CHASING CLOUDS, CHAPTERS 16 THROUGH 26

Chapter 16

 

      Family was important to both Dad and Mom for all the years they were alive. If any family member needed anything they were always ready and willing to go out on a limb and assist in any way they could. One such situation oc­curred during the early spring of 1946 when Dad decided to assist his nephew Harold Bowers in providing a recreational opportu­nity for his chil­dren. Harold was owner of the Bowers Home Furnishing in Salt Lake, a well-known and respected furniture establishment. He and his family lived on the Upper East Side of Salt Lake and from all appearances were quite rich.

      Harold had two children that were about my age that we considered very spoiled because of all they had. It seemed like anything they wanted they got, no matter how much it cost or to what extent Harold had to go to get it. When we visited their place we saw the opulence in which the children lived. They had more than any of us had ever had and most of it sat idle while the kids complained for more. Harold also constantly complained that his kids needed to have more of the type of life he had enjoyed while he was younger growing up on a ranch, so he arranged with Dad to use part of our five acre plot of ground to board a horse he planned to purchase for his chil­dren. He would buy the horse and all the tack equipment, pay Dad a monthly boarding fee for feeding the horse and we could use it any time he was not out there with their children.

      When we heard the bargain, we were ecstatic. Here was the one chance we had in the world to have a horse that was just like our own. We knew Dad and Mom could never afford a horse . . . we could hardly afford to eat the way things were going at that time for Dad. I was promised I could use it on my paper route if I wanted to. Ken was excited because he had friends who rode horses quite a bit. And I believe Dad was excited in his own way since he had grown up having a horse all his life and missed being able to ride probably as much as Harold did.

      When the deal was struck, however, Harold went alone to Charlie Diamond's who lived up the street about a mile from us and bought one of his horses. The animal was a beautiful, large roan mare . . . a factor Harold had considered for himself because, like Dad, Harold weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds . . . but the horse had never been ridden very much.

At first when we got it I stayed away from the critter because it was so mean. Dad and Ken were able to do something with it, but I didn't dare get near her. Harold hardly ever came to have his kids ride the thing, so most of the time it just stayed in our field. As a result, over the first few months that we had the horse, it got wilder and harder to manage. Finally, it got so we could hardly even catch it to put on its saddle. Dad became angry for accepting the job of boarding the horse, and constant­ly grumbled about Harold and all his money and his poor judgment for buying such a difficult horse. 

 

July 4, 1946

 

"Ken, you and Jack go over to Fred Bur­mester's and borrow his pickup and that old hand plow of his, his single-tree and har­ness­es. Tell him I'm, going to teach this big roan a lesson today. Be sure to ask Fred for the long reins."

 

"What's Dad up to now, Ken?"

 

"I'm not sure, but I think he's going to try to break Red so we can ride her. He tried to ride her again this morning, but when he put the saddle on, she blew up her stom­ach and the belly strap didn't get tight. So when Dad tried to get on her saddle it rolled around to the side and Dad fell to the ground. It was really funny watching Red run out into the field with the saddle drag­ging un­derneath her with Dad sitting there on the ground cursing her to come back. But I don't think Dad thought it was too funny. 

 

"Dad hasn't been too happy about this whole arrangement with Harold since he had us board his horse that was really supposed to be for his kids to ride. In three months since we got her, Harold hasn't been out here once to have his kids ride the horse. I wouldn't let a kid of mine get within a hundred feet of that horse. She's a killer. I don't think old Charlie Diamond even broke her before Harold bought the damned thing. Dad says the horse has never been properly broken. Old Charlie Diamond, I think, was the only one who ever rode the horse. She won't let anyone else near her right now. Broken or not, I can't imagine anyone, espe­cially Harold's little kids ever being able to ride that stupid horse."

 

"Now you boys stand out of the way when I turn this damned animal loose. She's likely to buck and balk before she gets a feel for what she's hooked up to. When this plow goes down a foot into this wet clay, she's going to know who the boss is."

 

Oh, oh. Another one of Dad's crazy notions. This ought to be fun. What a sight this is . . . Dad positioned on the handles of the plow with that ornery horse hooked up to the other end. I can't wait to see who wins this battle.

 

"Gitti-up, you big red bastard, let’s see what you've got."

 

She's actually doing it. Red is pull­ing the plow. It's digging deeper. Oh, oh, just as Dad warned, the horse is bucking and jumping around. I'm glad I'm not nearby.

 

"LET GO, DAD! You are never going to be able to hold her. You're going to get hurt. Let her go."

 

"Just a second more, I think she's about had enough."

 

Gad, Dad's a glutton for punishment. He's going to get killed if he does­n't get free of the reins. It looks like the harness is bro­ken. 

 

"GET THE REINS OFF FROM AROUND YOUR SHOULDERS, DAD."

 

I don't think he can hear me. Maybe if I shout louder. Too late. Dad's over on his face and the horse in on her way out to the pasture dragging him by the reins still over his shoulders.

 

"GO GET MY GUN, I'M GOING TO KILL THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH."

 

We've got to calm him down before he does actually kill the horse. Maybe if we can get him up on his feet . . .   

"She's going back to Charlie Diamond's today. You boys go round her up and bring her back here so we can take her back. I'll kill her for sure if she stays here one more day."

 

"What's Harold going to say about your getting rid of his horse, Dad?"

 

"I don't give a gog-damned what he says. I'll handle things with Harold. He wanted a horse his kids could ride, and no one would ever be able to ride that stub­born, unbroken son-of-a-bitch. I'll just see if I can make anoth­er deal with Charlie for a gentler horse. He may have one we can trade for Red. I hope so, anyway. Once you boys get me the horse, get that plow out of the field and back to Fred. I'm just going to tie the horse up to the car and lead it up to Charlie's"

 

"I promise you, this horse is going to be a good horse for your nephew's kids, Mark. It's a thorough­bred Palomino. I've wanted to sell her, but as you can see, she has really short ears and people think she's a freak. The vet says it's a throw­back to the ancient horses that roamed this coun­try thou­sands of years ago, and that's why its ears are so short. That's the way those ancient horses were, so they say. It's be­cause of her ears that I haven't sold her. Even though she is a good gentle horse, no one wants her. I've ridden her several times with the Sheriff's Posse and she has been good. My brother broke her last year and did a hell of a job with her. I'm sure you'll like her a lot. Some of my grandkids have ridden her, so I know she’s good for kids. This is a natural. I tried to tell your neph­ew about Red but he insisted on buying her from me. He just had to have her. He said he wanted a big horse because of his weight, so I thought he was just going to ride her and didn't make a big argument about it. I didn't know he was buy­ing it for his kids, I never would have sold her to him."

 

"Ok, we'll take her, Charlie. But if she does­n't work out, I'm bringing her right back to you."

 

 

 

Chapter 17

 

      That same year as the cesspool and bucking horse incident, I spent the entire early part of spring helping with carpenter work for Uncle Millard so I could buy myself a bike. I had one in mind that sold for about thirty-five dollars, so I saved until I had it. Dad was insistent that I have a more permanent way of earning money rather than working part time summers for Uncle Millard, so he encouraged me to get a paper route. A paper route was the thing for good "practical-minded" boys to have in those days. Never mind that Hal or Ken never had a paper route, I had to have one. Dad con­vinced me that I could ride the bike most of the time and take Harold Bower's horse the rest of the time. On Sundays, he thought he could get up early and take me with the car because the Sunday paper was so heavy and I had over one hundred customers on my eleven-mile route.

      Initially the paper route was okay; it was a haul with so many papers and such a long route, and I managed it pretty well delivering the papers pretty much on time. But when the first month came along to collect for the paper, I could only get half of the people to pay. Most of them asked me to come back and I eventually got the money, but some of my customers actually hid from me when I showed up at their door step to collect the two or three dollars they owed me for the month’s papers. They were also the ones who com­plained if the paper was a half hour late and I would get hell from the District Paper Route Manager.

      My route required me to take almost all the streets in West Jordan except for the Bing­ham Highway down near 17th West and along Redwood Road where the heavy population was north and south of the Bing­ham Highway. My customers lived all the way to the river and along the Lower Road (1700 West) and extended west all the way to Welby west of the Hogan Dairy (about 5000 West). The entire route measured over eleven miles.

      The money I made from the one hundred customers was less than a dollar per customer per month . . . not much for all the time it took to deliver and collect. Dad or Mom did help me on Sunday morning, so that part of it worked out well. Dad also went with me to a couple of the customers who refused to pay the bill and gave them a piece of his mind. When Dad got mad with his great size, people were intimidated and believed his anger was a true threat. I never really believed Dad was much of a threat, however. Sure, he got out his belt and used it on me plenty of times, but I could almost always count on him making more noise with it than anything. Every time he used it on me to my recollection, he would double it so that when he did strike me with it, the belt made more noise than bite. He also made sure that he hit me on the side of my butt where I carried my wallet, so there was some cushion to the beatings.

      Not long after I got my used bike, I frequently got in trouble for running off when the chores were due to be done. I never went too far away, so Dad would often come after me to bring me home. In Dad's mind, his having to come after me was enough to deserve a beating, so when he found me he took off his belt and began to welt me in the usual manner. I, of course, made a terrible noise to show how painful it was and begged him to stop. He finally did and we started the march home while I listened to Dad's standard "you better learn to take responsi­bility" lecture.

      On one of these occasions when Dad had come to fetch me home after I had run off, I had my bike with me and was walking along with Dad listening to his lecture about minding, being practical and leaning that I had responsi­bilities at home. After a few minutes of walking, I could see Dad was tiring, so I asked him if he thought my bike would hold both of us. He said it would so I got on the handlebars and he started to pump me home.

      We went along this way fine for about one hundred feet then suddenly the fork of the bike broke and we both landed in a pile on the sidewalk. Neither of us was hurt, but Dad was embar­rassed at break­ing the bike I had worked so hard to get. His embar­rass­ment was so touching that I had to forgive him and told him it was okay. He said he would take it to the Mill where he worked and get it fixed for me. In the mean­time, he said, he would haul me around in the car or I could take the horse for my paper route.

      In the end, Dad really played up the broken-bike story. He told the tale of being too fat for the bike and breaking it for me. He would always find a way to exag­gerate a story and make it into something that did not even exist. This story came out that I had come along the road while he was walking up from the service station and had offered him a ride home. I couldn't pump him, so he volunteered to pump me "against his better judgment" and the bike broke with both our weights on it. While the daily paper route was often boring, there were times when, because of diversions I created or enrolled in, I did have some fun along the way.

 

June 30, 1946

 

"Hey, where you guys going in such a hurry?"

 

"You on your paper route, Williams?"

 

"Yeh.  I've got three more papers to deliver down the road between here and Bennion Hill, then I head on up near where I live. Why?"

 

"Why don't you join us? We're going swimming. The Draper girls that live down here said they'll be swimming in the weir down below their place on the South Jordan Canal and we should come join in. They said they love to swim in their birthday suits. We're going down right now. Come on. Your papers can wait."

 

"I can't. It'll make me too late getting home. And besides, I get hell when I’m late delivering some of my papers. Man, I'd like to go, though; I hear those Draper girls are really rough. That one, what's her name? Dolores is really built, too."

 

"That's what we're going to see, mostly. Come on. Don't be chicken. It's only a little ways down the lane to the canal. It won't take that long."

 

"Oh, all right. Lead the way. I'm right be­hind you. I can’t be long though. "

 

"Come on in, you guys, the water's fine. What took you so long to get here?"

 

"Where'd you get undressed? There's no place around here where we can take our clothes off."

 

We just undressed on the bank there where are clothes are. It's okay, nobody'll see you. We'll turn around."

 

"You sure?"

 

"Yeh.  See, we're turning around. Come on, hurry. We've got to leave pretty soon."

 

"All right. You just be sure to stay that way until we're in the water. Okay?"

 

"You got our word. COME ON!"

 

"I'll bet you girls have got your swim suits on, haven't you? This was just a trick to get us to come in naked, wasn't it?"

 

"All we've got on is our birthday suits, just like you, honest."

 

"I don't believe you. Do a flip in the water. Let's see."

 

"Yeh. They are naked. Did you see that?"

 

"Now, it’s your turn, boys. Let's see your famous tent-pole float."

 

"This water is so danged cold, there couldn't be any tent pole if I wanted to have one. My thing is all shriveled up."

 

"We don't believe you came in without you clothes. Let's see."

 

      And so it went. That was pretty exciting for three thirteen year old boys to be skinny dip­ping with those older, "rough" Draper girls. But like all those childhood games, nothing ever really happened more than a little coy re­vealing of body parts. None of us would have known what to do anyway had the chance come to us. But it did give us the basis for some real great stories to tell all our friends . . . about the day we all went swimming naked with the Draper girls. It was part of becoming famous in those days. The only downside of that particular skinny-dipping adventure was getting in trouble with my last few customers that evening when I delivered their papers over an hour late.

      I still had my paper route when summer was well into its season, so one evening after my route was over, rather than go straight home, I decided to go over near where the two bullies, Jay Brown and John Spratling lived and see if I could find their hideout that I had heard about from one of their friends. This hide­out, it was rumored, had lots of dirty books and other junk in it . . . a perfect thing to de­stroy if I could just find it. When I got over by their place I looked along the ditch banks and in the plum bushes. Finally I found the hut and its famous stash. I was just in the midst of tearing the place apart when Jay Brown surprised me by coming down from his house and caught me in the act . . .

 

 

July 30, 1946

 

Could this be Jay Brown's hut that I've found? My lucky day if it is. It must be either his or John Spratling's or both theirs since they live so close to each other. No one else lives over this way except the Papas family that has kids who would build a hut here. This has got to be one of those guy's hut. Look at the dirty magazines. This place is finished, magazines and all.

 

“What are you doing in my hut, you idiot."

 

"What a surprise to see you, Jay. This is your hut, huh? Too bad. What are you going to do about it? Where are your bud­dies? Come on, throw me out. I dare you."

 

      I was feeling so good about finding the hut that I was ready for anything. Jay didn't even present a mild threat to me when he was alone. As might be expected, Jay jumped me and the fight started. In mo­ments I had the advantage and he was on his back on the gravel next to the road with me sitting on top of him.

 

            "You deserve more than this, you cry-ba­by."

 

Shout all you want, ass-hole. A couple more smash­es to the face ought to be just about right before I get off you. 

 

"You've bullied me for the last time, Jay."

 

"My hernia, my hernia. Get off my stom­ach, you're killing me. Let my arms go."

 

Plead all you want, Jay, there's nobody out here to hear your calls. One more left hook to the stom­ach ought to be good. Look at him cry. What a cry-baby. He's a year older than me, too. I know he's just faking a hernia. He needs to be hammered on just a little more for good measure .I knew my boxing skills would pay off some time, and the time has arrived.

 

"Leave me alone. My dad's going to be calling your dad if you don't. He will sue you bastards for you rupturing my hernia."

 

"You run on home to daddy and cry all you want. See if I care."  

 

One final blow to the kidney while he's running might just be good. He got what he de­served. Now let me get back to ripping this hut to pieces before I leave this place and finish my paper route.

 

      I don't know whether I was just lucky or what, but apparently when Jay ran home past John Sprat­ling's house, he must have told him about me tearing the hut to pieces and beating him up. I stayed a few mo­ments longer to finish off the hut then I headed north on the dirt road by the canal on my way home. I only had one more paper to drop off at the Diamonds, and I was through for the day. I had only gotten about a half mile along the canal when I heard hoof beats behind me. Looking back I saw John Sprat­ling overtaking me with his horse. Still feeling I had the advantage since he was alone, I climbed off my bike and waited for him to catch up.

 

John Sprat­ling. I'll bet I know what he wants.

 

"What did you do to Jay? He said you tore up our hut."

 

So the hut was used by both bullies after all. Good!

 

"Get off your horse and I'll tell you about it. Better still, I'll show you what I did to him."

 

      With little more provocation than that, John was off his horse and we were battling it out on the road next to the canal. John was a good deal bigger than Jay, but my confidence at winning with Jay gave me a distinct advantage and I was soon in con­trol of the situation with John.

 

"Try to throw me into the canal, will you. That was a bad move, John. I guess I'll have to teach you the same lesson I taught Jay." 

 

A solid right hook to the face and a couple of blows to the mid-section ought to do for starters. You'll be sorry you dropped out of the Boxing Club.

 

"Let me up. I give."

 

John's pleading sounds like Jay's. They're both a couple of cry-babies. Maybe he's got a hernia I could rupture. Let me give him a couple more hammer blows to his mid-section. That ought to get a hernia started if he doesn't already have one. While I’ve got him down that rock next to him will be a good item to drive off his horse.

