A FATHER'S DAY TRIBUTE TO MY DAD

I wish you all could have known my Dad. He was something else. He was kind, gentle, compassionate, warm, forgiving, loving, generous, and a great teacher. He loved his kids and his grandkids. He was honest and forthright. He was extremely strong and he did more hard physical labor than any man I have ever known. Though he was only able to attend school through fifth grade, he was extremely intelligent. He never stopped learning and he was remarkably well educated. Oh, in many ways he was a typical Utahn. He used most of the rural Utah pronunciations but he knew how to spell the words he mispronounced. The picture you see here was taken when he was in his late 20’s, before he married my mom. This is the picture I told you about in the first chapter about my Dad. I always thought he was very handsome. Of course, by the time I came into this world, he was 45. I only remember him having gray or silver hair. His eyes were blue and, as I’ve mentioned before, they twinkled when he smiled. This portrait always hung on our living room wall when I was growing up. I loved to look at it.

My Dad always expected the best of himself. Both his and my mother’s motto was: “If a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well.” He instilled that into all of us. I’ve mentioned before that he was a “jack of all trades”. He didn’t have much of monetary value but his work ethic was sought after by most employers in town. He worked for various people in town who had property they wanted farmed. Generally, they wanted their fields planted in alfalfa. Of course, being part of the “desert southwest” the alfalfa needed to be irrigated. (No one had the wonderful and efficient sprinklers that farmers use today.) There was irrigation water in a ditch and my Dad seemed to have a magic touch when it came to irrigation. He could keep more water running evenly in more rows than anyone else. His ditches rarely ever broke, so, as a result of his careful tending, he had fewer ditch “breaks” than anyone else. He could “set” the ditches late in the evening and come home to get a fairly decent night’s sleep. But he would be up before daylight and off to “tend” the water.

My sister, Grace, told me that my Dad used to own a team of horses and he had a wagon. I remember, vaguely, that we had horses in our corral all the time and then as I grew older, we only had horses for short periods when he borrowed them from the man for whom he worked. I’m not absolutely sure, but I believe part of his payment for taking care of people’s fields was the use of their horses so he could get his own property plowed in the spring. Also, he needed a team and wagon to haul wood for our stoves. Yes, he had to go out and chop down the trees, trim them, load them onto the wagon, bring them home, unload them and then, chop the wood, by hand. My brothers, Sherman and Durant helped with hauling wood probably from the time they were about six or eight. I will tell you my brother, George’s story in a later chapter. He didn’t help my Dad much with cutting, hauling or chopping wood. There was a reason for that. I chopped wood, occasionally, when I got older but Daddy didn’t think it was appropriate work for a girl. I believe part of the pay for tending the fields was hay for our cows, as well.

Daddy worked in the vanadium and uranium mines around Blanding. He worked on the tunnel. He worked at the saw mill. He did odd building jobs for people. He was always in demand because his work was neat and precise. Daddy was a brick maker. He made brick for several buildings in Blanding. He made the brick, built the kiln and fired the brick. Several times while he was firing the brick he’d take me with him when he had to put more wood on the fire so I could see what it looked like inside of the kiln. The fire was so hot and scary to see and yet so beautiful. It was absolutely spectacular after dark. Daddy would take some of the brick out, throw logs into the kiln and put the brick back in. There were several places where logs could be thrown in. After he got everything going well, he would walk home and get a couple hours sleep and then he’d be up and off to the “brick yard” to do everything all over again. The brick yard was about a half-mile from our house. He always had to walk back and forth between home and the brick yard. Of course, when you’ve walked everywhere all your life, you walk at a pretty good pace.

When I was a kid, with the electric power being so sporadic, no one had refrigerators so the next best thing was an “Ice House.” In the winter when the reservoirs froze over to a depth of about eight inches, people would cut big blocks of ice (about two feet square) and haul the ice to an ice house to keep for warm weather. My Dad had an ice house. He would haul a lot of saw dust from the saw mill. He would cover the dirt floor of the ice house with about 12 to 14 inches of saw dust. He would put a layer of ice blocks on the saw dust, leaving space around the edge to fill with saw dust. He’d put a good thick layer of saw dust on top of that layer of ice, fill in the edges with saw dust, another layer of ice blocks, etc., etc., until the ice house was full, still leaving room on top for a person to move around. We could make our own ice cream in the summer because we had ice. We could also have ice to cool our drinking water, if we wanted. We sometimes had ice almost to the end of August. We cooled our home-made root beer on the ice under the sawdust. It was better than a refrigerator except for the inconvenience. We never had an over crowded ice house. We could put all the root beer we made in the ice house at the same time. If we’d had a refrigerator there almost certainly would not have been room to put all the root beer in at once.

The reason I’m telling you this is because sometimes Daddy would let me go with him to haul the ice. He’d hitch up the horses to his bob sled (a bob sled is a wagon with the wheels removed and runners put on in their place), and away we’d go. He’d load up that bob sled, go home and unload it, cover the ice with saw dust and head back up to the reservoir. Keep in mind that this always took place in January. That’s the only month the ice was hard enough and thick enough to cut. Anyway, when I went with him, he always told me to stay on the bank. I was not to come down on the ice. Most of the time I obeyed him but one time I just had to see what it was like down on the ice. Of course, I promptly fell through a hole in the ice. Fortunately Daddy was close enough he could haul me out. He found a blanket and wrapped me up in it. He had to take me home before he had a full load of ice because he was afraid I’d freeze to death. He never scolded me for that, although I would certainly have deserved the scolding. I guess he was just thankful he was able to rescue me. Needless to say, I never strayed down on the ice again.

One of my first memories is my Dad taking me to work with him. He was working with a crew that was doing concrete work at the new High School after the first one burned down. I guess my Mom was away somewhere and the other kids were at school. He took me to an area near where he was working. He told me that I would be okay if I stayed there and he cautioned me not to come into the area where he was working. I had a coloring book and some crayons but I guess I got bored or lonely and went over closer to him. Naturally, I tripped over something, fell and skinned my knee. Daddy came and picked me up. He carried me back to where I had been and put me down. He pulled out his big bandanna type handkerchief and wiped off the dirt and the drop of blood on my knee and he kissed me. Then he simply said, “You need to stay here.” I did.

I have a couple more memories of going to work with my Dad. One time, when he was working on the tunnel (I will be telling you more about the tunnel in a later post), my Mom had to take George to Price, Utah, to a special clinic and all the other kids were in school. The tunnel was far enough away that when Daddy worked there he would take his “chuck box” with food for a week---or however long he would be there. Sometimes, I guess, he was only there for two or three days at a time. It depended on how well the work was going and how much money was in the Town coffers. Anyway, I was with him for several days. We were living in a tent. During the day he had to go into the tunnel to work. He always came out for lunch to be with me. I had my doll with me and another toy or two. He told me I had to stay by the tent. I said I would and I did. I may have told you this before, but it will only take a minute to read it again. For breakfast up at the tunnel we had corn flakes. The only milk we had to put on the corn flakes was canned milk (evaporated, not sweetened condensed). I thought they were the most delicious corn flakes I had ever eaten. Many years later I remembered how good those corn flakes with canned milk tasted so I thought I would try it again. Somehow, they just didn’t measure up. I guess it was where I was and who I was with that made them taste so yummy.

Another time I remember going to work with my Dad (my Mom had another clinic with George) he was working for Ray Young at the L.C. Ranch. My Dad had asked permission for me to be with him and Ray said, “Okay.” One thing we hadn’t counted on was that Ray’s wife and daughter were also at the Ranch that week. The daughter’s name was/is Norma Rae. Norma Rae’s mother’s name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Young was one of the loveliest, sweetest women on this earth. She cared about other people and she seemed delighted that I was there to be company for Norma Rae. Norma Rae was about two weeks older than I and we would both begin First Grade in the fall. I had a great time being there. Norma Rae had a “zillion” dolls and we had fun. When I went home, she gave me a rubber doll that was just like the one I already had---and I loved her for that. Now, I had twin dolls to play with at home. I think I already told you about that. My Dad worked hard but at day’s end he always had time to hold me on his lap and tell me about things.

My Dad always planted a huge garden every spring. He had to, in order to feed his family. Before he planted the garden he had to plow the ground. He used a plow that had to be pulled by a horse. I saw him do the whole thing by himself but it was terribly hard to do it alone. I found a couple of pictures of the kind of plow he used so you’d be able to picture in your mind how really difficult it was. The blade of the plow came to a point at the front and then the blade swept back into an arc in order for the dirt to be turned back and over. The left side of the blade (the side you can’t see in these pictures) wasn’t as high as the right side and it didn’t arc as much. You can see how the handles angle out from the blade and the piece that comes out from behind the blade pointing forward hooked to the “single-tree” that hooked onto the harness of the horse. Daddy would tie the reins together and put them around his neck, dig the point of the plow blade into the dirt, grab the handles of the plow, make a clicking sound so the horse would start walking forward. He had to keep the point of the plow dug deep into the ground so the rest of the plow would turn the earth over. If the horse didn’t go in a straight line, Daddy would let go of one of the handles and grab one of the reins lightly to encourage the horse to go straight, grab the plow handle again so he could keep the plow deep into the ground. At the end of the row, he’d have to man-handle the plow around the corner so he could make the turn to go back the other way. Keep in mind that the entire time he was plowing, he had to walk in the soft, damp earth that had just been turned over. That had to be harder than distance running in the sand on a beach.

