We arrived in Washington, D.C. late in the evening and couldn't locate a YMCA. We finally found a one-star hotel and it cost each of us $5.00. This was a financial shock since we had become accustomed to paying only $1.00 per night.
We were all impressed with Washington D.C. I don't want to bore you with a travelogue, but during this one day we visited the following: the Smithsonian Museum, the Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson memorial, The Tomb of the unknown Soldier, A tour of the White House, and walked to the top of the Washington Monument; all 532 steps. (There was a long line for the elevator and it started to rain, so we just decided to walk up).
All of these visits were very interesting and memorial. But the thing all of us remembered the most was a one-way street. We had turned onto a very interesting street and noticed that there were no cars parked in front of any of the Red-Stone buildings; not even on driveways. We assumed there was a strict neighborhood building code. Next, we noticed that these buildings were built very close to the street. So close that it was impossible to park on a driveway and not have the back of the car sticking out in the street. Residents would have to park in their garages. Next, we noticed the most important thing. We looked up the street and here came three lanes of cars at a high rate of speed and they were not attempting to get our of our lane. Finally we understood. We were on a one-way street going the wrong way. The oncoming cars started to honk their horns and did not seem to be slowing down. In order to prevent our pulverization, we pulled into a driveway but then had to pull onto the small lawn in order to get the rear end of our car out of the street.
Not only did the oncoming drivers continue honking their horns but many screamed some very unchristian like things at us. One driver noticed our Utah license plates and shouted: "Why don't you idiots go back to Utah?" Others questioned our ancestry and one creative driver wanted to know how three blind mice could get a drivers license. After that experience and because of the boorish manner with which we had been treated, we left for NYC.
Grandpa's humor: Whenever I think of this event, I am reminded of a joke I heard some years later. A man was driving home from work on the busy Santa Monica freeway in Los Angeles. He received a call on his cell phone from his wife. "Honey, be very careful. I just heard on TV that some idiot was driving the wrong way on the Santa Monica Freeway." "I know", replied the husband, "but there is not just one; there are hundreds of them."
Friday, March 29, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
The Bum Lamb
"The lambing season" of sheep refers to the time of the year when new baby lambs are born. Sometime prior to the lambing season a group of male sheep (Bucks) were turned into a herd of Ewes (female sheep) to do their thing. This resulted in a new lamb crop occurring during a short period of time later in the Spring.
During this season there were always several lambs that were rejected by the mother or the mother died during birth. Dad would try to get another mother sheep to adopt the orphan lamb, but was seldom successful. A mother sheep would not allow a strange lamb to nurse. Consequently, dad and other sheep owners would gather up the orphaned lambs and give them to family members to raise. The lamb was fed with a bottle and nipple using cows milk. These lambs were identified as "bum Lambs".
One year when I was about ten years old, my dad brought home a bum lamb. It was my assignment to feed this lamb every night and morning. The lamb thought I was its mother. This continued until the lamb eventually learned to drink from a pail. When it learned that I wasn't its mother, the lamb still thought I was its best friend. And we were good friends. I can remember playing with that lamb and having it follow me around the farmyard. However it wasn't long before play turned into teasing in order to get the lamb to chase me. The lamb soon learned that I wasn't a good friend at all, but a real certified pest.
The lamb continued to grow into a young buck sheep. Two horns started to appear. I continued to tease it
at every opportunity and this young buck sheep became downright mean. It became more than mean, it became vicious. That buck would wait each night and morning for me to come out to milk the cow. It would stand there with head lowered just daring me to come through the gate. For a while I was able to drive it away with a club but before long I actually had to carry a pitchfork to hold that buck off while I milked the cow.
This situation continued until one evening dad substituted for me to milk the cow. He went blithely through the gate and was met head on by the buck. It darn near broke his leg. He finally got the buck into a corral and arranged that very next day to transport it to his small herd of other bucks. He wondered that evening what had caused that sheep to become so mean. My innate feeling of self-survival told me that this was a good time to keep my mouth shut.
During this season there were always several lambs that were rejected by the mother or the mother died during birth. Dad would try to get another mother sheep to adopt the orphan lamb, but was seldom successful. A mother sheep would not allow a strange lamb to nurse. Consequently, dad and other sheep owners would gather up the orphaned lambs and give them to family members to raise. The lamb was fed with a bottle and nipple using cows milk. These lambs were identified as "bum Lambs".
One year when I was about ten years old, my dad brought home a bum lamb. It was my assignment to feed this lamb every night and morning. The lamb thought I was its mother. This continued until the lamb eventually learned to drink from a pail. When it learned that I wasn't its mother, the lamb still thought I was its best friend. And we were good friends. I can remember playing with that lamb and having it follow me around the farmyard. However it wasn't long before play turned into teasing in order to get the lamb to chase me. The lamb soon learned that I wasn't a good friend at all, but a real certified pest.
The lamb continued to grow into a young buck sheep. Two horns started to appear. I continued to tease it
at every opportunity and this young buck sheep became downright mean. It became more than mean, it became vicious. That buck would wait each night and morning for me to come out to milk the cow. It would stand there with head lowered just daring me to come through the gate. For a while I was able to drive it away with a club but before long I actually had to carry a pitchfork to hold that buck off while I milked the cow.
This situation continued until one evening dad substituted for me to milk the cow. He went blithely through the gate and was met head on by the buck. It darn near broke his leg. He finally got the buck into a corral and arranged that very next day to transport it to his small herd of other bucks. He wondered that evening what had caused that sheep to become so mean. My innate feeling of self-survival told me that this was a good time to keep my mouth shut.
My cousin, "Louie"
My father came from a large family. He had eleven brothers and sisters. Three of these brothers had built homes in our neighborhood. So,( for good or evil) I always had cousins close by. My favorite Hatch cousin was "Louie". He was about five years older than I was and was my idol.
One of my first memories of Louie was watching him sneak up behind a cow out in the pasture behind his house. He would grab the tail of the cow and then let out a piercing scream. The cow was certain that a lion was behind her and would streak down through the pasture at her top speed with Louie holding on to her tail. Louie would only touch the ground about every fourth step. He thought that was the most fun thing in the whole world to do. Unfortunately, the cows belong to another uncle. He wanted to kill Louie because he said it frightened the cows so badly they stopped giving milk. He threatened to sue Louie's father if he didn't get control of that kid.
Louie was also the purveyor in the neighborhood of all news concerning Santa Claus and sex. As soon as he discovered any new fact of life, off he would go and tell every kid in the neighborhood regardless of their age. Personally, I believe the parents were secretly relieved they didn't have to explain the facts of life to their children. They just waited for Louie.
Louie was the star halfback on the high school football team. He was always good for two or three touchdowns a game. I believe that Louie would receive the football and then just imagine that he had a grip on a cow's tail and away he wold go down the football field.
Louie was drafted into the military during the Second World War. He wanted to drive a tank and was accepted for training. I found out later that Louie washed out of the training. The trainers complained that Louie was always losing control of the tank and driving through a barracks or getting the tank stuck in a creek. At this point Louie stopped being my idol. Surely anyone should be able to drive a tank without running into a building.
Since I now qualify as a senior citizen, I think I will pass on to my Blog readers some useful information I have gleaned over the years.
Why should 80-plus old people always use valet parking? Because valets don't forget where they parked your car.
Where can men over the age of 80 find younger, sexy women who are interested in them? Try a bookstore, under fiction.
How can you increase the heart rate of your over 80-year-old husband? Tell him you're pregnant.
I hope you appreciated this senior citizen wisdom.
Since I now qualify as a senior citizen, I think I will pass on to my Blog readers some useful information I have gleaned over the years.
Why should 80-plus old people always use valet parking? Because valets don't forget where they parked your car.
Where can men over the age of 80 find younger, sexy women who are interested in them? Try a bookstore, under fiction.
How can you increase the heart rate of your over 80-year-old husband? Tell him you're pregnant.
I hope you appreciated this senior citizen wisdom.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Jist Keep Stompin'
During the great depression of 1929-1941 my father had to work very hard to support his family. He operated a small meat market, raised grain and alfalfa on two separate pieces of land he owned and operated a fairly large sheep herd. He was a very, very busy man.
I always enjoyed accompaning him when he was taking supplies to his sheepherders. That was because his sheep herd was out in the dessert during the winter and in a national park during the summer. It was always an adventure to accompany him. One Spring he mentioned that today was shearing day for his herd of sheep.
I coaxed my father to let me miss school and accompany him to the shearing ground. I was excited to observe the shearing. This event occurred during the late spring. Each sheep had a heavy coat of wool that helped them survive the cold winter. A shearing crew would be contracted to remove these heavy wool coats. This shearing was a very hard physical job. A shearer would grab the sheep and throw it on its back. He then had to hold the sheep down, and using manual clippers, he removed the wool. After each sheep had been sheared the shearer would grab the fleece of wool and bind it with a single piece of twine. This bundle of wool was then thrown into a burlap bag.
Earlier in the day a scaffold had been built to hold this burlap bag upright.. This bag was about six feet long with a diameter of about four feet. As the fleece of wool was thrown into the bag another man was assigned to tromp the wool as tight as possible. This would reduce shipping costs as well as reduce the number of bags needed. A problem arose when the man to do the tromping did not arrive. Out of desperation, my father asked me to be the tromper. I thought that would be fun. So after two of three fleeces had been thrown into the bag I dropped down into the bag. I was only about 4 1/2 feet tall at the time and when I dropped into the bag I felt like I was dropping into the depths of hell. I was stuck there. I couldn't start to reach the top of the bag. Dad reminded me from outside the bag that I was supposed to be stomping. And stomp I did. I realized that the only way I could get out of the bag was to stomp my way out.
I soon found out that the wool was dirty and greasy. It was also the home of families of sheep ticks. These ticks delighted in burrowing into human flesh. I also soon found that additional wool fleeces were not handed to the tromper in a polite manner. They were just thrown and landed with a jar on the head of the tromper.
Before long, I was dirty and greasy myself. After one bag was completly filled and I could climb out the top, I pleaded with my father to relieve me from this terrible job.
His advice was: "Glen there will be many times in your life when you will face difficult problems. When that happens, you will have to made a decision. You can just quit, but.this would be a terrible tradition for you to adopt. Or, you can just keep stompin' until you have stomped yourself out of the bag.
I don't think I fully understood at that time what my father was teaching me. But I did remember what he said and many times during my life I said to myself, "just keep on Stompin".
After two or three bags had been completed, the official tromper arrived. He was late because of car problems. I was relieved from the dirtiest, greasy job I ever held. But I had received good advice from my father.
I always enjoyed accompaning him when he was taking supplies to his sheepherders. That was because his sheep herd was out in the dessert during the winter and in a national park during the summer. It was always an adventure to accompany him. One Spring he mentioned that today was shearing day for his herd of sheep.
