My mother, Myrtle, was a student of elocution, she said, and felt compelled to pass on to her children what she had learned from her mother, Edna. Here's a sample:
"Ma and The Auto" - Author Unknown
Before we take an auto ride, Pa says to Ma, "My dear,
Now just remember I don't need suggestions from the rear.
If you will just sit still back there, and hold in check your fright,
I'll take you where you want to go and get you back alright.
Remember that my hearings good, and also, I'm not blind,
And I can drive this car, without suggestions from behind."
Ma promises, that she'll be good, then off we gaily start,
But soon she notices up ahead, a peddler with his cart.
"You'd better toot your horn," says she, "To let him know you're near."
"Turn out!" she cries, and Pa replies, "Just shriek at him, my dear."
An' then he adds, "Some day, some guy will make a lot of dough,
A puttin' horns on town car seats for wimmen folks to blow."
Then farther on, Ma cries, "He signaled fer a turn!"
An' Pa says, "Oh did he?" in tones hot enough to burn.
"Oh there's a boy on roller skates," cries Ma, "Now do go slow."
"I'm sure he doesn't see us," an' Pa says, "I duno.
I don't think I need glasses but really it may be,
That I am blind an' cannot see what's right in front of me!"
If Pa should speed the car a bit, someone to hurry past,
Ma whispers, "Do be careful, you're driving much too fast."
An' all the time she's pointing out the dangers of the street,
An' keeps him posted on the road where trolly cars he'll meet.
Last night, when we got home, Pa sighed an said, "My dear,
I'm sure we all enjoyed the drive you gave us from the rear."
-----
"Foolish Questions" - Author unknown
You hear foolish questions and no doubt you wonder why,
The person who will ask them will expect a sane reply.
Did you ever bring a girl a box of candy after tea?
Did you notice how she grabs it, then she'll ask, "Is this for me?"
Foolish question. You should answer when you can,
"No! The candy is for your mother or for John, the hired man.
I just wanted you to see it, now I'll take it all away."
That's the kind of foolish question you'll hear most every day.
Or if you've been away from town for several days or weeks,
What is it that your friends will ask, the first time that they speak?
They rush along to meet you and hug you,
Saying, "Oh, are you back?"
Foolish question. And to answer in that line,
You should say, "No, I'm still traveling on the Rhine.
I'm still in Europe and I won't be back 'till May!"
Now that's the kind of question you'll hear most every day.
And then most every morning there is someone 'round the place,
Who sees you take your shaving cup and lather up your face,
And as you give your razor a preliminary wave,
Someone will always ask you, "Are you going to shave?"
Foolish question. And your answer is, I hope,
"No, I'm really not prepared for shaving, I just like the taste of soap.
I just use the shaving brush and paint myself this way."
That's the kind of foolish question you will hear most every day.
And then of course, you've met someone who will stop you on your way,
And ask where you are going and will listen while you say,
You are going to the funeral of your neighbor, Brother Ned,
Then as soon as you have said it, they will ask, "Why, is he dead?"
Foolish questions. And you might as well reply,
"No, he just thought he'd have his funeral first, then after awhile he'd die.
Brother Ned was so original, he wanted it that way."
Foolish questions, that you hear most every day.
Or if you should have a caller some afternoon at five,
And as you should set conversing, and the doctor should arrive,
Would your visitor be silent? Do you think that she'd be still?
Or when she saw the doctor coming would she ask, "Is someone ill?"
Foolish questions. And you should answer with a little shrug,
"No one is ill. We simply call the doctor in to beat the parlor rug!
Sometimes, he'll tune the grand piano if we want the thing to play."
Now that's the kind of foolish questions you'll hear most every day.
Supposing that an elevator boy forgot to close the doors,
And you'd fall down the shaft past 27 floors,
And as you reached the bottom and were lying there invert,
The first one that would reach you would exclaim, "Are you hurt?"
Foolish questions. And your dying words are, "No!
I was in an awful hurry and the elevator runs too bloomin' slow!
Now that's the kind of foolish questions,
We hear most every day.
-----
I can hear my mother's voice, as I type a couple of her favorites. She also loved one called, "Peach Pies" and another one--"Pockets". I, like some of my siblings, memorized and acted out each of these on stage, as children, at some church or community occasion, or at family reunions. My mother's original writings, the songs she sang, and pieces such as these are a part of who I am.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
More Bits and Pieces
In the absence of new writing, ...
September 16, 2010, Sparks, NV - CSouth
Ode to a cucumber,
Short, stout, and spiney.
Delish to my taste buds,
No fat to my hiney.
Vine tomatoes were sparce,
Yum! Flavor a plenty.
Right here in the valley,
So good in my belly.
Carrots! Fun to pull out,
Wow! A prize every time.
Sized right for three bites,
Ummm-just in their prime.
String beans, beans, and more beans,
Enough for my dinner.
Short swim in hot water,
I vote them a winner!
Some green peas to snack on,
Really! In September?
If picked this late, ever,
I cannot remember.
*****
1964, SLC Utah- CSouth
We surely want to welcome you,
Lean right back and relax.
Poise and charm and beauty, all three,
Quite an array of talent you'll see.
The Mia Maids are on parade,
Showing the latest fashions,
With ruffles and ribbon, you're sure to agree,
Each is a portrait of sweet femininity.
*****
1965, Commonwealth Ave., SLC Utah- CSouth
Grocery Shower Gift Tag for An About-to-Be-Wed Couple
When old Mother Hubbard went to her cupboard, And found that it was bare,
She wasn't as lucky as you two are, For look what you'll find there.
Sacks full of goodies, housewares and food, There may be surprises, too,
Each one will provide loads of fun, 'Cause everything is new!
Even newly married folks, Need a pot of stew,
So take this sack of fixin's, And see what you can do.
You'll need a pan for mixin', Something nice and sturdy,
A cake pan ought to be just right, 'Twill be tasty, I'm 'a-suredy'.
Don your apron and your cap, Take your measuring spoons in hand,
Measure out some Quaker Oats, Now you're ready-just follow the plan.
You'll need a cup of eagerness, To get you started right,
A teaspoon of adventure, And a smile to keep your spirit bright.
Pour in fruit nectars, Now some whole wheat flour,
A cup of inspiration, Let it set one hour.
A tablespoon of Tropical Punch, To give it a festive touch,
Oh, might as well add the whole can, It can't hurt anything much.
Make sure your husband's there, To taste this delicious brew,
Better have the bicarbonate on hand, Good cooks always do!
Still not right?-then add a few more oats, And put that 'blend-it' spoon to work,
Your husband should help with this, Don't let him his duty shirk.
Stir and mix and mix and taste, Fold in some apple drink,
Perseverance-add two cups, That should put you in the pink.
Bake for three or four hours, Just to be sure, you understand,
And let your husband do those dishes, With that new dish mop how better could it be planned?
Did you say our recipe was a flop? Must have been all in the cookin',
Well, eat those cracker jacks for now, And call Harmon's for a bookin'.
*****
January 1967, Yale Avenue, SLC Utah- CSouth
'Twas the day after New Year's,
And it seems all too soon to stop the festivities, the crowds and the tunes.
The boxes are piled,
From the ceiling to floor,,such an array of decorations, there's no room for more.
The fairyland tree,
That stood all aglow, now stands on our street in garbage can row.
Gay figures,
Snowflakes and twinkling lights, they're packed away tightly 'till St. Nick's next flight.
Pine boughs, pine combs, ribbon, the like,
The choirs stopped singing, they all went on strike.
The chocolates, thank goodness
Are now almost finished, a new diet we're trying, two waist's to diminish.
The house looks quite bare,
Even sad, I might add, to lose all it's glamour, the fun times that were had.
We had such a great time, our first Christmas as two,
So 'till next year comes calling, A Happy New Year to you!
*****
1989, Sparks, NV-CSouth
A friend 'stole' my car while I was at work, put two new tires on it, replaced a hub cap, changed the oil, washed and vacuumed it before returning it.
Did you know Santa Claus came early?
He was very generous this year,
With new car parts and a sparkle wash,
My ole' jitney's much easier to steer.
Now, how'd sweet ole' Santa know,
All 'bout cars--he drives a sleigh,
When he wants to improve its performance,
He just gives Rudolph more hay.
I guess dear Santa's always watching,
And alert to all of my needs.
'Cause many times the entire year over,
He visits me, doing his good deeds.
I've been lacking in excitement this season,
But thanks to Santa, in my heart it's been found.
Through good folk keeping alive his legend,
Creating Christmas spirit all year 'round.
*****
Our Family Quilt - Author unknown
Our family is a patchwork quilt
A lifetime being sewn
Each piece is an original
With beauty of its own.
The brightest patches may be new
And get the most attention
But the pieces that are loved and worn
Help give our quilt dimension.
Thread of humor, faith, and love
Will keep our quilt together
To last in love throughout the years
And wrap us close forever.
September 16, 2010, Sparks, NV - CSouth
Ode to a cucumber,
Short, stout, and spiney.
Delish to my taste buds,
No fat to my hiney.
Vine tomatoes were sparce,
Yum! Flavor a plenty.
Right here in the valley,
So good in my belly.
Carrots! Fun to pull out,
Wow! A prize every time.
Sized right for three bites,
Ummm-just in their prime.
String beans, beans, and more beans,
Enough for my dinner.
Short swim in hot water,
I vote them a winner!
Some green peas to snack on,
Really! In September?
If picked this late, ever,
I cannot remember.
*****
1964, SLC Utah- CSouth
We surely want to welcome you,
Lean right back and relax.
Poise and charm and beauty, all three,
Quite an array of talent you'll see.
The Mia Maids are on parade,
Showing the latest fashions,
With ruffles and ribbon, you're sure to agree,
Each is a portrait of sweet femininity.
*****
1965, Commonwealth Ave., SLC Utah- CSouth
Grocery Shower Gift Tag for An About-to-Be-Wed Couple
When old Mother Hubbard went to her cupboard, And found that it was bare,
She wasn't as lucky as you two are, For look what you'll find there.
Sacks full of goodies, housewares and food, There may be surprises, too,
Each one will provide loads of fun, 'Cause everything is new!
Even newly married folks, Need a pot of stew,
So take this sack of fixin's, And see what you can do.
You'll need a pan for mixin', Something nice and sturdy,
A cake pan ought to be just right, 'Twill be tasty, I'm 'a-suredy'.
Don your apron and your cap, Take your measuring spoons in hand,
Measure out some Quaker Oats, Now you're ready-just follow the plan.
You'll need a cup of eagerness, To get you started right,
A teaspoon of adventure, And a smile to keep your spirit bright.
Pour in fruit nectars, Now some whole wheat flour,
A cup of inspiration, Let it set one hour.
