My Mother’s maiden name is Helen Bunnell. She was born August 17, 1926. Her Mother is Zelda Holdaway and her Father is Joel Bunnell. My Mother is a physically beautiful and extremely creative and talented woman. She is the Mother of nine children. She is very musical and has performed in numerous musical productions and operas as a leading lady singing soprano. I remember in my youth when she performed the leading female role in productions of Madame Butterfly and La Bohemme produced by the Utah Valley opera company. I fondly remember the songs from these operas and others still. There is something really beautiful and unique about Puccini’s music. I remember a lot of music that my parents enjoyed in our home during my youth. When I was young, Rogers and Hammerstien and other musicals were at the height of their popularity. The music from these productions such as South Pacific, Oklahoma, Kismet, Music Man, West Side Story, The King and I, The Sound of Music, and others were an important part of my youth. My Mother and Father loved music, operas, musicals, and everything associated with these experiences. Music permeated our home.

My Mother sang at hundreds, if not thousands of events from weddings to funerals, to church meetings and private parties, especially during my youth. It seemed to me that she was continually singing or preparing to sing somewhere. I remember that sometime in the late fifties or early sixties she was asked to join a singing group called the Singing Mothers, to travel to England to perform as representatives of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, at various locations there. I remember that she took a silent movie camera with her and she still has these movies that we see on occasion. Later she joined the Tabernacle Choir and sang with this prestigious group for several years, during which, she also traveled to a number of places around the world to perform with the Choir.

I remember my Mother to be a very loving, nurturing and committed Mother. I have always felt her love and her devotion. She is an emotionally intense person with a very strong and dominant personality. You would never accuse her of being timid. She loved to perform and provided a very good example to her children to feel free to get up in front of large or small groups to perform without any kind of fear. We got lots of opportunities to do so in our family. I remember one period of time during my teenage years that my Mother decided to put together a small family production of The Sound of Music with my Mother playing the role of the governess, as played by Julie Andrews in the movie version. My Father played the role of the Father, Captain VonTrapp and each of us children would play the roles of the VonTrapp children. We took this little play around the community and performed it for various private parties and community events. I remember that I sang "I Am Sixteen Going On Seventeen" as a duet with my sister Melody in this production. We also sang a song called "Doe a Dear, A Female Dear", and others.

My Mother always did things in a big way. When she cooked, she cooked in quantity. When she sewed, she sewed in quantity. When she sang, she did it in a big way. Everything with her was always pretty intense. No one that ever met her would ever forget her. She had a unique personality that was strong, passionate, and unmistakable. She was and is a committed Mother that is eternally and unconditionally bound to her children. She is loving and spiritually sensitive. She is drawn to the light but has been frustrated in her search for it. She will ultimately find it. I love her.

I never knew my maternal Grandfather, Joel Bunnell. I knew my step grandfather whose name was Earl Wall. I did know my maternal Grandmother though and I love her. Her name is Zelda Holdaway Bunnell. She lived in Orem on 1600 South and about 200 or 300 East. I remember her original home there. It was an old two story gray house.

I particularly remember the smells of this old house. While Grandma lived there, she did so with her second husband Earl Wall. I remember that he smoked cigarettes and by the time I met him, he was getting pretty old and was pretty inactive. I remember that most of the time, he just sat in his rocking chair in the south end of the kitchen smoking or in the dark, dingy living room watching the Friday night fights, smoking. I also remember their space heater in the living room on the east wall. It was a dark brown unit that heated the entire room. The stairs to the upstairs bedrooms were wide and very steep. I wonder, now how my Grandparents were able to climb up these steep stairs at their age. I guess that she wasn’t that old when I knew her. I believe that she died at about the age of 76 or 77. I was eighteen at that the time, and remember going to her funeral. Before she died, Earl died and she and her children decided to tear down the old house and replace it with a new one. It was in this new home that she eventually died in her sleep, laying on her bed. Somehow, I was fortunate enough to receive a nice pioneer vintage desk from my Grandmother’s estate. The desk has a roll top base with a slide-out work surface and a bookshelf top with two doors that open. Several years ago I had a friend refinish the desk and add an oak crown molding around the top of the bookshelf. I keep this in my office now.

I remember finding pieces of stale spearmint doublemint gum in the west kitchen window sill. What a treat. Perhaps this is where I got my appetite for stale gum. Grandma would always cook home-made bread and spread butter and sprinkle sugar on it for us. Her kitchen smells made her home feel good. It was very different from our home, but I liked it, except for the cigarette smoke which hurt my eyes.

Grandma would also make her own lye soap by rendering tallow or fat from animal fat and adding lye and cooking the solution and pouring it into bars that would then be cut into large blocks that they would use for cleaning their hands, showering, and their laundry. It always seemed weird that she would do this, when my Mother just went to the store and bought soap and the store soap smelled a lot better.

The lye soap really had an odd smell to it. I guess that Grandma’s generation was probably the last one in our country that made their own soap.

