Favorite Pictures of My Dad

Jess Ward, Dan Daniels and my dad appear in this picture. When I had a copy made from the negative and had it framed for her, my mom referred to them as The Three Musketeers. She smiled when she looked at it, thinking of the memories of the three of them.

I always wanted to have Jess tell me stories about their youth. I was going to have Jess do that for me, but I waited too long. It is sad how we do not take the time to get something done when the time is right.

I asked Dan about it when I saw him after the funeral of Jess, but Dan was not interested in doing that. He did not want to tell stories like that. Dan found it disrespectful, yet he was as polite as usual when he refused.

I admired his reasoning behind not wanting to respect the memory of Jess and my dad, but I really did not want to dig up any dirt or anything. I was just curious to know about what my dad was like when he was young.

I then began to reexamine the stories I enjoyed telling about me and my friends. Maybe it is better that they vanish into the past, so I just tell stories about me now, unless I am with those friends and they want to hear them. At times when we are together, we laugh about the fun we had in our youth, but times are different now. And I would never want a child or grandchild to think they had to do something outrageous to earn respect from me, and besides, my Annie always reminds me how much I embellish the story.

The telling, however, is always how I remember it in my mind.

I only know one story that Jess once told when I went with my dad and Jess and others snow machining during the winter in the 70's. Jess explained about how the three of them liked eating honeycomb. They spotted some hives, and they made their plan.

They would undress down to their underwear and canvas shoes, tip over the hives, take a large section of honeycomb, and race for a stream below the hives. In the springtime the water was deep enough for them to avoid the angry stings of bees, but the comb was not ready in the spring, and besides the water was too cold.

They decided to do it in August. Jess told about how the plan went badly. The three of them ran down a dry stream bed with only a trickle of water, bees swarming about their flailing arms.


This next picture is how I think of him now.

It was my second birthday, and the little toy with wheels is something I still remember. The reason that I think of my dad like this even now, is that it portrays in the picture how my dad always watched over me. There was safety in his arms. And I believe he still watches over me, just like I try to do that with each of my grandchildren now.


I was always big for my age--now more than ever--but as a sixth grader one summer at Lagoon, I was as large as a high school boy who was in the Fun House. I helped my dad on the farm, so I had bulk that none of the "city kids" expected. I was not any different than any one of the other farm boys who lived in Malad or Northern Utah.


This older boy from Utah was the "King of the Hill" on the saucer ride, which was something they had in the Fun House at Lagoon near the large slide.


The young man bragged about how he had been the winner each time they started. It began to spin. Everyone ran to the middle and sat back to back. Before long, the two remained: I was still aboard and the older boy was too, and then with a slight shove I sent him sailing too. I remember staying on the ride for a moment, smiling and basking in victory. My parents stood proudly watching.


I lay down and slid to the side, and suddenly when I stood up, something spun me around. The older boy had grabbed me, thrown me off balance, and had his fist back ready to hit me, but then everything changed. Not only could he not swing his fist, but he rose in the air at least eight inches.


"You go ahead and hit him and give it your best shot, but then I'm going to hit you," my dad told him. The boy wiggled like a rag doll. My dad had lifted him by that arm with the clenched fist. "You are bigger than him, and I'm bigger than you. That ought to work, hadn't it? Go ahead and try it." As soon as the boy's feet touched the ground, he tore away.


I was embarrassed, and I remember my dad asking my mother if he had done the right thing, or if he should have let me stick up for myself.


Whether or not my dad was too protective is not the question. That is how he took care of me. When I began doing tractor alone on the farm in '64 or '65, I would watch the trail of dust signal my father's driving up the dirt road. It would stop well below the ridge, and suddenly, I would see him peer from the side of a large, bushy cedar tree.


He was just checking to see if I was alright, and he always did that, until years later. The funny thing about it, I still sense that trail of dust just below the ridge line occasionally, and I still feel he watches over me, even though he passed away in 1991.


This last picture is one I took with a camera my parents gave me. My dad was out of patience, because I made them stand so long.


I wanted the picture to be perfect, and although my family was not in the center, in my child-like mind, the photograph was still perfect. I wanted the tree I loved in the picture as well.


On the right side and in the middle, I can see my Great Aunt Ada's car. As I remember, it was a '56 Chevrolet. She drove it every day to her work at the City Water Office.


Occasionally, I would stop to see her. She would always give me a dime to get an ice cream at Allen Drug, directly across the street from her office. Both drug stores in town still had 50's style fountains with the tools to make cones, ice cream sundaes and milk shakes.


Aunt Ada always drove the car to work, but my uncle Earl never learned to drive. He worked at the hospital, and he rode his bike every day. It was fascinating to see how fast he rode it.

Before Aunt Ada purchased her Chevrolet, she had a Model T Ford. For years my dad would tell about how sad he was that he didn't know she wanted to sell it. He would have given her a very good price for it, and she sold it for almost nothing.