I coaxed my father to let me miss school and accompany him to the shearing ground. I was excited to observe the shearing. This event occurred during the late spring. Each sheep had a heavy coat of wool that helped them survive the cold winter. A shearing crew would be contracted to remove these heavy wool coats. This shearing was a very hard physical job. A shearer would grab the sheep and throw it on its back. He then had to hold the sheep down, and using manual clippers, he removed the wool. After each sheep had been sheared the shearer would grab the fleece of wool and bind it with a single piece of twine. This bundle of wool was then thrown into a burlap bag.
Earlier in the day a scaffold had been built to hold this burlap bag upright.. This bag was about six feet long with a diameter of about four feet. As the fleece of wool was thrown into the bag another man was assigned to tromp the wool as tight as possible. This would reduce shipping costs as well as reduce the number of bags needed. A problem arose when the man to do the tromping did not arrive. Out of desperation, my father asked me to be the tromper. I thought that would be fun. So after two of three fleeces had been thrown into the bag I dropped down into the bag. I was only about 4 1/2 feet tall at the time and when I dropped into the bag I felt like I was dropping into the depths of hell. I was stuck there. I couldn't start to reach the top of the bag. Dad reminded me from outside the bag that I was supposed to be stomping. And stomp I did. I realized that the only way I could get out of the bag was to stomp my way out.
I soon found out that the wool was dirty and greasy. It was also the home of families of sheep ticks. These ticks delighted in burrowing into human flesh. I also soon found that additional wool fleeces were not handed to the tromper in a polite manner. They were just thrown and landed with a jar on the head of the tromper.
Before long, I was dirty and greasy myself. After one bag was completly filled and I could climb out the top, I pleaded with my father to relieve me from this terrible job.
His advice was: "Glen there will be many times in your life when you will face difficult problems. When that happens, you will have to made a decision. You can just quit, but.this would be a terrible tradition for you to adopt. Or, you can just keep stompin' until you have stomped yourself out of the bag.
I don't think I fully understood at that time what my father was teaching me. But I did remember what he said and many times during my life I said to myself, "just keep on Stompin".
After two or three bags had been completed, the official tromper arrived. He was late because of car problems. I was relieved from the dirtiest, greasy job I ever held. But I had received good advice from my father.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Why I won't be a farmer.
Even though I was raised on a farm and enjoyed some of the aspects of farm life, there were several activities that canceled any desire I may have had to become a farmer. Let me describe one of these dismal activities.
First was tending and milking a milk cow. The morning of my eighth birthday my father awakened me early and said, "Happy birthday son, now that you are eight years old it is time for you to start milking the cow." From that moment until I was seventeen years old I milked a cow night and morning. The only exceptions were illness or some important social event such as having a date to the Junior Prom or being out of town. The memories of milking a cow are embedded in my mind never to forgotten.
For those of you who have never even seen a cow, let me describe one. A cow has four legs, On the front side there is one head with two eyes and two ears. The most important part of the cow is an udder located at the tail end on the bottom of the cow. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary describes an udder as: "an organ (as of a cow) consisting of two or more milk glands enclosed in a large hanging sac and each provided with an nipple". Personally, I never saw a cow with only two milk glands. Any cow that I ever milked had four milk glands and we call them teats.
There was no ideal time of the year to milk a cow. In the winter your hands had a tendancy to freeze. The cow wasn't overjoyed to have someone with frozen hands grab hold of her teats. In the summer, flies were constantly flying around the cows head and were excited to have an additional head (mine) to land on. It was hard to milk and brush away the flies at the same time.
Now, with that brief description of the trials of milking a cow, I'll list the critical steps to be followed. First you grab a pail and fill it with cold water in the summer time and hot water in the winter. Why the water, you may ask. The water was to wash the udder before you started to milk. Cows had a terrible habbit of messing and then lieing down in the mess. Thus it was absolutely necessary to first wash the udder unless you wanted a strange taste to the milk.
Second, using both hands you grab hold of two teats and squeeze and jerk in a coordinated manner and the milk starts to flow. When the milk stop flowing, you're done. Now that seems like a rather simple operation.
But there are other problems to be solved. Because of space restrictions, I will list the problems but not the solutions. If there is ever anyone reading this blog (obviously having too much time on their hands) I won't take the time to describe the solutions to these problems. But, if you are planning on buying a milk cow in the future and want to be well prepared, let me know and I'll Email the solutions to you.
The problems are:
What to do when your cow jumps over a fence trying to get to a bull in the adjoining pasture and cuts her teats and refuses to let anyone touch her?
What do you do when in the winter you grab hold of the teats with ice cold hands and the cow suddenly rebels and turns on you and attempts to stomp you to death?
What do you do when upon entering the corral, the cow darts through the gate and you spend the next thirty minutes chasing her around the pasture.
Remember, solutions to these problems are free and you pay only a triffling amount to cover costs of paper, time, postage and any other costs that may arise.
First was tending and milking a milk cow. The morning of my eighth birthday my father awakened me early and said, "Happy birthday son, now that you are eight years old it is time for you to start milking the cow." From that moment until I was seventeen years old I milked a cow night and morning. The only exceptions were illness or some important social event such as having a date to the Junior Prom or being out of town. The memories of milking a cow are embedded in my mind never to forgotten.
For those of you who have never even seen a cow, let me describe one. A cow has four legs, On the front side there is one head with two eyes and two ears. The most important part of the cow is an udder located at the tail end on the bottom of the cow. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary describes an udder as: "an organ (as of a cow) consisting of two or more milk glands enclosed in a large hanging sac and each provided with an nipple". Personally, I never saw a cow with only two milk glands. Any cow that I ever milked had four milk glands and we call them teats.
There was no ideal time of the year to milk a cow. In the winter your hands had a tendancy to freeze. The cow wasn't overjoyed to have someone with frozen hands grab hold of her teats. In the summer, flies were constantly flying around the cows head and were excited to have an additional head (mine) to land on. It was hard to milk and brush away the flies at the same time.
Now, with that brief description of the trials of milking a cow, I'll list the critical steps to be followed. First you grab a pail and fill it with cold water in the summer time and hot water in the winter. Why the water, you may ask. The water was to wash the udder before you started to milk. Cows had a terrible habbit of messing and then lieing down in the mess. Thus it was absolutely necessary to first wash the udder unless you wanted a strange taste to the milk.
Second, using both hands you grab hold of two teats and squeeze and jerk in a coordinated manner and the milk starts to flow. When the milk stop flowing, you're done. Now that seems like a rather simple operation.
But there are other problems to be solved. Because of space restrictions, I will list the problems but not the solutions. If there is ever anyone reading this blog (obviously having too much time on their hands) I won't take the time to describe the solutions to these problems. But, if you are planning on buying a milk cow in the future and want to be well prepared, let me know and I'll Email the solutions to you.
The problems are:
What to do when your cow jumps over a fence trying to get to a bull in the adjoining pasture and cuts her teats and refuses to let anyone touch her?
What do you do when in the winter you grab hold of the teats with ice cold hands and the cow suddenly rebels and turns on you and attempts to stomp you to death?
What do you do when upon entering the corral, the cow darts through the gate and you spend the next thirty minutes chasing her around the pasture.
Remember, solutions to these problems are free and you pay only a triffling amount to cover costs of paper, time, postage and any other costs that may arise.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
NYC or Bust #4
We Lost Our Hood in St. Louis
Half way between Kansas City, Mo. and St. Louis, Mo. our car started to notify us that it wanted to be re-timed. The front end started to boil and spew steam and the motor started to backfire and shoot black smoke out the rear-end. We weren't completely obtuse so we pulled over and re-timed the motor.
It was an extremely hot and sticky day and one of the three geniuses on board suggested that we could help the motor run cool if we removed the engine hood. We did this but the only place we could place it was on top of the car. Since the food and sleeping bags were already on the roof of the car, the hood was placed on top. It looked like a crown of some kind. "There, that should prevent the engine from running so hot", we said.
We arrived in St. Louis about four in the afternoon, just as the evening rush hour was starting. We were now traveling on the first multi-lane highway we had ever experienced. It was a six-lane highway (three lanes each way) and traffic was getting heavy. We were moving just as fast as the car would go and we were still holding up traffic. At that instance, because of our high speed and a strong gust of wind, the hood flew off the top of our car onto the highway and landed in the middle lane. Can you imagine the chaos this created. The car in the middle lane swerved into the outside lane in an attempt to miss the hood. Unfortunately there was a car already in that lane. That car applied brakes and was immediately rear-ended by a following car. The same thing was happening in the outside lane. What we had here was a bumper-car situation just like those at a carnival.
Now, can you visualize us stopping and trying to recover that hood off a busy highway from among all those furious drivers? Absolutely not! We just drove on, never to see that hood again. We knew we had caused a world-class traffic jam because we were the only car on that eastbound highway for some time. We all felt guilty for the catastrophe we had caused, but we knew that if we were stopped by the state highway patrol, our car would probably be confiscated as totally unsafe for use on any highway.
We were now driving a 1930, Model A Ford that wouldn't start unless we pushed it, had no cover over the engine, had some food and sleeping bags loaded on top of the car and had signs reading "New York City or Bust" painted on the outside. It embarrasses me just to think about it. We were three characters right out of "Grapes of Wrath." We were the epitome of three hicks from the country.
Half way between Kansas City, Mo. and St. Louis, Mo. our car started to notify us that it wanted to be re-timed. The front end started to boil and spew steam and the motor started to backfire and shoot black smoke out the rear-end. We weren't completely obtuse so we pulled over and re-timed the motor.
It was an extremely hot and sticky day and one of the three geniuses on board suggested that we could help the motor run cool if we removed the engine hood. We did this but the only place we could place it was on top of the car. Since the food and sleeping bags were already on the roof of the car, the hood was placed on top. It looked like a crown of some kind. "There, that should prevent the engine from running so hot", we said.
We arrived in St. Louis about four in the afternoon, just as the evening rush hour was starting. We were now traveling on the first multi-lane highway we had ever experienced. It was a six-lane highway (three lanes each way) and traffic was getting heavy. We were moving just as fast as the car would go and we were still holding up traffic. At that instance, because of our high speed and a strong gust of wind, the hood flew off the top of our car onto the highway and landed in the middle lane. Can you imagine the chaos this created. The car in the middle lane swerved into the outside lane in an attempt to miss the hood. Unfortunately there was a car already in that lane. That car applied brakes and was immediately rear-ended by a following car. The same thing was happening in the outside lane. What we had here was a bumper-car situation just like those at a carnival.