Walking around her back yard I heard a hollow sound. I later found that this was where she had a buried cesspool. This meant that her home was not connected to the public sewer system. I remember fantasizing about what a scary, dark place this must be. It always made me uncomfortable to walk over this unusual place. I was always just a little worried that it might cave in and cause me to fall in, never to be heard from again. Luckily, I never did fall in..

Grandma had very long grey hair. She would braid it and loop it around the top of her head to keep it from getting in her way. She had a bunch of raspberry plants out in the back of her yard. I think that Earl kept a horse out in the back yard also. It seems like I remember Earl and my uncle Neal rode horses together. It seems like I remember hearing that they both went on some kind of endurance ride together somewhere around Payson canyon. It was supposed to be some kind of grueling race. I don’t suppose either of them won the race. I got the impression that the race was some kind of annual affair. I don’t remember hearing of it since. I must have been very young.

My Grandma seemed to be my connection with the older generation and everything old. Her generation seemed to me to be almost contemporaries with the Mormon pioneers. It seemed like Grandma’s family was pretty close and held family reunions pretty often each summer. I remember the endless conversations about genealogy that went on and on at these events, as my Mother would talk to other family members and want to identify where they tied

into the family tree. She would get into these discussions with almost everyone she met, it seemed. I remember the feelings I felt when I realized that one of these discussions was beginning. Terror. I knew that it was going to be an eternity before we could go on. It seemed that the most preferred relationships would be from the "Vineyard" area of Orem. The area along the Geneva road on the west side of the valley, just east of Utah lake, between about Center street and 1600 south. This is where the Holdaways and Bunnells were from. In all fairness, as I look back on these conversations, I understand now how normal these were. But as a child, I felt like they were never ending. I just didn’t have any interest at the time in these things. Now, as I meet people from areas where I have lived, I do the same thing. It’s interesting how we become our parents.

My maternal ancestors were Mormon pioneers. They were noble, honorable people that believed the story of Joseph Smith the Mormon prophet and made their way to Utah to live their religion. One of my ancestors on my Mother’s side was named Shadrack Holdaway. He was a member of the Mormon Battalion. This group of men was asked by President Brigham Young to travel to California to assist the federal government there and in exchange the government would provide desperately needed income to contribute to the migration effort of the church to the Utah area. When we lived in San Diego, I remember seeing his name at the Mormon Battalion Memorial exhibit which is maintained by the church in the Old Town area of San Diego.

My Father’s name is Clyde Everett Weeks, Jr. He was born in Manila, The Philippines on November 18,1925. His Father’s name is Clyde Everett Weeks and his Mother’s name is Bertha Margurite Larsen. The reason that my Father was born in the Philippines is that his Father was serving in the United States army at that time. Shortly after my Father’s birth his family moved to Utah where his Father was stationed at Fort Douglas, near the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. So I guess that you could call my Dad an army brat. He tells us interesting stories of his life at Fort Douglas where he learned to catch trout with his bare hands and take hikes up on Red Butte, behind Fort Douglas. His Mother died when he was just 16 and is buried in the Fort Douglas cemetery. Her grave is located in the north east corner of the cemetery, should you want to go there some time to see it. It is a small, peaceful place. You should go there sometime to see the place.

My Dad tells a story of when he was an infant and still living in the Philippines. He was crawling around in the back yard when his nanny was baby sitting him one day. A large python snake came over the fence and approached him. As he tells the story, the baby sitter saved him from death just in the nick of time. I’m glad he lived through that one.

My Father is a poet and a writer. He has written for newspapers for my entire life. He has written poems, even longer. He loves to write poems using iambic pentameter and you can always tell when he’s working on a new one because he will be carrying a yellow legal pad of paper around with him and silently counting out the metre on the fingers of his hand. He has written poems on every conceivable subject you can imagine from death, to marriage to Skippy Peanut Butter. That’s right, Skippy Peanut Butter. A year or two ago, he noticed how much he enjoyed this brand of peanut butter and decided to write a poem about it. After he finished the poem, he liked it so much that he decided to send it to the company so that they could enjoy it too. And you’ll never guess what happened. They sent him a letter thanking him for his kindness and included a lifetime supply of coupons for him to get free peanut butter. Incidentally, I was called Skippy Peanut

Butter during my youth. I hated it when my friends did this but I guess that I would have done the same, if they had been called "Skippy Weeks". It would have been just too tempting.

He has always been a wonderful example to his family to never be afraid to promote yourself. He has used some pretty creative approaches throughout his life to promote himself and his family. He once ran for Mayor of Orem. He served on the Orem City Council, the SCERA Board of Directors and as the Postmaster of Orem for over 30 years. While he was Postmaster he ended up building two new Post Offices, as the city continually grew to outstrip each previous building. He retired a few years ago and has since then been free to spend more time with each of his children.

