Final Notes:

At this point in his story, with the tumult brought about by wartime activities permeating thoughts and narrative, I.O. left off writing never to return to it. For that reason there is a rather sketchy quality when it comes to details towards the end of his account, with portions of what took place missing.

The time it took to complete work on the ranch project in Yuma County is almost completely passed over in his narrative in favor of the more fulfilling assignment of running the Tolleson farm project. Other details are passed over without mention as well.

Going on to live a full rich life, loved by family and friends alike, in 1989 heart problems put I.O. in the hospital in Chandler, Arizona where days later he passed away. His story reminds us what it means to truly live, taking life as it comes a day at a time, tackling problems and possibilities with foresight, hard work, faith in yourself and your loved ones, trust in your fellow man, and dogged determination.

During the times in which he lived, from his pioneer ranch childhood and youth near Ranger Lake, New Mexico until his retirement years on the 2 1/2 acre mini-farm that he and my brother John purchased in Gilbert, Arizona, where he hand built the last home he and our mother Mary would live in together prior to his death, I.O. took part in and was witness to some of our nation's most dramatic and tumultuous years and events. His focus on hard work, self reliance, optimistic planning and tough minded tenacity continues to inspire his family as well as those who count themselves as friends.

I.O.'s story rings as true today with home grown personal insights and familiar timeless truths as it did when he lived it, and retains the power to touch many who will read it with a sense of what life amounted to in years now past.

George Sherwood Rasmussen

Part 16

All the frantic effort our country put into the at times unreal world of wartime activity at home and abroad, had it not produced a positive outcome, would have been ultimately meaningless. Such a frenzied atmosphere constantly changes the lives of those caught up in it. The only stable anchor many had to cling to were thoughts of wife and children, family and home, and in no small measure this proved enough to see us through those years.

As our children grew George began to go places with me much of the time. He was a happy, curious, adventuresome little boy, the very traits that sometimes got him into trouble.

One time we stopped to check as freshly baled hay was being stacked at the end of a field, and George quickly climbed to the top of the stack. There he found a bottle of whiskey the workmen had stashed. Removing the cap he took a big gulp, then almost passed out before he could catch his breath.

Another time he found a can of aluminum paint and a brush in the barn. Prying the lid off the paint he started out painting parts on a tractor. Then he removed his shirt and painted his belly. Next he painted his lower body and legs. Mary and my mother worked for the better part of an hour getting the paint off of him with paint thinner and rags, then scrubbed him clean in the tub.

Part 15

Machinery shortages were a problem for everyone, farmers no exception. Parts for most farm equipment were simply no longer available. I was raking hay on 200 acres and found myself with only one rake to windrow the crop after it had been cut. I only had one good rake because I'd used parts from two others to keep it running.

At the end of the season it was clear these old rakes could no longer keep up. I had in mind to build a rake that would last as many years as it was asked to work. It would cost at least three times as much as a new International or John Deere rake, neither of which was available for purchase. I received an OK from Western Farm Management to spend the money necessary to build the new rake I had in mind, so I enlisted a friend who had a welding shop to help me turn my idea into a real machine.

In various ways the final design of our new hay rake was in response to problems that arose during the actual construction of the piece of equipment. Word got around about the new side delivery hay rake we were building, and critics came everyday to view our progress or lack thereof. Some were absolutely convinced the machine would never work.

Our first field trial was in the spring of the year. People came from near and far to watch as we raked hay with our new machine. The Arizona Farmer, a popular journal that kept the farming community informed and in touch, as well as local newspapers had run stories about our project. As a consequence there was a great deal of interest in what we had or had not accomplished.

Just as we had designed our new machine worked perfectly. It was so ruggedly built that our original is still kept by Joe Shelly on the Tolleson farm. Joe purchased that acreage some time later when the French owner decided to sell.

Our new rake design turned the entire farm machinery industry towards better engineered equipment of all kinds. Although modified by each company who built them, the new rake became the standard for what ultimately would become millions of such machines turning hay into windrows world wide.

My partner in building that original side delivery rake went on to design and build the first ever slip form for pouring concrete lined ditches in place. That design also became a standard that's still in use world wide. Neither of us made any money from the ideas and designs we came up with. Johnnie Morgan, my friend and partner in designing and building the rake, died before we could make anything commercial of our effort.

Afterward the big companies simply copied our ideas, modified them as needed, and sold them as their own. We made no attempt to fight them for they were too big and well funded for us to contend with. That our ideas and the effort we put into making them reality helped increase farm production world wide has to be gratification enough.