A tablespoon of Tropical Punch, To give it a festive touch,
Oh, might as well add the whole can, It can't hurt anything much.
Make sure your husband's there, To taste this delicious brew,
Better have the bicarbonate on hand, Good cooks always do!
Still not right?-then add a few more oats, And put that 'blend-it' spoon to work,
Your husband should help with this, Don't let him his duty shirk.
Stir and mix and mix and taste, Fold in some apple drink,
Perseverance-add two cups, That should put you in the pink.
Bake for three or four hours, Just to be sure, you understand,
And let your husband do those dishes, With that new dish mop how better could it be planned?
Did you say our recipe was a flop? Must have been all in the cookin',
Well, eat those cracker jacks for now, And call Harmon's for a bookin'.
*****
January 1967, Yale Avenue, SLC Utah- CSouth
'Twas the day after New Year's,
And it seems all too soon to stop the festivities, the crowds and the tunes.
The boxes are piled,
From the ceiling to floor,,such an array of decorations, there's no room for more.
The fairyland tree,
That stood all aglow, now stands on our street in garbage can row.
Gay figures,
Snowflakes and twinkling lights, they're packed away tightly 'till St. Nick's next flight.
Pine boughs, pine combs, ribbon, the like,
The choirs stopped singing, they all went on strike.
The chocolates, thank goodness
Are now almost finished, a new diet we're trying, two waist's to diminish.
The house looks quite bare,
Even sad, I might add, to lose all it's glamour, the fun times that were had.
We had such a great time, our first Christmas as two,
So 'till next year comes calling, A Happy New Year to you!
*****
1989, Sparks, NV-CSouth
A friend 'stole' my car while I was at work, put two new tires on it, replaced a hub cap, changed the oil, washed and vacuumed it before returning it.
Did you know Santa Claus came early?
He was very generous this year,
With new car parts and a sparkle wash,
My ole' jitney's much easier to steer.
Now, how'd sweet ole' Santa know,
All 'bout cars--he drives a sleigh,
When he wants to improve its performance,
He just gives Rudolph more hay.
I guess dear Santa's always watching,
And alert to all of my needs.
'Cause many times the entire year over,
He visits me, doing his good deeds.
I've been lacking in excitement this season,
But thanks to Santa, in my heart it's been found.
Through good folk keeping alive his legend,
Creating Christmas spirit all year 'round.
*****
Our Family Quilt - Author unknown
Our family is a patchwork quilt
A lifetime being sewn
Each piece is an original
With beauty of its own.
The brightest patches may be new
And get the most attention
But the pieces that are loved and worn
Help give our quilt dimension.
Thread of humor, faith, and love
Will keep our quilt together
To last in love throughout the years
And wrap us close forever.
'Home' Means ..... ?
Home Means Nevada Written & Music by Bertha Raffetto
Way out in the land of the setting sun,
Where the wind blows wild and free,
There's a lovely spot, just the only one
That means home sweet home to me.
If you follow the old Kit Carson trail,
Until desert meets the hills,
Oh you certainly will agree with me,
It's the place of a thousand thrills.
Where the wind blows wild and free,
There's a lovely spot, just the only one
That means home sweet home to me.
If you follow the old Kit Carson trail,
Until desert meets the hills,
Oh you certainly will agree with me,
It's the place of a thousand thrills.
Whenever the sun at the close of day,
Colors all the western sky,
Oh my heart returns to the desert grey
And the mountains tow'ring high.
Where the moon beams play in shadowed glen,
With the spotted fawn and doe,
All the live long night until morning light,
Is the loveliest place I know.
Colors all the western sky,
Oh my heart returns to the desert grey
And the mountains tow'ring high.
Where the moon beams play in shadowed glen,
With the spotted fawn and doe,
All the live long night until morning light,
Is the loveliest place I know.
Home means Nevada
Home means the hills,
Home means the sage and the pine.
Out by the Truckee, silvery rills,
Out where the sun always shines,
Here is the land which I love the best,
Fairer than all I can see.
Deep in the heart of the golden west
Home means Nevada to me.
Home means the hills,
Home means the sage and the pine.
Out by the Truckee, silvery rills,
Out where the sun always shines,
Here is the land which I love the best,
Fairer than all I can see.
Deep in the heart of the golden west
Home means Nevada to me.
One of the things Nevada kids learn when they enter the school system is the State song. Although I've lived in northern Nevada for the past 36 years, I don't think of it as 'Home'. My granddaughter and I were returning to Sparks, the final leg of 12 days of travel that included a 50th high school reunion of classmates, a Whitney family reunion, visits to cities and houses I'd once called home. We had spent time with family and friends and now, looking out the plane window, Jess and I saw two more planes flying on the highway in the sky. They appeared to be very close--right next to us, as in a chorus line--each of them tiered at what looked to be only a slight difference in altitude, one flying in our same direction, the second plane going in the opposite direction. Someone else going or coming 'Home', perhaps?
In her piece, "Where is Home?", Rebbetzin Feige Twerski says, "... why is it that even as we move on to supposedly bigger and better things--careers, marriage, children, and grandchildren--the longing for one's childhood 'home' persists." She goes on, "... when other forms of cognizance fail us, memories of 'home' are the last to go. ... Technical, physiological reasons are given to explain this phenomenon-- ... --but I am convinced there is more to it than science has to offer." With just a few clicks of my mouse, I found a surprising number of comments addressing this topic. I am not the only one asking the question or trying to define it.
On the topic of 'Home' and where or what it is, some have said it is a feeling--a state of mind--and not a place at all. Some referred to 'Home' in the context of a particular community, a city, a country. Others felt that 'Home' was who you're with rather than where you are. Many of the comments I read said that 'Home' is your past--your childhood dwelling or where there were traditions and rituals--your memories. Some made the distinction between 'Home' and being 'At Home', as being free to be one's self, feeling safe, finding peace, a place to relax, having a sense of belonging. For others, 'Home' involved scents and smells, or was where the mom was, where meals were shared, or where all your stuff was kept.
Where is 'Home'? I found comments, given by individuals who had moved or traveled a lot as children or adults, different from those who had not. Even those who had what might be considered a traditional childhood as compared to those who did not, defined 'Home' in unpredicatable terms. Those living singly, by choice or by circumstance, spoke of 'Home' as though their idea of what it once was to them, had changed.
So...what is 'Home', ... where is it, ... for you? For me, it is still something I'm choosing to ponder, taking more notice of little things that when put together, may become a thought I can try on, wear it a little bit to see if it is comfortable or true for me, even write about it again, some time. Whatever or wherever 'Home' may be for me, it is a part of who I am.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Staying Put
Saying goodbye to Marion and Evelyn was made easier by the fact that I would return to Preston at the end of the week. Carma and Sylvan brought the entree for Sunday's lunch. Evelyn's really green, sweet pickles added a bit of nostalgia to the table. There was pie for dessert. That made me laugh. Evelyn had mentioned how much Marion was always wanting a piece of pie. Worried about his nutrition, she asked his doctor about it. "Let him have pie," the doctor said. Then when the doctor went into the exam room to see Marion, she asked him how he was. Marion answered, "I want to get the hell out of here and go home!" She came out of the exam room, laughing and said to Evelyn, "Better give him two pieces of pie!"
It was a peaceful drive from Preston to Chubbuck with Carma at the wheel and Sylvan pointing out some of the sights and offering background information. I didn't recognize much of downtown or even their neighborhood. When I said that out loud, Carma reminded me that most of what I was seeing was not there the last time I was in town. My plan for Jessi and I was to stay put at the Morgan's for most of the week. When Jessica and her siblings were in elementary school, Carma and Sylvan took care of them at our house in Sparks while I recuperated from surgery. Jessi wondered aloud, "Do you think Aunt Carma will be waking me up by singing 'Oh How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning', like she use to?"
Monday morning, while Jess and I were in Chubbuck, Idaho, Max Bailie was getting ready for his first day of kindergarten, in Sparks, Nevada. His brother, Gage, would spend his first day as a 5th grader. I hadn't missed a 'First Day of School' event, ever. Jess and I were up early to Skipe with those boys before they left for school. Technology is awesome!
Sylvan's accomplished paintings hung on the walls. Add to that Carma's beautiful crocheting and quilts and together, they had made their home comfortable and welcoming with their handiwork. He ground fresh flour, mixing soft and hard grains, for Carma's whole wheat bread, something I really appreciated. I ate that delicious bread toasted for breakfast every morning and plain or with butter any time I could find a reason to do so...or just because! There was no resisting it or even being reasonable about the amounts consumed!
Throughout the week, some nieces and nephews and their kids came by. Doug and Tessie were sanding Sylvan's deck but Doug took one night off to go fishing, then came walking in after sundown with a big grin, bringing fresh trout still wet from the fishing hole. It had been so long since Jess or I had eaten fish that fresh that we had to have a little tutoring in how to fillet it on our plates! One of his daughters included Jess in plans a couple of times during the week for movies and fun with friends.
Richard spent an afternoon sharing memories. He's a hugger, that one! His wife, Sandra and all the kids came by another evening so we could get acquainted. His older daughters came by to keep the lawns mowed.
It was great to see Kay and meet her daughter. Marion and his family were living at the farm when Kay was a teenager. I usually packed my sewing machine along whenever I went to Weston to stay for a few days and sewed for Mother and for Kay. I made most of her back-to-school wardrobe during a couple of those summer visits. Remembering the story of helping her decorate her first apartment and driving her and a girl friend to California when my kids were young had us laughing all over again.
After supper, we gathered 'round the wide-screen TV to watch Olympic coverage or lingered at the kitchen table for a rousing Phase 10 competition. I'm no good at games or cards but by some lucky happenstance, I won one game. Jess and Syl got competitive. Those chocolate chip cookies in the evening were the best!
Karen and Dale Rohner drove in from Malad early in the week for lunch, at Carma's invitation. Karen and I met years ago while working for Elwood Heiner in his Salon in Salt Lake City. We both married and continued to meet now and then with our husbands and families or to give each other a good hair cut. Then life got in our way and we lost touch with each other. She and Dale seemed genuinely delighted to see me.
Tom, Jenn, and their boys drove into the driveway Thursday evening, just about the time the lasagna was coming out of the oven. Tom LOVES Carma's lasagna! Jenn's boys met new cousins and played board games with Aunt Carma well into Friday.
Homemade Choke Cherry syrup came to the table to sweeten the sourdough pancakes for our final breakfast together. I remembered driving Mother up Weston canyon to pick those wild fruits. Sylvan had grown the fruit in his own back yard that was used for the syrup we enjoyed that morning.
We had plans to all drive back to Weston together for the Whitney reunion on Saturday. Carma made her fabulous pasta salad to contribute to the pot luck in the park. But Sylvan wasn't feeling well. We knew already that Marion wasn't well enough to attend. Jess and I had reached the turn-around spot in my search for 'Home'. We were on the move again, the Bailies, Jess, and I ... and the pasta salad.