My Father served in the U.S. Marines in World War II. I don’t know much about his experience in this terrible conflict other than that he was awarded the Purple Heart for being acting with valor and being seriously wounded. His leg was permanently damaged by an exploding hand granade. The wound almost blew off his foot and the lower part of his leg. He never talks about it but bears it with courage. The wound destroyed the tendons and ligaments in the front of his lower leg, making it impossible for him to lift his foot up. For years he wore a spring-loaded brace on this foot that would keep his foot in the raised position so that he would not trip over it. Within the last few years he has stopped wearing the brace and seems to be able to walk without any noticeable difficulty. Perhaps the surrounding muscles have strengthened to enable him to avoid the brace. I can’t imagine what a sacrifice this must have caused him over the years. In spite of this serious handicap he has always been active and helpful in lots of physical things that needed to be done around the house. My hat’s off to you Dad for you courage!

He has written a column called originally "This Weeks’ Wit" or more recently "Under Timpanogos Green". These articles chronicle his perspectives about life and his community. This creative outlet has been a gift of love from my Dad to his community. He has always loved Orem and I’m sure he always will.

Dad is a loving Father. He has always been loyally committed to the health and well-being of his wife and each of his children. He has always worked hard to provide financially for his family and been a wonderful example of constancy amid the uncertainty of the world around us. I love him.

My paternal Grandfather is Clyde Everett Weeks. He died of cancer in September 1979. We called him "Dad", presumably because my parents did when we were young. He was a handsome man with pure white hair. He had an interesting life. I understand that his father was not particularly ambitious or much of a leader in his home and that my Grandfather left home in Lansing, Michigan when he was relatively young as he lied about his age of 17 to join the army young. I believe that they let him in because he was large for his age and soon found himself in the Russian area of Siberia in winter. I suppose that this must have been a part of World War I. Somehow he found his way back through the years to continue his career in the army. He must have married in about 1923 or 1924 to Bertha Larsen. I never met her but understand that she was a nurse. My Father has spoken fondly of her but I really know nothing of her life, other than the fact that she was my Father’s Mother and that she also had two other children, Sharee and Michael.

I understand that my Grandfather served in World War II as part of his military career and found himself heading for England on a large ship. Somewhere near England the ship caught fire and sank. My Grandfather could not swim and ended up in the water, clinging to debris with fire on the water all around him. This terrifying experience apparently caused him to go mad. When he and others from the ship were rescued, he was placed in a veterans hospital where he was given shock treatments, therapeutic drugs, and other treatments to try to help him to return to a normal life.

I understand that almost immediately after my older sister Melody was born, my father was called by staff members in a Colorado Veterans hospital where my Grandfather was being held, called to report that he was showing some big changes and suggested that my Father immediately come to visit his Father to see his progress. When my Father arrived at the hospital he discovered that his Father was alert, cogent, and happy and that he wanted to come home. My Dad agreed, and loaded him into the car and brought him home. When they arrived home in Provo to meet my Mother and older baby sister my Mother was shocked to see my Grandfather because his was so thin and emaciated and with his pure white hair and with the stories that she had heard about his emotional state she was a little scared to think that this wild man would be in the same home with her new baby. But day after day, Grandfather got better and better and they developed a loving and trusting relationship.

This began a second life for my Grandfather. He ended up getting a job at the Singer Sewing Machine center in Provo on Center street where he stayed for several years. He soon met Emily Gatiker at Singer Sewing Center. He repaired her sewing machine. Emily was a lovely woman who had suffered through a stressful divorce from her first husband, a Mr. Stoddard, I believe. Emily came to be known at Aunt Emily. We would often go to visit "Dad & Emily" on Sunday afternoons during my youth. Emily brought with her five children from her previous marriage. Their names are Myrna, Karen, Martin, Karen, and Glen. They also had one daughter whom they named Jerry Susan. She was a year younger than I. They lived on about 420 East 200 North in Provo.

Emily worked at BYU in the Alumni Department and one day heard that there was an opening in the Development Department there. My Grandfather applied for the job and got it. He ultimately ended up working there until his retirement. His responsibilities included negotiating with people and arranging for bequeathments and donations to the university. I remember going to his office in the administration building at the university when I was a young man to visit him. It seemed like a very nice place to work.

He seemed to be very highly respected and happy in his work. He had beautiful handwriting and I remember that every birthday I would receive a special birthday card from him with a crisp $1 dollar bill. A always looked forward to this kind thought.

My Father’s Father grew up in Lansing, Michigan. The Weeks family originated in England. Originally, I understand that the name was Wicks. It is supposed to have changed after these people migrated to America. Perhaps it changed even before this. I guess I can check this out in my genealogy, which I will include at the end of this history.

My Father’s Mother, Bertha Larsen grew up in Canada. Her family was from Denmark. She had two brothers named Grant and Wilford. There may have been other brothers but I don’t remember any sisters. I know nothing about her other than that she was a nurse and that she died of cancer when my Father was 16 years old.

When I was born my family home was in Provo, Utah. I believe that the white sided home was located somewhere around 800-900 North and 100-200 West. It has since been demolished and replaced with large apartments for BYU students. Shortly after I was born our family moved to Orem, where we lived on Center street at about 35 East, just across the street from the city park. We lived there until I was about six years old, when my parents built the home in which they now live at 383 East 100 North, Orem, Utah.

My earliest memories are of the Center street house. It was a small red brick home on the south side of the street. It has since been demolished to accommodate a new shopping center several years ago.

