THE MASSES OF HUMANITY

They are still coming and going! Just sit in an appropriate place and you will see the “masses of humanity coming and going.” The big question (?) always arises to the top of my thinking like cream rises in a bowl of milk.

Where are they coming from and where are they going? That is the situation before us now!

As we recently sat in an airport coffee shop waiting for ourselves to become part of the “masses” I had a lot of time to reflect on this thought as I watched and watched. Short, tall, thin, plump, pretty, plain, intense, happy, old, young, sloppy, neat, piercings, tattoos, rich, poor, bald, trim, fit, stomachs hanging over belts, Starbuck types, McDonald types, ears full of cell phones, singles, duos, families, slow moving, fast moving, not moving, lost, found, overdressed, scantily clad, casual, formal, big “step” men, tiny “step” ladies, pretty hair, dyed hair, neat hair, long hair, no hair.

Is there a common theme? Sure! The masses of humanity coming and going, to and fro o’er the earth.

This activity took place on the eve of the 2008 Presidential election. I am imaging our country four years from now, regardless of who is elected the next president.

Then I remembered! This is not my final home. I’m just a “sojourner” here for a period of time. My faith is “the best is yet to come” regardless of the outcome of the election.

Where are the masses going and why? Do a few of them have the same hope I do? Do many of them have that same hope?

Now, please fast forward to an episode two weeks later on an Island in the South Pacific. Browsing in a hotel gift shop full of very beautiful and expensive jewelry we met the lady who owned the shop and designed all the beautiful items there in Lihue, Kauai, Hawaii.

She greeted us warmly with an answer on how she got there “by God’s Grace". People seem to always be on the move. So many we meet in Hawaii come there to live from other places. Our new acquaintance was one of them. A transplant. But wait, there is more to the story.

This lady was so concerned and interested in helping people in Haiti who were needy she was using all her income-not for self– but to help those who lack the bare necessities of living.

We had a most refreshing conversation and found it hard to break away as she shared her passion in helping others- the masses of humanity, coming and going. Made me think about myself. Do I have the same passion for others that she demonstrated?


October, 2008, in the LA Airport and the Hotel Gift Shop

THE DISAPPEARING ROOSTERS

The year was 1948 and I was 18 years old living in Livingston, California on a farm we called the “Sims Place”. Dad share-cropped this 40 acre vineyard from the owner, Mr. Sims, so the name “Sims Place” was were we lived. Grandfather A. A. Buller, and later his son, Alvin Buller had previously rented and farmed the land also.

Anyway, I was registered in High School in the FFA (Future Farmers of America) Program which required us to have a farm project generating money. I chose to be a “chicken farmer” and pioneered a new concept in raising chickens.

I built a pen two feet off the ground and made the bottom with (guess what?) chicken wire. The idea was that the residue of a fine meal by the chickens could drop through the wire mesh, land on the ground and be easily scooped up. I did not get a patent on this fine invention, thus I was doomed to a life of working for other people rather than to become a prosperous, independent, chicken farmer.

Anyway, I raised a breed of chickens called Leghorns, which originated in Leghorn, Italy, so the story goes. They are the most numerous breed we have in America today. I purchased the Leghorn chicks from the local farm supply store and raised them to eating size. They were called “pullets”. How many did I raise and how much money did I make off the endeavor. I cannot find that information on the hard drive of my computer (my brain).

Here is the “next” chapter in the Leghorn story…. Every farm has to have roosters to wake one up in the morning and to propagate the flock. So, I had two beautiful roosters that were my pride and joy. They were a good size and once I even built a wagon and used them to pull the wagon.

One bright spring day I returned home from school to find my two prize roosters missing. I searched and I searched but to no avail. In the evening I asked my dad where they were and he didn’t know. The mystery deepened. I even asked him point blank if they were going to turn up for the evening meal mom was going to cook. He said NO!

Several days later dad solved the mystery of the “missing roosters”. It seems he had been talking with the neighbor just across the ditch that separated our two houses. The neighbor reported that my roosters were always coming to his yard and he got tired of it so he did what farmers do when they want a farm animal to eat. He caught them, removed their heads, dressed them out and his wife cooked them. I was furious. Dad was calmer than me. What could we do now? Nothing!

End of story. One very unhappy teenager with less than pure thoughts about the neighbor. No more roosters to propagate the fledging chicken endeavor and the entire business faltered and I went into bankruptcy, all because of the “missing roosters.”

As I remember it on September 20, 2008 from the comfort of my city dwelling place and far removed from the wonderful smells of the countryside. Don Buller

THE DAD I KNEW

The dad I knew was a good provider for his family and a hard worker.

Dad at age 3

He was born in North Dakota in 1909 and at age eight became a cowboy, looking after the stock for his dad. My dad, Walter John Buller would brag the rest of his life about being a cowboy on the plains of N. Dakota.

By age 12 the Buller family had moved to California and he became a fruit picker. He never told us if that meant picking enough fruit for the breakfast meal or for the market.

Between the ages of 14-15 he would help patrol the water ditches of the Merced Irrigation District with his father looking for gopher holes that could wash the banks away. Oop's, there goes another gopher to oblivion.

He wanted to become a lawyer but his mother wouldn’t allow it– “that’s a sinful job” she opined. He was forced to stop school after eight years and go to work.

In the summers the Buller family would journey to San Jose, California, a growing city 50 miles south of San Francisco, to work in the canneries. OSHA wasn’t around in those days so my dad got a job in a fruit cannery stacking empty cans for the American Can company at age 16. After the canning season was over the family remained in San Jose and dad got a job for Hales Department store as a soda jerk.

Wanting to settle down and marry my mother, he got a full time job at a local bakery baking doughnuts and bread at age 17 to 20. The job started daily at 4 am.