Our drive back to Weston took us along a different route past more farm land and through a beautiful, shallow canyon. Soon, Tom was driving the West Side Highway. Jenn and I both said as we came around the bend, "Slow down or you'll miss the town!" Tom thought we were kidding!
Some of the Greenes had arrived at Weston's park, already--Janet, Rayola, Ross, Jarvis, Denton and his wife, Helen. I met a couple of next-generation family members whose names I've misplaced temporarily. My cousin, Leslie Shoupe--Aunt Flo's daughter--had copies of a photo pedigree chart for everyone that included pictures of Peg Leg Sam, his wife and all eleven of their children and their spouses. This was a collection I'd not seen before. Great to see my cousin, Arlene--Uncle Well's daughter--and her husband. She and I found each other a few years ago on e-mail. One of her granddaughters was named Miss Idaho a few months ago. Must be that good Whitney DNA. This was but a small group of my mother's relatives from the Whitney line but be there many or a few, it felt important to share handshakes, hugs, and family stories again.
The evening was lovely, as it can be when sun sets over farmland. Big J's in Preston was a little less crowded with fewer rodeo folks in town. Jess and I were curious about the building where the sign, "Scrapbooking", hung in the window. That turned out to be just one, very small, room crammed with tons of amenities for a 'scrapper'. I found a couple of 'Idaho' sticker pages to add to my collection, just in case I ever made time to complete a scrapbook in my lifetime. In two steps, I was again in the hallway and ask a woman where I could pay for my purchase. She looked like a TV sitcom character, standing there behind what looked like a counter that had been built across another open doorway. She took my cash while she was barking out a pizza order to someone unseen and calling out a pick-up name and number of a freshly, baked pie to the couple seated just inside yet another doorway, the unmistakable sights and smells of a pizza dive escaping through the opening--a couple of small tables covered with red-checkered cloths, cheese dripping and stringing, and a heavy scent of sauce, spice, and sausage. What a combination in one tiny building! Outside, a driveway separated this re-purposed red-brick home from Big J's. As we stepped up to give our order at J's, the same woman who had just taken my money next door a few minutes before, was taking an order behind the J's counter, then came out to deliver a tray of food to a customer. We all did a double take! Talk about multi-tasking!
Marion and Evelyn were both feeling poorly when the girls and I visited with them on our first pass through Preston. He didn't acknowledge that he knew who I was or engage with any of us, at all. What a surprise it was then when we came again, that he played with Jenn's boys as he sat in his chair, then stood and moved away from his chair, teasing and playing a bit more with them. Evelyn was stunned, saying, "He hasn't moved out of his chair in five years, even to get himself a glass of water!" He was very animated during the time we were there and had hugs for everyone when we left.
Vicki's familiar chocolate chip cookies awaited us, sitting on the small table just inside the entrance at the Rocky Mountain Red Brick Inn. I think we were the only ones there that night since the rodeo crowds had come and gone. The smell of breakfast had us up early on Sunday morning. My visiting appointments were not scheduled to begin until just after noon so we had time to enjoy one more leisurely, home-cooked Vicki Peacock meal, served with much variety and finesse. We said our final goodbyes to our new friend, and to our family. The good news was that Marion had slept well and appeared none the worse after our visit.
Tom's impression of 'Small Farming Towns, USA' was a bit roughed up around the edges when, on Sunday morning, he could not get gas, leaving Preston. It was Sunday morning. Everything was closed. This was not Nevada where something--almost everything--is always open 24-7!
To read the account of the final day of my grand adventure in search of 'Home', click on the blog entitled: Mountain Home .
It was a peaceful drive from Preston to Chubbuck with Carma at the wheel and Sylvan pointing out some of the sights and offering background information. I didn't recognize much of downtown or even their neighborhood. When I said that out loud, Carma reminded me that most of what I was seeing was not there the last time I was in town. My plan for Jessi and I was to stay put at the Morgan's for most of the week. When Jessica and her siblings were in elementary school, Carma and Sylvan took care of them at our house in Sparks while I recuperated from surgery. Jessi wondered aloud, "Do you think Aunt Carma will be waking me up by singing 'Oh How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning', like she use to?"
Monday morning, while Jess and I were in Chubbuck, Idaho, Max Bailie was getting ready for his first day of kindergarten, in Sparks, Nevada. His brother, Gage, would spend his first day as a 5th grader. I hadn't missed a 'First Day of School' event, ever. Jess and I were up early to Skipe with those boys before they left for school. Technology is awesome!
Sylvan's accomplished paintings hung on the walls. Add to that Carma's beautiful crocheting and quilts and together, they had made their home comfortable and welcoming with their handiwork. He ground fresh flour, mixing soft and hard grains, for Carma's whole wheat bread, something I really appreciated. I ate that delicious bread toasted for breakfast every morning and plain or with butter any time I could find a reason to do so...or just because! There was no resisting it or even being reasonable about the amounts consumed!
Throughout the week, some nieces and nephews and their kids came by. Doug and Tessie were sanding Sylvan's deck but Doug took one night off to go fishing, then came walking in after sundown with a big grin, bringing fresh trout still wet from the fishing hole. It had been so long since Jess or I had eaten fish that fresh that we had to have a little tutoring in how to fillet it on our plates! One of his daughters included Jess in plans a couple of times during the week for movies and fun with friends.
Richard spent an afternoon sharing memories. He's a hugger, that one! His wife, Sandra and all the kids came by another evening so we could get acquainted. His older daughters came by to keep the lawns mowed.
It was great to see Kay and meet her daughter. Marion and his family were living at the farm when Kay was a teenager. I usually packed my sewing machine along whenever I went to Weston to stay for a few days and sewed for Mother and for Kay. I made most of her back-to-school wardrobe during a couple of those summer visits. Remembering the story of helping her decorate her first apartment and driving her and a girl friend to California when my kids were young had us laughing all over again.
After supper, we gathered 'round the wide-screen TV to watch Olympic coverage or lingered at the kitchen table for a rousing Phase 10 competition. I'm no good at games or cards but by some lucky happenstance, I won one game. Jess and Syl got competitive. Those chocolate chip cookies in the evening were the best!
Karen and Dale Rohner drove in from Malad early in the week for lunch, at Carma's invitation. Karen and I met years ago while working for Elwood Heiner in his Salon in Salt Lake City. We both married and continued to meet now and then with our husbands and families or to give each other a good hair cut. Then life got in our way and we lost touch with each other. She and Dale seemed genuinely delighted to see me.
Tom, Jenn, and their boys drove into the driveway Thursday evening, just about the time the lasagna was coming out of the oven. Tom LOVES Carma's lasagna! Jenn's boys met new cousins and played board games with Aunt Carma well into Friday.
Homemade Choke Cherry syrup came to the table to sweeten the sourdough pancakes for our final breakfast together. I remembered driving Mother up Weston canyon to pick those wild fruits. Sylvan had grown the fruit in his own back yard that was used for the syrup we enjoyed that morning.
We had plans to all drive back to Weston together for the Whitney reunion on Saturday. Carma made her fabulous pasta salad to contribute to the pot luck in the park. But Sylvan wasn't feeling well. We knew already that Marion wasn't well enough to attend. Jess and I had reached the turn-around spot in my search for 'Home'. We were on the move again, the Bailies, Jess, and I ... and the pasta salad.
Our drive back to Weston took us along a different route past more farm land and through a beautiful, shallow canyon. Soon, Tom was driving the West Side Highway. Jenn and I both said as we came around the bend, "Slow down or you'll miss the town!" Tom thought we were kidding!
Some of the Greenes had arrived at Weston's park, already--Janet, Rayola, Ross, Jarvis, Denton and his wife, Helen. I met a couple of next-generation family members whose names I've misplaced temporarily. My cousin, Leslie Shoupe--Aunt Flo's daughter--had copies of a photo pedigree chart for everyone that included pictures of Peg Leg Sam, his wife and all eleven of their children and their spouses. This was a collection I'd not seen before. Great to see my cousin, Arlene--Uncle Well's daughter--and her husband. She and I found each other a few years ago on e-mail. One of her granddaughters was named Miss Idaho a few months ago. Must be that good Whitney DNA. This was but a small group of my mother's relatives from the Whitney line but be there many or a few, it felt important to share handshakes, hugs, and family stories again.
The evening was lovely, as it can be when sun sets over farmland. Big J's in Preston was a little less crowded with fewer rodeo folks in town. Jess and I were curious about the building where the sign, "Scrapbooking", hung in the window. That turned out to be just one, very small, room crammed with tons of amenities for a 'scrapper'. I found a couple of 'Idaho' sticker pages to add to my collection, just in case I ever made time to complete a scrapbook in my lifetime. In two steps, I was again in the hallway and ask a woman where I could pay for my purchase. She looked like a TV sitcom character, standing there behind what looked like a counter that had been built across another open doorway. She took my cash while she was barking out a pizza order to someone unseen and calling out a pick-up name and number of a freshly, baked pie to the couple seated just inside yet another doorway, the unmistakable sights and smells of a pizza dive escaping through the opening--a couple of small tables covered with red-checkered cloths, cheese dripping and stringing, and a heavy scent of sauce, spice, and sausage. What a combination in one tiny building! Outside, a driveway separated this re-purposed red-brick home from Big J's. As we stepped up to give our order at J's, the same woman who had just taken my money next door a few minutes before, was taking an order behind the J's counter, then came out to deliver a tray of food to a customer. We all did a double take! Talk about multi-tasking!
Marion and Evelyn were both feeling poorly when the girls and I visited with them on our first pass through Preston. He didn't acknowledge that he knew who I was or engage with any of us, at all. What a surprise it was then when we came again, that he played with Jenn's boys as he sat in his chair, then stood and moved away from his chair, teasing and playing a bit more with them. Evelyn was stunned, saying, "He hasn't moved out of his chair in five years, even to get himself a glass of water!" He was very animated during the time we were there and had hugs for everyone when we left.
Vicki's familiar chocolate chip cookies awaited us, sitting on the small table just inside the entrance at the Rocky Mountain Red Brick Inn. I think we were the only ones there that night since the rodeo crowds had come and gone. The smell of breakfast had us up early on Sunday morning. My visiting appointments were not scheduled to begin until just after noon so we had time to enjoy one more leisurely, home-cooked Vicki Peacock meal, served with much variety and finesse. We said our final goodbyes to our new friend, and to our family. The good news was that Marion had slept well and appeared none the worse after our visit.
Tom's impression of 'Small Farming Towns, USA' was a bit roughed up around the edges when, on Sunday morning, he could not get gas, leaving Preston. It was Sunday morning. Everything was closed. This was not Nevada where something--almost everything--is always open 24-7!