When I was about six years old he decided I was old enough to ride and guide the horse for him. Why didn’t my brother Durant, who was five years older than I do it? Well, he was 11 years old and he had plenty of other work to do. Why didn’t my brother George do it? That’s another story for another day. Besides, I loved being with my Dad and working with him. It was much nicer than being in the house doing dishes or dusting. Of course, when we were through plowing my chores were undoubtedly waiting for me in the house, but I didn’t mind. The time spent with my Dad was special. Keep in mind that this was a big WORK horse, not a saddle pony. Think of the horses that pull the Busch beer wagon in parades. That’s about the size of our work horses. They had big, strong legs and feet and a broad back.

Daddy always wanted STRAIGHT rows in his garden. Some people didn’t mind if their rows weren’t straight but my Dad did not want crooked rows. It was a matter of pride with him. So, he would lift me up onto the back of the horse. Then he would tell me: “Pick out something in front of you and keep your eyes on it. Drive the horse toward that point. If you don’t look from side to side, but keep your eyes on the point ahead of you, we will have straight rows.” I was able to do that and he appreciated not having to worry about the horse walking straight and he could concentrate on the plow.

The instructions he gave me to drive the horse correctly have been a great guide throughout my life. If I don’t look from side to side, but keep my eyes on a point straight ahead, I can always reach my goal. Now, someone out there is going to be facetious and say, “You can miss a lot of scenery if you only look straight ahead.” Just remember----I have excellent peripheral vision. I doubt that I have missed much scenery in my lifetime.

I rode the horse for my Dad many times. I was pleased to help him. After the ground was all plowed, he had a horse-drawn harrow that would break up the big clumps of dirt and make the ground easier to “work” for planting the seeds. I drove the horse with the harrow behind, as well. I have included a picture of a horse-drawn spike harrow that is similar to what Daddy had. I wanted an exact picture but couldn’t find it but this will give you an idea. (Actually, Juli added the pictures.) After the harrowing was finished and the ground was relatively smooth, Daddy would make furrows in the dirt so we could water the seeds after they were planted. His furrows were straight as an arrow. I often wondered how he could make them so straight because he was walking backward. I guess he had his eye on something in front of him and walked straight backward from the point he had chosen.

Then we planted seeds. I always loved to plant corn and potatoes with him. I’d carry a sack with the corn or the cut-up potatoes (each piece of potato had at least one “eye” in it---it’s the eye that sprouts and grows). Daddy would stick his shovel into the dirt; push the handle forward so there was a gap between the shovel and the dirt; I’d drop three or four kernels of corn or a chunk of potato into the gap; he’d pull the shovel out, step on the spot to compact the earth around the seeds, take a step forward and we’d do the whole thing again. He was a great teacher.

When I got to be about 10 years old, I was able to help him harvest the alfalfa crops that he grew for other people. The people he worked for had a tractor to pull the mower and the rake. It wasn’t one of your big fancy, enclosed, air conditioned tractors like many of the farmers here in Loa have now. It was just a plain, old-fashioned tractor with a metal seat (ouch!). You were exposed to the elements all the time so we had to wear a hat and long sleeves or we’d have been burned to a crisp. The alfalfa mower also had a metal seat, as did the rake. My Dad had a perpetual case of hemorrhoids and it was really painful for him to sit on the metal seat of the tractor, so he had Durant drive the tractor and I rode the mower and operated the mower controls so we could get the alfalfa cut. Again, why didn’t George do that? Daddy was afraid that George’s balance was not good enough for him to try to operate machinery like that, so he taught me. Durant and I mowed a lot of alfalfa in those years---always under the watchful eye of Daddy. After the alfalfa was cut we’d let it dry for a few days and then we’d go and rake it into rows that were easy for the guys to pick up with pitch forks and load onto wagons to be carried to the barns. Daddy seemed to think that pitching hay was too hard for me to do and he was probably right.

Occasionally, his employer would want his hay baled. As I recall, there were a couple of “community” balers. They were pretty big so Daddy usually had adult, male help to run them. I always felt a “tad” cheated, but only a “tad.” After a day’s work in the fields, Daddy would always put his arm around me and tell me how proud he was of what I had done. That made it all worthwhile. Did I get paid for doing those things? No, I did not. In those days, everyone in the family worked together for the good of the family. It was a matter of survival.

When I was 10, Daddy decided I was old enough to take piano lessons. He wanted me to learn the Church Hymns. I don’t think he thought about me learning to play other music, as well, because his goal was for me to learn the hymns. Daddy made arrangements with Marge Lyman to give me lessons. I was very excited to begin. Sister Lyman was a lovely, kind and patient woman---an excellent teacher. My lessons were one hour long and I was expected to practice at least one hour every day, including my lesson day and Sunday. The lesson cost 25 cents for an hour. I guess I had a natural talent for music because I progressed very quickly. After about six months of lessons it was winter and jobs were scarce. My Dad decided that, although he didn’t want me to stop taking lessons, he just didn’t have the 25 cents per week to pay for the lessons. He went to Sister Lyman and told her that I would have to quit. Sister Lyman came right back at him with: “You can’t take my best student away. I will not let her stop. I will give her lessons free.” My Dad was not one to take charity! He would pay for the lessons, somehow.

My Dad had a big apple orchard. He also had pears, peaches and apricots. One of his pear trees was a “winter” pear. He dug a big pit in the ground, built several bins in the pit and put plenty of straw in the bins to keep the apples and winter pears off the ground. He always had lots of apples so we could have as many as we wanted to eat every day. What does that have to do with music lessons? He would take Sister Lyman apples and pears. We always had a cow so there was always cream for making butter. Mom would make butter and Daddy would take a pound of really good butter to Sister Lyman. As soon as it was spring and the garden was growing, he took fresh produce plus butter and cream. I’m sure she was paid much better in that manner than 25 cents per week. It was a good deal for every one. Sister Lyman seemed to be pleased with the arrangement and I was able to continue lessons for another eight months.

When I was 12 my Dad was called to be a Stake Missionary. He and his companion, Joe Hunt, would go to Bluff (a town about 25-27 miles southeast of Blanding) every other week because they had no Priesthood in Bluff at that time. I guess they took turns with another couple of Stake Missionaries so they didn’t always have to miss their own meetings. Anyway, there was a piano in the tiny building in Bluff but no one to play it. Daddy took me with him so they could have piano accompaniment for singing the hymns. I could play most of the hymns by then; I loved the experience and I loved being with my Dad. He was so very proud of me and Brother Hunt was impressed.

Daddy was always looking for ways to make extra money for his family. For several years he went door-to-door selling “Mason” brand shoes. They were extremely well-made shoes and people seemed to like them. He was able to make some money that way. Also, he went door-to-door selling “Stark” brand trees. They offered shade, ornamental and fruit trees. They were great trees. People bought trees from him a lot. The mark-up wasn’t much but it provided a little extra cash. There was no nursery in Blanding for many years so, over time, he was able to sell trees to nearly every family in Blanding.

I really didn’t know much about his tree selling until my mother died in l991. When we went to her funeral Bishop Joe Lyman (who happened to be the youngest son of Marge Lyman, my piano teacher) told me that he really missed my Dad. I asked him, “How so?” He said, “Well, I bought quite a few trees from your Dad.” He went on to tell me that when a person bought a tree from my Dad, he also bought my Dad’s services for the life of the tree---at no extra charge. He explained what he meant. When someone bought a tree (the trees were shipped in from Stark Brothers Nursery in Michigan) Daddy would deliver the tree/trees to the person’s home and then say, “Where do you want me to plant this/these?” Bishop Lyman told Daddy that he didn’t have to plant the trees but Daddy would not let anyone plant the trees he sold. He didn’t want any of “his” trees to die because they weren’t planted correctly, so he planted every tree he ever sold. Not only that, for the first year he watered the trees, just to be sure everything was as it needed to be. After the first year, he pruned the trees for his customers. While the trees were small that was no big deal but after they were grown to size, it was a “heck of a big deal.” Bishop Lyman said that some of Daddy’s customers knew how to prune their own trees and did so, but for those who did not know how to prune, Daddy was always there to help. He also made sure that the trees were sprayed.

