Some of My Favorite Things

Jack always slept on my stomach when he was a baby. And he would sleep soundly. I remember one night after I was recovering from the chemo the first time. It was getting late, and we were all watching TV. Jack leaned up and looked at me. He was ready for me to tell him a story and go to sleep, something that was not easy as he became older and decided he liked watching television too. I would tell Jack stories, and we would listen for the train to whistle in the distance every night.

This is when Anna was small and I could still give her raspberries without her squirming and pushing her clenched fists into my throat. On our last trip to California, Ann and Jack and I picked up Lydia, Tommy and Anna at LAX. They stepped from the elevator, and both Anna and Tommy ran to us.

Anna looked up at me. "Can I pick you up and hold you?" She studied me for a few long moments.

"O.K." She grinned at me as I reached down and picked her up into my arms. She looked at me.

"Can Pop Pop give Anna kisses?" She thought about this for a long time before answering me. "Yeahhhhhhhh," she said.

My memory of Tommy was the last time Lydia and the kids stayed with us when they lived in California. Lydia flew to Salt Lake City, and I picked them up at the luggage claim. As soon as Tommy saw me, he raced to me and jumped into my arms.

And I will always remember spoiling my grandsons with Star Wars toys. Darth Tommy appears in the picture above. On that visit we bought the boys Darth Vader helmets that let them speak with the voice changer. It was fun. I still had not bought Tommy a new light saber, so the soup spoon worked well with the potential of using the force to make nutricous lunch.

And most importantly, my memories of Tommy are having my boys on both sides of me in my easy chair, while we rattle the house with Surround Sound while listening to one of the Star Wars films or Polar Express. Grandma always cussed me when the house shook.

There are many memories of the boys at this age playing in the cabinets. We made sure the cabinets were safe, and the boys enjoyed jumping out and scaring us.

And I could never forget the memories of my Annie and kids. The picture above shows our first house in Malad, the one north of Pioneer Park. Just before we sold the house, Ann and I planted strawberries in the large area by the new fireplace we had installed.

Here is Cles, all ready to leave for the ranch with me and grandpa. That was at a time when dad had the old green and white Ford.

I only remember this picture faintly, but I remember how cute Lydia looked at that age. We never wore orange on Lydia, so this picture is particularly fun.

And here is Kristin's toe picture. I have looked for this for years, and I was not able to find it. This was my favorite picture taken by the school photographer.

And here is my favorite car, my '29 Model A pickup. I wish I could drive it tomorrow, and I wish I could still fit behind the steering wheel. When I was young, I used to shut of the valve supplying gas to the engine. It was out of site in front of the passenger's side of the seat under the dash.

It only worked once while taking a girl for a ride. That's the problem with small towns. Girls talk anyway, but in small towns it is much worse. On a second try, the girl was looking up under the dash for the valve.

The passenger door on my truck was a bit bad. I would have three friends sitting next to me, and we would put the fourth one--the one we didn't like--against the door. I would take a curve on a corner fast, always a part of the road with a large patch of gravel or a vacant lot full of grass and rocks. At the worst part of the turn, we would nudge against the victim. The door would spring open, and we would laugh as he would run five or six stips with waving arms, until he tripped, fell and disappeared in a little cloud of dust. If we really disliked him, we would drive away and leave him on foot.

I hope I never did that to my cousin Randy. I loved him like a brother. I treated him like a brother, but then again, the way I sometimes teased and tormented family members, maybe I dad. But I hope I didn't.

Malad was an interesting town. Mean people with a bizarre sense of humor. The Germans call it Schadenfreude, laughter at someone's expense.

Jess Ward, Dan Daniels & Dad

Dad and his first cousins were friends and classmates. They embarrassed my mom the way they would laugh during the movie at the theater in Malad.

T.D. Jones, who owned the "show house," sold bags of pine nuts. Dad and his cousins would each buy a sack full of them, throwing the shells on the floor beneath their feet. When they left, the three would step on them making a loud crunching sound.

And when the short film or cartoon available was The Three Stooges, they would laugh themselves sick.

Jess was always going to make a tape for me, describing the adventures the three had. I waited too long. He died of colon cancer a few years ago.

When I saw Dan Daniels a short time later, I asked him about doing the same thing. "No way," he said.

Jess had always smiled. I guess he relished in making my dad squirm whenever he offered to help me with the stories.

Dad told me one experience. The three liked honey in the comb, and during the summer, they watched some hives carefully. They planned the activity early in the year, and when they did it in August, everything followed the plan: they would strip down to their underwear, leaving only their socks and canvas shoes on their feet; then they would tip the hives over, grab a tray of comb and run toward a small stream where they would escape the bees by getting under the water.

They did it. But there was a major problem--the stream only had a few inches of water in the creek bed in August. I remember Jess Ward laughing as he told the story of the three running down the stream flailing their arms at the swarm of bees that chased them.

In the late 80's, there was a farm sale in Samaria. It was the summer that Ann and I moved our family to Idaho Falls. Jess was there, and an auctioneer stood on top of the wheel of a large four wheel drive tractor. The bidding started at $9,000 for a machine that would have cost at least $75,000 as a used machine on any machinery lot. The farmers must have known something, because no one made a bid. The auctioneer started to taunt everyone there.

"Why don't you jump down from that tire," Jess said. "I always wanted to see what it was like to see shit splatter."

"There you are," my dad said looking at Jess and smiling. "I see you're he same cheery person you always are."