Part 14

Mary and the children stayed for a time with my parents at their home in Phoenix. While they enjoyed having her and their grand children there with them, Mary was happy to know we'd soon have our own place again. We were to live on and manage a 640 acre farm near Tolleson, ten miles west of downtown Phoenix.

Two new houses were available at the Tolleson farm, neither of which had been lived in. We were to occupy the two bedroom home, with the three bedroom reserved for the owner, a French refugee who escaped Europe with a fortune in cash, jewels and securities as the Nazis overran France. He made his way originally to Mexico, and from there had come to the United States. As a political refugee he was allowed to invest here in the states, and had purchased a farm in Connecticut as well as the acreage in Tolleson.

The French farm owner had contracted with Western Farm Management Co. to run the place, which just happened to be one of the best acreages in the entire Salt River Valley. Once my family was moved to the Tolleson farm I greatly enjoyed my work. The land was extremely productive responding with bountiful crops and good returns.

The owner finally decided he was not going to spend any time on that farm and said we could move into the larger three bedroom home. John had been born shortly before, so it all worked out for the best as far as we were concerned. The bigger house gave us enough room for our family as well as for visitors, friends and relatives that came to visit. This was a time in our lives when we felt we were making progress, living well, and enjoying a life best suited to my abilities and the desire I had to pour myself into agricultural management.

By now our nation had come fully to grips with the war. It permeated life in every way, from food and gasoline rationing to saving every piece of scrap of metal and worn out rubber. Standing in lines at rationing board offices became a way of life. Day and night aircraft from Luke Field and other Valley bases wheeled combat training circles across hot desert skies. Trucks loaded with German prisoners drove out almost daily under heavy guard to clean canals and ditches. An Italian prisoner of war escaped from a nearby POW camp and hid in the tall maize in our fields for several days before being recaptured.

Mary's younger sister Charlotte was an Army Air Force nurse based at Luke Field. She dated a young flight instructor, Lieutenant Leonard I. Wiehrdt. Leonard felt sure he was going to walk in and find Charlotte's sisters and their husbands fighting and quarreling, but he never did. Mary's brother Hubble worked as a civilian engineer at the sanitary facilities plant at Luke Field, and her father William Sherwood worked as a boilerman in the heating plant on base.

Levi Pace, one of Mary's cousins, was a flying officer stationed at Luke. He had trouble finding quarters for his family on base so he and his wife Wanda and their new baby Bonnie moved in with us. Levi's father and three brothers were all servicemen, and our farm home became a crossroads stop for visiting relatives. We were a long way from our nearest neighbors, so no one complained if we were noisy. Mary's meals of plentiful fresh meat, butter, eggs, milk, potatoes and vegetables filled up a lot of "hungry for home cooking" soldiers and airmen during those busy and often hectic years of the war.

Part 13

My mistrust of the Oxnard draft board soon proved accurate. I received a letter headed "Greetings" that advised me to report to my nearest draft board for a physical exam preparatory to induction in the Armed Services of The United States of America.

The notice came before I had time to look for a job. I was disturbed, distressed, and angry, yet once the notice came I was also resigned - even though I was confidant that I'd make a miserable soldier. Several days passed before I was to report for a physical exam. I used that time looking into ways to avoid military service, however not one of these proved honest enough for my taste, so I put them out of mind.

A week later I exercised my choice to enlist instead of being drafted, and chose Machinist's Mate with the Navy as what I'd sign up for. I reported to the Navy recruitment office for exams, and after the written portion of the exam was complete I waited my turn to be called for oral questioning.

My name was called and I went into an office where an Officer said, "I see you've noted a proficiency in flying airplanes. Why waste this skill? We need pilots badly in the Air Transport Command to ferry ships where they are needed. You will have to take six months of schooling and be checked out in the various types of aircraft you would be flying. Would you be interested?" My immediate response was "Yes, I would." "O.K. then," the Officer said. "Be here a week from today at this same time. Goodbye until then."

I left his office somewhat relieved. Nevertheless a nagging feeling that fate was still toying with me as far as a flying career was concerned was tough to shake off. While walking down the hallway away from the Navy recruiting office I suddenly recalled the man Henry had asked me to make contact with in Phoenix. I checked the card in my wallet just to make sure, because I thought the building I was in might be the same building where Henry's friend worked.

Indeed the building was the same, and I figured now was as good a time as any to stop by, if for no other reason than to introduce myself and pass along Henry's regards. Upon locating the suite I read the name "Western Farm Management Co." emblazoned on the door.

