately, he wheeled around just in time to receive the blow on the end of his nose. It stung plenty, and he took off for the house, howling all the way. The injured nose soon healed, but the injured heart took much longer to recover. For days afterwards, Pal slunk around, crawling on his belly every time he saw me coming. It took me a long time to regain his confidence.
    On another occasion I heard him barking ferociously in the woods not far from the house and wondered what was up. Shortly, he arrived with his nose as full of quills as a prickly pear. He had had his first encounter with a porcupine. Since porcupine quills are hooked on the end like fishhooks, it required three of us to remove them. While my wife and daughter held him down, I applied the pliers, the blood gushing from his nose, and his anguished  howls resounding throughout the valley. Needless to say, Pal saw fit to ignore porcupines thereafter.
    Pal's favorite pastime was running alongside a moving car. He could run a mile or so at 15 mph, though at times we clocked him a 25. As a matter of fact, his ability to run was responsible for the most embarrassing situation of my life. The time arrived when I was to attend the funeral of a very dear friend. Rarely, if ever, on trips to town could I be rid of Pal long enough to leave him behind. But a funeral was hardly the place for a dog, even to be left sitting in the car. On the way to the mortuary he ran behind me for nearly a mile before I managed to lose sight of him. Upon arriving, I parked the car and walked inside, selecting a seat in the front row. As the service was about to begin, in walked Pal, panting and wagging his tail. Scenting my steps up the aisle, he stopped directly in front of me. At that moment I denied my best friend.
    "Whose dog is this?" I muttered in a loud stage whisper, as if it weren't quite obvious to all present.
    It was distasteful enough that a dog should attend a funeral, but still more humiliating was the fact that Pal had met with a skunk the night before and was still a very odious dog. Completely mortified, I ushered him outside and sent him home a disgraced dog, his tail between his legs. Red-faced, I returned to my seat, silently discounting the validity of the old adage, when for some reason I recalled the incident with the whip. Then and there, I decided the score had been settled.
    All told, Pal and I were friends for about 15 years, and I can honestly say that in spite of his shortcomings, he was the greatest friend I ever had.


Dear Herbert and Nick,
    Aunt Kate hasn't had time to write in a long time so she asked me to send a line or two. Well, how in the world are you and how are things in and around New York? I sure hope ou have both been able to have work. One never knows what a blessing work is until one is out of work. I haven't done any work for renumeration all winter. I don't know whether Aunt Kate told you or not, but we seem we are loosing out and sold all our stock for what we could get and that didn't pay all the rent, and so we moved into Grants Pass where Aunt Kate took a housekeeping job. (Not much in it but it bides us over a little). Virginia has also taken a job with Dr. and Mrs. Ogle. She cares for two small children and does some housework. Harriet is in first year High. She is doing fine and isn't 14  years old until April 16 next. Harriet is a natural born musician and has advanced to the 4th year music since last Sept.
    It isn't any work for her at all because she likes it. We were sorry to give up our stock and the ranch. Believe me I liked it and always will but we had lots of losses and tribulation. It was a wild mountain valley where we were with woods all around us and there were lots of deer, some bear, once in a while a cougar and lots of grouse, quail and pheasants. I know you boys would have liked it if you could have been out here with us. The first year we were there we had a dandy garden and lots of fruit but the next year (having had no snow in the mountains) it was so dry we didn't raise anything. I plowed fire breaks around the buildings and some of the wild pasture and it was lucky I did as there were two fires while I was there that might have done damage. And then after I moved there was a bad one which burned 1/2 mile of rail fence and followed the fire break along burning all of the next neighbors pasture and if it had have been on the place we were on the owner wouldn't have rented his place as there wouldn't have been any feed.

    A friend of ours seen 14 deer altogether in a bunch they had (yarded up) there being a deep snow on the ground. We are having a genuine old fashioned Winter and although it is only like a mild winter out home, we all feel it as we have to burn so much wood, and that costs money although nowhere as dear as coal. We can buy 3 tiers of wood which (?) in cold weather for $3.75 but when you haven't got $3.75 it's another story. We had a couple of inches of snow and three different storms lasting 10 days or more and it froze two nights quite badly. Outside of that we have a lot of rain and fog, but it all means a lot of irrigation water next spring for which everyone are always thankful.
    There is no work out here at present but the S.E.R.A projects, and they don't employ anywhere near the number they should. What do you hear out East? Are there many people for the old age pensions? It is very popular out here and I do wish that some kind of definite help like that would come before it is too late. We have a dandy country out here if we could but get a good living. But God knows best about such things, and in due time things will work around O.K. We haven't heard from Aunt May in 2 dogs ages. We got Xmas cards of course and even one from Ruth from Alabama. I guess she was a bit homesick when she wrote it but she will get over it I hope.
    Aunt Kate gets a 1/2 day off during the week and she will soon be here. So I will close now with love and best wishes to you both from Aunt Kate and Uncle John, Harriet and Virginia.


    My father was a farmer of sorts: he loved the land; he loved to watch things grow; he loved God and all God's creatures. But during the Depression God tested him sorely. He lost his land. He lost his animals. He even lost his car. Yet never once did I hear my father curse his God. This gentle little man had a simple, homespun philosophy which he passed on to me: "If you can only be a thumbtack," he told me, "be a good one."
    Now consider the thumbtack, a small, unimpressive instrument used to do the seemingly inconsequential job of holding things up, tacking things down, or holding things together. My father was proficient in all of these areas, as relative to our family. When humors lagged or spirits dropped, he held us up with his undying hope. When problems threatened to envelop us, he tacked them down with his unyielding faith. And when the family unit nearly broke apart, he held us together with his unending love. Yes, my father may have seen himself as only a good thumbtack, but I see him as he really was, and as I hope to be--wise in the wisdom of God, and in the riches of Heaven.

    In my personal Journal May 1984 I wrote: "I realize what a powerful influence my father was upon my life. He didn't wave any flags; he didn't beat any drums. He just walked with the Lord day by day, dividing his bread with the hungry, clothing the naked, housing the homeless--pleading before God the cause of the afflicted and needy. Isaiah 58: 7