My Dad always took really good care of his own trees. He knew how to prune, when to prune, how much fertilizer and water each tree needed and when it was needed. As a result, he always had a bumper crop. Also, he managed to get enough money together to buy a small sprayer so he could spray the trees properly when needed. Other people saw what good fruit he got and wanted his help with their trees, including spraying. Finally, the little sprayer just wouldn’t do the job any more. The Town Council got together and decided that the Town needed a commercial size sprayer and that Daddy should be the one to do the spraying. I don’t know how much they paid him but it wasn’t enough. People used to use terrible things in spray. Durant used to help Daddy spray. The big sprayer was a two-man job. No masks were provided and they didn’t think about masks being a necessity so the first day they used the big, new sprayer, they sprayed trees for several hours and came home so sick I thought they would both die. Daddy and Durant were both nauseated and in pain but could not throw up to relieve the pain. Finally, my mother made a concoction of raw egg with mustard powder and gave it to them. Durant threw up almost immediately and got some relief but even that horrible stuff didn’t induce Daddy to throw up. It took him about a day and a half to get relief. It was pretty scary. I don’t remember much of what was in the spray mixture but I do remember one of the chemicals in the spray was nicotine. They determined it was the nicotine that had made them so sick. Daddy wouldn’t spray with nicotine any more and they were okay after that. Also, the Town provided masks for them and that helped. Daddy did the spraying for people all over town every spring for several years. I don’t know who took over for him when he decided he couldn’t do it any more or, whether any one did. He went back to using his own small sprayer on his own orchard.

After I had graduated from Sixth Grade and had gone on to the High School (grades 7 through 12), my Dad was hired to be the Custodian at the Elementary School. He received the enormous salary of $1,000.00 per year. At least, I thought it was an enormous salary. I thought we were rich. Yes, he had a steady job and received a pay check monthly. Daddy really enjoyed that job. He kept the job until the School District made him retire. I think he was 70 when he retired.

A couple of years after Daddy got the job at the school, Durant was ready to go on a mission. Durant’s expenses would be $60.00 per month. Our Ward offered to pay $20.00 per month so that left $40.00 per month for Daddy to pay. That took $480.00 per year from the $1,000.00 per year that Daddy was paid but it worked out just fine. Daddy still sold shoes and trees and did the town spraying for that period of time. As I recall, he hired someone to be his spraying helper while Durant was gone.

During the summer, Daddy was in charge of making sure the school building was thoroughly cleaned for the new school year. He was allowed to hire help and the School Board paid that help. There were windows to wash (lots and lots of windows and they were high).

The desks had to be scrubbed and all the chewing gum scraped off. The rest rooms needed to be deep cleaned. Daddy hired me to work at the school. My sister, Grace, was also available to help clean the school during two summers, as I recall. We were a good team. However, I may have gotten my fear of heights from cleaning the outside windows on that school. I was always the one who did the outside and as I mentioned, they were high. The School Board allowed a certain amount to be paid for cleaning the school. I do not remember exactly, but I seem to remember being paid 25 cents an hour. I thought I was a millionaire. That was a lot of money. Daddy did the repairs that were needed and fixed any plumbing problems. He did small painting jobs and touch-up. The first year Daddy had the job, the School Board wanted a lot of painting to be done and authorized funds to hire a painter. The painter’s name was Edson Palmer. He and my Dad had been friends for years. One day he was painting the doors on the west side of the building. I had been cleaning in the rest room down stairs. There was only one way to get out of the restroom and that way was up the stairs by the west doors that were being painted. As I passed by Mr. Palmer, he turned around and said, “You are so beautiful.” Then he grabbed me and planted a huge, wet, sloppy kiss on my mouth. I was 13. I had never been kissed in that fashion before and I was disgusted and scared. I broke away from him and hurried away. I worked by my Dad the rest of the morning but I didn’t tell him. I was too ashamed and afraid. At lunch time Daddy and I walked home to get something to eat. Daddy was outside for a little while and I told my Mom what had happened. Mom went outside and told Daddy what I had told her. Daddy didn’t stop to eat. He just went right to the school building and I guess he really gave his friend the word. I learned later that Daddy told Mr. Palmer if he ever laid a hand on me in any way, again, he would beat him, Mr. Palmer, until he was bloody. Mr. Palmer continued with the painting until it was completed, probably another week or so. He didn’t touch me again. Of course, I steered pretty clear of the guy so he wouldn’t have a chance to bother me further. I have always been grateful to my Dad for believing me. After all, he and Edson had been friends for many, many years. Edson was at least as old as my Dad. If that happened now, Edson would probably have been tossed into jail for a while for what he did. My Dad was a good enough friend to Edson not to tell on him, but he made it clear that his actions were unacceptable.

I could tell you so many more experiences with my Dad but this post is quite long enough. My Dad was always the example of how one should live his/her life. All of his children loved him, dearly. We all respected his integrity. We all learned many of life’s lessons by watching his example. Swearing and profanity were not in his vocabulary. I remember his total honesty. If there was a right and a wrong way to accomplish something, there was never any question which way he would choose.
Daddy passed away in January, 1976. He was 88 years old. He had spent so much of his life smiling that the corners of his mouth perpetually turned up. As he lay in his coffin at the viewing, it appeared that he was smiling, and I’m sure he was. He was never happier than when he had his kids and grandkids around him. All but one or two of his descendents were there.

I love you all.

JUSTIN ABINADI BLACK - CHAPTER TWO

In the first chapter about my Dad I told you that my Dad was born in Huntington, Emery County, Utah and he lived there until he was ten. At that time his Dad, Benjamin Daniel Black decided that things were not very good for them there as far as making a living to support three families so he decided to try another place. Well, I have a copy of what my Dad wrote about that trip so I’m going to let you read what he wrote, exactly as he wrote it. I have come to the conclusion that certain people are born at certain times because they have the strength to endure what comes in their lives. Our obstacles are so much different and require other strengths. I’m not sure I could have endured what the pioneers did in crossing the plains and in settling the West after they arrived here.

Following, is what Daddy wrote of their move to New Mexico:

(January 31, 1974, my Dad wrote to Karen Black. For those who do not know who Karen is—she is a niece of both Jack and I. Her dad is my brother, Durant, and her mother is Jack’s sister Elaine. Thank goodness Karen and another niece, Eileen, daughter of my sister Grace, became interested in learning more about my Dad. They began writing to him and asking for stories.)

“Maybe you would be interested about our trip from Huntington, Utah to Fruitland, New Mexico. I guess you know I was born in Huntington, Utah. My Father’s health wasn’t good in Huntington, and he decided to move to Old Mexico. This was when I was ten years old. At this time he had three horses, but having 3 families, he had to have a team and wagon for each family. So, he had to get 3 more horses and 2 wagons. So, he traded what property he had, and got 3 horses and the wagons and a little needed money. And his Father bought a horse for him, so now he had 7 horses, and three wagons and was ready to start. There were two other families and another man ready to go with us. So, we started and went one mile out of town. And stopped overnight at a farm where they had arranged to pasture the horses that night. Time we were ready to leave the next morning, it was raining, and rained almost steady all day. So we didn’t go far that day. The next morning the sun was shining bright, but the road was muddy, so progress was slow. So, after two days of travel we were only about 25 miles from Huntington. That night we had no hay for our horses so we had to turn them loose to forage on the range. When the men folks went to find them the next morning, one of our horses couldn’t be found. But on close inspection of the road, they found his tracks, and he was headed for Huntington. So Father came to camp, ate his breakfast, got on a horse and went after him. Father was gone the rest of that day and all the next day. The horse had gone all the way to Huntington, and then up Huntington Canyon to his former home. Father got to Huntington after dark, and stayed with his Brother Charles that night. The next morning, as Father was quite sore from riding bareback, Uncle Charles sent his son up the canyon to get the horse. When Tom got back with the horse, Uncle Charles gave Father a quilt to ride on and a rope so he could make loops for stirrups, which made Father’s ride back to camp more comfortable. But when it began to get dark the second day after Father had left, and he hadn’t got back yet, my Mother, Aunt Susie and Persus Roberts went back the road some distance, and hollered as loud as they could. Father was close enough he heard Mother’s voice and answered and the women folks came back to camp rejoicing and Father wasn’t far behind.

“Nothing of interest happened after that until we reached Green River one and a half or two and a half days later. We got there about noon, and the men at the Ferry wanted three dollars a wagon to Ferry us across and that would have cost Father $9.00. So, Father said he wouldn’t pay that much, he would find a place where he could ford the river and cross. They offered to come down a little, but Father said they were still too high. Then, a man came and said he knew where there was a fording place and he would ford us over for three dollars, but Father said if you can ford us over, I can ford myself and it won’t cost me anything. So by inquiring around a little he found a man that told him that up the river about a mile there was a place where people had forded the river, but it had been some time since any one had crossed so we went up the river and found the place. Then Father, Azariah Brown, and Will Guymon got on horses and rode across and back and finding it all right for crossing, we all crossed over. But while in Green River, the men folks found a place where they could pasture their horses over night. So, after we had crossed over to the east side and had eaten our supper, Father, Brother Brown, Will Guymon, my brothers, Ben and Acel, took some bedding in a wagon and all of the horses and went back to the west side where the horses were to pasture. Some of the horses were loose, and two of the men were on horses trying to drive them, it was a little upstream and two horses of Brother Brown’s wouldn’t go against the stream and got too far downstream and got in the quick sand. But they were near the bank, and the men worked until midnight to get them out. But the bank was too high and steep for them to get out on that side, so they sent them back to the east side. We boys got them and we had built up a big fire, and we led them back and forth around the fire until they were dry and warm so they wouldn’t get sick. So it was one o’clock or after, time we were all in bed.

