No Matter What: Never Say Die

By David Allen Goodwin

Volume One of No Matter What told of the authors childhood and of the many experiences that prepared him for a lifetime of work with troubled kids and adults. The author admitted to being a mountain man and a cowboy, and Volume One blended those two lifestyles into his work building the Bar D ranch for boys. Volume One closed with the hint of an approaching political storm with the state and a mad womans vengeful determination to close the Bar D.
Volume Two of No Matter What picks up the authors story where the political storm grows into a full and fiery fury leaving little but ashes and desolation.
The author says of the fury: The ornery blister won the battle, but she didnt win the war. After all, she did not have the power to take a life. Oh, she muddied the waters some but she couldnt stop the flow.
Volume Two shares many traumatic and often humorous stories of a multitude of young people who have inhabited the authors life. He shares their stories and many of the secrets leading to their getting well.
In 1998 during open heart surgery, the author moved in and out of a near death experience. He says it was not a near death experience because his medical records said he was dead. The author believes the experience taught him many things which he cannot share at this time. He did, however, recover enough to finish his long and distinguished career as a mental therapist. The author and his wife, Jenenne, now live in Angel Valley with their faithful dog, Pepper, and their many horses.
This is the last word the author will write about the Bar D and the devastation that happened there. It is yet a horrific memory but a memory that needs to be forgotten - for that was then and this is now. Many of the Bar D kids, who grew to manhood there, still write, call, or come to visit. Those young men and woman who have filled the authors life with joyous times since the Bar D, continue to share their progress and affection with him.
Those prophetic words, Never say Die, the flagship for No Matter What have well served the author and clients alike, it is now time to move on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 29, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469116167

David Allen Goodwin

David Allen Goodwin was born in Hayward, Wisconsin. At age six he and his family moved West. He met and married Jenenne Hansen in 1959. Together, they have raised six children and as of this year, have eighteen grandchildren. Dave holds an associate of arts and bachelor of science degree in psychology, a masters degree in history and one in education, along with a doctorate in educational psychology. Dave has worked professionally in the mental health industry for over thirty years in which time he has helped to heal our countless injured. Now retired, Dave has time to reflect back on his years of service. In his two-volume Autobiographical work entitled No Matter What, Dave tells his powerful story of a legacy of hope and healing, giving the reader relished moments of laughter and tears.

Book preview

NO MATTER

WHAT

NIL DEPERANDUM!

(Never Say Die)

(Volume Two)

David Allen Goodwin

Copyright © 2004 by David Allen Goodwin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

I dedicate this book to my children,

grandchildren, and the many youngsters and adults,

who have shared their lives with me

Contents

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

PREFACE

For those of you who may have stumbled across this book by sheer luck or accident you are in for a real treat. My hope is that you will also find volume one of No Matter What, for it, together with volume two, make up a life story so compelling that you’ll wish you could meet its author and perhaps for just a day, sit on a mountaintop somewhere talking about life. I am one of the lucky souls that did.

As I read Dave’s manuscripts (both volumes) I found myself laughing outloud in the middle of airports, hallways and motel rooms, as I would often carry his books with me on business trips. With the general public, the occasional outburst of laughter never seemed to bother anyone; it was the presence of an obvious tear or two that would give concern. Maybe it’s because I know and love the Goodwins so much that this book tugs at my emotional strings so openly; or perhaps it is the outward showing of a frustration we all feel when we have witnessed a great injustice, or the inherent desire for the good guy to win in the end and for all to be right with the world. Life isn’t like that, however, and sometimes we find ourselves alone in a dark room facing the demons that chase us. The author takes us on his own personal journey, through ups and downs, recalling for his reader memories that will make us laugh and cry.

I met Dave and Jennene Goodwin several years ago quite in passing and have counted them as my dearest friends ever since. How we stumbled across each other has become one of my own life’s minor miracles and I am forever changed.

I cast Dave in a play I was directing for Southern Utah University a few years back, and from time to time I threaten to repeat the experience with him. Dave will tell you that I cast him as Grandpa in The Grapes of Wrath because he owed me some great debt of gratitude, but I must confess that I was more the debtor, and having found one of life’s treasures felt I should share him with others. He had touched my life and made it better, and I in turn had a desire to pay it forward.

It is almost impossible for me to talk about Dave without mention of Jennene for she is like a golden thread running through the tapestry of his life, ever present, glinting to the surface, leaving a trail of warmth and beauty. Whether Dave writes about her directly or not makes no difference; she is there, in the texture of his life, and the reader can’t help but feel her presence.

