CHASING CLOUDS, CHAPTERS 1 THROUGH 15

PROLOGUE

 

       This is an account of the younger time of my life that begins in 1943 when I am just about ten years old and continues throughout my young adult life to year 1952. These were critical periods of my life when I was crazy sometimes, rather stupid more times than I would like to remember and when I was simply growing up. Most of the facts are there, sometimes skewed by my fading memory, but in general they are factual. I have tried to cover things like my desires for attention, my friendships and relation­ships with family and much about the influ­ence my family had on me.

      I have not attempted to tell all and show all. It is only an endeavor to bring out some of the best and some of the most memorable worst times of my life. I have tried to keep some of the more amusing times of my life in the forefront, going over and over these incidents and attempting not to over exaggerate them.

      What the reader will see in this work is just another life . . . one that has had hard­ships, has been neglectful in taking opportu­nities and one that has failed in many of its attempts to become something. But overall, I did become something . . . only recogniz­ing it many years after and now acknowl­edging it as an experience.

 

 CHASING CLOUDS

 

Chapter 1

 

Early summer, about 1943: 

Those clouds are so beautiful. I wonder how far away they are? They must be heavy with all that water in them. I wonder how they just hang there instead of always falling down in the form of rain. I'll just close my eyes for a minute and see how much they change . . .  They did change. Now that one looks like a dog. I wonder if Lady sees them the same way that I do. If I could only fly, I could get up there and be with them and chase them with the wind . . . Look, they've changed again.  Now the dog's head is more like a snake's head.   

"JACK! Where are you? Come in here right now. I need you." 

"Just a minute, Mom. I'm out by the barn. I'll be right in." 

I don't want to go in. I'm fine right here with Lady. I'd lots rather sit here and enjoy the sun and watch the clouds. Mom's just going to put me to work, I know. May­be if I just ignore her, she'll forget I'm here and leave me alone. I know. I’ll make a wish: Star light, star bright . . . there are no stars. Maybe it'll work anyway. Star light, star bright, help me keep from going in the house tonight. Where can I hide where she won't find me? 

"JACK!  YOU BETTER GET IN HERE THIS MINUTE OR YOUR DAD IS GOING TO HEAR ABOUT THIS WHEN HE GETS HOME.  JACK!" 

      My early life was a process of continu­al learning and awakening to all that was around me.  From my earliest recollections I was questioning and probing to find out about things I thought were important. Many times these things I was trying to understand seemed insurmountable. Other times they were obviously simple challeng­es. All of them, I know now, were experi­ences that made me more pre­pared for the next one. Time and time again, I felt my­self chasing the clouds of my dreams trying to find something. One time I might have been dream­ing about the girl next door. Another time it was how to outsmart the three bullies that constantly harassed me and how to avoid the beating I would get from him when they ganged up on me. In better times my dreams were about the music I heard, the words I read, and the pictures I saw in books and in my mind. Sometimes my dreams were about me. But my reality was always me and my fears, and my limita­tions and my doubts.

      Up to the time I was about ten years old I suppose I was just a normal kid. Things that I did and experienced were about the same as others my same age. I was more lazy than most and was always trying to get out of doing things, but so were most of my friends. About that time, however, some­thing in me began to stir. I was discovering I had talents, that I wanted to be different and I began to act that out. That's when I began chasing clouds.

      The small town I lived in for the first 20 years of my life, West Jordan, Utah, was constantly bringing me opportu­nities for experi­ences, for fun and for crazy things to happen. Life on our five acre farm was forever in­volved in work of some sorts. Dad had a full time job at the Utah Copper Concentrator in Magna so my older brother Ken and I were the ones that did most of the work around the farm. My oldest broth­er, Hal joined the Navy in 1941 so he wasn't there after that. And my sister, Pat, who was born in 1940 was too young to help with much outside.

      Our farm was only five acres, but it seemed like a lot more to me. The farm had to be irrigated and that came due once per week when our water turn was available. And there was the cow to milk twice a day and the barn to clean every day. We had a small garden and what seemed like an acre of grass to mow, and we had several other ani­mals that varied from year to year. Through the years we had chickens, rabbits, a few pigs, later a horse, and always one or more steers being raised for beef. Every few years we would have one or more lambs to add to the menag­erie.

      Dad had his hobbies that raised the numbers of animals around the farm. There were always one or more hunting dogs. The only dogs dad would have were Spring­er Span­iels. Dad needed the dogs for his hunting, but I think he wanted them more as pets. There was never a day went by when Dad did not spend some of his time either in the early morning before going to work or in the evening with one or more of the dogs. Dad also raised game chickens that he sold for fighting. He did very little chicken fighting of his own, but his cocks were renowned for their stamina and winning abili­ty. Of all the animals, the dogs took first place around home. The occasional cat we had was in second place since their place was in the barn catching mice and rats. If the dogs had a litter, the extra ones were sold, but if a cat had a litter the extra ones were taken to the canal and drowned. I loved the dogs and "owned" them like they were my own pets, but no matter what I did with them, when Dad got home from work, the dog or dogs came to him for their pats on the head and the few words of encouragement and praise he had for them.

      All of our animals, including the dogs, had their home in our “barn.” It wasn’t your normal barn like one would see in pictures. Rather, it was a long chicken coop that Dad bought from some chicken farmer in Midvale and moved it onto a foundation he built for that purpose. At one time, the chicken business in Midvale that had been very large. Then suddenly the entire industry in Midvale went defunct because of some disease that hit the Midvale chicken farmers and wiped them all out. Soon after, all the chicken coops became available and many were moved from Midvale to various locations around Salt Lake Valley. One end of our coop was converted into a garage and work area Dad used for repairing our cars and for keeping his game chickens. The middle of the unit was a chicken coop where we had laying hens and always a rooster or two, and the very east end of the barn was divided into milk-cow stalls for two cows and on the other side a place where we kept the lambs when we had them. Dad built a separate pig pen down by the canal far from the house to keep the smell of the pigs away from our living areas.

      I never did as much of the outside work at home since Dad or my older brother, Ken did. Whenever I could I always had one or more alibi that I would use to get out of work. My favorite one and the one that always worked was my hay fever . . . my only valid one . . . that seemed to spring up just when the barn had to be cleaned, or the hay hauled from the field, or when the cow had to be milked. I really did have hay fever, but it was only bad at times when the pollen was at its highest. But the fact that I had it got me out of a lot of work that I was able to foist off on Mom or my older brother, Ken.

      I paid a price for my laziness, however. Being the youn­ger of the male members of the family, I was always on the tail-end of the chores chain. Whenever it was deemed "necessary" I got all the dirty jobs and was threatened with a beating if I did not do them. But when it was something I wanted to do, like play basketball with the older boys, or be taken along on a car ride or bike ride, I was always too little. I was never old enough to do the "fun" things. And I was forever being left behind. 

      My big brother, Ken was ruthless in his treat­ment of me. If there was something he could get away with blaming on me, I could be sure of getting it. If there was something he could shift off on me without Dad getting wind of it, he would. If he was gone and I was there, I was left with the things that had to be done. Of course, I was "too little" to do the chores I wanted to do (those that I thought were easier), so I was left with the things like shoveling the manure out of the barn, picking hay and grass to be fed to the rabbits, cleaning up after people, digging the weeds out of the ditches so Ken or Dad could irrigate easier, weeding the garden, and the list goes on.

      I had a few friends in school . . . never very close friends . . . and most of them lived too far away for those friendships to be developed like other chil­dren that had friends close by. I rarely had the opportunity to go to their place and they hardly ever came to mine. The closest neighbors with boys my age were the Lapores, an Italian family that lived south of us on the Sugar Factory Road. My folks never really approved my association with the Lapores. Mom, especially, thought "Dagos" were not to be trusted or associated with, but I spent a lot of time with them anyway. There were times when I spent so much of my life at the Lapor­es that Mom used to say I might as well be living with them.

      Despite the fact that the Lapores were a very poor family with many, many children, they were a strange and wonderful family. There were eight boys in the family for most of my younger years, then later there was a couple more added. Finally, on their eleventh child, they had a girl and stopped having children. One of the boys, Joe, was my age but he was one year behind in school because of being held back. His older brother, Don, was in my grade though he was a year older. He too, had been held back. Though we were in sepa­rate grades, Joe and I were pretty good friends most of the time. Don was a con­stant aggravation to me since he was one of the three bullies I dealt with for several years until I finally decided to handle it.

      Even though I spent a lot of time with the Lapore family, I really hated going into their house. Their basement house was broken down, filthy and always had a foul smell about it. Mrs. Lapore who was grossly obese did none of the house­work, so for the most part it never got done at all. The house was truly as bad as a pig pen. Walls and doors were full of holes. No one ever cleaned up anything. Food was every­where in the house. The house always smelled like cooked peppers and pepperoni.

      The Lapore’s home, as mentioned, was a “basement house;” a common structure built during and after the War Years when materials for building complete houses were scarce. Cement was available and some lumber and in West Jordan where the water table was very low, basements could easily be dug and homes of concrete that were below ground could be managed. These homes were always designed with a flat roof so that later, the upper portion of the home could be built when materials were available. So in the case of the Lapores who had little money anyway along with their large family, their home remained a basement house for many years before they finally had the money to construct the upper portions.

      As for Mrs. Lapore, she was not lazy. She was always working, but it always had something to do with keeping food in the house for all of the children or counseling one or more of them about some­thing. I never remember a time she was not cooking bread, putting up fruit or vege­tables or preparing the next meal. There was always a huge pot of coffee cooking on the old wood stove in the basement house kitchen, and every day without fail, Mrs. Lapore baked at least ten loaves of bread that where consumed almost the instant the boys got home from school.

      Coming home from school was like a ritual in the Lapore family. Each boy (including me when I was there) came in, threw down their things from school and immediately headed for the kitchen. The hot bread was just coming out of the oven, so everyone grabbed the first available loaf, broke off a huge chunk, spread a glob of uncolored Nucoa Margarine on it, poured jam all over the piece, got a bowl full of the black, over­cooked coffee (they never used cups) and sat around telling their mom about their day. When the coffee ran out, as it did moments after they arrived home, Mrs. Lapore would simply throw more grounds in the gallon-size blue porce­lain camp-style pot and fill it back up with water. I never, ever saw her pour out the grounds or clean out the pot, thought I am sure she had to once in a while. When every­one had told their stories, everything was left where they dropped it and all attempted to disappear until the evening meal was an­nounced:

      "One of you kids set the table,” Mrs. Lapore would scream when the boys attempted to escape the room. “You Roger, go get your father, and tell him to clean his feet before he comes in the house. Here, Don, put the butter on the table. You, Joe, help me dish up this food. Now, God damn it, hurry. All of you!"

      Mrs. Lapore weighed at least three hundred pounds, always wore a food-smeared housedress and waddled around like her next step was her last. She was the boss around the house, and ran it like a military encamp­ment. Even Mr. Lapore bowed down to her wishes, and was only seen in the house when the evening meal was served. All the other times he was out in the garden smoking and weeding, or he was up behind the new basement house tending his home-made pepperoni that always hung to dry in the old Lapore house that was vacated when the basement home was finished.

      We always seemed to be in trouble with Mr. or Mrs. Lapore about something. Even though the boys were severely disciplined when they got in trouble, it never seemed to matter; they (or we . . .I was treated like the family if I was in on something with the Lapore boys) were in there finding something else to do. One time we would steal a piece of pepperoni out of the old house and get a beating for it. Another time we might steal a couple of the old man's cigarettes and smoke them in the ditch. Or in the house, someone would take a loaf of bread that was meant for supper. It was always one excitement after another while I was with the Lapores. The only time I ever smoked cigarettes in my life was the ones we stole from Mr. Lapore. That activity only lasted a short time, however. One day Joe and I were smok­ing a couple of his dad's cigarettes we had stolen from him and were caught at it. As if we were both his children, he beat us with a willow so hard I will never forget it. That one incident was enough for me to be convinced that I never needed to smoke cigarettes again.

      For a compatriot to some of my other wild times I had another friend, Bill Gard­ner, who lived about a mile or so south of where I did. Bill's dad owned a large farm that provided a lot of places for excitement. Bill had older sisters, but no brothers, so much of the farm work landed on Bill when he got old enough to do it. He also had hors­es and other interesting things that would help us in our inventive states. Bill and I hit it off pretty good both in school and out of school, but I always viewed him as being sort of on the outside of what I was about. In school, for in­stance, he was much more behind than I ever was even though his mother had been a school teacher for many years. Though Bill was very smart and eventually became a lawyer, he was just never motivated to do anything in school during our younger years. That bothered me. Even though I was similarly lazy, I did at least learn a lot from other school sources like the library books I checked out and read all the time. Bill never did anything. He did not like to read, nor did he even attempt to do any of his work. He just scraped by. It was only when Bill reached high school age that he took off and gained his potential as a learner. When it came to doing things outside of school Bill and I hit it off pretty well. Those times were rare, however, since Bill had so much work to do around his farm and lived so far away from me.

      My only other two fairly close friends were Ellis Malstrom and Kenneth Steinfeldt. They were much more sedate and a lot less fun to be with. I never got in trouble when I was with them, so life in those times was much less exciting. Both the Malstrom family and the Steinfeldts were owners of large farms, so their children, like my friend Bill, were constantly working around the farm. In addition, these families were very staunch Mormons, and unlike my family, had traditions and values that I was not akin to so much.

      One other friend, Ted Dahl, whom I always wanted to be close to, but never was, also lived quite far away. Ted and I did a lot together in school, but I hardly ever went to his place during the summer or on week­ends. We had our share of troubles, but usually these escapades were because of building a go-cart or jumping into the grain from his father’s the granary's roof gables.

      I got a lot more out of being alone than I did being with friends; and because of that, I was seen as different. In my looks along with my actions I was really different. Mom insisted that I comb my very curly hair a certain way, which bugged me a lot. And I dressed mostly in hand-me-downs because Mom and Dad did not have the money to dress me any other way. Mom always fussed over my hair with everyone who came around and that irritated me to no end. She must have told the story about entering my picture in the 1934 Chicago World Fair at least a thousand times while I was growing up. I could always count on Mom bringing out the old brass coin she received with my picture embossed on it for winning Honorable Mention in the Fair. All her fussing over me really turned me off in my relationship with my mother, so I was totally relieved when my little sister Pat was born in 1940 and she began to receive my share of attention.

      Partly because of how I looked but mostly because of how I acted, when I was in about Fourth Grade I started to be both­ered and harassed by the three older boys in my class, all who had been held back a year: Don Lapore, John Spratling, and Jay Brown. I don't know if their reason for picking on me was because of the way I looked and acted, their being held back from school or if they were simply looking for someone to pick on, but for some reason I was always IT.

      I seemed to be the most common target for these boys. Maybe it was because I was just there, I don't know. But I do know that some of my friends, whom I believed would potential­ly be as good a target as I, were never bothered. Most of the harassment came in the form of physical abuse, battering me around and taking things that were mine. They would take my bike and run off with it, or rob me of my favorite marble taw. They would push me in mud in the school yard, or make me walk on the opposite side of the road on the way home where the dogs could come and chase me. Most humiliating of all were the periodic taking of my pants. These were rituals called "panting" . . . always done when a large crowd was around, usually involving all three boys and sometimes their friends. The target would be chosen (me too often) for one reason or another; the crowd would be notified that I was about to be “pantsed”, and then I would be at­tacked and my pants would be removed and tossed around the crowd or thrown into a tree until a teacher came or they disappeared and I could recover them again. Sometimes my pants were thrown so high in a tree I had to climb it in my underwear to get them.  Most of the time bullies just disappeared in the crowd for a while.