I have eight brothers and sisters. My parents family began with my older sister, April Melody. She was born on April 24, 1947. I was born next. I was followed by my younger sister Merrie Kristy, who was born on Christmas in 1951. She was followed by Sherrilee Marchelle who was born on March 24,1952.

After "Chelle" was born we got a brother, Skylar Desmond, who was born on August 17, 1954. Richard was next, then Rosanna Helen was born next on February 19, 1958. Finally Allyson Carolee and David Wilford.

One of my first memories with my brothers and sisters was sitting in our kitchen listening to the radio. I remember that our kitchen had yellow walls. It seems like the radio program was about a character called "Sparky". I don’t remember what it was about but vaguely remember this name. I remember my older sister went to school before me. And I remember my Grandma teaching me to tie my shoes. I can still see in my mind’s eye the white of the toilet as I sat on it and heard the kind voice of my Grandmother as she demonstrated this important skill.

I also remember being sick with my sisters. We were all tucked in, down in the basement in a row of three or four beds. I believe that we all had the measles or chicken pox. We here pretty uncomfortable and were napping. I remember a weird memory that I have of what must have been some kind of dream or hallucination. I remember waking to a little noise coming from the ceiling. As I looked in the direction of the sound, I was surprised to see what seemed like two or three little people climbing out of the ceiling (Which would have been impossible since there was no hole in the ceiling). Anyway, I seem to remember that these little people climbed down, came over an talked to me briefly and crawled back up into the ceiling. I must have been dreaming or a wild imagination, coming from hearing some kind of weird story but whatever the cause, it seemed real at the time.

I was preceded by an older sister, April Melody. Being the oldest son in the family was interesting. I think that over time, I came to resent the large numbers of siblings that followed, but not deeply. I think that it just caused me to be more independent. I know that my younger brothers and sisters looked up to me and loved me, as much as brothers and sisters can love one another. I should probably explain this comment. There are all kinds of love within families. The strongest love exists from Mothers and Fathers to their children. I think probably the most powerful is that of Mother to child. This, because of the personal, physical sacrifice and nurturing that is unique to a Mother/child relationship.

A different kind of love from parent->child love is husband/wife - wife-husband love. This may be stronger or weaker than parent->child love, depending upon the circumstances. It is, however, completely different in its nature. The least powerful bond in a family is that between sibling children, I think, because all children are ultimately competing for family resources of love and goods. Each child shares a common connection to the same parents but they may or may not share a common bond of love with each other. In ideal families they will, through active example and intervention by their parents.

Love is a most interesting word. It means so many different things to each person that says it. In some ways I would prefer to not use this word because of the potential for confusion. Almost any other word will more accurately communicate true meaning better than the word "love". In its highest and best form, Agape, Chistlike, godly, selfless, unconditional, commitment, attraction, and devotion to another, love is the finest emotion and state of relationship that can exist. This is rarely what is experienced or meant by individuals when they say that they feel love for another.

When I think of my aunts and uncles I remember my Father’s brother Michael and his sister Sharee. Mike was in the U.S. Air Force, as a pilot. He was married to a woman named Shirley. They later divorced when Mike met a woman named Seija, I believe from Norway, in his travels. I understand that they had an affair, while he was married to Shirley. I remember visiting with Mike at Shirley’s parents home when Mike was in town from his training or traveling. He now lives with Seija in Vacaville, California.

Sharee is my Father’s sister. She was a large woman with several children. She was married to a man named Keith Smith who worked as a printer at the BYU print shop. He died several years ago. I remember Sharee as being in one problem after another in her life. She always had health problems of one kind or another. My memories of her in person are very positive. She was always very kind to me. My memories of hearing about her led me to a general perception that she had nothing but trouble. Her children’s lives seem to have confirmed that something was wrong in their family. They seem to have each had quite a number of problems, seemingly tied to their inability to manage their lives properly. I have not had any connection or information about Sharee or any of her children for at least 25 or 30 years. I hope that they have all had better experiences since I lost track of them.

My Father’s Mother’s brother named Wilford Larsen was one of my favorite uncles or more accurately Great uncles. He was married to Edna Scorrup. At least I think that was her maiden name. This couple, Aunt Edna and Uncle Wilford was a lifelong example of what attentive, loving relatives should be. They always joined us on every Christmas morning. We visited their home at least monthly. They lived on 1200 South street in Orem and about 200 East. They had a big barn out back of their house, a tractor, and an orchard filled with bing cherries and a few tart cooking cherries.

I remember fondly, and sometimes not so fondly picking cherries and working for Uncle Wilford. I had strong allergies which caused me to get a bad case of hay fever each and every summer. I always loved the summertime but it always meant that I would be sneezing. I also think that I was sometimes allergic to work, as well. I’m grateful for these experiences where I first learned to work at the hands of a loving and objective uncle.