Some people laughed, but no one offered a bid above the opening one the auctioneer suggested, so he took the machine off the list rather than sell it.

We stayed the entire day. Dad had to leave early for an hour or so, but he knew what he wanted: a little Ford diesel lawn tractor with a power take-off on the rear of the machine. Dad planned on using it to mow lawns and run the grain auger.

He told me how to bid, waiting until two were left running up the price. Dad told me to wait until the last bid looked to take it, and just before the auctioneer said gone and closed the deal, dad told me to bid. And then he said to bid quickly twice until the other interested person became discouraged. He told me the price he didn't want to exceed.

It worked perfectly. We were a bit under what dad believed was the highest price he would go, or maybe it was $500 to $1000 over his amount, but I will always remember how excited he was that I bought it for him.

A jeep came up for sale. Jess Ward began bidding. Everything stalled at $3000 or so. Dad whispered in my ear, "What do you think about that Jeep?"

After I told him how much I liked it, he looked at me seriously. "Make a bid!" I was excited to buy it for him. The price went to $5000 with Jess Ward and me competing for it. Mine was the last bid. Jess was giving me the stinky eye. I whispered to dad. "Why do you need a Jeep?"

"I'm not buying it," he told me. My dad grinned at me. I had panic in my eyes, because we were moving to Idaho Falls and didn't have the money for it, but I think Jess saw my nervousness as something else--pure glee at the chance at getting that little yellow jeep with tuck and roll black leather interior seats. And I think dad winked at Jess too, because something urged Jess to make the final bid.

"I'm not going to let you have it you little son of a bitch," Jess said. His placed the final bid at $5500.

When dad was sick, Jess came to visit one last time. He was so sad. Dad was on a lot of medication, and he kept telling Jess that people shoot animals in the state he was in at the time. Dad was in a hospital bed in the front room on Bannock Street, and they gave him a lot of medication. Jess and I stood on the front porch, and I watched how sad he was. His oldest daughter had also died of cancer in '73 or so.

When he came in at the funeral, I went over to him. I didn't want him to be sad, so I asked him how the Jeep worked out. He cursed it, telling me how much money he had had to put into it--the engine and other things. And then I told him the story about the bid.

At first he looked at me in shock, amazed that I would tell him what happened. And then he grinned from ear to ear and called me a little S.O.B. again, like he did that day he didn't want me to have the Jeep. He always kidded me when he saw me, and I miss him and wish I had a collection of his stories.

Our Canada Trip in '71

We took a trip to Canada in August of '71. We just finished harvest. I was only a few weeks from going to college.

The scenery was beautiful. I wish I had taken my glasses off long enough to realize this would be the last trip I would ever take with my family.

My parents were good sports too. They played Who's Next by the Who as often as I asked. We usually made it until the third song. Dad would tell me that he would play it, as long as I didn't tease my sisters.

And then dad would put one of several Neil Diamond cassettes I had. He loved Neil Diamond.

When he wanted to give me a hard time, he would put in Three Dog Night's Naturally.


Dad would sing Joy to the World. It's the song that most refer to as Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog.

I hated anyone singing the lyrics to a song while I was listening to music, and he teased me by doing it. It makes me smile now, because my Cles was the same way.

I could make Cles made by playing Joni Mitchell or Bob Dylan. I didn't even have to sing.

The picture at the left shows the Torino G/T. It was a great car. It is another one of those cars we owned that I still wish I could reorder now.

The picture below is when we made a stop in Glacier National Park. After that stop, I actually wanted to study Geology, and I began at the university as a Geology major.

This picture shows the first days of the trip.

We are so stupid when we are young. Instead of enjoying the vast forests, the endless blue sky, the rumbling of a glacier at Lake Louise, I could only think of getting home to get ready to go to college.

Dad wanted to extend the trip and travel to the coast. He wanted to see the mountains of British Columbia and Vancouver. It never happened.

I remember seeing fields of wheat mowed and raked into windrows. Their growing season was short, being so far north. It was the only way for them to get ripened rain, or at least that's what someone told dad and me when we asked.

On the way over the border, our first "special" encouter with Canadians from Alberta set the tone for how I would view them for the rest of my life. And further meetings didn't change my mind.

We blew a tire on the car as we traveled through some little towns on the way to Calgary. Dad and I changed the tire, but the spare was not one that was a great replacement. Dad stopped by one of the towns to get the tire repaired. The two of us walk in and all these people stare at us. It was like something out of a Steven King novel.

Dad wants to be friendly. He walks to the pop machine, drops some coin in the slot and gets some soft drinks. An old man looks at the license plate on our car.

"You from Idaho?" The gray-haired man squinted at us.

"Yes," my dad answered.

"Are you a Mormon?" The old man waited for dad to say yes before asking why we drank Pepsi Cola.

I still remember the way the hair stood up on my arms and on the back of my neck, just like one of the dogs we once had that liked to chase strangers and bite at their heels.

The Short Time I Knew Grandpa Cles

I am guessing that the photograph with me on Santa's lap is from Christmas of '54. I am wearing the jacket--a red plaid one--that I remember wearing when I went with my dad and Grandpa Cles in the trucks to feed cattle.

It was always a mystery to me of why children would sense terror when being close to St. Nick until I saw this picture. The huge white beard, the red suit that I am sure that smelled like mothballs, and the weird glasses were plenty of reasons to feel fear and foreboding.