      Most of this abuse came when I was in Junior High School. This regular harassment, I believe, caused me to be more of a loner than I had been earlier. And being an outsider naturally brought more atten­tion to me. Sometimes my desire to be alone was to get away from some­thing; most of the time it was to get out of some­thing. In either case I spent time alone watching the clouds, fishing, looking for interesting things in the fields, and hunting with my dog. 

      Actually, I was hardly ever really "alone." One of our dogs, Pudgy, Skippy or Lady, was my con­stant compan­ions. Fortunately, in all this time alone, I devel­oped an interest in every­thing around me. I learned about the ants and water and plants. I watched the clouds and learned about their move­ment. I imagined myself up there in the clouds floating about and even flying. I saw my­self swim­ming under water for miles learn­ing all there was to learn about the life under water. I sat for hours and watched caterpillars crawl or make cocoons, or spiders spin webs. My time alone was always occupied with some­thing.

      During the war years, 1941 to 1945 when I was ages eight through twelve was a time to be watching the sky for German or Japanese planes, or being suspicious of spies coming to our back door. There was the rationing to deal with and shortages of everything. I even picked milkweed pods for the War Effort so they could be used to make life jackets for the sailors. I played war games for hours either alone or with my cousin Don Buckley. I even imagined I was a soldier at times.

      Some of the most important times of my life during those years were keeping up with all the serials on the radio. Daily rituals in front of the radio brought me the world of The Lone Ranger, Tom Mix, The Shadow, The Squeaking Door and others. The eve­ning paper brought the comics and funny books completed my education of the myste­rious, the daring, and the brave like Bat Man and Superman and the Plastic Man, and others . . . all heroes and models in my young life.

      Sometime early in my life, I discov­ered I had talents. I had a good voice and liked to sing. I was called upon in school plays and dances, and I loved to sketch. I noticed them and did all I could to develop them. Others also noticed them and encouraged me more. Using them, I also learned I could get out of things like work and lessons. So that spurned me on more. I learned about draw­ing and sang in every public activity that was available. Sadly, at school, my partici­pation in those activities also brought more and more atten­tion to me from the bullies and harass­ers. Anyone who sang or danced or did art work was a likely target for jeers, for beat­ings and for more pantsings. For me it was all part of the vicious game of growing up in this little farm town. I complained a lot then, but I know now that I chose to be the way I was. When it really came down to it, I got a lot out of being the outsider and the one being picked on. 

 

Chapter 2

 

      All my younger life I seemed to be in­volved in bazaar and funny activities. Most of them were of my own making, while others just seemed to come out of nowhere. All were just experienc­es, but while they were occurring I may have thought other­wise. From some, I learned things; from others I got to repeat the exer­cise many more times in my life before I really learned what I was supposed to learn. But I learned and I grew and I survived them all. 

      Life for me wasn't all work; there were also the times when I had some fun, and raised some hell, and got into trouble for it. Since I was "too young" to think up some of the best hell-raisers, I had to just tag along and learn from my brother Ken or my cousin Keith. But on those rare instances when they did let me in on their "fun" I was still required to take my place at the back. One source of work and fun was the times when we had to irrigate the farm. Typically the water was proportioned down the ditches into the furrows of corn or grain. Some­times it was just turned loose to flood the field as was the case with our small sections of alfalfa. When the water that did not sink into the ground got to the end of the field, it was directed south to the highway and then to the east, eventually flowing into the canal by our house. This waste water flowing wide and unruly along the road was a major tempta­tion when one of us had a shovel. Shovels made the best water guns anyone could ever imagine. One hard slice with the edge of the shovel in six inches of water could drown a person twenty feet away if it were directed accurately. The idea, how­ever, was to stay away from the water since it was muddy and dirty from the silt it had picked up along its journey through the field. 

      When we boys got tired of splashing water on each other, we splashed it out on the road to see who could shoot it the fur­thest. On one of the days me, Ken and Keith were cutting water across the road for the fun of it, the event turned bad for all of us:

 

July 20, 1943

 

"Let's get the hell out of here. I think that car we just splashed water on is turning around."

 

I can't believe I'm running full blast across this fresh cut alfalfa field with bare feet. Keith didn't even give me a chance to get my shoes. He just took my hand, and here we are running.

 

"Where's Ken? He's going to get caught. That guy we just splashed has just stopped his car in front of the house and is walking up to the back door. Ken's for sure going to get caught. Why didn't he run with us?    

 

"Look, Jack, Ken must have jumped into that barrel by the swing. I'm sure he's in there because Lady is sitting right by the barrel. He's for sure going to get caught."

 

I can't imagine us doing such a dumb thing as splashing water with our irrigation shovels on the passing cars. We were okay as long as it was a contest about how far across the road we could splash. But to splash on a car . . . a new one at that, we are going to be in big trouble for sure. I can just hear it when Dad comes home.

 

"Ken's had it. Look, that guy has gone from the back porch and has started looking for him. I guess Ken figured he couldn't run like us with his hip boots on so he must have thought he could hide in the barrel."

 

Owe, my feet are bleeding. Running across that field of fresh cut hay was no fun. Why didn't I leave my shoes on? Lady is keeping that guy away from the barrel.

 

"Look, Keith, Lady’s holding that guy off with her barking. I don't think Ken is going to be caught after all. That was pretty funny how right as that guy passed us we all cut water with our shovels and covered his new car. But I don't think we had better do that again."

 

      We hoped Dad wouldn’t find out what we did. But he had this uncanny way about him when it came to leaning about things. In this case, however, our hopes were dashed. The man on whose car we splashed came back that evening and talked to Dad. We saw him drive in, but ignored him and just got out of the way. 

 

July 20, 1943

 

"What were you damned little buggers doing splash­ing water on passing cars? That guy you splashed on came by here tonight to tell me that you ruined his paint job with the rocks and mud you splashed on his car. What the hell were you think­ing? Haven't you got a brain in your heads?" 

 

Dad never does leave any room for argument. He's got this figured out. Now what?

 

"I knew you damned kids did it but I told him you were way out in the back irrigating the north field and it couldn't have been you. I've covered up for you this time, but don't you ever let me catch you farting around again like this. He said he would have gotten the cops after you if he could have caught you. He said one of you hid in the barrel out by the swing. Who was that for God’s sakes? He said the dog growling was the only thing that saved you."

 

"I hid in the barrel, Dad. I started to run like Keith and Jack, but with my hip boots on, I knew I was going to get caught. I guess I was lucky that Lady was near me and didn't follow Jack and Keith out in the field."

 

"Well it just better not happen again.”

 

"We were just having a little fun, Uncle Mark, It was an accident that the car passed the instant we all cut the water with our shov­els. None of us saw the car. Besides, that water was clear as a bell. It didn't have any rocks or mud in it, I know."      

 

"Yeh, none of us saw the car.”

 

From dad's stories about growing up, I'll bet this story is like kid's stuff. No wonder he covered up for us. I'll bet he really thought it was funny, but he would never let on to us. He prob­ably had a hard time keeping from laughing when that guy came to the house tonight to tell on us.

 

Chapter 3

 

      Dad was big on duck hunting when I was grow­ing up. I was too young to go when he was most active in it, but when I turned eleven years old I guess that was the magic time because during the duck season in the late fall of that year, I finally got to go duck hunting with him. It may have been that Ken didn't want to go, or some­thing, but anyway, I got to go and I was so excited I didn't know how to act. 

      Lady, our old Springer bitch, would be going with us. Dad had her trained well. She was excellent with pheasants, but be­cause she loved the water so much, she was also about the best dog around for retrieving ducks. She was as excited to go hunting as I was. Just the sight of a gun in any one of our hands was enough for her to know there was a hunt in the offing. We could depend upon her being right there ready to get in the car. No trying to find her . . . it was hunt­ing season and she knew it.

      Lady and I were special friends. She tagged along with me everywhere I went. She was my hunting dog as well as Dad's. However, my hunting was restricted to what I could shoot legally (or illegally when I thought I could get away with it) with my twenty-two rifle. Summer was the time to get in training for the big hunt in the fall, so al­most every day Lady and I would go into our fields, west about a mile to the dry farms or along the canal to find what kind of game was avail­able for the hunt. Dad and mom pretty much restrained me from shooting any game birds and bringing them home, so most of my hunt­ing was restricted to crows and magpies and an occasional snipe or sparrow. Being able now to go on a "real" hunt was very special. I knew I had almost reached maturity when I received the offer to go with Dad on the big duck hunt at the Utah Copper Club in Hunter.

      I went to the Copper Club every year fishing, boating and just hanging around. It was located in Hunter (in now what is called West Valley) between 33rd South and 21st South and about 70th West. My frequent visits there were primarily to ac­company Dad when he worked at the Club. His job as a dragline crane operator and employee of Utah Copper Company (later known as Kennecott) required that he go out to the Copper Club about three months of the year to clean the canals that fed the three or four lakes that made up the Club. Water from the canals fed the lakes and kept them full. And then the entire overflow from the man-made lakes went into a canal that flowed to Magna where it was used in the Utah Copper concentrating operations there. The Copper Club, a facility freely and exclusively used by employees of the company, was owned by the Utah Copper Company.

      I enjoyed the Club because of the free­dom I had to be alone, to go fishing when I wanted and to cruise around in one of the old row boats that were kept at the Club House to hunt for carp or generally explore the swamp areas that abounded the club all along the south side of the lakes. I would usually go to work with Dad in the morning, spend the entire day on the lake or the feeder canals then come home when his shift was over. There was never a more wonderful time for me than the several summers I spent at the Copper Club. Because I was out there so much, I became a real expert on the area. I knew where all the perma­nent duck blinds were, where all the best fishing was, and where I could pitch-fork the most carp. It was a veritable paradise for me of which I never tired.

 

December 15, 1944

 

"We'll park ourselves right here, son. I think we're in a flyway. This old blind seems like its big enough for both of us and Lady and there doesn't seem to be anyone else around right now."

 

Boy, I'm glad we’re finished with that walk. It was really a long march around to the south side of Moon Lake to get ready for the early morning duck hunt. I wish we would have taken one of the Copper Club's row boats instead of walking all this way. We could have made it in half of the time.

 

"Lady, you sit here. Sit. That's a good dog. Son, we'll need to flatten down some of those cattails over there so's we can see good at water level to the east. I'm sure if any ducks are flying today they'll be coming in from the east and flying low be­cause of the cloud cover."

 

"Dad, since we are out here alone, do you sup­pose I could take a shot if lots of ducks are flying?  I've been practicing with my twenty-two at home and I think I could easy hit one on the fly."

 

"Hitting a duck on the fly is a whole lot differ­ent than shooting at a sitting target, I'll tell you. But if you want too, I don't care. We'll just have to make sure no one is around. And don't shoot over toward the club house or the cabins. You know that twenty-two of yours caries over two miles. Besides, these ducks, you know are protected by the govern­ment and with you not having a license, we could get in trouble if you were even caught carry­ing a gun during duck sea­son. We'll just have to see."

 

"Have you been out here hunting before, Dad?"

 

"Yes, right over there where you can see that blind on that little island. Me and Carl Hat­field came out there last year and took one of the Club's row boats to get on that little island. We did pretty good; and it was a day just like today. Now you just keep quiet and keep your eyes peeled. Let me know if you see anything."

 

"Listen, dad.  Did you hear that?"

 

"Huh, what?"

 

"Listen, there it is again."

 

"Goose!"

 

“Hear that Dad. Somebody over there way far east just shot after they shouted goose."

 

"Swan!" 

 

"Dad, did you hear that?  Some­one else a little closer just shouted swan."

 

“Yeh. I heard that one. Must be something coming our way. Keep watching. Maybe we’ll get a shot.”

 

"Goose!"

 

"There's another shot, dad. It was real close."

 

"Yes, I heard that one. Keep your eyes peeled."

 

"Swan!"

 

"Somebody just hollered swan again. I think I see something coming. Look, Dad, there are three birds coming right over us."

 

"I see them, son.  Keep your head down, I think they're geese."

 

Shoot, Dad. Hurry, I see a man across from us about ready to shoot. What are you wait­ing for?  I could have had any one of them with my twenty-two by now, I know.

 

"I GOT ONE. GO GET IT LADY."

 

"THAT'S MY BIRD, MISTER. I GOT HIM, NOT YOU."

 

I didn't see him before he rose up and shot. He must have really been hiding. I heard his shot, but I'm sure Dad got the bird, not him.

 

"I SHOT IT, ITS MINE!"

 

"We'll see about that."

 

"Come on, son, it looks like we have a problem on our hands. It was clearly my bird. That guy's shot was way behind mine a mile, and besides I saw the bird turn away from my shot when it hit him."

 

We are going to beat the other guy to the bird. I wonder if he did hit him. How's Dad going to handle that? This water’s pretty deep. Hope we can get there before that guy does.

 

"See, he's hit on my side. Look, it's clearly hit on my side."

 

"It's a god damned swan, Mister. You've shot a swan. You can have it. It looks like a trumpeter to me. What the hell is it doing out here. I heard there are only about a hundred of them in existence. Mister, if anyone catches you, that's an automat­ic five hundred dollar fine."

 

Boy, he sure changed his story.

 

"What do you think, Dad?"

 

"I still think it’s a Canadian goose, but a young one. I'm sure we’re alright. The thing is, though, how do we be sure? Let's get him back to our blind, and then we'll decide what to do."

 

"What do you think about that Jack Ass? First he thinks he shot the bird then when he thinks it's a swan, he then gallivants out of there like a house afire."

 

"But how are we going to be sure, Dad?  Do we just leave it here?"

 

"I can't just leave it here. But yet I can't chance taking it back to the car by way of the Club House either. There's just a chance we might meet a Game War­den if we go that way."

 

"Well, dad, I could go get the car. I can drive and meet you somewhere."

 

"No, son, you're too young. And be­sides, you haven't got a license. You would­n't know how to get around the lake and get back here close to this side of the lake, anyway. I'll tell you what. Just in case this is a swan, I'm not taking any chances getting caught. I'll go back and get the car. There's a road that comes off 33rd South down near here somewhere. You take the bird and Lady and walk over that way until you find where the road ends and wait for me. I think the road stops by those big cottonwood trees over there. See them? Hide the bird in an irrigation ditch somewhere when you get over there. It's big, so don't look too obvious carrying it over that way so in case someone sees you. It'll take me a while to get back to the Club House and back around the lake, so take your time and don't look too obvi­ous. In fact, you better wait here at the blind for at least fifteen minutes . . . do you have a watch? No? Well estimate fifteen min­utes . . . count slowly to sixty fifteen times before you take off; that way you won't be waiting out there by the road so long."

 

"Okay, Dad, but which way should I go . . . straight south from here? What do you think?"

 

"Well, do you see those houses over there and those big trees I pointed out to you?  That's likely where the road comes down from 33rd.  Just head over that way and you watch for me."

 

Boy, this bird is going to be heavy to carry all that way. I don't know why Dad wouldn't let me drive the car around. I can drive. It's all dirt roads. I drive the truck at home all the time in the field.  I could have done it.  Now I have to risk being caught with this big bird . . . swan? I wonder if it is a Trumpet­er Swan. I'd sure hate to get caught with it. I'm going to be very careful. 

 

"What do you think, Lady?  Can we pull it off?"

 

      I finally got to the road where Dad and I had agreed to meet. When I got there, I put the bird in the ditch where it couldn’t be seen and waited for Dad to arrive. I was there sweating it out for over a half hour, I estimated before I saw Dad’s car coming down the dirt road from 33^rd South Street. Relief hit me so hard I almost cried.

