More From My Dad

2006-11-22 04:42:00

The group is headed the right direction in comments about "The Seven Letters." We will begin covering them shortly.

In response to a previous article entitled "Adding To & Taking Away," Keith writes:

"I have never heard or read anybody stating that saying Hail Mary's will bring about a persons redemption.

"Hail Mary's are used as a form of prayer, penance, or as a vehicle of contemplation/meditation.

"I've never heard or read anywhere that praying to saints will give one redemption either. This is not a Catholic teaching. Catholics have never taught that redemption can be achieved by either praying to saints or saying Hail Mary's.

"My Catholic upbringing is rearing its head."

JJ:

Actually none of the points I mentioned would bring redemption by themselves. For instance, no religion believes attending meetings by themselves will insure salvation, but it is part of the package that one must abide for eternal life insurance.

Perhaps the following statement I made could be clarified:

"Other seekers make a mistake in the opposite direction in adding unnecessary dead works that are supposed to bring redemption."

Changing the last word would bring greater accuracy:

"Other seekers make a mistake in the opposite direction in adding unnecessary dead works that are supposed to bring assistance."

Various ceremonies in the Catholic and other churches are generally not thought to bring redemption by themselves, but assistance on the path that leads to redemption.

Ruth writes:

"Just came across this in the Archives, didn't even know it was there!

"Thanks for sharing his story.

"The story is found at:

"'As I Remember.'"

I posted this link several years ago. It is my Dad's autobiography. If you read it I think you see where I inherited my writing ability. My Dad's written a number of books. Maybe I'll post more of them.

He's a great story teller but I need to edit his material as he only had an eighth grade education.

I found a letter he wrote me that I am going to make the last chapter in his autobiography. Here is part of it:

Joe... Got your nice letter just before I left Yuma, about a month Ago.

I am now at Kingman, which is about half way to the Utah border. Am just a little over two hundred miles from Lorin and Bertie.

As I grow older, I miss the family more; I guess a person is almost a kid again when they get to be my age.

It is nice to know that at least one member of the family, is interested in my stories. And if anything should happen to cause this old guy to pass on, I think you are the one that should take over.

Whether or not these yarns are of commercial value, I do not know. But this is for certain... Along the way, many of my friends and people that I have met have read them; and most all agree, that they are far more interesting than most novels. Probably not as well written, but they hold the interest of the reader, right down to the last line.

With only an eighth grade education and no lessons in typing also, I never attempted to write a yarn of any kind, until I was past sixty years of age. Tends to prove one thing... There is a lot of difference between an educated writer, and an author. I will give you an illustration... A true one.

After your mother and I split up, I moved to Boise. Brother Dell and I had lost control of the Silica plant at Emmett, also the Limestone mountain at Durkee Oregon. We went looking for something else to get into; mining, preferred. We ended up in the mountains near Stanley Basin, which, at one time, there were many rich gold mines.

There was an old newspaper office there that had been in business for a long time. They had copies of news items that dated back to the gold rush days. One yarn that interested us more than the rest was the closing of the old Charles Dickens mine.

This was one of the richest mines in that area. Ore that was so rich that some of the outcroppings were almost solid gold. After the Hi-grade was removed, a horse drawn arrasta was installed to grind the remaining ore. It was a mighty slow process.

The mine was finally abandoned. The fortune hunters moved on to new strikes, leaving the thousands of tons of unmined ore.

There should be a fortune left, we concluded. With modern machinery and a little luck, we should make millions... At least, we had a prospect...

We were short on money. We had to sell stock in this venture to make it work. We would need something to excite the investor. A good yarn about those good-old-days just might do the trick, we decided.

Neither of us had any experience in this sort of thing, but somehow I got elected to do the job... So, this was my first story... "Those Good Old Days."

That is what I decided to called my yarn. I used a combination of fiction and non-fiction. I quoted many of the old news items I had read in the old newspapers. I told about the rich gold strike at the Charles Dickens, and more. I told about the big snow slide that almost wiped out the city. I told about the bar-room brawls, also the many women that appeared on the scene.

Of course I did all this in plain handwriting. I knew a lady in Boise that was a typist. I turned the thing over to her.

Down on the creek just below the mine was an old abandoned gold dredge. It had taken millions in gold from the creek and rivers below. It had followed the gold trail, right up to the rich Charles Dickens mine - THE MOTHER LODE! At least that is what I wrote in my story...

Now I am about to get to where something happened to make me realize that there was a big difference between an author, and a writer.

I was alone, Sitting at the controls of the old dredge, reading the manuscript that that the lady had just typed out for me. I had just finished the last page, when suddenly I realized that I was not alone. I heard a man clear his throat, and he was standing just back of me. I turned and looked up at him.

"Howdy... I didn't hear you come up here," I said.

He smiled a friendly smile... "Didn't mean to slip up on you. Didn't know anyone was up here."

I looked the guy over. He was an elderly guy that could sure use a shave, I thought. He looked vaguely familiar.

"You live around here?" I asked.

He nodded, "Yes, I got a shack down at Ketchum, just out of Sun Valley."

"What inspired you to come up here today?" I asked.

"Was just driving by and thought I saw some movement up here. Just curious, I guess... And may I ask, just what the Hell are you doing up here?"

I looked down at the dozen or so sheets of paper in front of me. Then back to the guy with the whiskers. "Just finished writing a short story about the by-gone days of this neighborhood.?" I told him. ?"Nice and quiet up here."

The guy raised an eyebrow, "A writer, eh? Mind if I take a look?"

I felt flattered. Maybe he had some money to invest. I handed him the manuscript. "Here." I told him, "Read it. It will only take you a few minutes. I'll go take a leak." I headed for the rear of the dredge.

About ten minutes later I returned to the control station. The man laid down the last page and looked up at me. There was a twinkle in his eye,

"How long have you been writing?" he asked.

"I am a miner." I told him, "Just decided to write a bit about the by-gone days of this part of the country. What do you think?"

"Would you like an honest opinion?"

"I sure would... This is my first yarn."

For a moment, the man stood there, his eyes half closed. Suddenly he smiled.

I will never forget those words that he spoke:

"Mister, you are a piss poor writer... But, you are one hell of a Story Teller. Keep up the good work." He laid a small white card down by the manuscript and walked slowly away. Out of curiosity I picked up the card.

I about fell of the dredge... The man was, ERNEST HEMMINGWAY.