“The next morning, we started on toward Moab. As I remember, we got to the Colorado River about the middle of the afternoon on the third day. There, there was nothing to do, only to ride the ferry. But, they only charged us $2.50 for all three wagons, and the boat was large enough to take all three outfits at once. But, we were to leave our extra horse to come with the next load, as there would be only 2 outfits. But, the horse was loose, and he didn’t wait. When we were about half-way across, he plunged into the stream and followed us. I heard a man say, “He will never get out alive.” Another one said, “I wouldn’t give 50 cents for a chance for him. But he swam and caught the boat and swam right along by the side of it. Father got a rope and put it around his neck. There were 4 or 5 men on the south bank, and a man on the boat had quite a long rope, which they took. Two or three men got hold of each end, and put the middle of the rope over the horses rump. Although the bank was almost straight up, by the men pulling on the ropes, the horse got out all right. Then, one man jokingly said, “I am going to charge you $2.00 for that horse swimming the river.” Another said, “I’ll give you ten dollars for that horse.”

“Well, after all were across, we started on toward Moab. We had not gone far when Mother noticed some watercress by the side of the road. She said, “There is some watercress. We must have some.” We had a big brass bucket, so we got it. And my sister, Tamar and I got out of the wagon to get some. But when we got to the cress, the frogs began jumping every direction, so we went back to the wagon and told Mother the cress was no good, there were frogs all through it. She said, “That makes it all the better. Get some water cress and get a lot of it. So, we filled the bucket and the whole camp had water cress for three or four days. And all seemed to enjoy it. That was the first time I ever saw water cress.

“From Moab we traveled on toward Monticello. When we got to Cane Springs we stopped there to water our horses, and fill our barrels with water. Each wagon had a 30 or 40 gallon barrel fastened to one side, so we could have water when we came to a camp where there was none. While there, my brothers, Edd and Ernest and I noticed some goats at a corral not far away. So, we went to see them and look around a little, while the men folks filled the barrels. Soon, the call came, “We are going.” So, we ran for the wagons. In the bottom of Cane Springs Canyon was a narrow wash, about five feet wide and that deep or deeper. When we got to it, Edd and Ernest walked back a few steps and ran and jumped across, but when I tried, my toes barely touched the bank and I went part way down. But, they grabbed me by the arms, and pulled me out, and we soon caught the wagons.

“We traveled on, I don’t remember how long, but we got to Church Rock Saturday night. There was water there and the feed was good. So, we lay over Sunday. The women did some much needed washing.

“Monday we started on. It was not far to Peter’s Hill. There at that time, the road followed the canyon, crossing it several times. At one crossing, the reach in our wagon broke and Father had to go up a side canyon some distance to find a tall straight cedar, out of which he could make another reach. Then to make the reach, and get it into the wagon took quite a bit of time. We only got to Carlile that night. A distance of probably eight miles. From Carlile, we went southeasterly direction toward Cortez, and didn’t go to Monticello. When we got to Cortez, we stopped at a Flour Mill to get some flour and some grain for the horses. While at the mill, three drunks came on horses. They stayed around a while doing things that were amusing to we kids. While they were there a stirrup came off of one fellow’s saddle. He didn’t seem to have missed it. My brother, Ben, picked it up and gave it to him, and then helped him put it back on. When they were through, the fellow said, “Thank you.” But, Ben said nothing. So, the fellow put his hand on Ben’s head, and said, “Say, I said thank you.” Then Ben said, “Oh, you’re welcome.” Then, he said, “That’s right. When a fellow says thank you, tell him he is welcome.” Then as they rode away, one fellow waved his hat and hollered, “Hurray for Bryan!” Another hollered, “Hurrah for McKinley!” And the other said, “Hurray for any old thing.” Then, we drove down into the south Montezuma valley where we got some excellent pasture for our horses, at five cents a head. Next day as we traveled on south, we came to a Ute Indian Agency, where they gave out rations to the Indians each month. There was a large spring there where the Indians brought horses to water, and we stopped and watered our horses. While there, an Indian came with quite a band of horses and they were quite small. And Will Guymon said to me, “Why don’t you go and fill your pockets with ponies so you will have some to play with.” While there, a Navajo Indian came and wanted us to let his boy ride with us to Fruitland, New Mexico. He said his boy had been kicked in the chest by a horse, and couldn’t ride his horse. As Will Guymon rode alone a good deal of the time, he decided to let the boy ride with him. The older Indian went along, riding his horse and leading the boy’s horse. After we had gone on for some distance, we asked the Indian if the pony he was leading was gentle enough for us kids to ride. He assured us he was, so Ernest, I, Tamar, Mish and Mead all took turns riding the pony. The Indian seemed pleased to have us ride him, so he wouldn’t have to lead him, and we got a lot of fun doing it. Well, we drove into Fruitland just after sundown two or three days later. Father’s sister, Tamar, and his brother, William lived there. So we stopped at Aunt Tamar’s and Father took the other two families to Uncle William’s. Uncle William told Father that the people in Old Mexico were poor and jobs were scarce, and he would have a hard time in Old Mexico. He had better stop there, and that is what we did.”

That is the end of my Dad’s story about traveling from Huntington to Fruitland, New Mexico when he was 10 years old. He wrote the story when he was 86 years old---two years before he died. I am absolutely in awe of his memory of some of the small details of the journey. Another thing, he was only able to finish fifth grade. I really don’t know how much school he actually attended during those first five years. All things considered, he learned a lot in whatever amount of school he was able to attend. Karen and Eileen copied his stories as he wrote them and did not change word usage, spelling or punctuation. Some of his punctuation is a bit unusual but not bad. Of course, he did not stop learning just because he couldn’t attend more school. His spelling is quite remarkable. He loved to read and probably learned a lot of spelling because he did read a lot.

In the last paragraph of his story he mentions some brothers and sisters riding the Indian pony. Let me clarify a couple of things so you will know who belonged where. All three of my grandfather’s families were traveling together. Daddy’s brother Ernest was the oldest son of “Aunt Alice,” wife number three; Daddy and his sister Tamar were from my grandmother who was the first wife; “Mish” and “Mead” were daughters of “Aunt Susie,” wife number two. “Mish’s” full name was Artimisha—“Mish” for short. “Mead’s” full name was Almeda---“Mead” for short. I knew Uncle Ernest quite well. I also knew Aunt Mish well. I will be mentioning her more later. Aunt Tamar and Aunt Mead both died before I was born.

In one paragraph Daddy mentions “Cane” Springs. It is spelled Kane Springs. Also he mentions “Carlile.” I can’t verify it on a map because my maps don’t show it but I’m pretty sure I remember the place is spelled Carlisle. I can’t verify the spelling on any of the maps I have because it is not shown. I guess I should talk to some of the old-timers in the area and I will. I had a friend who married a man who lived at Carlisle/Carlile. It was/is a very small place.

I will be passing along more of my Dad’s own stories along with my stories of him. I have lots more stories. I will also be doing a tribute to my Dad inasmuch as Fathers’ Day is June 15th.

The only birthday this month is my sister, Grace. She will be 85 on June 27th.

I love you all.

THE SHOW AT MAIN AND CENTER STREETS

There was a show at the corner of Main and Center Streets in front of the Post Office. I had the starring role. Here’s the story. Saturday, Juli called me from the IFA store and said they had some red currant bushes and did I want them? I went down to take a look. They were gorgeous plants and I thought—oh, good! After they start bearing, I can make the red currant jelly for our Thanksgiving Snow Pudding. Also, they had some flat-leaf parsley plants and some good looking tomato plants. We probably can’t plant them until after Memorial Day week-end because the weather is supposed to be cold again, but the plants were really moving out of the store so I thought I should get them and bring them home.