To read the account of the final day of my grand adventure in search of 'Home', click on the blog entitled: Mountain Home .
Sunday, September 16, 2012
The Rocky Mountain Red Brick Inn
What a long day, flying into Salt Lake City, Utah after mid-night, driving to Dayton, Idaho to have lunch with my classmates from high school having had little sleep and then taking a tour through Weston. By early evening, Jenn, Jessie and I were anxious to find the Rocky Mountain Red Brick Inn in Preston where we'd spend the night.
When you plan to travel, you just get on the Internet and make reservations, right? Turns out, it is more of a challenge than that if you plan to stay in a small town. And if that small town is Preston, Idaho, it is darn near impossible to make arrangements in the way you may be use to--no flights in, no rental car service, and as we found out, almost zero lodging options and fewer than that on the weekend of the famous Preston Rodeo. Vicki Peacock's Rocky Mountain Red Brick Inn had one room left. With the reservation made, Jenn sent me a message, saying, "She sounds nice on the phone and makes breakfast every morning." We knew little else about the place.
Main street and most side roads leading into the center of town were blocked when we tried to find the Inn. There were people everywhere, chairs and blankets lining the gutters and sidewalks and pavement. Then we saw the banner saying, "Home of the Famous Preston Rodeo". Most everything in town had come to a screeching halt while everybody, and I do mean everybody, took their place on the streets. The parade was about to start! As I remembered, this scenario would be repeated EVERY night of the rodeo.
When Jenn found a way around all of this and we pulled up in front of the Inn, it was love at first sight! An elder in my ward once said, "You get what you get ready for." I had been getting ready for this trip for months. I hoped that after being significantly limited by RA in the six months previous that I was ready for the challenge awaiting me at the Inn--steps, lots of them. Three easy steps up, then another to the threshold of the door, then up a few more. Our host directed us to our room. Uh-oh...it was on the second floor. Steps, lots of steps and these were steep. "Maybe I could sleep on that couch," I thought. I'd had a ramp at my own front door for several months not so long before.
I'm unsure why we thought that putting a person in front of me and another behind would keep me or them safe, as I stepped out on the tightrope, so-to-speak, to see if I could climb. If I had stumbled or fallen in any direction, I'd have taken the other two right along with me in the fall! It was slow going but I felt like planting a flag once I reached the top. I needed a yellow jersey to pull over my head in triumph, or a tape stretched across the final step to break through. A mountaineer could not have felt more accomplished! Our room was charming with lots of little touches that created a real home-away-from-home feel. It was perfect for the three of us.
In small towns, there isn't a McD's on every corner. We did a drag down main and saw just two possibilities. We were so hungry by now that we practically ran in the door of the Artic Circle. The food? Not a highlight of the trip. Jessi entertained us by squeezing the hot grease out of her fries and the heavily breaded something she couldn't eat. There were warm chocolate chip cookies waiting for us at the Inn when we returned. We tried to be polite and take just one but after we were settled, I sent Jess back down the stairs for a second, for me!
Though the Inn was full to capacity, it was remarkably quiet as guests came and went. A delicious breakfast was served to each party at prearranged times--made-from-scratch waffles and Huckleberry honey were just two of the stand-outs of our meal. Vicki sat with us, telling the remarkable history of the building, We learned that it was once an LDS church meeting house, sold to her family years ago. While a young wife and mother of several small children, the family had lived there for a time, but for many years, the building sat unoccupied. A teacher by trade, living in Arizona, Vicki had a vision for the property that included restoring and saving as much of its history as possible, including a part of the old chapel. Her daughter, a licensed contractor, had been meeting with her mother each summer at the site for several years to work on the restoration. The high domed ceiling had been repaired beautifully, salvaging most of the original fine craftsmanship evidenced in the detailing. Hardwood floors had been sanded and refinished. The special glass of the panes from arched, cathedral-type windows was no longer available so every effort had been made to salvage most of those still there, even some cracked ones. The unique chapel theater seating was something I'd never seen used before in a church. Original pews sat just as they had when congregations met there; The pulpit and tiny organ were original to the building, as well. Beautiful, hand stitched quilts draped over the pews until a way to display and preserve them has been determined. When the church was decommissioned, the original corner stone was given to Vicki and has become a part of the decor. Former classrooms have been re-purposed as bedrooms; There are eight in use with more to come. Plans are in the works for the former choir loft, the basement kitchen, and a large open space that could become a place the community could use for gatherings--family reunions, small wedding receptions, for example.
My brother, Marion and his wife, Evelyn, live just two blocks from the Inn. We spent a good part of a day with them. I hadn't seen them in 20 years. Ill health had dogged Marion for a number of years, and was now further complicated by the issues of advancing age. Evelyn, though herself in her 80's and having health problems of her own, shoulders the load for his day-to-day care. Her kids and grandkids help but she said herself that she was very tired. It was good to see them. Evelyn, Jenn and I re-told old stories, laughed, and giggled like we use to do. Her garden was growing like crazy, the biggest squash leaves and vines I've ever seen!
The girls and I planned to meet one of my classmates, Ruth Ann and her husband for dinner at BIG J's/TacoMaker, the only other fast food joint we had seen. We thought we had planned our meeting time to miss the parade line-up but instead, we got caught right in the middle of it! My friends were running late anyway so Jenn parked the car and we joined the crowd in the middle of a side street to watch the parade. As entries passed by and generous amounts of candy were thrown to the waiting crowd, we noticed an adult woman fighting off little kids all around us, grabbing up all the candy, sometimes taking it right out of their hands. Jess, who was taller than the greedy candy snatcher, began catching candy and dropping it into the kid's containers. That evened up the competition quite a bit, to the kids' delight. During a lull in the candy drama, I spotted a classmate, Lorraine, driving a vintage tractor along the parade route. Horses and riders passed by and lots of farm equipment. Then Jenn pointed to two fellas, each one driving their own personal Model A's or T's, Michael in a snappy, stand-out, tomato red and Clint in a Johnny-Cash, black, both classmates Jenn had met at the reunion. We cheered and called out to all three but the noise of the crowd and the parade entries drowned us out. My girls were still all amazed that such a huge crowd showed up each night for the parade. Some folks left their chairs in place knowing they would return for yet another night. Others packed up and headed for the rodeo. We could hear the announcer as preparations for presenting the colors got underway at the fair grounds.
BIG J's/TacoMaker was packed! Weren't all those people suppose to be at the rodeo? Jenn knew how to get in line. The rest of us secured a table as soon as we could do so without using force and before too long, we were trying to talk over the din while enjoying our eats. It was so good to see Ruth Ann and Ray and have a little time with them back at the Inn, too. She and I were good friends through High School and roomed together in SLC. We lost touch for a number of years but thanks to e-mail, we had reconnected in these past few years.
Cinnamon rolls? There's really no mistaking that tantalizing fragrance. I did taste some other offerings on the table but those rolls held my attention like nothing else! I LOVE a good cinnamon roll! The pecans on top were an added bonus of those homemade-from-scratch beauties. They may have even been a wee bit better than my own and that's saying something if I do say so myself.
By the time Jenn and Jess loaded up the car and we'd had our breakfast visit with Vicki and her helpers, we felt a bit like we were saying goodbye to family. We spent the morning with Marion and Evelyn, again before Jenn had to take off for SLC to catch her flight back to Sparks. My brother, Sylvan and his wife, Carma, arrived bringing lunch just as Jenn was leaving. By late afternoon, Jess and I were packed into their car. Next stop, Chubbuck, Idaho. Never heard of Chubbuck? Well stay tuned and I'll tell you about some of the great people who live there.
To be continued...
When you plan to travel, you just get on the Internet and make reservations, right? Turns out, it is more of a challenge than that if you plan to stay in a small town. And if that small town is Preston, Idaho, it is darn near impossible to make arrangements in the way you may be use to--no flights in, no rental car service, and as we found out, almost zero lodging options and fewer than that on the weekend of the famous Preston Rodeo. Vicki Peacock's Rocky Mountain Red Brick Inn had one room left. With the reservation made, Jenn sent me a message, saying, "She sounds nice on the phone and makes breakfast every morning." We knew little else about the place.
Main street and most side roads leading into the center of town were blocked when we tried to find the Inn. There were people everywhere, chairs and blankets lining the gutters and sidewalks and pavement. Then we saw the banner saying, "Home of the Famous Preston Rodeo". Most everything in town had come to a screeching halt while everybody, and I do mean everybody, took their place on the streets. The parade was about to start! As I remembered, this scenario would be repeated EVERY night of the rodeo.
When Jenn found a way around all of this and we pulled up in front of the Inn, it was love at first sight! An elder in my ward once said, "You get what you get ready for." I had been getting ready for this trip for months. I hoped that after being significantly limited by RA in the six months previous that I was ready for the challenge awaiting me at the Inn--steps, lots of them. Three easy steps up, then another to the threshold of the door, then up a few more. Our host directed us to our room. Uh-oh...it was on the second floor. Steps, lots of steps and these were steep. "Maybe I could sleep on that couch," I thought. I'd had a ramp at my own front door for several months not so long before.
I'm unsure why we thought that putting a person in front of me and another behind would keep me or them safe, as I stepped out on the tightrope, so-to-speak, to see if I could climb. If I had stumbled or fallen in any direction, I'd have taken the other two right along with me in the fall! It was slow going but I felt like planting a flag once I reached the top. I needed a yellow jersey to pull over my head in triumph, or a tape stretched across the final step to break through. A mountaineer could not have felt more accomplished! Our room was charming with lots of little touches that created a real home-away-from-home feel. It was perfect for the three of us.
In small towns, there isn't a McD's on every corner. We did a drag down main and saw just two possibilities. We were so hungry by now that we practically ran in the door of the Artic Circle. The food? Not a highlight of the trip. Jessi entertained us by squeezing the hot grease out of her fries and the heavily breaded something she couldn't eat. There were warm chocolate chip cookies waiting for us at the Inn when we returned. We tried to be polite and take just one but after we were settled, I sent Jess back down the stairs for a second, for me!
