A Tribute to Thelma Foster (1915-2009) and the Foster Family of Lorane

October 28, 2019WritingsThelma Fosterpaedwards Leave a comment

by Pat Edwards

I never knew Thelma Foster well, but I’ve always had a deep respect for her work ethic and her love of family. I first met Thelma when she was the postmistress of the Lorane Post Office. She had taken over the position after her husband Harold passed away in 1968. The Lorane Post Office had been run by the Foster family since Harold’s uncle, Roy Foster, became postmaster in 1912. Harold took over in 1940 and ran it until his death. When Thelma sold the Foster Store – which housed the post office – to Joseph and Summer Allman in 1975, she built the small “A-frame” building that has served as the Lorane Post Office since. Thelma distributed mail and continued as a fixture in the daily lives of the Lorane residents who made a daily trek to pick up their mail. She was a well-respected member of her community and an obviously astute businesswoman.

Eventually, when Thelma decided it was time for her to retire, her daughter, Kathy Ledgerwood, carried on the postal duties that had become the family tradition – she, too, ran the post office for several years.

Thelma played another small part in Lorane’s history, too. When the Lorane High School was closed in 1958 following the consolidation of the Lorane School District with the Crow-Applegate School District, it was Thelma who offered the winning bid for the school property. Her bid of $2,010.53 bought the land with the provision that she have the school building demolished within one year’s time. Once the land was cleared, Thelma moved her home onto the site from where it sat on Territorial Road.

After Thelma retired, I saw little of her, but had the pleasure of watching her granddaughters, Jamie and Jenny, grow from toddlers, to the wonderful young women that they have become. I am especially close to Jamie, who came to work for me at the University of Oregon while she studied for her bachelor’s degree and, eventually, her teaching degree. I don’t know what I ever would have done without Jamie’s help and it is obvious that she inherited her grandmother’s work ethic. I was always able to count on Jamie to do whatever needed to be done and she worked independently, without supervision, allowing me to do my own work without worrying about hers. I have always considered Jamie as one of my own very special people.

As Thelma entered her later years, Jamie and Jenny helped their mother and their Uncle Brian look after Thelma. They checked in on her regularly, staying with her some nights if needed, cooking meals and providing her with the love and attention that she adored. Thelma was always independent and enjoyed living in her snug home on the hill overlooking the former Foster Store and stayed there until her health would no longer allow her to live on her own.

Thelma obviously was very close to her family. I remember watching another of her granddaughters, Kristen, playing basketball for Crow Middle School. Her Aunt Jenny was the coach for the team. Thelma loved coming to the games to watch Kristen play and Jenny coach. Her bent and frail body was supported by either a daughter or granddaughter at her side, as she slowly entered the gymnasium. Thelma sat on those hard wooden bleachers throughout each of those games and cheered with the best of us. Whenever I stopped by to say “hello,” she always had a big grin on her face and her expression registered recognition.

Thelma was a part of Lorane’s history since her marriage to Harold on November 3, 1951. There are few of her generation left. She was one of the last. Those special days of slower-paced living and a close-knit community are gone. The fast-pace of today’s world has left those days behind, but our memories of those who came before us will never die as long as we are willing to cherish their memories and their accomplishments, knowing that our lives are so much better for them.

May you rest in peace, Thelma!

Squeaky

October 28, 2019WritingsSqueaky, Stephanie Kau Furlongpaedwards Leave a comment

By Pat Edwards

(Written on March 2000)

I lost a very special friend last spring. My cat, Squeaky, died in my arms. I say “my cat” when I mention Squeaky, not because I wouldn’t share him with the rest of my family, but because that’s the way Squeaky deemed it.

squeaky

About 14 years ago, our (then) teenaged daughter brought home a starved stray cat that had been living behind a business in downtown Eugene where a friend worked. We began feeding her and soon it was evident that she was going to have kittens. Squeaky and a brother were born on our farm, but about two weeks before the kittens should have been weaned, their mother was killed by a car. I brought them into the house and was able to help them survive.