 

Well, that worked. The horse is on its way home.

 

"You've scared my horse off now. I've got to get him. Let me up!"

 

"I don't give a darn about your horse. He can run all the way home for all I care. I'm not letting you up until you promise to leave me alone."

 

"I promise, I promise. Just let me up. My horse is already headed down to Garner Lane. I'll never catch him now. My dad's going to kill me if he runs away."

 

"Why don't you cry about it? You bullies are all cry-babies. You should have seen how your tough friend Jay cried when he was down. And besides, you must be really dumb to come out here alone. How come you didn't bring your buddies Don and Jay? Maybe that would even things up for you. You're all stupid, all right. That's why you all got held back in school, I guess. Now get out of here. I don't want you to ever touch me again." 

 

“I’ll never catch my horse now, you son-of-a-bitch.”

 

Tossing a rock at his horse was a great strategy; it’s almost down to the Sugar Factory Road and still running. John’s a pretty good runner, I’ll give him that.

 

 

August 2, 1946

 

"Your buddy Jay Brown's dad called me to complain that you snuck up on Jay yesterday, knocked him down and then kicked him in the groin. He said you caused his hernia to flare up and that he may have to be operated on. What's your story, son?"

 

Sounds like Dad is on my side. He must not like the Browns either .I’ll have to come up with a convincing story about this.  

 

"That's not how it hap­pened, Dad, hon­est. I was over on the Gardner Lane by their place just finishing up delivering my papers the other night and I stopped to look at something I found along the road by where the lane comes out of the Brown's place. It was a hut Jay and his neighbor John Spratling made and I was inside looking around when Jay came down from his house and found me there. Jay Brown comes up and accuses me of steal­ing his Popular Mechanics magazine. I told him I just found the magazine on the side of the road he said was his, and then he swung at me. All I was doing was defend­ing myself. And I didn't kick him in the groin, either. I didn't even kick him.  I hit him several times then knocked him down and sat on him. That's when he started to bawl about his hernia. I didn't even touch his hernia. In fact, I think he was just faking it 'cause he was losing the fight. He’s one of the three bullies I’ve told you about, Dad. Part of my anger with him was just getting even for all the torment he and his friends John Spratling and Don Lapore gave me in school the last couple of years.

 

"Did Jay's dad tell you that I got caught up to later by Jay's buddy, John Spratling along the Big Canal Road? I fought him too and sent him running. Dad, I can’t tell you how many times those two guys and also Don Lapore have picked on me, stolen my bike or pantst me for some reason. Never once did any of them try to do something to me when they were alone. I just never found them when they were alone and this was my chance to get even. I was just taking care of the matter, finally, in my own way."

 

"I've told you kids a hundred times, there's better ways of solving your problems than fighting. So why did they always want to pick on you? Did you ever do anything to them to start it?"

 

"Dad, Jay Brown and John Spratling and Don Lapore are always after me for something. I’ve never done anything to any of them until just recently when I got them alone. I took care of Don Lapore a while back when he took my bike. He was alone then, so I caught up with him and knocked him off the bike and held him down until he prom­ised he would leave me alone. Jay and John were both there that time but for some reason they didn’t jump me. All three of them are a year older than I am anyway, and they are pushing all the little kids around all the time. I had just had enough with all of them and decided if I ever got any one of them alone, I'd take them on. I've never been afraid of any of them. They are just always together and every time they are they gang up on me for some reason."

 

"Well, okay, but I don't want to hear any more of your fighting. Arnold Brown threatened to sue me over this. But if what you say is true . . . are those three boys all really a year older than you? Well, anyway just stay away from them and you won't have so much trou­ble."

 

That will be easy. I don't like any of them any­way. I think my troubles are over with them. I wonder what it's going to be like next year in school.  I can stay away from them this summer, except maybe Don.

 

      That type of confrontation was rare for me while I was growing up. I listened to Dad and his wisdom and avoided fighting any time I could. But those three disputes with the bullies of the town ended the harassment I had been get­ting from them. I made a point of staying away from them and none of them ever both­ered me again.

 

 

 

Chapter 18                

 

      When the West Jordan school’s new building was constructed in the early 1940’s there were two buildings. One building housed Grades 1 through 6 with an Office, Library and Music Room, and the other building was for Seventh, Eighth and Ninth Grades and had a Gym that served also as an auditorium and cafeteria. There was a large shop and on one side, a place where school busses were kept. The adjacent community of South Jordan had an elementary school, but when their children reached Seventh Grade they were bused to West Jordan. The South Jordan kids were seen as outsiders and kept by themselves for most of the Seventh and Eighth Grades. But by the Ninth Grade most all the students from South Jordan were fully inte­grated. The entire school was managed by the same principal and everyone knew the next year's teachers by reputation. Up through the Sixth Grade we all had one home room teacher who taught all the subjects except music. After that teachers were separated by subjects, so each student met with more than one teacher during the day.

      Lowell Hicks was the music teacher for both Ele­men­tary and Junior High School classes. It was through him that I really began to develop a more formal interest in music. Singing along with Dad and Mom at home next to the piano or singing with Dad in church performances or other gatherings had been something both Ken and I had done since I could remember. But Mr. Hicks took a real interest in me, got me involved in playing brass instru­ments and finally got me started on the Eng­lish horn. I only stayed with instrumental music through Junior High School, but the experi­ence was enough that I learned to read music and had a very good appreciation for it from then on.

      By the time I had passed Eighth Grade in the spring of 1947 with my singing, being in plays and love for dancing, I had fully estab­lished myself as a weird and solitary kid. Along with that I rel­ished in dressing differ­ent than all the other kids my age, I stayed by myself and did not partici­pate in many of the sporting activities and was shunned by boys and girls alike. Most of my social life was spent with the few other “weird” kids that liked and participated in the arts . .. in particular danc­ing and music. Those interests forced me to be more of a minority and kept me from having to be occu­pied in the other things that I did not do well in and furthermore disliked, such as sports.

 

April 15, 1948

 

I've got to get out of this gym stuff. I hate it. I hate those stinking showers with everyone's dongs hanging out and all the teasing over whose is big­gest. I hate Mr. John­son and how he favors all his buddies that brown-nose up to him to be Cap­tains of this or that. It seems like whoever shows off the most gets the best grades with Old Man Johnson. I don't think he knows any­thing about coaching . . . he's really a better science and math teacher than a coach. Our school never wins any­thing anyway. Everybody just thinks we are a bunch of hicks over here in West Jordan Junior High. They're right, too, we are a bunch of hicks, except me. I don't consider myself one of them. I don't like any of them very much. I could get along with­out them all. The only sport I like at all is the high hurdles, and I can't even win on that against Eldon Stead­man and some of those other hicks. I shouldn't say that about Eldon; at least he's friendly and not a stupid farm-boy like some of the others. I've got to get out of this somehow.

 

"You boys hustle and get out in the field. We've got a lot to do today before the bell rings."

 

Old Man Johnson is such a dink order­ing us around like he does. Every day it's the same thing. Shout­ing and herding all the 8th Grade boys out of the locker room to the track.

 

I hate running against Eldon. I feel so foolish when he beats me by three hurdles all the time.

 

      I liked running the high hurdles and did pretty well on them, but I never did get good enough to compete in any races. One day while I was running, quite by accident, I caught my foot on the hurdle and took a good tumble. It hurt when I hit, but I knew the fall had not done any damage.

 

"Are you all right, Williams?"

 

Maybe this is my chance to get out of all of this. What can I fake? I know; a bruised heel. I've heard about people hav­ing bruised heals . . . they're hard to trace. Old Man Johnson's coming over, got to make this good.

 

“You're holding your foot, boy. Did you sprain your ankle or something when you kicked over that hurdle? Let's take a look at this foot. Take off your shoe. Hmm. Doesn't seem to be swollen. Where does it hurt?"

 

"My ankle doesn't hurt. It hurts mostly in that soft place just above my heel."

 

"Where did you catch the hurdle?  With your toe, or with your heel?"

 

"With my heel, I think."

 

"Well, go on in and see the nurse and get her to wrap it up for you. You may have bruised your heel somehow when you came down on it. Ellis, you go on in with him. Stay off that foot as much as you can until the nurse can take a look at it. I'm sure you are going to be all right."

 

He bought it. Now all I've got to do is convince the nurse. Now limp like it really hurts. That's it, you've got it.

 

      The nurse bought my story, so for the rest of Eighth Grade school year, which wasn’t too long since it was spring already, I got out of Gym and still got a passing grade from Mr. Johnson. Most of what I was supposed to learn during those critical years of junior high I got out of. I found out how smart I could really be by faking things, and in doing so, I got out of a lot. Unfortu­nately, I paid a big price that I would learn about later in my last year of High School when things got more serious for me regarding college education.

      Despite my "injury" in Track that kept me from having to do any more active sports for the rest of junior high, I continued to dance and participate actively in plays and musicals. My academic studies suffered only because of my general lack of interest and failure to study. The sad part was that I let more than one teacher convince me that I was not capable of learning anything. As a result, I failed miserably in several areas where I could easily have succeeded. One of those areas was Math and Science of which my least favorite teacher was Mr. Johnson . . . the same man who taught gym classes.

 

May 28, 1948

 

"For the most part, Class, you have all done well on your papers I assigned. I think most of you really have a good idea about your future profes­sions. There are a couple of you, however, whom I would like to speak to pri­vately about your papers. Ken­neth Stein­feldt and Jack Williams, please stay after class a few moments so that I can I talk to you about your papers. The rest of you can pick up your corrected papers as you leave class."

 

Oh man, what has Old Man Johnson got up his sleeve for Kenneth and me? I can just imagine what it is for me. He still hates my guts for getting out of gym class and he's going to get even with me somehow. I thought I did a pretty good job on my paper. I really do want to become a Forest Ranger, and I studied hard to find out what it takes to be one. I can't see what he's got against me so much for.

 

"Williams, I'm giving you a good grade on your paper. You did an exceptional job on researching the subject and it was written well. That "B+" on your paper might just get you through my class with a fair grade, despite how poorly you have done on some of the other work. But here's what I had you stay after about. You know you are doing very poorly in Math, and I'll tell you right now, you will never be a Forest Ranger since you are as bad as you are with figures. Why don't you just forget about this dream you have about being a Forest Ranger. Go be a singer or something. Do something you can do. The way you are doing here in my class and others that I know about, you wouldn't even make it through the first four years of college, let alone going the six years that it takes to become a Forest Rang­er. My advice to you is just to forget it. You're just a day-dreamer, Williams. I suggest you stay with the things you can do well and let all this other stuff go."

 

Yes, I guess wanting to be a Forest Ranger is just another dream of mine. He's right. I'm not doing very well in Math. I guess I never will be a Forest Ranger, no matter how much I would like to be. Old Man Johnson is right for once in his life. I sure thought he was going to give me a lecture about how bad my paper was. Oh, well, win some, lose some, I guess.

 

      Mr. Johnson's lecture to me that fateful day changed my whole direction in school. Believ­ing his "wisdom" I went on with life, dropping all my interest in science, thinking for sure that I would not even able to go to college, let alone become some­thing from it. As a result, I put more and more emphasis on the "easier" subjects. I reverted more and more to the arts, I gave up on electricity class that I liked and in which was doing well. I gave up my interest in learning all I could about plants and animals in the forest and soon was failing most of my classes that were academically slanted.

      I finished junior high school, barely scrap­ing enough points to gradu­ate and be able to go on to high school. When it came time at the end of the school year of my Ninth Grade, I filled out all the necessary papers to choose classes for High School, but at that point in time I never really had much of a feeling about what I wanted to do about my education, and thus I signed up for as many non-academic classes I could managed. 

 

Chapter 19                

 

During the early part of the summer of 1948 the Utah Copper employees had their first union strike. This put Dad out of work so he was around most of that summer. At first it looked like the strike was going to end after a short time, so Dad took on sever­al projects that needed to be done around the house. One project he decided to do was to add insulation to the attic. When our new house on the Bing­ham Highway was finished in 1940 the builder had not put enough insula­tion in the attic to adequate­ly cool the house in summer and keep it warm in winter. Dad had been complaining about the insula­tion for some time, so with all the free time he had, he decided to do the attic insulation himself. In those days the most popular insulation was steel wool. It came in large bags that had to be taken into the attic and spread around by hand.

      Dad bought the stuff and since I was the one around most of the time, I got to help him put it in the attic. It was August when Dad finally decided to do the job . . . a bad mistake in judgment. That year we were also experiencing one of the hottest summers anyone could remember in years. Placing the insulation in attic was one of worst things I could ever remember doing in my younger years. The steel wool was simply awful to work with, especially when we got sweaty. It was bad enough for me, a young boy who was thin and didn't sweat much. But it must have been pure hell for Dad who weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He sweated at the drop of a hat.

      While the job was going I helped hold the light and shagged the bags to Dad while he crawled around in the tight quarters. At times he would have me squeeze into one of the lower roof areas to put the stuff in a corner he couldn't reach or fit into. But Dad was funny about doing things. He always want­ed to do things himself because he did not think anyone could do it as well as him, so he did most of the work.

 

 

August 25, 1948

 

"It's too hot to work up here during the day, Dad. Why don't we wait until night to do this, or do it in the winter or something? We've picked the hottest day of the year to do this."

 

"Just hold the light for me so I can get this done. There's only one corner left to do and we'll be through. I don't like this anymore than you do."

 

 "Mark, why don't you come down a few minutes and cool off. I've made some lemonade for you two."

 

"Ok, Mother, just give me another couple of min­utes and I'll have this last bag I have up here spread out."

 

This means we only have about three bags left. I hope Dad decides to do it to­night instead of trying to finish this after­noon.

 

      There wasn't much for me to do since Dad did the finishing touches with the last bag we had in the attic, so I excused myself and got down. When I got down, rather than do as he had asked and stay close by so I could hold the ladder for him under the access hatch when he got down, I did like Mom suggested and looked outside to see what Pat was doing. It was cooler outside and I really thought I de­served to have a few mo­ments to cool off after the hours I had spent in the attic.

 

"JACK, YOUR DAD NEEDS HELP. GET IN HERE QUICK. I THINK HE'S STUCK IN THE ATTIC HOLE."

 

"GOD DAMN YOU. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HOLDING THE STEP LADDER FOR ME. WHERE ARE ALL OF YOU?"

 

That's Dad's voice I hear bellow­ing out through the outside vent on the house. 

 

"Get in here quick, Jack; you've got to see this. Your dad tried to get down out of the attic and kicked the step ladder over. Now look at him, he's hanging there by his arm pits and I don't know how to help him."

 

Dad's going to kill me when he comes down. He said he wanted me nearby any­time he was up in the attic alone so I could hold the lad­der if he had to come down.

 

"Oh no, look what's hap­pened now. Your dad's pants; they've fallen off and are hanging around his boots."

 

"This is too funny, Mom. What are we going to do? Dad's pants have almost fallen to the floor.  What can we do?"

 

"We've got to get his pants up so we can put the ladder under his feet. Here, honey, you stand up the ladder and I'll try to get his pants up over his boots."

 

"I can't do this Mom. I'm laughing too hard."

 

"You better do it or your dad's going to skin us both alive. Can't you hear him? He's in pain hanging there by his arm pits. I know it’s funny. I can't help laughing ei­ther, but we'd better do some­thing fast, I'll tell you that. I don't think he can stand it much longer."

 

"YOU GOD DAMN WELL BETTER HURRY DOWN THERE. MY ARMS ARE ABOUT TO BE RIPPED OUT OF THEIR SOCK­ETS."

 

"Mark, we have the ladder under your feet, let yourself down a little bit. We've got you."

 

      Just before Hal went into the Navy in 1940 Mom and Dad had a brief religious period and decided that they needed to get married in the LDS Temple and have all the children sealed to them. I don't believe either of them ever went back to the Temple after that, but they both diligently wore their Temple Garments until their deaths. At that time their Temple Garments were like full body underwear with a large split in the rear to allow the wearer to go to the bathroom without completely disrobing. The Church hadn’t come up with two-piece garments by then. When Dad's pants fell down around his legs while he was holding himself in the attic trap door after he had kicked the ladder over, his entire lower body was exposed, including the split in the back of his garments that was facing us when we first arrived to rescue him from his dilemma.

 

I can't stand this. Dad's butt is hanging out of the split in his garments. If only we had a camera. This would be the photo of the year. If Dad would quit cursing he might be able to hear Mom.

 

"Let yourself down a little more, dear, we've got you."

