Looking Back to Then

Growing up in Libby,Montana was great. I wrote this poem a few years ago as a tribute to friends, family, both living and those lost. Click on the photo to enlarge.

Randy J. Cole

Growing Up in a Small Towns

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I copied this from an e-mail that my sister sent me. Most of it fits the small town,(Libby Montana) I grew up in.



Those who grew up in small towns will laugh
when they read this.

Those who didn't, will be in disbelief and
won't understand how true it is.

1) You can name everyone you graduated with.

2) You know what 4-H means.

3) You went to parties at a pasture, barn,
gravel pit, or in the middle of a dirt road. On Monday, you could always
tell who was at the party because of the scratches on their legs from
running through the woods when the party was busted. (See #6.)

4) You used to 'drag' Main.

5) You whispered the 'F' word and your
parents knew within the hour.

6) You scheduled parties around the
schedules of different police officers, because you knew which ones would
bust you and which ones wouldn't.

7) You could never buy cigarettes because
all the store clerks knew how old you were (and if you were old enough,
they'd tell your parents anyhow.) Besides, where would you get the money?

8) When you did find somebody old enough and
brave enough to buy cigarettes, you still had to go out into the country and
drive on back roads to smoke them.

9) You knew which section of the ditch you
would find the beer your buyer dropped off.


10) It was cool to date somebody from the
neighboring town.

11) The whole school went to the same party
after graduation.

12) You didn't give directions by street
names, but rather by references. Turn by Nelson's house, go 2 blocks to
Anderson's, and it's four houses left of the track field.

13) The golf course had only 9 holes.

14) You couldn't help but date a friend's
ex-boyfriend/girlfriend.

15) Your car stayed filthy because of the
dirt roads, and you will never own a dark vehicle for this reason.

16) The town next to you was considered
'trashy' or 'snooty,' but was actually just like your town.

17) You referred to anyone with a house
newer then 1955 as the 'rich' people.

18) The people in the 'big city' dressed
funny, and then you picked up the trend 2 years later.

19) Anyone you wanted could be found at the
local gas station or the only restaurant.

20) You saw at least one friend a week
driving a tractor through town or one of your friends driving a grain truck
to school occasionally. Now days it's a four wheeler!

21) The gym teacher suggested you haul hay
for the summer to get stronger.

22) Directions were given using THE stop
light as a reference.

23) When you decided to walk somewhere for
exercise, 5 people would pull over and ask if you wanted a ride.

24) Your teachers called you by your older
siblings' names.

25) Your teachers remembered when they
taught your parents.

26) You could charge at any local store or
write cheques without any ID.

27) There was no McDonalds

28) The closest mall was over an hour away.
(What was a mall)?

29) It was normal to see an old man riding
through town on a riding lawn mower.

30) You've pee'd in a hay field.

31) Most people went by a nickname.

32) You laughed your butt off reading this
because you know it is true, and you forward it to everyone who may have
lived in a small town.

I would not have wanted to have been raised
any other way!!!




Tough times don't last....