Squeaky was always the “special” one, though. He had that certain mystique about him that some cats have. He sensed my moods and when he looked at me, he looked straight into my eyes and into my soul. He was never a well cat. He had a hernia and problems with digestion throughout his life, and he was not a hunter or fighter. His mother never got around to teaching him to clean himself, so he frequently had dusty feet or an occasional burr in his dark grey and white fur. But, he adored me and he made that obvious to anyone who was around him for any length of time. I was chosen to be “his” person.

Pile up Squeak

I’d take him into the veterinary office to have his rabies shots, to have a leukemia test, and to get a refill on his steroid prescription to treat his flea allergies. Towards the end of his life, they warned me that his kidneys were beginning to shut down and he needed to eat the special low-ash canned foods available. I tried. He hated them! He refused to eat and I have learned the hard way over the years that this was his way of dealing with stress or adversity… he would just give up.

I came close to losing Squeaky several times over the years when he would wander too far from home and get lost in one of our pastures. After fruitless daily searching, we’d find him a couple of weeks later, lying on the branch of one of our huge oak trees or in a ditch somewhere, completely emaciated because he would not hunt. On those occasions, I’d carry him up to the house because he was too weak to walk and nurse him back to health as I had once done when he was a tiny kitten.

So, after a sincere effort to follow “doctor’s orders,” I went back to giving him his half can of Friskies (his favorite was the turkey and giblets) and all of the Purina Cat Chow he wanted. I knew that I would not have him much longer, but those were his terms.

One day last fall, it was obvious that he needed to be put back on his steroids. When he needed them he became neurotic and began vomiting frequently. My husband ran him to the vets’ office for his required exam before they would issue a refill and they told him that Squeaky was running a fever and that they wanted to put him on an IV for that afternoon. Jim left him there and called me at work where I was in a deadline rush to get a grant submitted (I work for the Institute of Neuroscience at the University of Oregon.) When he called again that afternoon and they told him that they wanted to keep him overnight, I was so unable to deal with it that I told him to let them go ahead. But, when they called me at work the next day and said that Squeaky was not eating at all and that he needed to be on the IV for over the weekend, I argued that he was eating fine when I brought him in… that he was just stressed by the dogs barking and being away from home. The vet insisted, however, and still rushing to get the grant out that afternoon, I agreed.

Our granddaughter, Stephanie, loved holding Squeaky, too… this time while her mom was holding themboth

My granddaughter and I went to visit Squeaky in the animal hospital that Saturday morning. He was lying flat on his side in this big cage with an IV tube taped to his leg. When he heard my voice, he raised his head and let out his trademark squeak of recognition and hobbled over to the door of the cage. I opened the door and picked him up, being careful not to tangle or pull out the tube. He grabbed me around the neck in the special way he’s always had of giving me hugs and held on for dear life. He “talked” to me and was obviously pleading with me to take him home. I wanted to, but no one was there on the weekend with the authority to release him. But, I determined that on Monday, he would be coming home regardless of what his condition was and that I would never put him through that stress again. Putting him back in that cage was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. As weak as he was, he clung to me.

If a human wasn’t available for snuggles, Squeaky settled for our granddaughters’ dolls

When I got him home, he immediately began eating and regained his strength. He once again took his place in my lap in the mornings while I drank my coffee and read the Register-Guard… something that had been our routine for years. He was obviously active and happy. A total housecat for several years, he was once again venturing out on our deck to bask in the occasional early spring sunshine and even romp with one of our other cats. But, by mid-March, I could tell that his health was deteriorating. He stopped eating for a day or two at a time. He wouldn’t clean up his half can of Friskies and drank water constantly. I knew that he had probably developed a tooth or kidney infection. I took him into the vet to get him a shot of antibiotics under the condition I be able to bring him right back home. They said that he had an abscessed tooth and that, indeed, his kidneys were failing.. They sent home some pills to give him, too. That seemed to help for awhile although I knew that I was losing him. After a week or so of good health, he once again began skipping or not finishing meals. He didn’t seem to be in pain. I bought him specially formulated “kitty milk” and under the advice of the vet, some Beech Nut chicken baby food. He loved the milk and rallied. But then one evening when I got home from work, I knew that he was not going to make it. He had grown weak and had become incontinent.