Now, can you visualize us stopping and trying to recover that hood off a busy highway from among all those furious drivers? Absolutely not! We just drove on, never to see that hood again. We knew we had caused a world-class traffic jam because we were the only car on that eastbound highway for some time. We all felt guilty for the catastrophe we had caused, but we knew that if we were stopped by the state highway patrol, our car would probably be confiscated as totally unsafe for use on any highway.
We were now driving a 1930, Model A Ford that wouldn't start unless we pushed it, had no cover over the engine, had some food and sleeping bags loaded on top of the car and had signs reading "New York City or Bust" painted on the outside. It embarrasses me just to think about it. We were three characters right out of "Grapes of Wrath." We were the epitome of three hicks from the country.
The Ice Box
When I was five years old I became aware of the Ice-Box. This was an insulated box with two over and under compartments. The top compartment was for a block of ice and the bottom compartment was for any food that required cooling, (such as milk and meat), during the hot summer months.
A block of ice was placed in the top compartment. The cold from the ice would seep down into the lower compartment and keep the food somewhat cool. If care was taken to keep the doors to the ice-box closed, the ice would last about a week.
The ice was provided by an "ice man" who delivered ice once a week during the summer. The ice in Vernal was provided by Calder's Creamery Co. They had a two or three acre pond that provided the ice. Because
of the cold winters this pond would freeze during the winter and this ice would be two or three feet thick. Sometime in late February each year, large pieces of the ice was harvested by a crew of "ice cutters." The ice was then stored in a large barn-type building and each layer of the ice was covered by six inches of sawdust. Eventually, this ice was then cut into smaller pieces and delivered to homes during the hot summer.
My mother was quite proud of her ice-box. One time her brother had stopped by to visit and mother was explaining how it functioned. When she was through, the brother said I've got an ice box at my house. Her name is Neva; she's built just like your box and she's just as cold.
Mother explained to me later that her brother and Neva didn't get along too well.
A block of ice was placed in the top compartment. The cold from the ice would seep down into the lower compartment and keep the food somewhat cool. If care was taken to keep the doors to the ice-box closed, the ice would last about a week.
The ice was provided by an "ice man" who delivered ice once a week during the summer. The ice in Vernal was provided by Calder's Creamery Co. They had a two or three acre pond that provided the ice. Because
of the cold winters this pond would freeze during the winter and this ice would be two or three feet thick. Sometime in late February each year, large pieces of the ice was harvested by a crew of "ice cutters." The ice was then stored in a large barn-type building and each layer of the ice was covered by six inches of sawdust. Eventually, this ice was then cut into smaller pieces and delivered to homes during the hot summer.
My mother was quite proud of her ice-box. One time her brother had stopped by to visit and mother was explaining how it functioned. When she was through, the brother said I've got an ice box at my house. Her name is Neva; she's built just like your box and she's just as cold.
Mother explained to me later that her brother and Neva didn't get along too well.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Ethical lessons from Mother
Flowers for Mom.
When I was five years old I would occasionally walk five blocks to visit my father at his grocery store. On the way home I passed a home with a beautiful flower garden in the front year.The thought came that I should pick some of these flowers for my mother and proceeded to do so. My mother was pleased but wanted to know where I gathered the flowers. I couldn't describe the place so I just said, "I picked them on the way home from town.
Several days later I again passed the home with the flowers and again picked flowers for Mom. This time, however mother received a telephone call from the flower-lady and she informed mother that I was picking some of her most choice flowers. Mother explained to me that this was the same a stealing. I never did that again.
The Current Topics Club.
My mother belonged to the Current Topics Club. (Whenever mother mentioned the club I wondered why a club would discuss, currants and other berries)
She was giving a dinner party for the ten or twelve lady members and had set a beautiful table . At each plate was a little, fancy, paper cup which contained some choice candy. Mom was busy in the kitchen and I was inspecting the table in the dinning room. The pieces of candy looked so delicious that I decided to sample one. Yes. they were delicious and I sampled some more. Some of my friends were playing outside and I took some more of the candy for them to sample. Before long there was not one piece of candy left in any of the little paper cups.
Mother didn't notice the absence of the candy until some time during the meal and it was too late to correct the situation.. After the party she let me know that she was not pleased with me. She wondered what the ladies thought when they noticed an empty paper cup in front of each of their plates. She strongly emphasized that I should not take property that belongs to someone else even if it was shared with friends.
Improper language.
One time mother and dad had enjoying a Sunday afternoon ride. I was in the back seat. As dad was driving and talking to mom he kept taking his hands off the steering wheel and this was making me very nervous. I finally blurted out, "Keep your damn hands on that wheel." There was a stunned silence and then mother and dad broke into hilarious laughter. I was pretty proud of myself. I thought if that was so funny I would try it again. The second time the response was entirely different. I received a lecture telling me that kind of language was not acceptable in our family.
I cannot remember either of my parents ever using bad language. I must have learned all my swear words from friends in the neighborhood. In later years I realized that my neighborhood was located on the wrong side of the tracks. I didn't realize this when I was young.
When I was five years old I would occasionally walk five blocks to visit my father at his grocery store. On the way home I passed a home with a beautiful flower garden in the front year.The thought came that I should pick some of these flowers for my mother and proceeded to do so. My mother was pleased but wanted to know where I gathered the flowers. I couldn't describe the place so I just said, "I picked them on the way home from town.
Several days later I again passed the home with the flowers and again picked flowers for Mom. This time, however mother received a telephone call from the flower-lady and she informed mother that I was picking some of her most choice flowers. Mother explained to me that this was the same a stealing. I never did that again.
The Current Topics Club.
My mother belonged to the Current Topics Club. (Whenever mother mentioned the club I wondered why a club would discuss, currants and other berries)
She was giving a dinner party for the ten or twelve lady members and had set a beautiful table . At each plate was a little, fancy, paper cup which contained some choice candy. Mom was busy in the kitchen and I was inspecting the table in the dinning room. The pieces of candy looked so delicious that I decided to sample one. Yes. they were delicious and I sampled some more. Some of my friends were playing outside and I took some more of the candy for them to sample. Before long there was not one piece of candy left in any of the little paper cups.
Mother didn't notice the absence of the candy until some time during the meal and it was too late to correct the situation.. After the party she let me know that she was not pleased with me. She wondered what the ladies thought when they noticed an empty paper cup in front of each of their plates. She strongly emphasized that I should not take property that belongs to someone else even if it was shared with friends.
Improper language.
One time mother and dad had enjoying a Sunday afternoon ride. I was in the back seat. As dad was driving and talking to mom he kept taking his hands off the steering wheel and this was making me very nervous. I finally blurted out, "Keep your damn hands on that wheel." There was a stunned silence and then mother and dad broke into hilarious laughter. I was pretty proud of myself. I thought if that was so funny I would try it again. The second time the response was entirely different. I received a lecture telling me that kind of language was not acceptable in our family.
I cannot remember either of my parents ever using bad language. I must have learned all my swear words from friends in the neighborhood. In later years I realized that my neighborhood was located on the wrong side of the tracks. I didn't realize this when I was young.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
NYC or Bust #3
When we first planned our trip to NYC it was to broaden our horizons and become acquainted with other
groups of people in the United States. I think we have reached these goals. We have broadened our horizons because we now know how to time an engine in a 1930 Model A Ford. We have also become acquainted with the groups of people who stay in YMCA's.
On to Kansas City -
Our trip from Denver to Kansas City was without any memorable experiences. However, Dick kept blacking out all morning. Every half-hour or so he would leave us for a few minutes. We supposed that he was completely dehydrated from taking the two elephant pills. We encouraged him to eat and drink plenty and eventually he stopped lapsing into unconsciousness.
Kansas was flat, flat, flat.
When evening arrived we were in the middle of Kansas. We stopped for gas and asked the station owner if we could use our sleeping bags and sleep on a small lawn adjacent to the station. He took one look at us and said, "Absolutely not." So we kept driving and eventually spent the night sleeping in a corn field.
The next day we reached Kansas City in the early evening and were quite disappointed It was not very impressive. I had the opinion that Kansas City was a fairly large city. Not so. We walked around for a short time and stood on the bank of the Missouri River. There was a dense fog and we couldn't even see across the river.
We did, however find another YMCA and decided to spend the night there. We found the rate was still $1.00 per night and we were generally so tired that even the bunk beds felt comfortable.
However, this particular YMCA building was unique in its architectural design. It was located in two adjacent buildings that were about five stories tall. When we checked in, we received instructions to the dormitory where we would sleep. Those instructions were: "Take the elevator to the fifth floor, exit the elevator and follow the signs." The signs led us out on the roof of the building to a small bridge that connected with the adjacent five story dormitory building. There was no shower or rest rooms in the dormitory building so whenever these facilities were needed we had to walk across this narrow bridge back to the original building. Remember this bridge was narrow and had only a safety rope on each side.
In addition, a spring had been attached to the door into the dormitory building. We learned that after you entered or exited through the door it was necessary to hold on to the door and close it gently. If you didn't do this the door closed with a loud bang. We soon found our bunk beds but before going to sleep I wanted to visit the rest room in the adjoining building. When going out the door I forgot to hold on. The door closed with a loud bang and I could hear several curses from within. Dick who was sleeping on the top bunk heard the fellow sleeping on the bottom bunk say: "I'm going to kill the next blankety-blank that slams that door. Dear, concerned Dick slowly crawled out of his bed and came to warn me, "Don't slam that door," he said, "or you're dead."
The following morning the fog had disappeared and we learned that we had stayed in Kansas City, Kansas.
We looked across the Missouri River and could see that Kansas City, Missouri was indeed a large city. However, since we were anxious to reach our ultimate destination of NYC we pressed on.
groups of people in the United States. I think we have reached these goals. We have broadened our horizons because we now know how to time an engine in a 1930 Model A Ford. We have also become acquainted with the groups of people who stay in YMCA's.
On to Kansas City -
Our trip from Denver to Kansas City was without any memorable experiences. However, Dick kept blacking out all morning. Every half-hour or so he would leave us for a few minutes. We supposed that he was completely dehydrated from taking the two elephant pills. We encouraged him to eat and drink plenty and eventually he stopped lapsing into unconsciousness.
Kansas was flat, flat, flat.
When evening arrived we were in the middle of Kansas. We stopped for gas and asked the station owner if we could use our sleeping bags and sleep on a small lawn adjacent to the station. He took one look at us and said, "Absolutely not." So we kept driving and eventually spent the night sleeping in a corn field.
The next day we reached Kansas City in the early evening and were quite disappointed It was not very impressive. I had the opinion that Kansas City was a fairly large city. Not so. We walked around for a short time and stood on the bank of the Missouri River. There was a dense fog and we couldn't even see across the river.
We did, however find another YMCA and decided to spend the night there. We found the rate was still $1.00 per night and we were generally so tired that even the bunk beds felt comfortable.