The story of their life together reminds us all that hopes, dreams and the occasional miracle can and do happen. I hope you will enjoy his book as much as I have.

Mitzi

Or as Dave likes to call me Mateezi

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In Volume One of No Matter What, Jenenne, my beautiful wife and companion of forty five years wrote the Preface. Earlier, I had asked if she wanted to write something in Volume One and there was a hint that she might. I didn’t know she had written the Preface until I saw the galley proofs of Volume One. I want to thank her for her very kind efforts on my and our behalf. I think she said what she wanted to say—and needed to be said. Her insights certainly belonged in Volume One of No Matter What, and are an introduction to the mentality of the author who ground out Volume Two.

I again want to thank Mitzi McKay who has been instrumental in bringing both Volumes One and Two of this work into print. I have, however, paid her in full. Last September, she conned me into playing grandpa in her University production of John Steinbeck’s, Grapes of Wrath, written by Frank Galati. During rehearsals, she abused me quite badly and forced me to present, what has been said by some, to be an acceptable performance. My own children and grandchildren even thought I was a good grandpa. (I’ve asked Mitzi to write a little Preface for Volume Two. I won’t see her work until Volume II is published, so I encourage my readers to not believe one word of what she has to say!)

I extend a special thanks to Dr. Rick Moody and Dr. Dean Belnap for being there when a little depression over the Bar D stuff crept into my thinking.

I again thank Hartt Wixom and Jene Anderson for their editing work. Of course, I continue to be indebted to my family members, Brooke Andreas, Lisa Colyer Goodwin, Daneen Bowles, Trina Wright, and Jenenne, who have read my work until they have to be tired of it.

My mountain friend, Barbara Muns also spent more than one evening hacking through my rough draft and made many needed corrections. I paid her off with garden produce I raised on the ranch. She says she will read Volume III if I write it, and, if my garden grows.

I extend a final thank you to my lads, Ed, Allen, Jan and Brad for letting me write about them. I also thank my daughters, Daneen and Trina for saying they thought my writing was kinda’ good.

I found it highly complimentary when my fifteen-year-old granddaughter, Kass, used Volume One to complete a high school writing assignment about someone she thought was important to her.

In closing, I wish to thank those readers of Volume One who have been highly complimentary of my work. I will, however, not be surprised to hear less kind things from some of those who might have glanced at my writings exposing their dastardly work at the Bar D. However, their writings will be of value in that we sometimes run out of catalogs in the outhouse at the ranch.

FOREWORD

I wrote Volume One of NO MATTER WHAT in an attempt to understand why I felt like such a square peg in a round hole. My daily effort to survive in a world of educational demands and people demands has been truly exhausting.

In my early years, I seemed propelled toward the mountains and mountain-man living. I was driven by a mountain-man mentality even though I had no idea what such meant.

I hated grade school and junior high; my academic performance reflected my attitude. My leaving home at sixteen and taking a fulltime job as a houseparent at a school for the deaf and blind allowed me to support myself and to become a better student. A fulltime job demanded self-discipline, as did the educational system, so my employment needs and academic development were more in sync.

Volume One dealt with my early involvement with things military, which resulted in me going off to boot camp at age seventeen. There I learned true discipline; a discipline that took control of my life.

At age seventeen, I met the very stunning fifteen-year-old Jenenne Hansen, leaving me stunned. In fact, I was whooped, never to recover. In Volume One, I wrote at length about Jenenne because she was the turning point in my life. The road was not always smooth and it had more than a few turns in its course.

Volume One shares my memories of her coming into my life and how life evolved during our often traumatic younger years together.

In 1959, Jenenne and I married. I started an extended college career which ultimately resulted in my earning a bachelor’s degree, a couple of masters degrees, and a doctorate degree. Jenenne graduated from high school and finished her junior year at a university.

In 1963, baby Allen came into our lives and we moved to a small ranch where, along with my work as a policeman, insurance investigator, and rancher, we flourished. Our small ranch only fed my desire to have a larger one, and we soon bought a big ranch which meant more work, copious amounts of work, and a new life style. By the time we moved to the big ranch we had three sons and two daughters; we were ranch people. Kids, cows, horses, and dogs filled our lives.

In 1980 we took delinquent kids from the county court into our home and ranch. Volume One shares the beginning of the Bar D story and tells of the many boys who grew to manhood there. Volume I includes a number of humorous, and sometimes very tragic, stories about our ranch people and kids. It also tells of Jane and Jerry Fehrenbacker coming to the Bar D and of the devastating payment required for their involvement in kids’ lives.