We won't even talk about the "old people" smell.

















My birthday party in '55 involved my parents and Grandpa Cles and Grandma Liza. The photograph above is from October 27, 1955. Grandpa Cles looks like he is feeling poorly here. It is sad for me to see the picture, knowing he died at 48.

He is only one year older than my little sister Ann in this picture, yet he looks like he is in his late 60's. I will always wish I could have spent more time with him. It seems like such a waste to have known him for such a short time. Not a minute goes by without my missing members of my family who are no longer here.

The funeral program is above at the right and below. There were bad feelings for years about a Reorganized LDS minister who spoke at grandpa's funeral and used the time more for antagonizing Mormon members of the family than for remembering grandpa, who was a Mormon as a child. Grandpa Cles did not attend church, but he was an incredible man, respected by all who knew him for his honesty, his hard work, and his sense of character.

Grandpa used his Sundays to relax before beginning work another week on the farm. Roping and collecting a number of wild horses that ran on the Holmgren place near our ranch was his hobby, and he did that on Sundays. Holmgrens were very happy to have him do it.

They had a bit of trouble when they shot a number of those horses during the 60's. The herd was a problem for cattle ranchers like Holmgrens, because one horse eats many times more than several cows, and in a desert area, that is a problem.

The Christmas Present from Gordon And Betty Crowther in 1965

I'm not sure, but I think that the picture above is the last Christmas in the South Main House. I receive my "Deacon Suit," my sisters received their first record player with some Beatle 45's, and there were the usual mountains of toys and gifts. Christmas was always fun.

This picture is embarrassing. I guess I was too old for the traditional new pajamas Christmas Eve present, or I was old enough to figure that that gift was not the fun one I wanted to open after the meal on Christmas Eve, because the ones I have on in this picture, split open as a result of their being too small in the legs, were clearly not great for the picture. Luckily, I was 12 years of age and not 55 here, so I won't have to worry about anyone seeing the photograph and having to go through years of therapy.

The gift is one that either Myron and Bea Sorenson gave, or Gordon and Betty Crowther gave it to dad. They were friends of my parents, and they always exchanged fun gifts.

During an elk hunt dad was on in Selway that fall, the same place where dad had hunted every year with Grandpa Cles, he was washing his dinner plate in a stream and found some shiny pretty ore. Dad never checked it out that I knew to see if it was gold, but his friends found it not only to be a fun story but also to be a great reason to give a fun gift--a metal plate miners used
"to pan" for gold.

I remember my parents thinking about where to build their new house. George Bush owned a family property on Bannock Street that was still in the Malad Second Ward boundary, but he would not really talk seriously about the price, and since neither of my parents ever really liked him, they did not pursue it.

A second lot was on top of Vaughan's Hill. It was on the top of the corner looking down on the town of Malad, a beautiful view. I don't remember who owned the property or why my parents did not buy it, but I do remember the lot they did find.

Sam Thomas was the owner of the old house above, where mom and dad built their home on Bannock Street. He owned a bar in town called Sam's Place across the street from Allen Drug. After Sam Thomas died, the building later became the Grit Shop and eventually the old bar finally fell into disrepair. They tore the building down around 2003 or 2004.

There was was a crosswalk in the 60's leading to the bar from the old bank building, joined with Evans Co-op. A sign there stated, "Stop for Pedestrians!" I remember my little sister Ann thinking that pedestrians were the worshippers who frequented the small Presbyterian Church on the hill above Allen Drug.

I also remember Luvell, the town drunk and mentally handicapped Welshman who spent his government check at Sam's. He lived with his parents until they died, and then I'm not sure what happened to him, after they were gone and you could only buy cowboy boots and hats in his favorite place in town.

Whenever Luvell crossed the walk to the bar when dad and I were driving through town, dad would rev the engine on the '63 Chevrolet. Luvell walked with his arms at his side swinging them outward in a bizarre motion.

Reving the engine was not a really mean thing dad did, although I guess it was a bit mean. Dad respected Luvell. He told me how smart Luvell was, every time dad hit the gas pedal to make the him trot across the street to Sam's. "He's got the best job in town," dad always said. And Luvell made more than many in town.

Mom and dad finally were able to buy the lot, but not before dad entered the bar several times to talk to Sam about a price. I remember dad laughing about people almost driving off the road in the middle of town when they saw him enter or leave the bar.

When dad tore down the old house on the Sam Thomas lot, I was in sixth grade. I remember how good it made me feel when my sixth grade teacher asked me questions in front of the class about why dad was tearing down the house. I didn't really give an answer--something dad would have been proud about had he watched it. Dad never liked letting people know our business, and he didn't like braggarts either. Saying anything would have approached both pretty closely. The teacher was snooping. I would have been bragging. It was easy to be proud about the plans my parents were making.

The picture at left is of my mom. Gordon and Betty were friends of my parents, and they also lived on Bannock Street. They gave my parents a photo album that Christmas with the following pictures, including the one at the left.

The title of the album was "This is The House That John Built, December 25, 1965."

"This The Maiden That Dreamed of he House That John built." That was the caption on the first page with the picture.

The next picture had the following caption: "This is the man That planned he House That John built, September 9, 1965."

The picture below is of the contractor. The house is exactly like the one he built for himself on the old road leading to crossroads, a four-way stop that came from Idaho. Turning left led you to Logan, turning right led to the main part of Tremonton, and straight ahead led to Interstate 15 south to Salt Lake City.