However, this particular YMCA building was unique in its architectural design. It was located in two adjacent buildings that were about five stories tall. When we checked in, we received instructions to the dormitory where we would sleep. Those instructions were: "Take the elevator to the fifth floor, exit the elevator and follow the signs." The signs led us out on the roof of the building to a small bridge that connected with the adjacent five story dormitory building. There was no shower or rest rooms in the dormitory building so whenever these facilities were needed we had to walk across this narrow bridge back to the original building. Remember this bridge was narrow and had only a safety rope on each side.
In addition, a spring had been attached to the door into the dormitory building. We learned that after you entered or exited through the door it was necessary to hold on to the door and close it gently. If you didn't do this the door closed with a loud bang. We soon found our bunk beds but before going to sleep I wanted to visit the rest room in the adjoining building. When going out the door I forgot to hold on. The door closed with a loud bang and I could hear several curses from within. Dick who was sleeping on the top bunk heard the fellow sleeping on the bottom bunk say: "I'm going to kill the next blankety-blank that slams that door. Dear, concerned Dick slowly crawled out of his bed and came to warn me, "Don't slam that door," he said, "or you're dead."
The following morning the fog had disappeared and we learned that we had stayed in Kansas City, Kansas.
We looked across the Missouri River and could see that Kansas City, Missouri was indeed a large city. However, since we were anxious to reach our ultimate destination of NYC we pressed on.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
A sorrowful time
When I was four years old, my brother Dallis came home from Utah State University during the Christmas Vacation. During this vacation a group of three couples traveled to a dance held in a little community twenty-five miles from our home in Vernal. During the drive home after the dance, they drove over an ice covered bridge. The car spun out of control and crashed into a large tree. Four of the young people, including my brother, were killed.
In the early hours of the morning we received a telephone call. I was partially awaken by the call but soon after I became fully awake from the sobbing of my mother.
My mother was unable to cope with Dallas' death. She told me later in life that she felt she was losing her mind. Finally she and my father decided that ti would be well for her to leave Vernal for a while and visit her sister who lived in San Francisco. I was to accompany her.
What great memories I still have of that trip. I remember the long boring bus ride to and from San Francisco. My aunt lived at the top of a San Francisco hill that provided a great view of the San Francisco Bay. I remember that we could watch the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge. I remember the "China Clipper" taking off from the bay on the beginning of its flight to the Orient. The "China Clipper" was a four engine passenger plane that landed on water.
I remember one Saturday visiting a large fish aquarium and being intrigued with the sea turtles. That Saturday visit to the aquarium was the beginning of an event I will never forget. After our visit to the aquarium, we walked back to the bus stop where we could catch the bus to my aunt's house. When the bus arrived and the door opened, I attempted to climb into the bus. My legs wouldn't work. I couldn't step up into the bus. I believe my mother became short tempered and grabbed me and lifted me into the bus. By the time we had reached our destination I couldn't move my legs or feel anything at all in my legs. My mother and aunt had to carry me up the long steep hill to her house. I think they both suspected that I was faking the whole thing because I was lazy.
The following Monday, my mother took me to a doctor. After his examination, the doctor said that I had contracted Polio and there was nothing he could do for me. His only suggestion was that I should spend a few minutes each day under a sun lamp. I was unaware at the time that very, very few people ever recovered from the effects of Polio. My mother was aware of this, of course, and made certain that I spent the recommended amount of time each day with the sun lamp. I doubt that the sun lamp did any good.
What did do some good was the many prayers my mother offered. Many times during the next six weeks, I saw here knelling in prayer. I could never hear her prayers, but latter in life I could imagine that she was
pleading with the Lord for my recovery. She felt that since she had already lost one son, her remaining son should not have to be an invalid. Thank goodness for a mother's fervent prayers.
After laying in bed for six weeks, I started to feel a tingling in my toes. A day or two later feeling started to returned to my legs. I could actually move them a little. Slowly over the next several weeks I regained more strength and began learning to walk again. One of my favorite prayers is found in James 5:16 - . . . . "pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.
A week later my mom and I were on a bus going home to Utah.
In the early hours of the morning we received a telephone call. I was partially awaken by the call but soon after I became fully awake from the sobbing of my mother.
My mother was unable to cope with Dallas' death. She told me later in life that she felt she was losing her mind. Finally she and my father decided that ti would be well for her to leave Vernal for a while and visit her sister who lived in San Francisco. I was to accompany her.
What great memories I still have of that trip. I remember the long boring bus ride to and from San Francisco. My aunt lived at the top of a San Francisco hill that provided a great view of the San Francisco Bay. I remember that we could watch the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge. I remember the "China Clipper" taking off from the bay on the beginning of its flight to the Orient. The "China Clipper" was a four engine passenger plane that landed on water.
I remember one Saturday visiting a large fish aquarium and being intrigued with the sea turtles. That Saturday visit to the aquarium was the beginning of an event I will never forget. After our visit to the aquarium, we walked back to the bus stop where we could catch the bus to my aunt's house. When the bus arrived and the door opened, I attempted to climb into the bus. My legs wouldn't work. I couldn't step up into the bus. I believe my mother became short tempered and grabbed me and lifted me into the bus. By the time we had reached our destination I couldn't move my legs or feel anything at all in my legs. My mother and aunt had to carry me up the long steep hill to her house. I think they both suspected that I was faking the whole thing because I was lazy.
The following Monday, my mother took me to a doctor. After his examination, the doctor said that I had contracted Polio and there was nothing he could do for me. His only suggestion was that I should spend a few minutes each day under a sun lamp. I was unaware at the time that very, very few people ever recovered from the effects of Polio. My mother was aware of this, of course, and made certain that I spent the recommended amount of time each day with the sun lamp. I doubt that the sun lamp did any good.
What did do some good was the many prayers my mother offered. Many times during the next six weeks, I saw here knelling in prayer. I could never hear her prayers, but latter in life I could imagine that she was
pleading with the Lord for my recovery. She felt that since she had already lost one son, her remaining son should not have to be an invalid. Thank goodness for a mother's fervent prayers.
After laying in bed for six weeks, I started to feel a tingling in my toes. A day or two later feeling started to returned to my legs. I could actually move them a little. Slowly over the next several weeks I regained more strength and began learning to walk again. One of my favorite prayers is found in James 5:16 - . . . . "pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.
A week later my mom and I were on a bus going home to Utah.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
NYC or Bust, #2
Remember we had stopped in Artesia, Colorado, to replenish our water supply and to seek mechanical advice. No advice was available and in fact, we now have an additional problem. The starter on the vehicle no longer works. We had to manually push the car to get it started. We really wanted to return home but the fear of the derision, mockery, and jeering that we would face made us forge on.
We still had to replenish the water on a regular basis, (It was almost like traveling on a horse) but the car seemed to go further between watering. I think the cool temperature of evening was helping. We decided that in order to make up for the time we had lost, we would drive late into the evening. So up the face of the Colorado Rockies we went. At 11:00 p.m. at a little town named Tabernash, the car stopped running. Nothing we tried would get the motor started. Dick also announced that he was not feeling very well. Now, we have a sick car and a sick companion. We reacted to these problems by laying out our sleeping bags by the side of the road and going to sleep.
The next morning we found that Tabernash was the location of a railroad switching yard. The only business in Tabernash was a small cafe that catered to the railroad workers. There was not even a service station and certainly not an automobile repair service. We asked one of the railroad workers where we could find a mechanic. He said there was one in Fraser, Colorado which was two miles down the highway. He also said he would tow us there for two dollars. Jack and I were delighted. Dick was so ill he could care less.
We arrived at Fraser and talked to the service station attendant. "Do you have a mechanic?" "Yes." "Could he check out our car?" "Yes when he arrives at work." "When will he be here?" "Whenever he feels like it. Maybe at 8:00, maybe at 10:00 and sometimes at noon and sometimes he doesn't come in at all." There must have been a sliver of hope there somewhere. What else could we do but wait? Fortunately, the mechanic arrived at 10:00 a.m.. But those two hours of waiting seemed like forever.
The Mechanic quickly analyzed the problem. "The motor just needs to be timed," he said. All three of us gathered around the mechanic like vultures. He was very accommodating and explained what needed to be done. We left Fraser relieved and happy. The car was not only running well but we all knew how to time a 1930, model A, Ford engine.
On to Denver
We arrived in Denver shortly after noon and decided we needed to locate a hotel or motel. Dick said he did not want do die in a sleeping bag. We found a seedy looking hotel that looked like they would accept us. The front desk clerk looked at us and said (even before we could inquire as to availability) "no we do not have a vacancy." I wondered why he was so unpleasant. Then I realized that he was looking at three young men who had been traveling for about twenty-four hours, had not had a shower or bath or shaved, their clothes had been slept in and wrinkled and one of them had a light green complexion. The clerk suggested, however, that we could try the YMCA.
Off we went to the YMCA and were readily accepted because we looked just like all the other vagrants who were staying there. The charge was only $1.00 per night. We cleaned up a bit and decided to do some sightseeing in Denver. Dick said he was just going to lay on the bed and die. Jack and I had faith that things would come out all right in the end (no pun intended) and left to explore Denver.
While we were gone another resident at the YMCA heard dick groaning and asked why. Dick repeated his self analysis of being constipated. The man had a suggestion. He said he had worked for the Barnum and Bailey circus and that circus happened to be in Denver at that time. If Dick could get him a ride out to the circus, he felt certain that the medical dispensary would provide some medication that would solve the problem. We, of course would do anything for our ill companion. We located the volunteer and were on our way to the circus.
We had some doubts about the man, but he was true to his word. The gate keeper at the circus recognized him and allowed us to drive through the gate into the employees parking area. He went to the dispensary and returned shortly with two of the biggest pink pills I had ever seen. Jack and I wondered if these were pills for a constipated elephant.
Since we were inside the circus fence we were told we could watch the show from any standing room area. We were able to stand at the entrance where all the acts entered the tent. We just had to stay out of the way and we enjoyed watching the entire show. We then remembered it was time to return to the YMCA and save our companion.
We gave Dick the pills, and they worked. He said that he had spent the entire night running between his bed and the toilet. When Jack and I awoke the next morning, Dick was as weak as a kitten but he was no longer constipated.
On to Kansas City, Kan. (See New York of Bust #3)
We still had to replenish the water on a regular basis, (It was almost like traveling on a horse) but the car seemed to go further between watering. I think the cool temperature of evening was helping. We decided that in order to make up for the time we had lost, we would drive late into the evening. So up the face of the Colorado Rockies we went. At 11:00 p.m. at a little town named Tabernash, the car stopped running. Nothing we tried would get the motor started. Dick also announced that he was not feeling very well. Now, we have a sick car and a sick companion. We reacted to these problems by laying out our sleeping bags by the side of the road and going to sleep.