Though the Inn was full to capacity, it was remarkably quiet as guests came and went. A delicious breakfast was served to each party at prearranged times--made-from-scratch waffles and Huckleberry honey were just two of the stand-outs of our meal. Vicki sat with us, telling the remarkable history of the building, We learned that it was once an LDS church meeting house, sold to her family years ago. While a young wife and mother of several small children, the family had lived there for a time, but for many years, the building sat unoccupied. A teacher by trade, living in Arizona, Vicki had a vision for the property that included restoring and saving as much of its history as possible, including a part of the old chapel. Her daughter, a licensed contractor, had been meeting with her mother each summer at the site for several years to work on the restoration. The high domed ceiling had been repaired beautifully, salvaging most of the original fine craftsmanship evidenced in the detailing. Hardwood floors had been sanded and refinished. The special glass of the panes from arched, cathedral-type windows was no longer available so every effort had been made to salvage most of those still there, even some cracked ones. The unique chapel theater seating was something I'd never seen used before in a church. Original pews sat just as they had when congregations met there; The pulpit and tiny organ were original to the building, as well. Beautiful, hand stitched quilts draped over the pews until a way to display and preserve them has been determined. When the church was decommissioned, the original corner stone was given to Vicki and has become a part of the decor. Former classrooms have been re-purposed as bedrooms; There are eight in use with more to come. Plans are in the works for the former choir loft, the basement kitchen, and a large open space that could become a place the community could use for gatherings--family reunions, small wedding receptions, for example.
My brother, Marion and his wife, Evelyn, live just two blocks from the Inn. We spent a good part of a day with them. I hadn't seen them in 20 years. Ill health had dogged Marion for a number of years, and was now further complicated by the issues of advancing age. Evelyn, though herself in her 80's and having health problems of her own, shoulders the load for his day-to-day care. Her kids and grandkids help but she said herself that she was very tired. It was good to see them. Evelyn, Jenn and I re-told old stories, laughed, and giggled like we use to do. Her garden was growing like crazy, the biggest squash leaves and vines I've ever seen!
The girls and I planned to meet one of my classmates, Ruth Ann and her husband for dinner at BIG J's/TacoMaker, the only other fast food joint we had seen. We thought we had planned our meeting time to miss the parade line-up but instead, we got caught right in the middle of it! My friends were running late anyway so Jenn parked the car and we joined the crowd in the middle of a side street to watch the parade. As entries passed by and generous amounts of candy were thrown to the waiting crowd, we noticed an adult woman fighting off little kids all around us, grabbing up all the candy, sometimes taking it right out of their hands. Jess, who was taller than the greedy candy snatcher, began catching candy and dropping it into the kid's containers. That evened up the competition quite a bit, to the kids' delight. During a lull in the candy drama, I spotted a classmate, Lorraine, driving a vintage tractor along the parade route. Horses and riders passed by and lots of farm equipment. Then Jenn pointed to two fellas, each one driving their own personal Model A's or T's, Michael in a snappy, stand-out, tomato red and Clint in a Johnny-Cash, black, both classmates Jenn had met at the reunion. We cheered and called out to all three but the noise of the crowd and the parade entries drowned us out. My girls were still all amazed that such a huge crowd showed up each night for the parade. Some folks left their chairs in place knowing they would return for yet another night. Others packed up and headed for the rodeo. We could hear the announcer as preparations for presenting the colors got underway at the fair grounds.
BIG J's/TacoMaker was packed! Weren't all those people suppose to be at the rodeo? Jenn knew how to get in line. The rest of us secured a table as soon as we could do so without using force and before too long, we were trying to talk over the din while enjoying our eats. It was so good to see Ruth Ann and Ray and have a little time with them back at the Inn, too. She and I were good friends through High School and roomed together in SLC. We lost touch for a number of years but thanks to e-mail, we had reconnected in these past few years.
Cinnamon rolls? There's really no mistaking that tantalizing fragrance. I did taste some other offerings on the table but those rolls held my attention like nothing else! I LOVE a good cinnamon roll! The pecans on top were an added bonus of those homemade-from-scratch beauties. They may have even been a wee bit better than my own and that's saying something if I do say so myself.
By the time Jenn and Jess loaded up the car and we'd had our breakfast visit with Vicki and her helpers, we felt a bit like we were saying goodbye to family. We spent the morning with Marion and Evelyn, again before Jenn had to take off for SLC to catch her flight back to Sparks. My brother, Sylvan and his wife, Carma, arrived bringing lunch just as Jenn was leaving. By late afternoon, Jess and I were packed into their car. Next stop, Chubbuck, Idaho. Never heard of Chubbuck? Well stay tuned and I'll tell you about some of the great people who live there.
To be continued...
Friday, September 14, 2012
Weston, Population 437
Dayton, Idaho has a fresh, new face--A first rate auditorium/concert hall and a couple more new structures across from the high school on main street! With our brief business meeting finished, and our walk-thru of the new buildings complete, the crowd began to thin out. A few of us--Ione, Ruth Ann, Kent, their spouses, Dave and I--sat on the front steps of our Alma mater, comparing stories and savoring just a little more time together. My girls had retreated to the comfort of our air conditioned rental car. I said my final goodbyes and slipped my class ring off my finger. I couldn't help but wonder if this could be the last goodbye for some.
"Let's take the West Side Highway and find our way to Weston", I suggested. The car had barely moved before I cried, "Wait! Back up! I have to have pictures!" The scoreboard announcing, "Home of the Pirates" and bleachers were new additions since I attended high school football games. White, WS letters were still arranged high on a nearby hill. The girls were underwhelmed. My plan for getting a reaction out of Jessi as we drove along this two-lane roadway took a detour. The thrill hill was gone! You know, that dip in a road that takes your breath away when you drive over it fast. It was a good one, back in the day. I caught air in the Merc in that spot at least a time or two and wanted to surprise Jess and hear her squeal! The road's been smoothed out. Highway markers announcing locations have been added. "Entering Weston, Population 437". I had to have a picture of that! When I was growing up, a person knew where they were via familiar landmarks--the homes and the fields, what was growing--Kohler or Buttars' grain, Tingey's potatoes, my dad's sugar beets and peas--or loosely stacked alfalfa vs baled hay, red barns and ditch head-gates. Seeing Maughn's plum thickets could have meant you made a wrong turn when you really meant to go the other way past the pea silage weigh station and along the Linrose road, maybe up over the railroad tracks or down past the Thompson place, under the canal flume and over the Bear River bridge.
Jenn parked as close to the edge of the road as possible but there was no shoulder, just a ditch with a bit of water in it and the barrow pit. I walk like a teetering toddler much of the time but I made it the short distance from the car, through the tall grass on uneven footing to stand beside the sign. Photo Op #1--me and the sign post. Then Jessi joined me. I urged Jenn to try more phoneography and include herself in the shot. "Do you want me to take a picture of all three of you?" I didn't recognize the voice but without hesitation, I agreed and invited the stranger to join us. There was no mistake that he was a local farmer, sweaty, covered in chaff and dust. A large combine and ton-truck filled with grain stood idling in the field across the road. "I'm just waiting for someone to come help me unload," he said. Coming closer, he asked, "So, who are you?"
"Who are you?" I answered.
"Paul Campbell."
"That's doesn't ring a bell. I grew up in Weston but I don't remember you."
"How about Roger Campbell?"
"Oh my yes, I know Roger! I played 'White Cliffs of Dover' on the organ at his mission homecoming!"
"I'm Roger's brother!"
Paul took our picture standing beside the Welcome to Weston sign and we took his picture. "Don't forget the 37! They're important!" Indeed! Since the 2000 Census, that little corner of the world had grown some. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weston,_Idaho. In repeating the story, I found it interesting that I felt perfectly safe and natural, inviting a stranger to join us there on the road between Dayton and Weston. Had I been almost anywhere else, I would have been wary and may have kept my distance.
There it was just 'round the bend and down the hill--Weston--grain silos on the left and on the right, the U.S. Post Office. I remember when mail was a part of Archie's store on the next corner. In the town square, all that was left of the elementary school was the bell tower, sitting monument style on the grounds of what was now a park. The meeting house appeared larger than I remembered, though I do recall risking my own life and limb in a classroom on the second floor trying to grab hold of a kid who thought he'd go out the window rather than listen to me teach a Sunday school lesson. Uncle Wells Whitney's house still stood across the road from the church. Going around the block, I saw the old grandstand still there in the northwest corner. Jenn really laughed when I called it a grandstand. I'd sat many a time on one of those rows of bleachers, glad to be under the roof and out of the hot, summer sun, on school field days, or during 24th of July celebrations. The summer before my 12th birthday, I was allowed to attend Mutual. It was on that ball field in front of the grandstand, with teens and adult leaders playing, that I actually hit the ball when it was my turn to bat! I was running the bases, rounding second, headed for third base, when ... CRASH!!! I was thrown to the ground, the wind knocked clean out of me! The BIG and BURLY adult, ball in hand and determined to tag me out, SMACKED into me HEAD-ON! He got me out, alright. Even though I was pubereskly chubby, I felt like I had been hit by a truck!
The girls and I drove to the cemetery so I could visit a bit with my mom and dad. Though I think and talk about them a lot, I'd not been there since '85. Uncle Edgar was there beside them on what use to be the last row on the west. The Whitney grandparents were among the many familiar names along the first row on the east side. I remember how Mother fussed about having her name and birth date etched on the headstone when Dad died. It really bothered her. Fitting, I thought, for them both to be there in a place they frequented often, tending to family grave sites and making sure no one was forgotten on Memorial Day. During the war, Mother wrote letters and poems to many of the town's war dead buried there. For numbers of others who came to rest in this place, Mother recorded funeral proceedings, composed poetry and notes of condolence for their families and loved ones. Jessi took an interest in this historical site, reading headstones, pointing out some unusual ones.
Archie's store had been gone for years. The tin roofed trailer that replaced it was a sad substitute. That was gone now, too. As visitors, we didn't know where to look first as we entered Woodward's. This small general store was more than a "Little Bit Country." There were big game heads hanging on the walls. Cleverly painted wood pieces and other crafts, even some hand-stitched items could be found tucked into corners and between shelves of the more usual fare of a quick stop shop and reminiscent of a Weston Ward Relief Society bazaar. Some were hard to resist but how would we get them home? This seemed to be where the locals went for a cold drink, something to eat or the most delicious huckleberry ice cream, ever. We had to taste that!
The old Olsen house where Mother and I lived after leaving the farm was grey when we lived there. Jenn was almost past it when I recognized the house. It had been painted white, and the facade changed, though I couldn't put my finger on exactly what the change was. Lilacs tall as trees had formed a hedge between the old place and the new Olsen home in a mix of pale lilac, dark French purple and white but those were gone.
Some landmark buildings on main street had been replaced by open, weed-filled lots or junk. It was good to see Olsen's Blacksmith Shop still standing amid the rubble, painted, the lettering crisp. City Hall looked abandoned even though a schedule of upcoming meetings hung haphazardly in the window. The word, 'Billiards' was all that could be read of the old pool hall sign. It had been closed for years. Junk and scrap metal, parts of pieces of who knows what now filled the front steps. Other building front cut-outs remained as weather and time aged wood, not a lick of paint anywhere on them, standing side by side in a row like a ghost town or movie set. The small, white cinder block building caught my eye. The owner, when I was a kid, was a candy distributor and kept his inventory in that block building. After the ward Halloween party, a bunch of us would go there, knock on the door and he would step out to give each of us one whole, big candy bar!
