BEER MUGS AND MILK CANS A PIECE OF CREATIVE NONFICTION BASED ON THE LIVES OF RALPH AND SALLDE EASTMAN by Jenny Rebecka Callahan A project submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY Ogden, Utah November 28,2011 Approved fr. Robert M. Ho&ee ** Dr. Robert M.Hogge LL UuLh Dr John Schwiebert mmmm Beer Mugs and Milk Cans by Jenny Callahan TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgements Theoretical Frame Work Works Cited Project Overview The Tavern Tipplers and Teetotalers Milking The Fall Related Readings and Research Bibliography ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thanks to my project committee of Dr. Hogge, Dr. Schwiebert and Dr. Elsley for reading multiple drafts. Their insights helped me grow as a writer and gave my project depth. A special thanks to my committee chair Dr. Elsley, who forbade me to quit. Callahan 2 Theoretical Frame Work On Writing a Piece of Creative Nonfiction Callahan 3 Theoretical Frame Work On Writing a Piece of Creative Nonfiction The older I get the more I observe that we live in a virtual world, where many have lost the ability to engage in reality. Technology allows us, if we choose, to spend every hour of the day immersed in fiction. While I am guilty of enjoying the unreality of fiction in all of its forms, I have also developed an appreciation for reality in the form of actual life experience. This appreciation has helped me recognize what interesting lives my parents have led. The desire I have to write about them comes from a consciousness that they are getting older and I will not have them forever, but also that they for a time lived in a world unlike my own. Their young lives took place in a period with different ethics, prejudices, problems and ways of having fun. Simply stated I find their young lives full of colorful stories that I think others will enjoy. With this simple premise in mind I began to write, but I soon found that by writing their stories I was engaged in something bigger than just telling a story. I was becoming more personally connected to my parents' early lives. As a result of this endeavor I am better able to relate to them, because I have a more complete understanding of the events that shaped their characters. The process of discovery that this master's project demanded of me has been a fun, exciting, and at times extremely frustrating experience. One of my major struggles was to gain an understanding of the genre of creative nonfiction. Though the genre was pioneered by the likes of Virginia Woolf, George Orwell, James Baldwin, Earnest Hemingway and Tom Wolfe, its form is still evolving. With the growing pains of evolution comes a plethora of debate about creative nonfiction. The difficulty extends Callahan 4 from the big issues of truth and memory all the way down to just being able to agree on a name for it. Over the years it has been called essay, new journalism, literary nonfiction, literary journalism, new journalism, memoir, autobiography, personal essay, lyric essay, the forth genre and the name I will be calling it by — creative nonfiction. I wish that I had the solutions to quiet all the issues and debates. I wish I had the answers on how to better reign in this exciting genre to make it a neat and tidy subject for writers and readers alike. However, maybe the debate is an important characteristic of the genre. Perhaps creative nonfiction is exciting and sought after because it does not come in a neat and tidy package. There is the possibility that to impose too many boundaries and rules would be the demise of the genre. I don't have the answers and since no one else seems to have them either, I will instead attempt to show you in the following pages what I have learned about creative nonfiction. This will include what my responsibility is to the reader, regarding the autobiographical pact, along with a discussion of the controversial issues that the genre insights. In addition, I will include an explanation of techniques a creative nonfiction writer might use and how I have incorporated some of these techniques in my piece of creative nonfiction. The Autobiographical Pact In 1973, the leading European critic and theorist of autobiography, Philippe Lejeune published his famous essay, "Le Pacte Autobiographique," which translates to the "Autobiographical Pact." The essay presented the pact as a pledge of sincerity by the writer to the reader (134). This idea inspired much debate about the genre of autobiography and by association — creative nonfiction. Minimally stated the pact Callahan 5 functions as an informal contract, and I can keep that contract with the reader by telling the story in the most accurate way possible. Judith Barrington comments on the understanding between reader and writer in her book, Writing the Memoir, where she writes, "The author stands behind her story saying to the world: this happened; this is true... [the reader] reads it believing it to be remembered experience, which in turn requires the writer to be an unflinchingly reliable narrator" (27). By Barrington's definition, I maintain my contract with the reader by attempting to recreate the reality of the past as I have gleaned it from interviews with my parents. In return, the reader understands that the story is a general sense of what happened. The pact is a relationship of trust on both parts. Controversial Issues The whole idea of the pact seems uncomplicated, but imbedded in this simple idea is the issue of the subjective nature of truth and memory. If I am asking for the reader to trust me and I claim that my piece is true, then what does "true" really mean? Does it mean everything in the story is factually verifiable? Does it mean there is a sense of truth in the story? Or, whose truth is it - the writer's ~ the reader's - the subject's? In addition, let's not forget the problematic nature of memory. Was the event remembered the same way by different people; and, if so whose memory is correct? With all of these subjective questions hovering over the genre, at what point have I crossed the line with the freedoms of creative nonfiction and violated the trust of my reader? These questions are at the root of the controversy that creative nonfiction writers face. Callahan 6 Truth then becomes one of the major controversial issues of creative nonfiction and lies at the core of some high profile creative nonfiction writers being accused of writing fiction and calling it truth. An example of this is James Frey's book, A Million Little Pieces, in which Frey is accused of fabricating events to make his creative nonfiction piece more interesting. More recently, Greg Mortenson's book, Three Cups of Tea, has come under scrutiny with accusations that the events in his book did not happen in the order or way that he describes. The issue at hand for both Frey and Mortenson is truth. Although we would all like to believe that truth is clear, that belief would in itself be a lie. In Lee Gutkind's book, Keep It Real, he explains, "Some historians concluded, with great misgivings, that truth [is] subjective. As with all questions and answers in life it does depend on an individual's perception of the events" (77). For example, a rainy day is beautiful to some and dreary to others. Is there one true answer to the question: "Is it a beautiful day?" The telling of a story runs into the same dilemma. Lynn Bloom in her essay, "Living to Tell the Tale: The Complicated Ethics of Creative Nonfiction," argues, "There is no question about whose truth gets told