50-year Rex Putnam 1973 class reunion
Saturday night and Sunday!
(Reprint from Facebook)
I really did not want to come to the reunion, yet I knew that it was required for some measure of healing for my wounded past.
I
had some great conversations with several classmates, including Matt Miller, Stephen Houston, Brian Wagner. Chad Clothier, Bruce Chapman, Barbra Nagel, Jan Johnston (Bradfield), Janice Polly, Mary Munly, Jeanne Wanvig, and Doreen Shire. I had a crush on Doreen for a while in sophomore year, I never told her or talked with her much because I was too shy.
I could not string two sentences together in high school, but there is no problem now!
I was greeted at door by
Jerry Cunningham and the irrepressible John Jobs,. both who I easily recognized. Jerry, you are looking well!
Doug Naef Jack Charlton,
Marcia Brownlee Pearson Mark Montchalin. and Toni Osbourne were seen, but I did not get a chance to talk with them. I did not recognize anybody else (the name tags are priceless!)
Matt Miller reminded me that I broke his collar bone during a “competitive” Frisbee event. Ouch@! Karma got me 5 years later when I shattered my c-bone at the impromptu1976 Trailblazer championship parade on Broadway that shut the city down. I had a 14 year old boy drive me to the hospital with my soon to be wife and her little sister, because both did not drive. My c-bone required surgery again two years later, where the surgeon did metal sculptor work to rebuild the catastrophe. It still predicts weather changes.
Bruce Chapman reminded me that I saved his life from a potentially fatal incident. Whew!
I am grieved that cherished others did not have such a timely intervention.
Sunday was a good day at North Clackamas Park, where we used to come often to throw Frisbees and hang out during the school years.
I had the privilege and honor of talking with Stephen Houston, Brian Wagner, Bruce, Sue, and Delores (’76) Chapman, Harvey Scott, and
Gary Brower today. Harvey and Gary, amongst several othes shared a Boy Scout experience with me in the 8th grade. Dick Salter (Craig’s father) was the extremely competent scout master, and my father Beryl was the capable assistant. Gary has that special energy, and when it is felt, you just know that you have found one who has discovered the fount of wisdom and love.
Whatever happened to my freshman golf team buddies Greg Lumsden and Mark Zinzer? Mark Sheers, I missed seeing you, too. I stopped golfing after our team disbanded. I started again in 1987. I just shot the best round of my life at Eastmoreland, the golf course that I had lessons, and first golfed at, in 1966. I still suck, but I have fun.
My father used to play cards with several Putnam dads at the Milwaukie Elks. Rod Vought’s and Toni Osbourne’s dads, amongst a couple others, would enlighten him with their opinions about life, and parenthood. Mr. Vought was so proud of Rod! Rod’s dad had some very uncomplimentary things to say about me as a student of his in-7th grade World Geography class, hopefully just to rib my father, because I absolutely excelled in his class, in which I had a profound interest in because of……well, you will have to ask me if you ever see me again! It might have something to do with a prophetic dream that I had when I was eight years old. I might have irritated him with all of my questions about Lake Titicaca in Peru, and the ancient culture that was once there. Rod was also in the same class, and had I communicated my perspective at the time, Dad would have had his own ammunition at the card table with Mr. Vought.
Note: When I saw Rod at a later class reunion, bragging up his relationship with Scott Muramatsu and the bug zapper device they were making millions on, I had to leave early, and nearly vomited all over myself. Yes, some healing work needed to be done here, for sure. I was never perfect, for sure.
On a different note, for a fairly short man, Tony Born was a towering presence in the Elks lodge. He was one of my favorite TV personalities of the ’60’s, along with Tom Peterson knocking on the inside of our TV sets to wake us up late on Saturday night. I would frequently visit him and his cohorts in the old, converted Chautauqua Bowl, which became the base for Portland wrestling. It was two blocks from my grandmother’s home, where I spent a lot of time growing up.
I wanted to talk with so many more classmates. Bill Ness was one of the funniest, smartest guys I knew. He had a wonderful laugh! Had my life not turned south, I would have strongly pursued him as a friend.
