One day my dad and I drove through town after loading the two-ton truck with a large load of hay. We were on the way to the ranch, and we talked as we rode through town.There had been some talk about some things found in one of the old buildings in the business area, and I told my dad about a memory I had of my Grandpa Williams.
I could not have been older than two, and my grandpa held me in my arms. I remember his taking me into a place that had animal heads on the walls, because while his friends made a fuss over me, I looked at the curious heads of animals.
I described it, and my dad looked at me carefully.
"The old shit took you into Mission Billiards," my dad said. At least thirty-five years later, my dad was upset that my grandfather would take me into a bar, but I guess I look at it differently.
My grandpa was proud of me, and he wanted to show me off to his friends.
I posted the picture of the way that Mission Billiards looked at one time, and strange as it seems, I recognize it.
What I find interesting is that a place in St. Anthony, that once was a bar, is now a restaurant called Chiz's. Their shrimp is incredible, and it specializes in Asian food. The old bar where restaurant customers can opt to sit looks just like the one in this picture.
My grandpa died in an accident in Garland, Utah in the fall of 1961. School had just started, and it was a typical warm September day.
My third grade teacher Mrs. Hartley acted strangely for some reason. She stood in front of the class and told everyone that they could go out for recess, but she asked me to stay behind to talk to her.
My heart pounded in my chest, and I wondered what I had done. After everyone left, she said something that made me worry even more: "Jon, come up to me and sit on my lap for a minute."
I thought I was really in for it, and I worried just what horrible thing I had done. After sitting on her lap, she told me that the husband of our elementary music teacher Mrs. Williams died that day.
I wondered for a minute in my confusion and fear who that was, and then I realized she was talking about my grandmother. My grandfather had been crushed under a wheat truck while hauling grain.
My third grade teacher began to cry, and she hugged me. "You're such a brave little boy." I felt her tears on my shirt and arm. Her body shook as she held me and sobbed.
I remember the day of the funeral. There was a thundershower that crept across the valley early that afternoon. I sat and watched the lightening and listened to the thunder through an open screen door, and I remember the smell of rain--that scent of ozone that happens in weather like this during summers.
As a child, I thought maybe it was God's way of crying over the tragedy. It had been a horrible couple of days. Finding out was not pleasant at school, but an incredible teacher who loved her students was able to help me through it.
My Grandma Williams is in the center of the picture. At her left is my Aunt Sondra, and Aunt Mavis, my mom and Aunt Myra Jean are at the right of grandma.
At the left is my Uncle Jack. From left to right, Uncle Dwight, Uncle Brent and Uncle Rick are on the back row.
When I was only four or five, my Uncle Jack worked for my dad on the farm. My dad told me about snakes, and he told me I should run to him or my mom immediately if I saw one.
For some time, I would run into the house whenever I saw an earthworm, regardless of the size.
After dinner one day, my uncle let me walk with him to the gate, which was only a short twenty yards from the house. He told me to watch him walk down the lane on his way back to the field, and as soon as I saw him reach the highway, I was to go back in the house.
I stood at the gate. The fence line had a thin snow fence and a bit of brush here and there amid tall grass. There was a strange sound, and I saw snakes. I ran into the house to tell my mother. At first, she didn't believe me, but then she took me by the hand and went to look. There were three of four large rattle snakes.
My mom called for my uncle, and he ran back to the house. The rattling noise was horrible. Mom and Uncle Jack killed all of them, cutting them into chunks no larger than Vienna Sausages from a can. When my dad returned that evening, he looked at the snakes--or what was left of them--and their rattles. They were the largest he ever saw on the ranch.
My aunts played a role in my life. Uncle Jack and Brent were very close. They often called, and Uncle Brent and Aunt Myrna drove from Salt Lake City to see me twice. He was always a practical joker, but I will never forget how upset he was to see me when I was sick.
Uncle Jack was in Arizona and too far away to visit me, but he called often. He always tried to think of a joke to make me happy during that difficult time. Aunt Myra Jean was also instrumental when I was growing up in Malad.
She taught me lessons for a couple of months when I had to do a musical number for MIA. I went to the Second Ward Church every morning at six a.m. Aunt Jean would sit with me and show me what I needed to practice, and then I would stay until 7:00 or 7:30 before driving home to get breakfast before school.
My grandmother was our music teacher in elementary school. She taught all of us that we were to be proud of Welsh heritage. We came from a long line of poets, musicians and warriors.
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