in creative nonfiction—it has to be the author's, with all other truths filtered through the authorial rendering" (286). I must agree. Bloom goes on to explain this idea in relation to an artist painting a picture. I learned that like an artist I am also creating something. I am studying the images that are formed from the stories, and I am trying to recreate them, not in paint, but in words. Certainly we would not deny an artist the right to draw or paint simply because we don't agree that the image rendered matches the image the way we see it. If we were to do so, Callahan 7 important artists and works of art produced by the likes of Van Gogh, Picasso, and Monet would have to be dismissed. This dismissal would be on the grounds that their work did not represent the landscape or subject accurately for each individual viewing it. With the elimination of art we would have to rely on photographs. But would that even work? Perhaps the photographer takes a picture of me, but I don't feel it is a true representation of what I look like. Can I tell him his photograph is not true? The creative nonfiction writer is no different; she is creating something as she sees it. The public gets to decide if they believe it or like it. However, they should not be able to tell her that she can't write it because it is not their truth. This is the only way that I have been able to come to any type of peace on the topic of truth. It is simply a tough idea to define and even when defined it is a tough prospect to claim on any front that you know the truth. It constantly circles back on itself, to ask the same questions again. What truth? Who's truth? What degree of truth? Though truth is subjective, Philip Gerard, in his book Creative Nonfiction: Researching and Crafting Stories of Real Life, argues truth can be labeled. He believes it is important to give "the reader clear signals about exactly what kind of truth you're claiming—literal truth of event, emotional truth, truth by hypothetical illustration, approximate truth of memory, or merely the truth of intuition guided by special insight" (123). In Gerard's mind he can categorize truth. I found this idea flawed based on the premise that at its root truth is subjective. It doesn't matter what fancy-named category you want to place it in; it is still truth as one perceives it. One could, and I have, to some degree, driven myself crazy regarding truth. Callahan 8 We could argue ~ and do argue truth all day in courts across the country, but the issue still remains - truth is fundamentally subjective. Because there is no clear cut answer, the only thing I can do is to tell the story the way I understand it to be. Memory, like truth, can lean one way or the other depending on point of view. The perception of events or the memory of them itself can differ greatly from one person to another; thus memory is another controversial issue for creative nonfiction writers. Over time memory can fade and even change. I have experienced this personally with my own children who will relate the details of a childhood experience, but often their telling of the event is not how I remember it. Whose memory is correct? Clearly each individual memory is correct to the individual remembering it. For example, I have heard my parents tell the same stories several times, each telling with more or less detail than the last or in a slightly different arrangement of words. This means to me that there is a general idea of the events that took place, but after almost 80 years of life or even in my case, 40 years of life, it is difficult, if not impossible, to have an exact memory of events. Because our memories tend to fade, William Bradley, in his essay, "The Ethical Exhibitionist's Agenda: Honesty and Fairness in Creative Nonfiction," suggests, "As human beings, we are in bondage to our flawed perceptions and spotty memories. In order to turn our experiences into narrative, we naturally rely on our imagination to flesh out that which may be only half-remembered" (205). I believe that we not only fill in the gaps with imagination, but with emotion. Once something becomes a memory, it is subject to not only loss of the complete version, but our own emotional connections to the memory. Callahan 9 Hence, painful memories may become filled with more drama in our recollection of them over time. This happens because we have the ability to see how the event affected our lives as a whole in a way that we simply could not have seen right at the time of the event. Conversely, memories of victory in a sporting event or a successful business endeavor may grow in grandeur over time as we realize how difficult it would be for us to repeat the accomplishment. Memory is not a science, and that is why it is so interesting to write and read about. The only thing that I can claim is that I have told the story as it was remembered and as it has found form in my mind. Literary Techniques and How Thev Work Although it is not a science, the writer of creative nonfiction has a tool box of techniques at her disposal to help tell the story in an organized and interesting fashion. Barrington explains that the creative nonfiction writer has the freedom to move "both backward and forward in time, re-creating believable dialogue, switching back and forth between scene and summary... [keeping] her reader engaged by being an adept storyteller" (22). As Barrington points out, there is more to the story than just the facts; details and pacing most often keep us reading, and that is where scene and summary help out. Scene and Summary Pacing, or the management of time, becomes a vital part of the storytelling process. Scene can help with pacing as it slows the story down to focus on an event as it happens. Take, for example, an argument with a friend. Viewing the argument through scene allows the reader to hear dialog and see focused action taking place during the disagreement. There may not be a lot of perspective in scene, because it is real-time Callahan 10 action. This means that during the argument you may not be aware of the repercussions on the friendship. It is not until later, when you have had time to reflect on the argument, that you come to realize how it has affected the relationship. That is where summary comes into use. Summary is the act of looking back on an experience with the benefit of distance and the passage of time, which allows for perspective. Thus, summary allows the writer to speed up the pace by spanning long periods of time or large amounts of information. Instead of focusing on the play-by-play action, the writer conveys the perspective gained during the more important events. It helps the writer impart essential information without losing the main focus of the story. Summary might occur when a character tells someone about her fight with a friend and how it affected the friendship. This telling would not spotlight the moment-by-moment action of the fight, but rather the acquired knowledge as a result of the event. There are several ways to create scene and summary, but one of the first steps for me was organization of the story. Organization Creative nonfiction differs from writing a biography, in that the biography generally tells about an entire life - from start to finish. Creative nonfiction selects portions of a life story to focus on and then allows the freedom to start at the beginning, middle or end of the story, flashing backward or forward to fill in the needed information. The ability to move around in time can help a