I knew it was time to let him go. I held him in my lap all evening and when we went to bed, covered him carefully. I got up during the night to hold him and talk to on him. By morning, we were still cuddled together in my lounge chair. His head was limp, but he would occasionally open his somewhat glazed eyes and stare full into mine with that same unconditional love and mystique that he’s always displayed.

I wrote an email message to my supervisor at work that I would not be going to work that day, and I went back to holding my little buddy. I talked and did a lot of crying, telling him as he slipped into unconsciousness that I was there and what a good kitty he had always been. No one else was around. My husband had left at 4 a.m. to run errands for our store in Lorane. It was just Squeaky and me.

The letter that I wrote to my supervisor in an email message describes our final hours on that morning of March 28, 2000:

I wanted to let you know… I may not be coming in today. My Squeaky is dying. My very special 14-year old cat has been at the brink of death many times during his life… in fact he must be into his 10th or 11th life right now. I know he’s surpassed his standard 9 lives. But, last night… this morning… it’s for real. I won’t be able to bring him back this time. He’s been ill with an abscessed tooth for the past couple of weeks and I was sure he’d be gone before we got back from our trip last week, but he held on and even rallied when I got home. He was on medication and was eating the little dabs of Beech Nut chicken & broth baby food and the special, formulated “kitty milk” that I dribbled into his dish several times each day. But, I knew that his kidneys were beginning to fail him and I knew that he didn’t have a lot of time left… even though I had convinced myself that once again, he and I had come out on top… had beaten the odds. He was once again “talking to me” and insisting on sitting on my lap each morning as I drank my morning coffee and read the R-G. He actually tottered out onto our deck yesterday morning to check out the dog dish, to let our dog know that he was still “in charge” even though he had no desire to eat anything. As he sat on my lap yesterday morning, he gave me his usual nudges against my chin with his nose while he purred and scraped the side of his canine tooth gently across my skin. But, when I got home last night, he was so weak that he could barely stand on his own. He wouldn’t eat and only drank a little water while I steadied him at his dish. I held him all during the evening… the dishes are still in the sink… and I took him to bed with me last night to keep his “oh-so-frail” body warm. About 1 a.m. I decided that he would be better off lying in his round, fleece-lined kitty bed, swaddled in a warm towel so that I wouldn’t smother him. I got up every hour during the night to stroke and talk to him and slept lightly in between visits. This morning, miraculously, he is still holding on. He can’t lift his head and he no longer wants to be picked up, but when I reach down and stroke the soft fur behind his ears and between his eyes, he opens them and listens to me talk to him in the “kitty talk” that we’ve always shared. I can’t leave him now, and I won’t take him to the vet’s office for an injection that will end his long struggle. He’s not in pain and he’s much more comfortable at home knowing that I am here with him.

When I got up at 5:30 this morning, I put on my boots and selected the site where I will bury him. I dug his grave on a gently sloping hill under two beautiful fir trees that stand century in the pasture beside our driveway. The soil isn’t muddy. It’s crumbly and rich from years of shed fir needles. It’s ready, and I think he’s ready, and… I guess, I’ll have to be. So, would you please forgive me for putting a cat before my job? I will monitor my messages from home and will be in tomorrow for sure. Thanks for your understanding.

Squeaky died in my arms around noon that day. It was peaceful. He drifted into a coma and slowly stopped breathing.

I buried Squeaky in the little grave that I dug for him that morning. Shortly afterwards, I planted a bed of pansies and day lilies on top and my granddaughters and I have tended “Squeaky’s Flower Bed” since. The area deer have enjoyed the pansies, but the day lilies still stand sentry.

I miss him still and will always weep whenever I relive his life and death through these words. In my opinion, it was the best way to say goodbye to a special friend.

A Tribute to Walt Hayes (1931-2009)

October 27, 2019WritingsLorane Oregon, Walter A. Hayespaedwards Leave a comment

By Pat Edwards

The Lorane community has lost an icon… a piece of our history… in the passing of Walt Hayes on January 13, 2009. Walt, whose family settled in the area in 1897, had roots that went deep into the soil of the valley. Walt’s father, Bert Hayes, who was 13 years old at the time, brought his wheelchair-bound father, James, and his two siblings to the area by wagon train, first settling in the Hadleyville area near Crow. After James died in 1901, the children went to live with various families throughout the area. Bert and his brother Ted were taken in by the Sanderson family of Lorane and Bert later married Roselthe Margaret Harris in 1920. Walt was the third child born to their family of five.