Tough people do





















































----- End forwarded message -----




----- End forwarded message -----

Just One of Those Things

The day was clear and beautiful. Visibility was endless with the hum of the Cessna's engine making my eyelids heavy. I don't know who the pilot was or what we were even looking for. Off to my left I spot a slight glimmer from the ground about a mile from our location. I point it out to the faceless pilot and we bank and descend slowly circling a small aircraft which laid upon the flat brown prairie at the edge of a small ravine. It resembled a child's toy that had been stepped on by a carless passerby. Next to the aircraft, stood two people, waiving to us. I don't know who the woman was but the tall man in the gold sport coat was without a doubt, Mr. Robert Fields. I smiled when I recognized him, the pilot of my aircraft tipped the wings back and forth, then without ceremony, I woke from the dream. How odd this was to dream of a person from such a long time ago. Mr. Fields was a prominent teacher in the Libby school system but one that I actually never had as a teacher. My memories of Mr. Fields were limited to one single morning during what was called Mini Week, while I was in High School in 1970. Mini week consisted of activities other than the boring school routine and in my case, I had signed up for my first ride in an airplane. The pilot was Mr. Fields, the same man who 30 plus years later, I would dream of as being one of two survivors of an apparent plane crash. The dream struck me funny but it did not warrant deep pondering until I went online the next day and brought up my hometown newspaper, The Western News. This is something I still do to check the status of my little hometown. I think we all have a tendency to check the obituaries to make sure we are not in them. As I began to look through the short list of the deceased, a chill ran down my spine and I will admit my eyes began to tear up a bit. Staring at me from the screen was an oversize photo of the man that had given me my first plane ride and who the night before had sent me a message. According to the obituary, he had died from the effects of Alzheimer's while in a nursing home. It would be interesting to get other peoples perspective of the circumstances surrounding this dream and the obituary entry the next day. It is difficult for me to write this off as "Just One of Those Things." For whatever the reason he decided to send me a message after his passing, I was thankful then and I am thankful now. On a side note, I hope he wasn't giving me a heads up on how my life might end. I do a lot of flying, but I suppose that if I were seated in an aircraft that was headed toward its demise, I would be perhaps a bit more relaxed because of the vision of Mr. Fields wave signaling that everything is ok. Thank you Mr. Fields, until we cross paths again.

32 Chevy

1932 Chevy fire truck. Libby Montana Fire Department

This is a 1932 Chevy firetruck that is owned by Tom Wood, Fire Chief of the Libby Montana Fire Department. I have been planning on a photo project for sometime with this truck. I finally had my chance last week while I was home visiting my kids and friends. This is the one I chose for the piece.

"I Grow Old" For Mothers Day

Click photo to read.

One of the prominent memories I have of my mother goes back to 1962. It was the Cuban missile crises, which although was taking place thousands of miles away from our Montana home, was still of concern. I only had a slight idea of what was going on, but then again I was only 6. I do remember my mother being very worried and listening to Walter Cronkite, as he spoke of what could happen should mistakes be made. The part of this that is burned into my memory, is me standing in our front yard just behind my mother. A breeze moving through the trees, just enough to make me notice fallen autumn leaves slowly pass over the shadow of my mom . She turned and looked at me as the city did a test of the sirens which would warn of an impending nuclear attack. The fear that it placed in me will not soon be forgotten. As the sirens ripped through the cool fall air I stepped close to my mom and my little shadow was soon consumed by moms. She put her arm around my shoulder and soon much of my fear was brought under control by her touch. It was not until many years later that I started to think about my parents mortality. I distinctly remember that I thought long and hard about it and came to the conclusion that they could not die before me. I simply could not handle the idea. They did pass however and it was painful. My father, in 1998, from a relentless cancer and my mother,in 2003, of the combined effects of diabetes and Alzheimer’s. In both cases they suffered enough, and as painful as it was, it was a relief that they moved on to the next step.
Over the past few years I have reflected a lot on that October day in our front yard. I give thanks to this woman, Celina M. Cole, for casting a tall straight and comforting shadow that will remain with us kids, until it is our time to move on as well.



Randy J. Cole

Crisp Montana Air

During the winter of 2007,my wife Chaniya and I went to Turner Mountain ski area near Libby Montana. I had planned on a few shots of the ski lift from the parking lot. I had no interest at all in going up the hill on the lift because I am a chicken. I really am not impressed with heights. My wife put me on the spot when we were approached by the lift operator who invited us to take a ride to the top. I politely told him that my wife would not like it much but as these words left my mouth, Chaniya said, "Honey, I think we should do it. I was stunned and now trapped. We had to go up the hill, my little wife from Thailand said we should. To back out now would expose me as a coward. We went and it was a treat for sure. The beauty could not be measured. Chaniya held on with both hands to the center pole and kept her eyes shut most of the way up. I was very proud of her for making me go. The photos that I shot on the trip up and while on top were some of the best I have taken to date. Thank you dear for being so brave.

Randy

Clara

Clara attempts to impress the boys with her best PEZ imitation.

Randy J. Cole

Boys Will Be Boys

This week has been interesting. A small herd of mule deer decided to move into the neighborhood. They have been eating the apples at the neighbors house and bedding down for naps. As you can see they also use the time to practice their skills. This is in town I might add and not out in the country. Goofy deer!