Juli offered to load the plants into the back of her car since (she said) the floor was already dirty and no need to get the back of my van dirty. I said, “Okay.” Then Juli told me she would drop her sister, Alisa, off at her home and then come over to my house and leave the plants. I told her I’d meet her at my house. The thought ran through my mind that maybe I had enough time to stop by the Post Office, get my mail and make it home by the time Juli got there. So, I stopped by the Post Office and parked in front. I hurried in and got my mail and was rushing out so I wouldn’t make Juli wait. Now, let me stall the story here for a moment while I tell you that I normally stop at the side of the Post Office, not in front. I didn’t think it would make that much difference. It did. You see, when I walk out the door to go to my car I only put one foot on the mat that is outside of the door and step right onto the concrete. Since I had to go another direction, I had to take two or three steps on the mat. I guess I didn’t pick up my right foot high enough and caught my toe in the rubber of the mat and fell headlong on my face. No one was more surprised than I to find me on the ground. I just lay there for a few seconds trying to assess the damage. I had a couple of spots that hurt but I decided there were no broken bones. I also thought, if I lay here long enough, I can get back up by myself. BUT, I also thought, “Oh, good grief, someone is going to see me.” Someone did see me and stopped to help. It was a lady whose face was familiar to me but I couldn’t think why her face was familiar nor could I think of her name. She offered to help me. I wasn’t sure how she could. I hadn’t had time to think how I would get off the ground if someone offered to help. I made a futile attempt to get up and fell back. The lady asked whether she should call the ambulance and I said, “No, I don’t think I need the ambulance.” Then she said, “Would you like me to call Tal?” Immediately, I was reassured that I was home. Another stranger knew who I am and where I belong. Immediately, I felt an almost overwhelming feeling of thankfulness for the decisions that we have made in my behalf.

Well, to make what could really be a long story, short, I was able to get my left leg underneath me, the lady lifted me under my right arm and I stood upright. After she determined that I was probably okay to drive home, she let me go. Juli was already unloading my stuff when I got home. I told her about my fall. After she satisfied herself that perhaps I was okay, we laughed as I told her that the lady asked whether she should call Tal.

Today, Monday, Tal called me and said, “I didn’t know you fell.” I asked him who told him. He said, “Mom, you live in a small town.” Then he told me the lady’s name: Melanie Grundy. I asked him whether she lives in the Loa Ward and he told me she lives in Lyman. Then I wanted to know why she looked familiar and he said, “She works at the bank.” Ah! Mystery solved.

Am I okay? Yes, I am okay. I have a few bruises on my body but they don’t begin to add up to the number of bruises to my ego.

When I was a senior in High School I had the leading role in the school musical. I had begun to think that would be my only public performance. But---ta-da-I have another leading performance to add to my resume’. My singing role was a whole lot more fun but it was nowhere nearly as dramatic as my performance at the corner of Main and Center Streets in Loa, Utah.

MOTHERS' DAY TRIBUTE TO MY MOM

I’m working on Chapter Two about my Dad but inasmuch as Sunday is Mothers’ Day, I think I will pay tribute to my mother. In the past few years I have gained a whole new perspective of who my Mother was and though I was quite bitter toward her for many years, my feelings have softened a great deal. You know the old saying, “To understand someone, you need to “walk in their shoes for a mile.” I have tried to “walk in her shoes” in my mind. Today, I’m going to try to explain who she was and why she deserves my understanding.

My mother was 25 years old when she married my father. She came to Blanding with my dad after their wedding and endured a life of hardship, pain, suffering and terror. Oh, my dad loved her and he was as good to her as he knew how to be (almost). But life was hard. There was never much money and there were few amenities to ease her life. She gave birth to seven large babies—I was the smallest at 9-1/2 pounds. The largest was my brother, George, at 12 pounds. She developed horrible varicose veins during her third pregnancy and the varicose veins became worse during each ensuing pregnancy. By her fourth pregnancy the varicose veins had become huge weeping sores on her ankles. The sores were extremely painful and they never healed until 10 or 15 years after I graduated from High School and left home. Finally, at that time, a new doctor with new skills and knowledge, came to Blanding and he tried something “new” and it worked. The sores were finally healed. The scars from those sores never went away. Each time she became pregnant, with extra weight of the baby she was carrying, the pain increased. It must have been almost unbearable. She had to clean and dress the sores every day which was a tedious process. She couldn’t put her feet on the floor in the morning if she didn’t put her elastic stockings on first. She couldn’t put her left heel on the floor. It just wouldn’t stretch out. She always had to put her feet into her regular shoes. She was never able to just slip her feet into a pair of house shoes.

She told me many times that she had not wanted me. I always resented my mother telling me I was not wanted. Perhaps I was not wanted by my mother, but it would have been kind of her not to tell me that. As I told you in my first blog entry, I’ve always been happy that my dad prevailed and I was born. I can understand my mom not wanting to go through the pain of carrying me inside her for nine months but I didn’t need to know that I was not wanted. That was something better left unsaid. I felt unloved by her. She never said anything to dispel the feeling I had that she didn’t love me—not until I was 53 years old. When I was 53 she said, “I love you.” By then, it didn’t matter much. I had other people around me who loved me and were willing to frequently tell me they loved me. My dad always loved me and he made sure I knew that I was wanted. So, you see why my dad is so very special.

My mom was sick a great deal when I was small. Now, I know she went through a terrible menopause. In those days there were no medicines to alleviate the symptoms and not many people had hysterectomies. I could go into gory detail about her menopause but suffice it to say, it was bad. I remember when I was five she was in bed in her bedroom, most of the time. Daddy was away at work and all the other kids were at school so I was there with her alone. I had to keep the fires burning in the stoves so the house would be warm. She told me to be sure to lift the wood high over the coals so I didn’t push the coals to the back of the fire box of the stove in the kitchen, then I was to lay the stick of wood down on the coals so the wood would burn evenly. The stove in the living room was not so difficult to refuel, but I had to do that, too. I cannot imagine having a five-year-old keep the fires burning. But I did it. Then she’d send me out to the root cellar to get some potatoes, carrots and onions to make vegetable soup for the other kids when they came home for lunch. She’d have me wash the vegetables and then take them into the bedroom so she could cut them up for the soup. She’d have me put a pot of water on the stove and she always explained everything very carefully so I wouldn’t get burned or hurt when I did these things. She taught me to peel the vegetables, though she did most of them because I was really slow. Soup wouldn’t have been ready until supper time if I had tried to peel all the vegetables. Then she’d cut them up and tell me how much salt to put into the pot. I’d put the vegetables in the pot and when the pot started to boil she’d have me use a couple of hot pads to pull the pot to a “not so hot spot” on the stove. (It was like turning down the heat on our modern-day ranges.) Sometimes we had a soup bone to put into the soup to give it some flavor. Sometimes, the older kids would clean some beans and put them to soak at night and the next morning I’d see to it the beans got cooked so they’d have some lunch. I guess, during the time mom was so sick, my older siblings made bread in the evenings because we always had bread. There was no school lunch in Blanding, in those days.

Mom taught me to tell time. We only had one clock. At night, Daddy took the clock into the bedroom but in the morning he would take it into the kitchen and put it on top of the dish cupboard. Mom would tell me to look at the clock and then tell her which number the big hand was on and which number the little hand was on. She would tell me what time it was and she very thoroughly taught me to tell time. I learned to tell time very quickly so I didn’t have to tell mom where the big and little hands were. Digital clocks didn’t come into existence until many years later, at least not for general use.

When the food was cooked, lunch eaten and the dishes washed and dried, she would tell me to get the Chinese checker board and marbles. She taught me to play Chinese checkers and I learned so well that I was occasionally able to beat her. I was always so proud when that happened. And, I could almost always beat my brother, George, at the game. We also played some card games together i.e., “Authors,” “Old Maid,” “Rook,” etc. Sometimes she’d read to me but I had learned to read so sometimes she’d have me read to her. Occasionally, she would have me sweep the floors or dust the furniture. The Fall after I turned six I started 1st Grade and mom got better so she could be out of bed most of the time.

At some point in my mother’s life the Doctors’ surmised that she had a mild case of Polio. They were not absolutely certain but it was their best guess. As a result of that, she wore a size 6-1/2 EEE shoe on her left foot and a size 9AA shoe on her right foot. That meant she had to buy two pairs of shoes when she needed new shoes, or, she had to have her shoes made for her. Generally, it was cheaper to buy two pairs from Sears-Roebuck. She always wore a shoe that laced up the front and had a 1-1/2-inch “block” heel. AND she still had the open sores from the varicose veins.