 

He'd have it if he would just let himself down about an inch. Dad's got this thing about ladders.  Why does he always use ladders that are too short? I even have to jump up a ways to get into that hole from that short little ladder. I can't even imagine how Dad does it when he weighs so much. All he would have to do is get a little longer ladder and he could easily climb up or down. But now look at him hanging there with his behind hanging out of his garments and everything showing. He's really a sight. I still wish I had a camera.

 

"GOD DAMN YOU BOTH. WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I NEEDED YOU?"

 

Now we're going to get it. I hear it coming.

 

"Stand still, honey, so we can pull your pants up before you come down the ladder. See if you can help us and quit your damned cursing. We are doing the best we can do."

 

"I know you two were just standing down here laugh­ing at me instead of helping me."

 

I'm dead. Mom is too. I can't wipe the grin off my face and neither can Mom. Dad can see we've been laughing our heads off. Mom's still got tears running down her face.

 

"I was right here, Mark. Why didn't you call one of us to help you instead of just trying to get down by yourself? I could have helped you down. Don't blame Jack. I sent him outside to check on Patty. He was only gone for a second."

 

Good alibi, mom.  Maybe that will save me.

 

"I could have died hanging there, and you two would just be down here laughing you asses off. You had time while I was hanging there, why didn't you call all the neighbors in and the Deseret News, too, with me hanging there with my ass hanging out? You all could have had a good laugh about this. It wasn't so god damned funny to me, and don't you forget it."  

 

We won't forget this, Dad. Not on your life. Dad's trying to remain serious, but he's losing it. He's finally realizing how funny he must have looked. I think we are going to live through this one after all. 

 

Chapter 20

 

      Putting behind all of the uncertainty I had with education in general, during the summer of 1948 I began to get excited about high school and decided to try to make an entire­ly new start there. I figured I wasn't really dumb and I could catch up once I got in school, and more importantly, I believed I would be in a new, more acceptable envi­ronment. I had very few clothes that were suitable for high school, and Dad and Mom couldn't afford them for me, so I arranged to work the summer again for my Uncle Millard who was a part-time residential builder.

      Like Dad, Uncle Millard worked full time at the Utah Copper. Building one or two houses during the year gave him the extra money he need­ed to raise the big family he had. His sons, Bud and Keith were quite good car­penters so they ran the business while Uncle Millard was at work, so for most of the time I worked with my favorite cousin, Keith. He and I had always gotten along well. He was Ken's age (four years older than me) but didn't treat me like I was the "little brother" like Ken did. As a helper to Keith on the house we worked on that summer, I was able to learn to saw boards, use power tools, frame a house and generally make measurements on cutting and fitting frames for houses. Most of the time I was working, however, I was pulling nails out of boards and straightening them so they could be used again. Despite the fact that Keith and Bud made me really work to earn the few dollars a day I was making, I willingly worked and learned all I could about the trade.

      Late in the spring of 1948 I had visited Jordan High School for an orientation and thought I had a pretty good idea what I might expect there when I started in the fall. But when I actually began classes I was in for a real wake-up call. All summer I had planned and thought how I might change my image from a West Jordan farm boy to a more sophisticated person. For one, I would dress like people I saw there at the school who dressed differ­ent than most of the kids at West Jordan. No more Levis, for example. I knew if I wore Levis even one day I would be consid­ered one more of the hicks from the West Side, and I did not want that. Also I had to have wing-tip shoes. All the high school kids I had seen at Jordan seemed to be wearing wing-tip shoes, so I would have to get some of them.

      My summer work provided me with enough money to get some real nice clothes. I bought some Florsheim wing-tips, several dress shirts and a couple of pairs of tweed wool slacks. I knew I was set for the year with that outfit. However, when I got to the school that fall, dressed "properly," I dis­covered I was the only one dressed the way I was. I was still the odd one. I didn't look like the kids from West Jordan, but I also did not look like the East-Siders I thought I was going to look like. Even worse, I had forsaken all my friends from the West Side, so when I got there I did not know even one other person. So there I was in this school with over a thousand students and I didn't have one friend.

      My first few weeks in Jordan High School were devastating. I found myself still on the outside looking in like I had been in earlier years. In trying to pull away from the stigma of what I be­lieved my history in West Jordan had caused me to have, I created a no-man's land where no one else existed. There, all alone, I started to create my own place and peace with myself. From the beginning I realized school was going to be very difficult. My years of laziness had not prepared me for any of my classes, so almost from the first day I was destined to fail my classes. In my first Home Room class, to my chagrin, I was saddled with another teacher who in this class taught Civics and later in the day taught Gym. This Mr. Henderson was a duplicate of Mr. Johnson, my old junior high science and gym teacher. I could see I was in trouble with him from the first.

 

October 6, 1948

 

"Williams, why aren't you dressed for Gym?"

 

"I forgot my clean Gym clothes."

 

"Give me ten pushups, and then get out on that field. You're going to play anyway. No kid uses that excuse to get out of my class. You damned farmers from the West side all think you can get away with every­thing. I've got your number, Williams. You just better tow the mark."

 

He's just like Mr. Johnson. I've got to find out a way to get out of this class. I hate this stuff.  That modern dance class I was watching the other day. Maybe I could get into that. I might be able to use the old bruised heel trick. It worked once; it might just work again.

 

 

October 9, 1948

 

"Mr. Henderson, I've got this note from the school nurse to check out of this class. She said I shouldn't be playing these sports because of the bruised heel I got late last year that hasn't healed up yet."

 

"Is this true? How did you bruise your heel?"

 

"Well, I was running the high hurdles when I caught my heel on one of them. It hurt pretty badly at the time, and then later the doctor said I had bruised my heel and it might take a year or more to heel up. He said I shouldn't be doing this kind of stuff."

 

"Well, you have my permission, but you still have to come in on Wednesdays and take Hygiene. You can't get out of that."

 

It worked. I don't have to do this anymore. Maybe now, I can get into that Modern Dance class, after all. 

 

Chapter 21

 

      While I was doing my thing trying to get accli­mated to high school, things at home continued to be about the same. Dad was still thinking up funny things to do and was trying them out on everyone who would listen. When company came over he was always somehow the center of attention with his funny stories about work and with all the jokes he told in his five or six foreign ac­cents. His version of the attic story would come up for anyone who would listen. Each time he told the story about getting stuck in the attic trap door it got a little funnier when he added more and more to the story. It was such a good one, we all thought at the time that Dad had reached his apex in funny things that hap­pened to him. Maybe he had, but unbe­known to us he had another one up his sleeve. This one would involve Ken, our cousin Keith, Dad and me in one of the most bazaar things he had ever done with pur­pose.

      We didn't know anything was even being planned when we got involved. We knew Dad was always trying to find things he could do to amuse people and he had men­tioned in other years that he always wanted to be a clown and be in a circus. He had also mentioned he would like to be in a parade someday. He claimed he had never been in one before. It came to us as a big surprise when he announced one day that he was going to be riding a donkey with the Sheriff’s Posse in the Midvale Harvest Days Parade that year. We all had some picture of what that might look like, but Dad surprised us all when we really found out the entire program he had in mind:

 

 

October 12, 1948

 

"I've arranged to get Bill Leek's donkey for Midvale Harvest Days and I'm planning to ride it in the parade tomorrow with the Sheriff’s Posse. Those pompous asses who ride their fancy horses in the Posse are going to have the surprise of their lives. You can bet on it."

 

What is this? What is Dad up to now? I've seen that creature and I can't imag­ine anyone riding it anywhere, let alone Dad who must weigh over two hundred and sixty pounds right now. He hasn’t said anything about a costume. What’s he going to wear?

"I'll get you up early tomorrow so we can do the chores, then you can go borrow Millard's truck . . . I've already arranged that with Millard. Take it up to Leak’s and pick the animal up and then meet me in Midvale by the Smelter Office. Do you know where that is? I'm planning to be there about 8 a.m.; you'll have to be sure to get there on time."

 

That's all?  Just go pick up the donkey like that?  This is going to be interesting.

 

 

October 13, 1948

 

"I heard Dad talking to Uncle Mark yes­terday about riding in the parade on Bill Leek's donkey. Dad said Uncle Mark is going to be dressed in some kind of costume. Is that right? Dad's having me drive you over, so I'll go with you to pick up the donkey."

 

"We didn’t hear anything about any costume. All he told us what he was riding the donkey with the Sheriff’s Posse? He didn't tell us any more than that."

 

Keith's a sport. I'm glad he's going with us. Keith is more like a brother than a cousin. At least he has been more like a brother to me. I'm never too young for him. He invites me to go places with him and always treats me pretty good. I'm glad he's coming along. Maybe I won't get bossed around by Ken so much with him there.

 

"Damn this animal. I knew donkeys were stubborn, but I never dreamed it would be this hard to get one to get onto the back of a truck."

 

Bill Leek told Ken we might have some trouble getting old "Dan" to cooperate. I can't imagine how we are going to get him to Midvale by 8 a.m.

 

"You get up on him and ride, Jack. May­be we can get him out of the field that way, and then it might be that he will get up on the truck."

"I don't know how to ride a donkey. How am I going to stay on him?  Look at that backbone I have to ride on. It's three inches high and sharp as a razor."

 

"Well, you're the smallest, and he won't get so tired with you riding him. Just get up on him and quit complaining. Ken will lead him out of the field, and then I'll take the truck down the road a ways where we can try again to load him."

 

I can't believe this. Not only are my nuts getting crushed by this animal's back­bone, his skin rolls from side to side about four inches every time he takes a step.  

 

"This is taking too long, Ken. We’re never going to make to Midvale on time. We have to stop again to try to get him loaded on the truck. Me and Jack have already ridden him about all we can stand, and I think you’re too heavy. I’ve been on him over a half mile and his back­bone is killing me."

 

"Just keep riding him Jack. That's the only way he will move. I'll keep twisting his tail until I find something to beat him on the ass with and then we can try again to get him aboard."

 

That's no use. I'll be dead by the time we catch up with Keith again. I'll just jump off while he is still moving. Maybe this stubborn bugger will keep going that way.

 

"You stupid little shit. Don't get off. Can't you see he stops every time you get off?"

 

"You ride him for a while and see how you like getting your nuts smashed every time he takes a step."

 

"Get back on. I’m too heavy. We’ll tire him out. We've only got a little ways before we catch up with the truck. We'll get him on this time. You'll see. Besides it’s getting late. We better get him loaded or Dad's going to be having a ca­nary."

 

"Don't stop now, you damned stubborn son-of-a-bitch. We only have a half mile to go."

I can't believe that me and Keith have ridden this animal clear from Leek's farm to the Jordan River. Maybe if we had a carrot. I've always heard that you can lead a don­key with a carrot; if we only had a carrot.

 

Damn, he's sitting down. Now what are we going to do?"

 

"Kick him hard, Keith, it's already passed eight o'clock. Dad's going to raise hell with us for not getting there on time."

 

Man, I barely had time to get off before he sat down. That's all we need. Dad is going to be mad.

 

      When we finally got to Midvale, Dad was waiting for us literally "steaming" mad. We were almost an hour later than we expected to be and Dad was frantic. The parade had already left and Dad was standing there by his car in the sun with in a costume. He was a sight. Sweating until he was almost dead and madder than a wet hen. Seeing Dad when we finally rounded the corner by the smelter office was a big shock for all of us. In secret, Dad had gone to the Salt Lake Costume House and rented this English Bobby's costume. It was complete with the heavy wool pants, a heavier wool coat, and the tall traditional English Bobby hat. When we caught up to him, he was truly sweating.  Even though it was still early morning, he was already almost overcome by the heat.

"Where the hell have you boys been? The last part of the parade is already around the corner. It's going to put me right on the very end behind all the Sheriff's Posse's riders. I wanted to be in front of them, now I can't. There's no way I'll even catch up now. How come you're leading the ani­mal? Why didn't you load him onto the truck like I said? Look, he's all sweaty too. It’s so damned hot this morning, I don't know how this is ever going to work. Help me get on this beast. Take that blanket out of the car there that I can put on his back and let's go. I don't want to waste any more time than I have.  I don't know how this is going to work, anyway."

 

Dad never waits for an answer. I'm sure he doesn't even want to know that we had to lead or ride the damned donkey all the way from Leek's. It must be over four miles here from his farm. Dad's costume is a scream. I never dreamed he would really wear a costume to ride in the parade. He must be crazy. It looks like it's made of wool, too. He must be roasting the way he's already sweating. I sure hope he makes it.

 

"One of you better stay with me while I try to catch up with the parade. Jack, you get a stick, and if he stops like you boys said he did on the way over, you beat the hell out of him on the rump and keep him going."

 

I really want to be a mile from here; not following along with Dad clear to State Street. Dad looks so goofy on that animal with his long legs dragging the ground on both sides. I thought I had it rough. Dad weighs so much, I don't think the donkey is going to last. Maybe if I just stay on the sidewalk while he goes up the road, no one will know I'm with him.

 

"Ken, you and Keith take the truck and meet me up on State and Center Street. That's where the parade is supposed to end. Just wait there for me."

 

Old Dan must be able to smell the horses up ahead. He's on a trot now. I can't believe Dad is staying on that bugger. His loose skin is rolling side to side worse than it did with me. I'm sure glad Dad had a blanket to put on Dan's back. I wish I would have had one. My butt is still hurting from riding on that razor back creature. I'm lucky I don't have to go out and beat the donkey now that we are in with the parade crowd. I'd hate for anyone who knows me to see me with Dad. I would never be able to live it down. Every­body seems to know Dad though. Lots of people are laugh­ing and calling out his name. I'm sure they think he must be crazy.

 

Oh my hell, the donkey is stopping and whinny­ing every time it comes up to a pud­dle or a pile left by the Sheriff's Posse's horses. It won't even walk through a pud­dle. The crowd loves this. Some report­er even took his picture. I'll bet he gets in the paper for this.

 

"Come out here, Jack and help me off this critter. I can't take this anymore. That razor back on this old son-of-a-bitch is killing me. I'm going to have to stop and have you go fetch Ken and Keith and the truck. Run ahead and find them. You know where they will be don't you?"

 

I knew he wouldn't last. He looked so tired, I hope he doesn't drop dead before I get back. At least he was sitting in the shade when I left. Now if I can just find Ken and Keith.

 

"Look at that damned fool animal, Uncle Mark. He's getting right in the truck. He must know we are going home. We could not even get him near the tailgate on the way over. Now look at him."

 

"Just get me and that animal out of here. That was the most damned fool thing I ever did in my life. If I live through this, I hope somebody fixes my head before I ever attempt a stupid thing like this again."

 

Yeh, you say that, Dad, but I'll bet you take the next chance to do something funny without even thinking about what happened today. You never miss a chance to goof off like that.

 

      None of us knew it at the time, but this one incident seemed to be an unlucky milestone in my dad’s life. He was so exhausted from the ride on the donkey that day that I believe it resulted in taking Dad one step nearer to his ultimate early death five years later. Something changed for him that day that we all noticed. His health began to show signs of debilitation right after that. First he was diagnosed with sugar diabetes, and then later he had to go on a serious diet to protect his heart. In addition after that he never attempted any more hard labor other than his own work at the Utah Copper and he seemed like he was always tired . . . so much unlike his normal self.

 

Chapter 22

 

      When I was a sophomore in high school I was shy and afraid of almost everything I came upon. I had never before been so alone. I had gotten rid of all my friends from West Jordan, sold out on all my old ways and was now getting into a new kind of life. My two interests and the places where I began to show up for myself were in my Art and Chorus classes I had chosen because I thought they would be easy. They were easy. Right away I noticed I could excel in something and that was new for me. Mr. Crapo listened to my singing and tested me on my ability to read music and immediately put me in the lead Tenor section in the chorus. Then he asked me if I would like to take singing lessons from him. I accepted and immediately started to take lessons several nights a week after school. This created some problems for me since I had to take the Late Activities Bus all the way from Sandy across the valley to West Jordan by way of Riverton and South Jordan. Most night I would arrive home after walking the last half mile from the drop-off point on Redwood Road around seven or eight o’clock at night. Not only was the problem of getting home late and usually missing supper, I was also missing evening chores . . . a situation that did not set well with my folks. Ken was married and was gone by then so Dad counted on me being home evenings so I could do the farm chores.

      My art class was taught by Donald Olson who became my mentor in many ways other than art. Of all the teachers I had throughout high school, he was by far my favorite. He, too, took a personal interest in me and began to give me special attention in his class. His daughter, Evelyn, was also in my classes, giving me even more things for which I wanted to be in his class. Evelyn and I be­gan to talk from the first few weeks we were in class to­ge­th­er, and I im­m­e­di­ate­ly fell in love for the first time since my earlier experience with Lois Cooper in Junior High.