This post is about to get way too long, so I am going to try to cut down now
(if you knew me now, you would not count on my success).
Sean Tucker (high school best friend) refused to travel from Colorado due to “health issues”. I lost touch with Sean when he went into the US Air Force in 1978. Some people will go to any nd avoid being the best man at my wedding! In 1984, after not hearing from him for 4 years, I just knew he was going to call me on a specific day, and he did. He came back to town just in time in the summer for a week for a wild, and fun Heart concert at Delta Park, amongst a few other things. We stopped by a local winery on the way to the show. Henry Endres wine sure made Sean a “unique” person. He retired from the Air Force, and then worked in ultra dangerous locations around the world as a subcontractor to the Defense Dpt. My wife and I visited with him and his family in Colorado in 2013. When I arrived, I was counseled not to share any of his young adult bacchanalian behavior with family. Sean jr knew that I knew something, though. We shared a common interest in, umm, deeper things, and would often listen to Alan Watts on late Saturday night radio, before Alan died in 1973. He went in a new spiritual direction with his Christian wife, Natty. Sean has three boys (two are twins), and a daughter.
Bruce Chapman had a garage that several classmates spent a lot of time with him in as he rebuilt a ’55 Chevy, and I was one of them beginning in 1972. Goose’s garage became a famous hangout spot. Bruce, lower left first picture from 1973, and now with wife Sue, second picture. Yes, the deceased Randy Olson is also in the same first photo, along with Tony Mecklem (I am the long haired dude on the right) . No blame or shame here, but it was Randy and Tony who got me started smoking pot in 1971. BAD choice for me, though it made BORING math work fun. (argh!). I lost my near photographic memory because of pot, and school became much more difficult for me.
Steven Houston was my favorite band member. We attended the University of Portland at the same time, pursuing different engineering degrees. My favorite math class was Applied Statistics and Probability, a highest-level class where the teacher showed us how to use Calculus to break even, or beat, Las Vegas casino odds (my 10 lifetime trips to Vegas were never big losers, yet never big winners, either. The best bet is to just stay away, unless you know what you are doing, or just want to have some fun and free drinks). Other favorite. classes were the ones I took for my minor, like Psychology, Philosophy, and World Religions. Steve and I saw each other at the park again, and our conversation ended with him saying that it would be great if someone could write a story connecting the dots between our deceased classmates. Doug Naef would be the best man for the job, I think. I am the connecting link with a few departed souls. Not all of their stories were happy, either, especially at the ending. I will share a few shortly.
Brian Wagner was my favorite HS basketball player, unique in style, and nothing like hot dog Dirk Markum (’71?-remember him?). We had a long discussion about road racing, hood to coast racing, and running for health, in general. I am fully retired from road and trail racing, the years of successful marathon and ultra-marathon racing and training finally beat me down back to a treadmill runner. I have scheduled the third surgery on my overused right foot soon, to hopefully keep me upright for a while longer. Brian is still doing it, and just finished a 10K race. Way to go, Brian!
I was friends with 10 of the deceased classmates.
I got into a lot of trouble with Jeff Tobin in 6th grade. I was removed from class president status because of some of our “shenanigans”. I covered for Jeff on two of his big screwups and took the fall when he really should have. Jeff ended up in a military school setting for a while for other sins, to get a moral tune-up. For my tune-up for Jeff making farting noises behind me in health class, Mr Pavlichek tried the tennis shoe on my arse a few times, in a famous public display and humiliation for me, and then called my father to make sure that he would give me a good beat down too, which he did with his normal precision. Too bad we couldn’t get a tune-up for our fathers. I worked with Jeff at the USPS in the experimental PAMS unit, in 1979-1980, prior to his first suicide attempt. We both got a lot of positive feedback there. Jeff was the fastest, most accurate worker around. I helped develop a software idea that became studied within its national research department, and then packaged and sold elsewhere. I got a little “mad money” out of deal. I have some amazing stories to tell about my 10 year career there, maybe another time. Anyway, every time Jeff drove his pickup truck with me in it, he treated it like a race car, and I feared for my life, but I was too cowardly to speak up. I last saw Jeff Tobin on a local hiking trail the month before his fatality, just after turning 55. Jeff was an amazingly compassionate man with me and my deteriorating first wife. He sacrificed himself in a most amazing way to protect me once. He had a loyalty to friendship that blew me away. I failed him after his 1st suicide attempt, overburdened by my 1st wife’s, and my own, problems. Concurrent death wishes don’t synchronize well, unless you are part of Jim Jones’ style cults.