She couldn’t walk very far and when she did walk she always had a great deal of pain. Occasionally, if there was a problem with a cow (when Daddy was out of town) she’d have to go milk the cow. We had one cow that enjoyed being a problem. Mom seemed to have a calming influence on her. When my Dad was out of town it was my brother, Durant’s job to milk the cow. Sometimes when he tried to milk her she would stick her foot in the bucket or kick him or knock him down with her head. I remember him with a bloody nose several times. On those occasions, mom would go and milk that ornery old cow. The cow’s name was “Lade” (don’t ask me). Lade never gave my mom any problems. You may wonder why we kept that ornery old bovine. Well, she was a huge cow. And she gave more, rich milk than any cow we had ever had—or would ever have. She gave 14 quarts of milk every morning and 14 quarts every night. We could hardly afford to get rid of her. Mom would make butter and sell it and get a few cents to help get the things we needed. She, along with others in town, shipped cream in a three or five gallon can to a creamery in Grand Junction, Colorado and got a few dollars from that each week. Mom helped with the garden when Daddy was away. In the Summer and Fall she had fruit and vegetables to bottle and when the weather got cold, Daddy always slaughtered a beef, pig and lamb. All that meat had to be taken care of—we had no refrigerator or freezer—so much of the meat was sealed in glass jars and pressure cooked so we could have meat to eat. When she was able, she made at least one big batch of bread every week—sometimes two, depending on circumstances. She took care of the milk, cream and butter. Her left leg was so painful that she kneeled on a chair with her left leg and dragged that chair around the house and kitchen to do her work. When Daddy was home he always helped her as much as he possibly could and all of the kids pitched in to help with everything. BUT, it was mom who had the load to carry. She was in charge. There was work to be done and it was her responsibility--also, the laundry, ironing, house cleaning, bed making and everything that goes with being a mom. As I said, we all pitched in and did as much as we could but when you’re a mom—well, those of you who are moms know what I mean. If mom worked in the garden, she kneeled on a rug of some kind because she couldn’t stand very long. I don’t know how she kneeled so much. My knees just won’t let me kneel longer than a couple of minutes at a time.

I have to give my Mother credit for what she did. Her life was not easy. She was terrified of the Indians. She had terrible health problems. She always had to make one penny do the work of two. Perhaps she just couldn’t help being mean sometimes. As I got into my teens she wasn’t speaking to me three-fourths of the time. At first, I cried and begged her to talk to me but my begging did no good. She would only talk to me when she got “good and ready.” Finally, I got over caring whether she talked to me or not. Most of the time, I honestly did not know why she wouldn’t talk to me. I want you to know that many times I wanted to scream at her. I thought then and I still do, that she was very unfair. But, I NEVER screamed at her. I never even talked back to her. When I spoke to her it was always with respect. It wasn’t that I thought she deserved my respect but there is a Commandment: “Honor thy Father and thy Mother.” I did that. It doesn’t say you have to love your father and mother—it says “Honor” them. I knew I could not honor her if I disrespected her. Besides, I wanted my Dad’s respect. I would never have had his respect if I had disrespected my mom. He knew she was unfair to all three of his daughters but she was our mother and for that reason, Daddy expected us to treat her well. She really liked her sons but she seemed to view her daughters as competition. I think Daddy was as confused by her actions as we girls were. Both my older sisters “sassed” her. I am not trying to say that I was “the perfect child” but I never “sassed” or “talked-back” to my mom and I am proud that I can tell you that. For that reason, I think my Dad had a special place in his heart for me.

There is something else, as well. I absolutely have a clear conscience as regards my mom. My mother gave me life. Whether she wanted to or not. She did. It was a long, painful ordeal for her. She taught me many things that have served me well throughout my lifetime. She endured many hardships and much pain to raise her family. For that, she deserves my gratitude. I guess the best thing she taught me was: I wanted to be a different kind of mom to my kids. I think I was.

I am envious of women and girls who have a great relationship with their mother. I feel sorry for my mom. I feel sorry that she didn’t want a fun relationship with her daughters. She missed out on some terrific times. She never knew that I’m a fun person. She never knew what a great sense of humor I have. I missed out not knowing my mother better. I missed out because she hardly ever told me anything about when she was young. I would like to have known more about what she did. I would have liked to hear about her mother—what she was like and what she did.

One of the times we went to Blanding to visit my folks, a neighbor saw us there and came over to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes and then he said to me, “You look like your mother.” At that point, I was not feeling very kindly toward my mom and I wasn’t flattered at his remark. We were outside my mom’s bedroom and the window was open. I knew my mom was in her bedroom. My first impulse was to tell the neighbor he was crazy. But I knew mom would hear whatever I had to say so I said, “Oh, do you think so?”
He said, “Yes. When your Dad first brought your Mother to Blanding, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” I was somewhat humbled by his remark and simply said, “Thank you.”

In the second paragraph of this chapter I told you that my dad was “as good to my mom as he knew how to be (almost).” I should clarify that. My mother loved fireplaces and always wanted one. When my dad made the final addition to the house she begged him to build a fireplace for her. He didn’t. I think she felt a little bitter about that. I suspect the reason he didn’t build it was that it would have cost a lot more to build a fireplace and build it right, and he just didn’t have the extra money. So sad.

My suggestion to all of my grandchildren is that you “Honor” your parents. You may never know the sacrifices they have made for you. Some are sacrifices requiring a great deal of courage but they were willing to do it for YOU. All parents make mistakes raising their children. They don’t have Master’s Degrees in how to be a parent. Most of us learn through trial and error. I didn’t mean to preach. I apologize for that.

Anyway, I pay tribute to my Mother this Mothers’ Day. I thank her for giving me life and I thank her for the practical things I learned from her. I thank her for being who she was so I could become who I am.

And now, for the May Birthdays: Happy Birthday to: Dave who turned 50 on May 6th; Ali, May 7th; David, May 8th; Patti, May 27th; Waiva, May 31st. Hope you all had or will have a Great Day.

I love you all.

STOPPED BY A COP

Yup, it happened. I was stopped by a cop Thursday, April 17, 2008 at, or around 4:00 p.m. in Loa, Utah. I have not been stopped by a cop in 25 or 30 years. It may be longer than that. This is only the fourth time I’ve ever been stopped by a cop. I have received two speeding tickets (one of which I should have gone to court and fought because I think it was bogus). The third time I was stopped I guess I was speeding but I didn’t know it because the speedometer didn’t indicate that I was speeding. You see, Jack had just put BIG tires on the pick-up I was driving and when you change the size of the tires from what they were when you bought the vehicle your speedometer doesn’t accurately tell you how fast you are going. The officer asked me if I knew I was speeding and I told him that I didn’t. I rarely ever went more than a couple of miles over the speed limit. Fortunately, Patti was with me that day. She spoke right up and said, “My mother never speeds! She’s the most boring driver I know.” The officer laughed and said, “Okay, I believe you.” Then he looked at me and told me that I’d better have the speedometer checked.

Okay, so those are my experiences with being stopped by cops. But let me start at the beginning. Yesterday was a gorgeous day and quite warm. A nurse had called and told me that Jack’s and my prescriptions were ready to be picked up (for Medicare, Part D). I told Jack I needed to go get them and asked him if he’d like to ride along. He said, “Sure.” We drove over to the clinic in Bicknell. I ran in, well, actually, I walked as fast as I could, and when I got back in the van I asked Jack if he’d like to see the campground where Juli and her sisters and their families and I had enjoyed an Easter picnic. (Jack didn’t want to go to the picnic but I went, anyway and had an absolutely delightful time.) He said he’d like to see the campground so I drove over there. It was just a couple of miles away. It’s a really nice campground and the hills were wonderful for the kids to roll their Easter eggs. After that, I drove around the new Wayne County Community Center so he’d know where I go when I help out at the Senior’s lunches. He had never been there, either.

We left Bicknell on our way back to Loa and Jack asked if we could take the “Big Rocks Road” past the airport---so we did. Just as we were getting back to town on the Big Rocks Road, Jack said, “What is that big metal building over there?” I said, “Let’s go see.” I knew what it was but we were in no particular hurry and he was really enjoying the drive so I signaled for a left-hand turn. The cop was stopped at a stop sign on the right side of the road. I turned left and drove up the street and turned right at the next corner in order for Jack to see what the building is. As I approached the street in front of the building I signaled for a right-hand turn, braked slightly and turned the corner. That was when I realized the cop was still following me and he had his lights flashing. I immediately pulled over and stopped. I watched him in the outside mirror and I didn’t recognize the face so I knew he wasn’t the Sheriff. When he got to my door he looked in the said, “Do you know that one of your brake lights isn’t working?” I replied, “No, I didn’t know that.” He said, “Yes, the brake light on the driver’s side is not working.” “Well, I’d better call Gary (Brian Auto) and get it taken care of,” I said.
And he said, “Yeh, you could call Gary or you could just have Tal replace the bulb.” I laughed, because then I knew that he knew who we are even though we didn’t know who he is.

Now, is that the cutest, or what? It is very comforting to know, at our age, that someone is looking out for us and it’s not necessarily our immediate family doing it all of the time. I love that part of living in a small town. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of anything I don’t like about living in a small town. Of course, I was raised in a small town where people more or less looked after each other, so why would Loa be any different?

Juli stopped by the house shortly after we got home and I shared our little adventure with her. We laughed and rejoiced in the whole thing all over again. She told us that if one of the teenagers in the County gets stopped for speeding, or whatever, the parents know about it before the kid gets home. Knowing that may make the teenagers think twice about doing something they know they shouldn’t do. I think that’s great! I’m sure Juli told Tal about me when she got home. I haven’t talked to Tal, yet, so I haven’t heard whether the deputy called Tal and said, “Hey, I just stopped your mother.” It makes me laugh just to think about it. I hope the deputy did call Tal.