The next morning we found that Tabernash was the location of a railroad switching yard. The only business in Tabernash was a small cafe that catered to the railroad workers. There was not even a service station and certainly not an automobile repair service. We asked one of the railroad workers where we could find a mechanic. He said there was one in Fraser, Colorado which was two miles down the highway. He also said he would tow us there for two dollars. Jack and I were delighted. Dick was so ill he could care less.
We arrived at Fraser and talked to the service station attendant. "Do you have a mechanic?" "Yes." "Could he check out our car?" "Yes when he arrives at work." "When will he be here?" "Whenever he feels like it. Maybe at 8:00, maybe at 10:00 and sometimes at noon and sometimes he doesn't come in at all." There must have been a sliver of hope there somewhere. What else could we do but wait? Fortunately, the mechanic arrived at 10:00 a.m.. But those two hours of waiting seemed like forever.
The Mechanic quickly analyzed the problem. "The motor just needs to be timed," he said. All three of us gathered around the mechanic like vultures. He was very accommodating and explained what needed to be done. We left Fraser relieved and happy. The car was not only running well but we all knew how to time a 1930, model A, Ford engine.
On to Denver
We arrived in Denver shortly after noon and decided we needed to locate a hotel or motel. Dick said he did not want do die in a sleeping bag. We found a seedy looking hotel that looked like they would accept us. The front desk clerk looked at us and said (even before we could inquire as to availability) "no we do not have a vacancy." I wondered why he was so unpleasant. Then I realized that he was looking at three young men who had been traveling for about twenty-four hours, had not had a shower or bath or shaved, their clothes had been slept in and wrinkled and one of them had a light green complexion. The clerk suggested, however, that we could try the YMCA.
Off we went to the YMCA and were readily accepted because we looked just like all the other vagrants who were staying there. The charge was only $1.00 per night. We cleaned up a bit and decided to do some sightseeing in Denver. Dick said he was just going to lay on the bed and die. Jack and I had faith that things would come out all right in the end (no pun intended) and left to explore Denver.
While we were gone another resident at the YMCA heard dick groaning and asked why. Dick repeated his self analysis of being constipated. The man had a suggestion. He said he had worked for the Barnum and Bailey circus and that circus happened to be in Denver at that time. If Dick could get him a ride out to the circus, he felt certain that the medical dispensary would provide some medication that would solve the problem. We, of course would do anything for our ill companion. We located the volunteer and were on our way to the circus.
We had some doubts about the man, but he was true to his word. The gate keeper at the circus recognized him and allowed us to drive through the gate into the employees parking area. He went to the dispensary and returned shortly with two of the biggest pink pills I had ever seen. Jack and I wondered if these were pills for a constipated elephant.
Since we were inside the circus fence we were told we could watch the show from any standing room area. We were able to stand at the entrance where all the acts entered the tent. We just had to stay out of the way and we enjoyed watching the entire show. We then remembered it was time to return to the YMCA and save our companion.
We gave Dick the pills, and they worked. He said that he had spent the entire night running between his bed and the toilet. When Jack and I awoke the next morning, Dick was as weak as a kitten but he was no longer constipated.
On to Kansas City, Kan. (See New York of Bust #3)
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Mothers can run!
When I was a youngster, the majority of housewives washed the family's clothes using a washboard and a tub of water. This was very time consuming and physically hard. Remember the old poem: "This is the day we wash our clothes"? There was more truth than poetry to that saying. It would take a housewife most of a day to complete a washing for a large family. She first had to heat the water on top of a wood and coal burning stove and then transfer the water to a tub. Can you imagine doing this in a home with no air conditioning and the temperature outside 102 degrees, while the stove is burning red hot to heat more water.
When I was about four years old, my father was able to purchase one of the new fancy washing machines for my mother. It consisted of a tank on four legs with wheels so that the machine could be easily rolled about. Inside the tank was an agitator that was driven by an electric motor that was located under the tank. This agitator was controlled by a gearshift that extended from under the tank. On top of the tank was positioned a wringer for forcing the water from the clothes after the washing was completed.
I was intrigued with the gearshift. When my mother was finished with a load of washing she would shift the gearshift and the agitator would stop. I couldn't see into the tank but I could hear the agitator start and stop. Mother would then remove the washed clothes and place a new batch of dirty clothes into the tank and once again move the magic gearshift. After she started the new load of clothes she would leave the washer and work on one of the many other jobs that housewives had. She would judge when the clothes would be clean and would return and start another load.
It was after she had placed another load of clothes into the tank, started the agitator, and left to do another job that I did some experimenting. I would shift the gearshift and I could hear the agitator stop. Then when I
shifted the gearshift again the agitator would start again. Hey that was fun! I could actually control the washing machine. I did the magic act several more times and then drifted off to find another scientific experiment. Unfortunately, I had left the agitator in the stop mode. The clothes were not getting washed. Some time later my mother returned and discovered the clothes were not washed. She started the agitator and then located me and delivered a very harsh, stern message to me. "Don't touch that gearshift again. If you do, you will die."
I had been threatened by my mother! The person put upon this earth to wash my clothes, prepare my meals and perform any other tasks that needed doing, had the audacity to threaten me. She must be taught a lesson. If I let her get away with that threat, who knows what she may try in the future. I waited until her back was turned, slapped the gear shift to stop position and ran with all my speed toward the one place I knew I would be safe; the top of the chicken coop..
The first hint that I may be in trouble, came when I looked back over my shoulder and found that my mother was running just as fast as I was. I didn't know that mothers could run. I reached a stack of bailed hay that my father had placed next to the chicken coop, scampered quickly up the baled hay and stepped onto the chicken coop roof and climbed to the top. I turned to enjoy my triumph. I wanted to witness my mother's frustration as she was unable to ascend on high. I wanted to gloat as she learned the lesson that mothers do not threaten four year old boys who are god's gift to the universe.
Somewhere that morning there was peace and safety and tranquility. Somewhere birds were singing, children were laughing and mothers were minding their business. But on top of the chicken coop there was terror. Slowly up the roof on hands and knees came my mother. I was trapped. I was defeated and done and beaten.
That day I learned two of the great eternal truths we are supposed to learn during our short stay here upon this earth. Those truths are: Mother's can both run and climb!
When I was about four years old, my father was able to purchase one of the new fancy washing machines for my mother. It consisted of a tank on four legs with wheels so that the machine could be easily rolled about. Inside the tank was an agitator that was driven by an electric motor that was located under the tank. This agitator was controlled by a gearshift that extended from under the tank. On top of the tank was positioned a wringer for forcing the water from the clothes after the washing was completed.
I was intrigued with the gearshift. When my mother was finished with a load of washing she would shift the gearshift and the agitator would stop. I couldn't see into the tank but I could hear the agitator start and stop. Mother would then remove the washed clothes and place a new batch of dirty clothes into the tank and once again move the magic gearshift. After she started the new load of clothes she would leave the washer and work on one of the many other jobs that housewives had. She would judge when the clothes would be clean and would return and start another load.
It was after she had placed another load of clothes into the tank, started the agitator, and left to do another job that I did some experimenting. I would shift the gearshift and I could hear the agitator stop. Then when I
shifted the gearshift again the agitator would start again. Hey that was fun! I could actually control the washing machine. I did the magic act several more times and then drifted off to find another scientific experiment. Unfortunately, I had left the agitator in the stop mode. The clothes were not getting washed. Some time later my mother returned and discovered the clothes were not washed. She started the agitator and then located me and delivered a very harsh, stern message to me. "Don't touch that gearshift again. If you do, you will die."
I had been threatened by my mother! The person put upon this earth to wash my clothes, prepare my meals and perform any other tasks that needed doing, had the audacity to threaten me. She must be taught a lesson. If I let her get away with that threat, who knows what she may try in the future. I waited until her back was turned, slapped the gear shift to stop position and ran with all my speed toward the one place I knew I would be safe; the top of the chicken coop..
The first hint that I may be in trouble, came when I looked back over my shoulder and found that my mother was running just as fast as I was. I didn't know that mothers could run. I reached a stack of bailed hay that my father had placed next to the chicken coop, scampered quickly up the baled hay and stepped onto the chicken coop roof and climbed to the top. I turned to enjoy my triumph. I wanted to witness my mother's frustration as she was unable to ascend on high. I wanted to gloat as she learned the lesson that mothers do not threaten four year old boys who are god's gift to the universe.
Somewhere that morning there was peace and safety and tranquility. Somewhere birds were singing, children were laughing and mothers were minding their business. But on top of the chicken coop there was terror. Slowly up the roof on hands and knees came my mother. I was trapped. I was defeated and done and beaten.
That day I learned two of the great eternal truths we are supposed to learn during our short stay here upon this earth. Those truths are: Mother's can both run and climb!
Thursday, March 14, 2013
NYC or Bust # 1
Four young men, including myself, felt that we had learned all there was to learn in our hometown. The names of these boys were. Glen, Richard, Jack, and Jim.
For several years we had planned to take a trip to New York City. We needed to broaden our horizons. Each year some thing had come up that caused us to cancel this plan. This year, however, was "the year". We were seriously serious. To motivate us to not cancel, we agreed to each place $25 dollars in a joint saving account. Then if any one cancelled, they would lose their 25 dollars.
Jack and Jim agreed to use their car for the trip. The car was a 1930, Model A Ford sedan. We were all familiar with this car and felt that it was in good condition. How we reached this conclusion I will never understand, since not one of us had any mechanical experience.
Preparations commenced. We started accumulating maps and travel brochures. We purchased a canvas water bag to hang on the front of the car. (All travelers did this in those days). Since we intended to prepare our own meals, we purchased a two weeks supply of food. Since we could not afford to stay in motels, we each took a sleeping bag. Then we proceeded to brag all over our town that we were going out to conquer the world. Finally,we painted "New York City or Bust" on each side and the back of the car.We,re ready to go.
Then a crises arose. Jim announced that he was not going with us. Instead he planned to travel to Minnesota with some friends. We did our best to convince him that it was much more impressive to travel to NYC that it was to go to Minnesota. We reminded him that he would lose his 25 dollars. He than mounted an impressive argument why he should receive a refund of his 25 dollars. That argument was simple but very effective. It was: "If I don't get my 25 dollars you can't use my half of the car for your trip". We quickly capitulated.
Even though we had lost 25% of our crew, on August 10, 1948, we three intrepid explorers left Vernal about noon on a beautiful, hot day. We each had $100.00 in our pocket and a week's supply of food and three sleeping bags stacked on top of the car. The car was humming along smoothly. All right's with the world.