      In the art class, after a few weeks into that first year in high school, I began to find some friends I liked. All the kids I liked were different, and that was exactly what I had hoped for. The one young man I most wanted to be friends with, Marlon Bateman, was the most unusual of all. He was talent­ed and could do more in his art than anyone I had ever known. His talents far out­weighed all the others in the class. I wanted to be around him and learn from him, but I soon learned he was so undepend­able, I could never trust what from one moment to another he was going to do. When I got to know Marlon more I noticed his per­sonality and talents were much the same as my old friend Bill Gardner. Both were frightfully and totally undependable, both were very talented (in different ways), both were intelligent, and what attracted me most with both of them, was the excitement and fun I had being with them. With Mar­lon the view I had changed consid­erably, however. Rather than looking at the world from a buggy or from the back of a horse, now we saw the world from behind the steering wheel of Marlon's dad's car.

Marlon’s family was rich and he was terribly spoiled so when he wanted something he thought the world (or his dad) owed it to him he simply had to ask for it and it was there for him. It didn’t matter if it was money, clothes, painting supplies or his father’s car, when he asked for those things he got them . . . often, he even stole things from him parents like money when his folks were not around to give it to him. It was incredible to me having come from a relatively poor environment to all at once be chasing around with someone who had a car and all the money and swell clothes he needed when he wanted it. The one thing with Marlon, though, he was generous with all of it when it came to his friends. He never flinched if I said I didn't have any money and we want­ed to do something.

 

October 18, 1948

 

"Let's slough school today, Jack. I made us a couple of Hall Passes we can use to get out of the building. We can sneak down the back of the school and take my Old Lady's car and go to the canyon or something. I've already talked to Evelyn and Ardeth. They both want to go too."

 

I can't get over how Marlon refers to his mother and dad as "My Old Man" or "My Old Lady". I'd be killed if I even thought about that for a second about my folks. This is great sneaking off with Evelyn, however. I want to get to know her better anyway.

 

"That's great, Marlon. I'm, all for it. I don't have any money though. Can we go someplace that it don't cost anything? Look. I'll pay for gas too, when I get some money. I'm working for my uncle on week­ends and will be able to help out a little on gas."

 

"Don't worry about it. My Old Man keeps the car full of gas for my mom. They never question me when I use it. Have you seen the girls? Let's be for getting out of this place."

 

"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen. What do they call it up here?"

 

"Albion Basin. There used to be a mining camp just down there. See those old buildings? That must have been part of the old town of Alta. Isn't this a spectacular view?"

 

"I love the flowers the most. They are so beautiful. Can't we take some back with us?"

 

"Ya, I guess. I can't see what it would hurt."

 

"Marlon, I've got to get back to school before my bus leaves. If I'm not on that bus when it gets out to Granite where my mom picks me up, I'm going to be in big trouble."

      Sloughing school with Marlon and later with some of the other kids became the thing for me after I became more attuned to high school life. We were crafty when we did it and never once got caught. The kids I sloughed with were all in Mr. Olson's art class. We were considered the prize stu­dents by Mr. Olson and his daughter Evelyn was a member of our group, so he more or less looked the other way when we were so engaged in slipping out of school. Be­cause we were all pretty good at art, too, we all finished our lessons on time so we were well ahead of the game.

            I soon became quite well known in the art, music and drama circles at school and when I tried out for a part in the play, Oh Doctor, I landed a leading part first try. I was ecstatic about the opportunity, but I was scared to death because of my inability to memorize lines. I was good at buffaloing my way through most things, so I went for it anyway. The result some weeks after my tryout of acting on stage, however, was a disaster that almost made my acting career go away. As I expected I would, on the opening night I forgot most of my lines and was constantly being cued from the sidelines. But I got through it anyway with a few adlibs and soon I was trying out for the musical com­ing up the following spring. Like before, I landed a leading role and was now struggling with music words as well as the lines.

      The "intellectual" group I was beginning to associate with in my high school art class was very stimulating to me. Several of my friends in Art Class sat around often and theorized on various subject of which none of us had a clue. Our results were always abstract and rarely amounted to anything.

 

October 25, 1948

 

"My concept of time is that it is three dimensional. It starts here and goes there, but also has this other dimension that fills the space it is in at the time."

 

"I don't get it, Evelyn. How could time even have a dimension? This is all crap. Time just exists and we move along in it."

 

"Time doesn't even really exist, Jack. For something to exist it has to be tangible. Look at this picture on the wall. It exists because I can touch it. My watch here on my arm exists because I can see and touch it, but the time it is counting off, that's just movement of physical parts."

 

"You're telling me that if something exists I should be able to touch it or see or feel it?"

 

      So the conversations went on endlessly. While we all became more acquainted with the art world through Donald Olson's daily lectures about art appreciation the more my world expanded and the more I began to question things. And as that new world began to expand around me so did my independence and distancing from my place at home. At sixteen I could drive, I was seeing life in a new way and I decided to have some things for myself in a new way.

      Most of the boys in school I noticed were cutting their hair in crew cuts or "flat tops" as we called them leaving the sides long so that the hair could be combed back into a duck tail. Up to that time my mother had com­pletely dictated how I would wear my "beautiful" curly hair. Because of Mother’s insistence I had little choice in how I combed it or how it was cut. Essen­tially I wore it with the part on the right side with a strong wave starting near the part extending up about two inches above my forehead then draping across to a point above the ear. At this point in my newly independent life, my desire to change my hair-style came to me in a “wave.” I had some money so I hitch-hiked a ride to my regular barber in Midvale where the new Jack was about to be launched.

 

October 30, 1948

 

"How you doing, Jack? Haven't seen you here for a while. You’re in high school now I taken it. How would you like your hair cut?"

 

"I want a crew cut, flat on top about one half inch high, then leave the sides long so I can comb them back into a duck tail."

"That's pretty radical for you. Your mom's going to have a fit."

 

"It's all right with her. I told her I was going to do it today."

 

I know if I don't lie to him he will never cut it the way I want.

 

"David, I came by to see if I could get you to bleach my hair out like yours."

 

"Hey, man. You did it. You had all your curls cut off. Has your Old Lady seen it yet?"

 

"Not yet. Can you just help me bleach it? I've got the peroxide. I just need you to help me; I don't know where to start."

 

"Well you’ve come to the right place. My sister is home. I'll get her to do it for you. She did mine."

 

"WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME DID YOU DO WITH YOUR HAIR? Have you lost your mind?  I've never seen anything like that before. Your dad's going to hear about this. All those beautiful curls; and I loved those curls. I can't believe you went and done this, Jack. I could just scream."

 

You'd never understand, Mom. I've wanted you to quit fussing over me for years. Maybe this will do it for you. I don't like all your dawdling over me all the time.

 

"I had to do it, Mom. All the kids in high school have this haircut."

 

"I don't give a damn if every kid in China has a haircut like that, it don't make it right. You've got to do something about it. Your dad . . . "

 

      Mother didn't let up on me for weeks about my haircut. Everywhere we went together, Mom announced her disgrace in me to everyone. That, of course brought her a lot of sympathy and understanding, but it tended to cause us to grow apart. I soon got tired of all the chastisement I got from the family, my aunts and older cousins, and just dug in more and became more indepen­dent. I enjoyed being in control for the first time in my life, however, I paid a price for it. Every time I turned around someone was on my case about my hair or my choice of clothes. The process even turned on me when in a short time the style would not stay in place like the other kids. My hair was so curly and light, it continued to do what it had always done . . . part in the right side and lay down on top (not stand up in a true crew cut-like style). The bleached color was horrid as well, so I lost almost all the way around. In other ways the experience benefited me greatly. I had gotten away with a bold and coura­geous feat. I could never turn back. I was now in charge of my own life, I thought.

      After the first quarter of my sophomore year I enrolled in French and started thinking I would like to be an interpreter or world traveler as well as an artist. I checked out of Shop class I had only reluc­tantly taken because of Dad's insistence and I took a Library class instead so I could begin to read more. I found a way to pay for the singing lessons I from took Mr. Capo's with my weekend work with Uncle Millard. Along with another boy my age, I enrolled in an after-school Modern Dance Club. I was through listening to Dad's lectures on practicality. I was becoming my own per­son.

      As aggressive as I was in attempting to reshape my life now that I was "indepen­dent" and free, I began to experience some problems. These were apparent most notice­ably in my school work. English, for an example, was an anathema for me. While I tried, my English class got worse and worse. I was poorly prepared for spelling and grammar because of my prior years of laziness; all hope seemed to be lost for achieving good grades or ever learning anything in English, so I began to get D's and F's on all my papers. Moreover, I started hating the class. Other academic subjects resulted in much the same. I had learned very few study skills and totally freaked out on tests. I felt like I knew the material I was study­ing, but tests seemed to prove differ­ent­ly. My only successes that first year were in the Art and Chorus classes were I got straight A's.

      Life went on as I struggled from class to class, despite my failing grades. I did get a little more socially adept as time went on, but most of my social life centered on my friends in art class. However I developed few friends in my music class. I be­lieve it was because the music teacher, Mr. Crapo liked me so well and showed extraor­dinary favor to me and the other kids resent­ed this.

      During my first year in high school my heart-throb was for Evelyn Olson. She was nice enough to me, but I couldn't get close to her. She was involved with a junior boy and seemed to be going steady with him, so things never really developed between us like I wished it would. I still did all I could to persuade her to like me more. In Art and French where we were together, I could at least be by her and talk to her as much as I could, but the entire process was pretty superficial. I finally backed off for the time being with Evelyn and began to open my eyes to other possibilities.

      In my Speech Class a young red headed girl sat directly in front of me. I was so attracted by her flowing red hair I could hardly keep my mind on my subjects. I had the greatest desire to touch her hair and run my hands through it. She was also a very pretty girl by my standards and I was at­tract­ed by her friendliness. I had seen her in the halls holding hands with a senior football player so I held little confidence in develop­ing anything serious with her. After a long period of agonizing over her I decid­ed to make an attempt anyway through a note I sent to her:

 

Dear Jenny,

I've been sitting here behind you all these weeks wishing I could get to know you better. What can I do to be your friend?

Jack

 

      When I slipped the note to Jenny I saw her read it then she turned around and just smiled at me with no response. I remember my heart pounding at what I interpreted as her willingness to at least be my friend. Nothing happened right away, but in a few days the Speech Teacher an­nounced a pro­ject that would require the students in class to pair off into study partners. When the teacher gave the assignment, Jenny turned around and asked if I would like to work with her. I accepted, immediately.

      Over the next few weeks while Jenny and I worked together on our project, I got to know her quite well. She was from Draper, and that was a problem since I lived in West Jordan some ten miles away. But that didn’t really stop me from moving ahead with this girl. The other problem was her involvement with the football player whom she had been dating since she was fourteen. She even told me she was going to marry this big dude. I was angry about her marriage plans and talked to her at length about them. Nothing I could say seemed to faze her. She was determined. She even said she may not even finish school since she was so com­mitted to getting married as soon as her boyfriend graduated.

      For weeks after Jenny’s and my friendship developed some I would set behind her and run my hands through her long red hair that always flowed out over my desk top. She never seemed to mind one way or other that I did that. Near the end of the first Semester when I thought things were going quite well be­tween Jenny and me, I was confronted unex­pectedly in the hall by her football player boyfriend and three of his companions.

 

November 12, 1948

 

"Hey, you little scum, I hear you've been sidling up to my girlfriend Jenny late­ly."

 

"Yeh, we have speech class together and we've worked on a speech project for a while. So what?"

 

"Well, it's all over. I don't want you even talking to Jenny, let alone doing any­thing with her. And I'm warning you, if I catch you anywhere near her I'm going to break every bone in your body. You hear that, you little freak?"

 

These guys are just like my West Jordan bullies. Always in a crowd when they at­tack. Never alone. I'll bet that jerk's story would be different if he were alone with me.

 

"Look, get off my back. Okay? I'm not involved with Jenny except in Speech Class where we have to talk to each other. It's just part of the class."

 

"Well, you heard me, squirt. Just re­member what I said."

 

      Jenny's boyfriend must have gotten to her with a warning about the same time as he talked to me. From that day on, every­thing died out between us. She even asked me not to play with her hair and eventually moved to another seat at the back of the room despite the fact that she liked to sit up front because of her poor eyesight. The incident with Jenny left me feeling pretty lost that first year. Evelyn Olson and I were not working out and now I had lost Jenny, so I was pretty depressed. I had yet not found anyone else I liked better out of all the hundreds of girls that were available.

      I continued to have problems finding girls I liked. But on a couple of occasions girls that liked me found me and that was a differ­ent problem for me. In the musical operetta I got involved in after the Christmas season of that first high school year, the person I was playing opposite to, a junior-age girl, took an unexpected liking to me. We had one part in the performance where we had to kiss and she seemed like she could hardly wait to get me in her arms. She was a pretty girl and had a beautiful voice, but I could hardly stand to be near her. For some reason she had this strong body odor that was so repulsive I shied away from her like the plague. Everyone encouraged and laughed at us when it got time to rehearse our "romantic" part, but I was so incensed I just acted shy and said I would kiss her on the dress rehearsal. I was able to hold out until then, but it didn't stop this girl from hanging around me all the time after rehearsals. I was glad she lived in Sandy and not West Jordan; all the rehearsals were after school, and I would have hated to ride home with her on the bus. After the musical was over, I was able to stay out of her reach and eventually lost track of her.

 

 

 

Chapter 23

 

      Things happened so fast and I was lost so much during my sophomore year in high school, the whole period seemed to be a blur even when it was happening. I had experience such trauma the beginning of the school year from the clothes I had chosen to wear, I committed to myself that during the summer of 1949 I would be working and saving all my money to buy clothes that were decent for my junior year. I decided it had to create a different, more acceptable image.

 

 

May 30, 1949

 

"Lee, Dad thought if I asked you, you might be able to hire me this summer to work on your construction work projects. I need to earn some money this summer for school."

 

"Sure, kid, I owe Uncle Mark some favors anyway since he helped me out when I first bought my crane and he taught me how to run it. When do you want to come to work? I could start you this weekend if you are still in school."

 

"That sounds real good, Lee. I'd like to start this weekend. Where do you want me to come, and what time?"

 

      The man I went to work for, Lee Ander­son, was an adult cousin on my dad's side. I was pretty nervous going to work for him from all I had heard around the family about the kind of work he was doing and the general kind of business man he was. He had gotten into business with the brothers of his wife who were considered to be some of the roughest people in the valley at the time and they had a reputation that was known all over. Lee, however, was a simple and gentle man. He was just into the wrong business and part of a crazy family of poor businessmen.

 

June 3, 1949

 

"Ok, Jack, what we have here is ce­ramic sewer pipes that connect up to the sewer drains coming out of the houses. We take it from there, run the mains and hook up the mains to the houses, like this here. Your job, primarily, is going to be to put these two and one half foot sections together with this oakum and then seal it with the hot tar. That pipe rack over there holds all size pipes.  We stand up the pipes on the rack, wire them in place so they don't fall over then put the tar and oakum in them until it seals the two pipes together. Jerry, here, will walk you through the rou­tine a few times until you get the hang of it. Just be careful of that hot tar. Don't get any of it on your bare skin."

 

      That was my introduction to the fine art of sewer pipe section assembly. My cousin Lee had a big contract to put all the sewer mains and laterals in for the entire new City of Kearns and I was going to be a part of that for the entire summer. Kearns had just recently been acquired from the government. The entire area had been a U.S. Air Force base dur­ing the Second World War.  Most all of the barracks and other buildings had been sold and moved off the camp, and a new city was being created.

      I would soon learn that sewer installation was a major undertaking and that it was the hardest work I would ever experience up to that time. The work was interesting and challenging because it changed all the time, but still it was also very dangerous. One danger was with the use of the hot tar as a sealant that I worked with daily; and the other was the occasions when I worked down in the trenches where cave-ins occurred occa­sionally.

      Part of my job was to take two hundred pound cylinders of hard tar, break them into small pieces that would fit into buckets, heat the bucket without setting the tar on fire until the tar was at a pouring consistency . . . not too hot, not too cold, but well over 200°F. From there I would take the tar in small contain­ers, usually something like a metal coffee pot and pour it carefully into the ring around the pipe joints to seal the pipe and join short sections into longer ones. When I got more proficient at this, I was allowed to go into the trenches and put the shorter sections into place. There the technique was much more difficult and dangerous. Not only was I handling hot tar, I was also working in trenches, while bending over sometimes down in the trench ten to twelve feet below the surface. Pouring tar into the horizontal pipe sections was also much more difficult since we were unable to see if the seal was made until the rope retainer was removed.