My aunt Edna died first, which left uncle Wilford to live alone. He found a nice woman named Ruby whom he later married. He sold his farm and moved across the street where he lived until he died. I remember that we were living in San Diego when he died. We came up to Utah to visit a year or two before he died and I went over to visit him. He was out sweeping his driveway when I arrived and I was able to visit with him. As we talked I was able to thank him for his great example of love and concern over the years as I was growing up. I can still see the look on his face as his eyes filled with tears. I’m glad that I had the chance to tell him thank you for his love before he died.

My Mother had brothers and sisters. Her sisters were Margie, Eva, and Grace. Her brothers were Jesse, Neal, and Dell. We were closest to the families of Eva, Neal and Dell because they lived closest to us. Jesse lived in Idaho Falls with his wife Carma. Grace and my Mother never seemed to be that close so we didn’t spend much time there. Dell was married to LaVerne and they had a son named Tommy that was my age. He and I always had sleep overs where either I would sleep at his house for the week-end or he would sleep at my house. We had lots of fun. They lived in the Grandview area for north Provo and we played all over that area. He had a younger brother named Randy, and two or three sisters.

Both Tommy and Randy committed suicide in their twenties. By the way, Neal and Norma also had a child named Kay who also committed suicide in his late fourties or early fifties, and Eva and Jay had a son named Ronnie who died in the Colorado river. I understand that he died diving after a six pack of beer on a dare, after which he was unable to return to shore. They found his body miles down shore a few days later. I remember Ronnie was honored for saving someone from a fire as a Boy Scout in his early teens. He ended up marrying a really wild girl whose last name was Case. I guess he got off on the wrong track by associating with friends that had some really bad habits and this ended up being his undoing. I have learned through observation how crucial it is to associate with people who hold positive, uplifting values and standards, particularly in one’s late teens.

My family was very active in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints or the Mormon church during my youth and today each of my brothers and sisters still actively practice this faith. My Mother’s family has always been members of the church since its inception in the early 1800s and my Father’s family was converted to the church after my paternal Grandfather moved to Utah. He later served as Bishop in Provo and in other positions of responsibility in the church. My Father also served as Bishop of a BYU ward.

I am grateful for my heritage. I know that my ancestors were noble people with many talents and skills that I have been blessed by. I only pray that I can add to the luster of this rich legacy as I live my life. I hope that my descendants will look back to what I have done as an example of how it should be done. I have tried to live my life true to my inner voice and principles of truth.

My Mother tells me that I was born at 10:49am in the morning. She tells me that her pregnancy with me was normal.

My weight at birth was 7lbs- 6oz. I was 21 1/2" inches long when I was born. I was the second child of my parents. They were in their early twenties when I was born. I was delivered by Dr. Stanley Clark at Utah Valley Hospital in Provo, Utah a citizen of the United States of America.

One of the first memories that I recall is sharing a picnic with a little friend of mine named Eric Fielding. Eric and I asked my Mother to prepare a lunch for us which included a quart jar of grape juice and hard boiled eggs.

We took this lunch out on the front lawn where we feasted together on a bright spring morning. I can remember the feel of the green grass under us and the warm blue sky above us. This was at our old house on Center street. I remember celebrating a birthday at this house where my Mother made me a Humpty Dumpty cake with chocolate frosting. Another friend that I remember from this old house was a little girl named Ellen Fielding. She was blind. Her Father also worked at the Post Office with my Dad, as did Eric Fielding’s Dad. His name was David Fielding.

One day my grandparents came over for dinner at the old house on Center street and brought a chicken that they had raised for dinner. The only problem was that it had not yet been plucked. All the feathers were still intact. Grampa took care of the bulk of the work but I remember seeing the chicken and being able to pull out a few of the feathers. I think that if we now had to go through this tedium every time we wanted to eat chicken there wouldn’t be any chicken served. Isn’t automation and commercial food preparation great!

I remember the day that my first little brother (Skylar) came home from the hospital. My parents pulled up to the front sidewalk. My Dad jumped out and opened the door for my Mother to get out of her side of the car. I think the car was a Kaiser (what a weird looking car). My Dad helped my Mother get out of the car with my new little brother, wrapped up in lots of blankets. I don’t remember why this impression has stayed with me but I remember it quite vividly. My parents must have tried to make it a special time for us. Bringing new babies home for the first time really is a special experience. Some of my best memories in life surround these events. They seem to always be peaceful, happy, and filled with love.

One day, while we were living at the Center street house I decided to go visit my Dad at the Post Office. At that time, I must have been four or five years old and the Post Office was located exactly where McDonalds is now located on the corner of State street and Center street. The problem with my plan is that in order to get to my Dad I would have to somehow cross the "HUGE" State street, which at that time was the biggest and busiest street in town. This was before the freeway was built and so this road was Highway 89, the main route between north and south. I don’t remember whether I asked my Mother or not. I somehow just decided to go. I guess I somehow made it across the road safely. I must have made a lot of people scratch their heads to see my little body running across the street alone that day. I think that when I arrived at my Father’s office he must have called my Mother to ask her how I got there. When she realized what had happened I guess that she got pretty excited. Anyway, I got to see my Dad, and I didn’t get squashed on the road.