      We got the bird home alright, and when we did, before anything was done with it, Dad called our neighbor, Carl Hatfield who was Dad’s regular hunting partner and asked him to come over and look at the bird he shot before Mom cleaned it. He came in a while and between the two of them they agreed that the bird Dad shot was in fact a Trumpeter Swan, but a young one. After their discussion about the ramifications of shooting an illegal bird and bringing Ken and me in to swear we would never tell anyone that Dad had bagged a swan when he thought it was a goose, Mom took over for the final chapter of our bird story. She first plucked the down from the chest of the bird and almost filled an old pillow case with it, and then after that she took the rest of the feathers off the bird and prepared it for cooking. Dad examined the bird when all the feathers were off it and discovered that the few shotgun bee-bees that killed the bird entered on the opposite side of where we were when the shots were fired. It was concluded that the man in the blind who said he hit the bird was correct. No bee-bees from Dad’s gun ever hit the animal. Later that week, I think it was the next Sunday, Mom roasted our bird and we had it with the Hatfields. Everyone debated if it tasted better than a goose, and concluded it did.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

      Spring was the time of the year I loved the most. Like every year spring is a time to recover from the shut-in winter and the cold. The place I liked best in spring was on south side of our old “barn” (converted chicken coop). There against the white wall of the coop, the sun would warm things even in early spring enough so I could sit there comfortably. I did a lot of my day-dreaming there. Mom used to really get after me for hanging out there so long, especially when there were chores to do or things to do in the house, but I always found a way to be there for hours on end.

      My favorite way to spend my time along the coop in the mid-day sun was to watch the cumulus clouds roll by. I was able to imagine myself flying up there with them, chasing them, watching them change, watch­ing them grow, and flying through them like the planes I saw from time to time. Often I would spot a cloud that seemed to remind me of something, then I would close my eyes for a few minutes and on opening them, see how the cloud had changed its shape. I never could see the changes taking place when I just remained focused on the cloud, but I could see the changes when I closed my eyes for a moment.

      My dreams of life somewhere else were brooded there by the chicken coop next to Mom's holly hocks.  For my dream times alongside the coop, I always chose the same spot . . . a flattened down place that was comfortable and hidden from the back porch of our house where Mom would always appear when she called me to my duties with the housework or the yard. I dreamed of someday becoming a Forest Ranger and working in the woods cutting trees, minding the forest or managing the wildlife. I saw myself as the inventor of things to make my life easier or more fun. I built my kites there in my dreams. I dreamed about this kite one time that was so big that it took me and Ellis Malstrom and Kenneth Steinfeldt togeth­er to hold it. I dreamed of being picked up and lifted into the air by a handful of balloons. Nothing was beyond my imagination. I could fly without wings; I could swim under water without underwater gear; I could climb mountains to their peaks. My dreaming sometimes lasted through Mom’s insistence and interruptions when she had chores for me to do. I resisted as long as I could and often won out. Even in later life, I never stopped dreaming.

 

 

 

March 12, 1945

 

These cool morn­ings are so nice. I love sitting here leaning against the old white wall of the coop soaking in the sun­light. It seems like it's been so cold for so long. This feels good. I like the big white clouds as they float over me changing their shapes every moment. I'll close my eyes then open them in a few minutes to see the changes in their shapes and try to imagine those shapes being animals, people or other things that come to mind.

 

It's been nice sitting here all morn­ing. I think I'll just stay here and maybe Mom won't find me and try to give me any work. I'm pretty hidden by the clothes hanging on the line here in front of the coop, so maybe she won't see me.

 

"Jack!  Where are you?"

 

Oh, oh, she's trying to find me. Maybe if I ignore her . . . I know she wants me for some­thing, but she can't see me for the clothes. I'll just stay here. I know if I sit here quietly and show up later I can alibi that I didn't hear her when she called. Maybe in the meantime, I can sneak down to the canal by the weir, cross and head over to the Lapore's and stay there for a while.

 

"What are you doing sitting there? Didn't you hear me calling you a while ago?"

 

Darn, she found me. I've got to think of some­thing. 

 

"I just got back from working in the barn cleaning the cow stall out like Dad told me to do. I'm just taking a little rest. I didn't hear you call." 

 

Mom does­n't know the dif­ference. May­be she'll forget being mad at me.

 

"Dad said he wanted you to clean up that mess you made on his work bench in the garage. You get that done, and then I have some other work for you to do in house."
 

I don't get it with Mom. She is always trying to get me to work on things around the house. She says that Dad wanted the work to be done. She never asks Ken to do anything. I'll clean up the garage, but that's all, I've got better things to do.

 

Mom is like that; always getting me to do things around the house and yard. I never seem to have any time to myself unless I sneak off and go with my friends. It's Saturday, besides. Why don't I just sit here a few more minutes in the sun before I go into the garage and do that work for Dad? Mom's through hanging her clothes now so I can just sit here for a while more.

 

  I remember flying in a dream last night. I love that feeling. I can see myself so clear, I'm sure it must mean sometime that I really will be able to fly someday. I took off right here in front of the barn. I started running down at the east end of the barn, ran west until I got enough speed to take off and soon I was sailing over the house and trees along the fence and the Bingham High­way. I was just a hundred or so feet above the tele­phone lines along the road and could see everything just like it was laid out on a map. I loved it. Flying was so easy. I just had to move my arms a little to keep up in the air. I re­mem­ber flying up past Aunt Nell's place and looking at their yard, then swing­ing to the south a little over Ted Dahl's place then coming back some time later for an easy landing in the yard by the barn. How would it be to really fly? I just know some­day I will be able to do that.

 

"Hi Pudgy. How you doing today? What brings you over my way? Why aren't you out chasing pheasants or something this morning? Lay down beside me on the flower bed. Careful, don't mash down Mom's precious holly hocks that are just coming up. She'll be mad at both of us if you do. She prizes her flowers along the front of the barn. I really don't see what she sees in them. They look more like weeds to me. I think she ought to cut them down someday. They are so old fashioned. Don't you think so?"

 

Pudgy's such a good dog. He never shouts at me and is always there tagging along with me every­where I go. I'll never let him get out of the yard, like Lady when she got killed on the road this past winter. I wonder if Pudgy feels bad when I make him stay home? Maybe a little scratch behind her ear will make him happy. 

 

"How do you like that, Pudgy? Feels good, huh? Gad, your hair is greasy. Maybe it’s time for you to take a bath. Want to go for a swim in the canal? Oh, I forgot, the canal's not full yet; maybe next month, or if I can sneak you into the house, maybe we can give you a bath in the base­ment." 

 

Pudgy doesn't under­stand. He seems to want to stay here for a while. I guess that's all right. We'll just sit here a while longer then I’ll sneak you in the house a little later for that bath you need.

 

Even the chickens are taking a day off. That old game hen of Dad's has scratched herself a nice sitting place in the dirt by the rhubarb. I wonder if she is planning to lay some eggs there. It sure seems like a strange place to do that. Maybe instead she is just trying to get rid of flees or something. That old rooster sure isn't taking the day off. He's strutting around like he owns the place. Maybe Pudgy could take him down a notch or two. 

 

"Pudgy, go get him."

 

Pudgy never misses an opportunity to chase the old game rooster. Dad would kill me if he knew I always sicced Pudgy after his prize game chickens. But Pudgy never chases them very far and never bites them, so I guess it's not so bad. Just keeps them in shape. In case another dog really gets after them they’ll be able to get away.  

 

I wish Dad would show me how to get the roosters ready to fight and take me to one of the chicken fights. Funny they would call a chicken a cock. I wonder how penises got called cocks and female dogs got called bitches. Maybe Dad will take me to the next "game chicken" fight he goes to if I ask him. I think I'm old enough to go. All he has ever done is take me to the farm over in Bennion Ward where they fight the chickens. But when I get there I have to stay at the car. I'd like to know what they do in that old barn out in the Gardner's field. There sure are a lot of cars around.

 

"Jack, have you finished in the garage yet?" 

 

Oh, no. I had better get up and get that job done for Dad. Mom will for sure tell Dad if I don't get it done; then I'll get heck from him tonight. Somehow I'll find enough energy to get the garage done. I hate to leave this warmth. This is one of my favor­ite places.

 

      Of all the things that have stuck with me into my adult life, I believe my dreams of flying and chasing clouds have been the most trenchant. I never really managed to do it with my arms the way I dreamed of flying in my youth, but I have been in and above the clouds from airplanes and the sight of them always brings me back to my youth. Shortly after my brother Hal came home from the Navy after the Second World War he started taking flying lessons at the Number 2 Airport in West Jordan. At one point I remember pestering him about arranging for a plane ride with one of the instructors and after much persuasion, he agreed and somehow made the arrangement for a fifteen minute ride for me. It was a small plane and the ride was much too short to suit me, but it was all that I had dreamed of. All the things I noticed from the air I had experienced exactly the same in my dream. I was astounded at how accurate my dream sequence had been.

 

 

 

 Chapter 5

 

School for me was pure hell up though the sixth grade. Just squeaking along, I made every effort to do as little studying as possible. I had other things on my mind than reading books and making book reports and learning to spell or do math. It wasn't that I did not like to learn about things, it was just that there were other things that I favored more than learning about history or the normal things that kids learned about. Give me a book about dino­saurs or on geology or trees and I would be in my glory, especially if it had a lot of pictures. Most books that my teachers wanted me to read were way out of my interest level. And about book reports . . . I hated doing them unless I could do a lot of art work with them. I always got good grades on art work, but writing a report or reading a book was out of the question.

 

April 10, 1945

 

"Mr. Williams, could you come up to my desk for a moment?"

 

"Me?"

 

"I have your book report from the read­ing assignment and it looks very much like you copied it right out of the dust cov­er. Did you read the book or did you just take it out of the Library and copy this summary off of the cover? Now tell me the truth."

 

"I swear, Mrs. Fisher, I read the book. I read it all. It was a good book. I like to read."

 

"Well, I'm not convinced. You are going to have to do another one or you are going to get a failing grade for this class. Do you understand?"

 

She didn't believe me. I'll bet half the class did just what I did, and they didn't get caught. Why doesn't she ask someone else if they copied the book report off the dust cover? Why does it have to be me getting caught all the time? Why couldn't I give a report on those dinosaur books I read? I read three of them. If I could give a report on them I would have it made. I hate Mrs. Fisher. She's such a mean old bag.

 

      Late in my sixth school year, something clicked for me. The smartest girl in my class, Mary Dennis, a Greek girl, took a liking to me and decided to tutor me in math. With her help and a little effort I learned I could get good grades in some­thing. I had to work on it, but with Mary's help I man­aged to get on the good side of Mrs. Fisher (we called her "Pinto" because of the white strip she had in the front of her otherwise dark hair). School started to mean something to me, but already, it was almost too late. I had lost so much in my lazy earlier years that I had a lot of catching up to do. But the sixth grade was a turning point in my life. From the tutoring I received from Mary, I was motivated to do other good things in class, and finally at the end of my Sixth Grade I was almost back on track. There were two things that kept me lagging behind, however, that I never got over until years later. Firstly, I realize now that I was somewhat dyslectic, so while I liked to read, I had great difficulty reading. Secondly, I received little or no encouragement from home during all of my years in school. Dad never spent any time with me, and when I had questions about lessons that I directed to Mom, she usually backed off with the excuse that she only went to the Sixth Grade and that was in the one-room school in Callao. But in reality, I know now that I could have done much better had I been less lazy and more motivated by school. What happened in elementary and junior high school carried on to high school, and overall never got any better for me until my last year in high school when once again I was given some choices by an interested teacher this time, and clamped down seriously on my studies.

      I believe I was not a whole lot different than most kids when I began to explore my own and other's sexual awareness. That all began for me when I was around eleven or twelve years old. Most of that awareness began to develop in my interactions with my cousins, Lawan­na, Donna and Joan . . . all daughters of Uncle Millard and Aunt Nell. They lived conveniently close to us . . . about a quarter mile west of the old home on the Bingham Highway. Because Mom and Aunt Nell were close friends, there were ample oppor­tunities winter and summer for interaction between us kids while we were visiting either at our place or theirs. I didn't realize it at the time, but while en­gaged in playing and cards games and other more physical activities with the girls, I was being used for experiments by them . . . espe­cially the two older girls, Lawanna and Donna.

Lawanna was the oldest, being about three years older than I. Donna was next . . . two years older and Joan and I were only two days apart in age. The older girls, I suppose, were just entering into puberty, but Joan and I were behind in development.

      The first encounters I remember were invitations by the older girls to feel their genitals and their breasts. I did it willingly at the first, but got nothing out of it myself. They too, wanted to exchange this "gift" by feeling mine. This was usually done while we hid under the covers of one of their beds or on a couple of occa­sions, far out in our field where we could tramp down a ring of grain and lay unseen from the house or yard. The girls got a big kick out of these innocent sexual interplays, but I thought at first they were "stupid."

      A little later the older girls lost interest in me and all their activity with me stopped. But while my interest grew in my own sexual development, I began to be inter­ested in how Joan was developing. Nothing really ever happened between us, however. Like the earlier encounters with Joan's older sisters, I just took a greater interest in Joan's growing breasts. In those days it was uncommon for girls to wear bras until they were really large enough to "need" one. So my challenge was to find ways I could look down Joan's dress or blouse to see what I could see. All kinds of schemes emerged to get Joan in compro­mising positions so I could see her breasts. Only a few of them worked. That little activity only lasted a short time. I don't know if Joan caught on to what I was doing or I just lost interest in the activity in favor of something more challenging that I had heard was done by some of the older boys . . . window peek­ing.

      I must have been about twelve or thir­teen when this new activity started. First, I heard about it from one of the boys in school who boasted about watching his folks make love and another who regularly peeked into the window of his teen-age neighbor. On the basis of what I heard, I decided to attempt it myself. Rather than boast about it, however, my activities were kept abso­lutely secret. My first venture took place after I had snuck out the basement window one night about 9 p.m. and stealthily walked down the street to the Draper's house by Peterson's, not far from our place. After carefully scouting out the window of the fifteen year old Draper girl, I made my way up close to the window so I could see under the partial­ly open blind. The first time I tried this, I only saw the girl getting ready for bed and finally turning off her light after reading a few moments. Nothing more exciting than that, but it spurned my appetite for more. A second night I was more successful actu­ally seeing the girl take off her bra and put on her night gown. A few days after, see­ing the girl in school, I was so ashamed I could not even look at her and decided that she was not a good target for my continued adventure. In addition, I was afraid some­one would see me since their house and the girl’s window was next to the main road, so I finally decided I had better try someone else who did not live so close that was also someone I would not see in school.

      After checking out the neighborhood, I decided to try one of the older Webster girls. This girl was a senior in high school and I thought she might work out. Their house was down a long lane, its windows were low to the ground, and it had lots of bushes around it. It seemed ideal. I tried that place a couple of nights, but saw only bras and panties . . . no bare stuff as I had hoped. The Smith family lived two doors west of us. Several older girls lived there so one night I decided to try my luck with them. These girls really had a reputa­tion of being the roughest girls in the neighbor­hood and they were very well built. I knew this would be a big challenge because the family was viewed by all of us to be crazy, and they had a couple of big dogs. I was a little afraid, but I decid­ed to take the risk anyway.

      Sneaking quietly up to the Smith family’s window the first night I attempted this activity I must have made a noise that was detected from inside. So while I was busily positioning myself for a good look, the older Smith boy, Allen, snuck out of the house and caught me in the act. I heard him approaching and began to run, but he caught me a good one with a fist to the head that almost knocked me out. I kept running west to make him think I lived west of the house, hoping he would not recog­nize me, then I circled back home and went back through the basement window down to my bedroom. Allen had recognized me, howev­er, and after giving up his chase for me, went straight to my home and told Dad.

 

 

May 19, 1945

 

"Jack, you get up here this minute. I want to talk to about something."

 

"What, Dad?  I'll be up in a second."