Dad did not end up liking the man. "That's something when you can still be in love with your building contractor after the house is finished." This builder is the reason dad sad that.

He is in the foreground. They are digging the hole for the basement and foundation in this picture.

"Poured the Foundation" is the caption for the picture below. Dated September 21, 1965, it is already getting late in the year and everything is still open. I remember how upsetting it was that things were going so slowly.

Dad did not want any moisture inside the house from storms. We could always count on rain any time at the end of September through the first weeks of October.

The picture at the left shows Uncle Boyd and Aunt Edith's house. Of course they never became my aunt and uncle until after May 31, 1974--the day Annie and I married.

Boyd's old Chevrolet turquoise panel truck is in the drive. Boyd repaired televisions in the 50's and 60's before he finished his education degree at Utah State.

It's fun to see the picture with the mountains in the background in the two pictures showing the newly poured foundation.


In the second picture at the left, it look like my dad's old Alis Chalmers tractor is at the site. The tires were new then. We never changed them again. We only used this tractor rarely; consequently the tires are the same as are on it. I'm sure it is parked in some dry wash on the farm right now.

Dad used this old tractor to lift straw piles, to raise any large piece of metal or machinery in the air, and to dig post holes.

The pictures below are from October 22, 1965. The contractor was going so slowly, that dad started to regret having him build the house. As it grew colder, I remember how frustrated dad was, and more importantly, I remember how worried he was about the weather and the new house being covered with snow before they could get a roof over it.














I remember dad giving the builder an ultimatum--either getting the roof finished with the attached garage and cement work complete or looking for another job to do during the winter. Dad was seriously looking at having someone else finish the house. However, it took a few more days for that threat to surface.





The pictures above are from October 28, 1965, the day after my birthday. Again, it is getting late, and there is no roof, no windows, no garage. And the season is getting later by the day.

The picture at the bottom left is from October 31, 1965. It was already getting cold at this point. In the background in the picture on the left, you can see the house of Earl and Mary, and their large poplar is already without a single leaf, even though one of the trees still has green leaves.

The very thing that worried dad happened. On Thanksgiving Day, although the roof and windows were on the house, the cement was still an issue. The picture at the left shows the frame over the driveway they used to protect the cement. They covered it with plastic, and placed a heater inside it to ensure that the cement did not "honeycomb," damage that you get when frost damages fresh cement. The date of the picture is Thursday, November 25, 1965.

I remember dad stopping by the house around this time and having a very angry conversation with the contractor. Dad did it where I could not watch, but I could hear it. And dad had a right to be angry. The cement turned out to be alright, even though the temperatures were very cold. Dad was never mean to anyone, but he expected people to respect him, and part of that was expecting someone like Jesse Garfield to keep the promises he made as a contractor and businessman. This man was not honest.

We spent Christmas, like I explained in another blog, in a home owned by Myron and Bea, a house we called the "Spencer Home," the name of the family who I think originally built the house.

As Christmas approached, I knew every corner of the rental home, having looked in every nook and cranny for spooks every time my parents left me to watch my sisters when they were away. And then one day at Grandma Liza's, I found Christmas in Aunt Janice's old bedroom. I put all of the toys together and played with them weeks before Christmas. They were in a closet that hard large steps used for storage, but they also led into the attic area: a spot I never looked at, because the house was old and really didn't have anything up there. The door was probably nailed shut long ago to prevent snoops like me to be looking for things.

The picture above shows the Dogfight and Get Away Chase Game. Tne first board game was a World War I airplane board experience with little biplanes, and the other was a small game with motorized gangster and cop cars from the 40's and earlier. I put the decals and built the small paper buildings for the game before Christmas.

The cartoon at left was the last page of the photo album. I remember how excited my parents were to have the pictures of the house. I wish we had more. Dad drank Pepsi at the time, and the cartoon below was one my parents thought was funny.

"And what makes you believe that I swiped those two Pepsi-Colas?" is the cartoon caption.

By the way, typical of the builder, we did not move into the house in February or even March. When it was close to comletion, we spent a weekend moving our things into the house. Workers were surprized when they arrived at work and found us sitting at the dinner table. I remember dad grinning when he looked at them. He did exactly what he told them he would do, but they didn't know him like most people did. Our family does things we saw we will do,even if it sometimes is not a "warm fuzzy" moment.

The builder put the radio and installed the intercom system early into the build. He used the radio during the entire time. By the time we moved into the house, it worked poorly, yet that is where I did my homework until I was a sophomore in high school--at the small desk below the radio listening to music and doing homework.

The desk was low enough to slide a chair beneath it, and there was plenty of light in the kitchen. The intercom system worked throughout the house. Every room had a speaker, and you could call someone on it, or you could listen to what was going on in another room, or you could let the radio play over the intercom into that room alone or into all of the rooms.

There was also some stone left from the fireplace upstairs near the dining area, a reddish heavy slate. Years after the house was complete, Grandma Liza told dad that she saw Jesse Garfield enter her driveway in his pickup and go to the back toward the barn. When we arrived, he had loaded and taken all he rock that dad had purchased that was left over from our fireplace. There was enough stone to install another fireplace in a pile behind Grandma Liza's house stacked neatly in the fenceline beween Crowthers and my grandma.

The picture at the left shows Cles as a toddler standing by that fireplace. Dad never did anything about the stolen rock we paid for, and it was expensive too, and when I asked him why, he told me that he never liked the stone on that fireplace anyway. Dad had planned on building a new one and replacing the old stone, because the reddish rock reminded him of that builder.