Another interesting memory that I recall is the day that my Mother loaded all the kids in the car and while we were out, we stopped by the Post Office, for some reason, to see my Father. When it was time to leave, my Mother took off from the curb without looking back to see that everything was secure. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. My little sister Chell was still climbing into the car. The rear right door was still open. And as the car took off, she was knocked off her feet and drug her legs along the ground for a few feet, clinging onto the door handle. My Mother soon realized that something wasn’t right and quickly stopped the car. Sadly, she didn’t stop in time to avoid some pretty scary scrapes on Chell’s little legs. I remember how emotionally charged this situation was for the rest of us. I know that my Mother felt terrible. The scrapes soon healed with no permanent adverse effects. This occurred long before the advent of seat belts in cars. I’m sure that if we had had seat belts available this would never have happened.

When we were really little, my parents bought a record player and some really fun records. I believe they were 78s. That means that the records would turn around on the record player 78 revolutions per minute. I wish that I could hear some of these fun records again. I suppose that I could find a copy in some antique store, if I knew exactly what to ask for. The record that I remember best was designed for birthday parties and included some fun and different birthday related songs.

Our family still sings one of these. The words go something like this:

There were other records that played out fun situations with

interesting sound effects. We used to love to put on these records, over and over. I’m sure that If I were to find one of these old gems it would really sound scratchy from all the rough handling.

Another memory that comes to me is a time when I remember sitting on our front porch with my Grandmother. I remember the feel of the cool cement steps on back my little legs. I must have been wearing some short pants. While we sat there, Grandma recited the following little rhyme to me with fun hand gestures to match.

I remember noticing that there was a rain down spout next to the porch and wondering if there were spiders crawling inside just then. Pretty scary stuff for a little guy.

I started school when I was five. I was in the first kindergarten class of the brand new Sharon School in Orem, Utah. I don’t remember much about my kindergarten experience or even my kindergarten teacher’s name. I do remember my first grade teacher’s name was Mrs. Doudle. She was a kind and supportive and this is where I learned to read using the old Dick and Jane reading books.

I was fortunate to be in the first kindergarten class in that brand new school. I enjoyed my experience in this school. I played kissing tag in kindergarten and first grade. I learned to read there, and learned all the basic skills of early childhood in this school.

My family was considered upper-middle class in our community. We were not rich but we certainly weren’t considered poor. I don’t remember ever feeling that my parents were really pressed financially. They seemed to keep things on an even keel financially. There were a few times when I knew that my Mother was being a little creative to make it to the next pay day. We children would get creative also at these times and make things like vinegar taffy which only required water, sugar, and vinegar. These supplies were usually in great supply, even if the fresh fruits and vegetables were hard to find around the house.

We got our milk from an old farmer named B.M. Jolley who lived on about 200 East 400 North in Orem. He milked his cows and we would just walk into their back door, open their refrigerator and take out our milk for the day. I suppose that we probably picked up the milk this way two or three times each week. The milk was raw or unpasturized and therefore the creme separated from the milk and floated to the top of the container. We would sometimes take the heavy creme from the milk and whip it up in the Osterizer to make home made butter. This was a favorite activity when food got scarce around the house. I recall making butter, adding salt to it and eating it on saltine crackers.

I wrote my Mother a little note one day. She saved it for me. It is enclosed on the next page.

I also remember that my Mother would make home made bread in a large mixing tub with a handle that I think she called a MixMaster. It had some kind of a top clamp that fit over the top of the bucket with a mixing crank in the center with a bread hook that extended down into the bucket to mix the dough. The bucket was probably capable of holding about eight or ten gallons. As I said, my Mother lots of things in a big way. Home made bread was no exception. She would use this contraption to make several loaves at a time. I remember that it was really rare for us to have store-bought bread like Wonder Bread at our house.

The MixMaster reminds me of another unusual piece of hardware that we had at our house, the Ironright. This was a large ironing contraption like something that you might find in a commercial cleaning business. It had a large roller that would turn and press down on a wide heated plate that would iron clothes as it went. You would operate it with knee paddles on each side of the unit as you sat in front of it. One would cause the large roller to turn and the other would cause the roller to press down or lift back up to enable you to insert another piece of clothing in between. I have never seen one of these things in anyone else’s house. I don’t expect to. Like I said before, my Mother often did things in a big way.

When I was in elementary school at Sharon school I received a new baseball bat as a gift. I think it was a birthday present. I remember that it was black with blue trim. I was very proud of it and asked my parents if I could take it to school. They said yes and I excitedly took it and brought it out to play during morning recess. I believe that I was in the fourth or fifth grade at the time. Another boy asked if he could try it out and I said sure. Unfortunately, I didn’t move out of his way. In fact I was standing right behind him, just where the bat would end up at the end of a swing. Believe it or not, I was still there when he wound up and hit a long ball and finished his swing . . . with the end of the bat, right in my mouth. I was knocked to the ground, spitting blood and crying. Somehow a teacher noticed what

had happened and immediately called my Mother to come and get me. She took me right to the dentist, a Dr. Ingersoll, whose office was on right by Safeway on 400 East, just east of state street. He took one look at my mouth and all the loose teeth and wondered how he was going to put me back together. He said it was a good thing that we came right to his office so that he could repair the damage. I ended up with two or three teeth dying as a result of the trauma but none fell out and I was as good as new in a few days. Boy! I really wish that I had enough sense to get out of the way of the end of that bat. What a sickening, numbing shock it was to be smacked in the face at the end of a full swing of a bat. Now I give people swinging things wide berth. I’ve learned my lesson.

