Malad Courthouse--A Treasury of Memories

There were no handrails in the 60's, and I would have noticed something like that, and so would every young person in the valley. But since they were just a short ride, no one would have spent very much time sliding the full length of them.

That's what they did at the old Second Ward Chapel, but the railing was at least 15-20 yards in length, or it seemed that long.

The Oneida County Library was once in the basement of this building. I loved books, although I usually checked out books about planes and ships and other things. I loved the pictures and architectural drawings.

When I think about that tiny library in the basement, I think about my junior and senior classes with Joe Davis. The first class was U.S. History. Government was what we took from him our senior year, and for both classes, he required a lengthy research paper--something that not many teachers require, but most importantly, something that prepared me for college.

I think about Dr. Seuss. I loved those books when I was very young. And I think about my junior English class. Not only did Mrs. Zundel require a "critical paper," which compared and contrasted a number of short stories or novels or any combination of things like that. It prepared me for college too, and for those projects, I spent a lot of time in the county library, the high school library and the library at Utah State.

The rolling lawn was something that seemed more spectacular in the late 50's and 60's. We would roll down the lawn during any season. When we became bored with something like that, there was always something to do like visiting the Malad Drive-In.

It was also the place, where we had to roll eggs up the hill with our noses during the athletic club initiation. I think authorities call it hazing now. The losers were supposed to eat their egg, or if it burst into goo on the lawn another replacement.

But initiation was such a bad thing. When someone asked me to do something distasteful, I told them "where to stick it," and I don't mean I suggested they try to attach an egg to their nose and join in the fun.

There were fun parts of that night, except for the fact that our "masters" made us eat a raw onion like an apple. Then they stood us on the street of the town.

It was a time when young people went "cruising," even in a small town like my hometown. We had to stop every third or fourth carload of girls and kiss everyone in the car. I didn't refuse that, and I certainly didn't see it as distasteful.

The night in late fall was fun. Anything I did was something that still makes me smile. On the southern side of the court house, a small Presbyterian Church still stands. It had a prominent bell. It still does, according to what I remember seeing on my last visit to the area.

During our junior year, when some classmates and I went through that whole initiation thing, that you had to do to become members of the high school's athletic letterman club, a small bunch of us decided to ring the bell one.

The evangelical minister was interesting. He liked to do a bit more than drink at night. In fact, occasionally he really "tied one on," which means he drank a large amount, which usually led most Welshmen to "howl at the moon." He wasn't Welsh, so he seemed quiet for the most part, unless of course someone rang that bell. And since he wasn't Welsh at all, we just recognized the fact that the man was what we as young people called "shit faced."

His words slurred. Thank goodness for that, because hopefully no one under the age of thirty heard his language.

It was after nine o'clock at night. We climbed up the metal frame, which had a couple of layers of barbed wire to prevent "young characters" from ringing it after hours. The wire didn't work. It just made things more fun. It just made it more of a challenge.

We began ringing the bell. The response shocked me, because I'd never heard "a man of the cloth" use farm boy "lingo" like that. Then he threatened to call the Oneida County Sheriff. That did the trick, because we took off momentarily. When no officers arrived, we returned. The second time, the minister really brought out "the heavy guns." He used words I'd never heard an adult use before, except the drill sergeant in charge of my group at Boy's State the summer after my junior year. We had this huge water balloon fight that nearly escalated into a brawl, so the military dudes were on their toes that night. Ours stood on a balcony on the third floor. I let one fly, and unexpectedly, it hit him in the head. We were young. He was on the third floor, so we ran into the shadows while he artistically began creating nouns, verbs, adverbs and adjectives that was amazing to us.

From the shadows, we waited before dashing to another entrance to the dorm.

As for the shouts from one of Malad Valley's alternative spiritual advisors, I couldn't resist when I heard him. "Bless you too father," I shouted. My friends laughed. He continued another brief verbal frenzy, and then the adult seemed more sure of his steps. He retreated into his house. Within minutes, sirens were howling and lights were cutting through the darkness. We ran down the hill toward a bridge by the service station now known as Ekstrom's Auto Repair.

I miss youth. On that night, we tripped through metal junk and other things that blocked our way in the darkness, and we hid under the bridge. It was fall. The water was cold, but it was only six or seven inches deep on one side. We waited there for about 20 minutes, and then we decided we'd driven that poor minister to heresy enough for one night.

We went home.

The memories of youth still make me smile. You only live once, and besides, men almost in their 60's can't hurl water balloons or taunt ministers without someone questioning an adult's sanity.