Perhaps I should add one more thing to this little story. After Juli left our house I went into the family room and sat down to go through the mail. Jack and I laughed, again, about the cop stopping me and then he said, “I really enjoyed the ride today. You are really a good and careful driver.”

BAREFOOT IN THE SNOW AND COOKING BACON

Ah, yes. Walking barefoot in the snow! How well I remember that and how happy I am I do not need to do it any more.

When I was eight years old my Mom and Dad decided I was old enough to have my own bedroom. I had been sleeping in the living room on a day bed that I shared with my sister, Grace. We pulled it down every night to make a double bed and we made it up every morning. When Grace graduated from High school she somehow had found a job in California doing housework and cooking for a family there. I don’t know how she got the job (I’ll have to ask her sometime) but she went right to California after graduation.

Remember, after I was born, Daddy built a lean-to on our house and that lean-to became the kitchen, pantry and a screened porch. Actually, it wasn’t really a porch. It was a room with screens for windows (no glass). Daddy had an old canvas that he cut in half and he nailed the canvas over the screens in that room. Only problem was that the canvas was quite worn and had some holes. It did offer some privacy but not much protection from the elements. When it snowed, if there was any wind with the snow, I would wake up with snow on my bed. However, I thought it was quite wonderful to have my own room. I shared the room with a huge cupboard with doors that closed tightly. Mom kept the milk in there and I will be telling you more about that at a later time. I don’t remember what else was kept in the cupboard but there must have been something else.

Anyway, I had a bed and a couple of hooks on the wall to hang clothes.

You may remember that we only had stoves in the kitchen and living room. Though the stoves were great in those days, they didn’t retain heat like the new stoves available today, so when the fire went out the rooms got cold in a hurry. Absolutely no heat got into my bedroom and it was cold. That’s why I heated bricks or smooth rocks in the oven, wrapped them in towels or something and put them in my bed to warm it enough I could stand to climb into the bed. Now, I had a pretty good bladder but occasionally I would feel the urge to visit the outhouse in the middle of the night. My shoes were by my bed and a couple of times I put my feet into my shoes and wore them to the outhouse but those shoes felt like ice cubes. By the time I got back from the outhouse, my feet were so cold, I couldn’t get them warm the rest of the night (the bricks and rocks were cold by then so they were no help). The next time I had to go to the outhouse, I decided my feet couldn’t get any colder if I went barefoot and that’s what I did. There was one problem. I couldn’t stand to put my toes down into the snow so I pointed my toes toward the sky and just got the bottom of my feet on the snow. It worked! When I got back to bed my feet weren’t nearly as cold as when I wore my cold shoes. And, yes, I really could point my toes toward the sky. I got so used to walking barefoot on cold surfaces that when I put bare feet on any surface, my toes automatically pointed upward. Jack used to get the biggest kick out of that. He thought I was quite talented. (Wow! What a talent!)

Do I still point my toes upward? Well, it’s been a long time since I had to walk on really cold surfaces and gradually my toes began to touch the floor. And, as a result of getting older, I found I needed to put my toes on the floor for extra stability. I can’t just scoot around with only my feet under me. When Shanna mentioned about walking barefoot in the snow and toes pointed upward I thought, “Gee, I wonder whether I can still do that.” I tried and due to the lack of practice pointing them skyward they don’t go nearly as straight up. I guess I can start exercising those muscles every day and get my talent back if I want to. The question is: Do I? Well, let me try it for a while and see whether it’s worth the effort. When I was young, it took no particular effort.

COOKING BACON

I love bacon but it was always SO messy to cook. Even if I used a splatter screen over the pan, it was messy and you have to deal with the bacon curling in your stove-top pan. But now I have the perfect way to cook bacon with no curling and it doesn’t cook in the grease.

If you have a cookie sheet (with sides at least one inch) put a cooling rack (like you’d use for cooling cakes or cookies) into the cookie sheet. Lay your bacon strips on the cooling rack. Heat your oven to 400 degrees. When the oven is up to 400 degrees, put the cookie sheet in the oven. I can’t tell you exactly how long it takes because at 7000 feet in altitude it is different than if you’re at sea level or somewhere between. Just keep an eye on the bacon the first time you try this and keep track of the time it takes. You can cook your bacon crisp or limp—however you like it. When it’s just right for you, remove the cookie sheet from the oven. Your bacon will be nice and flat—no curling—and cooked to perfection. What’s even better, all the grease is in the bottom of the cookie sheet and the bacon isn’t sitting in the grease. You can wash the cooling rack in your dishwasher. And, you can pour the grease from the cookie sheet. You can either dispose of the grease or you can put it in a container and put it in your refrigerator to cook with later—if that’s what you like to use. If you cook beans and add a little bacon grease to the pot, it makes the beans a complete protein and they’ll be better for you. Yes, you do need a little fat in your diet. I’ve been cooking bacon like this for about a year now and it is wonderful. I keep wondering why it took me so long. Try it—I think you’ll like it. Let me know what you think.

Hey, here’s an EASY recipe for absolutely the most deliciously decadent brownies you’ve ever tasted:

TOFFEE BROWNIES

1 pkg. brownie mix with walnuts (it needs to be at least 17.6 ounces and up to 19 ounces is better)
Vegetable oil cooking spray
3 (5 or 8 ounce) candy bars with toffee chips and almonds--recommended Symphony brand

Prepare the brownie mix according to package directions

Line a 13 x 9-inch cake pan with aluminum foil and spray with vegetable oil cooking spray. Spoon in half the brownie batter and smooth with a spatula or the back of a spoon. Place the candy bars side by side on top of the batter. Cover with the remaining batter.

Bake according to package directions. Let cool completely, then lift from the pan using the edges of the foil. This makes it easy to cut the brownies into squares. Dust the top with a little powdered sugar. You will want to lift the brownies off the foil at this time and store in a container you can cover tightly.

(The first ones I made I used 5 oz. bars. I bought some more bars and didn’t notice that I had picked up the 8 oz. bars so I used them anyway. They were so gooey and wonderful that it was almost immoral. However, the 5 oz. bars are delicious, as well.)

I love you all.

LONG BROWN STOCKINGS AND MARCH MADNESS

Patti has mentioned long brown stockings in her comments a couple of times so I will tell you about them. My March Madness has nothing to do with Basketball but I have had my own March Madness which I will share.

When I was a child, and even into my teens, women and girls did not wear pants/slacks. We always wore dresses. Let me amend that—when women had to go to work in the factories during World War II, they did wear slacks and thanks to Katherine Hepburn, pants/slacks steadily became more and more popular. (For those of you who are too young to know who Katherine Hepburn was---she was a movie actress who won about four “Oscars” and many other acting awards. She was a real trend setter. She didn’t like to be confined to dresses all the time and she really made pants/slacks popular. Thank heaven for women, here and there, who believed that women could become whatever they wanted.) After the war was over and the women no longer needed to work in the factories, they were expected to put on dresses, go back to their homes and forget that the pants/slacks era had ever happened. Somehow, that didn’t set well with the woman who had worked in the factories. They liked receiving checks that were theirs to spend as they needed and they didn’t have to ask “hubby” for permission. They also found they liked wearing pants because they were so comfortable so they were quite willing to follow the trend Katherine Hepburn had set. For some men, that was a hard pill to swallow.

I always wore dresses to school. Wearing dresses was expected. Girls also wore “bobby sox” (anklets), except in the winter. (Pants would have been an easy answer but it was too soon for pants to be accepted.) When it got cold, the Elementary School girls wore long stockings. My mother made a kind of “harness” (for lack of a better word) to wear under my clothes to hold up my stockings. We didn’t have panty hose---just stockings. Some of the girls wore some kind of elastic around the top of their stockings to hold them up but my mom didn’t think that was healthy. I wish I could draw you a picture of what the harness looked like but with my limited ability at that sort of thing, you’ll just have to envision what it looked like. It hung from my shoulders and had horizontal connecting pieces on the front, back and sides so it wouldn’t fall off my shoulders. Also, there were connecting pieces around my waist to keep it in place. Straps hung from those pieces with hooks to hold up the stockings. (Can you picture it?) My mother insisted that I start wearing long stockings by the end of September and I couldn’t quit wearing them until May. I hated those long stockings. They were ugly. They were made of thick cotton knit and after I bent my knees a few times they bagged at the knees. Ugly, ugly, ugly! The stockings were a beige color. Mom always bought a package of three pairs of stockings. Three pairs were supposed to last the school year. Remember, when we did the laundry we had to heat the water, etc., etc. So we either had to wash the stockings by hand, or just simply wear them several times. When I was in Elementary School, I generally opted to wear them several times between washings.