writer stay focused on what is important, which will ultimately make the story more interesting. Even after the writer narrows the focus, there is still a process of paring down the many stories that could be told to the Callahan 11 stories that should be told. The writer must decide which stories paint the overall picture she is striving for and how to best organize those stories. I chose to order my piece of creative nonfiction into short chapters, which focus on memorable or important events in my parents' lives that occurred between the ages of 4-17. Although I could start at any point during this age range, I chose to progress in chronological order with occasional flashbacks to fill in key information. The overall organization of the piece helps the writer ensure, that upon completion, the reader feels she has been led along a path that resulted in a better understanding of the topic than when she began. Organization was just one aspect of how I went about achieving scene and summary. Compression Compression becomes important in the formation of scene and summary as it is another way to manage time in the story. Compression works by taking events that happened over an extended period of time and condensing them into the same scene. This allows a writer to cover a greater amount of material in fewer words. In essence it is a means to speed up or slow down the telling of the story. In addition, compression is a way to insert details that infuse texture to the piece without drawing too much attention away from the main focus of the story. One way that writers deal with the use of compression is to set the reader's expectation of the information they will receive. For example, often my parents would be in the middle of telling a story, which would trigger a memory that did not especially fit into a particular story or specific time frame. As a result I had a collection of anecdotal events and general conversations that took place over an extended period of time. Since Callahan 12 each of these anecdotes or conversations helped to paint an overall picture of events in my parents' lives, I at times compressed them together in scenes where they would have most likely taken place. I found compression an extremely useful tool since alone these details were merely side notes, but by compressing them into a scene they add flavor that would otherwise be lost. Dialog Dialog is yet another tool that is often employed by creative nonfiction writers to help bring depth to the telling of a stoiy. The picture that the writer is attempting to re¬create is greatly enhanced by the use of dialog. The dilemma is that history rarely has exact recorded dialog to draw from when telling a story. One way that some writers deal with this dilemma is to use quotation marks only around verifiable dialog. Any dialog without quotation marks is a clue to the reader that it is dialog that could have taken place. Although the use of quotation marks in this fashion is an option, I did not choose to use this method as I found it unnecessary. My reasoning is that the dialog I have used comes from interviews and a personal understanding of my parents' personalities and an intimate knowledge of the history. I felt that by selectively leaving quotation marks off of some dialog would imply that I didn't have any research to inspire that dialog. In addition, even with interviews to back me up it is impossible to know exactly what was said in every situation, so to refrain from using quotation marks for some dialog could imply that everything inside them was a direct word-for-word quote from the subject's mouth. Gerard explains, "You have to choose carefully from everything your subject said Callahan 13 and present his or her words in a dramatic context -which usually means in a different order from the one in which they were actually said" (120). Even if I had exact recorded dialog, I would still have to take care to order it logically within the story I am conveying. Dialog is a vital component of creating a good scene for the reader, so each writer will have to decide how best to handle dialog for her individual piece. Inner Thoughts and Feelings Similarly, when a writer includes the inner thoughts and feelings of a character, it is a personal choice how she will handle it, so discretion must be used. Adding thoughts and feelings does not invalidate the story as a piece of nonfiction, but rather gives the reader added insight that the writer has gleaned from hours of research and personal interactions with the characters. One way a writer could deal with the inclusion of thoughts and feelings is to use tag lines like, "one could imagine" or "no one knows her feeling, but..." or "A possible thought." These clues let the reader know that you have used your imagination to fill in the blanks of the story. Although this is an option, as a writer I did not choose to employee tag lines. I felt they made the writing unnatural and a bit awkward by drawing the reader's attention to the tag line instead of into the character's mind. By distracting the reader the power of adding inner thoughts and feelings is stifled. The power behind the insertion of inner thoughts and feelings is that it can convey to the reader the intimate knowledge the writer has of the subject. Further, it can help the reader relate to the character as a person with depth, who has both outward and inward dreams, struggles and growth. Callahan 14 Conclusion In using each of the techniques above, I have attempted to tell my parents' story in the most accurate way possible. Some may argue that simply informing the reader of the techniques I have employed is a mere band aid on the issues. I agree that it does not solve the problems that the subjective nature of truth and memory can cause. However, I do feel that it is a good-faith effort on my part to honor the readers' trust by letting them know upfront what to expect. My intent in writing this piece of creative nonfiction is not to deceive or misrepresent facts, but rather to show love, respect and admiration for my parents and to commemorate what I feel are two most interesting lives. In his article, William Bradley explains that we must "understand that works of creative nonfiction are celebrations not just of the individual, but also of the qualities that allow us to understand and relate to each other" (210). My piece of creative nonfiction is just that ~ a celebration of my parents' wonderful story. However, I have also come to understand it as my story since I am the result of the love my parents' share for each other. I hope that, as Bradley expressed, I have created a work that helps others relate to a different time period and the marvelously real people that lived in it. Callahan 15 Works Cited Barringtion, Judith. Writing The Memoir. [n.p.], Oregon: The Eighth Mountain Press, 2002. Print. Bloom, Lynn. "Living to Tell the Tale: The Complicated Ethics of Creative Nonfiction." College English, Vol. 65.3. (Jan 2003): 276-289. JSTOR. Web. 11 Apr. 2011. Bradley, William. "The Ethical Exhibitionist's Agenda: Honesty and Fairness in Creative Nonfiction." College English, 70. (2007): 202-211. JSTOR. Web. 11 Apr. 2011. Gerard, Philip. Creative Non fiction; Researching and Crafting Stories of Real Life. [n.p.], Illinois: Waveland Press, 1996. Print. Gutkind, Lee. Keep It Real. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2008. Print. Lejeune, Philippe. "The Autobiographical Pact (bis)." On Autobiography. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989. 