Randy

September 29, 1998, Last Entry

The days grow shorter and colder. The date 9/29/2008 approaches and will mark the 10th anniversary of my fathers death. Wilbur Gillian Cole. A house painter and a good father. He worked all of his life harder than most. Providing things for his family that many of the wealthier families could never acquire. A skating rink in our front yard where we could skate into the night while polka music played on the outside speakers. Wonderful memories that make me feel lost as I look at the modern world of video games and skate boards. We were lucky in so many ways.
My father worked until 1986 and had just begun to enjoy his retirement. A few issues came to be, like the cancer that paid him a visit in his colon. He thought he had won that round. Cancer is a stubborn foe, it would return later in his life.
My wonderful mother Celina, started to fade from our lives as well. Alzheimer disease started her down the long road to childhood and finally darkness. My dad struggled to care for this wonderful woman the best he could but when he no longer had the strength, due to the cancer which had returned, my mother was placed into a home in Spokane, Washington. My sisters and I made regular visits to her and she received the finest care possible.
At some point in time, during my dads struggle with cancer, one of my sisters left a message to dad on the chalk board in the basement. Uplifting messages to help him fight and remember that we cared. The messages were written with every visit.
The last entry read, “Dad passed away 9/29/98 3:15 p.m.” We all can look at an event that occurs right before or after the death of a loved one and relate to it as a sign that all is well. The passing of my father was no different in a number of ways. I will never forget the nurse who came into the room seconds after dad took his last breath and in a loud strong voice while throwing open the curtains said, “Oh Wilbur, you did such a wonderful job!” It really lifted the gloom that had filled the room and we started to heal. One of the signs witnessed by someone other than a family member occurred at the care center where my mother Celina, unable to speak for sometime prior to my father’s death, very clearly yelled my father’s name, “Wilbur” at or very close to the time of my fathers death before retreating back into herself until her death in 2003.
The chalk board and messages still exists but I covered the original with another board in an attempt to protect some family history.

Ignite The Nites

Ignite the Nites is a great way to spend the hot summer nights in Libby, if you are at all a person who enjoys automobiles. This celebration is sponsored by a local car club called the Igniters. Friday afternoon the fun begins at 5 p.m. when Mineral Ave. is shut down and turned over to the 130 some collector cars and their owners. They spend a few hours driving back and fourth displaying their machines. The ones that can do so are allowed to burn off the tires. It was interesting and provided a glimpse into a world in which $4.00 a gallon gas has got to take some of the fun out of celebration. The celebration goes through the weekend and includes numerous activities.

The Reach

I have been so busy while at home. Not a lot of time to do much with the blog. I thought I would throw some of my past photo work at you for now. This is one of my sons. This photo was untouched. Hey launched into his rendition of Some Where Over The Rainbow.

