Oregon150

Robert Mumby

During World War II my father sold his Farmer’s Market drug store in Los Angeles and brought my mother, brother and I to Roseburg. Shortly thereafter we moved to a ranch some 16 miles of paved, gravel and dirt road west of Roseburg at the base the Coast Range.

Two brothers, immigrants from Sweden, sold the farm to my father. On about 1,000 acres they raised cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, and turkeys, grew prunes, plums, wheat and hay plus harvested and milled the second growth Douglas fir forest on the hillsides. There was also an apple orchard, a giant black walnut tree and vegetable gardens behind the houses.

Each brother had a house with an outhouse – no indoor plumbing. My mom’s first priority was to change that, especially after I fell off the footbridge into the creek while running back home from the outhouse. Communications were a bit behind the times too. For the first few years our phone was in a wooden cabinet hanging on the wall. You turned a crank to make a call. Six homes share one “party” line.

All those different animals and crops were too much for us. I was two and my brother was nine years old so we couldn’t help much. The turkeys were the first to go – so dumb they required constant watching and care to survive. The little saw mill was closed and a “gypo” logging outfit contracted to cut and haul out the firs. The chicken flock got smaller and the sheep were eventually sold.

It was hard going after the war when prices and agricultural demand fell. Friends from Los Angeles kept coming by to stay a few days and experience the country life. Meat was to be sold, not eaten by family and friends, so my dad packed a .22 revolver while doing the farm work; that is why often the city folk visitors were treated to venison. If they came during the salmon run, they got fish. (At that time salmon came up the larger creek to spawn. No more.)

I had a great time with two dogs exploring and exploiting the farm. We hunted ground squirrels, looked for salamanders in the two creeks running through our property, tried to ride the calves, captured raccoons and owls but failed attempts to tame them as additional pets. Blackie, the sheep dog, helped me round up the cows for milking and Pluto, the mutt, tried to dig squirrels out of their burrows. Much of the time he had bite marks on his nose.

School for 1st through 8th grades was a three-class room building across the bridge from the Umpqua Store and prune dryer. The other kids picked on me because I was from California, almost as bad as being an “Oakie” from the Dust Belt. Luckily I had a big brother to intervene. That experience of being the unwelcome outsider may have been what made me tolerant of people no matter where they are from, what color they are or religion they have.

We stayed on the farm about ten years. During that time I learned that farmers make a good community. Despite dislikes and occasional conflicts, they helped each other out and made sure their kids got a good basic education.