119-37. Print. Callahan 16 Project Overview The following piece of creative nonfiction, Beer Mugs and Milk Cans, is the first four chapters of a ten chapter manuscript. The manuscript will introduce Ralph Eastman and Sallie Peart, two characters who grow up in the small rural towns of Woodruff and Randolph, Utah. Sallie is introduced in chapters one and two and Ralph is introduced in chapters three and four. In the subsequent chapters their lives become increasingly intertwined until they marry at the age of 17. The final chapter of the manuscript will depict the unusual circumstances and details of their marriage. Writing their story has been a life long goal. Ultimately, I hope this small beginning will not only result in the completion of the ten chapter manuscript, but be the first part of a larger work that spans their lives. I hope those that read these first four chapters feel the wonder I have felt when I listen to their stories. Callahan 17 Beer Mugs and Milk Cans Based on the Lives of Ralph and Sallie Eastman Callahan 18 DEDICATION To Mom and Dad for finding love and holding on to it for over 60 years. Callahan 19 Chapter 1 - The Tavern Sallie sat in the doorway that linked the living room of her home to her father's tavern. The doorway opened behind the counter of the bar, and each night for as long as she could remember she sat and watched her dad work. Farrell, her father, turned and winked at her. Sallie's blue eyes sparkled at receiving the show of affection. She breathed in deeply the musty odor of old logs and stale beer, which were the smells of home to her. The tavern was busy because of the professional rodeo that was in town. Sallie drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them; the cement floor was cool. She leaned her head over her legs trying to catch her dad's eye again, but he was busy filling Elmo Jackson's mug from the tap with Becker beer, which was the only beer offered. Alcohol was hard to come by since the war, and her dad had to drive to Evanston, Wyoming, just to get it. She watched as he scraped the foam from the beer with a ruler. When she was younger, she used to lick the foam from the ruler, but it happened less and less as she got older until now, at eight, she never got to. Maybe her dad realized how much she liked it "Double or nothing," Farrell offered as he sat a drink in front of Elmo, who nodded with a long, wobbly drunken motion that brought his head near the bar. Farrell then pulled out a leather cup with dice. Sallie had seen her father play this game with customers hundreds of times. She could hear the little ivory dice clink together inside the cup then bounce wildly as they were freed onto the glass surface of the bar. "Looks like you owe me for two drinks." Callahan 20 Farrell filled another mug and placed it in front of Elmo, but as he did she saw her dad pat Elmo on the shoulder, and tell him that it had only been a practice round, and they could play for double or nothing another time. Sallie knew her dad was a nice person and that people liked him. From her time sitting in the doorway, Sallie also knew lots of things about people in the small town. She knew that Elmo had been drinking all day long for three days. She had seen him arrive at the bar as soon as it opened and knew he would stay until it closed. Farrell gave Sallie a slight nod and she jumped to her feet hurrying to her father. "Are you ready for bed?" Sallie nodded, and her father reached under the bar and pulled out a Hershey's bar. He broke off four pieces and handed them to her. She loved the smell of chocolate and beer on her father's breath. She knew every night before she went to bed that her dad would tell her good night with four pieces of chocolate. Sometimes when the tavern was busy, she would have to wait a long time for her bedtime chocolate. Farrell patted the top of her head, which was covered with wavy blond hair and then patted her on the back, and she went and sat in the doorway to enjoy the treat. She let a piece of the chocolate sit on her tongue and slowly melt. She liked the sounds of cards being shuffled as men played poker at tables set in front of two big windows on both sides of the entrance. She moved the chocolate on her tongue to get more flavor in her mouth as her eyes wandered to the large cobblestone fireplace on the back wall. Tonight the pool table, which sat in front of the fireplace, was turned upside down to make room for a band. Callahan 21 Sallie broke off another piece of chocolate. She let her eyes move to the ceiling and walls, which had the brands of all the cattle ranchers burned into the timber. She knew which brands belonged to which ranchers, but thought her father's brand the best; it was a heart with a bar under it. Each of her dad's brothers' brands was another suit from a deck of cards. She was thinking about how if she were a cow she would much rather have a heart on her hide than a spade or a diamond. The door to the tavern swung open. Uncle Fair, her mom's brother, came in and put his foot up on the iron rail that ran along the base of the bar. There were no bar stools to sit on, so he leaned against the bar and then slammed down $1,300.00. "We're going to stay till the money's all drank up." "That's a lot of money, Fair." Sallie heard her dad say. "Just got paid and can't think of anything I'd rather spend the money on." Her Uncle Fair was an all around man or at least that's what she had heard people say about him. He could do just about anything with his hands and had recently come into the good fortune of some plumbing work for the Bushnell Army Hospital in Brigham City. Most often he didn't have the money to drink every night, but when he did he really enjoyed it. Sallie had heard her mother talk about Uncle Fair and his wife. Most men would have been in trouble for drinking away a pay check, but Uncle Fair's wife was a drinker too and would probably be along shortly to join in on the fun. Fair and Farrell had been friends since they were boys. When Fair ran into tough times, then Farrell would help him out with money or work. Maybe tonight was Fair's way of repaying Farrell for all the help or maybe it was a way of showing off a little to impress him. Whatever his reason, Fair had no concern about the future. He was content Callahan 22 with the small two bedroom cabin they lived in, which was better than the two car garage that they had lived in for awhile. He liked his two kids, enjoyed his wife as a drinking partner, and had no aspirations other than to just get by. He was good at just getting by, which later in life led him to Moab where he sold greeting cards and worked odd jobs. Farrell began filling mugs for excited customers as Sallie's mother LaVerl came to the doorway where Sallie was sitting and pulled her inside their house. She glared disgustedly at both her husband and brother, and then closed the door sharply. It wasn't that LaVerl was a teetotaler, she had frequented bars over the years. Farrell was her third husband, which meant she had some experience with men and a firm grasp on the less appealing habits they can possess. Her disgust might have just as easily been with herself. Even as young as Sallie was, she knew that her mother was a smart lady, but stubborn. She had heard her mother talk about how she dropped out of high school her Sophomore year because her home economics teacher demanded she wear a thimble while sewing, which she refused to do. Sallie knew the rest of the story too and could remember the