On entering the office I asked for the fellow Henry had referred me to, only to be informed by the receptionist that Henry's friend no longer worked for Western Farm Management Co. Then she asked if there might be anyone else I'd like to talk with. On an impulse I said, "Yes, I'd like to talk with someone about employment in your organization."

A few minutes later I was introduced to Mr. Everett Barkley, the man in charge of farming programs on various properties the company managed for out of state and out of country owners. We talked a long time, well over an hour, and I learned he desperately needed experienced help. He offered to hire me on the spot, and put forward a much better opportunity than the Navy ever could have.

Mr. Barkley said that if I agreed to work for him he would immediately arrange for a reinstatement of my agricultural worker deferment status. I said yes, confidant that I could best serve my country by managing the production of crops here at home. Anyone could quickly learn to fly an airplane, but it took years to make a good farmer, and they were a lot scarcer right now than air jockeys. Two hours later things had been fully arranged, and soon I was on my way to the Snyder Ranch in Yuma County to get a behind schedule farming operation back on track.

Working from dawn until dark every day to get the needed work done and the ranch operating as it should, it was not until the first night when I came back home about a month later that I found I had a bleeding ulcer. I'd been pushing way too hard, well beyond any reasonable limits, for a long time, all while eating improperly. A good diet and some overdue rest soon had me well again.

Part 12

As the Sunset Limited rumbled through the darkness towards Arizona my thoughts turned again to Deer Springs. It seemed that we and the whole world had been shaken from happy, adventurous, and seemingly secure lives by the tumult of a war not of our making. I wondered if ever again there might be an opportunity to enjoy the sense of freedom that hard work and focused self sufficiency, as we had experienced it, brought with it.

The train rolled on as I recalled riding Blaze bare back, with no bridle to control him, after the he and the rest of the horses had strayed some three miles away. I walked until I found them in a grassy hollow near the ocean cliffs. Blaze came when I called him, and I hopped on his back and rode him all the way home as he leaped brush and rock following the running herd back to the corrals.

Another time riding Skippy came to mind as well. We were skirting the edge of a brush covered hillside when suddenly he fell with me into a hidden ravine. He landed on my leg in such a way that searing, strength draining pain momentarily overcame me. That fall tore the cartilage in my right knee, and the after effects still cause pain if I turn my knee a certain way.

Another event I thought about that night was climbing a nearly vertical cliff face and coming to a place where I could neither go up or down. I was close to panic when I realized that panic was the sure route to real trouble. The fear I felt was sobering to say the least, yet there was no help to be had. I had to continue on up alone and did so after a lengthy rest to collect my thoughts. A great deal of careful study of the rock face above me, searching out tiny hand and toe holds, provided a pathway that saw me at last to the top of the cliff and out of danger.

Yet another time I drove a bulldozer down a mountain slope so steep and loose that the tracks spun uselessly when I tried backing up. The brush that I had cleared on that long push and slide down the mountain side saved days or weeks of clearing a fence line, and fortunately lady luck riding alongside me that day saw to it there were no vertical drops to contend with before I reached the bottom.

The second time "Old Buck" tried to throw me I was ready for him. Whipping him soundly with the short length of leather lariat that I'd carried looped over the saddle horn ever since the first time when he got the best of me, all the while spurring him mercilessly, he finally grew tired and quit. After that he was well mannered enough that others could also safely ride him - as long as the short length of lariat was in place over the saddle horn.

The colt we called Blaze was responding well to the hair rope reins of the hackamore, and carrying a bit with a cricket. I hoped he was far enough along to respond properly to the leather reins that I knew would be used on his bridle now that I was gone. I was also worried about the tremendous problems the Houstons would have caring for the Angora goats. I felt they would soon find the herd far more work than they really wanted to be involved with.

Fox Movie Studios once used Deer Springs Ranch as the location for a cowboy movie they were making, and that had been an interesting and informative diversion from the daily routine. Mary liked being treated special. Each morning a big car called at the house and took her to whatever location they were filming so she could watch the performers at work, which she greatly enjoyed.

Faces and friends left behind, unfinished projects, things I should have said but did not, letters we needed to write, all these and much more came to mind as the train rumbled through the darkness towards whatever our new life held for us.