Wrapped Around Your Finger

I had been out of the hospital for a short time and the pain was still significant in the upper abdomen. It was the first body part that I had lost since the removal of my foreskin shortly after my birth. Thinking about it, if at my age I was to have a choice of having my foreskin removed or my gallbladder I would go with the gallbladder. I hated the removal of my gallbladder, but just the thought of the other one really gets to me.
My wonderful girlfriend spent the night in the hospital with me; this was big because she has a very strong dislike of hospitals. It was comforting knowing that she had made the sacrifice on my behalf.
Chaniya’s stay had been really wonderful and we decided that we got along very well as a couple. The hospital stay was the closing deal. I loved her and she loved me. The only thing that gave us both a worry was our financial situation. I had a huge mortgage, child support, and cost of everyday living and some bad investments on my part. Not a great start but we were convinced that we would overcome. Now looking at the mystery of hospital bills that may not be covered by my insurance, it was worth the risk and we decided to take it.
The darkness of the place consumed the would be shadows of a couple seated near the fireplace. The sound of others immersed in their own conversations about life in Libby, Montana. The place is called The MK Steakhouse just out of town. It has been a fixture in our community for many years and is what you would expect from an upper crust steakhouse in a small town. Blue jeans and no ties, well once and a while, maybe a tie. This is a place that means a lot to me. Built by the guy, Ed Lewis, or better known as, The Montana Kid, who was the original trainer for the television horses, Flicka and Fury. It is also the place where I was seated enjoying a fillet minion with my ex-wife. As I shoved a big tender piece of meat into my face, a beautiful blond with the lowest cut blue jeans I have ever seen stopped and looked at the cut of beef on my plate and said, “My gosh, that looks really good.” I answered, but I am sure she did not understand what I had said, how embarrassing. The blond was Hollywood party girl, Tara Reid. She was in town filming a independent film at one of our local lakes.
But on the night that I sat with Chaniya, I forgot about the other times I spent in the MK. I was focused on the black haired Asian beauty that sat across from me. A small basket of dark bread had been served to our table. The bread had been accompanied by little blocks of butter, wrapped in gold foil. Before the dinner course could be served I made my move. In the darkness I dropped to one of my knees before this woman that I loved. The words came out clear, “Chaniya, I love you and I would very much like you to be my wife.” I took her long beautiful fingers and singled out the ring finger on her left hand. As she smiled and said yes, I carefully guided the gold ring fashioned out of the foil from a Medowgold butter chunk smoothly over the first joint and the second as if it had been made for her finger. It also could have been the butter. We laughed about it at the time as she made adjustments to its imperfect shape.
I can only speak for myself, although I am sure that Chaniya would agree, when I say that the silly little foil ring fashioned from a cover for a stick of butter, means more to us then any other material possession that we hold. It is a true symbol of a love that is real and the day by day struggles we need to overcome and even more importantly the ones behind us.
I am sure in my heart, that one day; I will leave her alone on this earth. I have an image of Chaniya many years after I am gone preparing for her own journey. She will reach into a special place and remove the yellowed little box. She will explain to her daughter the importance of the gold foil ring. Her daughter will understand and Chaniya will carry it with her on her journey. In that respect, Chaniya and I are the richest people on this earth.

Honey I love you!
Randy

Images by Chaniya Ninbanphot Cole

Anytime Now

While going through some older photos, 2003 , I found this one of a goofy little dog we once had. Peter Parker was his name and he was a character. He would get up on the sofa 15 minutes before the kids would arrive home from school and stand watch. One of his flaws was that he thought he was flawless. He found out he wasn't when he was ran over in front of some of my kids, by a big truck. I was of course on the slope at the time, so my then wife, Julie, had to deal with the aftermath.

I still miss him!

Random 1

I just felt as though I wanted to share a random photo with you of a random scene in the northwest part of Montana, an area that I currently call home. Did I mention that the Random Mobile (my PT Cruiser) is also featured here. It is such a beautiful area with so many things to see. While growing up in Montana, I seem to have gotten lost in being a kid and I really did not see the wonders of the area at the time. I remember being in the countryside cutting fire wood with my dad. We would take a lunch break and he would sit on a log and eat his food while looking at the surrounding mountains. My dad was just simply enjoying the clean air and the views that abound in Montana. I missed out because I could only think of getting home and enjoying the last few hours of my weekend. I let my father down because I know that he was trying to make me understand how fortunate I was for being born in such a great place. I left Montana in 73 to serve in the Air Force. I never really thought I would end up back in Libby, Montana, but I did. I look around at all of the mountains, lakes, streams and the wildlife, and I wonder why I missed it the first time around. While my kids are with me for visits in Montana, I find myself trying to point out to them the same things my father tried to show me. I get the same response that he did. I guess it is Karma. The difference is that things are changing so fast in our world that my kids might not have the second chance that I was given. If I could have one more chance to cut wood with my dad, I would do it in a heart beat. I would eat my lunch with my eyes wide open and take in as much beauty as could.

Where Does The Time Go?