stubborn pride in her mother's voice when she continued, "But I didn't need that school anyway, because my mother lied about my age and education and got me into the Thomas Dee Memorial Hospital School of Nursing. I even got a job as a nurse in Soda Springs, Idaho." It would be years before Sallie would understand that her mother's stubbornness was often compounded by impulsiveness. Sallie got most of the story in bits and pieces, but she knew that her mother abandoned nursing to marry at the age of 18. The marriage ended in divorce four years later, leaving her mother with nothing but a baby boy, Callahan 23 Sallie's older half brother Richard. Her mother rebounded quickly and remarried just a month later to a miner. They were only married 14 months when he was killed in a mining accident, leaving her a widow. As a teenager, Sallie overheard her mother tell a part of the story while talking on the telephone. "My options were limited as a divorced, widow with a child, so I returned to my parent's home in Randolph. Farrell had never married and I had known him since we were children. I knew I could have him." The way her mother said it left the lasting impression in Sallie's mind that she married possibly more out of necessity than love. Sallie would later be able to look back and see that though her mother did capture her father in marriage she could not control him and though her brother was her best friend she couldn't control him either. It might have been her lack of power over the two men and her limited options that made her mother feel so irritated and disgusted with them both that night. Sallie was too young to be aware that part of her mother's irritation came from jealousy. Later Sallie would recognize that many of her parent's arguments were caused by her mother's jealousy over the time she chose to spend with her dad. The ruckus in the bar played like a lullaby in Sallie's head as she lay in her bed with her last piece of chocolate melting on her tongue. Things were livelier during rodeo season. She could hear the music start up, which meant the band had arrived. She wished she could go sit in the doorway and listen, but the muffled sounds faded out as she fell asleep. She didn't know what time it was, but she awoke to the sound of her mother's Callahan 24 raised voice. Her mother had a reputation in town as the one that could clear the bar when things got out of hand. Sallie quietly slipped out of bed and down the hallway. She peeked around the corner of the living room, which allowed her to see into the kitchen and through the open door to the tavern. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall and could see that it was almost 3 a.m. That was way past the normal closing time of midnight. "Tavern's closed. Everyone get out." LaVerl was standing with her hands on her hips. She was a beautiful but stern woman who always wore red lipstick and big fashionable earrings. She had dark brunette hair and sleek but strong facial features that seemed to intensify her words. "You're the owner; you're supposed to be running the place, not drinking with the crowd," LaVerl said. There was no answer, and Sallie knew there wouldn't be one. Her dad was not one to raise his voice or fight. If his feelings got hurt, he would just refuse to talk to her mother. Most of the time he would just sigh and sometimes mumble, "Verly, Verly, Verly," which was her mother's pet name. Sallie saw her mother move toward the kitchen door so she quickly slipped back to her bedroom and into bed. Her mother's voice lowered only slightly, and she knew that tonight would be one of those nights when her father would be sleeping in the tavern on the pool table. Sallie tried to fall asleep, but she couldn't stop thinking of her dad. He wasn't perfect, but she loved to be with him. Unlike her mother, her father never said a bad word about anyone. Sallie knew he loved her, and that was all she needed to know to love him back. Callahan 25 Chapter 2 - Tipplers and Teetotalers "Church is out," Sallie said, looking at her father behind the bar. The mirror hanging behind him allowed her to see both the back and the front of her father at the same time. She could see the slight balding spot on the back of his head. Her father had aged enough that he was not a young man, but with his pale blue eyes and strong chin she thought her dad to be as handsome as any man in town. "Who's ahead today?" her father asked. She turned back to the large tavern window and looked to see which church goer would be first to the tavern. Sallie had been to church the few times that her mother went. That was only when there was chatter of something important, like a speaker of notoriety or a rumor of a new bishop. Her father wasn't a church goer. He had gone astray years ago. Sallie understood that life revolved around the Mormon church in their little town, and people were categorized by their level of activity in the church. There were active, less active, inactive and non members. Then there were those that disliked the church and they were anti-Mormon. Not even Farrell (who had abandoned the religion, married a divorced and widowed woman, become an alcoholic and owned a tavern) could escape categorization. Thus he was said to have "gone astray," which is what LDS folks called someone who was raised in the church, but stopped living the standards. As if there were not enough irony in being a Mormon alcoholic that runs a tavern, there was also the irony that Farrell had two brothers, Willard and Merrill, who were deeply committed to living church standards—and who were leaders in the Mormon ministry, serving in the bishopric at the Mormon chapel, which Sallie stood looking at out the window. Callahan 26 The people who met for church on Sunday were said to belong to the 1st Ward. The ones who met in the tavern were said to belong to the 2nd ward. Even Mormon folks had a sense of humor about her father's tavern and that some church members attended it more religiously than their Sunday meetings. Sally looked at her dad. "Norman's ahead," she said. She knew that as he approached he would see the neon sign that said, "Log Cabin Tavern, Cold Beer." The sign was modern and unusual for the time. She thought of how funny it was that he would still be able to hear the organ music from the church fading behind him as he began to hear the music coming from the speaker mounted on the outside of the tavern. It could be playing Tex Ritter, Eddie Arnold or other popular country and big band musicians. Norman entered the bar in his white shirt and tie. He put his foot up on the iron rail and leaned hard against the bar. Her dad had a beer waiting for him, and he took a swallow and sat it down on the bar with a sigh of relief, like he had just finished a long day of work. Sallie thought by the look of Norman that three hours of religion was much more difficult for him than a whole day of the sheep ranching that he did for a living. He was a lean-looking man who normally wore an old dirty pair of jeans, a ragged pair of cowboy boots, and a filthy cowboy hat with sweat stains around the band. Even so Sally thought he looked better that way than in his white Sunday-best shirt and tie. She also liked him better with the scruffy unshaven face he had during the week rather than his clean shaven face, which his wife Dorothy insisted upon for Sunday. Dorthy insisted on him attending church, too. She was a difficult woman, and Sallie had the notion that if Callahan 27 every man was married to a woman