 

Jeeze, I've had it. I thought that was Allen Smith upstairs talking to Dad. I'll bet he recognized me and has told Dad. I'm dead.

 

"Old Man Smith's kid Allen was just here with Ronny and they told me they caught you peeking in the window at their sisters undressing. What do you have to say about that?"

 

"It wasn't me, Dad. I've been in my room all night. What did they say? I would never do any­thing like that?"

 

I hope Dad doesn't see the knot on my head. I think that welt has gone down. I hope so, anyway. Man that sure hurts where Allen hit me. I'm glad I got away. He would have killed me. I would not put it past those crazy Smiths.

 

"Allen just said he was sure it was you. Are you sure you've been in your room all night? I told them you were. You better not be lying to me, son, or I'll beat you to within an inch of your life. One thing I won't tolerate is this kind of stuff. And I sure don't want any more trouble with that stupid Al Smith. That deal you did this spring with the geese; I'm lucky he didn't sue me over that. You just stay away from that place. Do you hear?

 

I hear, Dad. I've learned my lesson about win­dow peeking. But I'm not sorry I killed their goose a while back. That goose was on our side of the fence. I saw Ronny pushing down the fence to let them through to our side of the field. The poor damned birds had eaten all there was to eat over there on their side and I know he wanted to give them a good meal at our expense. But I am not sorry I killed that big gander. If I hadn't I'm sure he would have beaten me to death with his wings. All I was doing was trying to scare the flock away when that gander attacked me. I wasn't just going to let him do that. Plug­ging him in the head with my trusty 22 was the best thing for him. Better I did that than the poor thing starving to death over on the Smith's side of the fence. I had no choice but to kill him. I think Dad believes me about the window peak­ing. At least he's not taking his belt off this time.

      That ended my interest in seeing girl’s breasts . . . by window peaking, that is. About that same time, Bill Gardner and I had another stunt cooking that had even a better potential.

 

May 25, 1945

 

"Jack, I've found the neatest thing in Mr. Hend­erson's shop building here at school. You want to stay after school with me tonight and do some explor­ing?"

 

"What is it, Bill?"

 

"Well, the other night when Mr. Henderson kept me after school for not finishing up my assignment on time and goofing off in class; I was cleaning the shop and I discovered this trap door that leads into a tunnel under the floor of the school. I went in a ways, but did not have a light. So now I have a flashlight and would like you to come tonight explor­ing with me. We can just hide out in the building for a couple of hours until Mr. Silva finishes cleaning the school then we would have the whole build­ing to ourselves. I know where we can hide until Old Man Silva is gone. Do you want to do it?"

 

"Count me in, Bill. You sure we won't get caught? I don't want to get into any more trouble with my dad. Where are we going to hide? Will we be able to get out of the building?"

 

"Yeh. If we have to we'll just crawl out of one of the shop windows onto the back parking lot.  No problem."

 

      We waited around that night after school hiding in the shop area where we could conceal ourselves in one of the large work benches. Soon we were sure all the night cleanup was done and Silva was gone, so we crawled out of our hiding places and found the trap door Bill had spoken of.

 

"Hold this light while I drop down in the hole. It looks pretty spooky down here, but it's not really all that bad. Come on; close the door behind you just in case someone comes into the shop while we are down here. Come on. Get in here with the light. I can't see a thing."

 

"Where do you think this goes, Bill?  It looks like it goes all over to me. Man, I hope there are no black widow spiders down here. I'm really getting dirty from the dust.  You sure this is all right?"

 

"Look, Jack, here's another trap door.  Should we see where it comes up?"

 

"I think we must be under the gym or cafeteria, but I don't remember ever seeing a trap door there. Be quiet. Are you sure no one is in the building now?"

 

"Nah. It's too late.  When Old Man Silva leaves, this place is like a cemetery. Besides, if anyone was walking around up there, wouldn't we hear them?"

 

"Just be careful and quiet, anyway."

 

"Look where we are; in the cafeteria kitchen. I've never been in here. Let's see, maybe there's something we can eat. I really am hungry. My mom's going to kill me for missing dinner. What time is it, Bill?"

 

"Shhh!  We've got to be sure no one's here that could catch us. Be quiet while I look around."

 

"The door's locked, Bill, but I can see out under the serving counter door, there's no one in the cafeteria. I think we're safe. Let’s see what we can find to eat."

 

      After taking some food from the cafeteria kitchen stores and taking time to eat it, we went back down into the crawl space and continued out tour.

 

"Man, this tunnel goes for ever. Look, Bill, there's light coming in just ahead. I wonder what it is?"

 

"Hey, it's the girl's locker room. I wonder if this screen comes off. Let's try it. No. It's bolted in. I'd give my left nut to see what's in some of those girl's lockers. I'll bet there's more stuff in there than we could ever imagine."

 

"Better still, Bill. How would it be to sit right here during gym? Look. You can see right into the showers. Man, we could sit here and watch every girl in school shower. Wouldn't you like to see Donna Woods with all her clothes off? Let's do it. We could skip school one day and just hang out here all day and enjoy the scen­ery."

 

"I don't know, Jack. Why don't we just get out of here? It must be really getting late."

 

"Well okay for now, but I think we really have to do this. Before we leave, though, let’s see if we can get into the show­er room from up in the building."

 

      A little later we found another trap door that led into a side room. When we got out we went over to the Girls Locker Room to see what we could find in the lockers there.

 

"Can you pick these dinky locks, Bill?"

 

"Yeh, that's easy. I have a master key I filed down . . . fits any of these locks. Let's see."

 

"Oh man, look what's in this locker. I think it's Dolores Wright's. Her name's right there. Look at that bra, Bill. I've never seen anything so big. See what size it is. Hell, 34-B. Man, wouldn't it be great to see her get in the shower? We've got to figure out a way to do that from the tunnel . . . soon."

 

"Yeh, I agree, but now I've really got to get out of here, Bill. It's getting late. Be sure to put every­thing back like we found it. I don't want anyone to suspect we were ever in here."

 

      Bill Gardener and I never followed through on our plan to sneak into the tunnel during school hours. It would have meant staying in the school overnight, and we were just too chicken to do it. We talked a lot with each other about our secret but we never let anyone else know we went into the tunnel. I got in trouble when I went home that night from school, so that sort of took the wind out of my sails anyway.

 

 

 

Chapter 6                  

 

Bill Gardner and I became the closest of friends about the time we were both turning twelve years old. Our birthdays were within a week of each other, so we both joined the Boy Scouts about the same time and began diligently to work on our assignments to become Tenderfoot Scouts.

 

July 18, 1945

 

"Boys, this Overnight Hike we have been plan­ning is going to be on the weekend over the 24th. You older boys are in charge of helping the younger boys Bill and Jack getting ready for this event. I want you to be sure they have all their camping gear and will be able to go along with us without any trouble."

 

I am so excited about this trip. I love scouting already. I can hardly wait to go up to Bell Canyon, where ever that is. It's going to be so much fun.

 

"Get over here you two little dinks. Let's look at you. You are pathetic. Where did you get that uniform, Bill? You call that a uniform? And you, Jack, where's your uniform?"

 

"I haven't got a uniform, Richard. I think I can have a Scout shirt at least by the time we go on our hike. Will that be all ­right?"

 

How did I happen to get someone like Richard Steinfeldt for a Patrol Leader? I hate him. Every time I have ever talked to him he's been ignorant to me. I can't stand him. I'm sure glad he's not my brother. I think Kenneth hates him as much as I do.  

 

      As might be expected from the older scouts, Bill and I got more than our share of "help" to get ready for the camp-out. The older scouts did everything they could to make our lives miserable and to "teach us a lesson" about how to be good scouts. As a result I showed up at the pickup point ill-prepared for the two day hike and Bill was not much better off.

 

July 23, 1945

 

"You two girls are so stupid. What did you think you were doing bringing all that stuff to go on this hike? You are just going to have to leave most of it in the truck. There's no way you would be able to hike clear up that three miles to the lake with all that junk you brought and none of us are going to help you stupid little buggers if you get tired. It’s practically straight up all the way. Now unload all those extra things you don't need. I’ll help you."

 

I just brought what I thought I needed.  I didn't know it was going to be straight up for three miles to the lake. How would we know? Nobody helped us like they were supposed to.  Damn, I just know this is going to be a terrible two days.  I believe it's going to rain, too.

 

"You guys quit bugging us. Bill and I were not both­ering anyone. Why do you keep tearing our tent down? Leave us alone."

 

"The wind blew it down. You dinks are so dumb, now you are going to get com­pletely wet. You call that a tent? Look where you put it . . . right on a hillside. If it rains tonight, which it probably will, your silly asses are going to get soaked."

 

      And so it went. Tenderfoot scouts were the scum of the world in the eyes of the older boys, and Bill and I topped their list. Though I worked hard at being a good scout and attended all the meetings during the summer of 1945, I continued to be the loner, and I had few male friends on which I could depend.

      I even had more than my share of bad luck making friends with girls. During my three years of junior high school, none of the girls I liked, liked me; and the ones who did were in my eyes either ugly or too chubby and didn't appeal to me in the least. Mary Kurtis was the only one of the girls that I liked that would even give me the time of the day, but I knew she was out of the question because the Greek girls were more or less out of the running for anyone except another Greek. All of us knew it, so we pretty much left them alone. Mary was different though. I think she liked me because I was into dancing and music and that appealed to her some­how. She and I even danced together when the school had dances, and that was more than I could say she did with the other boys. 

      Just before school was out for the summer at the end of our Seventh Grade Mary invited me to her house to meet her mother. I had never seen any­one so beauti­ful as Mrs. Kurtis. She was like some kind of a Greek goddess .. . like the ones I had seen in the library books. Mary's mother played me a song on the piano and insisted I sing along, since Mary had told her moth­er that I liked to sing. I was so embarrassed at being invited then having to perform for Mary's mother that I just stayed away from her from then on. I guess Mary was all right with that because she never invited me to do anything with her again.

 

 

Chapter 7

 

      Even though I had some new things in my life to contend with after completing Sixth Grade during the summer of 1945, as far as the family was consid­ered, it was really no different than all the previous years I had exper­ienced. Dad and mom were serious visitors to relatives on both sides of the family, and so every time there was a free day, weekend or evening we either visited one of the relatives or they visited us. If we were­n't off visiting some of Mom's relatives, then we were doing Dad's. Most of the visits were short since many of our relatives lived either in Salt Lake Valley or near enough that we could make the visits during an evening or one day of the week­end. Dad worked six days a week ordinarily, so weekend visits were usually held to Sunday.

      If the families were home, most of the visits we made to relatives were quite boring for me since most of our relatives were Mom's and Dad's age and few had children my age. If the people were not home when we came to visit them on these impromptu, unan­nounced calls, that was a different story.

 

July 27. 1945

 

"Mark, it looks like they are not home. We better go in their house and leave them our calling card for not being here when we come to see them. Jack, go knock on their door again and let’s make sure they’re not here. It looks like they are not there, but we better be sure."

 

"Mom, nobody’s coming to the door. I think they’re not here; but their back door is open. You don't have to cut their screen to get in. What are you going to do when you get in?"

 

"Not much, Honey. We're just going to leave them a little message that we were here. Go get some toilet paper out of their bathroom. We have to work fast just in case they come home. Mark, let's put the kitchen chairs up on the dining room table. And let's don't forget to short-sheet all the beds. Now work fast. Jack, take that roll of toilet paper and string it out all through the house. I'll look for another roll we can use. Herb and Edna are going to regret not being home."

 

"Lila, how about if we take out all their dishes and hide them somewhere in the house?"

 

"That sounds good, Dad. Jack, you help him when you get through with the toilet paper. Here’s another roll. Let’s make this a good one. We better hurry."

 

"Mom, are you sure we aren't going to get into trouble for this. They'll know who it is for sure and come over and do the same to us."

 

"Nah.  It's okay. They will never sus­pect us of doing this."

 

      Our yearly family vacations were always taken to far-off places for the purpose of visiting relatives. Most often they were only a cut above the normal evening or all-day visits we made to local or less-faraway relatives. Vacations were always taken to incor­porate one or more day visits with relatives along the way. If we went to Ely, Nevada, for example, we could count on stopping in Lehi to visit Dad's rela­tives, making another stop in Vernon to visit Mom's cousin, then off across the desert to Callao to visit either the Rolland or Kearney clans that were both relatives of Mom's. From Callao we went south stopping at Trout Creek then Baker before reaching Ely. These trips were always dusty and terrible trips usually taken in the heat of the summer where, as mom would always say, the jackrabbits had to carry a canteen and a bale of hay on their backs to survive. In those days the old cars Dad always had were relics that had holes in the floor­boards that let in drifts of dust from the endlessly long stretches of unimproved dirt roads.

      If we went to the north to visit relatives in Portland, Oregon, there would be stops in Burley, Idaho or Idaho Falls to visit Dad's cousins, uncles or other "touchholes." Then the next stop would be Boise for a short visit to Dad's sister's boy. From there the trip would usually go to Hermiston, Oregon where one of Dad's nieces lived. After 1947 when my brother Hal moved to Richland, Wash­ington, there's was another stop to be added to the rest of our Northwest-located relatives. Visits to Hal’s would usually be a few days, then Hal and Ole would accompa­ny us for the last leg of the journey to Portland to visit Mother's two brothers and one sister, and her dad before he died.

      These yearly visits brought us closer to the relatives on both sides of the family, generating good will and all, but they also kept the costs of vacation­ing down while we stayed in the homes of these people and ate their food. These visits were always recip­rocated by those relatives, so no one ever felt like they were being taken advantage of. I don’t remember us ever taking a vacation as a family to go fishing or camping or just staying someplace together and not visiting relatives.  Family vacations for us were always relative vacations.

      If a vacation was planned and our car was not full with immediate family mem­bers, as was often the case during the war years, we could always count on Dad and Mom inviting one or more of the relatives to travel with us. This occurred on at least three occasions that I remember. During the summer of 1945 we made one of these famous trips to Portland. Hal was married and living in Utah and Ken stayed home to take care of the house and farm. Dad had a 1939 Chevy he had fixed and tuned for the trip. We had extra room in the car so Dad and Mom invited my cous­in Rene Martin and her husband Mel to go with us for the two week trip.

 

August 10, 1945

 

"It is so hot damned in here, Uncle Mark, I'm sweating like a stuck pig.  Can't you turn off the heat?"

 

You think you are hot. What about me? I've been straddling this gear shift knob with my knees hiked up to my chin for the past four hours, at least. Crushed between yours and Dad's fat bodies is no dang fun.

 

"Can't I sit by the window or in back for a while? I can't stand being chucked in the middle all the time. Why can't Patty come up here for a change?"

 

"We'll be stopping at Boise in a while. I saw the sign back there a ways that said Boise is less than one hundred miles away. I'm not stopping again until we get there. You'll be all right."

 

Yeh. I'll be all right, okay. I'll be dead by the time we get there. You can just throw me out on the road right here. I won't look any different than those dried up, dead, flattened jackrabbits we've been see­ing along the road.

 

"I like having you up here watching the road. You just keep talking. That'll help keep me awake. You're awake aren't you? Well, you just keep talking to me. That will help keep me awake."

 

"Don't those big timber trucks scare you, Mel? It looks like those logs aren't even tied on. And they're going so fast. I don't see how they stay on."

 

That's all I've been good for this whole trip is keeping people awake. If it wasn't for Rene's stories and Dad's jokes, I'm sure this would be the most boring trip in the world.

 

August 22, 1945

 

"Who farted? Was it you, Jack? Some­body really let one go. Who was it? It's not the first time either. Somebody's been letting them go for the last hundred miles."

 

"Just open the rest of the windows, Honey, I'm sure whoever did it will finally run out of gas."