      The project at Kearns was an astound­ingly large effort that Lee had taken on. It was so large, in fact, that it almost over­whelmed his small, rather shoddy operation. Lee was so easy-going by nature that he never took good care of his equipment either. I guess he just figured it would magically take care of itself. On smaller jobs he had been able to get away with his mistakes, but now that he was on a larger, more critical opera­tion and the government was involved, his work was very visible. Day after day his equipment was breaking down, and then in one section of the new city, he encountered a difficult hard pan in the trenches that made trenching almost impossible. In addition, because Kearns was being built on a large sand hill, one of the remaining beaches of the ancient Lake Bonneville, the trenches were always subject to caving and had to be excavated extra wide to protect the work­ers in the trenches.

      I made it through about two thirds of the summer working with Lee, but finally he had to shut down his operations and lay off all his workers to get his equipment back in shape. I had earned and saved a few hun­dred dollars by then, so I was satisfied. I could buy clothes and I still would have some money to take a short vacation up north to visit my brother, Hal before having to go back to school.

 

July 27, 1949

 

"Dad, I've been thinking I would like to take a week or so and go up north to Rich­land and visit Hal and Ole. Hall called and wants me to come up and got on a trip with him and Ole. I want to take your car as far as Hal's then leave it there until I come home. From his place they’re plan­ning a trip up to Canada and they want me to go with them."

 

"You want to drive my car all the way to Richland alone? What would I do for transportation to get to work and the like in the meantime?"

 

      I had worked that all out ahead of time with Mom. When I first introduced the idea to her she suggested I ask Dad then suggest he take the car pool to work for the week or so. She thought otherwise for a week or two they could get along without a car. Aunt Nell always was just up the street and she could help out with groceries buying and such, Mom suggested.

 

"Couldn't you car pool to work? And Aunt Nell’s just up the street and Mom says she could have her take you places if needs be. Ken's around too and maybe would be available in the evenings after he gets home from work. What about him taking you where you want to go?"

 

"Well, son, it don't sound like too good an idea for me, not having a car and all, but I'll give it some thought and let you know. I want to talk to your mother. She worries about such things, you know. I don't think she would like the idea of you driving all the way up there alone. You say Hal has already asked you to go to Canada with him and Ole? Are you sure he wants you tag­ging along? Where are they going exactly? When are they planning to leave?"

 

Dad, you are so full of questions. Why don't you just go talk to Mom? She's al­ready said she thought it was a good idea.

 

"I don't know all the details, Dad. Hal just wants me up there on August 5th. I think they are planning to travel up to Cana­da for about two weeks. They said that my part of the trip wouldn't cost anything, and I've got enough money for gas and food to get me up there and back all right. Come-on Dad. You know I am a good driver and would take care of your car. And I wouldn't drive it fast either. I would drive mostly at night when there's not too much traffic on the road. Besides, I'm old enough, and I'll only be gone at most two weeks and a couple of days to drive up and back."

 

"I said I'll think about it. Now I've got to get going on my chores. Also before dinner I need to talk to Fred Burmester's about borrowing his hay bailer."

 

July 29, 1949

 

I wonder if Dad has had enough time to think about me taking the car to Washing­ton. Maybe I can work around to where I can ask Mom to talk to him about it.

 

"Mom, did Dad talk to you about me going to Washington? He hasn't said a word to me about it."

 

"Well, honey, are you sure you want to drive all the way up there alone? You know it's about an eleven or twelve-hour drive up there, don't you? Are you planning to drive straight through? What if you get sleepy?"

 

"Mom, you already said you were okay about this. How come you're asking all these questions now?"

 

"Well, your Dad and I did talk about it and he was just wondering how I felt about all that. I don't know, honey. I don't think it’s such a good idea for you at your age and all. I told Dad I thought you ought to go, but I don't know now if he is all that excited about it."

 

Dang! I thought I could get Mom to really talk Dad into this, but now it don't look like it worked especially now after what she just said.

 

July 30, 1949

 

"Son, I've been thinking about you going to Washington and I'm wondering why don't you just take a bus up there? It would be cheaper than driving and much safer. You wouldn't be driving all that way alone. Don't you think that would be better?"

 

I think Dad is really considering me taking his car. Why else would he be asking me these questions? Now what can I do to move this into my favor?

 

"I thought about riding the bus, and I could do that. But Dad, I've never done anything like this alone before. I really want to do it. Didn't you ever want to have an adventure just on your own like this when you were my age? Didn't you say you went up in the mountains for a whole summer alone herding sheep when you were about sixteen? Come-on Dad, this is really important to me."

 

“Well, I don't know.  It's going to be a big hardship on us being here for three weeks without a car, but Ken did say he or Donna will be around to give your mom or I a ride if we need one. And Nell is always going somewhere and she could give Mother a ride if Ken's not around. I guess it will be all  right, even though it's against my better judgment."

 

      Everything Dad was hesitant to do was always against his "better judgment." But when he said that I knew he was always convinced that he had made the right choice.

 

"That's great, Dad. If it's all right, I'll leave on the Friday the forth of August right after you get home from work. I'll be able to drive a good part of the way when it's cool and there won't be so much traffic at night, that way. Thanks a lot. I'll be care­ful and I won't drive the old Chevy that fast."

 

"Okay, son. That gives me a few days to check the old bucket of bolts out before you go. I think it could use some new plugs and a tune up. But I'll get that all taken care of for you."

 

Dad's all right. I think he agreed with my plan from the first, the way it sounded. I sure hope Mom don't talk him out of it now.

 

August 6, 1949

 

"It's so good to see you. How was your drive up? Dad called when he couldn't give you the car until Saturday. But that was all right. Hal didn't have everything ready to go yesterday anyway. But how was your trip? Tell me."

 

"I drove almost all the way straight through, Ole. I got real sleepy last night just outside Boise, so I stopped alongside the road and slept for an hour or so, but from there on it was pretty good. One thing over near Walla Walla, I got stopped for going through some little town too fast. The cop just gave me a warning ticket, though, and a good talking to about people going to church on Sunday morning, and that I had to slow down. But the scariest thing hap­pened just after I left there. I was just getting back up to speed doing about fifty or so when an old owl exploded out of the weeds on the side of the road and I hit him dead center of the car's windshield. Lucki­ly, he hit just where the divider is on the middle of the windshield and it only dented the car a little and didn't break the window. I'll have to wash the blood off before I go home. But I was pretty lucky that he hit there. I stopped to see if I had killed the bird, but couldn't find it anywhere. It must have flown on or crawled away. I was real lucky."

 

"Well, we're glad to have you here safe and sound. Come on in and rest a bit. Hal's gone to the store for a while. We'll be getting out of here real soon. I'm look­ing forward to having you along on this trip. I just hope with you along, Hal won't be drinking so much now."

 

Hal's been drinking a lot? I knew he had a bit of a problem when they lived down in Utah before they moved up north, but this is news to me.

 

"Hal's been drinking a lot? I didn't know he even drank anyway?"

 

"Yes, honey. Since he's been in the Union Presidency here, he's been drinking a lot. He's gained a lot of weight, too. I just hope this vacation will get him away from all this. I'm really worried about his health. But I'm more concerned about his drinking."

 

      The next two weeks traveling around Canada was wonderful. Hal did cut back on his drinking much to Ole's joy and every day was a new adventure. We went north from Richland using Hal's luxurious new 1949 Kaiser. Just riding in that car was a joy after being in Dad's old used cars all my life. But Canada really had some new things to experience. We first went several hundred miles north of the border and camped on a large lake for a few days then we came down to the southern border to a highway that cuts all across Canada, east and west, and made our way all the way to Vancouver, B.C. From there we crossed over to Vancouver Island and down it to Victoria, then took a ferry to Seattle. From there it was a straight shot back across the mountains east to Richland. 

      While we were in Canada we camped out almost every night . . . most nights along the river that runs west along the border. Hal, I learned, was an avid fisherman . . . even more so than I, so every time we stopped he was off somewhere fishing. Every moment Ole was with me alone for the entire trip, she languished on the problems she was having in her mar­riage. I felt like a sound­ing board for her troubles, but I felt fortu­nate that she trusted me enough to talk about them to me. I was glad to be there for her, and for the first time since Hal and she were married, I really got to know this wonderful woman.

      Because there were so many years between our ages and the fact that Hal had gone to the Navy during the War for four years while I was between the ages of seven and eleven, I hadn't ever gotten to known Hal very well; but this trip made it some­what better. I was no longer "too little" for him and he for the first time I could re­mem­ber treated me like I was a brother; and what was better, I felt for the first time like an adult. Furthermore, I hadn't really seen much of Hal over the previous ten years. He was in high school when the War started and he enlisted by lying about his age and went in at seventeen; then he was gone all through the War. Even before he was out of the Navy he got mar­ried to Viola, settling first in Utah for a short time then moving north to Idaho, and then later to Richland, Washington.

      Our trip around the Canadian loop through all of southern British Columbia and then back took us a good twelve days. That put us back in Richland just in time for me to return home and start my second year in high school.

 

Chapter 24

 

      I launched into the new school year as a junior somewhat better prepared socially than I had been the year before, but still poorly prepared to face the academic chal­lenges I had to bear in the coming year. The previous years of poor grades had left me feeling hopeless of ever going to college even though I had considered it going into high school, so I had signed up for classes in my junior year that would allow me to just get by. My focus continued to be on art, music drama and French where I tended to at least do well enough to get by. Drama was an extra-curricular activity and so was dancing, in which I was now getting more and more involved.

      Because of the extra involvements and this little circle of "culturally oriented" kids I was chasing around with, we decided as a group that the school needed to become more aware of the benefits of cul­ture in their lives. Several planning meetings followed and we eventually enrolled the support of the teach­er for the Modern Dance group to assist us. The culmination of the meeting resulted in a charter for a new club at school we would call the Jordan High School Cultural Club.  It would be dedicated to providing students with new and greater opportunities to en­hance their appreciation for the arts. We included in the Club's charter music, dancing, singing and instrumental; art in­cluding painting and sculpture; and drama (even though there was already in existence a Drama Club in the school). We drafted the Charter, selected several officers from the Senior Class that were participants in devel­oping the club and presented the char­ter to the school board for their approval.  It was signed by board and the club took off with a simple membership of fifteen.

      While my second year of high school pro­gressed my involvement with Marlon Bate­man continued, but he was such a flake. I was never sure anything we might plan would come through. Time and time again we would plan to meet somewhere or to do something together, and when I got there he would either not show up or he would report he had other plans. I soon got it that I didn't want to depend on him much anymore and moved away from the rela­tion­ship. I liked being around him, howev­er, so I hung around only when it was conve­nient to me . . . not him.

      My relationship with Mr. Olson, my art teacher, strengthened considerably in my second year of formal art classes. After struggling that last year with simple design drawings and basic skills, I was finally beginning to discover my competency in art . . . that of abstract design. Something about the abstract artists I was studying and Donald Olson's art itself (that was ab­stract), appealed to me greatly and soon my work began to reflect that. Part of it was due to the recognition that came to me that I was very poor at realistic art, be it pencil sketch, water colors, oils or charcoal. I just couldn't draw anything accurately or realisti­cally. So abstract designs not only appealed to me, they were the only things I could really do and do successfully. I also liked sculp­ture and beginning with clay modeling I found I was quite good at it. From there I began to advance to wood and eventually stone, creating a number of pieces of which I was really proud.

 

September 30, 1949

 

"What in hell's name are you planning to do with that huge piece of granite, Jack?"

 

"It's going to be a sculpture, Dad. See, I'm taking this art class at school and I am producing a sculpture for a project, so I decided to go up to Big Cottonwood by the old Mormon Temple Rock Quarry and get me this stone."

 

"How in the hell did you get it down here? It looks like it would weigh three hundred pounds to me."

 

"I'm sure it does, Dad. Me and Marlon Bateman rolled it up into the trunk of his dad's car on an old plank. And that's how we got it back down here. Marlon is an artist, too. He's much better at drawing than I, but I think I'm going to be a good sculptor."

 

"What do you plan to make out of it, and how do you plan to chisel that hard stone?"

 

"Well I was hoping I could use some of your tools, Dad. You know, like your old cold chisels and hammer? But what I'm going to make out of it, I don't really know just now. Maybe an abstract figure or something. I've just got to see."

 

"How can you possibly imagine some­thing coming out of a stone that shape? This whole thing looks like nonsense to me, son. This is another one of your damned day dreams. When are you going to grow up and realize that at some point you are going to have to do something that is practical?"

 

Gad, I hate that word "practical." It seems like every time I get with Dad about anything it always turns out to be a lecture from him on being "practical."

      Dad's attempted discouragement didn't stop me from continuing with my indepen­dence and my desire to be an artist. I was too far along in my thinking to listen to anything Dad had to say. So I jumped into carving this big stone using all his available tools. The project quickly took on new dimen­sions for me. Granite is somewhere close to diamond on the hardness scale and soon Dad's tools were wearing down to the point where they were no longer recognizable. I knew Dad revered his tools and would be mad, so I went directly to him with the problem. He liked my honesty and said he would have one of the blacksmiths at work make some new tools that could stand the hardness of the granite. Dad got the new tools right away, but in a few days they too were worn into useless­ness. Dad replaced the tools several time and the pro­cess went on for sever­al weeks until I had the stone shaped where I wanted it. When it was finished, it had the rather abstract appear­ance of a slim woman's figure from the knees up to the neck. I thought it was quite beautiful, but never took it to school to display it; it was just too heavy to move around, so I lugged it over to my mother’s rock garden where it stayed for public viewing. I did have many of my friends come over and see it and it began to give me some prestige for having created it. I was so excited about sculpturing in stone that I arranged to get another not so large stone and began another project soon after finishing the figure. This time I got a stone that was much softer . . . one I could even polish with files until it was al­most shiny. When I got through this was just a stone with an abstract shape. I took this one to school to satisfy the need to have a showpiece project.

      The Junior Prom in my day at Jordan High was a very special event for all juniors. I was excited about the possibility and even became part of the Decorating Committee because I was so active in the school's art circles. I had only one problem to face . . . which girl I would ask to go.

      At first I struggled with the consider­ation of money for the prom clothing and the afterwards celebrations that were usually done in some place in Salt Lake . . . restaurant or the like. I was not working so I had no income, and furthermore, Dad's compa­ny, the Utah Copper, was going through a labor strike and Dad was out of work and money. While the date for the dance date got closer, my anxiety on how I might afford to go in­creased. At first I decided not to go since I could not determine how I could raise the money in time. Then after talking to Mom about it, I figured out how I could raise enough money and talked to Dad about using his car. By then all the girls I might have wanted to go with were already asked. When I went to two or three of them and heard their disap­pointing rejections, I again almost decided not to go. Then with peer pressure from the Decorating Committee that continued to encourage me, I finally asked Helen Kistanis from West Jordan to go with me. She was definitely my last choice and after I got her overly enthusiastic acceptance, I felt I had really made a mistake. Helen was a girl I had not liked for years, that was a year older than I, whom I had been dodging for some time that was now going to be my dance partner for the most important event of my life (I thought). How could I have done something like that? This was going to be the worst day of my life. I would be the laughing stock of the school. The night of the Prom I dragged myself to Helen's house, acted out my part in my best behavior, and to my surprise had a fairly fun time. I never took Helen out again, however. Once that ordeal was over I was ready to be through with girls for a while.

      My thoughts of being through with girls didn't quite work out like I wanted it to after the Prom. I had girls that were pals with me in some classes, and I had those who may or may not have been candidates for dates, but I had no girlfriend, per se, through most of my high school years. There was the very occasional date for a trip to Salt Lake to Fendel's Ice Cream shop or some­thing of that nature, but no real dates that I could claim were any more than a one or two time event. So being without a steady girlfriend, I was out of the loop of the activities that might have assisted me in strengthening my social skills. For at least the first two years of my existence in high school, the result was that I was a pretty lonely character.

      The male friends I developed were few and far between. I really liked doing things with Marlon Bateman, but most of what we did was a spinoff of our activ­ities in Art. Most of the time I was between classes or before and after school, I simply roamed the halls acting as if I had some­where to go. I interacted with other kids in class a lot, but after class was a different matter. And as far as dating, I was more lacking of courage than really disliked by girls.

      There was one more factor that added to my dilemmas at school regarding my social life.  It was the fact that I came from West Jordan. Of course, it was all made up on my part, but I let it influence me in almost all I did. What I had made up was that if I were from West Jordan, I was seen by all the other East Siders just the same way as I saw the kids from West Jordan . . . that they were all hicks. The fact was that most of the kids that ranged from Bluffdale, Riverton, South Jordan and West Jordan were farmers. That's all they knew was farming and they were quite different than the kids who had not been on a farm in their life . . . most of the students from the east side of the valley. The school population was mostly from the east side of the river, from Sandy, south to Draper, and even though Draper, Crescent and Granite were all farming communities they were from the "East Side" and that made a differ­ence . . . that is to me. Therefore, being the hick that I consid­ered myself because of my geographical origin, I considered myself somewhat inferi­or to all the other kids from the East Side. Holding that notion like I did, every time I felt like approaching a girl whom I knew was from the East Side, I felt embarrassed and believed she would consider me a hick.