The stolen materials were nothing of value to my dad. He explained to me that it just reminded him of the bad experience he had had.

At the completion of the house, the contractor sold an oil painting his wife did. He raved about its quality. Mom and dad paid him $200, a lot of money for a painting at that time.

It was upsetting to all of us years later to see an exact copy of the same picture in a place, and when we asked, we found that it was one of those kits you buy that you paint in the spots designated with a given type of paint on a numbered point on the canvas. Paint by numbers art for $200.

The woman was not Grandma Moses, and he obviously didn't learn his carpenter skills in Bethlehem. They were both very dishonest.

It's sad how you can never trust people.

The picture below and at the right is in the fall of 1970. It is my senior year, and I am ready to leave for a formal dance. It could very well have been the Senior Ball that I took my Annie to that year.

Forgotten and Newly Found Pictures of My Dad

My dad's favorite holiday was Christmas, no exceptions. I always remember his buying for everyone and watching us with a broad grin while we opened presents in the static excitement of a Christmas morning amid the smell of pinion pine and the Christmas sounds of Frank Sinatra or Perry Como.

The picture at the right shows my dad when he was very young, Christmas 1955--only a few months away from the tragic loss of Grandpa Cles. Grandpa Cles died when he was only 48, leaving my dad with the responsibility of the farm when he was only 22. That is the age I was when Cles was just a newborn.

Christmas for dad wasn't just getting gifts for family either. One morning after we picked up newly wrapped grain-fed beef we had raised, my dad sent me to the basement. He told me to pick up some steaks, roasts and hamburger for some families that were in need.

I came back with a couple of chuck roasts, chuck steaks and a few rib steaks. I never liked rib steaks when I was young. They had the bone, making this cut of beef one with less meat--in my opinion--and more fat, the last item actually added to the value of the steak, but I always hated the texture of it in my mouth.

When I came up stairs with the beef, dad looked at me with a disappointed look. "Leave the rib eyes and hamburger, but take back the chuck roasts and chuck steaks and bring some T-bones and tip roasts and sirloin steaks.

I spent the next hour or two visiting two families with my dad. One family was a distant relative, a mechanic who always had done work for us. He had a devastating stroke that forever changed his life and that of his family. And even though I don't remember who the second family was, I do remember how excited they were to have the meat. Both families received three good sized packages of steaks, a several of packages of hamburger and two large, quality roasts.

My mom labeled the picture at the right as Christmas of 1960. It was one that was fun for my dad. He was proud of the stereo in the picture, the old Webcor. It had a great sound, although it did not look very fancy at all. There were two speakers, with long connecting wires that pulled out of the console. You could place the speakers at far corners of the room to get a quality stereo effect. And it sounded very good.

I played my first rock albums on this stereo: Rubber Soul by the Beatles, If You Can Believe Your Eyes And Ears by The Mamas & The Papas, Red Rubber Ball by The Cyrcle, and Yesterday and Today by The Byrds.



The picture at the left shows why I never took my own children to Yellowstone Park, except for once or twice. It is the place we went on a vacation every year. We stayed the first night in Lava Hot Springs. Jill, excited about going on a trip, would throw up after arriving in the hotel, and then we would go swimming in one of two pools that were there at the time. One pool in particular had this incredible place where you could buy corn dogs.

This picture also shows Old Faithful when the parking lot was much closer to the geyser. In those days, steam came from two other small spots, and when the geyser erupted, a bit of water also shot from those small mounds of sulfur-stained soil. The car in this picture is the second family car I remember, our Oldsmobile 88.

At the left of Jill, the chrome "rocket" part of the fin and tail light folded down to expose the gas cap. The transmission in the Olds was a push button automatic. My dad let me sit on his lap once while he was driving south on the highway with the entire family. Grandma Liza was in the front passenger seat, something I am sure irritated my mom. Mom and the girls sat in the back. While driving fast on the highway, and while I sat on dad's lap, I pushed the reverse button on the transmission, not a great thing to do for a car.

To put the cherry on the top of the cake, mom was washing the car on the front lawn of the ranch some time later. She pulled open the passenger door and was cleaning the floor mats and dash and windows. Trying to hurry before dad came in from work, she jumped in and pulled forward, putting a large dent in the passenger door when she hit a post that was part of the clothesline.

Mom sat in seclusion, trying to think about how to tell dad the news. She didn't see him come in from the field. I ran and told dad the news as soon as he stepped out of the truck. I still remember the glint in my mom's eye when she looked at me. I didn't want to cause trouble, but I did. I just thought I was helping her out by breaking the news for her. It would have made me angry as a teenager or an adult if a child had done that to me.

In spite of the two things that happened to our Olds--the damaged transmission and the dent, when Grandma Liza traded cars, she was able to get a better "trade-in" deal with our Olds than with her '56 green and white two-tone Century Buick.

I wish I had that Buick right now. The engine was huge, over 450 cubic inches. It had dual exhausts, and you could hear it from at least four blocks. It embarrassed me when I was young, but it would not have been fun to have now, because you could not afford to drive it. Not only did it require premium fuel, but it also would get 4 or 5 miles to the gallon at best.

It is much cheaper to listen for a Harley while driving through Idaho Falls during the summer. The sound is not as loud, but it is a "cool" sound that costs me nothing.