 

"Jack, I swear that smell is coming from you. Now you better quit it, I'm telling you or you're going to gas us all out. What did you eat anyway? You didn't eat anything different than the rest of us, did you? How come you've got so much gas?"

 

"Honest, Rene, it’s not me. I've smelled it too. It's someone's feet or something. Has anybody got their shoes off back there?"

"It's not anybody's feet, I tell you. Somebody farted. Now whoever's doing it better stop. The next time this happens I'm stopping the car. And whoever did it is going to have to walk. I promise. Did anyone put anything in the car that might be causing the smell?"

 

"Somebody just farted, Jack. There's nothing in the car. Now if you've been doing it, please either have me stop so you can go to the bathroom, or keep your mouth shut."

 

"Mark, why don't leave Jack alone? I don't think he did anything. Just pull off at the next service station. Maybe whoever has the problem can go to the bathroom and this will all be over once and for all."

 

It's probably Rene or Dad and they don't want to admit it. I don't think it would be Mel or Mom. I just don't think either of them would do it. I don't think it's Pat either. It's just too strong for her. It smells like dead fish or something to me. I wish Dad would just listen to me and look.

 

"Everybody out. Now who needs to go to the bathroom? Whoever does, you go now while I get some gas."

 

"I'm not going to the damned bathroom first, Uncle Mark. You'd all think it was me letting off all that gas in the car. You're not going to blame that smell on me, I'll tell you that. You go, Jack.  I still think it was you."

 

"I tell you it wasn't me. Why doesn't someone believe me? I don't need to go to the bathroom anyway. I'm not going first either."

 

"Well, somebody better the hell get in there. I'm not waiting all day. As soon as I get the car filled up on gas, we're on our way again. We still have a good twelve hours of driving ahead."

 

"The car still smells, Honey, even with the doors all open. Do you suppose it's something in the car that's causing the smell? We better look in the trunk or some­thing. Mark, open up the trunk and let’s take a look."

 

"What could be in the trunk? It's only our baggage. Did anyone put anything in the trunk?"

 

"Wait a minute, Uncle Mark. Maybe it was me. I put those starfish I picked up out at Seaside in a paper sack there with my luggage. Do you suppose it could be them? They were dead, though. How could they stink if they were dead?"

 

"I don't know, Rene, but we better check."

 

"Oh my god! The smell is coming from the trunk. I can't hardly stand to get near it. You said you put starfish in there? How many?"

 

"They're in the bag right there, Uncle Mark. Here, they're mine; I'll get rid of them.

 

Jesus Christ, it is those damned starfish. I think I'm going to puke. Good hell, how could anything stink so bad? This is ten times worse than any skunk I ever smelled.

 

What should I do with them?"

 

"Throw the whole damned thing over the em­bankment over there. Just get rid of them. Did you say those damned creatures were dead? What made you think they were dead?  Where did you get them anyway?"

 

"I just pried them off the rocks at the beach. They looked dead to me. They're harder than the hubs of hell. They had to be dead."

 

"Starfish always look dead. That's what hap­pened. You got yourself some live star­fish and they've gone and died now. No wonder they stunk. It must have been two hundred degrees back there in the trunk. Shit, Rene, why didn't you say some­thing. My car's going to stink now for a month. We'll be smelling that smell all the way home."

 

"I'm sorry, everyone. I thought they were dead. They're so damned hard. I didn't know anything that hard could ever be alive. I just wanted a souvenir or two. Maybe Mel can smoke a couple of cigarettes in the car when we get going. That'll clear the stink out."

 

Boy, that's typical. I asked fifty miles back there if it was something somebody put in the car. Nobody ever listens to me. They know it all, I guess. Now we've all got to smell Mel's damned cigarettes for the next twelve hours. I don't know what's worse.

 

 

Chapter 8

 

      For most of the rest of the summer of 1945 and into the winter of that year, I continued to be active in the Boy Scouts. By winter I had reached my maximum grade in the Scout Troop . . . Second Class Scout. That was just a short step up from the bot­tom, but for me, I thought it was a great accomplishment. I studied hard for my Merit Badges and advancement topics and failed on most of what I was tested, but finally squeezed through. I had to advance to at least Second Class because there was a week-long camp-out at Tracy Wigwam up Millcreek Canyon that I had to qualify for by reaching Second Class and did not want to miss it.

      My uniform continued to be the biggest barrier to being a good scout. My folks did not have enough money to afford a new uniform, so the one I got was something they picked up at some used clothes place. It did not fit me very well so I received the regular harassment for not being "properly" dressed. Getting by was my specialty, so I managed despite the persecution.

 

December 27, 1945

 

I am so glad I was put up here in the top bunk. This place is so neat; I know I am going to love being here. I sure hope those big guys leave me alone. At least they are in the other cabin, so maybe they will leave me alone. I can't figure out why they al­ways want to pick on me.

 

That's the last of my stuff except this quart of peaches Mom gave me. I better hide it good. Even the guys here in this cabin can't be trusted. Let's see, how about if I hide the bottle between these rafters here. No one will ever be able to find the bottle there. I'll put something over it so it doesn’t show. It will just look like someone's clothes laying there on the rafter. I don't think anyone seen me. Okay. Now to get with the other guys. I wonder where they are.

 

I'm tired of climbing this hill and goof­ing off around this place. Maybe Bill Gard­ner will go for a hike with me. I've got my hip boots on and heavy socks underneath, I'll bet I can go through the deepest snow with these. Those donkeys who have been giving me all the trouble about these hip boots aren't as dry as I am.

 

      It was winter on this particular trip and it had snowed heavily over the first night we were at Tracy Wigwam. I didn’t have any galoshes to wear, so I had taken my irrigation boots that went up to my hips so I could be in the snow and not get wet. To insulate my feet I had Mom put in some extra thick wool socks that in part filled up the gaps and would keep my feet warm for a while at least.

 

"Bill. How about you and I going for a long hike this afternoon? If we don't get out of here they'll have us up to the lodge making boondoggle bracelets again. I hate that stuff. I don't know what anyone sees in it. What do you say, Bill? I'd like to see what's up this canyon. We could be back by dinner time. Nobody will miss us, I’m sure."

 

"Sure, Jack, that sounds good to me. I'm tired of all that Scout stuff anyway. Maybe if we can get off by ourselves for a while, those big guys will leave us both alone."

 

"We've made it all the way to the top of the mountain. Don't you think we ought to be getting back? I think we're lost, Bill."

 

"When it first started to snow, I was a little scared, but now that it's a little clear, I think I know where we are. We just have to go up a little higher, then come down that canyon you can see over there."

 

"I know we are lost, Bill. We have to go down this canyon. Follow our tracks back down, you know. I think we are al­ready passed the canyon that will lead us back down to Tracy Wig­wam.  All I know is, we have to go down. I'm not going one step higher. Doing that we will just end up more lost than ever. Now are you coming with me or not. I'm going down this can­yon in hopes we can find the main road. I just know by now we are way above Wig­wam. I think we just go down to the main road then it’ll be easy dropping down to the camp from there. I’m darn sure we will be well above the camp when we get to the bottom of this canyon."

 

"All right, whatever you say, but I think you are wrong. I'll go along this time. Don't say I didn't tell you if we get more lost."

 

"Do you see those cabins, Bill?  I've never seen those anywhere around here. We must be in another canyon or way above Wigwam in some side-canyon or some­thing."

 

"It’s pretty late and I'm getting hungry. Let's go over and see if we can get in one of those cabins. Nobody's been up here for months with this snow. There's no chance we would get caught if we went in one of them. Come on, I'm going over."

 

"All right, Bill. But I'm not breaking in any­where, I'll tell you that. Those places look pretty boarded up to me."

 

This really scares me to even think of trying to get into one of these buildings. What about our tracks. We could be tracked right up here. I know this is wrong. I wish Bill would quit thinking up these things to do.

 

"Look, Jack. I've found a way we can get this window open. The people who own this cabin didn't hook the winter window cover very good and the inside window is open so we can get in. Come on. I'm going in."

 

"You go ahead, Bill. I'll stay out here just in case someone comes up the canyon on snow shoes or something."

 

"Come on. You're just chicken. Look this was easy and I'll bet we can find some food in here."

 

"Well, okay. But we have to get out of here soon. I don't know how long we have before it gets dark, but I'll bet it's not too long. Just for a min­ute, then we have to go."

 

"Hey, look, Jack. There's some candy in this can. There's not much else, though. Maybe some of those other cabins down the road have something better. Let's go see."

 

"Bill, I've had it with you. This is the last time. I'm heading down the canyon with or without you. Now, let’s get out of here and close this place up like it was."

"My feet are freezing, Bill. I wonder how long it is before we reach some main road. It feels like we ought to be getting close. I'll bet the Scout Master is having a fit with us being gone for so long. We are going to be in big trouble. When we get down, we better not say anything about breaking into that cabin."

 

"We didn't actually `break in.' The place was practically open. We just crawled through the open window, that's all. We never took anything except that old stale candy or broke anything. What's the big deal?"

 

"The `big deal' is that we could go to jail for doing something like that, whether you think it was breaking in or not. Now you better not ever tell anybody we did that."

 

"Look, Jack, the main road is just ahead. Maybe we can get our bearings now that we have found the road. It must be the Millcreek Canyon Road. I can't imagine that we went into and other canyon. We haven't gone that far."

 

"Man, it’s starting to get dark. I just know we are going to be in trouble. Now that we are coming to the road, we better hightail it and get back to camp."

 

"I guess we better just go down the road. We'll finally find the place."

 

"Isn't that the upper end of Tracy Wig­wam property? That fence looks just like it does down by the lodge. I'll bet it’s just around that corner, Bill. Let's hustle. Maybe we can sneak in without anyone knowing. If we get lucky, they won't even have missed us."

 

"Fat chance of that. Don't you remem­ber how they've been keeping track of us the first couple of days? They know we've been gone, and they have probably been looking for us all afternoon."

 

"I don't care what you say, Bill, I think we ought to try to sneak down to our cabin and act as if we have been around all day."

 

"Look in the lodge, Bill. The troops are having some kind of a meeting. It looks like everyone is in there. Maybe we did get lucky and they've not missed us. They sure aren't organizing a search party for us, that's for sure. Let's just go down to the cabin, get in our bunks and pretend we have been there for hours."

 

"Sounds like a plan. I'm for getting back to the cabin. My feet are froze. I think they are going to have to be amputat­ed."

 

"Mine too. But mine hurt more from these darn hip boots more than from the cold. I should have never worn these dang things."

 

"WHERE HAVE YOU TWO BEEN ALL DAY? The Scout Master had us out all evening looking for you. We just barely gave up and came into the cabin to get warm. Everybody else is up at the lodge hearing a lecture from the Camp Manager about wandering off and how easy it is to get lost up here. Just wait until Brother Malstrom gets hold of you. All the camp officials are deciding right now if the Sheriff should be called in. You two will never get out of this cabin for the rest of the camp-out, you can bet on that."

 

I figured. Every dang time I do some­thing with Bill I get in trouble. Wait 'till Dad hears about this one. He'll have me out of Scouts, and what's more, I'll never even get out of the house except to do chores, I'm sure.

 

"You two boys have disgraced our Troop. Every other troop in this camp has been doing all right, but you two have caused us more trouble than you will ever know. Now tell me, where have you been all those hours?"

 

"Well, Brother Malstrom, we just went up this canyon above the toboggan trail. We didn't really go that far. It just took a long time because of the deep snow. We were never lost, or anything. When it started to snow, we just went under a big pine tree and waited. You know how the Boy Scout Manual says if you're lost, stay put. Well we did and that's what took us so long."

 

"I can't believe that. Just after it quit snowing and we discovered you were gone, I sent a few of the boys up the canyon above the toboggan trail to see if they could see any tracks, but they couldn't find any. We just figured you went up some other side canyon and got yourselves lost. You say you were never lost? You knew all the time where you were? I have a hard time believ­ing that. But I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe you this time. But you are still going to have to be punished for this, regardless. I'm restricting you to the cabin until tomor­row afternoon when we pack up and go home. You are not to leave this cabin. I'll just have to trust you most of the time, but when Brother Peterson is here cooking for the meals, you can help him. Now do I have your word that I can trust you from now on?"

 

"You have my word, Brother Mal­strom, Scout's Honor."

 

"You have my word, too."

 

Bill, I don't know why you gave him your word. Your word is not for shit as far as I'm concerned. I'm never going to trust you again.

 

Why are all these guys watching me eat my peaches? They're all laughing. There's nothing in them and it doesn't look like anyone found them. What's going on?

 

"What's going on, you guys? These are just homemade peaches. What are you laughing about?

 

"You idiot. Somebody pissed in your peaches and you've been scarfing them down like they were candy. That's what they are all laughing about. What a dick. They poured out some of the juice and peed into the jar and put it back where you had it hid. They found your stash about ten minutes after you hid it. You are so stupid. I can't believe anyone being so stu­pid."

 

I know Richard is just lying to me. Nobody, except him, maybe, would do any­thing like that to anybody. They didn't taste like pee at all. I don't believe him. Those guys probably just told that to Richard because they were jealous of me and Bill for getting out of all the lectures and the work on those stupid boondoggle bracelets.

 

      I never lasted in Scouting after that incident in Tracy Wigwam. It just wasn’t my thing to try to continue with all the harassment I was getting. Mom and Dad didn’t have the money to keep me in good uniforms either, so that made it even more difficult to continue. So finally I just dropped out of the program completely.

 

Chapter 9

 

      Near the end of my Seventh Grade in 1946, some new things began to take shape for me. Lois Cooper, a tall blond girl moved into the area. She was from South Jordan, I learned. I thought she was the most beauti­ful girl I had ever seen. Right off I began a campaign to get to know her. She seemed mildly interested in me and that was more than any other girls did in the school, and of course, she didn't know about me being such a screw-up in school like I had been most of the years up to then. What she saw was the new Jack, emerg­ing into a person that was interested in school, who was also good at dancing and singing and was inter­ested in something more than sports and playing marbles. 

      That was almost correct. I wasn't inter­est­ed in sports at all because I wasn't good at any sports, except maybe track, and I was never picked to be on anyone's team when I played baseball or football. But I was interested in playing marbles, and that for sixth and seventh graders was the big thing in those days. Every­one had their own taws and a bag of marbles was a piece of equip­ment everyone who was anyone carried along everywhere they went. One could never tell when a large circle was going to be scratched on the ground and a marble game started.

      When I got to know Lois better we started to do things together at school. It seemed as if no one else was particularly interested in her, so that even made it easier to get closer to her. Possibly the reason no one else went after her was that she was a real accomplished piano player and her folks were mildly rich. She also lived a long way away from the school and like all students from South Jordan, rode the bus to school every day. On a couple of occasions I rode her bus all the way to her place so I could be with her for a while after school. That made it so I had to walk about three miles back home, but I didn't care. It was worth the problems it caused at home with my not being there right after school to do my chores.

      As the school year's end got closer and closer I plotted a way that I could get Lois to agree to do something special with me. Finally it came to me. My friend, Bill Gardner, had a small two-seat buck­board wagon in his garage that his dad used in parades and other special events. I thought maybe if I approached Bill in the right way we could do something with the buckboard on May Day or something like that. I knew it was a long shot, but Bill was good friends with Karen Jensen who seemed to be friends with Lois and lived down on the Lower Road in South Jordan near where Lois did. I thought maybe Bill could ask Karen and the four of us could do this outing on May Day.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

April 2, 1946

 

"Bill, don't you think it would be neat if you and I asked Lois and Karen if they would like to go on a buggy ride to the Jordan River on May Day?"

 

I hope I can talk Bill into asking his dad if we can borrow his antique buggy and a horse and do this with someone. 

