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Authors: Brian Herbert
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which divides the eastern and western portions of the state. The job would last from early summer through mid-fall 1946, and would pay $33.00 a week.
âI didnât hesitate for an instant,â my mother recalled later. âWhen Frank told me about it, I just said yes.â She was ready for the first adventure of their long married life, or thought she was.
On Sunday afternoon, June 23, 1946, * my parents were married by a minister in the front parlor of a house on Seattleâs Queen Anne Hill. They exchanged simple gold wedding bands. Howie Hansen was best man, ** and Frankie Goodwin the maid of honor. A reception followed in the home. Only a dozen people were in attendance, including the parents of the bride and groom.
My father did not like large weddings. Besides, he had grown independent of his extended family since achieving his majority, largely because so many of them were judgmental and he didnât care to seek their approval. On his paternal side the Herberts saw people in either white hats or black hats, with nothing in between. On his maternal side the McCarthys, devout Catholics, had expressed disapproval over his divorce from his first wife.
Up to that time Frank Herbertâs life had been a paradigm of failure and instability. In addition to difficulties in school, marriage and the Navy, he had lost his job with the Post-Intelligencer . Contributing to his problems, his parents had not always provided a wholesome family environment for him. At last he was with a nurturing person, a potential lifelong companion, in a relationship that could enable him to fully realize his potential.
In early July 1946, the newlyweds climbed Kelly Butte and remained there until late October. Each week Dad hiked down to the nearest town of Lester for supplies, and then returned to the mountaintop, a round trip that took ten or eleven hours. Strong and barrel-chested, he was an excellent hiker and could carry a heavy pack.
The lookout cabin, a twelve-foot square, hip-roofed structure at the pinnacle of Kelly Butte, had a 360-degree view of the surrounding mountains and forests. They had no electricity or indoor plumbing, but water was plentiful, obtained from a small lake in the midst of a meadow on the butte. They had an outhouse that was in good repair, except the door didnât latch well and sometimes blew open in strong winds. The wood stove didnât draft properly, and under certain wind conditions the cabin filled with smoke.
In this excerpt from a 1,500-word piece my mother wrote about the adventure, she described her first impression of their living quarters:
Finally we sat down on the bed (the cooler had been nailed on the north side of the cabin) and surveyed our home. Our 144 square feet of home, with 24 windows looking into the fog, and a ladder that slanted over the bed to the cupola.
On the south wall across from us hung a shovel, an axe, a laundry bag, fire fighting pack, 40# of potatoes, and a washboard. So we started looking for a wash-tub. There wasnât any. We refused to think about it then. Instead we looked at the stove. We wished we hadnât. It was squat, dirty, black and looked stubborner than hellâ¦.
She entitled the piece, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, âLook Out!ââa reference to the perils of honeymooning in a forest service lookout station. It formed the first chapter of what she and Dad hoped would be a collaborative book. * His contribution, two thousand words long, included the following passage:
Oh yes, the scenery is beautiful. Our regal neighbor, Mount Rainier, looks in the window every clear day, seemingly just across the valley from us. The flowers are in bloom in the mountain meadows around usâthe Indian paint brush, the lupen, the daisies, and even the mock orange. Deer pasture in the meadow, too; bear drink at our lake and the ground squirrels chase each other under our cabin. On a clear night we can even see Seattle, a
âI didnât hesitate for an instant,â my mother recalled later. âWhen Frank told me about it, I just said yes.â She was ready for the first adventure of their long married life, or thought she was.
On Sunday afternoon, June 23, 1946, * my parents were married by a minister in the front parlor of a house on Seattleâs Queen Anne Hill. They exchanged simple gold wedding bands. Howie Hansen was best man, ** and Frankie Goodwin the maid of honor. A reception followed in the home. Only a dozen people were in attendance, including the parents of the bride and groom.
My father did not like large weddings. Besides, he had grown independent of his extended family since achieving his majority, largely because so many of them were judgmental and he didnât care to seek their approval. On his paternal side the Herberts saw people in either white hats or black hats, with nothing in between. On his maternal side the McCarthys, devout Catholics, had expressed disapproval over his divorce from his first wife.
Up to that time Frank Herbertâs life had been a paradigm of failure and instability. In addition to difficulties in school, marriage and the Navy, he had lost his job with the Post-Intelligencer . Contributing to his problems, his parents had not always provided a wholesome family environment for him. At last he was with a nurturing person, a potential lifelong companion, in a relationship that could enable him to fully realize his potential.
In early July 1946, the newlyweds climbed Kelly Butte and remained there until late October. Each week Dad hiked down to the nearest town of Lester for supplies, and then returned to the mountaintop, a round trip that took ten or eleven hours. Strong and barrel-chested, he was an excellent hiker and could carry a heavy pack.
The lookout cabin, a twelve-foot square, hip-roofed structure at the pinnacle of Kelly Butte, had a 360-degree view of the surrounding mountains and forests. They had no electricity or indoor plumbing, but water was plentiful, obtained from a small lake in the midst of a meadow on the butte. They had an outhouse that was in good repair, except the door didnât latch well and sometimes blew open in strong winds. The wood stove didnât draft properly, and under certain wind conditions the cabin filled with smoke.
In this excerpt from a 1,500-word piece my mother wrote about the adventure, she described her first impression of their living quarters:
Finally we sat down on the bed (the cooler had been nailed on the north side of the cabin) and surveyed our home. Our 144 square feet of home, with 24 windows looking into the fog, and a ladder that slanted over the bed to the cupola.
On the south wall across from us hung a shovel, an axe, a laundry bag, fire fighting pack, 40# of potatoes, and a washboard. So we started looking for a wash-tub. There wasnât any. We refused to think about it then. Instead we looked at the stove. We wished we hadnât. It was squat, dirty, black and looked stubborner than hellâ¦.
She entitled the piece, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, âLook Out!ââa reference to the perils of honeymooning in a forest service lookout station. It formed the first chapter of what she and Dad hoped would be a collaborative book. * His contribution, two thousand words long, included the following passage:
Oh yes, the scenery is beautiful. Our regal neighbor, Mount Rainier, looks in the window every clear day, seemingly just across the valley from us. The flowers are in bloom in the mountain meadows around usâthe Indian paint brush, the lupen, the daisies, and even the mock orange. Deer pasture in the meadow, too; bear drink at our lake and the ground squirrels chase each other under our cabin. On a clear night we can even see Seattle, a
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