like Dorothy, then the Tavern would make more money, because a man would certainly need to escape for a little drink. "Anything interesting over there today?" Farrell asked Norman. "Nope," Norman said as he loosened his tie. "It was so boring I started to wish Ham Frasier was moving his sheep today." Ham Frasier bordered on anti-Mormon as far as categorization. He let everyone know it by timing any movement of his herd from one location to another so that it would happen right in the middle of the Sunday church service. Summers were warm, and the church doors would be open, filling the meeting house full of dust, the sounds of sheep and Ham hollering and whistling. It was a disturbance to most, but a welcome relief to some like Norman. A lot of community business can be discussed in a small-town Mormon chapel, but from Norman's comment Sallie figured it had been a dull church day. As the first drinker to arrive at the tavern that Sunday, Norman had a head start on everyone else. He was already well on his way when his regular Sunday drinking buddy Ed Eastman escaped his Sunday duties and made it to the tavern. Today Ed entered with his brother, Sheriff William Eastman. They both placed a foot on the rail and leaned in to relieve their feet from the uncomfortable church shoes that confined them. Ed worked for the railroad and carried on his belt a big bundle of keys that jingled when he moved around. Sallie had heard her mother say that Ed carried that bundle of keys so he could feel important. She wondered if he needed something to make him feel important, because his brother William was the Sheriff, and he had a badge that made him legitimately important in the small community. Callahan 28 Sallie was only ten, but she knew from growing up in the tavern who drank and who didn't. Ed drank and had already downed a beer before pleasantries could be exchanged. Sallie also knew that his brother Sheriff Eastman would not be drinking. He was an active member of the Mormon religion, which did not allow the consumption of alcohol. "How's your family, Sheriff?" Farrell asked. Ralph was the name of the Sheriffs son that was Sallie's age, and she thought him a cute boy with wavy black hair, brown eyes and freckles. She often got to school about the time he arrived on the bus. He was always nice to her, and they spoke to each other occasionally when their recess activities crossed. Though she thought he was cute, it would be a few more years before they would take a liking to each other and begin their youthful courtship. "Good, thanks," the Sheriff responded, and then moved on to the reason he attended the bar occasionally. "You going to have the Sugar Ray Robinson vs. Henry Armstrong fight on the radio Friday?" "Planning on it," her father answered. Sallie had moved to the pool table and quietly rolled pool balls across the table as she watched and listened to the adults. She had learned that the tavern was more than a place for drinking, because some of the church goers would come to the tavern just to socialize. The tavern also had a radio, so anytime there was a good boxing match or the president spoke, the tavern was filled with tipplers and teetotalers. Still it wasn't a place where people brought their kids for the evening, so Sallie spent most of her time listening to adults talk. Callahan 29 She was young, but had already developed mature opinions about the nature of people. She was often privy to people's kindest or nastiest comments without them realizing the information she quietly took in. Her time in the tavern had awakened an awareness of people with good and bad characteristics and that both types could be found in the tavern just as easily as at the church across the street. Her father and the Sheriff continued their conversation with a debate about who had a longer reach out of the two boxers and who they thought would win. Sallie quietly listened as she did to all kinds of conversations, but she was watching Norman and Ed. She could tell by Norman's body movements that he was up to something. Before her dad or the sheriff knew what was happening, Norman had pulled out a pocket knife and had it headed for Ed's throat. Ed's reflexes weren't fast enough, and before he knew what had happened, Norman had cut Ed's tie off about two inches from the knot. "There — now that's better!" Norman said and returned to his drink. Ed's neck skin rolled up under his chin as he looked down to see what Norman had done to his tie. Sallie watched as Norman went back to his beer, taking another big swig. Ed didn't say a word, but before Norman could set his mug down, Ed had pulled out his pocket knife, grabbed Norman by the tie, and cut it off in the same spot. Norman looked down at his tie. "Yep, that's better too," he said. Then the two men settled in for their regular Sunday afternoon of drinking. Sallie watched as her father and the sheriff took notice of the commotion, but as it hadn't escalated into anything that required their attention they continued to talk about the upcoming fight. Since the majority of individuals in the tavern were male, Sallie had become accustomed to men; she knew the difference between playful rough-housing and a serious Callahan 30 fight. Ed and Norman were good guys; they were just feeling too tamed today. Sallie had seen mean fights; once Shags and Roy Jackson got into it with each other. The fight was so bad it got pushed out to the street in front of the tavern. Roy would get Shags down, and then Shags would get Roy down. Finally, they had each other down and were pounding on each other. Sallie smiled as she remembered that Norma Lambom drove up, got out of her car, grabbed Shags by the hair and pulled him off Roy. All the time her husband just sat in the car and watched. The time Sallie spent around men made it difficult for her to identify with women. She wished that women were as easy to understand as men. She found men to be more interesting, less judgmental of each other, and forthright when they didn't like each other. Women seemed often full of petty jealousies and insincere interactions with each other. They wouldn't punch each other like men; they would instead judge each other's actions and say mean things behind each other's backs. She knew that her mother was very good at this and possessed one of the hottest mouths in town. Sallie watched Norman and Ed for a few more moments, but the excitement was over, so she continued playing at the pool table a little wiser than when she started. Callahan 31 Chapter 3 - Milking Ralph took the half-gallon Kero syrup bucket when his father handed it to him. In the future his father would become the county sheriff, but today Ralph only knew his father as a rancher. Ralph was four, so going to the barn with his father was exciting. His father pulled a small stool up next to one of their cows and told him to sit on the stool and squeeze the empty Kero syrup bucket between his knees. Ralph listened as his father explained how he would have to start at the top of the teat and then squeeze the milk down with his hand and fingers. Ralph had watched his dad do it many times, but his hands were so small that it was difficult to make the process work. His father ruffled his hair. "You keep at it and it will get easier," and his father moved to the next cow and began to milk. Ralph was still on the first cow when his father finished milking the last of their twelve cows. "Let's see how you did." Ralph handed him the bucket, but it wasn't even half full. "Move over." Ralph