This "humming smoothly" lasted exactly ten miles. Suddenly it started to rain. Water spots were appearing on the windshield. We looked out the window and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The water was coming from another source. That source was the radiator. The water in the radiator was boiling and was shooting out the top like Old Faithful Geyser. We had to stop to solve this problem. That's right, our first break down occurred exactly ten miles for the starting point. We poured all the water from our water bag into the radiator and waited for the boiling to stop. We also discussed whether to return home looking like three stooges. We decided to continue on about two more miles to the little town of Jensen,Utah. There was a service station and we could refill the radiator and water bag. We hoped the problem was just the extra hot weather.
When we pulled into the service station the attendant came out with a big grin on his face. He said, "My Lord, I thought you were driving a "Stanley Steamer". We didn't think that was funny. We told him our problem and asked if he had any suggestions. He said, "I don't know a thing about engines that old; I just pump gas." After another conference we decided to continue on to Artesia, Colorado, that was about 25 miles down the road. Maybe they could help us.
Not only would they not help us, but we were faced with another stumbling block to our goal of reaching NYC. We climbed back into the car, pressed the starter and nothing. The starter didn't work. A repair man said he thought a broken Bendix spring was probably the problem. He also told us he could fix the problem but it would take several days to obtain the part from Denver.
Doubts were starting to challenge our resolve to reach NYC. We held a vote and decided that if we returned home, the humiliation would be unbearable. The whole town would never let us forget our foolish, ambitious, silly goal. We decided to travel a day more. Maybe things will get better. We had to start the car by manually pushing it.
With all the stopping to refill the radiator and allowing the motor to "cool down" it appears that we were traveling at almost 8 miles per hour. That means it would take us about 300 hours or 37 1/2 days to reach our goal. Then we had the problem of getting home. Maybe we could sell the car and ask our parents to send us a bus fare home. All three felt that the answer from our parents would be, "Forget it, you got yourselves into this silly situation, now get yourself out."
To be continued on blog, "NYC or Bust #2".
For several years we had planned to take a trip to New York City. We needed to broaden our horizons. Each year some thing had come up that caused us to cancel this plan. This year, however, was "the year". We were seriously serious. To motivate us to not cancel, we agreed to each place $25 dollars in a joint saving account. Then if any one cancelled, they would lose their 25 dollars.
Jack and Jim agreed to use their car for the trip. The car was a 1930, Model A Ford sedan. We were all familiar with this car and felt that it was in good condition. How we reached this conclusion I will never understand, since not one of us had any mechanical experience.
Preparations commenced. We started accumulating maps and travel brochures. We purchased a canvas water bag to hang on the front of the car. (All travelers did this in those days). Since we intended to prepare our own meals, we purchased a two weeks supply of food. Since we could not afford to stay in motels, we each took a sleeping bag. Then we proceeded to brag all over our town that we were going out to conquer the world. Finally,we painted "New York City or Bust" on each side and the back of the car.We,re ready to go.
Then a crises arose. Jim announced that he was not going with us. Instead he planned to travel to Minnesota with some friends. We did our best to convince him that it was much more impressive to travel to NYC that it was to go to Minnesota. We reminded him that he would lose his 25 dollars. He than mounted an impressive argument why he should receive a refund of his 25 dollars. That argument was simple but very effective. It was: "If I don't get my 25 dollars you can't use my half of the car for your trip". We quickly capitulated.
Even though we had lost 25% of our crew, on August 10, 1948, we three intrepid explorers left Vernal about noon on a beautiful, hot day. We each had $100.00 in our pocket and a week's supply of food and three sleeping bags stacked on top of the car. The car was humming along smoothly. All right's with the world.
This "humming smoothly" lasted exactly ten miles. Suddenly it started to rain. Water spots were appearing on the windshield. We looked out the window and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The water was coming from another source. That source was the radiator. The water in the radiator was boiling and was shooting out the top like Old Faithful Geyser. We had to stop to solve this problem. That's right, our first break down occurred exactly ten miles for the starting point. We poured all the water from our water bag into the radiator and waited for the boiling to stop. We also discussed whether to return home looking like three stooges. We decided to continue on about two more miles to the little town of Jensen,Utah. There was a service station and we could refill the radiator and water bag. We hoped the problem was just the extra hot weather.
When we pulled into the service station the attendant came out with a big grin on his face. He said, "My Lord, I thought you were driving a "Stanley Steamer". We didn't think that was funny. We told him our problem and asked if he had any suggestions. He said, "I don't know a thing about engines that old; I just pump gas." After another conference we decided to continue on to Artesia, Colorado, that was about 25 miles down the road. Maybe they could help us.
Not only would they not help us, but we were faced with another stumbling block to our goal of reaching NYC. We climbed back into the car, pressed the starter and nothing. The starter didn't work. A repair man said he thought a broken Bendix spring was probably the problem. He also told us he could fix the problem but it would take several days to obtain the part from Denver.
Doubts were starting to challenge our resolve to reach NYC. We held a vote and decided that if we returned home, the humiliation would be unbearable. The whole town would never let us forget our foolish, ambitious, silly goal. We decided to travel a day more. Maybe things will get better. We had to start the car by manually pushing it.
With all the stopping to refill the radiator and allowing the motor to "cool down" it appears that we were traveling at almost 8 miles per hour. That means it would take us about 300 hours or 37 1/2 days to reach our goal. Then we had the problem of getting home. Maybe we could sell the car and ask our parents to send us a bus fare home. All three felt that the answer from our parents would be, "Forget it, you got yourselves into this silly situation, now get yourself out."
To be continued on blog, "NYC or Bust #2".
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Mrs. Rudge
Mrs. Rudge was a sweet little English women who ran a candy store to support herself. She had followed her married sister from England to our town. Mrs. Rudge was certainly unique. She drove a little black Ford and she drove just like they did in England. She didn't believe in stop signs or right-of-ways or driving on the right side of the road. She maintained that every one knew it was safer to drive on the left side of the road. It was always a major adventure whenever Mrs. Rudge began a drive. Other drivers would see Mrs. Rudge approaching on their side of the road and were completely confused as to whether to swerve, stop or back up. This was especially difficult for tourists who were passing through our town.
Several proposals had been made to the city council to blow the town's siren whenever Mrs. Rudge started a drive. This would warn other drivers to get off the road because Mrs Ridge was coming. This siren could be heard all over the valley and was originally installed to alert volunteer fire fighters that they were needed to fight a neighborhood fire. This proposal was never adopted because fire fighters would not know whether there was really a fire or just Mrs. Rudge.
Mrs. Rudge not only campaigned to change our driving habits, she also felt that women should dress with comfort as the primary consideration. She wore a pair of old house slippers whenever she left her little home. It didn't matter if the event she was attending was formal or a Church function or a trip to the store. She always wore her house slippers. Some of the local ladies were envious, especially those with bunions.
However they just didn't have the courage to copy Mrs. Rudge.
Personally, I loved Mrs. Rudge. She had the most interesting store in the whole world. I would stand looking through the front store window for long periods of time trying to decide how I would spend my 25 cents.
Several proposals had been made to the city council to blow the town's siren whenever Mrs. Rudge started a drive. This would warn other drivers to get off the road because Mrs Ridge was coming. This siren could be heard all over the valley and was originally installed to alert volunteer fire fighters that they were needed to fight a neighborhood fire. This proposal was never adopted because fire fighters would not know whether there was really a fire or just Mrs. Rudge.
Mrs. Rudge not only campaigned to change our driving habits, she also felt that women should dress with comfort as the primary consideration. She wore a pair of old house slippers whenever she left her little home. It didn't matter if the event she was attending was formal or a Church function or a trip to the store. She always wore her house slippers. Some of the local ladies were envious, especially those with bunions.
However they just didn't have the courage to copy Mrs. Rudge.
Personally, I loved Mrs. Rudge. She had the most interesting store in the whole world. I would stand looking through the front store window for long periods of time trying to decide how I would spend my 25 cents.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Cool, hot lunches
Let me tell you about the hot lunches we received at school. Remember, this was during the great depression and this program was one of many Federal programs initiated by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. It wasn't much of a lunch but it was better than nothing. Nothing was what some of the poor little children had for lunch.
The lunch consisted of three things: a half-pint of milk, one half slice of bread with butter, and one entree.
I will never forget some of the entree's. Some days we would receive one-half of a grapefruit; another day a bowl of spinach. Some other entree's were Spanish rice, Tapioca Pudding, Goulash, or Vegetable Soup.
The cost to the student was 5 cents a meal. That's right; five cents! Even that small amount was hard for some families to pay.
My father give me 25 cents each Monday morning to pay for the week's hot lunches. Unfortunately, I had to walk past Mrs. Rudge's candy store to get to school. Every time I walked past that store I could hear the candy calling my name. I gallantly resisted the temptation for the first two weeks of school but on the third Monday I succumbed to the candy's call and went into the store and spent the entire twenty-five cents. Now, that isn't much today, but in those days most candy was only one penny. So I walked out a happy child with twenty-five pieces of candy in my pocket. I ate candy throughout the whole day and didn't share one piece.
I had made a decision to eat candy for one day rather than hot lunch for five days. At that age it seemed like a logical decision to me. I could survive without hot lunch for one week. There were many children in the second grade that could never afford hot lunches. They simply went without or brought a piece of bread from home. I thought if they could do that, I could too.
At lunch time the lunch ladies proceeded to serve lunch to those students who waited at their desks. Since I didn't have anyone to play with until they finished their lunch, I continued sitting at my desk. Then a miracle happened. The ladies served me even though I had not turned in my 25 cents. I was thrilled. I thought they must have given me lunch because of my good looks. The same thing occurred during the balance of that week and all the remaining weeks in the school year. I spent my 25 cents for candy and the lunch ladies continued to serve me hot lunch. I didn't wonder why this was happening, I just felt it was an entitlement that I deserved.
Now comes the retribution for a very faulty decision. On the last day of school a lunch lady gave me a sealed letter to be delivered to my father. I delivered the letter which informed my father that he owed $5.25 for the hot lunches I had eaten during the school year.. I was doomed. My father didn't beat me about the head and shoulders even though I certainly deserved it. But he did give me a very intense, uncomfortable lecture about honesty and good judgement. I like to think I learned that lesson. I have remembered it throughout my life. But, I so loved Mrs Rudge's candy store. By the way, more about Mrs Rudge tommorrow.
The lunch consisted of three things: a half-pint of milk, one half slice of bread with butter, and one entree.
I will never forget some of the entree's. Some days we would receive one-half of a grapefruit; another day a bowl of spinach. Some other entree's were Spanish rice, Tapioca Pudding, Goulash, or Vegetable Soup.
The cost to the student was 5 cents a meal. That's right; five cents! Even that small amount was hard for some families to pay.