Thanksgiving was also a holiday that was very important for my family. There were always a lot of people there, cousins and aunts and uncles I rarely saw during the year.

And there was always a picture, sometimes several. On this particular Thanksgiving, I have a picture of me with my parents, one of me with my cousins Steve Burns and Stan Palmer, one of only my parents, and one of Grandpa Cles and Grandma Liza--all from these backdoor steps. Whenever we visited grandma, it was this door we entered. We never used the front door. And I only remember salesmen knocking on it.

The car at the left is Uncle Jenk and Aunt Sara's Pontiac. It was a great car too. Things I remember about Uncle Jenk were some things he said and did every year.

"Stop passing and start eating," he would say when relatives kept passing food beyond six or seven minutes into the meal.

And he had an outrageous sense of humor. He was so much fun. Uncle Jenk also hated the picture thing. And he sometimes would say something like "let's pretend we did it and don't." I never figured his hesitation until years later. His nose was badly disfigured for some reason, and that is most likely why he didn't like those photographs, but I wish we had more pictures. I do not remember him for the nose. I remember how much fun he was. And I remember how he made us laugh with his teasing and his jokes.

I also remember my dad telling me about a visit that Uncle Jenk, Aunt Sarah and their family made at Snowville when my dad was young. Tom, their oldest son, told my Grandpa Cles, Grandma Liza and dad and Janice the details about how his dad took care of the muddy front car window on the way to Snowville. At that time the road was not paved.

There were no push button window washer units in cars with cleaning fluid. Uncle Jenk had a creative way of taking care of the problem. It involved his standing on the hood of the car.

The picture at the right shows me with my dad while feeding cows. I went with Grandpa Cles and dad when I was very little, and that tradition continued. During elementary, I grew to dislike it.

Working all day in snow feeding cattle was not fun, because at night on the way back to Malad from the ranch my feet would have that tingling itch that your feet get when they get very cold. They were like that every time until I was in high school. By then you could find warm winter boots, but at times, even with the best boots and warm socks it was still that way. It was cold on the ranch in winter. And it embarrasses me now that I even write about it, because dad did this much longer than I ever did, and I never heard him complain even once. And when I was in school, he did it alone after Grandpa Cles died.

Dad would pick me up at the east door of the gym after basketball practice every Saturday, and we would leave around 10: 00 or 11:00 a.m. It was late when we returned in the evening. Those practices did not last very long for elementary boys, and when I didn't have one, I would help dad load hay. He would let me lift bales until I was older and could show that I could lift them easily. The wild hay bales were only 50 pounds, but the alfalfa bales were easily 70-85 pounds and had wire instead of plastic that held them together.

By the time I was in junior high, I was lifting the wild hay bales easily. The alfalfa bales came later, as soon as I could lift them. The hard physical work on the farm was the reason why my classmates and I were able to do so well in sports. We didn't need a weight room to work out to condition ourselves for sports during and after school. The strength we developed came from life on the farm. And hard work taught me a lot about character too. As hard as it was, I will always miss the drives to the ranch with my dad, and I will miss spending the day with him like I did. Isn't it sad that you never miss something like that, until it is only a memory.

The picture below shows a lot of things that are really fun memories. Fishing was very good that day. At that time we either went to Crowther's Reservoir or Deep Creek.

On one trip, when I was this age, dad and I were fishing at Kid's Pond or a reservoir in St. John. At that time we always fished from the bank, using corn or worms or salmon eggs. At the end of that day of fishing, I heard screams and laughter.

A classmate of mine Lonnie and his younger brother Danny carried their stepsister Mollie to the water's edge near us. Her face was red and flushed with anger. They threw her into the pond.

At first I was disgusted. They were scaring away the fish, and then Mollie came out of the water, hair matted down and her face still red, but she was like a Greek Goddess. I noticed Molly's T-shirt. There was nothing under it except for skin. She was a senior, and although quite short in height, she was a total babe--an Idaho teen who would have made Dolly Parton look like a little girl.

As soon as I saw the magnificent "view," I looked straight ahead and pretended the event had never happened. My face was as red as a summer sunset, and my ears were even a brighter shade. My dad cackled.

"Let's go Jonie." He smiled and gathered the gear together and laughed to himself repeatedly. We had not caught a fish the entire day, not even so much as a slight nibble on the end of the line, but my dad continued to grin and laugh all the way to the white Chevrolet pickup, the one in the picture above.

"Today Jonie's finally become a man." Dad said that at least five times on the way home. He would watch me turn red again, and then he would laugh himself silly and slap his leg. He told everyone at home the story when we arrived on South Main, and they all laughed. My sisters laughed too, although they didn't know what was funny.

My dad told the "And that's when I knew Jonie had become a man" story until I was 35 years old at every family gathering. And people laughed, even though they had heard the story many times at earlier dinners. They laughed, because I probably still turned bright red every time he told it.

The stock rack in the back of the truck was made from heavy steel, so it made it practical to haul a bull or horse in the back of the Chevrolet without a problem. But what I liked best about that gold colored rack was the weight advantage. It gave more traction. And by the time I was in junior high and high school, I squealed the tires on the truck whenever I could. It had a large V-8 engine for the time, either a 327 or 283. I can't remember which one it had, but I do remember seeing the smoke in the side mirrors and listening to the tires squeal as I smiled with teenage joy.