jumped off the stool, and his father sat down. Ralph put his small hand on his father's shoulder and watched while he finished milking the cow. He then carried his small bucket as he followed his father to the large milk can. "Poor it into the can." He tried to follow the actions of his father, but some of the milk spilled onto the ground. Callahan 32 "Put the lip of the bucket on the milk can, and poor it quickly, and you won't lose so much milk. You need to be careful with the milk. Spilling it is like throwing away money." Ralph followed his father as he then carried the heavy milk cans outside the barn. Ralph was tired, and his hands ached from trying to milk the one cow. He knew that they would wait for the milk company to arrive. Finally he could see the old milk truck coming toward the barn. His father loaded the full cans, and empty ones were left for the next milking. Once the empty cans were put away for the morning milking, Ralph and his father closed the barn doors, until returning for the evening milking. His father put his hand on Ralph's shoulder as they walked up to the house for dinner. "It's your job to help me milk the cows from now on. That means getting up early every morning to milk and then milking again before dinner." Ralph didn't say anything, but he felt grown up to be given a chore. Over time the barn became a second home to Ralph, a sanctuary from the ranch house crowded and noisy with children. The smell of hay and animals was familiar and comfortable. He continued to milk cows with his father each day until he was old enough and fast enough to do the chore all by himself. One evening Ralph opened the barn door to escape from the commotion in the house. His parents had gone to town for the evening, so he was excited to crank up the old 6-volt radio that hung on the wall and listen to music while he did his evening chores. He didn't get to listen to it much, because the battery would run down quickly, and his parents always liked it charged up. But tonight there was no one to tell him to turn the radio off, so to him that was as good as someone telling him he could. Any reprimand he Callahan 33 might receive seemed worth the pleasure of listening tonight. The music filled his ears as he turned from the radio and set his stool beside the first cow. He remembered how when he was little it was exciting to milk the cows, but now it was just a chore that had to get done. The music from the radio made the job go faster, so he always felt more grown up than his eight years when he did the chore alone. Ralph was the second oldest son and fearless. By nature Ralph just knew that he could handle whatever might happen even when his parents would leave them home alone. He was pouring the last of the milk into the milk can; when the radio announcer interrupted with a special news bulletin. The words would replay through his mind even as an old man. "Japan has attacked Pearl Harbor. We are at war." Ralph knew how serious it was, and the excitement that the news provoked was mixed with a nervous feeling he rarely felt. He wondered what it all meant. He finished his chores and slowly carried the heavy milk cans to the pick-up location just in time to load them on the truck. He returned the empty cans to the barn and then walked toward the house with the quart bottle of cream he had saved for his mother. He had heard the adults talking about what would happen if the U.S. entered the war. He understood that war would be a hardship on any ranchers who might lose their older sons to the war effort. He was thankful that Arlo was too young to go to war. As he reached the back door to the house, he turned and looked out at the fields and creek that surrounded his world. He breathed in the cold winter air. The animals were quieted down for the night; the summer crickets had long since been buried in snow, and there was seldom the sound of cars out at their ranch. He was thrilled by the absolute silence that surrounded him. Callahan 34 He remembered how just a few months earlier he and his brother Arlo, who was ten, and his father had been at the upper ranch about two miles away docking lambs. He remembered what a nice day it was and how his mother had packed them a lunch in a big paper bag. There were sandwiches and fruit and a two-quart bottle of milk. Ralph smiled to himself as he thought about how they had all ridden Tony, their horse, bareback that day, because the horse was difficult to saddle and would often bite whoever tried to put the saddle on him. He remembered that he sat at the front holding the coarse hair of the horse's mane with his father behind him. Arlo was at the back with his arms around his father. As Tony walked the trail to the upper ranch where their grandma and grandpa lived, the bottom of the two quart glass bottle of milk broke letting cool milk splash over the horse's hot front shoulders. The horse was so spooked by the surprising sensation that he jumped what felt like eight feet high to Ralph. All three of them went up with the horse, but came down landing on the ground in the very same position as they had been seated on the horse. No one was hurt, and they sat laughing together on the ground. They worked hard that day and on the way home Ralph remembered how different it sounded with the crickets still enjoying the last bit of summer before cold weather. His father had stopped on the ridge overlooking the ranch and just sat there. "Everything I care about is right down there," his father said looking at Ralph and then over his shoulder at Arlo. At first Ralph had thought he meant the ranch and land, and that may have been part of it, but then he noticed their tiny ranch house with warm light showing from the windows. Ralph knew that his father loved his mother and their family and that was what Callahan 35 he really meant by his comment. It was a realization that Ralph would carry with him into adulthood and that would shape the love he would have for his own wife and family. Ralph was brought back to the present by the sounds of Flora, his next younger sister, trying to get the even younger children ready for bed inside the house. He sat down on the back step not ready to give up the thoughtful state that he found himself in. Callahan 36 Chapter 4 - The Fall Ralph sat in church, not hearing anything that anyone was saying. He kept his head down and his eyes on the floor as the congregation sang the sacrament hymn. He couldn't look at his father sitting at the front of the congregation in his new position as the bishop. A surge of anger went through him as he shifted in his seat, and a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He wanted to get up right then and leave, just walk out in the middle of the service, but he restrained himself. He sat there thinking about why he was there. Mostly he thought it was because he had been taught that good people go to church on Sunday. Perhaps he had never considered that bad people could sit in church and appear to be good. Suddenly it didn't make any sense. He felt for the first time in his life that it was all for show and that he couldn't assume he was a good person or that he was surrounded by good people just because they were at church. His faith was shaken, and he wondered what evil secrets lay in the hearts of the congregation. How could his father sit at the head of the worshippers when he was capable of such violence and rage? Ralph sat there replaying the events of a few days earlier in his mind. He remembered how his father had