My father give me 25 cents each Monday morning to pay for the week's hot lunches. Unfortunately, I had to walk past Mrs. Rudge's candy store to get to school. Every time I walked past that store I could hear the candy calling my name. I gallantly resisted the temptation for the first two weeks of school but on the third Monday I succumbed to the candy's call and went into the store and spent the entire twenty-five cents. Now, that isn't much today, but in those days most candy was only one penny. So I walked out a happy child with twenty-five pieces of candy in my pocket. I ate candy throughout the whole day and didn't share one piece.
I had made a decision to eat candy for one day rather than hot lunch for five days. At that age it seemed like a logical decision to me. I could survive without hot lunch for one week. There were many children in the second grade that could never afford hot lunches. They simply went without or brought a piece of bread from home. I thought if they could do that, I could too.
At lunch time the lunch ladies proceeded to serve lunch to those students who waited at their desks. Since I didn't have anyone to play with until they finished their lunch, I continued sitting at my desk. Then a miracle happened. The ladies served me even though I had not turned in my 25 cents. I was thrilled. I thought they must have given me lunch because of my good looks. The same thing occurred during the balance of that week and all the remaining weeks in the school year. I spent my 25 cents for candy and the lunch ladies continued to serve me hot lunch. I didn't wonder why this was happening, I just felt it was an entitlement that I deserved.
Now comes the retribution for a very faulty decision. On the last day of school a lunch lady gave me a sealed letter to be delivered to my father. I delivered the letter which informed my father that he owed $5.25 for the hot lunches I had eaten during the school year.. I was doomed. My father didn't beat me about the head and shoulders even though I certainly deserved it. But he did give me a very intense, uncomfortable lecture about honesty and good judgement. I like to think I learned that lesson. I have remembered it throughout my life. But, I so loved Mrs Rudge's candy store. By the way, more about Mrs Rudge tommorrow.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Some near death experiences
I was raised on a farm. We were always surrounded by chickens, pigs, sheep, goats, cows, rabbits, cats and dogs. These various animals were kept in pens, or corrals or in the case of the chickens in a special chicken house. Many times a cat or dog actually resided in our home.
When I was about three years old I learned that not all animals are cute and cuddly. I had recently learned how to open the latch on the gate leading into the farmyard. The way was now open for me to personally learn about these various animals.
A large rooster saw me coming and must have felt that since I was so small I could be challenged. And challenged I was. The rooster came running and jumped up and hit me squarely in the chest. He knocked me flat on my back. Then that bugger hopped on my chest and proceeded to try to peck out my eyes. I was terrified!
In the best three-year fashion, I started to scream at the top of my lungs and flail with my arms and kick with my legs. I eventually rolled over and the Rooster strutted off knowing that he had successfully defended his kingdom.
We had a fenced back lawn at the rear of our house. My father would occasionally bring home large ram's (a male sheep, also called bucks) from his sheep herd. These would be placed in the fenced back lawn. One day I noticed a ram and decided to investigate. Out the door I went and immediately the buck started to back up. If you have watched nature shows on TV about mountain sheep, you will remember that the rams back up just before they run and butt each other in the head with their huge curved horns.
I recognized that the buck's intentions were not exactly friendly, so I bent over to pick up some kind of weapon to defend myself. The weapon was a little stick about four inches long.
Just at that moment my mother looked out the window and saw the situation and let out a scream. Out the door she flew and grabbed me just as the buck started his charge. Thankfully the buck, noticing that there were now two enemies and one was a lot bigger than the original, stopped his charge. I think that if that buck had hit me I would still be flying through the air. Thank goodness for mothers.
When I was about three years old I learned that not all animals are cute and cuddly. I had recently learned how to open the latch on the gate leading into the farmyard. The way was now open for me to personally learn about these various animals.
A large rooster saw me coming and must have felt that since I was so small I could be challenged. And challenged I was. The rooster came running and jumped up and hit me squarely in the chest. He knocked me flat on my back. Then that bugger hopped on my chest and proceeded to try to peck out my eyes. I was terrified!
In the best three-year fashion, I started to scream at the top of my lungs and flail with my arms and kick with my legs. I eventually rolled over and the Rooster strutted off knowing that he had successfully defended his kingdom.
We had a fenced back lawn at the rear of our house. My father would occasionally bring home large ram's (a male sheep, also called bucks) from his sheep herd. These would be placed in the fenced back lawn. One day I noticed a ram and decided to investigate. Out the door I went and immediately the buck started to back up. If you have watched nature shows on TV about mountain sheep, you will remember that the rams back up just before they run and butt each other in the head with their huge curved horns.
I recognized that the buck's intentions were not exactly friendly, so I bent over to pick up some kind of weapon to defend myself. The weapon was a little stick about four inches long.
Just at that moment my mother looked out the window and saw the situation and let out a scream. Out the door she flew and grabbed me just as the buck started his charge. Thankfully the buck, noticing that there were now two enemies and one was a lot bigger than the original, stopped his charge. I think that if that buck had hit me I would still be flying through the air. Thank goodness for mothers.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
The Family Reunion
Let me tell you about the Lewis family reunion. (my mothers maiden name was Lewis). From the time I was about seven or eight years old until I went away to the University, I attended the Lewis family reunion.. These were exciting events in my life.
The extended Lewis family was composed of two groups: The religious and the non-religious. The religious attended church on a regular basis and did not drink alcoholic drinks or coffee. The non-religious attended church as seldom as possible and lived on coffee and drank any alcoholic beverage that was available. The family was about equally divided into these two groups.
Planning for the reunion started in January of each year. Every time some of the family got together, a debate would invariably start as to whether the reunion should be held on Friday and Saturday vs. Saturday and Sunday. The religious wanted the reunion held on Friday and Saturday so they could be home and attend church on Sunday. The less religious wanted the reunion held on Saturday and Sunday so they wouldn't be tempted to attend Church. These were lively debates and neither group ever won. The site of the reunion was usually some campground located in the Ashley National Forest.
When the reunion week-end finally arrived, the religious generally arrived at the reunion site early on Friday. The less religious arrived a day latter on Saturday. When the less religious group arrived they would go a very short distance away from the cooking fire that was already burning and start their own fire. They had a huge coffee pot and would immediately start to brew their coffee. When it was done, they would sip the coffee, all the while saying, umm, umm, umm, isn't this coffee delicious. They said this just loud enough to be heard by everyone. The religious wanted to kill them. I loved it!
Each year a different master of ceremonies was selected. One year my uncle Charlie was chosen for this position. He started the meeting by telling a dirty joke. All the less religious slapped their legs and hee-hawed and rolled on the ground in great humor. The religious scowled and didn't crack a smile. I was sitting on a log next to my mother. I looked over at her and if looks could kill, Charlie would have been dead at that moment. She had the meanest look on her face I had ever seen. I wanted to laugh at the joke, but I didn't dare.
In between these shenanigans, every one had a great time eating, telling yarns, talking about ancestors, teasing each other and playing games. After the reunion was over, they all left with good feelings for one another and anxious for next January to arrive so they could start the process all over again.
The extended Lewis family was composed of two groups: The religious and the non-religious. The religious attended church on a regular basis and did not drink alcoholic drinks or coffee. The non-religious attended church as seldom as possible and lived on coffee and drank any alcoholic beverage that was available. The family was about equally divided into these two groups.
Planning for the reunion started in January of each year. Every time some of the family got together, a debate would invariably start as to whether the reunion should be held on Friday and Saturday vs. Saturday and Sunday. The religious wanted the reunion held on Friday and Saturday so they could be home and attend church on Sunday. The less religious wanted the reunion held on Saturday and Sunday so they wouldn't be tempted to attend Church. These were lively debates and neither group ever won. The site of the reunion was usually some campground located in the Ashley National Forest.
When the reunion week-end finally arrived, the religious generally arrived at the reunion site early on Friday. The less religious arrived a day latter on Saturday. When the less religious group arrived they would go a very short distance away from the cooking fire that was already burning and start their own fire. They had a huge coffee pot and would immediately start to brew their coffee. When it was done, they would sip the coffee, all the while saying, umm, umm, umm, isn't this coffee delicious. They said this just loud enough to be heard by everyone. The religious wanted to kill them. I loved it!
Each year a different master of ceremonies was selected. One year my uncle Charlie was chosen for this position. He started the meeting by telling a dirty joke. All the less religious slapped their legs and hee-hawed and rolled on the ground in great humor. The religious scowled and didn't crack a smile. I was sitting on a log next to my mother. I looked over at her and if looks could kill, Charlie would have been dead at that moment. She had the meanest look on her face I had ever seen. I wanted to laugh at the joke, but I didn't dare.
In between these shenanigans, every one had a great time eating, telling yarns, talking about ancestors, teasing each other and playing games. After the reunion was over, they all left with good feelings for one another and anxious for next January to arrive so they could start the process all over again.
Monday, March 4, 2013
The terror of First Grade.
Let me tell you a terrifying story that occurred in my first grade of school.. I can't remember what the teacher's objective was, but she had chosen me along with two others to draw paintings on large pads of paper that were positioned on easels at the front of the classroom. We didn't finish the paintings that day and were instructed to finish them the following morning. I thought my painting was exceptionally good.
The following morning when I arrived at the class, lo and behold, the other boy (Alvin K. Pitt) had stolen my painting because, of course, my painting was much better than his. I promptly complained to the teacher that A.K.had stolen my picture and she made Alvin go to his own painting. Alvin was furious. When the three pictures were finished we all returned to our desks and continued reading our exciting book "All about Dick." You know, See Dick, see Dick play, see Dick run, etc. While I was studiously reading, A.K. sneaked by me and whispered, "I'm going to beat you up during recess." I was terrified. My closest sibling was ten years old when I was born. I was almost like an only child. I never had a brother to fight with. I didn't know how to fight. I was doomed.
As the recess bell rang, I hurried out of the classroom trying think of some place I could hide. But, here came A. K. with big fists on the end of each arm. I did what any reasonable coward would do, I ran.
A. K. ran too, but I could run faster. So I spent the whole fifteen minute of recess running about the school building with A. K. following. (He was one persistent little bully). When the ending recess bell rang, I quickly ran to my desk with a good feeling that I had survived. However, A. K. quickly walked by me and whispered once again, "I'm going to beat you up during lunch time. Wo is me. I spent the balance of the time before lunch hour wondering what I could do to prevent complete annihilation.
I dawdled at my lunch hoping A. K. would get impatient and leave the room. But he just dawdled at his food too. Finally the Lunch Women came and insisted that we both finish so they could clean up. Out the door I burst on a dead run with A.K. close behind. As I was making the first round of the school building I finally faced reality. I can't continue this for each recess and lunch period for the balance of the school year. I just as well fight him. If he kills me, so be it. I suddenly stopped, spun around, and attacked Alvin. Before he could do anything I hit him in his face and bloodied his nose and made him cry. Off to the teacher he went to tell on me. Can you imagine my feelings. I had actually survived a fight and not only that but I had won! That was pretty heady stuff. Mrs. Stringham (my first grade teacher) never said a thing to me. I think she must have been aware of my fear and what was going on. Alvin never bothered me again..