Volume II tells of Miss Pizzmore, an angry state child protective service worker and her associates, which included a greedy judge, an angry county prosecutor, and an ambitious sheriff.

Had I known what was about to happen to the Bar D, would I have changed my life plan and moved in a different direction? Yes! I would have closed the boys ranch when the last court-placed youngster left. There would have been no fire, and many thousands of dollars would not have been spent on building a stone monolith honoring absolutely nothing. The ranch staff would not have been emotionally butchered, and kids would not have been symbolically burned in effigy.

Would I have lived out more of my life on the ranch? No! The valley was ruled by an immoral, powerful few who let their longstanding reign govern. When I moved to the ranch I was an outsider. After more than a decade of very hard work, I was still an outsider. Such would always have been true because I did not move in the power grove and had no desire to do so. However, I was a lowly dog that would bite, and did, when sufficiently provoked.

There were many good people in our little valley, but they were but pawns on a chess board. They paid homage to the power people but made no waves. They worked hard to care for their families and to maintain their footholds on their little chunks of earth that sustained them. However, they were not movers and shakers because they feared rising up against the power brokers.

Jenenne, Daneen, Trina and I left the north ranch in 1982. We moved into a new home which was not far from the home we left when we first moved to the north ranch. We had made rather a grand loop and had now returned to where we started, only with many changes in our lives. Our trip was somewhat like the threads on a bolt. A nut placed on a bolt turns round and round with each side of the nut returning to its starting place after a full revolution. The advantage, of course, is that each time the nut goes around, it moves farther up or down the bolt, thus making progress of sorts. I was the nut and I questioned if my movement was progress.

I continued working at the ranch but was greatly comforted knowing my family was now safely tucked away from Pizzmore’s prying eyes. However, I made the trip back to the ranch each week with some foreboding. Pizzmore and her power people were calling for the ranch’s blood and like the calls of the wild, they could not be denied for very long. Consequently, Volume Two of No Matter What opens with violence but closes with victory. The road between the two extremes was long and often fraught with pain and suffering. The path, however, was traveled, and in my opinion, traveled well.

Do I feel uncomfortable being a square peg in a round hole? No! I have accepted being a square peg. I have learned how to find and land in square holes. I have also learned that square pegs and square holes are okay.

My friend, Bubba, sent me the following. He didn’t know the author nor do I. However, for me, the poem sums the square peg concept.

One ship goes East, another West, by the selfsame winds that blow. ‘Tis the set of the sails and not the gale that determines the way they go.

Like the ships at sea are the ways of fate as we voyage along through life, ‘Tis the set of the soul that decides the goal and not the calm or the strife.

Some years ago, I read a story about an old trapper, his wife, baby boy, and their dog, Shag. They lived in the far north woods where they had a small, cozy cabin. The trapper was able to earn their keep by trapping along the lakes and streams. The wife became ill and died, so the trapper had to take care of his lad while trying to work his traps.

Each morning, before leaving on his rounds, he staunchly admonished Shag to watch after the boy and to tend him until the trapper returned. After a long morning trapping, the trapper arrived at his cabin, finding the door torn loose from its leather hinges and their scant belongings tossed and turned about the cabin. The boy seemed unharmed but Shag was wet and frothy at the mouth. The trapper guessed Shag had lost his mind after being subjected to way too much loneliness, solitude, and responsibility.

Come, Shag, he said. I hate to put ya’ down, old boy, but I can’t trust you with the boy anymore. The trapper then shot his old friend and laid him to rest under a big fir tree. He slowly returned to the cabin to set things aright and to calm his frightened child. While moving the disheveled bed, his eyes beheld a large timber wolf laying behind the bed with its throat torn open spilling its blood on the rough plank floor.

All too soon, the trapper’s brain grasped his too-quick judgment. The deed, however, was done. His loss was forever.

The state was our trapper. Our kids were his children. Our Shaggy staff had cared for them, shared our food with them, and cried with them. The she-wolf came and tried to take the child.

Our Shag fought tooth and nail but could not take her down; she took the baby away. The state killed Shag. They did not miss the child but rather reveled in their killing.

Volume Two opens at the Bar D where dark clouds had formed on the horizon. The black witch, Pizzmore, was about to strike. Would she win? Come along and we shall see.

CHAPTER ONE

OSCAR’S GHOST

True to my commitment to Jerry and the ranch staff, I resigned as administrator of the Bar D but continued working as ranch therapist. Jerry handled the day to day operations while I busied myself listening to kids problems and helping them design their futures.