 

"It sounds like a good idea, but I don't know whether I can get the buggy or not, really. I'd have to borrow Uncle Wayne's horse; Dad’s had gone lame for some reason and he doesn’t use her any more. Besides, I don't know if Uncle Wayne would trust me with his horse all day. None of our hors­es other have ever been har­nessed to that buggy so we couldn't take any of ours."

 

Dang. Bill doesn't sound like he really wants to do this.  

 

"Look, Bill, you could tell your uncle we would prom­ise to have the horse back by a certain time. Maybe your dad would talk to him. Could­n't you just try?"

 

"Well, I'll do what I can, but let’s not talk to the girls before I find out for sure. Okay?"   

 

I'm glad he gave in on that and at least said he would try. I've really wanted to ask Lois to do something with me. We could take some guns down to the river . . . maybe shoot a duck or some­thing. We could even roast the duck and eat it right there. Bill and I could take along a few other things to eat in case we couldn't find a bird to kill. The girls could just come along for the ride.

 

"I'll see if my dad will ask Uncle Wayne tonight, then next week if it’s ok, we can ask the girls if they can go."

      I spent half of my life planning for things I wanted to happen in the future. The May Day picnic plan was just one of them. This plan started in mid-April and continued on a daily basis until May Day . . . the day when Bill Gardner’s uncle agreed to let us use his horse . . . the day Bill’s dad agreed to let us use his wagon . . . and the day Bill and I would be picking up the two girls that had agreed to go with us for a May Day outing. But more about this May Day outing later . . .

      Things were never dull in my life. If it wasn't me creating some­thing screwy, Dad or one of the other mem­bers of the family were. Spring always brought several pro­jects that Dad had been thinking or talking about all winter, and the spring that began in 1945 was no different.

      The South Jordan Canal that paralleled and defined our property on the east side had a line of old poplar trees on its east side, across from our property. During the previous winter, one of these trees had begun to lean danger­ously across the canal threatening our pig pen that was next to the canal. The property across the canal from us was part of the old Wil­liams homestead like our property was, and it was still owned but rented out to third-parties by Uncle Wallace, Dad's oldest brother, so Dad ar­ranged with him to remove the tree. Now Dad was no tree removal expert, so he got Uncle Millard, his next other brother, to lend his assistance and expertise on how to remove the leaning tree. They decided it would be best to hook a chain up high on the tree, get our old Chevy flatbed on the east side of it and pull it over with the truck. That sound­ed like a good idea, so the two of them set upon the task of doing just that.

      I, along with my brother Ken and my cousin Keith and a few of the neighbors, would not miss such a spectacle, so we were there to watch the entire process. It was decided that Dad would be directing the operation and Uncle Millard would drive the truck. So after much discussion and elaboration of the task at hand, a long chain was attached to the tree as far up in the tree as Uncle Millard could climb, and the other end was attached to the front bumper of the truck. They were now ready for the tree-falling operation.  

 

 

April 21, 1946

 

"Take her back slow Millard so we don't put too much strain on the chain too soon. I don't want to break Fred's chain before we even get started. Okay, take her back, slow. STOP."

 

It looks like to me that if they pull that tree over it’s going to hit the truck. Yes, I know it’s going to hit the truck. That tree is way too tall.

 

"DAD!  DAD! The chain's too short. You've got to get back farther with the truck. The tree is going to hit the truck when it comes over."

 

"It’s okay, son. You boys just stay back. Millard and I already looked at it and it’s okay. You neighbor kids all get way back too. Some of the branches might fly when it hits the ground. Now get back. Way back over there by the shed. Take her back, Millard. Slow now."

 

I know that tree’s going to hit the truck. I just know it.

 

"Dickey, don't you think it’s going to hit the truck?"

 

"DUCK, MILLARD, THE TREE'S COMING RIGHT DOWN ON THE TRUCK. Son of a bitch. Look at my truck. MILLARD, ARE YOU ALL ­RIGHT?"

 

"I'm okay, Mark. That god damned tree was ten feet longer than we thought it was. Look at your truck. The windshield is broken, but it looks like the rest of it is okay."

 

Ha! That serves them right. They never listen to us kids. If they did once in a while, maybe they'd learn something.

 

"Come on Dickey. Let’s get out of here before they ask us to help clean it up."

 

      Uncle Wallace did not live on the old Williams property but rented it out to third parties over most of the years that I can remem­ber. Dad's younger sister, Juanita Buckley, and her husband, Lon lived there for a while just after they were married sometime around 1920, but after that it was always rented to others. Carl Hat­field and his family lived there the longest period of time and became best of friends to Mom and Dad. Their children were younger than I so I did not have much to do with them. 

      Despite the fact that the old place was rented I always felt it was in the family and spent much of my time on the property while I was grow­ing up. The lot that Uncle Wallace inherited as his part of Grandfather Williams homestead was a large portion that extended along the canal on the west side and was bordered by 2200 West Street (or Sugar Factory Road as we called it) on the east. All along the canal trees grew and most of the rest of the back property extending almost a quarter mile to the north was planted with fruit trees and some garden space. Several sheds from Grandfather Williams’s times still existed on the west side of the old house. Me and my friends used the property often as a play area. We climbed the ancient trees, we ransacked the old sheds that be­longed to Grandfather Williams and still had many of his old blacksmithing tools inside them. We also used the place as a launching area for many of the activi­ties that occurred during fall when the sugar beet harvests were on. The "Corner," as we called it . . . actually the intersection of the Sugar Factory Road and the Bingham Highway (7800 South Street) . . . was the entry point along the Bingham Highway during the fall sugar beet harvest for truck drivers with their loads of sugar beets delivering them to the Sugar Factory south of the old Williams home. A deep ditch next to the road was a place for us to hide while waiting for the trucks to pass so we could run alongside and snitch beets off the trucks we would later feed to our pigs or cut into small pieces and chew on ourselves. In those days, that was just one of the accepted activities for all the boys and a few of the braver girls. To snatch the beets off the truck beds, we fashioned spear-like hooks on the ends of broom handles so that when the truck passed we could run alongside, reach up to the load with the spear and hook a beet. Sometimes the beets fell off the trucks from the turning motion as the truck rounded the corner. In those cases it was a bonus for us.  

 

Chapter 11

 

      Spring, however, was not the time for beet thievery. It was time for getting ready for summer and all that this season brought with it. Every spring we anticipated swim­ming in the canal and riding bikes over the dirt piles left by the fall’s beet harvest. Most important for me, spring was a time for fishing. I was always the ardent fisher­man in the family. Dad didn't fish much. Ken fished a little, but Keith, our cousin, was my best fishing companion. Most of my fishing took place on the Big Canal that ran through the valley a mile or so west of our old home. We could almost always be assured of getting a mess of mud cats during a full-day of fishing if we had patience. It did take a lot of patience and I had little of it. My mode was to fish a while in one spot then move on to a "better" spot that for sure had fish in it. Keith was more patient and called me often on my lack of it.

      The most exciting times of fishing came to me in the company of Dad's brother Wallace. About the time I became old enough to go fishing a lot, he was retired from the Utah Copper and was known as one of the best fishermen around. I was at that age when fishing meant a lot to me, too, and I dreamed of fishing with Uncle Wallace. I had been with Dad on a couple of fishing trips with Uncle Wallace, but I really want­ed to go with him myself. Finally my chance came when we were on one of our periodic visits to Uncle Wallace's house. In a moment when I could get him alone, I asked if I could go with him fishing at the Utah Copper Duck and Fish Club where I knew he often went. I knew he caught big channel catfish there and while I had fished there many times myself, I had never caught any big ones. With him coaching me, I rea­soned, I was sure to catch a trophy. Uncle Wallace accepted my request and the plans were made. Dad and Mom would take me to Uncle Wallace’s house on a certain evening. I would stay at his house overnight, and then get up with him early the next morning for the short ride to the Club.     

      Fishing with Uncle Wallace was like a dream come true. He was well off, so he always had the very best equipment. His methods, too, were new and exciting to me. Just before we left his home he asked me if I wanted to catch some channel cats while we were out there. Well, channel catfish were like the prize of the world to a kid like me. "Sure," I said. Then Uncle Wallace said, "Well then, we had better take the special channel cat bait along, hadn't we?" Whereupon, he goes to the freezer and takes out this small canister full of frozen, coagulated chicken blood held togeth­er in small cheese-cloth bags. I was aghast. He had somehow taken pure chicken blood, let it dry out some so it could be frozen, then cut it up like Jell-O and formed it into balls about one inch in diameter that were then cov­ered with the small pieces of cheese-cloth. The idea was that once the bait was in the water, the blood dissolved and attracted the largest, most hungry blood-sucking channel cats. It looked like a great idea to me.

      I like to think of fishing with Uncle Wallace in terms of the excitement I felt at the time. I remember sleeping over at his place in Magna then getting up at the crack of dawn to go the Duck Club. I can still hear the clock ticking in his guest bed­room while I tried to sleep before the big fishing trip. I went fishing with Uncle Wallace sever­al times before he died. He was in very poor health when I started and go fishing with him and it wasn't too long after that that he got quite sick and died. It always frightened me to go with him because if he walked too fast, he would have to stop and gasp for breath, making it seem like he was going to expire right there. But Uncle Wallace was still a lot of fun to go with. He was humorous, had many new tech­niques that he willingly taught me and I learned a philos­ophy about fishing that I have never forgot­ten. However, I never caught that trophy channel cat I knew was in the by-pass canal at the Duck Club. 

 

Chapter 12

 

      When I was a youngster, some of my greatest moments came when I was able to ma­nipu­late my parents into seeing that what I wanted to do (that they were usually op­posed to) got done. This particular activi­ty came in various disguises. Sometimes it was simply me wanting to go fishing when Dad or Mother wanted me to work in the yard or clean out the barn. Other times it came as I sat around the card table with the folks and their company and worked my way into the various card games they had going at least three nights a week for many years running. Almost every­thing I wanted I got through manipu­la­tion of my parents. Often I would work one parent against the other to make it seem like one or the other had already agreed to the matter. This almost always assured me success against the most difficult odds.

 

 

April 25, 1946

 

"Mom, are Rene and Mel coming over to­night to play cards? Can I stay up and play with all of you?"

 

"You'll have to ask your dad, Honey." 

 

I know what Dad will say. Maybe if I just sit at the table and look interested, Rene will ask if I want to play. She's really fun to be around. Her lan­guage is some­thing else. I never get tired of hear­ing her say­ings for everything. I can't imagine where she got such funny ways of ex­pressing her­self. I just wish I could remember all of the things she comes up with. Somebody ought to write them down some­day.

 

It was so funny last year when Rene and Mel went with us to Portland. I hated being crammed into the car sitting between Dad and Rene in the front seat. Rene is so fat and her bosoms are so big. They do make good pillows, but when it's a hundred de­grees and she's all sweaty, it's no fun trying to get comfortable all smashed and every­thing. The only thing that made that trip bearable at all was Rene's stories and jokes all the way up and back. I hated it when either Dad or Rene cut wind and then blamed me. It was so embar­rassing and they made such a big deal out of it.

 

"Who's going to deal? You're not planning to play, are you, Jack? Haven't you got homework to do?" 

 

"Let him in, Uncle Mark, maybe he will give you some luck."

 

"He asked me earlier if he could play, Mark. I told him he would have to ask you. I don't really care as long as he doesn't stay up too long. What about your homework, Jack?"

 

"I did it at school today, mom. Where do you want me to sit?" 

 

I should really be doing my homework. My teachers are going to kill me when I show up without having homework done. But I'd much rather play cards. Pinochle is really hard, espe­cially when I have to bid my hand. I'm get­ting better at it now, though. I'd like to have a dollar for every hour Mom and Dad play cards in a year. Man, I'd be rich now.

 

I really didn't want to go to bed. I was doing pretty good and could have easily gotten my score up in the second game if they would have just given me the chance. I think they wanted me out of there just so they could tell their dirty jokes they won't tell when I'm there.  I can hear most of what they say anyway. As long as they are talking there's no way I can go to sleep. I'd lots rather be out there playing. I'll just lie here and count the squares in the ceil­ing wall paper while I listen to them talking. 

 

Chapter 13

 

      That short period of time between the first week of April and May Day 1946 was like most of the other weeks and months of my life except for this added planning for the May Day picnic with the two South Jordan girls.  Finally, on a weekday before the first of May, the arrangements for Bill Gardner’s buggy were concluded and we were able to ask the girls if they could go. Bill's dad had agreed to let us take the buggy and his uncle allowed us to take the horse, but he made it real clear that the horse was not to go very far because it was not in good shape for pulling a two-seat buck board.

 

April 25, 1946

 

"Bill Gardner and I have been plan­ning this picnic on May Day and we thought you and Karen would like to go along with us. We have this one-horse shay that be­longs to Bill's dad and we could have all the food and everything. You would­n't have to do anything but just go along." 

 

Gad, I'm just shaking, and look at Lois, she looks so calm. I'm not sure if she really likes me enough to go along with this. 

 

"Well, I don't know if my mom would let me do this. Where were you planning to go?"

 

I think she's interested. 

 

"We're planning to start out early in the morning and be back way before dark. We will only go down to the river bot­toms just below the Smiths there in South Jor­dan. We would not be too far from your place. We would pick you up right at your homes and take you right back there. Bill's had a lot of experi­ence with this old shay of his and he really knows a lot about horses. Do you think you could talk your mother into this?" 

 

She hasn't changed her expression since I started to talk to her. I wish I had met her moth­er be­fore this. Maybe I could suggest that I come down so she would know who her daughter was going with. I'm sure they don't know my family since they have only lived here for a short time. I'm not even sure Kar­en's par­ents know who we are since they live in South Jordan and Bill and I live in West Jordan. 

 

"Well, I'll ask. But I want to talk to Ka­ren first. Has Bill asked her if she could go?"

 

"I don't know, but he was going to ask her today."

 

I'm glad that's over. I never had such a scary thing to do. I sure hope she wants to go and is willing to ask her mother. Bill knows Ka­ren quite well, so I don't think she is going to be a problem.

 

May 1, 1946

 

"That was really fun. I have never ridden on a one-horse shay. It didn't take us too long either. Did you like it, Karen?"     

 

Yea! She liked the ride. So far the day has been perfect. Now if we can just get some­thing to eat for lunch we'll be sitting pretty. I hope Bill brought all the stuff he was supposed to bring. I forgot to ask him.

 

"Here's the program, girls. Bill and I have our boots with us, so we are going to go into the slough and see if we can find a duck sitting on the water we can shoot for lunch. You guys can come along if you want, but you will likely get muddy if you go out there. We've got these blankets so you can get our picnic area ready if you want. We should­n't be long." 

 

That sounded pretty confident. I hope we can find some kind of a sitting duck other than a mud duck. I've never had one of those, but Dad says they eat so much mud that they taste like mud. Well, if Bill and I are lucky we may find a mallard or canvas­back.  

 

"If you're okay with that plan, then we'll be on our way."

 

"If you kill a duck with your gun, you are not going to bring it back here to clean it, are you?"      

 

"Don’t worry. We'll have it all ready to cook when we come back. But maybe if you wouldn't mind while we are gone, you could get some dry fire wood ready for when we get back. I’m sure there’s some up there by that bunch of brush by the hill. Hope you don’t mind doing that."

 

It's a perfectly clear day, and Dad al­ways has his best duck hunting luck when it is cloudy and the ducks are flying. I haven't seen anything but mag­pies flying around here this morning. I sure hope we can flush out a duck. No, we had better not flush it out, I'd never hit it with this 22. Why didn't I bring Dad's shotgun? No, that would have been stupid. One shot from a shogun and the Game Warden would be here in a min­ute. We've just got to get one sitting on the water.