The following morning when I arrived at the class, lo and behold, the other boy (Alvin K. Pitt) had stolen my painting because, of course, my painting was much better than his. I promptly complained to the teacher that A.K.had stolen my picture and she made Alvin go to his own painting. Alvin was furious. When the three pictures were finished we all returned to our desks and continued reading our exciting book "All about Dick." You know, See Dick, see Dick play, see Dick run, etc. While I was studiously reading, A.K. sneaked by me and whispered, "I'm going to beat you up during recess." I was terrified. My closest sibling was ten years old when I was born. I was almost like an only child. I never had a brother to fight with. I didn't know how to fight. I was doomed.
As the recess bell rang, I hurried out of the classroom trying think of some place I could hide. But, here came A. K. with big fists on the end of each arm. I did what any reasonable coward would do, I ran.
A. K. ran too, but I could run faster. So I spent the whole fifteen minute of recess running about the school building with A. K. following. (He was one persistent little bully). When the ending recess bell rang, I quickly ran to my desk with a good feeling that I had survived. However, A. K. quickly walked by me and whispered once again, "I'm going to beat you up during lunch time. Wo is me. I spent the balance of the time before lunch hour wondering what I could do to prevent complete annihilation.
I dawdled at my lunch hoping A. K. would get impatient and leave the room. But he just dawdled at his food too. Finally the Lunch Women came and insisted that we both finish so they could clean up. Out the door I burst on a dead run with A.K. close behind. As I was making the first round of the school building I finally faced reality. I can't continue this for each recess and lunch period for the balance of the school year. I just as well fight him. If he kills me, so be it. I suddenly stopped, spun around, and attacked Alvin. Before he could do anything I hit him in his face and bloodied his nose and made him cry. Off to the teacher he went to tell on me. Can you imagine my feelings. I had actually survived a fight and not only that but I had won! That was pretty heady stuff. Mrs. Stringham (my first grade teacher) never said a thing to me. I think she must have been aware of my fear and what was going on. Alvin never bothered me again..
Saturday, March 2, 2013
More about horses
After my experience of falling off the horse during my first horse-back ride, I was apprehensive about future horse back rides. My father must have been aware of my fear for he was continuously telling me of the fun he had riding horses when he was young. In fact, my father purchased a horse for me. Can you believe the excitement I should have had. I owned my very own horse. My experience with horses should now become a pleasure. But, once again, I faced disappointment.
I soon started to ride my horse with two friends in the neighborhood that also had a horse of their own. My two friends had horses that were quick walkers. My new horse was a slow plodder. Whenever we rode our horses together they quickly left me behind. I was forced to shift my horse into a trot gear to keep up. My horse was not only slow but it had the most uncomfortable trot ever felt by man.. My friends were gliding smoothly along on their fast walking horses. I followed behind on a trotting, spine jarring, nag that I soon learned to despise. Eventually I stopped riding it altogether. I think my father was very disappointed in me and eventually sold the horse.
On to the next horse riding event. I came from a huge family of aunts, uncles and cousins. We frequently held family get-to-gathers. One such event was held at an uncles home who was a farmer and also owned several riding horses. Several members of the family had also ridden their horses to the family event. So this party turned into a mini-family horse back ride. My uncle was evidently aware of my horse phobia and assured me that he had a perfect horse for me and I could safely join the family ride. The horse he referred to was named Old Calico. He assured me that to ride old Calico was like sitting on an over-stuffed couch. at home.
So off we went down the road like a well organized cavalry unit. About a mile from the starting point something happened that I will never forget. The saddle turned on Old Calico.. One moment I was sitting on top of the horse and the next moment I was dangling underneath the horse. Of course the horse was frightened and started to run. I couldn't let go and drop to the ground because the rear hooves would have trampled on me. The front hooves of the horse were coming within one inch of my head. I was terrified.. The other members of our cavalry unit didn't know what to do. They said they were hesitant about chasing after Old Calico for fear that would make her just run faster and further. So they just sat with their mouths hanging open. I can't say I prayed. It all happened too fast. But within a few seconds, Old Calico stopped and I was saved. After cursing the unknown person who had failed to tighten the cinch, I saddled up and finished the ride. But I vowed to myself never to mount a horse again.
Now for the final horse story. I was about eighteen years old and had been dating Joan (my future wife) on a regular basis. One Saturday she suggested we travel into the Uintah Mountains and visit her brothers who were running sheep on their summer range. Anything Joan suggested was okay with me. Once there, Joan suggested we go fishing. She knew of some small creeks that were well stocked with fish. Her brothers furnished us with fishing poles and we mounted the horses to ride to the fishing holes. I must admit I was a little hesitant, but who could resist anything Joan suggested. So off we went. We hadn't gone more the 25 yards from the camp when my horse started bucking. I started yelling, "Whoe, you blankey-blank, whoe". In between her hilarious laughter Joan yelled, "The horse is not bucking, it's just being bitten by a horse fly. It certainly felt like bucking to me and I jumped off and told Joan that I would walk and she could fish. Joan,and now her brothers, were all laughing hilariously. I was so mad I almost divorced Joan before we were even married. One of the brothers told me later that I should investigate becoming a rodeo clown.
Well, that's the end of horse stories. You'll hear no more from me about horses.
I soon started to ride my horse with two friends in the neighborhood that also had a horse of their own. My two friends had horses that were quick walkers. My new horse was a slow plodder. Whenever we rode our horses together they quickly left me behind. I was forced to shift my horse into a trot gear to keep up. My horse was not only slow but it had the most uncomfortable trot ever felt by man.. My friends were gliding smoothly along on their fast walking horses. I followed behind on a trotting, spine jarring, nag that I soon learned to despise. Eventually I stopped riding it altogether. I think my father was very disappointed in me and eventually sold the horse.
On to the next horse riding event. I came from a huge family of aunts, uncles and cousins. We frequently held family get-to-gathers. One such event was held at an uncles home who was a farmer and also owned several riding horses. Several members of the family had also ridden their horses to the family event. So this party turned into a mini-family horse back ride. My uncle was evidently aware of my horse phobia and assured me that he had a perfect horse for me and I could safely join the family ride. The horse he referred to was named Old Calico. He assured me that to ride old Calico was like sitting on an over-stuffed couch. at home.
So off we went down the road like a well organized cavalry unit. About a mile from the starting point something happened that I will never forget. The saddle turned on Old Calico.. One moment I was sitting on top of the horse and the next moment I was dangling underneath the horse. Of course the horse was frightened and started to run. I couldn't let go and drop to the ground because the rear hooves would have trampled on me. The front hooves of the horse were coming within one inch of my head. I was terrified.. The other members of our cavalry unit didn't know what to do. They said they were hesitant about chasing after Old Calico for fear that would make her just run faster and further. So they just sat with their mouths hanging open. I can't say I prayed. It all happened too fast. But within a few seconds, Old Calico stopped and I was saved. After cursing the unknown person who had failed to tighten the cinch, I saddled up and finished the ride. But I vowed to myself never to mount a horse again.
Now for the final horse story. I was about eighteen years old and had been dating Joan (my future wife) on a regular basis. One Saturday she suggested we travel into the Uintah Mountains and visit her brothers who were running sheep on their summer range. Anything Joan suggested was okay with me. Once there, Joan suggested we go fishing. She knew of some small creeks that were well stocked with fish. Her brothers furnished us with fishing poles and we mounted the horses to ride to the fishing holes. I must admit I was a little hesitant, but who could resist anything Joan suggested. So off we went. We hadn't gone more the 25 yards from the camp when my horse started bucking. I started yelling, "Whoe, you blankey-blank, whoe". In between her hilarious laughter Joan yelled, "The horse is not bucking, it's just being bitten by a horse fly. It certainly felt like bucking to me and I jumped off and told Joan that I would walk and she could fish. Joan,and now her brothers, were all laughing hilariously. I was so mad I almost divorced Joan before we were even married. One of the brothers told me later that I should investigate becoming a rodeo clown.
Well, that's the end of horse stories. You'll hear no more from me about horses.
Friday, March 1, 2013
I don't like horses!
How could any twelve year old boy, who was raised in a
farming and ranching community, not like horses? I enjoy watching beautiful horses but only
from a distance. I enjoy watching horse
races but I never desired to ride one. I
even enjoy watching rodeos but mostly so I can watch the clowns. Well, let me tell you of four events in my
life that will perhaps explain why I don’t like horses.
Event #1 – The Smith family, who were our next door
neighbors, announced that they were the new owner of a pony. A pony in this case meant a mature but
smallish size horse. The father said that he had purchased the horse so that
his children could learn about the use and care of a horse. The oldest of these
children were two boys ages eight and ten. All of the boys in the neighborhood were very
envious of the Smith’s. But we were equally excited about having a real live
horse living next door. This was
especially true since the two boys announced that all of the neighborhood boys
would have an opportunity to ride their pony.
The exciting day finally arrived when the horse was
delivered. It would be kept in a pasture next to the neighbors home. For the first several days, the Montgomery boys pretty
much monopolized the horse. But then it was announced, neighborhood-wide, that
on the following day every boy who arrived at the pasture at 9:00 a.m. could
ride the horse. This ride would be
bare-back meaning there was no saddle.
The ride was to a point about fifty yards from the starting
point and then return. About fifteen boys turned up for this momentous
event. The first four of five boys
completed their ride without any mishap.
At the end of their ride each of them raved about how totally exhilarating
the ride was. They immediately began a
campaign in their home for the father to buy them a pony. As I watched each of these rides it appeared
to me to be a fairly routine ride. You
calmly took hold of the reins, kicked the horse in the flanks and completed
your ride. It looked simple to me. It was simple; for the first ten or fifteen
bounces. The horse was trotting in a very
dedicated manner and I was having trouble staying mounted. I still hadn’t learned that the only way to
stay on a trotting bare-back horse was to clamp your legs. I didn’t learn soon enough and the next thing
I knew I was sitting on my rear end on the ground. And that wasn’t the worst of it. I had fallen into a “Red Ant” hill. I quickly became aware of this when I felt
Red Ants furiously climbing up my arms and legs. There is only one way to solve this
problem. You quickly start the Red Ants
Dance. This dance is simply to jump up
and down and high as you can in hopes of dislodging the ants who are now gleefully
feasting on your flesh. After a few
minutes this seemed to work but that was only the beginning. I could hear riotous laughing. No one was thinking of riding the horse. They were having too much fun mimicking my
horse ride and dance. I had never experienced such
humiliation.
Check
tomorrow's blog for the other three events regarding horses.
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