I didn’t mind city living as long as I could live at the ranch two days a week. The whole situation was reminiscent of my early days on the ranch when I was also a partner at Kelly-Goodwin Real Estate and Insurance. Then, I was living in the city four days a week and then making a very long drive to the ranch for my threeday-stay. Now, flying made my trip much easier, and, except for bad weather days when I had to drive, I somewhat enjoyed my fairly busy time at the ranch.

After three years of hard work, I completed my doctoral program in educational psychology and decided I had paid the price for flunking the seventh grade. However, as Jerry had suggested earlier, no one cared. I felt better about my academic status, though, and my court presentations as a child advocate improved.

Sometime during the summer, I came across the eighty-five Civil War letters my old friend Oscar had given my dad when I was a pup. I started to read the absolutely fantastic history that was included in Oscar’s granddad’s four years of writings from various Civil War battlefields. I seemed prompted to investigate further and my nights were soon buried in Civil War studies.

A few weeks later, I stopped at the university where I met the dean of the History Department. I shared my letters with him and asked if I could use the school library to do research on the Blair letters. The dean suggested I enroll in his master’s program, thereby having access to university resources. I suggested I already had a masters and doctorate and didn’t think I needed another degree. The good doctor said three was better than two and that he wanted to see my work.

After a little more encouragement, I enrolled and was soon involved in the most thrilling academic project of my life. During the summer Jenenne and I traveled to a number of Civil War battlegrounds where Blair had fought and where we met several stunning historians. We tracked Oscar’s grandpa, Private Samuel Farmer Blair from Ohio to Georgia. Then, for his post-war history, we tracked Doctor Blair, from Ohio to Wyoming and back to Ohio. After the war, Samuel had become a medical doctor and had moved around the country to further his medical practice.

After several weeks of travel we found Samuel and his wife buried side by side in Marietta, Ohio. While there the local press wrote an article about our venture stating that we were looking for any living relatives of Samuel Blair. The story shared much of Blair’s history, but there was no response to my request for information.

The summer passed quite quickly and I returned to work at the ranch. Pizzmore seemed to have settled down some, and I spent my free time completing my masters in history.

By spring, I was working on my thesis and was truly engrossed in the Blair Civil War project. One Sunday morning while reviewing Oscar’s obituary, I noted his brother, Raymond Blair, from Oenosha, Wisconsin had attended Oscar’s funeral. I was born in Wisconsin but I hadn’t heard of Oenosha. I grabbed the phone and called Wisconsin information. A very nice operator came on the line and I asked for Oenosha information. After a moment, she said she didn’t have a listing for Oenosha and wondered if I had the spelling correct. I’m not a bit sure about that, I said, I took the name from a friend’s obituary, and that’s all I have.

I’m sorry to hear about your loss, she said. I’m sorry I can’t help you.

It’s not an immediate loss, I responded. I’m doing a Civil War research project for the university and Raymond Blair is a relative of the veteran in my study.

I love studying about the Civil War, she volunteered. Let’s check that spelling again and maybe we can come up with something.

I really appreciate your interest, I said. I’ve traveled all over the Untied States looking for Blair and I’ve come up empty as far as finding a living relative is concerned.

My new friend was silent for a moment and then said, If we substitute a K for the O in Oenosha, we get Kenosha, and I have a listing for that city. I’ll check ‘Raymond Blair’ and see if he’s listed. After a moment, she said, I have a ‘Raymond Blair,’ should I try his number?

Thanks again, I responded. I’ve been researching this project for two years and this may be my big break.

If I get through, may I stay on the line? my friend asked. I really want to hear how this comes out. Your work sounds exciting and I’m glad I can be of help.

Be my guest, I said, while waiting for the phone to be answered.

After several rings, an elderly lady answered the phone. I told her who I was and about my association with Oscar and the Civil War letters. She said Raymond was Oscar’s brother, but that he had passed away a year earlier. She said Oscar had a sister, Marge, living in the state I was calling from, and she gave me her phone number and address. I thanked her for her kindness and assured her that I would send her a copy of my work.

Mrs. Blair hung up but my operator friend did not. We shared some of our own histories, being we were both Wisconsin Badgers, and then said our good-bye’s.

The most stunning result of the call was the fact that Oscar’s sister lived about thirty miles from our ranch. I had driven by her home several days a week for two years without knowing she might be the key to my project. I called her and, at first, she thought I was some kind of a book salesman and didn’t want to talk to me. I shared my recent phone conversation with Mrs. Blair, and Marge was finally convinced that I had historical information that might be of interest to her. She said her father, David, had left the family when she was born, so she didn’t know anything about her history. She said she had a trunk with some old pictures of people in it but didn’t know who they were.

