In 1944, I was 13 years old. I had two brothers, Alfred and Richard. Al was nine years older than me, and fighting in the Army. Richard, who was three years older than me, was working in the shipyards with my dad on Swan Island in Portland.
We had a 5-acre farm about of a mile north of a small town called Parkrose. It was about a half mile east of where Portland International Airport is now. When I was little, the only airport was on Swan Island.
There were three large dairies close to our farm. Richard and I both had horses to ride. We could ride on the dairy properties as long as we shut the gates.
Richard’s horse was named Patches. She was beautiful with brown and white patches of hair. She was carrying a colt about six months when she died in a sad accident. Richard wanted to get another horse.