Walt Hayes 1 Walt loved telling stories about his heritage. The people who touched his own life and those of his family remained important to him and when Nancy O’Hearn, Marna Hing and I began researching the history of the area, Walt became one of our richest “fonts of knowledge.” He was able to tell us much about the people, with all of their special qualities and quirks and experiences, who once populated the valley; he pointed out where homes, mills and businesses once stood; he told stories that made us laugh and cry, bringing to life, once more, the people and the way of life that came before us. We learned what a fun-loving character Frank Davis was – how he taught the fine art of spitball making to the local boys during church and how he frequently became the focus of their pranks, especially around Halloween. Walt told about his mother, Rose Harris Hayes, and the special love he had for her. We learned about the farming practices of the old Lorane Orchards and how local people, young and old, were employed in planting, caring for and harvesting the pears, apples and plums that grew on the 1,800 acres where King Estate Winery now sits.

Walt and his wife, LouDell, whose family were also pioneers in the area, complimented each other. They shared an interest in their community and were both extremely active in various organizations – Lorane Grange, Lorane Christian Church, Lorane Volunteer Fire Department, Lorane P.T.C., Crow-Applegate-School Board, the Lorane “Old-Timers’ Picnic,” and 4-H, to name a few. Their children, Kim, Laurie and Brad, were raised by loving parents who took an active interest in them.

Walt had a special gift, too. He was a “water-witcher.” He helped local people find underground water supplies into which they could sink wells for their homes. Walt never knew just how to explain how the “witching” worked. He thought it had something to do with magnetic energy… maybe… but it did work for him. And, water was not the only thing that he was able to find with his devining rods. In later years, he found that he was able to locate graves in the Grange Cemetery that no longer had headstones. I watched him demonstrate this not too long ago… last August, as a matter of fact.

Walt demo 8x10 Twenty-three members of the Jost and Jerusha Petrie family contacted me about coming to Lorane to visit their ancestors’ gravesites and to see where they had once lived in the late 1800s and early 1900s. They were coming from Wisconsin, New York, Chicago and California to a wedding in Portland and planned to drive down to Lorane the next day. I asked Walt if he would be willing to be their tour guide. At first, he was afraid that he couldn’t… that he had some previous plans for that day… but I found out later, that he cancelled his plans to spend the day with the Petries, much to Lou’s frustration! We all met that morning at the Lorane Grange Cemetery and Walt showed us the large obelisk headstone marking the graves of Jost and Jerusha. I explained to the Petries that Walt was able to “witch” gravesites and had done so as a project for the Cottage Grove Genealogy Society so that they could map and mark the graves there. He agreed to give them a demonstration. As Walt walked across areas of ground near the headstone with his “L-shaped” devining rods in each hand, they pointed straight ahead, but as soon as he began to cross over one of the graves, they slowly began turning inward towards each other, crossing into an “X-shape.” He did it time and again while the family members watched in astonishment. Soon several of the Petries asked to try their hand at witching.

Most were met with failure, but one sister-in-law from New York, as she walked across a grave discovered that she had “the gift,” as well. The rods slowly crossed in her hands and as she got on the other side, they went back to their original position. This became one of the highlights of their visit, I later learned. Walt spent the whole day with the family. They treated him to lunch at King Estate and he went with them to look over the land where Jost and Jerusha once lived. Thanks to Walt, the Petrie family was able to touch their roots that day. I understand that they have expressed their sympathy and deep respect for Walt in letters to Lou when I notified them of his passing.

There will never be another Walt Hayes. We were only able to record a minute number of his stories in our book Sawdust and Cider; A History of Lorane, Oregon and the Siuslaw Valley, but I am so thankful that we were able to get the ones that we did. Many stories died with Walt, but he was able to help us open the door to Lorane’s past, and thanks to him, that special part of the past will never die.