 

"There goes one Jack. He's way out of range already. We've got to be quieter. If we keep sloshing into these cattails like we're doing, we will never see another duck."

 

"No talking and let’s keep our heads down so we are completely out of sight. I think that one that flew must have seen us coming. We've got to really sneak up on them."

 

"That duck looks pretty small to feed four people. You said it was a teal? Is it legal to shoot teal this time of the year?"

 

"Just the big ducks have a season on them. There are so many of these teals around, no one cares if you shoot one out of season, or not." 

 

I’m glad I expected that Bill would ask that question. He’s not a hunter at all . . . especially a duck hunter. He wouldn’t know all duck are included in the Duck Hunting Season, including teals. I'm glad he had a good answer. That duck is pretty small. I wish we would have been able to get another one, but I guess the shot scared them all away. I wonder what Bill would have said if we had gotten a mallard or a canvas back, or even a goose for that matter. That swan that Dad shot a year or so ago would have been enough. I'll bet it weighed over twenty pounds even dressed out. I'd like to have another one of them flying over us today. I think I could get it easy with my 22.  That was so funny when Dad and I were out there at the Copper Club and that swan flew over.  I can still hear the guys down the line holler­ing back and forth, "goose," "swan," "goose," "swan."  Then when it came our turn it was "goose," so Dad shot and down it came. I thought we had lost it when that other guy from across that small pond who shot the same time as us came running over shouting it was his goose, not ours. I'll never forget when Dad got over to it and picked it up and that guy said, "I didn't shoot that swan," when he guessed correctly that it was not a goose but a swan. Boy, how he changed his story and got out of there. 

 

I know I shouldn't have trusted Bill to bring anything. He forgot the butter, the salt and the tin foil. These baked potatoes are a disaster. They are more like burned offerings. Who ever heard of putting them right into the fire anyway? Bill must have a screw loose. Maybe there's a bite in the middle that we can scrape out. And this duck. Why didn't we bring something that we could have made a decent spit out of? This willow spit is not working. I knew we should have left the skin on when we took the feathers off, but Bill insisted that it would be too hard to get the feathers off with all the down the duck has on it. Man, I am so embar­rassed. I'll never be able to look Lois in the face again after this.

 

The duck is all dried out, the potatoes are burned to a crisp, we can't get the meat off the bone of this tiny little creature, and the girls are now saying they are not hungry. I don't blame them. I know they are just trying to be nice. I wouldn't be nice to us if I were them. It must be almost 4 p.m. and we've still got to get the girls home by six. We've got to get this show on the road and forget about eating.

 

"Bill, we have to get out of here or we are going to be late getting the girls home."

 

It's obvious that our "lunch" is not turning out for beans. I'm sure glad I bought some boxes of raisons along today, or we would really be in trou­ble. 

 

"I'll get the horse rounded up, Jack, if you will put out the fire and get the other things ready." 

He must be feeling the same way I am feeling to be so quick to take my ad­vice. He never takes my ad­vice. Bill is really a good friend, but sometimes I wonder about him. He's usually off some­where in a daze when there are things to be done. He's always in trouble with his teachers at school too. I wouldn't want to be in trouble all the time like Bill is. It's bad enough as it is without being in trouble with teachers. Bill is really smart when it co­mes to anything to do with the farm or working with horses and things. He's really good on mod­el airplanes too. I don't under­stand why he has such a hard time with school. He could be the smartest one in the class if he wanted to be. 

 

With Bill, it’s like what hap­pened earlier this spring when he and I found that model airplane in his field. Bill knew just what to do to get it ready to fly again. He had it all fixed and had the engine running before his dad even knew we had found it and he made Bill put an ad in the paper to find out who was the owner. Bill's dad said it must have been worth over one hundred dollars. Lucky Bill, he even got a fifteen dollar reward for finding it and getting the wing fixed so the owner could fly it again. Bill said when the guy came to pick it up he told Bill's dad that he had launched it from the Salt Flats out by Wendover and he thought an upper level wind must have caught it to cause it to glide over one hundred miles over the Oquirrh Moun­tains and land in the Salt Lake Valley like it did. That must have been some wind. Bill is like the wind. He always man­ages to get free of any­thing that comes along and always comes out the better for it. I wish I was so lucky. I know one thing; if we don't get out of here we are not going to be so lucky with Lois' folks. They'll skin us alive if the girls are not home by six.

 

"You've all got to get off the wagon and walk. The horse is too tired and if we go any farther with this load, he's going to go lame on us and my uncle will kill me . . . "

 

We’re not even up to the Lower Road yet. What is this?

 

"And besides, I've got to get her home. I promised Uncle Wayne I would get his horse back by seven, and I'm not going to make it if I have to take you girls home first. Jack, you are going to have to walk the girls home from here. It's not more than a mile or two to Lois' place and maybe her mom or dad could take Karen home. But I've got to get going." 

 

Damn, Bill, now I'm left to face the mu­sic with Lois' mom. Lois is mad already, I can't imag­ine what trouble I am going to be in when we get her home in another hour.

 

"I can't possibly walk that far in these shoes, Bill. My feet will be hurting me just walking to Lois' house. Bill, can't you just take us to Lois' house and drop us off. It's pretty flat from here over. I'm sure it's not going to hurt your uncle's horse to go that extra mile."

 

"Sorry, I just can't do it, Karen. The horse is already over tired and sweating. If I don't get him home right now, my uncle and my dad both are going to kill me."

 

"There's no light on at your house, Lois, and you don't even have a phone so I can call my mom, do you? We've already been walking over an hour, and now I'm going to have to walk home, and my feet are already killing me. It's getting close to dark, too, and my folks are just going to be furious. I can't believe that you guys didn't have that horse business figured out before we came with you. I'm never going to trust either of you again." 

 

I'm never going to trust Bill again after this ei­ther. I guess I'll never learn with that dink. I'm glad Lois's folks are not home in one way. I don't think they would have let me out of here alive if they were. I hope they are not out driving around looking for her. I'll bet they are.

 

"Come in and get a drink before you leave, you guys. I can give you some­thing to eat, too, if you want."

 

That was kind of Lois to offer. I'm surprised she did, really. I wouldn't blame her if she didn't. 

 

"I can't stop. Thanks, any­way, Lois. My mom is going to ground me for a month now as it is. I'm never going to be able to do anything like this again, I know for sure."

 

Karen sounds pretty desperate. I'm never going to be able to do anything like this either. If I live through this one, it will be a miracle. I could just kill Bill. I think I will the next time I see him for making me walk both girls home like this. That was real chicken-shit of him.

 

“Come on, Karen. We better get you home. I sure hope your feet hold out. I’m real sorry to both of you for putting you through this.”

 

"You damned little bugger, I should beat you to within an inch of your life for this. You know those girl's folks have called here about six times look­ing for you and wonder­ing where their girls have been all this time. I've been driving all over the valley this whole evening look­ing for you kids. Why didn't you tell anyone where you were going before you left? Wayne Gardner said your buddy Bill told him when he took the horse and buggy that you were just going for a short ride to South Jordan and that it was an easy haul for the horse. He didn't say anything about you planning to go clear down to Riverton, then to the river bottoms from there. He said the horse was already a little lame before you took him and that he didn't know if he would ever recover now after you little shits drove that wagon all over the county."

 

Dad never leaves me any room to argue. I see I have to shift the blame to Bill in a hurry. I feel the belt coming if I don't. 

 

"Dad, it was all Bill's fault. He had it all planned where we were going and I didn't know anything about the horse going lame until after Bill made us all get off the wag­on so he could walk the horse home from the Lower Road. That's why we were so late. I had to walk both girls home then walk home myself. I never would have gone with him if I had known this was going to hap­pen. Besides, we didn't go to River­ton. We were just down there below Rich­ardson's by where you were cleaning the canal last year." 

 

I hope that is a good enough alibi. I'm going to keep hearing about this the rest of my life the way Dad is wound up about it now. At least the story about it being all Bill's fault seems to have convinced him. Dad doesn't like me hang­ing around Bill anyway, so this is just a good reason for him to keep me away from Bill. I'm okay with that anyway for a while. Bill's just trouble for me every time I'm with him. 

 

I should have learned about Bill last winter when we were up at Tracy Wigwam with the scouts and Bill talked me into leaving camp and going up the tobog­gan trail and over the mountain.  That was so dumb. I should have known better than to hike for miles in waste deep snow thinking Bill knew the way back to the camp when he didn't. We could still be up there in some canyon frozen to death if we hadn't found those cabins and gotten back down to the main road a mile or so above the camp. I think I'm going to stay right away from Bill; he's bad luck for sure. Now that I think about it, it was the same thing last summer at 4H Camp up at the Spruces when Bill and I decided . . . really when he talked me into ditching the leaders and cutting out to hike up to Salamander Lake instead of staying in camp for the program the 4H leaders had for us. That was just another example of how Bill has gotten me in trouble. We even got kicked out of the program for that, and I sort of liked being in 4H before that. If I can just keep Dad from killing me now, I might just live to stay com­pletely away from Bill and his sort of "fun."

 

May 3, 1946

I'm through with girls and trying to have a romantic, fun time with them. Lois has passed it all over the school what happened Saturday. She really could have just dropped it, but she had to tell every­one how Bill and I made up this crazy "picnic" and then made her and Karen walk all the way home from Riverton in their dress shoes. They even told every­one how we didn't take any food and then tried to get them to eat some kind of a duck that wasn't even cooked. I'll never live this down. And I thought Lois was a pretty nice girl before this. She didn't even look at me when we came into class today. I guess that's it for me and girls. Good riddance, as far as I am con­cerned. Who needs them?

 

 

Chapter 14

 

      Being a target for harassment was a normal thing for me from the first year I entered school and it didn't stop until I was almost finished with junior high school. When I tuned thirteen, however, it seemed to in­crease. The harassment seemed always to be perpetuated by the same three boys, Don Lapore, Jay Brown and John Spratling. All were in my same classes in school, but all three had been held back from one reason or another. That made all of them at least a year older than I and the rest of the class. Most everyone considered these three boys the school bullies.

      When I was about twelve years old, I joined the West Jordan Boxing Club. Being in the club was some­thing I had to do to keep my status with my peers and not be called a pussy or sissy. One of the bullies, Don Lapore, was also in boxing, but the other two bullies, Jay Brown and John Spratling were not. Anyone who lived too far away from the school when the club practic­es were held could legiti­mately get out of it. Any medical problem a boy had was considered good reason not to be in the Club. Jay Brown claimed he had a hernia, so he never joined the club. There were very few kids who did not join. If I had not joined I would have gotten even more ridi­cule and harassment I was certain, so I took the plunge though all the time I was in the program I hated it. 

      Marve Jensen, the Club owner and Manager, was a great supporter of all the boys in the community and later gained fame from it by being the sponsor of two World Champion boxers, Gene Fullmer and his brother Don. Gene was one year older than I so I did not get much practice with him, but his younger brother was always there, so I did fight with him sometimes. Both of the boys were tough, having come from a family of boxers. Their dad, "Tough" Fullmer was a contemporary of my dad. Dad always talked about Tough Fullmer as the meanest kid in town when he was grow­ing up.

      Besides not liking the sport, boxing was never anything I was very good at.  I would have much rather spent my evenings at home with my dog or fish­ing. But I stuck with it and soon my self-esteem raised a degree or two from where it had been earli­er in my life. I won a couple of matches too, so that helped to keep the ridicule down some. Harassment from the bullies never really stopped, however, until I was willing to take steps to stop it myself.

 

May 7, 1946 (Early Afternoon)

 

"You mean we are all riding on the back of Alan Smith's truck all the way to Brig­ham City? I can't believe that. There's going to be over twenty of us on that truck."

 

"Yeh, I heard there were even some girls coming along. That'll be a picnic. Who's coming? Have you heard, Jack?"

 

"No.  I don't know. I think at least one of Alan's sisters are coming. Ronny was saying something about that. But I don't know for sure."

 

"That means the whole West Jordan Boxing Club is going to be on the one truck. We're going to be fit in there like sardines. I don't really want to go. I don't care if it's an important match or not."

 

"It's not important to me either. They're for sure going to match us up with someone twice our size like they did at Kearns last winter. Man, that guy I fought hit me so hard I saw stars."

 

"Me, too. I sure don't want to fight someone like I did before. It'd be like being in the ring with Gene Fullmer. I'd get cremated.

 

"Where is it we're going, anyway? I just heard it was Brigham City. Do you know where in Brigham City?"

 

"They said it was in some military hos­pital. I think they said it was called Bush­nell, or something like that. Does that ring a bell?"

 

"Nah.  I guess we'll just have to see."

 

      And so, our first major traveling boxing tournament was about to take place. The peer pressure was so great in those days, even though some of us desperately resisted being beat up in the ring by larger boys, like it always seemed to be the case, we went along with the crowd and did our part. Some of the boys did all right, but others like myself were constantly looking for a way to gracefully pull out of the club without facing all the mockery that would come from either not being in the club or dropping out because we were "chicken."

      This trip, as planned, put the entire boxing club in the back of a dirty old tractor trailer flatbed that had rickety wood sideboards all around. The truck was one of our neighbor's, Al Smith, who used the truck to carry scrap metal to the scrap dealers. It was a broken down truck to begin with, but what made it worse was having all us kids packed into the back of it for the seventy mile ride from West Jor­dan to Brigham City.

 

May 7, 1946 (Near Midnight)

 

"I thought Gene would never get out of that corner before Tuney killed him. Did you think so, Bill?"

 

"Yeh. Gene is so tough, though, I think he could have stayed there for a week before he gave up."

 

"How was that guy you fought? It looked like he hit you pretty hard a couple of times."

 

"Gad, that one time, I thought he was going to knock my head off. I was sure glad the bell rung when it did. Like I said, I knew they would match me up with some­one lots older than me. That guy looked like he was at least seventeen to me. Did you think so? I'm going to try to get out of this damned club. I don't like it when they do that."

 

"Do you see those guys back in the back under that blanket with those girls? I'll bet they've been doing it all the way from Brigham City, the way they've been gig­gling and screaming."

 

"Yeh.  I wouldn't doubt it. But I would­n't mind being back there for a while my­self. I heard that Smith girl is really rough."

 

"Why are we stopping? We are not home already, are we?"

 

"I don't think so. This damned old truck. I wouldn't doubt it if it is broken down. Old Man Smith hasn't got one piece of equipment anywhere that isn't broken down or ready to break down. I sure hope not. I'd hate to have to stay here all night."

 

"We've got a little trouble with the truck. You boys and the girls stay right here with the truck. Me and Alan are going to have to walk into Bountiful and make a phone call to get some help out here. I don't think we are going to be very long. Now don't any of you leave this area. Just stay with truck and don't get into any mis­chief."

 

"See, I told you. This truck is just a piece of junk like all the other stuff the Smiths own. Now we are going to have to stay out here all night and listen to that nonsense going on in the back of the truck."

 

"Let’s get out and walk around. I don't want to stay in here all packed in like this."

 

"I don't think we had better, Bill. Rich­ard said we were to stay near the truck. What if they got some help and we had taken a walk and didn't see them? They would never know we were missing with all this crowd here. We had better stay here."

 

"I didn't mean to go running off, Jack.  I just want to get out of this stinking truck. Come on, don’t be chicken."

 

      Before that ordeal was over, most of the members of the Club had hung around the truck for a while, got bored with that, and walked into town. I persuaded Bill to remain with me by the truck after the most of the rest of the group left. At 4 a.m. the group that went into town had caused such a ruckus that the Bountiful Police were called in to round everyone up and get them back to the disabled truck. Luckily, since I had stayed with the truck I had kept out of trou­ble. But the boys who had gotten caught were punished by Marve Jensen and two of them were eventually kicked out of the Club.