This reminds me of another smack I got a year or two after this experience. I was in the sixth grade and was walking home one night, along the canal that ran through the neighborhood. There was a bully in the neighborhood named Michael Wagers. I can’t believe that I can still remember his name, but I guess that this experience forever burned his name into my memory. For some reason, I encountered him while walking and for one reason or another, he decided to punch me in the face. This is the only time in my life that I can remember this happening to me but he slugged my with his full force, right in my jaw, knocking me to the ground. After feeling this, I have always wondered how professional fighters or anyone else, for that matter, can take blow after blow in a fist fight. I think that one blow is quite enough to end any kind of a fight. As a matter of fact, no blows are even better. I have learned throughout my life that it is far better to negotiate, communicate, and perhaps even capitulate than to confront, offend, and contend. Someone once said that you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. I have always found that honey works best. I was glad to get out of my confrontation with Michael Wagers in one piece. I guess that I am also glad to have had the experience. I don’t want another like it though.

My second grade teacher was Mrs. Davies. I really liked her. In fact, I remember my Mother taking me to her home, which was near my Grandmothers home, one day so that I could visit her. I know that this was a few years after I had been in her class. So I must have really enjoyed the time I spent in her class.

Third grade was spent with Mrs. DeGoyer. It was relatively uneventful but I liked the teacher. Fourth grade was led by Mr. Hodson, my first male teacher. I remember having a little problem adjusting to a male teacher’s methods. But by the end of the year we were doing fine. I remember visiting him at his home sometime later. For some reason, I think that I must have had two teachers in fifth grade. One of them was a Mr. Russell, I believe. Sixth grade was taught my Jerry Ellison. A very loving man with great talents for drama and music. Each year he would put on a creative musical production using all the children from the sixth grade classes. This was a highlight of the year and I enjoyed participating in this experience. I remember singing a song called "Gary, Indiana". This song may have originally been part of the Music Man. Jerry Ellison became a special family friend and my Mother made sure that all my brothers and sisters got into his class. He is really a creative and nurturing person.

Elementary school was a happy time for me. The school was nice and the teachers were supportive and attentive. I had lots of friends and enjoyed this time of my life. I generally walked to school unless it was extremely cold. It was only about five blocks from our home. A short walk or bike ride along 400 East street in Orem.

When I was five or six years old my parents built our new home at 383 East 100 North in Orem I remember visiting the construction site when the hole was dug and seeing lots of large boulders under the deep rich top soil. I met some boys from a couple of houses down the street. They were the Thayne boys. Doug, Steven, and David. These guys became some of my best childhood friends, particularly Doug. Even though Doug was three years younger than I,

we really hit it off and ultimately even became blood brothers. This was a silly ritual that we heard that the Indians did. We heard that they would cut their wrists, join their wrists to cause blood to flow between them. This was supposed to bind them together as brothers for life. We scratched our wrists one day, not very deeply, luckily and held our wrists together like we thought we were supposed to. I am sure in retrospect that not enough blood reached the surface of either of our skin to even need a band-aid. But in spite of this, we have always been close friends. In fact, I hired Doug to be the General Contractor to construct our new home in Draper in 1995. Doug and I were best friends through elementary school and went everywhere together.

We built fun huts out in the back field behind our houses every summer. These huts were typically constructed by digging holes in the ground to a depth of about two or three feet. On top of these holes we would construct a superstructure of wood and scrap boards that we found around the neighborhood. One summer my parents decided to throw away some old used carpet that had been laying on the cement floor in our basement. I talked them into letting us have the carpet and we used it to nail to our lumber infrastructure to make a light-tight hut that was probably the best we ever made. One time we even diverted water from a nearby irrigation ditch into one of these huts to make a swimming pool. Since this hut had two compartments, connected by a narrow pathway. We ended up calling this the "bone swimming pool" because it was shaped like a bone.

Doug and I named another area just east of our homes as Spookers Canyon. This area had a large tree growing along the edge of a large irrigation canal. We ranged near and far in our adventures. When we got a little older we would jump on our bikes and head down to the Provo River. This was one of our favorite places to play. We explored all the way from the mouth of Provo canyon all the way through the river bottoms down to the Riverside Country Club. We loved the beauty of this richly wooded area. We fished, swam, and played throughout this area. We caught snakes in the rocks along the river bank and rode our bikes all over together.

Sometimes we would put on our cut off levis and slide down the irrigation ditch in the front of our house on the moss-lubricated bottom of the ditch. We would blow up inner tubes from large truck tires and float down the canal in the summer. In the winter, we would tromp up and down the emptied canal looking for fish.