For those who have taken the time to check in and see if I have posted any new items, I have to apologize. I haven’t really had a chance to do much as of late. It takes me about one and a half days to get home from the North Slope. Once I arrive time goes by so fast that the things I want to do give way to the things I need to do. I am trying to get the house here in Montana ready for sale as well as make as much money as I can from my window washing company that I have had for a number of years. It puts in perspective just how old and out of shape I am getting. I hurt at the end of the day from stretching and moving ladders. At some point in time I will do a video on the proper way to wash windows. It is an art form and as a result, I find that I enjoy doing it. Go figure. I did have a chance to put together a few canvas wrap art pieces that are now available in the store that carries my work. “River Mist” is the name of the place, so if you are ever in town stop in and take a look. The above piece is one of the new items excluding the poem, which is embedded on the face of the photo. I took the photo last winter on the top of Turner Mountain just outside of Libby, Montana. I return to the slope on Sunday. I seem to have more spare time up there and will be back to posting soon.


Randy J. Cole

Life in a Sandbox II

May I suggest that you read part one first.


While growing up in our family, we were always fortunate enough to have a four-legged friend around the house. We always had a dog. Never, never a cat. My father disliked cats and I too can live without them. The smell of cat poop has the same effect on me as, well, see elephant reference in part one.
The neighborhood felines loved to hang out at our place because of our sandbox which was located in front of our swing set in the backyard. Nothing like running your hands through the sand in your play area, imitating the effects of a large explosion and ending up with a cat turd (land mine) between your fingers. Most fathers would have likely told their kids to deal with it. I can’t recall my dad ever running his hands through our sandbox, but the sight of his only son gagging must have been more than he could bear.
What a surprise it was to find an indoor sandbox in our basement one day. It was big and deep and it rolled on wheels. This was to be one of the greatest innovations in play history. It sat next to a huge American Flyer train set my dad had built a few years before. The train set was on a big table with little ranch-style houses, tunnels and roadways. My imagination was allowed to run free in that basement like no other kid in town. Without knowing it, I began to live my life out in that sandbox and on that train layout, incorporating the two together. What a deal. I started to collect Matchbox cars and trucks with the money I made from returning Coke bottles to the mom-and-pop grocery store for the deposit. It was a wonderful collection of cars, trucks, tractors and trailers and of course the American Flyer train set.
As time went on, I became more innovative. I would paint my cars and trucks to match my interest at the time. I started out with royal blue because I enjoyed the idea of being in the Air Force. That may have come from my younger days when I would play in my pedal Jeep which was Air Force blue and sported the Air Force logo on the side. As a side note, an 8mm film exists of me pulling a Radio Flyer wagon down our side walk with this Jeep. The Jeep and wagon were tied together with a piece of scrap rope I found in my Dad’s shop. Seated proudly on a wooden stool mounted in the wagon, was the same girl next door mentioned in chapter one. She was adorned in a cape and crown and we appear to be having our own little parade. I think this parade was when I decided that I looked like an idiot, blinking my eyes asking others pull to the right and stop. What the hell was I thinking?
The blue cars and trucks gave way to Forest Service green cars and trucks. I even had a wooden tower that I would place in the sand box and use as a Forest Service lookout. Always looking for realism in my play, I remember deciding that having a tower was no good unless I had a fire to spot. Placing about fifty wooden matches in the sand upright and lighting them was as close as I could get. It was great until the basement filled with smoke. It is truly amazing how much smoke fifty small wooden matches can make. My mother was not impressed nor was my father. The forest was clear-cut from my sandbox never to return. I had to settle for patrolling an imaginary forest with my little green trucks.
The third coat of paint to adorn these Matchbox toys consisted of black and white. I spent hours in that basement with a few select friends patrolling the city streets of the train set and to the country roads of the sandbox.
As it turned out, the three paint job phases I went through with these little cars was more than just play. It really was practice for reality as it pertained to my adulthood. When I graduated from Libby High in 1973, I joined the Air Force. When I got out four years later, I ended up in Washington State. In the spring of 1980, I went to work for the Forest Service. I got to drive one of those green trucks I so admired and played with in my sandbox.
Working in the Colville National Forest was such an opportunity. It was so beautiful and I had the chance to learn how to operate equipment of all shapes and sizes. I was given the option of staying on with the Forest Service as a full-time employee. On the same day as this offer was made by the Forest Service, an ad appeared in the local newspaper. The Colville Police Department was hiring a police officer. At the time, the decision was easy. I needed to follow my boyhood goal of becoming a law enforcement officer. The Colville Police Department was a small agency. Counting the chief and sergeant, it was a 9-man department. As small as it was, it was and still is considered to be a very good police agency. It was a great opportunity for me to start my career as a police officer.
In September of 1980, along with a number of other candidates, I tested for the one position offered. Physically, I was in the best shape of my life thanks to the job I had with the Forest Service. I walked at least seven miles a day in the mountains of the Colville National Forest, carrying hand tools as I went. The physical portion of the test was a breeze. The surprising thing about the process was the ease in which I was able to complete the written exam. My scores were very high. This was strange considering I was a real dumb ass in school. The only explanation seemed to be some type of divine intervention. Something wanted me to be a cop real bad to pull that off. It kind of reminds me of the book, “The Secret.” Maybe that stuff does work and I didn’t have to put down $20.00 for the privilege.