      Evelyn Olson, the girl I had fallen in love with during my first year in high school was from the East Side, so from the first I hesitated asking her to do anything with me except things associated with our mutual class activities. To add to my problem regarding Evelyn, when she came back to school after the summer of our sophomore year, I heard she had started going steady with one of the popular, rich kids from the East side who was a year older than us. All chances I thought I had with her were automatically blown in my mind on hearing she was going steady. All I had left with her was what I could get away with in Art Class.

      I had used my fake bruised heel to get out of sports in my sophomore year of high school, so when it came time to sign up for junior year, I left sports out completely. No one questioned my getting out of it even though it was a "required" class, so that left me room to take another elective if I want­ed. I naturally took Art so I had two peri­ods of Art during each school day. I felt two periods of Art was a distinct advantage since I was able to work with some of the seniors who were fairly advanced in their work. It was in this advanced class that I began to dabble for the first time in acrylic painting. Acrylics had taken off in recent years as a medium of the contemporary painters. Because it was cheap and that it dried fast, unlike oils, it was great for making large works that could be done fast. For me, a poor drawer, it was the perfect medium. I could use large brushes, not have to work with detail, could change the picture mo­ments after I painted something and I could paint on any surface. My art teacher was using this new paint­ing method and had already become quite famous in Utah for his paintings, so I decid­ed to model after him. I purchased some paint and a sheet of Masonite (which could be used instead of canvas), a few brushes and I was an instant painter.

      My creative period really began there. In a short time I had painted over one sheet of Masonite and was on my next. In all over the next few months I created ten to fifteen paint­ings. My popularity as an artist was grow­ing and my social circle of "cultur­ally ori­ented" friends was enlarging propor­tionat­ely. Despite all my creative abilities and the attention I was getting from the clique to which I was becoming a member, most all of all I did was done in school only. At home I was seen as someone to do chores, to get jarred-at for having so much interest in art and French instead of more "practical" things and I was still the distancing loner I had always been.

      In earlier years because I had so much interest in Dad's work I had been close to him, but now that I was "finding myself" in this new art realm, the entire relationship was changing. I did not like the farm and farm work, I was no longer interested in Dad's work-a-day life and quiet significantly, I felt I had a need to change how things were around home. Our home had always been very conven­tional both in decor and arrangements. All the furniture and pictures or mirrors on the wall had to be "centered," doilies were under every plant and on every table, and flow­ered wall paper was on the wall. In my new creative vendetta, I had to have things different, so I started working on Mom first. Initially I talked her into painting the front room. We chose a rather green­ish olive paint that was quite dark. That went on the walls. On the ceiling, we chose light beige. I managed to get several paint­ing of mine and my friend's on the wall. In place of doilies I substituted solid-color place mats. It was a major transition that shocked everyone and eventually caused a lot of problems for Mom until she got used to it. My mother was always much more tolerant and supportive of me than my dad ever was, but despite Dad's unwillingness to accept any­thing I was doing, I still favored him over Mom. Things at home never were very good for me. Now they seemed to get worse.

 

December 15, 1949

 

"Have you lost your mind, Lila, painting your walls that dreary khaki green? You've made this front room look like a dungeon. If you wanted to cover your walls again why didn't you just get some of that pretty wall­pa­per that's out instead of paint­ing the walls with flat green?"

 

"Don't be too critical, Nell, this was Jack's idea. He's in Art at school, you know, and he thought it would be good to have a change. I was tired of the old wall­paper, anyway."

 

"Well, this is all I can say; you're going to hate that color pretty soon. You'll be covering it over, you wait and see."

 

      Dad hated the room as much as Aunt Nell and continued to harp on it until Mom went back to painting the walls a light beige rather than the green I thought had given the old home a new flair. She didn’t go back to wallpaper, and that was at least a triumph for me.

      I learned a lesson from that experience that helped me to see I had two different lives to live, and that if I was going to survive living in both of them (that it seemed I had little choice but to do), I had to separate the two far enough to keep them out of conflict. So I let things be at home, played the role I needed to play to keep out of conflict and soon peace returned. My rebellious nature, however, still manifested itself in my room. When Ken got married and moved out I was able to take over his room in the basement. Soon that room was adorned with my artifacts, paint­ings, pieces of sculpture and a few books. It was during this period that I really began to discover books and set about to read more. When I walked into the school my other life began; when I left for home it stayed behind. I never made men­tion at home of anything I was doing at school unless I was in a performance (like in a play or if I had a singing part in a chorus recit­al). The folks never inquired how I was do­ing; they never saw my report cards; and I got the impression they didn't care to.

      A second year of high school went by without my getting involved in a serious relationship with any girl. I had my date at the Junior Prom and a couple after that, but nothing developed of note. Late in the school year I thought I had picked up on a girl I liked who lived in Midvale, but that soon fell through when I leaned she, like Evelyn, was involved heavily with a senior boy.

      During the last month of my junior year, Donald Olson, my Art Teacher called Marlon Bateman and me into his office for an announcement. Unbeknown to us, he had submitted examples of our work to a schol­arship review board for the Art Barn School of Art in Salt Lake and both of us had been awarded a scholarship to attend the school two days and nights a week throughout the coming summer. Each scholarship was fully paid including art materials and was valued at approximately $1,000.

 

May 15, 1950

 

"I want you boys to know that I put your names into the Art Barn for a summer scholarship and you've both been accepted. Here's the certificate, and congratulations. You'll be working this summer with Utah's most renowned contemporary artist who teach­es at the "U." You may have heard of him, his name is Mitsu Mizuno. You may have seen his painting last fall at the State Fair or up at the University. This will be a great opportunity for you to work with this man. I believed you two are the only high school students receiving this award though it was open to students throughout the state. I am truly proud of you."

 

"Gosh, Mr. Olson thanks. What do we do with this certificate now? When do we start? I don't know this Mizuno. Do you know him, Marlon?"

 

"No.  I don't know who he is. This is real neat. Thanks, Mr. Olson. This is great."

 

      The changes that I made during the latter part of my second year in high school began to manifest themselves in many other ways from that day on. Like a milestone in my life I knew I now had hope. Almost immediately I began to look at my schooling in a different way. All the guilt I had harbored for not taking "practical" subjects I was "more suited for," that would "help me in the future" went out the win­dow. I began to enjoy school for the first time in over nine years. I enjoyed most of my classes, especially Literature, Speech and Algebra and I even noticed I could do math quite well.

      The presentation of the Art Barn scholarship on the home front was not so well received. I would have really liked it if Dad and Mom would have seemed happy for me. Dad's comments were something like, "Well, son, that sounds right and good that you'll be going up to that art school, but what about working this summer? If you're going to be going to school both days and evenings a few days a week, that doesn't leave much room out for work. What about school clothes for next year? I sure as hell won't be able to help you out much along that line. I will if I can, but don't expect a whole lot."

      Mother handled it a little different. She got on board the money issue, but modified it a little by saying I could probably work for Lee Anderson again this summer part time, or for Uncle Millard or something. "It will work out, honey. You just wait and see," was her always optimistic response.

 

June 25, 1950

 

"We're glad to have you with us, boys. We have a busy schedule outlined for you. It's nice to have some young people going to class here. Most of our students are adults who have signed on because of the G.I. Bill, and some of our students are women home-makers who want to take art classes with us or just get out of the home a few hours a week."

 

"Here are the classes you will be having with us this summer: There’s a Painting Class on Tuesdays and Thursdays with Mr. Mizuno, 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., a Critique Class from 7:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. on Tuesdays, again with Mr. Mizuno, and a Life Class from 7:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. on Thurs­days with Mr. Larsen. Both of these teach­ers are renowned in their areas as you may know. You are very fortunate young men to have these people as your instruc­tors."

 

July 17, 1950

"Williams, I want you to relax a little with your brush strokes. You seem to want to work the paint too hard. Let it flow onto the board. Let it create its own direc­tion. I like your balance of colors. It shows you have a good eye for the work. Keep it up. You have great potential."

 

What do you mean, "Let it create its own direction?" I don't get all this stuff. I hope I get it before the class is over. I feel lost all the time.

 

      Despite its difficulty for me personally, my summer art program was so excit­ing I could hardly restrain myself with wanting to be at the Art Barn all of the time. I worked hard at everything, but again found myself lacking drawing skills that seriously af­fected my Life Class work. In this class we had a nude model who posed for long periods of time while we sketched her various positions with charcoal, and while that was very stimulating for a seventeen-year old to be looking at and drawing a nude woman who was only a few years older than me, I still struggled with the drawing skills that might have made the experience a little more rewarding.

      Time and time again over the summer I struggled with my situation at home and the resistance I was getting for "wasting" my time in "those darned art classes." Because my willingness and enthusiasm was not too high to get even part time summer work, I created for myself the situation of having to borrow Dad's car on some occasions to go to school and on others to ask for money to take the bus. Just traveling to and from Salt Lake two days a week itself presented almost insurmountable problems. If I was riding the bus, going in the morning was not so bad, but coming home late after the late evening classes was awful. The school was located on about 14th East and First South. At 10:00 p.m. when class was out all the busses on East Side of the Valley were down, so I had to find a way to go to State Street for the only bus going to the south as far as Midvale. That bus left Salt Lake at 11:30 p.m., but it only went as Midvale, which still left me almost three miles to go west to West Jordan. That time of night was not good hitch-hiking, so most of the time I had to walk home from Midvale. The firm encouragement and inspiration I got from the art teachers and the adult stu­dents, however, more than made up for the hardships I had created for myself. Every class, somehow, was a new and wonderful experience.  And most of the time it was all fun.

 

July 27, 1950

 

"I can hear those little bastards outside the window again trying to get a look at Marilyn. I've got a plan on scaring the shit out of those kids. Listen. Here's what I want to do. Let's just a few of us slowly and casually walk out of the class like we're going out for a smoke or something. When a few of us, say about six or eight, I think that will be enough, are in the next room, we'll sneak out the front entrance, split up and trap those little bastards between the wall and that tall fence back there and we'll have them. The rest of you continue to act like nothing is happening; and you Marilyn, keep up your poses just like all of us were here. We'll get them in here, then I have another plan I think you'll all like."

 

"Sounds good, Henry. Let's do it. It's time we stop all window-peeking going on outside."

 

      That evening like most evenings we held in our Life Class with our nude model, local teen-agers would congregate outside the high draped windows on the back of the room, get up on each other's shoulders to make them high enough to see over the drapes and get a look at the model that was present. Most evenings their view was of a young college sophomore, Marilyn, who was modeling those evenings to make extra money for school. Her body was more than magnificent, at least to the eyes of a naive seventeen year old like myself who had never seen a naked woman before this. Henry’s plan was carried out by about eight of the Korean War Veterans who were members of the class . . . several of whom were ex-Marines. They trapped and caught eight fourteen to sixteen year old boys red-handed and brought them into the building. Hearing the ruckus in the next room all the class including our model who always "dressed" during breaks by slipping into a man's white dress shirt buttoned in one place only to cover her, left to hear the next part of Henry’s plan. Our immediate view was of eight terrif­ied boys sitting on a row of chairs against the wall. Henry, the instigator of this devi­ous plan, was on the phone faking calls to the parents of the boys. As each would shout out his name and home phone on Henry's best "First Sergeant-like" command, he would act like he was dialing the parent then explain loudly and gruffly the situation concerning the boy. He never once dialed any of the parents, but as he carried on the role-play, the boys pleaded and cried as if their lives were on the line and they were in front of the firing squad.

      The next part of the plan involved Mari­lyn who was called to stand (now partially clothed) in front of the boys. As she did the "First Sergeant" asked the boys if she was who they had gone to all that trou­ble to see and asked them if they wanted her to pose for them. Of course, they cried and begged her not to disrobe in front of them. She didn't, but it was enough to make them believe she would have done it. After a stern lecture telling the boys not to do that again, and to tell their friends the same, Henry released the boys who believed they still had to go home to face their par­ents about their dastardly act of injustice.

      During the Life Class that summer we had several other incidents that lighten the atmo­sphere for all of us. At least once every other week the hall upstairs was used for wedding receptions. Since the entire building was more or less open to the pub­lic, anyone who wanted to could tour through the building and many would end up in the art class being conducted that night. On several occasions young couples walked into the Life Class not knowing what they were entering into. Once in the room they would look to the center of the room, see Marilyn or another model who might be there that night sitting in a pose, and then they would often just stare blankly as if they had seen a ghost. On a couple of occasions while the class was laughing at the incident, the couple would run out of the class like they were being chased.

      On at least three occasions, Marlon Bateman, my high school classmate and the other receiver of our scholarships, who was brash and gutsy as anyone I had ever known, during break would have our model sit on his lap. She was a flirtatious individ­ual, anyway, and played up to Marlon's behavior like she meant to have a sexy relationship with him. In these cases, she was always partially covered by her man's dress shirt, but that only made her seem twice as sexy as she already was.

      Mitsu Mizuno, our teacher, because of his personality and behavior was the other outstanding part of that summer program. Most of his "teaching" was done by observing the stu­dents while we drew or painted. He did this while he paced among us commenting here or com­pleting a brush stroke there for someone. Very little was said and little could be learned there about his philosophy during his browsing, but in the critique-part of his class his lectures were power­ful, meaningful and they provided an avenue for all of us to learn.

      Throughout the summer I was mesmer­ized by the entire process that included primarily learning, but also included interac­tions with many serious artists (the other students who were all mature adults). I couldn't get enough of it. For some reason, howev­er, my pompous and spoiled companion, Marlon, took it all lightly, skipping along in his flamboyant manner, not finishing pro­jects and missing many of the classes. He had been in art classes before for a good part of his life, and I guess he assumed this was just another "class." By the time sum­mer was over, I was so disgusted with Marlon I swore I would break off any inter­actions I would otherwise have with him. His insincerity and lack of commitment was more than I could stand . . . especially when I thought how Mr. Olson had gone out on a limb for us to get us enrolled in the pro­gram.  

      I pretty much closed the book on this talented and dynamic friend I had found in high school and even lost track of him after we graduated. I did hear from various sources years later that Marlon had gone into Art School at Brigham Young Universi­ty, excelled in it to where the school pur­chased several of his paintings for its perma­nent art exhibit. I saw Marlon several years after his BYU experience while I was taking a class at the University of Utah about ten years after we graduated from high school. In the short conversation I had with him there I leaned he never graduated in Art at BYU like I had thought he may have, but rather dropped out in his senior year and bummed around the country doing relatively nothing except living off of money his father kept sending to him. At some point, years later he enrolled in classes at the University of Utah, complete a BA in Business and was then in Law School. He was not even committed to that it seemed to me at the time. My guess is that Marlon completed his Law Degree and entered the business world by joining his father's law firm. But I will always feel he sold out on his extraordinary talent as a creative artist and cheated the world by not giving his great talent to it.

      When I started my senior year in high school, I recognized right away that I had made some serious mistakes in past years about my educational success. After the summer at the Art Barn I had a whole new outlook on what I wanted to do, but my past educational accomplishments had left me sorely behind. For my senior year I had signed up for four classes in the morning that were academically focused (and re­quired), but the entire afternoon was sched­uled for Chorus and Art Classes. With the new feeling I had about school, I felt I had to do something, but did not know how to go about it or if it was even possible. About the second week of my senior year, I was sitting in a Literature class with a teacher whom I had come to respect high­ly when she said something to the class that empowered me to reconsider what I believed up to then was a hopeless situation regarding my schooling. On hearing this, I decided to stay after class and speak to the teacher about it.

 

September 19, 1950

 

"Mrs. Larsen, I wanted to know if you have any ideas about a problem I have with knowing what to do about my education. When I heard you say today that anything is possible if we are committed to something, I was excited to think that my situation is not hopeless."

 

"I'll be glad to talk to you about it, Jack. Just what is your problem?"

 

"Well, Mrs. Larsen, I have a hard time talking about this because I am so embar­rassed about it, but here's what I am wor­ried about. I haven't really had any desire to go to college at all until this year . . . I mean seriously thinking college was ever possible for me. So when I came here to Jordan I didn't take classes that would be basic class­es needed to go to college, and now I'm thinking it's too late."

 

"How are your grades on what you've taken?"