Jenn drove me up and down a few streets, past Porter's and homes of little old lady friends of my mother's whose names I can no longer remember. Though main street didn't appear to exist anymore except in my mind and was in stark contrast to the beautifully kept church grounds and building, the 'town' was a mix of new and old homes. I was surprised to see some of the older ones still in use. I remember Weston as a little sweeter and a little better kept. The place looked as tired and old as I felt, in the heat of the day. I guess that's what age does to old towns and those who were once just sweet, young things.
Down the hill and over the rail road tracks, and the view was beautiful--acres and acres of farmland. There were Grandpa Morgan's fields, Uncle Edgar's house and...Whoa! Wait a minute! My house had disappeared! We had come to the right place! There was the gate, the white fence and the lane leading into the property. There was still a yellow rose bush near the end of the lane like the one I loved so much as a kid. But there was nothing else I recognized! Jenn turned down the lane at my coaching, driving very slowly past what use to be an apple orchard, a chicken coop and horse corrals. Jenn was expecting to see potatoes and a huge vegetable garden growing along the ditch next to the lane. Two large pine trees had replaced the clothes line, raspberry and current bushes and two stately trees that use to shade the west side of the house. We crept further along the lane, making the turn past what use to be small animal pens, a hay derrick, hay stacks, the red barn and cow corrals. Could that log cabin have replaced the barn of my childhood? It was right where the barn used to be but seemed much smaller than I remembered. My eyes were searching for anything that looked familiar. There! Straight ahead! The cement watering trough! It was crumbling at one corner but something from my past that my eyes could hold on to. The other small log cabin at the front of the property? My nephew appeared from between several vehicles. His presence confirmed that this was the house and I was really at the farm where I lived as a child.
We offered our greetings from the car and got only a brief response in return. I had hoped for more. I wanted to be welcomed. I wanted to be invited in to meet the family who live at the farm now. I wanted some conversation about the drastic changes, an opportunity to ask questions and a chance to compliment them on the lush, green lawn. It was clear, from the outside at least, that there had been much effort put into making this place 'home', for them.
It was a quiet drive back out the lane. I felt like we had trespassed. I wanted to feel like I had come home after so many years away. The farm had become a coming-home symbol for so many of my family for so long. We all had deeply rooted memories of the place. It was historical, to me, and perhaps to others of the family who knew the story behind the building of that home, and the acquisition of the property. My girls took a couple of snapshots of the front of the house, though it was now a total stranger to me. That drive down the lane and back out was the extent of my 'visit' home. I felt a real loss and a need to grieve. That would have to wait.
Back on the road, the three of us drove to the turn just before the canal flume, past lots of homes of people I remembered and some new ones that had popped up in my absence. The road had changed a bit to accommodate some of the new homes or so it seemed. We passed Greene's old place and drove to the dead-end where my Grandpa and Grandma Whitney lived with Uncle Merl, Uncle Mervin and Aunt Kay. There had been distance between the small, white Whitney farm house and Mervin's more modern home. When standing at the back of these homes built up on the bluff, looking eastward, the unobstructed view of the garden below, the meadows and the Bear River was beautiful. There was a bridge, rickety as all get out, that led from the house out to the barn and animal pens. Acres of farmland surrounded the property all around. Now unrecognizable, too, the houses appeared to have been squished together or rebuilt. The trees and yards were overgrown, the outbuildings and barn appeared to be tumbling down in their places and the view of the river was no longer what it once was, so overgrown with Russian Olive trees and willows. The road that dead-ends into the property was still in a mostly rough natural state, as many were in these parts. That led Jenn to wonder out loud about our rental car agreement that stated we would not go off-roading in the vehicle. She felt that the road to the Whitney farm and a few others we had been on that day came very close to just that!
To be continued...
"Let's take the West Side Highway and find our way to Weston", I suggested. The car had barely moved before I cried, "Wait! Back up! I have to have pictures!" The scoreboard announcing, "Home of the Pirates" and bleachers were new additions since I attended high school football games. White, WS letters were still arranged high on a nearby hill. The girls were underwhelmed. My plan for getting a reaction out of Jessi as we drove along this two-lane roadway took a detour. The thrill hill was gone! You know, that dip in a road that takes your breath away when you drive over it fast. It was a good one, back in the day. I caught air in the Merc in that spot at least a time or two and wanted to surprise Jess and hear her squeal! The road's been smoothed out. Highway markers announcing locations have been added. "Entering Weston, Population 437". I had to have a picture of that! When I was growing up, a person knew where they were via familiar landmarks--the homes and the fields, what was growing--Kohler or Buttars' grain, Tingey's potatoes, my dad's sugar beets and peas--or loosely stacked alfalfa vs baled hay, red barns and ditch head-gates. Seeing Maughn's plum thickets could have meant you made a wrong turn when you really meant to go the other way past the pea silage weigh station and along the Linrose road, maybe up over the railroad tracks or down past the Thompson place, under the canal flume and over the Bear River bridge.
Jenn parked as close to the edge of the road as possible but there was no shoulder, just a ditch with a bit of water in it and the barrow pit. I walk like a teetering toddler much of the time but I made it the short distance from the car, through the tall grass on uneven footing to stand beside the sign. Photo Op #1--me and the sign post. Then Jessi joined me. I urged Jenn to try more phoneography and include herself in the shot. "Do you want me to take a picture of all three of you?" I didn't recognize the voice but without hesitation, I agreed and invited the stranger to join us. There was no mistake that he was a local farmer, sweaty, covered in chaff and dust. A large combine and ton-truck filled with grain stood idling in the field across the road. "I'm just waiting for someone to come help me unload," he said. Coming closer, he asked, "So, who are you?"
"Who are you?" I answered.
"Paul Campbell."
"That's doesn't ring a bell. I grew up in Weston but I don't remember you."
"How about Roger Campbell?"
"Oh my yes, I know Roger! I played 'White Cliffs of Dover' on the organ at his mission homecoming!"
"I'm Roger's brother!"
Paul took our picture standing beside the Welcome to Weston sign and we took his picture. "Don't forget the 37! They're important!" Indeed! Since the 2000 Census, that little corner of the world had grown some. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weston,_Idaho. In repeating the story, I found it interesting that I felt perfectly safe and natural, inviting a stranger to join us there on the road between Dayton and Weston. Had I been almost anywhere else, I would have been wary and may have kept my distance.
There it was just 'round the bend and down the hill--Weston--grain silos on the left and on the right, the U.S. Post Office. I remember when mail was a part of Archie's store on the next corner. In the town square, all that was left of the elementary school was the bell tower, sitting monument style on the grounds of what was now a park. The meeting house appeared larger than I remembered, though I do recall risking my own life and limb in a classroom on the second floor trying to grab hold of a kid who thought he'd go out the window rather than listen to me teach a Sunday school lesson. Uncle Wells Whitney's house still stood across the road from the church. Going around the block, I saw the old grandstand still there in the northwest corner. Jenn really laughed when I called it a grandstand. I'd sat many a time on one of those rows of bleachers, glad to be under the roof and out of the hot, summer sun, on school field days, or during 24th of July celebrations. The summer before my 12th birthday, I was allowed to attend Mutual. It was on that ball field in front of the grandstand, with teens and adult leaders playing, that I actually hit the ball when it was my turn to bat! I was running the bases, rounding second, headed for third base, when ... CRASH!!! I was thrown to the ground, the wind knocked clean out of me! The BIG and BURLY adult, ball in hand and determined to tag me out, SMACKED into me HEAD-ON! He got me out, alright. Even though I was pubereskly chubby, I felt like I had been hit by a truck!
The girls and I drove to the cemetery so I could visit a bit with my mom and dad. Though I think and talk about them a lot, I'd not been there since '85. Uncle Edgar was there beside them on what use to be the last row on the west. The Whitney grandparents were among the many familiar names along the first row on the east side. I remember how Mother fussed about having her name and birth date etched on the headstone when Dad died. It really bothered her. Fitting, I thought, for them both to be there in a place they frequented often, tending to family grave sites and making sure no one was forgotten on Memorial Day. During the war, Mother wrote letters and poems to many of the town's war dead buried there. For numbers of others who came to rest in this place, Mother recorded funeral proceedings, composed poetry and notes of condolence for their families and loved ones. Jessi took an interest in this historical site, reading headstones, pointing out some unusual ones.
Archie's store had been gone for years. The tin roofed trailer that replaced it was a sad substitute. That was gone now, too. As visitors, we didn't know where to look first as we entered Woodward's. This small general store was more than a "Little Bit Country." There were big game heads hanging on the walls. Cleverly painted wood pieces and other crafts, even some hand-stitched items could be found tucked into corners and between shelves of the more usual fare of a quick stop shop and reminiscent of a Weston Ward Relief Society bazaar. Some were hard to resist but how would we get them home? This seemed to be where the locals went for a cold drink, something to eat or the most delicious huckleberry ice cream, ever. We had to taste that!
The old Olsen house where Mother and I lived after leaving the farm was grey when we lived there. Jenn was almost past it when I recognized the house. It had been painted white, and the facade changed, though I couldn't put my finger on exactly what the change was. Lilacs tall as trees had formed a hedge between the old place and the new Olsen home in a mix of pale lilac, dark French purple and white but those were gone.
Some landmark buildings on main street had been replaced by open, weed-filled lots or junk. It was good to see Olsen's Blacksmith Shop still standing amid the rubble, painted, the lettering crisp. City Hall looked abandoned even though a schedule of upcoming meetings hung haphazardly in the window. The word, 'Billiards' was all that could be read of the old pool hall sign. It had been closed for years. Junk and scrap metal, parts of pieces of who knows what now filled the front steps. Other building front cut-outs remained as weather and time aged wood, not a lick of paint anywhere on them, standing side by side in a row like a ghost town or movie set. The small, white cinder block building caught my eye. The owner, when I was a kid, was a candy distributor and kept his inventory in that block building. After the ward Halloween party, a bunch of us would go there, knock on the door and he would step out to give each of us one whole, big candy bar!
Jenn drove me up and down a few streets, past Porter's and homes of little old lady friends of my mother's whose names I can no longer remember. Though main street didn't appear to exist anymore except in my mind and was in stark contrast to the beautifully kept church grounds and building, the 'town' was a mix of new and old homes. I was surprised to see some of the older ones still in use. I remember Weston as a little sweeter and a little better kept. The place looked as tired and old as I felt, in the heat of the day. I guess that's what age does to old towns and those who were once just sweet, young things.