Our Weimaraner Dutch is in the left of the picture in the shadows. On one trip to the ranch when the rack was not on the truck, a car passed us honking and pointing at the rear of the pickup. Dad was afraid we lost some 2 x 6 inch long planks we loaded into the back. We put sacks of grain on top of them and to secure them, and we also tied a red flag at the rear of the planks which hung some seven or eight feet out the back of the Chevrolet.

When we looked back, Dutch balanced at the very end of planks at least six or seven feet behind the pickup's rear bumper, his nose pointing straight ahead. He looked like Underdog, the canine superhero, riding a surf board. We stopped and loaded him into the front of the truck.

The picture above also shows a great view of the back of the house on South Main.


The picture at the left is of dad, just returning from a trip to Hawaii. It was at this time--the spring of 1978--that I did my student teaching assignment at the high school. My sister Ann's class did a senior trip in Hawaii, and mom and dad went with the group as additional parent chaperones.

I do not remember what dad did with his hat, but I eventually ended up with the small bag under his arm. I used it to carry CD's or small electronic equipment to school. Hanging from dad's arm is also the picture he and mom bought in Hawaii, a carving on a boat on blue slate. When dad wrote the check, he was talking with the artist and he signed it only as Jon. We always laughed at that, and wondered what the artist thought when he sent it to his bank. But Ireland Bank didn't have a problem with it. They just thought it was a thing we could tell a story about in the future. Dad kept the check out and showed it occasionally when he told the story.

You can tell Cles missed his grandpa by the way he he is leaning against him. Lydia didn't like being held by anyone except for mom. Both my kids are wearing coats that I remember they had, and mom is wearing the jacket I bought for her. It always looked so cute on her.

Whenever I told her that, her eyes would flash. "I don't want to be cute." Her eyes still have that flash in them now, but they have become a deeper brown with the years, making them even prettier. When she was young and she would get angry, they were the color of a perfect onyx stone, especially when she was really ticked.


The picture at the left shows the ranch when the house had just had the new blue aluminum roofing installed. I always hated the pink color of the siding. But my dad always had the yards looking green and beautiful. He was as fussy about it as he was about his fields.

We called the buckskin-colored mare Sally. My sister Ann named her. I'm not sure why she selected the name. Sally was a good mare, but when we returned to the ranch after climbing the steep mountain to a pasture overlooking the north shore of The Great Salt Lake, the saddle would begin sliding down toward her neck. Eventually you would have to dismount and lead her until the slope was not as steep. If you didn't get out of the saddle, it would slip clear to her ears.

The picture at the bottom shows the first dear I shot when I was in junior high. I was in the seventh grade. The old 25.20 lever action rifle is what I used. Dad used a 30.06 with a scope.

We had been hunting all day in the hills west of Malad. It was the same place the Wards had hunted for a very long time.

The name we used was the West Hills, and it was on the Daniels road leading to the current reservoir. When you see the old dam, an abandoned cement structure is the only evidence of the earlier reservoir where underground faults would not allow water to rise above a certain level. If you drive west on that road as far as it goes, that is where you would find the place where we unloaded the horses from the blue '64 Chevrolet two ton truck in this picture.

We had been hunting all day, and I had had all the fun I could handle. I hated horses. It was cold. I was tired since the day began at 4:00 a.m., and it was just starting to get dark.

At the top of a short ridge above a small grove of Quaking Aspen, dad looked at me before throwing a large rock.

"You better get off your horse and get your rifle. We always find a deer in this patch at the end of the first day like this." He tossed the basketball-sized rock down the hill. It rolled and crashing into the grove. But the crashing sound didn't stop.

My heart started to pound before the dear broke into the clearing. Dad fired off a shot and hit one of the animal's front legs before I was able to get off Pansy the buckskin mare I rode. She was skittish from the sound of the rifle shot, and she turned and spun a bit, but I grabbed my rifle and ran to my dad's side.

Dad turned to me. "You'd better hang on to the horses, or they'll run off." I ignored him and started shooting. Dad grabbed the reins just before the horses ran. I hit the large buck on the third shot, and the deer fell to the ground and rolled, a small dust cloud rose above the purple sage and dry grasses.

Dad was so proud of my having shot the deer. That year students in grades 7 through 9 reported their success of the hunt in the no-picture junior high newspaper called Dragontales. I was proud to share my information, a five pointer: four on either side with good sized pointers on the horns above each ear. It was one of the largest shot by any student that year.

Cles

I hunted for this picture for years. My mom had a copy. There was never a time when I didn't see the joy of the face of Cles when he saw his first wagon. It is almost the same grin he has in this picture. I set him in the wagon, and we pulled him around the house This was on his first birthday in 1975.

Opened boxes are in the foreground, and his new shirts and outfits are hanging over the rail on the right of the wagon.

As the only grandchild, it had to be fun to have everyone in the family make a fuss like they did.

In the picture at the right, the old couch appears behind Cles. He is riding his horse he received for his first Christmas. When you pulled back the yellow reins, the toy made a whinny. This was the same toy that Lydia liked.

We had some tree trimmers give us a very inexpensive bid on trimming the massive tree outside our first house. After working all day and into the early evening until it started to get dark, we fixed a meal. They only stayed long enough to eat, but one of their children about Lydia's age sat on the horse she had claimed ever since Cles believed he was too big to ride it.