He was a traumatized brother, for sure.
Jeff’s Spirit still lives within me
I saw Alan Crouser’s death notice too late last year. Alan was a sweet, gentle giant, though sometimes he was a melancholic young man. His favorite song was “Tiny Bubbles In The Wine” by Don Ho, which was a favorite of his divorced parents. One time, in our senior year, Al drank some Mad Dog 20-20, and started knocking parking lot light poles down in his apartment complex.. When I told him to stop, he picked me up, and threw me OVER my car. Another time I drove AL and his soon to be wife Jenny, with Dan Dietz, up to Vancouver to get a quick wedding at the Justice Of The Peace. At their encouragement, I drove well in excess of 100 MPH on 99E, and then I5, to get up there before they closed. We did not make it in time, and fortunately nobody was killed or injured, nor was I cited for DUI, and reckless driving. Anyway, Al had a family that he dearly loved, though he eventually experienced a divorce from Jenny.
He was another traumatized brother, who I lost touch with when I moved to Washington in 1976.
Alan’s Spirit still lives within me.
Randy Olson was a lifelong friend. He had a great sense of humor, and an infectious laugh. He introduced me to my first wife, who died on my birthday last year. He saved my life a couple of times, offering me a home at the end of two failed relationships in 1984-1986, the first being my first wife.. Randy introduced me to, literally, hundreds of people when I was “between relationships”. We would close rock & roll bars, then party with the rock groups, like Sequel, Rising Tide, etc., until the sun would rise. We networked and schmoozed with some “important people” who will remain nameless because I don’t want to be sued. We attended the 20-year reunion together, with a “reformed stripper” turned health aide adorning the arm of Randy. I attended Randy Olson’s funeral in 2013 and the man with 10,000 friends had only 13 people there. He never married, being content with moving from relationship to relationship. He died at the exact same age as his smoking, drinking father, at age 58. Randy takes up several pages in one of my books.
I still miss him, he was a dear friend, and truly one of a kind.
Randy’s Spirit still strongly lives within me.
Dan Dietz was an incredible friend for me from 1972-1980, and it is amazing, if not miraculous, that we both survived those years. Dan and John Durkin took me to the Faucet Tavern (remember the turtle races?) on my 21st birthday. For the first time in my life, and hopefully the last, a man pulled a knife on me after I wrangled a few bucks out of him playing pool. He thought that I was having too much fun. Dan made me walk home, about 7 miles, when I gave him a bad time about not helping me when the man had two of his buddies join in the fracas in the parking lot. My best, though awkward, Bruce Lee imitation may have saved my life, though alcohol put me in harms way in the first place. I did not make it to Dan Dietz’s funeral, which I later regretted (umm, I had lost touch with Dan in 1980, after we had an excruciating falling out. In 1987, after I finally got my act together, I drove down to Pacific City to make amends for my part. I met his girlfriend, and young son, but Dan was not there. I left a note, but never heard back from him. I heard his laughing voice in my car, the day after he died, I guess in 1996?. I did not know of his death at the time–eerie!). John Durkin, who was a safety subcontractor at Smurfit-Blue Heron paper mill the same time that I was an electrical subcontractor, let me know of his death, as well as a call from Mark Dellett (whatever happened to him?). By the way, Bill Brownlee (’76?–Marsha’s younger brother) was a permanent employee there, and Jay Goss’s older brother Dave (’72) was a contract chemical engineer there for a time, as well. Anyway, If I try , I can still hear Dan’s famous laugh (hey, hey, hey). Dan is survived by a son.
Dan was co-best man with Randy Olson in my ill-fated first marriage in 1979.
Dan’s Spirit still lives within me.