Life in a Sandbox

I shall never forget the thrill of my first traffic stop. The look in the driver’s eyes as I approached her vehicle, the power I possessed, the authority to make life in a small town safer for all. The driver’s eyes filled with distain, fear and respect, all clearly visible to me, the small town cop. It was this young lady’s lucky day. She would be let off with a stern warning this time and an invite to come over and play later, a smooth move for an 8-year old with a badge. My patrol vehicle was a 24” black Hiawatha bicycle from Gambles. My light bar consisted of me blinking each eye in an alternate manner. My siren was a pretty good imitation of a cat slowly being run over by paving equipment, long before the woo-woo-woo type of sirens that are now so common.
My traffic violator, on that sunny summer day, was the girl next door. We were born on the same day in our small northwest Montana town. I guess she learned her lesson. A highly respected member of our community, I still see her driving around town with her kids. I’m pretty sure she still has a clean driving record as well. Glad I could be of service.
I think that day on the sidewalks of the Lincoln County Courthouse was the day I knew at some point in my life I was going to be a law enforcement officer. It was a good day. I also made a decision that if I was going to be an officer, I would not allow myself to indulge in illegal drugs. That decision is one I have stuck with to this very day.
I really don’t know for sure where the desire to become a cop came from, but it ran deep in my veins. When I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was very natural for me to say, “I am going to be a policeman!” I knew that it would come to pass for what ever reason. There were some outside influences of course. Television shows of good guys were prominent in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s - Robert Crawford in “Highway Patrol”, “The Andy Griffith Show” and “Dragnet” just to name a few. My favorite was about a pilot, “Sky King”, who lived on a ranch. Although he wasn’t a law officer, he was a good guy who helped the sheriff out in most episodes. I wonder how many of the kids I grew up with in Libby remember when Sky King came to town with the Carson Brothers Circus. He made a great impression doing trick shots with a six-shooter.
After the show was over, we all lined up in the center ring to shake his hand and get an 8x10 black-and-white photo of him signed right in front of us.
It was a great day and to celebrate, my sister and mother drove me to the “A&W” drive-in, which is but a memory now, long since torn down to make room for a hotel. I was happy, but something just wasn’t right. I ate my hamburger and some of my fries and swished it down with a swig of chocolate milkshake. A great combo, but there was a smell that just wouldn’t leave my senses. The smell was of the large, smelly elephant that was paraded before us in one of the rings during the show. I couldn’t get it out of my head or nostrils. That great combo wasn’t so great when it ended up on the pavement next to the car. I take a moment now to apologize to the carhops who worked at that A&W that day, including one of my sisters. To A&W, it wasn’t your food, it was the damn elephant. To this day, I retch when I smell one of those stinky things.
The 8x10 photo of Sky King remained close for many years, hanging on the wall of my bedroom. Unfortunately, it disappeared sometime after I left home in 1973 for the service, along with many of the things that helped me develop my imagination when I was young. Today I could buy some of the same items on ebay, or at least items like them, but it just wouldn’t be the same. And just like Libby’s A&W, Sky King is no longer with us.

Randy J. Cole