If I wore holes in the stockings, I was required to “darn” or “patch” the holes. My mother could darn socks beautifully. She tried to teach me but I was never good at it so I usually ended up sewing a patch over the holes. I didn’t make very pretty patches either, so by Springtime, my stockings were really terrible to look at. By Spring, I always hoped I could stop wearing them. No such luck! Mom had her own ideas of what was proper attire for little girls, so every day I had to wear those ugly stockings. In March, some of the other girls were wearing “bobby sox.” I wanted to be one of them. Since my mom wouldn’t let me be one of them, every day I put the long stockings on before I left the house and I’d walk to school. The street from our house to the school had a slight rise in the first block and then it sloped down the second block to the school. As soon as I was over the rise and on the down side and I knew my mom couldn’t see me, I unfastened those stockings and rolled them down. That was not very pretty, either, but there were other girls whose mothers made them wear long stockings and they rolled theirs down, too, so we had a style of our own. It was an unsightly fashion statement but it worked for us. Of course, before we went home for lunch or after school, we had to roll them back up.

By the time we were in sixth grade, most of the girls wore anklets all winter. Yes, bare legs get cold, but who notices cold when “fashion” is the issue. There were only about four of us who had moms who made us wear long stockings. I was probably warmer than some of the others but I was so timid and shy that anything that set me apart from the others was almost more than my mind and spirit could bear. I had warm legs and zero self-confidence. Naturally, those of us who were still forced to wear long stockings had to endure the teasing from others whose mothers cared more about fashion than good sense. By April, I was the only one still wearing long stockings. I was the only one still rolling down the stockings each morning after leaving home and rolling them back up before going home. I was lucky that my brothers didn’t tattle on me, but I’m sure they had their own issues on their minds. Finally, when May came around, mom allowed me to wear anklets. Pants/slacks would have saved me from all the humiliation of long stockings. Also, pants/slacks would have been much more modest. We didn’t have monkey bars, slides or swings at our school, but we did a lot of cart wheels, jumping, running and hop scotch playing. Fortunately our underpants covered us very well (no thongs in those days) but it would have been more modest to wear pants.

This is not the end of the story. After we had graduated from sixth grade and were going into seventh grade at the High School I was absolutely certain that my mom would not make me wear long stockings all winter. But, she did. The stockings were different, however. Now, instead of the beige cotton knit, she got me a pair of “grown up” stockings. They were made of rayon and they were brown. Nylon hosiery had become available but nylons got “runs” in them quite easily and we certainly couldn’t afford to buy pair after pair to get me through the school year. Rayon was considerably more durable but not as durable as the cotton had been. A lot of older women still wore rayon hosiery and had not made the switch to nylon. I guess what I’m saying is that the rayon stockings were for “old ladies” and me. And, yes, I only had one pair. I had to wash them every night and hang them near the stove so they’d be dry by morning. They were ugly. Mom had also bought me a garter belt to hold them up. In seventh grade we had to dress for P.E. and shower afterward. I hated that garter belt and the long stockings. It was very embarrassing.

There was a kid a year older than I who was a real jerk. His name is George Redd. He seemed to think he was something special because he descended from the “hole-in-the-rockers” (more about that later) and he was mean. Perhaps cruel is a better word. He always ridiculed me and my long stockings. Every time he saw me he would say, “Well, there’s Marilyn in her fancy nylon stockings.”

I should tell you here that there was one other girl who wore long rayon stockings in seventh and eighth grades. Her name is Klea Black. She had contracted Polio about four or five years earlier and she had survived. She had a mild disability as a result of the Polio and her mother was somewhat protective of her. Klea had missed an entire year of school while she recovered from Polio. She was a year ahead of me before she got sick but she came to our class after she was well. She was a very nice person and we enjoyed having her in our class. Somehow, George Redd had the decency not to “pick on” Klea. I had no reason to wear the ugly long, brown stockings other than that my mother insisted I wear them. I really disliked George Redd. He was always with a “pack” of like-minded boys. When he ridiculed my stockings all his buddies would snicker.

Finally, by ninth grade, my mom relented and let me wear anklets to school. Yes, I had cold legs but cold legs were easier to endure than the ridicule that came with my ugly, long brown stockings.

There is an upside to all of this. I think wearing those ugly, long stockings made me determined to “be somebody.” I wanted to excel at school and participate in the extra-curricular activities, as well. I don’t recall George Redd ever doing anything noteworthy that set him apart from the crowd or that made him stand out in a positive way. He always “stood out” as a bully. I, on the other hand, accomplished many things in many areas during my school years that have benefited me throughout my life. I’m sure I’ll get around to telling you about those experiences. I guess the most important benefit was that I began to overcome my extreme shyness because of my accomplishments. Perhaps the ugly, long brown stockings helped me get past the unimportant aspects of living and move on with determination.

Now, for March Madness.

I think I have mentioned that I have two callings in the Loa Ward. I play the piano for the Senior Primary and also for the Ward Choir. Occasionally, I get a bonus and play the organ for Sacrament Meeting when the Ward Organist is going to be out of town.

Around the first of February, the Ward Choir Director told me that the Ward Choir would be performing three numbers for the Easter Program. She had picked out an arrangement of: “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today” and “I Heard Him Come.” She asked if I had any suggestions for the third one and mentioned she’d like it to be something easy. I did have a suggestion: “Easter Morn.” It is a song that was in the old Deseret Sunday School Song Book. That’s the song book we used at Church when I was a child. That song book has not been used for over 50 years and the song I mentioned is not in the song book that followed the Deseret Sunday School Song Book, nor any others that have followed since that time, yet, it is a very beautiful and meaningful song, in my opinion. I played it for her and she loved it. It is a duet for women’s voices. We began practicing those three numbers, plus what we were preparing for the third Sunday in February. “Easter Morn” was easy for me; “I Heard Him Come” was doable; “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today” was more of a challenge but was also doable. Everything was great---and then the choir director called and said the Bishop had just informed her that Ward Conference was scheduled for March 9th and he wanted the choir to provide a number. She opted to do something familiar from the Hymn Book which was okay with me. We practiced, “Be Still My Soul.” Okay, so that is all fine and dandy!

Then the Stake Choir Director called me and told me Stake Conference was scheduled for March 16th and the Stake Choir was to perform two numbers at Stake Conference and would I please accompany the Stake Choir on the organ? I thought, “Here is a nice little challenge---why not?” So I agreed to play. She brought me the arrangement she had chosen for one number: “Home Can Be A Heaven On Earth.” The second number would be: “He Is Risen” from the Hymn Book. The Stake President had requested that the Choir sing the first two verses and have the congregation join in on the third verse. “And,” she said, “You will also be expected to play the prelude and postlude music plus two congregation hymns.” Unfortunately, no matter how many years I play the organ and piano, and no matter how well I know the numbers, I still feel very much in need of practice before I “perform.” If a 12-year old plays something and makes a mistake, no one pays much attention. Perhaps that is true of a 74-year old, as well, but in my own mind, it is important that I play well. I cannot imagine Horowitz (who has passed away) playing a piano concert without practice or any other professional, for that matter. True, I am still an amateur, but I try to play perfectly.

I certainly had enough on my plate to keep me out of mischief. Playing the organ for a choir is a whole different animal than playing for a congregation. I played a medley of hymn arrangements for the prelude before Stake Conference and I opted to play “Londonderry Air” for postlude. Here was my reasoning: It was the day before St. Patrick’s Day so Irish seemed appropriate to me AND I knew that “Londonderry Air” or “O, Danny Boy,” if you prefer, was a favorite of President Hinckley. I figured I’d take a chance to play it because it is a favorite of mine, as well. The reason I said: “I’d take a chance,” is because, in this Stake, people generally just play hymns for postlude. Apparently there were others in the congregation who like that particular piece because I had a number of compliments and no one came to tell me to stop.

The organ in the Loa Ward Chapel is different than any I have ever played so every time I play it is a new experience. I felt the need to do a good bit of practicing at the Chapel so I could feel comfortable with the organ. It will be the same if I’m ever asked to play again. It takes time to learn a new instrument and I can’t go over there to practice every day. I should but I can’t.

Tal and Juli were at Stake Conference and said the organ sounded good. I appreciate their compliments and comments. Also, the Stake President came over to the organ and complimented me. I guess it was okay.

Stake Conference was over but there were still three numbers to be performed on Easter. Fortunately, they were on the piano and they went well. I appreciate the talents I have been given and I appreciate the opportunity to serve the Lord by using by talents. I do not take my callings lightly and I grow in ability every time I play. I am so grateful that my Dad insisted I “learn to play the hymns” when I took piano lessons. Music is something you take with you through life and in our Church, there is always opportunity to use that talent. I am blessed to still be able to play. Practicing keeps my mind alert and my fingers agile. It is also good for the soul. That’s the story of my March Madness. It was hectic and sometimes very stressful, but now that it’s over I look back on it as being very satisfying.

I love you all.

Happy Birthday to Dusty on April 8th