I invited myself to her home, hoping to finally see pictures of the author of my letters. The trunk was a treasure trove for Marge and me. We identified members of her family and I shared what history I had. Later, I called Bill, the editor of our daily paper. He didn’t like our ranch kids being placed in his community, but he liked my Civil War story and asked Marge and me to visit him. Bill wrote a very nice two-page article about my work, and he even included a picture of Marge and me going over some of Blair’s letters.

A few months later, I graduated with my MA in history, and Bill again gave me a nice little write-up in his daily rag. I was quite surprised to read about myself because I didn’t know the article was even going to be written. It was readily evident Bill had gleaned his information from outside sources as he hadn’t bothered to call me to confirm his story. His ability to glean and write as he pleased made me nervous because he could, and did, color any happening in our little community to suit his whims.

For the past fifteen years, my mom and dad had attended my each and every graduation. With this being the last and final graduation of my academic career, mom agreed that I had made amends for flunking the seventh grade. I provided Marge and Mrs. Blair with copies of my thesis, and they were grateful for their new insights into the Blair family history.

My association with Bill improved some, but I was still wary of his poison pen. He was kind of an ‘Oil-Can-Harry kind of guy and one could never tell what he might write. I didn’t know, for instance, that I would again see his work when, later, he splashed my Civil War article picture across his front page declaring that I was a suspect child abuser.

CHAPTER TWO

FAMILY SERVICE KIDS

The cow and kid’s program continued to thrive. We didn’t find state kids to be much different than our delinquent kids had been. However, we did inherit a group of state workers who certainly had their own set of hidden agendas. Some were waiting to retire and were just putting in their time, while others were power hungry and looked after their own welfare rather than taking care of their kids. There were a few who were good caseworkers, but most of them were not from our region. Consequently, we took kids from many other parts of the state while not working with most caseworkers in our immediate area.

The whole situation fleshed out at a state meeting that I had been invited to attend. After finding a seat, I noticed a number of cold stares and a smirk or two coming from caseworkers who had not been able to place their kids at the Bar D, and I suddenly felt like a chicken eating at Colonel Sander’s chicken shop. I was sorry I had chosen to attend the meeting and was just waiting for a break in the program so I could leave. Midway through the gabfest, a particularly quarrelsome caseworker, with whom I had tangled before, had a turn at the microphone and she was lecturing about child placements.

I thought to myself, more of the same old stuff, and I sat deeper into my chair. I quickly straightened, however, when I heard the old blister say, Take Goodwin there. He only takes kids from the other side of the state. He’s guilty of creaming off kids and we all know that!

The old rip was about to go on with her castigation when I jumped to my feet and headed for her microphone. I probably looked angrier than I was, causing those around me to push back their chairs giving me plenty of room. I would like to respond to your last remark! I exclaimed. "You’re absolutely correct about my creaming! I am not creaming off kids but I am creaming off caseworkers who do their jobs. I need caseworkers who bring kids to the ranch with current paper work and who provide good follow-up visits. I especially need caseworkers who are in touch with their kid’s needs and respond accordingly. There are some in this room who have been creamed and they know who they are. I want to pledge to you this day that I will continue the practice so long as I’m working with children and I feel I can’t get adequate services from our regions’ caseworkers."

The hall was absolutely quiet. The Creamed were not about to applaud because they were a very small minority of those present. The Un-creamed didn’t say anything, either, because their silence let them cover their sloppy work.

The podium woman responded with, Do you think you’re qualified to make that kind of a judgment?

I do, my staff does, and our kids do. Kids can tell when a caseworker’s dogging it. They know if it’s winter and whether they have a winter coat or not. I certainly know if a youngster arrives with a treatment plan and if his financial paper work is in order. I can readily assure you that a youngster with his school transcript, immunization record, and a pair of PE shoes in his hands makes his immediate enrollment in school happen. I divide case managers into professionals and non-professionals. Their work makes the classification a simple task, and I will continue to use the selection process. I then left the very hostile meeting without further comment.

When I got back to the ranch, our secretary let me know that many of the Creamed had called and said I had made enemies. Too bad, I thought to myself, they were always enemies. Now they know I know who they are and had said so!

Before moving to the Conrad ranch, Jerry hired Mr. Albert as the Bar D Director. Jerry was now administrator over both programs, and he needed Albert as a director at the Bar D. Albert seemed anxious to do the work, and he also happened to be a qualified pilot. We often flew together for court appearances and to pick up kids without making the trip an all day drive.

Albert was aware that I had a deal on the table with Jerry to buy the Bar D portion of the ranch as soon as he