      A couple of weeks later I was playing game of softball with some kids at the school yard and one of the girls up at bat threw the bat after hitting the ball. I was standing close by and not paying attention when the bat struck me just above my right eye. The hit broke the skin and I had to have two stitches taken to keep it closed. With that as an excuse, I got out of the Boxing Club and never returned to that arena.

      Being in the Boxing Club for over a year, however, had its benefits. While I still feared Don Lapore a little because he had been in the Club too, I had really gotten confident with my fists. I was con­vinc­ed that if I was ever able to get any one of the three school bullies alone I could take them with little or no trouble . . . even Don, if the chips were down. While my confi­dence developed, I believed that it was soon time to get even with the three bullies. I didn’t realize it was going to be so easy.

                                   

May 10, 1946

 

"It's your turn to shoot, Jack."

 

I've got to make this good. I've lost too many of my marbles already and I can't lose my cat's eye taw. I think I've got my thumb tightened up just right now and this is going to be my do-or-die shot. Oh, no, my taw is sitting right next to the ring. I'm out of the game for sure if Dave hits mine and knocks it out of the ring. He did. Damn!   

 

"Get off my bike, Don." 

 

Damn that Don Lapore. Why does he have to pick on me all the time? Why does he have to take my bike, now? This is not my day. I've just lost my best taw and now my bike. Maybe I can catch up to him and tip him off the bike. 

 

"You guys, get him. Let's pants him."

 

Now what? Don's two bud­dies are coming to his aid again. I hate that John Spratling and Jay Brown. The three of them are always trying to do something to me. They'll pants me, too, if they catch me. And with all the other kids around playing marbles, I'll be laughed all the way out of the playground. My only hope is to catch Don before John and Jay can catch me. Wait 'till I can get any of these damned bullies alone. Not one of them, except maybe Don, maybe, could beat me in a fair fight.

 

"You buggers let go of me. I haven't done anything to you. LET GO OF ME!" 

 

I know what comes next. They'll start tearing at my belt, and then it's all over. I lived through the last one; I guess I can live through this one if I have to. I don't get why these three guys always have to pull this on me. I can't wait to catch any one of them alone. I've just got to get away. I know. A hard right to the temple ought to stop John and maybe a left to Jay's mid-sec­tion will do.

 

"Get him, he's getting away."

 

I got away; that did it. I think they really felt my punches. I don't believe it. They’re not coming after me. Now maybe I can still catch Don now that he is circling back by the marble game with my bike. My chance at last! He's going over right in front of everybody. I don't care what happens to my bike, I'm taking Don on.

 

"Get off my bike." 

 

I'll grab the seat and knock him down. He's going pretty fast, I've got to tip him over.

 

"You little bastard. I'll get you. Come on you guys, get him. Let's teach him a lesson."

 

I've got him now. He's under my bike and I'm on top. John and Jay are not coming to Don's aid. Maybe they're afraid of another Gene Fullmer-type left hook. I don't care if they do. I've got Don where I want him. This feels great. He's actually begging me to get off him. He says the bike frame is breaking his leg. Too bad. How about those times he and his friends pantsed me? He deserves all he's getting.

 

"You promise you'll leave me alone? I want your word on it . . . on a stack of bibles? I'm not getting off you until you promise in front of all these other guys."  

 

I can't believe John and Jay haven't jumped me yet. Everybody's all around us now and Don's just lying there begging me to get off. Too many people around, I guess. I don't care; they are all cheering for me now. 

 

"You better get off me or you're dead meat."

 

"Not until you promise to leave me alone." 

 

I know he's going to jump me as soon as I let him up. Maybe I should keep him there all day. He's in pain. That's good.

 

"Okay.  I promise. Shake on it."

 

"What do you promise, you turd? 

 

"I promise to leave you alone. I apolo­gize, now get off me."

 

"Okay. Did everybody hear that? I just want you to leave me alone. We can be friends if you want." 

 

"Yes.  I promise, I said."

 

I better be ready to make a break for it, just in case. Looks like my bike is okay. Jay and John are still standing there in the background. Better not ride their way. They'll jump me for sure. Don's not coming after me. I did it. Maybe he's had enough. He's limping away . . . faking it, I'll bet, to look good in front of the crowd. MY DAY OF TRIUMPH HAS COME. When these bullies are all alone, they are not near as tough as they act.

 

      That one little incident made a big dif­ference in my life. I knew I had done one of my greatest deeds ever by getting Don Lapore off my back. Don kept to his prom­ise and even started to talk to me some when I would go over to his house to visit his brother, Joe. Joe hated his older brother as much as I did, and when Don started to be friendly with me, Joe was as surprised as I was. I never let on at home about the major victory I had encountered at school with Don Lapore. Dad would have given me hell if he knew I was fighting again. He was very much opposed to street-fighting. He was okay with boxing, however, as long as it was in the ring. So I just let the whole thing drop, at least for the time being. I still had John Spratling and Jay Brown to deal with. My confidence was up. Now I just had to find the right time to end it all.

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

      The winter of 1945 and 1946 had record snow falls. With the extra ground water that was pro­duced, when spring arrived, the sewage system Dad had installed in the home when he built it in 1940 began to malfunc­tion. When he built the house, the system he installed included sewage pipes drain­ing from the house to a concrete septic tank. From there, the sewage ran into a cesspool Dad and his brother dug a few feet east of the septic tank. West Jordan was one of the few places around Salt Lake Valley that cesspools had to be used instead of field drains.  Because of the dense clay that extended over twenty thick in our part of the valley, field drains could not be used.

      Our original cesspool was about eight feet in diam­eter and was dug vertical­ly to a depth of about twenty feet through the hard clay that formed the first layer on the valley floor. At that level there was a layer of fairly fine sand and gravel. It was known that about four feet below this two-to three foot thick layer of fine sand and gravel there was another layer larger size, more porous gravel. Dad chose not to dig any deeper than the first layer of sand and gravel believing this layer was porous enough to serve our family’s needs. After the cesspool excavation was made to the gravel level Dad filled the hole with large field stones to keep it from caving in when it was filled with sew­age water. And then he installed a pipe the five or so feet from the overflow hole in the septic tank over to the cesspool. For years, thereafter, sewage from the house went to the septic tank first and then the overflow went to the cesspool where it eventually percolated down through the sand and gravel and disappeared.

      Dad's attempt at constructing a successful cesspool failed after about five or six years because he had not gone to the second, more porous layer of large gravel. The first, sandier layer was able to take the water until that previous winter's overabundance of water from the snow and it plugged up. After consulting with the experts in the area, Dad decided to dig a second cesspool next to the old one to the lower level of gravel. After the new deeper cesspool was finished to the lower gravel bed his plan was to dig a small hole through the upper sand and gravel layer from the new cesspool to the old one, linking the two. He figured, he would have a system that would last forever. His theory was good, but had a flaw in it . . . tapping into the old cesspool from the new one held some risk of getting drowned in the process.

 

May 13, 1946

 

Somehow I've got to work around this new problem. I can tell what's coming with Dad talking about the sewer backing up in the basement. Dad says he's tired of seeing this happen and he's going to get started on the new cess­pool. I know he's going to want me to help on that pro­ject. I saw what a job digging a cesspool was at Uncle Millard's. Besides I don't want to get in trou­ble on this one like I did there.

 

I wonder how that guy is? They said that rock I threw down Uncle Millard’s cesspool really hit him hard. I know he wasn't killed, because I saw him after they got him out of the hole, but he did look like he was hurt pretty bad. Nobody would be­lieve me that I did not know anyone was working down there when I threw that big rock down the hole. There was no one on the ground above, so how would I know there was anyone down in the hole? 

 

If I get to work down in the hole, it may not be so bad as long as somebody doesn’t throw a rock down and bonk me on my head. It won't be hot down there for sure. I just hope I don't get saddled with the job of just haul­ing the buckets out of the hole and dumping the dirt. Helping Keith a couple of times at Uncle Millard's hauling those buckets was really hard work.

 

 

May 15, 1946

 

"You two boys get up right now. Mom's got breakfast ready for you. After breakfast I want you to do your chores then join me in the garden. I should have the hole all marked out where we are going to dig the new cesspool and I want you out there to help me today.

 

I really wanted to sleep in today.  I hate getting up this early on a Saturday morning. Why can't Bess stay out of the barn on these warm nights and not mess it all up like she did again. How come I always get the shitty jobs? Ken's always got it so easy, he just gets to come in here in the clean stall and milk the cow. All this straw and stink is giving me hay fever. I think I will start locking the door to the barn at night so Bess can't get in here and shit all over every night. I hate this cleaning up after her every night. We can put the hay out in the coral just as easy. I'm just going to do that tonight.

 

May 22, 1946

 

"I'm going to have you two work the top side today. Ken, you handle the crank and Jack you dump the buckets as I fill them up. Jack, I know you wanted to help some more down in the hole, but I'm a little worried having you down there when it's so deep. You boys can haul the buckets out when I get them filled. Just be sure that at least one of you is up there where you can hear me holler when I have the bucket filled."

 

Just as I thought.  Now that the hole is twenty feed deep and it would be fun to work down there, I'm too little. That's my life story. I'm always "TOO LITTLE." Ken thinks I'm too little to play basketball with him and his friends and he never includes me in any­thing he does. Now Dad thinks I'm too little, too. Even though I have been digging on this hole with him for over a week already. Now that it's getting down about twenty feet, he thinks he has to do it all.

 

May 23, 1946

 

"Lila and Jack, when I go down into the hole today I want you to stand by so that if I call you can come and help me out of the hole. The ladder is too short now and I don't want to have to try to get out of this damned hole by myself. I wish the hell Ken would have stayed around today. Where did you say he said he had to go, Lila?"

 

I hate this now. I can't understand why Dad didn't just get a longer ladder. We even have to help him get on the ladder be­cause the top of it is about four feet down into the hole now that cess­pool is down to the twenty five foot level. 

 

In a way, I glad I'm not going down there today. When I went down with Dad last night to look at the levels of gravel he had gone through, the old cesspool was leaking into our new hole and it really stunk. Dad said it was because the old cess­pool was only a few feet away; and that today he was going to be punching a hole into the other cesspool so the water from the old one could drain into the new one. I don't know why Dad didn't just put a new pipe into the septic tank from the new cess­pool and not try to tie the two together. I guess he wanted to save pipe or something. Dad is like that . . . very practical all the time. "Do something practical," is his mot­to. I hate hearing that from him. It al­ways comes over like he's preaching to me about how he wants me to be. I hate being "prac­tical."  I don't even know what it means.

 

This is sure boring just "standing by," like Dad wants me to do. I don't know why Mom can't do this for a while. I'm sure Dad will be all right. When I talked to him a few minutes ago he said he has the hole from the new cesspool to the old one cut in about four feet now. He says he thinks he has a couple of feet to go. I think I have time to go see if Mom wants to "stand by" for a while. I need a drink anyway.

 

"What are you doing in the house, Jack? I thought Dad told you to stay by the hole in case he needs to have some help."  

 

"I just came in the house for a drink. I was get­ting bored anyway from sitting out there in the sun."      

 

I wish Dad would have let me go down with him today. It's a hundred times cooler down there than sitting in the sun on top. He's not taking any dirt out any­way, so why didn't he let me go down with him? I hope Mom doesn't try to explain to me that Dad "has his reasons." I know Dad is afraid that the water from the old cesspool will flood into the new one when he breaks through, and he doesn't want to chance getting wet. That's why he wore his hip boots down in today. He's not going to get wet anyway. I could have worn boots too. I don't get it. 

 

Do you hear Dad calling us, Mom? We better get out there fast."

 

"YOU SUNS-A-BITCHES GET YOUR ASSES OUT HERE AND HELP ME BE­FORE I DROWN!"  

 

Time to move.  Some­thing has gone wrong.

 

"GOD DAMN YOU BASTARDS, WHERE ARE YOU!"

 

"Get over here and look, Mom, the water is rising up the hole and Dad is on the ladder hanging on for dear life. He must have come up the ladder with­out pulling the bot­tom of it out, so now it's fallen over on him and he is pinned with his back against the wall." 

 

"Yes I see. Don't you fall in now. We have to do something quick. You see if you can get that rope down to him from the well crank and I will go get something long to push the ladder back against the other side of the hole."

 

Mom is quick to respond.  I never would have thought of that. The water is still ris­ing, but it has only gotten about half way up the hole. In fact, I think the water has stopped rising, but there is no sense trying to convince Dad that he is not going to drown in that stinking stuff.

 

"Here, Mark. While Jack pulls on the rope to help you climb, I will try to push the ladder over. Don't worry, Honey, we'll get you out. The water is still about ten feet below you, and I don't think it's going to get any higher." 

 

Man, if we ever get him out, I'm in big trouble for leaving my post. If I was in the army, I could get shot for leaving my post. I wish I was in the army right now. I'd rather get shot than what's going to happen to me when Dad gets out. Dad's still cursing a blue streak at me and Mom. Mom even looks scared. I wonder if she might get the strap too, the way he is shouting at both of us.

"Now, honey, you just lay there for a few minutes and get your breath. You’re safe now. We got you out."

 

Dad's finally out but he looks really exhaust­ed. His weight really gets to him these days.  That two hundred and fifty pounds he's carrying must be a real strain on him when he is scurrying up a ladder trying not to get drowned like a sewer rat. Man, the fumes coming out of the new cesspool are really awful. I don't know how Dad stood it.

 

When am I going to get my punishment? Lucki­ly, Mom is comforting Dad and trying to get him to understand that if he would have pulled the bot­tom of the ladder over he might not have gotten stuck when the ladder fell over, but that isn't com­forting him much. He's still arguing that if either of us would have been at the side of the hole, this never would have happened. We could have held the top of the ladder so it would not fall over. I don't see how that would have worked. The top of the ladder is a good four feet down in the hole. Maybe we could have tied the rope onto the top of the lad­der, but I don't even know even how that would have helped.

 

"I tell you and I tell you to stand by. That means be here all the time, not going into the god damned house to get a drink just when I needed you. Lila, why didn't you send him back out when he came in? I could have drowned down there and neither of you would have given a good god damn!" 

 

I know my turn is coming. Now when is he going to start pulling off his size fifty two belt and use it on me? Maybe if I create a diversion I can get out of this. 

 

"Look, Dad, the water is already going down. It's only about ten feet deep in the hole and it looks to me like it’s going down fast. Digging down to the second level of gravel seems to be working pretty darn good." 

 

The diver­sion is working. Dad is tempo­rarily drawn from his sitting position where he has been resting, and is looking down in the hole. Mom has figured out what I am doing. Thank goodness she's on my side. Come on, Mom, keep explaining to Dad that we had a good reason to be away from the hole . . . that it's hot up here or something, and that I needed a drink, that's all. We didn't abandon him. 

 

"Okay, okay. I guess it wasn't as bad as I thought. But you still should have been here.  What if that damned old ladder had broken. I could just see myself treading water pushing turds out of the way so I could breathe." 

 

Dad must be feeling foolish for not having pulled the bottom of the ladder out and also for having pan­icked. He's now going to make some fun out of all of this by his little cover-up. I'm safe and Dad's got anoth­er story to tell to his friends.  I wonder how it's going to sound after he tells it about the thirti­eth time.

 

      By the miracle of Dad's good humor Mom and I got through the cesspool crisis. Dad's humor always saved the day. When things were really going bad for any of us or if Dad was really angry about some­thing, we could always count on him coming through late with a laugh about it or an exaggerated story about the incident. Dad seemed always to get into situations he regretted that had an impact on all of us, made our lives more colorful and fun and gave us lots of chal­lenges.