Mary, baby Ann and George slept soundly, while thoughts of what was past as well as our possible future competed for my attention. I felt a bit guilty and sad at parting with Henry. He had asked me to move to Burbank and work for Lockheed Aircraft where he could secure a good job for me. He was disappointed when I told him we'd decided to go home to Arizona. Our future at this point was a complete blank, and knowing that was a difficult thing to come to grips with.

I needed work to care for my family. No longer was I secure from the draft now that I'd given up my agricultural worker classification. Draft boards were alert for registrants they could call up, and they seemed to put off drafting established community members in favor of those who were in transition.

I was quite suspicious of the Oxnard board, and dreaded even thinking about the tightly regimented life that armed services personnel led as I observed it all around us. Nothing about military life was attractive to me except for becoming a pilot. I would have plunged into that immediately except I was two years beyond the age limit for Army Air Force pilot recruits.

Exploring my most earnest desires as the train rattled through the night I realized I had no desire to partake of any part of armed forces life. Wondering if I might be a conscientious objector at heart I began to believe I must be. I believed that wars, killing people and destroying homes and the products of man's best efforts, could never prove anything, including wars imposed on us not of our choosing. Before I dozed off the name of a friend Henry told me to look up once we were in Phoenix came to mind, a name I immediately wrote on a card and placed in my wallet.

The early light of a new morning began sweeping away the darkness of the long train ride as the Sunset Limited rolled into the Salt River Valley with me and my little family aboard. It was good to be back home again. Somehow I sensed that everything would turn out alright, but I had no real idea how we'd proceed.

We had been invited to stay at my parent's big house on Culver Street. Once there family and friends stopped to see us and called on the telephone. We went places we had not been to in a long time, and it was good to catch up first hand on family happenings. Being home again was a true joy, and the beginning of a new direction which at that moment we had no clear view of.

Part 11

Managing the goats became a more and more difficult task. War time industries had started hiring everyone they could get their hands on. This left us with experienced and uninterested herders who soon were leaving small bands of goats out on the range, and we began received reports of roaming goats in several areas.

One such band of goats spent the night in William Boyd's driveway eating the flowers he'd planted in big clay pots atop the square stone posts that supported the rail fence along the edge of his drive. Bill and his wife were home, but before they awakened Laurence Houston woke me. We rounded up and penned the goats, swept the drive, then I drove to the valley bought new geraniums for the pots.

Kidding time arrived just as the rainy season began. Each new kid required a shelter of its own. We also had to place a toggle on a hind leg so the young goats could be staked at their shelters and not wander away with their mother who would hide them deep in the brush.

Kidding time was an all day, all night affair that went on for about 10 days. Some mothers dropped their kids in the pen with the main herd. These at times lost track of their own kids and would fail to recognize them later on. Mary cared for a dozen baby goats in boxes and tubs in front of the fireplace on our worst ever rainy night. She fed them with baby bottles so they'd have a chance to reunite with their mothers the next day, nevertheless we lost many of these young animals.

Angora goats often laid down and died in a cold rain, their long thick silky hair unable to protect them from the elements. When shearing time rolled around we were short handed once again and worked hours on end without a hint of a break.

With all the excitement that war time activity generated going on around us we started to feel isolated and out of touch at Deer Springs Ranch deep in the coastal mountains. We'd met some of the pilot instructors at the primary training school in Oxnard, and they stopped by the ranch rather often encouraging me to sell out and come work with them as a flight instructor. Refresher training so I could qualify as an instructor was offered, and the pay was good - $600 a month to start, a handsome sum at that time, far more than I made at Deer Springs Ranch. Mary and I began planning.

I attended some of the flying school socials and met the school commander. He assured me I'd have a chance to show my ability as a pilot, and said there was time enough to qualify as a flight instructor. We arranged for Laurence Houston and his father to take over the goat heard, and I went to the training base for my physical examination and other preliminaries so I could begin as a flight instructor trainee. That however was not to be my fortune, as the flight instructor training program was discontinued before I completed requirements to participate.

Wartime and thoughts of home go hand in hand. We were a long way away from Arizona, and deeply disappointed that our goat raising venture had not panned out as hoped. That, along with flight instructor prospects and working in the pilot training program having fallen through, brought with it an urgent sense of needing to be near family once again.

Saying our goodbyes to Mr. Chamberlain and all concerned, it wasn't long until we boarded the Sunset Limited passenger train at Union Station in Los Angeles. Traveling through the night as our children slept, across mile after mile of mountains and desert back home to Phoenix, with only the vaguest of ideas about what we might encounter on arrival, our young family like many others found itself adrift in the upheaval as well as the opportunities of the times.