Courting mom

He married my mother in 1927 at age 18 and continued working at the bakery.

But, at heart, dad was always a farmer and that is all he wanted to do. So, after my sister was born the dad I would come to know, packed mom and me and little sister up and off we went to Livingston, California where dad rented 25 acres of vineyard.

Money was tight so he always raised animals to eat, beef, pork, etc. Butchering day would bring the relatives together to help out.

Butchering on the Sims Ranch in 1936

Moving from farm to farm and share crop farming didn’t pay off so in 1940 he moved his family, which now included a little brother, back to San Jose and became an apprentice carpenter working for my mother’s father, Ben Schultz, building houses.

World War II came along and dad went to work in the shipyards in the bay area and later for the Permanente firm as a journeyman carpenter, until the end of the war.

I can remember when he smashed his thumb on a job and was laid up for months. The cries of pain and anguish disturbed me very much but he prevailed and went right back to work, stiff thumb and all.

The war ended in 1945 and the lure of the farm called him back to the San Joaquin valley. So, with a saving of $3000 he and a friend purchased 180 acres of fruit, picked up my uncles semi-truck and announced to his family that we were moving back to the farm again.

For the next five years dad would farm in Winton and later Livingston, California. He worked hard, day and night. When the Irrigation district told him the water was available he had to irrigate around the clock until it was done.

I remember offering to help at night so he could get some rest but he wouldn’t allow me because he said school the next day was too important for me to miss.

In the summers he would work me from sun to sun. Mom would complain that the work was too hard for me and he would laugh and say it will make a man out of him. Those experiences taught me the value and importance of work.

Every farm we lived on dad purchased a cow for milk and butter and cottage cheese. Brother Ken on "bossy" with dad

Farming never made much money for dad so at times he would try and make income from other sources. One year he purchased two combines on credit and together we hit the trail up to Oregon to do custom grain harvesting. I learned how to work for other people and helped my dad build the sides on an army surplus truck we used to haul grain.

He taught me how to drive truck before I drove a car. He taught me how to milk a cow, kill a chicken, drive a tractor, prune grapes, prune peach trees, operate a combine, build things and a host of other things. That’s the dad I knew.

Farming didn’t pay, dad hurt his back so he moved to Fresno for a year. I had already left for college. Dad sold roof shingles as an outside salesman for one year for the Insoseal company.

The dad I knew moved back to San Jose, California, in 1951 and became a carpet layer and sold carrot juicers on the side. Then he worked in the S and H Green Stamp Store for awhile as a warehouse manager and stock clerk.

That job ended and he then went back to carpenter work until he retired in 1973.

In retirement he collected used soap from motels for shipment to third world countries.

He also went to Mexico and helped build a church.

The dad I knew was a hard worker, never quit but kept on going. He could improvise and figure things out with his eighth grade education. I was amazed at the things he could do, all self taught. He didn’t have enough money at times and when he needed to he would invent something to solve a problem.


Mom couldn’t stand the valley heat so he invented an air conditioner. He build a frame of “gunny” sacks, hooked up a hose to keep them wet and “presto” as the wind would blow across the wet “gunny” sack covered frame the enclosure mom was sitting in would cool down.

He never had a lot of money but he found enough to give my sister and me music lessons and purchase instruments for us.

He had a goal that we should go to Bible School, if only for a year. Sis and I went. He sent me off with $50.00 in my pocket and said “get a part time job but call me if you need help”.

I wanted a car, had some money saved but he wisely steered me from it, allowing me to use the family car whenever I wanted. I waited until I was on my own in college to get a car.

When I had an accident one time because of carelessness, he asked if I had learned my lesson. Answering “yes” he never said another word about the damage and that was the end of it.

My dad always liked to own big cars. Cadillac's, Oldsmobile's, Buick's, etc. The picture above shows three generations of Buller’s with their “big” cars.
Three generations- Brian, me and my dad



Dad loved his family. He would tell each one he loved them. Every family member knew he cared for them. He and mom arranged family get to-gathers often.
The dad I knew was always there for me, guided me, taught me the work ethic and demonstrated his love for me. Best of all, he and mom took me to church every Sunday and they lived an example for me to follow.

THAT’S THE DAD I KNEW




by Don Buller, April 2008

On-The-Road-Again

Greetings From Yuma, Arizona............

On January 1 we left Fresno with grand daughter, Wendy Buller, and 10 hours later arrived in Yuma, Arizona. We will be wintering here until the end of March.

Wendy had to return home after two weeks with us so the closest direct flight was from San Diego. So, with the Catlins (friends of ours from Indiana) we took her to San Diego and she flew home. We spent the next two days there seeing the sights.

One of the sites we visited was the famous Hotel del Coronado, a grand hotel dating back to 1888. It rests on a peninsula just across the bay from San Diego on a 31 acre seaside resort. It has access to 18 miles of Coronado;s beaches, collectively named the #2 beach in the United States.We have returned to Yuma and are enjoying seeing friends from all over who winter in Yuma. Some live here year around and then they leave in the summer. Did you know that over 70,000 "snowbirds" come to Yuma in the winter.

The small town of about 30,000 people bustles with activities when all us "snowbirds" arrive. We are about eight miles east of the downtown in an area called the "Foothills", near the base of the mountains.

We park on a lot owned by our friends the Catlin's. Property around here has been designed for folk with RV's. Each lot has space for two RV's with all hookups. Where we are located there is a little building that has a game room, bathroom and laundry facilities. It works out real nice.

On February 11 we leave for Israel with a group of friends from our church. We will be there ten days. So, after we return you can beg us to show pictures.

Well, more another time.

Don and Marilyn