Greg Redman was a grade school friend, and fellow “son of Oakey Doak’s square dancers” like myself. He was fun to hang out with in grade school. I visited his home several times. The Oakey Doaks were an Oak Grove based square dancing group that thrived in the ’60’s, and several Rex Putnam students had parents that danced with them, like the Litsons, Jarmers, Redman’s, Jordans, Bakkums, Edwards, Constans, etc. My sister Pam (’72) still drives Merlin Litson”s ’72 Chevy pickup truck, which my father bought in ’73, and owned until his death in 2017. I had several discussions with Joyce over the years after the tragic death of my mother in 2009. We saw each other occasionally at Oak Grove Fred Meyer. The last time I saw her, about 5 years ago, I asked her if the reason some classmates from the Oakey Doaks did not contact me was that they remembered my father negatively, or thought that I was too much like him. She was kind, and diverted my attention to other matters.
I will always remember Greg Redman’s full face smile, and laugh.
Greg’s Spirit still lives within me.
We just got to keep dancing our unique dance, the right life partners will eventually show up. It is no sin to dance with only our self, if all others are too tired and have relocated to the bench, or to the bar.
Dr. Elton Storment, my childhood dentist based in Oak Grove, was the man who coined the Oakey Doaks name. I saw Elton many times at both the Bomber restaurant, until it closed 3 years ago, and at Dr Ruggeri’s office, as we both love Roberta as a doctor. Dr Steiger preceded Dr. Roberta, and he still is my hero, having spotted a potentially fatal lesion on me in 2005. Without him, I am not here today.
Gary Westfall and I used to handicap horse races together, before he went on the national circuit with his older brother. One of the horses we handicapped was Malawi’s Champ, a front runner who always ran out of gas at the far turn. One time, the horse came through, at over 50-1 odds. I am sure John Durkin remembers that race, too. Another one was Dobi Pay, a 9-year-old gelding with just one eye, and also just a $ 2000 claimer (umm, glue factory tour shortly?). There was something about that horse that caught my attention. I could “feel” something special about him. He was a slow starter, with a huge desire to finish fast. That horse, at 9 years of age, dramatically improved over the course of one season, and ran in $40 -$50,000 claiming races at the famous Longacres racetrack in Renton. He even ran more than competently in two stakes races, and wowed the pros. I adored that horse, and I still do. I modeled my road racing style after Dobi Pay. After all, I was “old”, and nearly blind, too. I contacted the Bradens, the horse’s owners 7 years ago to get permission to write a story about their magical old horse. They are still racing horses!
Anyway, Gary had a supply of frozen “happy mushrooms” that was truly astounding in the mid 70’s. That must have been a lot of wading through smelly cow pastures for Gary! We had waded through a few smelly horse paddocks at the horse tracks, so that was easier by comparison.
Gary’s, and Dobi Pay’s, Spirit still lives within me.
I am coming around the far turn, and closing fast on Life’s finish line, with joy still in my stride.
I played on organized baseball teams in 6th and 8th grade with Brad Oberstaller, such a tragic death. When I heard about his family situation long, long ago, my heart just broke for him, and his family.
Yes, Brad’s broken Spirit still lives within me.
Herb Rook was a friend, and fellow boy scout (we snuck cigars on one of campouts and both got sick). We loved to joke about committing crimes that would catch the attention of his famous District Attorney father, Roger.
Herb’s humorous, fun living Spirit still lives within me.
Martin Stratton was a dear friend in grade school, a gentle and caring young man. I always rooted for him to succeed in school and tried to help him with the multiplication tables. He died right after ten-year reunion, which I missed. You would not have wanted to see me in 1983, unless you were an undertaker, and then you would have been licking at the chops.
Martin’s most beautiful Spirit still lives within me.
Mark Parsons, an extremely funny, intelligent, and friendly young man, and was another guy I talked with a lot, especially about “deeper issues” . He had a great head of red hair. He easily could have become one of my best friends, had I chosen a healthier direction in life. I was blown away to hear that he died from a fall from a trail.
Wow, after all of these years, Mark’s happy Spirit still lives within me.