Down the hill and over the rail road tracks, and the view was beautiful--acres and acres of farmland. There were Grandpa Morgan's fields, Uncle Edgar's house and...Whoa! Wait a minute! My house had disappeared! We had come to the right place! There was the gate, the white fence and the lane leading into the property. There was still a yellow rose bush near the end of the lane like the one I loved so much as a kid. But there was nothing else I recognized! Jenn turned down the lane at my coaching, driving very slowly past what use to be an apple orchard, a chicken coop and horse corrals. Jenn was expecting to see potatoes and a huge vegetable garden growing along the ditch next to the lane. Two large pine trees had replaced the clothes line, raspberry and current bushes and two stately trees that use to shade the west side of the house. We crept further along the lane, making the turn past what use to be small animal pens, a hay derrick, hay stacks, the red barn and cow corrals. Could that log cabin have replaced the barn of my childhood? It was right where the barn used to be but seemed much smaller than I remembered. My eyes were searching for anything that looked familiar. There! Straight ahead! The cement watering trough! It was crumbling at one corner but something from my past that my eyes could hold on to. The other small log cabin at the front of the property? My nephew appeared from between several vehicles. His presence confirmed that this was the house and I was really at the farm where I lived as a child.
We offered our greetings from the car and got only a brief response in return. I had hoped for more. I wanted to be welcomed. I wanted to be invited in to meet the family who live at the farm now. I wanted some conversation about the drastic changes, an opportunity to ask questions and a chance to compliment them on the lush, green lawn. It was clear, from the outside at least, that there had been much effort put into making this place 'home', for them.
It was a quiet drive back out the lane. I felt like we had trespassed. I wanted to feel like I had come home after so many years away. The farm had become a coming-home symbol for so many of my family for so long. We all had deeply rooted memories of the place. It was historical, to me, and perhaps to others of the family who knew the story behind the building of that home, and the acquisition of the property. My girls took a couple of snapshots of the front of the house, though it was now a total stranger to me. That drive down the lane and back out was the extent of my 'visit' home. I felt a real loss and a need to grieve. That would have to wait.
Back on the road, the three of us drove to the turn just before the canal flume, past lots of homes of people I remembered and some new ones that had popped up in my absence. The road had changed a bit to accommodate some of the new homes or so it seemed. We passed Greene's old place and drove to the dead-end where my Grandpa and Grandma Whitney lived with Uncle Merl, Uncle Mervin and Aunt Kay. There had been distance between the small, white Whitney farm house and Mervin's more modern home. When standing at the back of these homes built up on the bluff, looking eastward, the unobstructed view of the garden below, the meadows and the Bear River was beautiful. There was a bridge, rickety as all get out, that led from the house out to the barn and animal pens. Acres of farmland surrounded the property all around. Now unrecognizable, too, the houses appeared to have been squished together or rebuilt. The trees and yards were overgrown, the outbuildings and barn appeared to be tumbling down in their places and the view of the river was no longer what it once was, so overgrown with Russian Olive trees and willows. The road that dead-ends into the property was still in a mostly rough natural state, as many were in these parts. That led Jenn to wonder out loud about our rental car agreement that stated we would not go off-roading in the vehicle. She felt that the road to the Whitney farm and a few others we had been on that day came very close to just that!
To be continued...
Monday, September 3, 2012
Along the Road to Home
The night sky was totally awash with pinpoints of light in every direction as far as my eyes could see, flying into Salt Lake City. After a short night in comfortable lodgings, I was a bit startled to see Salt Lake City in daylight. The city had grown immensely in my absence! With the exception of well-known landmarks, there wasn't much that felt familiar to me. Sprawling burbs and freeways stretched out in every direction. When I lived here, I drove wherever I needed to go without intimidation but I was glad not to be the one driving as we began our trek through northern Utah.
Had I been living in Nevada's desert so long I'd forgotten the beauty that surrounds the Salt Lake Valley? Everything looked surprisingly green and lush to me, considering reports of drought conditions. But even while I was loving the view of rolling foothills and towering mountains now very close along the east bench freeway, the enormity of it all made me oddly uncomfortable. I was surprised by my discomfort. I didn't feel at home at all in a city I had once loved and called 'Home' as a teen, a young adult, and a young mother. Had I subconsciously thought I would return at sometime, finding it as I'd remembered? I'd been gone some 36 years, living among the sand dunes and sagebrush that is much of Nevada. Now, I found myself silently saying, "This is not 'Home' anymore".
My classmates from high school, Class of '62, were meeting for lunch in the cafeteria at West Side High School in Dayton, Idaho. I'd driven this route, Salt Lake to the small towns of Cache Valley, many times, however, we welcomed the use of GPS, just in case memory failed me or something had changed with the passing of time. Just as we were about to escape the city, our speed caught the attention of a dutiful highway cop. The limit changed through this stretch every few miles--65, 75, maybe reduced some, then back up. The officer said, "Just a few miles more and the sky's the limit!" It was crazy! Wait! Were we in Utah or Nevada, where construction accompanied by frequent speed changes goes on pretty much all year long? Some have suggested that the orange cone receive special recognition in Northern Nevada! It could become our official State flower.
With my daughter, Jennifer, at the wheel, I was freed to gaze, recognizing some things, having forgotten others. The artist's eye in me noticed frequent changes in topography along the way, from big city buildings and towering cliffs of granite past landscaped neighborhoods into valleys where the land stretched out like a pioneer's pieced quilt in a pattern of varied crops and fields--lots of field corn, grain and alfalfa among them. Driving past Bountiful, Kaysville, Layton, Ogden, Brigham City, to name a few, there were signs of some growth but more visible was the effect the current economy has had on these small towns; Some landmarks embedded in my memory went missing. My granddaughter, Jessica, was mostly awake and sometimes off her cell phone enough that she and Jenn called out and counted steeples as they spied them, much like I do with Jenn's boys as we see VW Bugs and Beatles, as we drive. There's a lot of steeples!
Is it called Strawberry Canyon that connects the Brigham City area to Wellsville and Logan? I should remember. I've had some hair-raising drives through there in winter weather. On the day of our drive, the canyon was pure splendor--variations on a green theme and no visible snow. Main Street in Logan, Utah was lovely, with its old homes and store fronts. The famous Bluebird Cafe was still there! In the interest of time, some sights and visits had to wait for another time--Utah State campus, its theater notoriety created by my Uncle Floyd Morgan, a museum or library there now telling his story, and the temple grounds. I could only shout out a big 'Hello' and call the name of many relatives and friends as we drove by.
Beyond Logan, the old Del Monte plant still stood, a relic of a former time when local farmers like my dad grew peas on small farms. I wondered if the place of my birth, The Bergeson Maturnity Home, was still setting in place, high on a hill across from the original Cache Valley Dairy operation near Smithfield. There were empty store fronts, crumbling barns, yards and homes in disrepair. More trailer homes than I remembered ever seeing in these parts were stuck in here and there, mixed with old and newer traditionals. The look of tidy, planned streets appeared to be all but gone. Just passing through, there seemed a tired sagging, under the weight of time and sour economics, perhaps, on the face of small towns the likes of Smithfield, Richmond, Franklin, Preston and Weston. This was not how I remembered it. My memories of these main streets were of living storefronts, the appearance of well-kept homes, yards, and adjoining barnyards. That tangible feeling of a town's pride appeared to have declined.
It was hot in Salt Lake but we were air conditioned there and in the car all along the way. I'd become accustomed to heat, living in Nevada, but I was not prepared for heat with humidity. It really hit me when we pulled into my old high school's parking lot. There was no simple introduction--some call it 'glowing'--nor even polite perspiration. I became a running stream of plain, ole' SWEAT ! I had thought the cause was my continued menopausal state, though I signed up for the kind that is suppose to end at some unspecified point in time, or because I had altered my 7-day drug routine to fit the 12-day trip but my girls were melting, too. Anticipating summer heat, I had dressed in as little as I could get away with though being in Mormon country among relatives and friends, I felt I had to wear more than I might have on a hot day in Nevada. You know what humidity does to make-up? Mine had slid right off my face. I'd spent lots of time on my eyes that morning. They were my one good feature back in the day when I was a sweet, young thing. Boobs, butts and bellies aren't the only things that sag with age. My eye lids had taken on a Basset Hound Dog droop as time passed, something I mostly ignored until the auspicious occasion to meet old friends came along. So my shadow and mascara wasn't all just where I wanted it to be, but close enough, I'd hoped, to soften a few wrinkles and a few years. Smudging and illusion, that was the key to old eyes made up because no matter how I tried, with shaky, stiff or bend arthritic hands plus the glasses on, glasses off and the blended lens bifocal now-you-see-it-then-you-don't thing, there was no way I'd get the stuff exactly in the ideal target spot. I needn't have worried about it. With the make-up gone, my face became more ruddy than usual, the result of mopping up the continued torrent. Too strong a word? I felt strongly about appearing for lunch in sweat and freckles!
Thanks to technology and my recognition of just enough more, we ended up at the high school and I walked into the arms of friends from long ago. Many, I'd not seen since the night we graduated from high school. Some I didn't recognize. Many looked much the same. Others remarkably resembled their parents. It was a great idea, on the committee's part, to invite classmates we'd had along the way who moved before our senior year. One of our teachers, Elsie Bastian, came, too. She lived in Weston so I knew her through school and church activities. I was good to see her, again.
As a group, we met to visit and have lunch just that one afternoon. The time passed quickly. I didn't get to talk with each one. I loved that Kent Tingey greeted me with a huge smile, a huge hug, saying, "Oh, it's my best playmate!" He and I did spend lots of play time together even before we started school. My brother, Marion and his wife, Evelyn, lived in a little house next to Bishop Maurice Tingey's big farm house. While playing there one day with several kids, Evelyn looked out to check on me. One of the kids was hitting me. I seemed frozen in place and just stood there, taking it. Evelyn and I laughed about her yelling out to me, "Christie, HIT that kid!", during my visit with her on this trip. Kent's grandmother, Mae Tingey, lived in Uncle Edgar's old home, beside our house on the farm. When he came to his grandma's, we played together, often in what I now know was my Grandpa Morgan's old log cabin that stood next to Edgar's brick home.
Norlis McKay looked so much like his dad, Melvin who was a good friend of my dad's. The Benson twins, DeAnn and DiAnn were there. And the Beutler twins, Ivan and Ione. Janet Greene Yamamoto was still making people laugh with her antics. They were some of the first to greet us when we arrived. I introduced each one to Jenn and Jessi and commented that they were cousins. By the last of these introductions, Jenn was saying, "Of course they are cousins!" Helen Hobbs Robbins didn't know who I was. Must have been my missing red hair. Aw-w-w, Dave Hansen came though he moved before graduation. Rosie Schwartz finally figured out who I was. Dorothy Moser Nuffer whose sister, Alice, dated my brother, Keith, laughed when I reminded her about her sister always wanting one of Mother's dill pickles to eat during any movie date. Lorraine Rice Phillips, one of my first roommates after graduation, and I just had time for a quick hello; Much the same for Marianne Winward Day and others--just a quick hello. Marianne and I were best friends in high school. I loved to spend the night at her house. Her mother made the best coffee cake for breakfast, the cake itself slightly sweet with yummy streusel topping. Marianne got me through Home Economics. I knew next to nothing. She knew the basics, having to carry her share of the load within such a big family.