 

"Not very good on the important sub­jects. But I've been getting straight A's in Art and Chorus and B's in French."

 

"Are you failing in any of your classes?"

 

"No.  Mostly C's and D's though."

 

"Well, here is what I suggest you do. Get an appointment with Mrs. Fields . . . I think she is the Senior Counselor, and tell her you want to change classes and replace them with College Prep classes. I think she will work with you. Then, you'll have to work hard to get your grades up; otherwise when you take the entrance test at the col­lege, you will be required to take remedial programs before getting into your regular subjects. By the way, have you decided on a Major? That may be critical to have decided before you enroll in the College Prep programs."

 

"I haven't really decided on that. But I'm thinking I would like to go to the ‘U’."

 

"Work out what you can with Mrs. Fields and let me know if you need any other help."

 

"Thanks, Mrs. Larsen. By the way. I really like Literature. I'm learning a lot. I just wish I could read a little better."

 

"Here's something else you might want to consider. You may know that Mrs. Poulson has a Speed Reading Class she holds twice a year after school. It costs thirty dollars, but it would sure be worth it for you. I recommend you see if you can get into the next class she offers. It's only about ten evenings, I think."

 

This was the first time in all my school years I had ever really asked to a teacher how I might succeed in something at school. Mr. Olson had given me a lot of encourage­ment, but he was not as objective and di­rected as Mrs. Larsen. That conversation with her turned the tide for me and gave me hope I might be able to do something for myself. Now I had to take the steps.

 

September 30, 1950

 

"Mr. Henderson, is there any way I could just progress on my own in Algebra and get through with the class early? I think I can do all the assignment on my own."

 

"I'm open to that, Mr. Williams. You seem to be doing your assignment all right. Here's what I suggest. You go through the book. I'll have you mark the assignments you need to do. When you have them all turned into me, I'll administer the test and if you pass it I believed I can get you right into my Algebra II class."

 

      After my conversation with the Senior Counselor, one of the classes she suggested I take was Algebra. It was conducted mostly for sophomores and juniors, and was divided into two parts covering the entire year. I enrolled in the Algebra I class and was immediately shaken by how easy it was. Coming from my experience with Mr. Johnson in Junior High believing I was "not good at math," really threw me for a loop when I realized Algebra was so easy for me.  I finished the entire half-year pro­gram of Algebra I in two weeks, turned in the papers, passed the Final Test and enrolled more than a month late in Algebra II. Mr. Hend­erson allowed me to do the same in the advanced class and I finished before all the rest of the students. After that experience I realized I could do anything I wanted to if I was really committed to it. I also knew school was never going to be the same for me. Most things did change for me while the year progressed. Except for English, my grades all went up and I really began to believe I could make it into college the next fall.

      Socially, things began to change for me as well. Once again I was looking at Eve­lyn Olson as a possible girlfriend. She seemed friendlier now because her "steady" from the previous year had now graduated, and at least in my opinion, he was out of the picture. About two months or so into the senior program I finally got courage to ask Evelyn for a date.

 

November 15, 1950

 

"Evelyn, I was wondering if you might like to do something with me on Saturday night."

 

"Well, I don't know. What did you have in mind?"

 

"There's a French movie showing at the Tower Theater this week. I thought maybe we could see it then go out for ice cream or something."

 

"I think I can make it. What time do you want to go?"

 

      For the rest of the week I could hardly restrain myself. This young woman whom I had been dreaming about for over two years was finally going with me on a real date. I couldn't believe it. I didn't know if she was still involved with the other fellow or not, but I didn't care either. I was feel­ing like I had the world by the tail. Saturday night couldn't come too soon. Early in the week Dad agreed on my taking his brand new 51 Chevy, but when Saturday night came along, a freak snow storm came off the Lake and moments before I was to leave, Dad was having this serious conversa­tion with me:

 

November 19, 1950

"Son, I think you better call your girlfriend and call this date off. I'm not sure I want you taking my new car out in this mess tonight. The tires are good, I know, but I don't have snow tires, so it could get pretty tricky if this storm keeps up."

 

"But Dad, I've been waiting for my chance to take Evelyn out for two years. I couldn't just call it off because of a few snowflakes. Besides, you know I'm a good driver. I'll be real careful with your car. I know how to drive on snow. It's not even cold enough to freeze on the road even if it keeps snowing."

 

"Well, it's against my better judgment, but I guess if you're not out too late, it'll be okay. You just get back here early so you moth­er's not sitting up all night worrying about you. You know how she hates any of us driving in the snow."

 

"I'm real happy to meet you, Mrs. Olson. Your house is really beautiful. Evelyn’s told me about how much she loves your house. I really like it too."

 

"This is Don's responsibility . . . decorating the house. I just mostly keep it clean, but thanks anyway. Evelyn had told me about you. I understand you were on a scholar­ship last summer at the Art Barn. That's pretty nice. Congratulations. This snow outside seems to be getting worse. Are you children sure you want to go out in this tonight?"

 

"My Dad's car is brand new and has an automatic transmission. It's real good in the snow. The roads were pretty clear coming over here from West Jordan. I'm hoping it's breaking up."

 

"I've always been afraid of riding in a car in the snow. Then, you may know Don doesn't even own a car. We go everywhere on the bus. I like it that way."

 

"We'll be all right, Mother. Don't wor­ry."

 

"I'd like you to be home by eleven, Evelyn. I just don't want you out any later, especially on a night like this."

 

"The show doesn't get out until ten, and we are going somewhere to eat after. Can't we make it just a little later . . . say eleven thirty?"

 

"I guess it will be all right. Are you okay with Evelyn coming home at eleven thirty, Donald?"

 

"I can't see a thing, Evelyn. Can you?"

 

"Do you even know where we are, Jack? How come you didn't just get down on State Street up town instead of coming out on these back streets?"

 

"I just thought it would be easier, that's all. State Street with all its traffic in this blizzard would have been real tricky, I think."

 

"Don't you think we better stop or something and find out where we are?"

 

"How about if we go over near the curb and look for a street sign. I don't really want to stop. We may get stuck if we do. You look out the side window for a street sign. I think we must be pretty close to your place anyway."

 

"I can't even see the side of the road, let alone a sign."

 

"I think Dad's got a flashlight in the glove box. Look in there. It might help."

 

"Wait there's one. Let's see, we're on 7200 South and 315 East. Do you know where that is from my house?"

 

"We're in luck. We're almost down to State Street then it’s just three more blocks south to your street."

 

"Oh, what a relief. I was really getting scared we were lost and wouldn't be getting home before eleven thirty. My mom's real strict about times I get home. If it was up to Dad, I wouldn't worry. But Mom is a real bear about my being home on time."

 

"You didn't need to walk me to the door."

 

"It's okay. Thanks for such a nice eve­ning, even with getting lost and all."

 

"Well, thank you. I better be getting in. See you next Monday."

 

Dang. I was just getting my courage up to kiss her when she said she had to get in. I'm so mad at myself for not just taking her in my arms and giving her a kiss goodnight.

      Ignoring what Evelyn said about not needing to walk her to her door when we finally got to the Olsen’s home, I jumped out of the car, ran around and opened her door to walk her down the sidewalk to her front door. I was just shaking when I took Evelyn to the door. The evening had been so traumat­ic up to that point with the snow and get­ting lost, I was a wreck. But now that I had Evelyn on her door-step I wanted to kiss her more than anything I had ever done in my life. I guess that time was not right, howev­er, so I let my chance go by when Evelyn darted into her warm house. Now all I had to do was figure out how to get home in the blizzard without getting lost. I soon discovered that the heavy snow was mostly on the east side of the valley, so as soon as I got into Midvale and part way home the roads were pretty clear and I was able to sail the rest of the way home unencumbered.

      The next Monday when I saw Evelyn in French class I felt like a king, but she seemed distant and aloof to me. Here I thought after our grand experience a couple of nights before she would be feeling the same exhilaration as I was, but she seemed not to share my enthusiasm about our “develop­ing” relationship.

      Despite that after-date disappointment, I continued to stay close to Evelyn and within a couple of weeks was asking her out on another date. She accepted and on the end of that evening I did kiss her goodnight on her doorstep. Throughout the winter we dated a few more times, but it never seemed to jell with Evelyn and me. Somehow she had another person in mind . . . a tall, blond air-head, ex-high school football player, whom I had no use for who in my book was not anywhere near this young girl's class. I suppose, however, that I may have been biased in that appraisal, because shortly after Evelyn graduated from high school she married the young man and they faded into the domestic minu­tia of our community.

      On one occasion before Evelyn and I stopped seeing each other, I took her to my house for dinner. Dad was impressed and liked Evelyn, but mother couldn't see what I saw in this "skinny blond girl with the crooked teeth." I guess we didn't see things the same way . . . Mom and me.  Evelyn was thin, but I had never noticed that her teeth were crooked until Mom pointed it out. A case of blind love, I am sure.

      I couldn't believe the power I felt finally becoming a Senior at Jordan High School. When I looked at those twerp sophomores coming through the halls with their clothes and hair styles mismatched to the more "elegant" seniors I thought they were real dopes. I just knew I had not been that way when I was a sophomore. The magic of being a Senior was short-lived when some of my realities of the first semester hit me and I was still getting a C in English and a C+ in Literature (one of my favorite class­es). I was just not as powerful as I thought.

      Once again, however, I did try out on another musical production, Brigadoon, and landed a leading part. Like my previous acting experiences, my part was the "romantic" lead; this time with a girl who was great to work with that didn’t have repulsive body odor. Having these activities greatly improved my social skills and I branched away somewhat from the small clique of art students I had hung around for security in my sophomore and junior years. The latter half of the senior year was quite an improvement over the first. Most importantly, my grades went up.  But almost as important to me, I went on several dates, I had money more often since I was able to work most weekends for my Uncle Millard building houses and I general­ly had access to Dad's new Chevy when something important has happening.

 

March 13, 1951

 

"Dad, can I use your car Friday night to take my girl-friend to a basketball game?"

 

"I don't think so, son. I know what happens at those games. People get a ride there with their parents, then they all pile into the few kid's cars that were able to drive until there are eight or ten in a car then they carouse around town all night getting into trouble. You know this is my first new car I have ever bought, and . . . "

 

      From that point I would hear Dad's famous and often repeated lecture about always having to drive someone else's junk around and that finally after thirty years of driving someone's left-over’s he had purchased his first new car and he wasn't going to have a bunch of "damned kids" wrecking it for him. I had heard the story every time I borrowed the car and Dad usually gave in after he ran down or lacked resistance to my unparalleled persistence.

 

"If you promise me now that you will not be hauling any other kids in the car except your one girl friend, I'm okay with it, even though it’s against my better judgment."

 

March 17, 1951

 

"Look, look, Jack. There's Audry and that bunch of kids from Midvale honking at us. Right there next to us. What do they want? Open your window."

 

"HOLD ON.  WE'RE GOING TO HIT THAT CAR."

 

      That was the end of Dad's grill on his almost new 1951 Chevrolet Deluxe, 4-Door Sedan. Just as I rolled my window down to look at the kids paralleling me along State Street and about 25th South, the car in front of me made a sudden stop. I saw him in time to avoid a serious accident, but by the time I hit the brakes and Dad’s car came to a stop I had gently hit the other car. I did apply my brake, which was evidenced by the long skid marks Dad's car made, but it was just not enough. As I rolled to a stop, my bumper caught the trailer hitch of this old Plymouth, lifted it up over my bumper and the hitch pushed the grill into the radiator. Luckily the radiator was not damaged, but the grill was finished. The other care was not damaged and the other driver was not hurt, so I accepted the blame and the other driver left. No police report was made of the incident.

      When I reported it to Dad he ranted and raved for some time then he coolly invited me to take it to Riverton Motors the next day and get a new grill put in. He also in­formed me that I had to pay his deductible on his insurance that was one hundred dollars . . . a lot to me at the time. The biggest price I had to pay, however, was his refusal for me to take his car for some time after that.

      I always thought Dad was being fairly easy on me knowing that I had kept my bargain and did not have a carload of kids in the car when the accident occurred. Fur­ther­more, I think it helped that Dad knew the other car that had distract­ed me was a car­load of teenagers that were out causing trouble . . . just like he had predicted.

      By the end of my senior high school year, I had brought all my grades high enough and had accumulated enough high school credits to be considered for college in the fall. A tour that was provided by the Uni­versity for graduating students excited me even more about the new challenge ahead. My major hurdle was getting a job that paid enough during the summer to pay my tuition and books. I knew from Dad's financial situation, I was not going to be getting any help from him for college.

      The Senior Prom that was planned for the last week of high school was to be the last major social hurdle for me before graduation. Weeks before I had set aside some money for and asked what I considered a hot little number I had been courting from Midvale, Ardeth Miller. She seemed delighted to go with but the date was a one-time event with this particular young woman. Going into the date with Ardeth I knew she had a reputation of being a wild girl who was also a good necker. I had never experienced anyone like her before, so I had great expectations what our date might be like. However, expectations for me in high school years were often darkened by reality.

      Dad had refused to allow me to take his car, even though I had made a great effort to convince him I would be safe with it. So for this occasion I had arranged to go with another boy and his date. My friend picked me up then we went to Midvale's East Side to pick up Ardeth. Upon going to the door an older brother invited me in and told me Ardeth would be a couple of minutes. I met Ardeth’s parents and was surprised to see that her mother was Caucasian and her father and brothers all seemed to be Czech or Bohemians . . . what we called "Bohunks.”  Ardeth had never appeared to look like other Bohunks I knew, so I never imagined she was part Bohemian.

      The short wait for Ardeth was interesting and the parents were friendly, but the brothers looked very threatening to me. As Ardeth and I left one of the brothers who appeared to be about twenty and was twice my size grasped my upper arm in a vice grip and whispered in my ear, "Take care of my little sister won't you?" Just by the tone of his voice and the pressure applied to my arm I interpreted him to mean . . . "or else!"

      I asked Ardeth later about her name and she said her dad had changed it when he came to America from Milkovich to Miller so he could more easily get a job. She told me to pay no attention to her brothers . . . that they were overly protective of her and basi­cally disliked her going with anyone who was not of Czech background. I thought that was a strike against our relationship and was a little frightened at what might come of my dating her any more . . . especially for what me and my friend had planned after the Prom and for the next forty-eight hours.

      This last fling of the senior year (the Prom) was traditionally followed by what was unofficially called "Senior Sluff Day." Almost everyone who went to the prom stayed out all night and went other places (i.e., camping, to South­ern Utah, to Neva­da, etc.). Our plans were to go to Elko, Nevada and spend the night, drive home the next day, skipping school altogether, then return the girls that next evening. My friend was driving so when the dance was almost over we rushed out the door and began our trip to Nevada. None of us were yet twenty one, but we didn't let that bother us. We just assumed Nevada with its gaming and booze would open up its doors to let us in and we would have the city we had heard so much about at our beck and call. The reality of the entire experience was somewhat different, howev­er.

      Ardeth and I were in the back seat until we got to Wendover. When we prepared to leave Wendover my friend asked if I would drive, secretly telling me he wanted to "make out" in the back seat the rest of the way. My "hot" date up to then had not been so hot, so I was ready for a change. I had put my arm around her part of the way, but my discovery was that she was not the wonderful, aggressive necker I heard she was. Albeit, we continued the journey. As soon as we left Wendover, the most terrible cloud-burst hit us that I had ever experi­enced. Driving became a moment to mo­ment challenge to see where the road was and to keep out of the way of the semi-trucks that were traveling what seemed like twice our speed. There was no freeway in those days making travel along the two-lane highway even more dangerous. The car we had was a convertible and both front windows leaked profusely making everyone more miserable than we already were. The rain abated about 2:00 a.m. just when we drove into Elko, but the unexpected storm had driven the temper­ature down to a very uncomfortable 50°F or less.

      Initially seeing this as a mild incon­venience, we entered the first casino we could find and in minutes were being asked for our ID's. For the next several hours we roamed from one casino to another trying to look older, but each time we were ushered out and finally returned to our car. By then our evening was ruined, our female dates were frozen in their nice open top prom dresses and all of us were ready to go back home. It wasn't quite daybreak yet so we decided to cover the girls with our coats and try to get a little sleep before we made our way back to Utah. That didn't work either because we were continually starting the car to get it warm inside. So finally we just left the place and chalked up the entire event as a bad idea.

      School was out in a week or so. I never dated Ardeth again, partly because of her brother's threat, but mostly because of my embarrassment over what had happened on Senior Prom night. We spoke a couple of times and she was nice enough, but after signing her yearbook and she mine, our short-lived relationship was over and I never saw her again.