Don Bain was a hard guy for me to get close to at times, but we were always friendly with each other. I met him freshman year, and he was quite the cigarette smoker by then. He was a bit edgy at times, while also having a great laugh, He amazed and impressed me in freshman PE class when he ran a sub 5:30 mile. I languished far behind, at 6:13, and I had never smoked in my life up to that point. I respected him greatly, though I noted how damaged a part of him was. I had been training with Mark Salter (’70) for two years with runs, mainly along Oatfield road, so I was disappointed in myself. For some reason, he never harassed me or tried to beat me up, like some others did (you know who you are—all is forgiven). He felled a taller tree (timber!!) who tried to beat me up in freshman year and won my loyalty and respect.
Note: I stopped running after a short stint on the freshman cross country team and did not resume running again until 1993. By 1999, I was running many 10K – 50K races, at or slightly above, Don’s amazing freshman pace per mile (I smoked nearly 3 cartons of cigarettes a week by 1984). In 1996, I ran a 5K race at this very park at a 5:20 per mile pace, which I somehow won. The year before, the park was 40% under water, and the ORRC still ran the race, which was a “one of a kind” experience, and no one drowned! At the end of an 8K race in 2001, at age 45, I ran 2 miles in 9:30, and passed many of the fastest youngsters, and oldsters, in Portland (yes, I know—BORING!). Anyway, sorry for the detour.
Here is to you, Don, who inspired me to be a better smoker, and runner, and now, protector of the bullied.
Don’s unique, protective Spirit, and youthful vitality, still Strongly lives within me.
Mark Constans (’74), brother of Debbie (’73) and Judy (’75) was a grade school friend, mainly through the Oakey Doaks. We had a lot of great adventures growing up, and so did our parents. Not only did our parents square dance together, we took several camping trips (a famous one where Mark and I swam with inner tubes while Michael Fero swam unassisted all the way across Detroit Lake. Our parents, lost in their party/camping mode, finally realized where we were when we came up missing, and sent a boat out to rescue us, but we were already on the return swim back from the other side. We both had legendary sun burns from the day. Malignant melanoma still visits with me from time to time, probably as a result, of several days like that. Our parents had several famous trips to Reno together over the years. I saw Mark again when we did recovery groups, and he had developed into the finest human being, and I was so happy for him. We lost touch for a few years. I had a nagging thought that I needed to find Mark about 7 years ago. I connected with
Judy Constans through Facebook, and was blown away with grief, when I heard what had happened, not only to him, but to Danny. I thought their father and mother were the greatest people, Joe had the best sense of humor, and perspectives, at least from my point of view.
Mark was “great people” too.
That whole experience with the Constans’ has never died within me. A most treasured memory that I will take to the grave with me.
I have yet to visit Craig Salter in the long-term care facility. Craig was already designing electronic circuits in 8th grade. School was boring for him, and a couple teachers accused him of being detached/dreamy. Craig was the most creative person that I have ever met, designing and building, amongst many other things, cutaway versions of 747 like jets. I was almost electrocuted when I helped him build an underground fort, and I got hung up by a poorly protected light circuit. Craig disappeared for weeks into the entire collection of Tolkien writings in late 8th grade. He wrote an epic book report for freshman class, where he created his own book, using the middle earth language, which he learned, and wrote it in several places. He illustrated it meticulously, and artfully. An incomparable, true creative genius of a young man he was. He could never completely fit into this strange world that we live in. Craig was a true ultra-genius, with an IQ in excess of 142, and given better attitude and grooming might have become a Silicon Valley millionaire, or ???. I got him drunk for his first time in 1973 at my father’s basement bar—BIG MISTAKE. Such a heartbreaking tragedy began for him around 1993. Craig helped get me on my feet in 1987, I only wish that I could have helped him in his time of greatest need, but we had lost touch with each other years before.
Craig’s Spirit is alive, and well, within me, and within him, regardless of appeatances.