Oh, it was so good to see Stanley Buxton. He must have grown taller after high school. When we were kids, getting he and his brother home on the school bus was a sometimes scary matter. The road, two narrow lanes, climbed two steep hills with a straight down dip between the two. The road looked like part of a roller coaster ride to me after all these years. More than once, our bus almost made it to the top, lost traction and poor Mr. Palmer had to ever-so-carefully back that big and lengthy, yellow school bus down the hill.
Some of the group appeared almost unchanged. I was relieved to see name tags for those I didn't recognize. Some expressed being pleasantly surprised that this was a fun gathering and a casual, nice way to break the ice after so many years. Others said we should not have waited so long to meet together. Ruth Ann Powell Johnson was kept busy throughout the time we were together so we didn't get to visit until the next day. I'll say more about that in another post. She helped Lynn Poulsen, Norlis and a few others continue work on a document destined to be completed after the reunion, a compilation of brief life summaries of most of us, a memory piece of those who were deceased, pictures and other memorabilia and made available to all of us. That means that I may add to this brief summary at a later date.
We were a graduating class of 52, if I am remembering correctly. My best guess of the count of those attending was about 35 classmates plus a few spouses, guests, and family members. A committee was named and a date set to get together again. Really, I've got to reduce my size and tone up a few wrinkles before then. Would I consider a lid lift? Maybe...
To be continued...
Had I been living in Nevada's desert so long I'd forgotten the beauty that surrounds the Salt Lake Valley? Everything looked surprisingly green and lush to me, considering reports of drought conditions. But even while I was loving the view of rolling foothills and towering mountains now very close along the east bench freeway, the enormity of it all made me oddly uncomfortable. I was surprised by my discomfort. I didn't feel at home at all in a city I had once loved and called 'Home' as a teen, a young adult, and a young mother. Had I subconsciously thought I would return at sometime, finding it as I'd remembered? I'd been gone some 36 years, living among the sand dunes and sagebrush that is much of Nevada. Now, I found myself silently saying, "This is not 'Home' anymore".
My classmates from high school, Class of '62, were meeting for lunch in the cafeteria at West Side High School in Dayton, Idaho. I'd driven this route, Salt Lake to the small towns of Cache Valley, many times, however, we welcomed the use of GPS, just in case memory failed me or something had changed with the passing of time. Just as we were about to escape the city, our speed caught the attention of a dutiful highway cop. The limit changed through this stretch every few miles--65, 75, maybe reduced some, then back up. The officer said, "Just a few miles more and the sky's the limit!" It was crazy! Wait! Were we in Utah or Nevada, where construction accompanied by frequent speed changes goes on pretty much all year long? Some have suggested that the orange cone receive special recognition in Northern Nevada! It could become our official State flower.
With my daughter, Jennifer, at the wheel, I was freed to gaze, recognizing some things, having forgotten others. The artist's eye in me noticed frequent changes in topography along the way, from big city buildings and towering cliffs of granite past landscaped neighborhoods into valleys where the land stretched out like a pioneer's pieced quilt in a pattern of varied crops and fields--lots of field corn, grain and alfalfa among them. Driving past Bountiful, Kaysville, Layton, Ogden, Brigham City, to name a few, there were signs of some growth but more visible was the effect the current economy has had on these small towns; Some landmarks embedded in my memory went missing. My granddaughter, Jessica, was mostly awake and sometimes off her cell phone enough that she and Jenn called out and counted steeples as they spied them, much like I do with Jenn's boys as we see VW Bugs and Beatles, as we drive. There's a lot of steeples!
Is it called Strawberry Canyon that connects the Brigham City area to Wellsville and Logan? I should remember. I've had some hair-raising drives through there in winter weather. On the day of our drive, the canyon was pure splendor--variations on a green theme and no visible snow. Main Street in Logan, Utah was lovely, with its old homes and store fronts. The famous Bluebird Cafe was still there! In the interest of time, some sights and visits had to wait for another time--Utah State campus, its theater notoriety created by my Uncle Floyd Morgan, a museum or library there now telling his story, and the temple grounds. I could only shout out a big 'Hello' and call the name of many relatives and friends as we drove by.
Beyond Logan, the old Del Monte plant still stood, a relic of a former time when local farmers like my dad grew peas on small farms. I wondered if the place of my birth, The Bergeson Maturnity Home, was still setting in place, high on a hill across from the original Cache Valley Dairy operation near Smithfield. There were empty store fronts, crumbling barns, yards and homes in disrepair. More trailer homes than I remembered ever seeing in these parts were stuck in here and there, mixed with old and newer traditionals. The look of tidy, planned streets appeared to be all but gone. Just passing through, there seemed a tired sagging, under the weight of time and sour economics, perhaps, on the face of small towns the likes of Smithfield, Richmond, Franklin, Preston and Weston. This was not how I remembered it. My memories of these main streets were of living storefronts, the appearance of well-kept homes, yards, and adjoining barnyards. That tangible feeling of a town's pride appeared to have declined.
It was hot in Salt Lake but we were air conditioned there and in the car all along the way. I'd become accustomed to heat, living in Nevada, but I was not prepared for heat with humidity. It really hit me when we pulled into my old high school's parking lot. There was no simple introduction--some call it 'glowing'--nor even polite perspiration. I became a running stream of plain, ole' SWEAT ! I had thought the cause was my continued menopausal state, though I signed up for the kind that is suppose to end at some unspecified point in time, or because I had altered my 7-day drug routine to fit the 12-day trip but my girls were melting, too. Anticipating summer heat, I had dressed in as little as I could get away with though being in Mormon country among relatives and friends, I felt I had to wear more than I might have on a hot day in Nevada. You know what humidity does to make-up? Mine had slid right off my face. I'd spent lots of time on my eyes that morning. They were my one good feature back in the day when I was a sweet, young thing. Boobs, butts and bellies aren't the only things that sag with age. My eye lids had taken on a Basset Hound Dog droop as time passed, something I mostly ignored until the auspicious occasion to meet old friends came along. So my shadow and mascara wasn't all just where I wanted it to be, but close enough, I'd hoped, to soften a few wrinkles and a few years. Smudging and illusion, that was the key to old eyes made up because no matter how I tried, with shaky, stiff or bend arthritic hands plus the glasses on, glasses off and the blended lens bifocal now-you-see-it-then-you-don't thing, there was no way I'd get the stuff exactly in the ideal target spot. I needn't have worried about it. With the make-up gone, my face became more ruddy than usual, the result of mopping up the continued torrent. Too strong a word? I felt strongly about appearing for lunch in sweat and freckles!
Thanks to technology and my recognition of just enough more, we ended up at the high school and I walked into the arms of friends from long ago. Many, I'd not seen since the night we graduated from high school. Some I didn't recognize. Many looked much the same. Others remarkably resembled their parents. It was a great idea, on the committee's part, to invite classmates we'd had along the way who moved before our senior year. One of our teachers, Elsie Bastian, came, too. She lived in Weston so I knew her through school and church activities. I was good to see her, again.
As a group, we met to visit and have lunch just that one afternoon. The time passed quickly. I didn't get to talk with each one. I loved that Kent Tingey greeted me with a huge smile, a huge hug, saying, "Oh, it's my best playmate!" He and I did spend lots of play time together even before we started school. My brother, Marion and his wife, Evelyn, lived in a little house next to Bishop Maurice Tingey's big farm house. While playing there one day with several kids, Evelyn looked out to check on me. One of the kids was hitting me. I seemed frozen in place and just stood there, taking it. Evelyn and I laughed about her yelling out to me, "Christie, HIT that kid!", during my visit with her on this trip. Kent's grandmother, Mae Tingey, lived in Uncle Edgar's old home, beside our house on the farm. When he came to his grandma's, we played together, often in what I now know was my Grandpa Morgan's old log cabin that stood next to Edgar's brick home.
Norlis McKay looked so much like his dad, Melvin who was a good friend of my dad's. The Benson twins, DeAnn and DiAnn were there. And the Beutler twins, Ivan and Ione. Janet Greene Yamamoto was still making people laugh with her antics. They were some of the first to greet us when we arrived. I introduced each one to Jenn and Jessi and commented that they were cousins. By the last of these introductions, Jenn was saying, "Of course they are cousins!" Helen Hobbs Robbins didn't know who I was. Must have been my missing red hair. Aw-w-w, Dave Hansen came though he moved before graduation. Rosie Schwartz finally figured out who I was. Dorothy Moser Nuffer whose sister, Alice, dated my brother, Keith, laughed when I reminded her about her sister always wanting one of Mother's dill pickles to eat during any movie date. Lorraine Rice Phillips, one of my first roommates after graduation, and I just had time for a quick hello; Much the same for Marianne Winward Day and others--just a quick hello. Marianne and I were best friends in high school. I loved to spend the night at her house. Her mother made the best coffee cake for breakfast, the cake itself slightly sweet with yummy streusel topping. Marianne got me through Home Economics. I knew next to nothing. She knew the basics, having to carry her share of the load within such a big family.
Oh, it was so good to see Stanley Buxton. He must have grown taller after high school. When we were kids, getting he and his brother home on the school bus was a sometimes scary matter. The road, two narrow lanes, climbed two steep hills with a straight down dip between the two. The road looked like part of a roller coaster ride to me after all these years. More than once, our bus almost made it to the top, lost traction and poor Mr. Palmer had to ever-so-carefully back that big and lengthy, yellow school bus down the hill.
Some of the group appeared almost unchanged. I was relieved to see name tags for those I didn't recognize. Some expressed being pleasantly surprised that this was a fun gathering and a casual, nice way to break the ice after so many years. Others said we should not have waited so long to meet together. Ruth Ann Powell Johnson was kept busy throughout the time we were together so we didn't get to visit until the next day. I'll say more about that in another post. She helped Lynn Poulsen, Norlis and a few others continue work on a document destined to be completed after the reunion, a compilation of brief life summaries of most of us, a memory piece of those who were deceased, pictures and other memorabilia and made available to all of us. That means that I may add to this brief summary at a later date.
We were a graduating class of 52, if I am remembering correctly. My best guess of the count of those attending was about 35 classmates plus a few spouses, guests, and family members. A committee was named and a date set to get together again. Really, I've got to reduce my size and tone up a few wrinkles before then. Would I consider a lid lift? Maybe...
To be continued...
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