 

Chapter 25

 

June 15, 1951

 

"Jack, I heard they're hiring at the Copper in Bingham. Me and Joe are going up tomorrow to see. Want to come along?" 

"I haven't heard much about it. What jobs are they hiring for?" 

"My brother Roger works up there and he says everybody starts out on the Track Gang. That's working on the railroads like a laborer. Everybody starts there and then they move up to other jobs. I hear that doesn't take too long either. They say the pay's good, too. Roger says they start at three dollars per hour and you work six days a week." 

"I really need a job that pays good this summer. I don't think Dad wants me to ever work up on the Copper, though. But anyway, I'd go there for the money. I'm going to college this fall and I really need to save some money. It doesn't have to be permanent." 

"You're what? You are planning to go up on The Hill to work? You go up there and you're going to be sorry. That damned Copper Mine is just no place to start a career; talk to Kenny about that. That place almost ruined him, and I hear lots of people say once you get in that rut up there working with all that riff-raff there's no telling what's going to happen to you. Why, you start working with all those Mexi­cans and Puerto Ricans and you’re apt to get a knife in your ribs if you don't watch out. I don't want you to go up there tomorrow." 

"But Dad, I'm only going up there for the summer then I'm going to quit and go to the "U". I told you that. I'm saving to go to college in the fall, so I need all the money I can get. I hear they start you out at three dollars per hour with over time on the sixth day. I can't get money like that work­ing for Uncle Millard or Lee Anderson again. It isn’t worth it."

 

June 16, 1951

 

"Everybody who hasn't filled out an application you line up here. Those of you who did already and handed it into to us, go on into the next room and wait, we'll call you." 

"Joe Williams, come with me." 

"So you want to go to work with us, do you, Joe?" 

"I go by Jack, but yes, I'm really anx­ious to get earning some money now I'm out of school. Does this mean I'm hired?" 

"Yeh. We can sure use you, but you know you don't turn eighteen for a month. While you're still seventeen, we can only work you a maximum of thirty-five hours a week. You've got a job, but that means you start on Monday and have to quit on Friday at noon when you've got your hours in. You got transportation of your own?" 

"This friend of mine, I'll be riding with him. He's not eighteen either, so I think it will work out all right. Thanks." 

      That next Monday in June of 1951 brought on the begin­ning of a long-range relationship with the mining operations of the Utah Copper . . . later Kennecott Copper . . . that lasted until the summer of 1968. My first summer on The Hill was the toughest, however. Immediately upon starting work that first morning, I was shuffled into an old passen­ger train car that had only wooden benches to sit on and was taken up to the top of the moun­tain. Getting off the train, I was given a shovel and was told to get busy by a domi­neering First Sergeant-style boss, Cash Gray. Cash was the boss of the Track Gang on which I was assigned to work. My work group was to do the maintenance and moving of railroad tracks on the northerly high waste dumps of the mine. Cash was a real driver, never letting up on all the new re­cruits until noon when our hands were blistered, and our backs were aching.

      I was appalled at the diverse mix of foul-mouthed individuals who didn't seem to give a damn about working or doing a good job while they worked. Of this crew of laborers, which was only one of about twenty-five Track Gangs on The Hill, most were eighteen to twenty-five years old . . . many like me just out of high school. The remainder was much older and was either Mexican or Puerto Rican who spoke little or no English. Cash Gray liked the older white guys and gave them all the good jobs, but the younger ones like me and the Mexicans and Puerto Ricans were treated like dirt. Cash seemed to get an especial kick out of ridiculing the Puerto Ricans, calling them dirty black Spicks. 

      This work­place was a rugged world I would soon come to despise. The work was never ending, entailing shoveling and tamp­ing rocks under railroad ties, hauling and spiking down new rails, hauling and placing eight foot long railroad ties and preparing railroad bed for new track. It was difficult, back-breaking work of bending and shovel­ing constantly. Once I was used to the routine, the work had its fun times, but they were few and far between. The fun came from those clowns who seemed always to be on the gangs who told jokes, pulled funny tricks on people and played "grab-ass" like grabbing some other man’s behind was informally called. On this first Track Gang on which I worked there was one of these clowns, Pete Deneris, who kept us all laughing, including the normally unbroken Cash Gray. Pete was at the time a football player at the University of Utah who worked summers for extra money. Pete seemed to be the most unlikely person to ever stay with the Copper, but he stayed with the company and in the late 1980's went on to become the General Manag­er of Mining Operations for the entire property.

      The work at the Bingham Canyon Cop­per Mine led me into manhood more quickly than anything else I could have ever done. The work was hard and the workers were rough and soon I was as tough and wiry as all the rest of my companions on the Gang. In no time I was saving money, had bought an old Junker 1932 Model A Ford Coupe for fifty dollars and was becoming a rough and tumble young adult. The summer progressed quickly and in a month I was working forty eight hours a week and taking home a huge two hundred and eighty-eight dollars each two-week pay period. It didn't take me long to feel the power of money when I started to bring home money to help out at home and purchase new clothing for college. In addition, because of the other young men with whom I was working I began to live the wild life of the Copper Workers.

       The younger workers on The Hill were a cast of their own. The way we worked reflected the way we lived our lives away from work. We played as hard as we worked. A sense of community existed on the Track Gangs and cliques were formed that were strictly divided amongst the youn­ger men (white or other­wise) and the usual older, old-timers who were almost all Mexican, Puerto Rican or Japanese. These cliques continually car-pooled together, drank together, and partied together. Most of the young men were single and the majority, like me, was either just out of high school or was in col­lege work­ing summers.

      Most of my dreams suddenly left me once I got into the routine of the work on The Hill. The majority of college boys with whom I worked were football players and their level of sophistication was sadly lack­ing. The others seemed to be satis­fied that they had a job and a potential career ahead of them. My only inspiration from this group came from the "exciting" life they led because they had the money to do it. Sadly, I got infected by its attractiveness.

      My car was the enigma that created the ease at which I was able to pull in with this group of losers, and during those summer months of 1951, all I could think of was where I was going next with them. The car provided me with that flexibility. It was only luck that I had talked up college so much during my senior year of high school, otherwise I believe I might have even lost track of that goal. But I was definitely hooked by the "benefits" of work­ing at the Copper and during the last few weeks of summer I made arrange­ments with the compa­ny to work weekends while I attended col­lege. That link was made for many of the boys like me because the econ­omy was good at the time, the status of the war in Korea was still uncer­tain. In addition the price of copper was very high at the time. For me to work weekends simply meant that I would have fifty dollars a week I could count on . . . a nice bonus to help on school expenses.

 

Chapter 26

 

      I walked onto the campus of the Univer­sity of Utah in September 1951 feeling a sense of accomplishment for having worked hard in my senior year of high school and having ample money to spend on tuition from working at the Copper during the summer. I felt there was nothing the professors could throw at me that would hamper or slow me down.

 

September 17, 1951 

"Mr. Williams, I want to go over the results of your Entrance Test for classes here at the University and see how you want to handle your specific situation. First of all, some of your test results show that you will have to do some hard work in order to get into some Major. By the way, I see on your application forms that you have­n't yet selected a Major. Could we discuss that first?" 

"Well, you see, I was thinking that somewhere along the line I would like to teach French or something like that, but I don't know just how I might do that. I've also thought I might like to be a Translator too. That idea appeals to me." 

"So you are still undecided?" 

"Yes." 

“Many of our students start out that way until they get their feet on the ground. I would suggest in your case since you don't seem to be aiming for a highly technical field like Engineering or Science that you begin with us in a General Education Pro­gram. In that program we can direct your studies toward required subjects for non-technical programs. Perhaps in a year you can then become more specific in your choices. Here's my plan for you . . .” 

      The results of my entrance tests were horrible. I scored very low in Math and even worse in English. However, I was just above the scores that would have forced me to take remedial classes. In those days almost anyone could get into college, but if en­trance scores were low the student was required to take these remedial ("dumbbell") courses before going on. The General Education program I signed up for allowed me a little flexi­bility to get into some programs, but it required that I take lecture classes in Biolo­gy and Physics rather than lab classes. I substituted my English requirements for a Creative Writing Class, got into Intermedi­ate French and enrolled in R.O.T.C. (mili­tary officer train­ing) to avoid the Draft.  I was set, I thought, until my first classes started.

 

September 19, 1951

 

"Bonjour. May I have your attention? My name is Madam Turot. This is Inter­mediate French. I understand you all have completed at least three years of high school French or Beginning College French so you should all be prepared well for this class. I am to inform you of some of the ground rules. After today's class all communica­tion between you and me will be in French. No English is to be spoken as long as you are in my class. Comprehendé? If you have questions that can’t be asked in French, you must contact me after class, at which time I will be happy to speak English to you and answer your questions. But remember; from this class onward, no further English will be spoken here by you or by me.” 

      When my French class got underway, that was my first college wake-up call. Madam Turot held to her word and never spoke another word of English in the class after that first day. If anyone needed to speak to her in English it had to be in her office or after class. The first week was a fog for me. My comprehension and lan­guage skills were so poor I got absolutely nothing out of the class. I checked out after that first week. The next choice, Beginning French seemed equally difficult and I remained lost for the rest of the term eventually receiving an Incomplete for the semester. The rest of my classes went similarly poor. I could not satisfy my Creative Writ­ing Class teacher with anything I did despite the fact I believed I was doing very well. The military environment and the subject matter of the R.O.T.C. (Military History) totally turned me off. While I thought I was taking very good lecture notes in Biology and Physics, both professors gave me failing grades. In addition, I was lost on the big campus, without friends and lacking peer sup­port. At home Dad continually nagged me for "wasting" money on college, especially when I didn't even know what I wanted to do with it. Basically, from September 1951 to January 1952, I was astray, over my head and was wondering how I was going to pull through for the rest of the year. I didn't realize it at the time, but I would soon have a reprieve, albeit a very sad one in many ways.

 

16 January, 1952 

"Mom, I've decided since it looks like Dad is going to be in the hospital for a while to drop my school work at the "U" and go back to working full time at the Copper so I can help with things around here." 

"Honey, you shouldn't do that. We will make it all right. Your school work is impor­tant. You should stick with it now that you have started." 

"That's well and good, Mom, but I don't think I'm ready for college anyway. I'm not doing too well and I don't know what to do to make it better." 

"Well, you know what's best, honey. We could sure use the extra money." 

      That was all it took: "a worthy cause," to give me legitimacy in acting on some­thing I knew from the very beginning was not going to work for me. That first few months at the "U" had been terribly stress­ful for me. Not only was I having difficul­ties keeping up with this higher educational pace, I was also completely lost socially. I never really had any money to do much and I was terribly slow making friends. So when I was on campus I moved around methodi­cally avoiding contact with anyone, went from class to class, and then went straight home at the end of the day. Of all the difficult times I had experienced in my life up to then, this was surely the most demanding.

      The time while I was still in school at the “U” was an ardu­ous time for us at home, too. One day in late November while Dad was dredging canals on his crane at the Duck Club for the Utah Copper, a freak storm hit that caused Dad and his helper on the project they had been working on to seek shelter down near the Utah Copper Clubhouse where they had been working for several weeks. Neither the Clubhouse nor any of the summer homes on the lake were occupied at the time so they could not go into any of those places to get out of the storm. It was normal for him and his helper to drive to work and leave their cars at the Magna Concentrator each day where an assigned driver would then take them to their workplace. The driver would then leave and return that evening to pick them up and return them to their cars at Magna. All the roads were drifted over by early after­noon and the driver was only able to get his truck as far as 21^st South Street some three miles from the area where Dad and his helper were holed up. When it was an hour after their ride was supposed to show up, Dad and his helper decided to walk out to 21st South where they believed the driver with the Company truck would be waiting.  While Dad and his helper were fairly well-dressed for the weather, trudging through the drifts and walking against the wind all the way to 21^st South almost did Dad in.

      There was a definite change in Dad when he got home that evening. He looked pallid and worn out more than any of us had ever seen him. Mom was very concerned at the time especially since Dad weighed over two hundred and sixty pounds at the time and was not used to walking long distances. Over the next month, Dad's health began to fail him. Finally after much persuasion from Mother, Dad agreed to a medical exam. The exam determined he had a fairly advanced case of Sugar Diabe­tes and a later diagnosis showed his liver was failing as well. By early January Dad was hospitalized for excess fluids in his body and his health by then really began to go downhill. That first bout with his health kept Dad in the hospital for almost a year.

      I had already gone back to work full time at the Copper and within a few short weeks had bid into an afternoon-shift job as a Dump­man. This gave me more money, and I was also home during the mornings and could take care of things around the house and farm. Almost everyone praised me for my "sacrifice" in dropping out of school to take care of things at home that included my Moth­er’s and my youn­ger sister’s welfare along with money to afford gas for two trips a day to the hospital in Salt Lake every day. I had instantly become the hero of the household. I never let on to anyone that I had quit school for my poor scholastic standing there . . . the hero role suited me for the time being. I was needed at home, after all, and the ser­vices I was providing there in place of Dad were truly needed. One other advantage that came out of this was that as long as I was considered the sole provider for the house­hold, I was exempt from the Draft.

      Mother was at a total loss at the time to know what to do. She had never in over twenty years of marriage had to "take care" of things around the home front. Dad had always been the provider, he took care of finances, and he organized most of their social activities and left Mom in charge of house­keeping, raising the children and meals. Now with Dad totally incapacitated for what eventually amounted to almost a year's hospi­talization the first time in, Mom had to learn everything from scratch.

      The early part of 1952 started with a regular routine of activities for me. I would be there in the morn­ing to take care of chores and farm-work, and then Mother and I would leave around noon for a short visit with Dad at the hospital. I would leave early afternoon for work and Mom would come home for a short time before making a second trip back to Salt Lake to visit with Dad during evening visiting hours.

      Dad was not great to be around during his sickness . . . both in the hospital and after he came home. He was never able to return to his job at the Copper either, which made things even worse for him. With all that on his mind he made things even worse for all of us. All at once this jovial, fun-loving workaholic was incapacitated and at best could move around only slightly before tiring out. Both his body and mind quickly deteri­orated. Mom held out amazingly well during this period, despite her own ill health. She was some­what limited in her activities because of an enlarged heart and chronic high blood pres­sure. I did all I could do be supportive and get by under the prevailing conditions at home.

      At work the afternoon shift soon became very tiring so I arranged for and transferred to a later 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift for a short time. That was even worse, so I eventually bid into an 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. shift and stayed on that for the next two years. Because of these new components in my life, my behaviors significantly changed. The lifestyle of the employees at the Copper who worked night shifts was noticeably differ­ent than the day shift Track Gangs. For me, instead of working with a group of fifteen to twenty-five men on a Track Gang, I was working as a Dumpman or Switch Tender and was totally insulated from the rest of the work population. As a Dumpman I would be taken three or four miles out on a dead-end rail spur where the waste dump was located, dropped off and left for the entire shift to manage an occasional train coming out to dump its cars of waste material. I had only to tell the train operators where to dump the material as train-loads of waste materials was hauled there two or three times per shift; and that was almost all I had to do each eight hour period. Otherwise I was alone for the entire shift. At the end of the shift I would leave the dump, drop down over the side to the main canyon below and get in my car for the ride home. It was almost totally mindless work, but the pay was good and it satisfied me for the mo­ment. The night shift work paid considerably more than day shift Track Gang work, so with a little of the extra money I had I started to buy and read books. My mental exertion after that and for the next long term was condensed to what I could learn from books. Almost all of the rest of my life was on hold for the time being.

      When I left high school in June of 1951 I was still high on the clouds of what was possible for me in my life. My experience from that point on, however, drastically altered my view of the world. While I was in the clouds in my thinking and acting it out with my creative activities, I felt on top of the world . . . free and happy. Later when things changed at the University and at home with Dad being sick, college not being the place I thought it would be, I was no longer able (or will­ing to) focus on the clouds anymore. I learned how easy and comfortable it was to conform at home and at work. I learned that while I was taking the easy route (work­ing on The Hill) I did not have to take responsibility for much of anything. At home I just turned over my paycheck to Mom and took a few dollars each two weeks to have money to play, and took no other responsi­bility except for the things that obviously had to be done.

      With my friends (now exclusively co-workers from the Copper), I played the nonsensical games that kept me aligned with them. There were no lofty goals now, no dreams that kept my head clear. My life consisted of going to work, being home as little as possible, going out with the boys, and back to work, etc. Chasing clouds no longer seemed an option or priority. I had set my sights on lesser goals and for the time I was satisfied with it. I thought it wouldn't last long. But for the next twenty-nine years I would be driven by the flow . . . being in the "right place" at the "right time," letting that be my guide until my wake-up call came and put me back in the clouds again.