I watched Lydia walk carefully up the the child, stand by him, look at everyone, and with one quick blow with her little elbow, the child rolled over the back of the toy--heels first before landing on the floor. The little boy was too shocked to cry. It all happened so quickly. He probably marveled at the little innocent looking girl with superpowers. All the while Lydia stood looking at everyone, almost asking them what had happened.

I still tease her about it.

My sister Ann took this picture of Cles, wearing an old hat I wore to church in the 50's before I started school. We have two of these, each with a slightly different pose.

When our kids were still very small, Ann and I always had a pinion pine for a tree. I was a tradition in my family. Ann put up with my having a "forest" in her front room, and when she teased me about it, she grinned her typical Annie grin.

I remember telling Ann not to take this picture, but I also remember her telling me that we would really like this some day. She was right. After decades of watching your kids hang all the decorations in the same small section of tree and then notice grandchildren do it too, it is fun to see.

It's nice that she rarely does what I tell her.

I'm sorry, but of all the new pictures I found, this one is my favorite of Cles. I remember someone putting grandpa's boots on him, and I remember something that made him angry, but I don't remember what it was. The grandkids had it very good when they with grandma and grandpa, and when they cried, the would say the same thing that my Great Grandma Thomas said whenever we were like this, "Oh, the little dear has got a headache."

Happy Jack

Of all the pictures we had taken at J.C. Penney, this was my favorite. It was the one that they put in The Post Register after they chose him to be Mr. February.

Whenever Jack sees this picture, the response is the same, especially after I told him I was giving him raspberries on his foot. "Silly Pop Pop!" His voice is low, a wide smile appears and his eyes sparkle.

When Jack and Tommy were just little, Ann found Chicago Blackhawk outfits for both of them on the Internet. I always wore my jersey. And without exception, it was what I had on when I took exchange students to Germany the first and last days on the way to the airport. It made me easy to keep track of as rural youth made their way through busy airports.

One woman waiting for a plane in Salt Lake City or Chicago laughed out loud when she saw me leading my troops wearing the bold red shirt and brandishing a pair of long shorts in my--what Cles once called them--linebacker legs. The woman's reaction was not derision. She just found the whole scene interesting. But maybe it was derision, and maybe she wondered about the sanity of a fifty-year-old man dressed like I was, regardless of how practical I found it.

This picture shows both "my boys" in their Chicago Blackhawk jerseys. Sometimes people ask me when I wear mine if I am a hockey fan. I disappoint them immediately when I tell them I just like the shirt. As long as I have owned Blackhawk jerseys, I have never watched them once. I just like how they look, and I especially liked how they looked on my grandsons.

They were so much fun, and they still are. People never realize how much fun grandchildren are. I always laugh when someone tells me how children under the age of two can not or really should not appreciate Disneyland.

Both boys spent days there at the park when they were tiny, and they loved it then as much as they do now. It makes it difficult to ride the "thrill" rides, and to a certain extent, it is a disadvantage, but I enjoy riding with them on the little rides at Fantasyland as much as anything else, even if it takes the jaws of life to pry me out of the car at the end of the ride. Getting in and out of some of those cars is difficult with my two bad knees, my hip and not to mention some of the other problems.

I always like telling TSA officials at the airport about my hip. "Have you heard about the old video Buns of Steel? I have buns of titanium." It once at least amounted to a smile, but few of them see humor in anything any more. I have always wanted to know how former Hitler Youth can remain so young for so long.

In regards to riding thrill rides at Disneyland, I had had back problems for several months a few years ago, and while at Disneyland, Ann and I decided--for whatever bizarre reason under the circumstances--to ride the Indiana Jones ride. On the first curve I felt a series of pops work down my spine. The little crackling noises were just like the sounds my knuckles once made when I would "crack" them to annoy adults. I found the ride a benefit. It was much more fun to a trip to a chiropractor, and no chickens had to be sacrificed. And I didn't have to suffer any jolts of electricity. I figure I should be able to deduct Disney trips, if a medical deduction ever becomes a reality on my taxes.

When the boys were three or four, Jeff was doing some of his doctor things with a Dr. Nathan in Idaho Falls. We had done some Christmas shopping, and while in Sam's Club, I spotted a Bachmann train set. It was one of the large ones and designed as a holiday set. I put it in the cart. Tommy was so excited in the store that his little body trembled.

"Toot, toot!" He said the words all the way to the checkstand, and Jack helped too. "All aboard," he shouted repeatedly.

When I tried to put the train together the next day, it was impossible. Every time I would begin putting track together, two sets of little hands were trying to pry the huge train cars from their styrofoam protection. Finally Lydia put them on my back, and that is how we put the train together that year.

The next picture shows "my boys" playing in the curtains at Hotel California at the park at Disneyland. They were still just learning to take a few steps, so they would stand at the window, cover themselves in the white and green material, and then play peek-a-boo with each other, each time giggling and laughing so hard that they sometimes fell to the ground.

When Jack was very small, one way I could get him to stop crying or to relax was to pay my Native American flute. It was amazing how fascinated he was with it and how much he enjoyed listening to it.

I did that the first time when he was only a few weeks old. When I mentioned it to him a short time ago, he had forgotten about my doing that. After seeing tiny hands reaching for one of my flutes in my closet a few years ago, I locked them in the safe. Each flute is hand-carved, and most cost several hundred dollars. It was stupid to put them away, regardless how much they cost.

Lydia and Jeff sent Jack this shirt when they visited Hersey, Pennsylvania. He always loved his chocolate "T." Jack was trying to scare the picture taker here.