I grew up on a farm in Oregon’s Willamette Valley — herding cattle, hauling hay and pitching manure. My father made his living trading livestock — cattle, horses, sheep, hogs — anything with four legs. I spent my formative years sitting on a Ford pickup fender in barnyards listening to Dad trade yarns with farmers as warm-ups to making their deal.
A story would end and the farmer would say, “Harold, you haven’t said what you’re offering for my steer (goat, mule…).” Dad would answer, “Earl, you haven’t said what you want.” The first man to name a price lost. Storytelling became my heritage.
The pitchfork motivated me to go to Oregon State University where the dorm was overrun with young men dodging animal husbandry. I’d be attending a class called Stoichiometry and Thermodynamics and my head would be diving for sovereigns off the Spanish Coast. I earned a BS in Chemistry and one in Business Administration.
I met Megan, a Registered Nurse in training on a blind date. We married, moved to Oregon City, Oregon, and raised two sons. Megan died of complications from multiple sclerosis after 26 years of marriage. Four years later, I married Sue, a retired high school secretary who I also met on a blind date. I’ve been lucky that way.
As a career, Industrial chemistry has been fun. The storytelling never changed — I just exchanged bib overalls and Stetsons for lab coats and hard hats.