Charlie Davalos did not ever make it to high school, having died the summer preceding freshman year. He was a good friend of mine who was working with Craig Salter and me in developing homemade rocket engines. He died when an experimental cylinder exploded and severed an artery. Craig and I quickly transitioned to using Estes pre-made solid rocket fuel cells. We decorated a few trees, and tops of far away homes, with our creations. Believe me when I say that Charlie, Craig and I were trying our mightiest to get off of this f…ing rock. We used our imagination, the reading of our science fiction and fantasy books, and our curiosity to keep us inspired. One of Craig’s favorite book series in the 7th grade was Tom Swift and His Rocket Ship. Mine was EE Doc Smith’s The Lensmen series, and the Skylark of Valeron series. We lived vicariously through the NASA space program, our books, and our rockets.
Charlie’s Spirit still lives within me.
I still have my EE Doc Smith books, two rocket kits, and a launcher. My heart still yearns for the stars. I will be there soon enough.
Grief is the price we pay for committing ourselves to love and losing our loved ones. It is an uneven path that we all must travel upon, yet the support of friends, family, and, for many, spiritual intentions, keeps the light on from “outside” until we fully reconnect with our own.
I nearly died several times from 1980-1987. I have no idea how I survived, save good fortune, and, perhaps, that I wanted to know the truth about life before I passed away. I reconnected with my Native American heritage and spirituality on Larch Mountain in June of 1987, and Great Spirit then gave me a unique opportunity, which I dared not refuse. I am grateful to have lived long enough to reintroduce myself to some classmates, who I never could fully reveal myself to when I was in high school, because I did not know myself. I entered school too early, being a “precocious” little boy, and it set me apart from some classmates because of my relative physical and emotional immaturity. I took more than a few unnecessary beatings until 8th grade in school, and at home. I never had children with my partners, fearing I would transfer woundedness to my progeny. In adulthood, I embarked on a long and difficult, though productive, journey of healing from traumatic wounding, and I finally found a new openness to life.
I am now a writer and blogger in retirement. I am working on books 8, 9, and 10 right now. Previous books were never published. Book # 8—-No More Turning Away-Breaking The Conspiracy Of Silence is ready for publishing, but I am not. My editor,
Melinda Copp, condensed it down from about 1150 pages to under 270 pages. Some test readers still feel like it is a chore to read. Well, living an unexamined life in our diseased culture is more than a chore, as it is deadly to our spirit and sense of wholeness. No stone was left unturned, no shadow was not exposed to light, and it is a difficult read. I still mainly write non-fiction, but I now have a novel in the pipeline, to be called The Great Escape (tentative). My (to be last) non-fiction book, which is almost ready for final editing, was fun to write, and is called—–An Electrician’s Guide To Our Galaxy. It will become the non-fiction book that I want to be remembered for as a writer.
My wife
Sharon White is a published author of the powerfully loving, insightful book— Whose Death Is It Anyway–A Hospice Nurse Remembers. I have three grandsons via her children, two of which who took a similar and difficult path as I did (for now, grandpa’s wisdom is only good for grandpas, apparently). Sharon continues to inspire me to reach forward, not back, unless it is with desire for insight, healing intention, and/or love.
I am looking forward to future connections with those who expressed interest (yes, I would love for it to happen, but based on past experience, I won’t hold my breath).
My story is going to have a happy ending, as it has already been written in the stars.
How is your story coming along?
Being willing to listen to each other’s stories may lead in unexpected magical, healing directions.
Do you have any stories that are aching to be shared?
What stories would your brother, or sister, tell?
What stories would your high school best friend tell? (Squirming is optional).
What stories would you tell, if you could be fully honest?
Anybody interested in breaking the conspiracy of silence?
If you made it this far, please take the two minutes to watch and feel the magic of the story within this link.
Who do we need to really listen to, to bring lifesaving aid?
Everywhere there are precious people, and animals that need our loving attention.
We all can all listen more carefully to our world, and to its ever-unfolding story, before it is too late.
There need be no more turning away from those in need.
If we have not already, we all can exit the conspiracy of silence.
My first concert ever had Rod Stewart and the Faces, in 1971 at the Memorial Coliseum. Also included The Grease Band (Joe Cocker’s band) and Savoy Brown for $3! Sonny Graham (’72?) drove his small truck, with Tony Mecklem and me. My life was never the same after that experience.
May we be all FOREVER YOUNG!
I finally found my internal fountain of youth.
The body will head its inevitable direction, as it must.