decided to gravel an area of mud near the barn. This would help when the cows were brought in for milking, to keep their udders from dragging in the muck, which took time and effort to clean before milking. A bucket was purchased for their small tractor, which would allow them to move gravel without hauling it in by hand. Ralph was twelve, and had full permission to use the tractor on the project. "Damn it," he cussed to himself as he felt the tractor begin to lose traction. Callahan 37 One time he and his siblings had gotten the tractor stuck so badly that they worked hours to get it out with no success. They had finally taken a break for lunch and decided to pray that they could get it out. When they returned, the tractor pulled right out of the mud. Ralph wasn't in the praying mood at the moment. He tried to move the tractor again as his father walked up. "What in the hell are you doing?" his father asked? Ralph was caught off guard because getting stuck was a common occurrence and, though annoying, not a big deal in his mind. "If you'd be more careful and pay attention to what you're doing, then this wouldn't happen." His father's voice was sharp and raising to a holler as he inspected the situation. Ralph was irritated by the rebuke and didn't understand why his father was so upset. "Stupid thing to do," his father yelled at him. Ralph could feel his temper snap. He was only twelve, but he felt that he did the work of a full grown man and didn't like being yelled at like a child. "Jesus Christ, I couldn't help it." There are those moments that remain frozen in time, and this was one of them - the words, the meaning, and the inability to take them back hung over the two. It may have been the result of a father, tired from the weight of work, family and religious responsibilities, and a son struggling to be seen as a man and not as a child that escalated the situation. It was as if they had been corralled like cattle, driven to this point and unable to stop the sequence of events about to unravel. Callahan 38 Ralph knew that taking the Lord's name in vain was a sin and completely unacceptable to his father. He could see something in his father's eyes and he knew he would be punished for his words. Being raised on a farm he had received the strap several times by the hand of his father for various farm-boy antics. When his father moved toward him, Ralph on impulse turned and ran. He thought maybe if he could stay away from his father for a few hours the punishment might be less severe, but to his surprise his father followed him in chase. Ralph managed to stay a few steps ahead of him all the way across the field, but as they neared the edge of the property Ralph could feel him on his heels. Instinctively he dropped to the ground in a crouching position causing his father to trip over him. Ralph thought when his father tripped he would have a chance to escape, but before he could get any distance his father grabbed him and threw him back to the ground. He felt a shock wave through his body as his father landed a punch to his ribs and then continued with repeated blows to his shoulders and body. Ralph could hear him yelling, but the words were garbled in his mind. The beating ended abruptly when his father got up and walked in the direction of home. Ralph struggled to his feet; his head felt hot from running, and his whole body shook from the surge of adrenaline he had received while trying to fight off the beating. The numbing effects of shock wore off gradually so with each step he began to feel a whirl of pain and confusion. His first instinct was to run away; all he had to do was walk over the hill to the Livestock Ranch. He could find J. Longhurst, who ran the place, and get a job and never go back home. Callahan 39 He knew he shouldn't have taken the Lord's name in vain, and he felt guilt for that, but he didn't feel that the punishment he received matched the crime. He walked up through the edge of the neighboring property into the willows to get out of sight of his father, but he was surprised to see their neighbor Joe Putnam standing there. Joe had seen and heard the whole thing; Ralph put his head down and walked past. "Just one of those things that happens," Joe said. Ralph kept walking; he couldn't make sense of such a comment. He thought getting stuck in the mud was one of those things that just happens— not getting beaten for it. He knew his father would be mortified to know that someone had seen his actions. One thing about small towns that Ralph understood was that there was always someone who knew your business, and that usually meant everyone soon would. He didn't know what else to do except to keep walking, but all that walking eventually led him back home. The urge to leave hit him again as the hard church bench made his wounded body ache. He still wanted to run away, but something kept him from doing it. He couldn't understand what held him there. Maybe he knew he wasn't quite ready to be on his own; maybe he stayed because he was scared; or maybe he stayed hoping for, an apology from his father. It was out of character for his father to lose control, and that made the beating more hurtful and confusing. Ralph never would receive the apology he longed for and he never would find out why his father got so angry that day. It was a topic too ugly and painful for either to confront the other with, so it was buried deep in the psyche of father and son. Callahan 40 Ralph left his childhood behind that day. He had given up Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny years before when the magical characters of youth were revealed as frauds, but now his childhood belief in his father's honor and grandeur were also gone. Ralph remembered the many days he had spent with his father milking cows; he remembered how he thought his father was the greatest man ever. He now understood that his father had the same capacity for weaknesses as any man. It was the fall of his hero that hurt him more than the physical beating. Maybe that's what Joe meant. It's just one of those things that happen when a boy realizes that his father is an ordinary man. Years passed and Ralph did forgive his father, but the process was like a slow healing wound that left a scar. Ralph would always have a nagging belief that he was not good enough and that there was some looming punishment awaiting him for his many imperfections - the punishment not especially coming from man, but from God. The beating shook his faith in religion in such a way that for years he only occasionally attended church. However, what the event took from him in faith it gave to him in independence. He seldom asked for help and avoided having to relying on anyone. Perhaps he felt that to rely on someone would only give them the opportunity to disappoint him. The beating became a rite of passage in Ralph's mind. It was the day he became a man. Callahan 41 Related Readings and Research Bibliography Eastman, Ralph H., Personal Interviews. 1991-2011. Eastman, Sarah (Sallie) E., Personal Interviews. 1991-2011. Feller, Julie. Family Fun: Stories and Histories. St. George. 1998. Print. Jimenez, Francisco. Breaking Through. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2001. Print. Jimenez, Francisco. The Circuit. New Mexico: University of New Mexico Press. 1997. Print. Thomson, Steven L., Jane D. Digerness, Mar Jean S. Thomson. Randolph: A Look Back. Utah. 1981. Print. Walls, Jeannette. Half Broke Horses: A True-Life Novel. New York: Scribner, 2009. Print. Callahan 42