One day I found a small trout in this canal and brought it home and kept it in my bedroom for a few days. Unfortunately, the fish died. Hoping to make the best of an unfortunate situation, I decided to cook my pet and eat it. The problem is that I couldn’t bring myself to eat my little friend, even after it was fried up and staring back at me from the plate. I guess pets aren’t meant to be eaten.

One time I found a small bear-claw trap when exploring the sand hills in north Orem, behind the cemetery, at the foot of Mount Timpanogos. I decided to clean it up and set it the next day. So I did. I came back to find that I had caught a skunk. Yuk! That’s not exactly what I had in mind. The trap was ruined and I didn’t get to catch anything worthwhile. In retrospect, I also feel bad about killing something for no positive purpose. I have gained a great respect for life as I have grown older. I now believe that animals have been placed on earth to provide beauty, interest and food for man and should be honored and respected and eaten sparingly and with appreciation.

One summer I decided to form a club. I called it the Bats. I must have been about nine or ten years old at the time. We would only have Bat meetings at night. We would wear the darkest clothing that we could scavenge from our homes and run around the neighborhood together, getting into mischief. We would take bars of soap and scrape bat symbols on the pavement of the road in front of our houses. We would go up to spooker’s canyon (just a block east of my house) along the edge of the canal and tromp straight through the middle of wild bushes. Boy did we feel macho. It got pretty tough to climb through the stickery branches that grew wild along the bank of the canal. I can still remember the smell of these wild bushes as we bulldozed our way through them in the moonlight.

I recall that we were pretty secretive about the club but some of the other kids in the neighborhood heard about it and wanted to join, including my little brother Skylar. Unfortunately, we didn’t get very close during this time in my life because of the difference in our ages. Anyway, Sky wanted to join the Bat club. I decided that he should pass some kind of initiation test to demonstrate that he was "worthy" of member in our elite organization. The test that I determined to be appropriate to qualify was that he must eat a raw egg. I can’t remember if he was supposed to eat the shell and all or just the runny stuff. Believe it or not, he was willing to submit to the test. I can still remember us standing in our garage watching him gag on this disgusting stuff. I have thought back many times in my life at what an insensitive and cruel thing this was and how I wish that I had just invited him to join us in our adventures. Sky, if you ever read this, I’m sorry that I didn’t involve you more in my big brother activities.

Sometime during my early teens my parents planned to spend New Year’s Eve with a group of their friends, with whom they have celebrated New Year’s for years and years. Well, when the cat’s away the mice will play so I decided to have a party of my own while they were out. After my parents had left for the party I got together with several of my friends and went goofying off around the neighborhood. While we were out, I decided that we could really scare my little sisters if we came home and told them that there was a gang of mean boys that we were fighting with. So home we came, all out of breath and rosy cheeked. To make it look really good,we started grabbing butcher knives saying excitedly that we had to go back out into the park and finish them off. Then out into the night we went. Laughing to each other about how frightened they were.

We came back a little later to find that my sisters had decided that they needed to call my parents at their party to tell them so that they could save us from the mean boys. Well, when we heard that my parents were on their way home to save us from ourselves we quickly decided to take off again so that we wouldn’t be there when they arrived. We split up. I stayed pretty close to home so that I could keep an eye on what would happen. As I heard my parents calling all over the neighborhood I decided that it would be best if I somehow got back into our house and jump in my bed so that I could fake being there all along and act like nothing was wrong and that my sisters had just misunderstood.

This strategy did not ultimately work out too well. My parents finally did find me after desperately looking all over the neighborhood and throughout the rest of our house. Needless to say, they weren’t in too good a mood by the time they saw me. I suppose that I did just too good a job of convincing my sisters that we were in grave danger. As I look back at this night through my own experiences as a parent I find myself thinking how immature and insensitive I was as a young boy. I needlessly frightened my entire family as a foolish prank and ruined my parent’s party with their friends. All to amuse myself and my friends. I am sorry to think that I was the cause of all this trouble.

Each year when school started we would go shopping, typically to JC Penny on Center street in Provo to buy school clothes. We would always get new underwear and sox and my favorite was new blue jeans. I remember holding these new stiff denim pants close to my face and smelling the new smell. This ritual was repeated every year until I was fourteen, when I started buying my own clothes for myself.

School lunch was generally pretty good at Sharon School. We ate in a large lunch room that converted from the school auditorium by pulling down tables from out of the walls. Milk came in little ½ pint bottles and cost two cents each. Once in a while I would bring a sack lunch from home.

One time when I was in the sixth grade I noticed that the mimeographed lunch cards were printed with a purplish ink that looked a lot like the colored pencils that I was coloring with. I decided that it would be interesting to try to duplicate my lunch card with my colored pencils and see if I could fool the lunch lady to accept it. I got some of the creme colored card stock from my teacher and proceeded with the experiment. I carefully laid out the card and manually recreated each of the typewritten characters. Believe it or not, it worked. I showed it to the lunch lady to see if she would accept it. She acted like nothing was unusual and I could have gone on through the line. I quickly told her what I had done and gave her my real lunch card to punch instead. I ended up not using it but it was amazing to me and my friends that I could have.

One of my least favorite experiences growing up was chores around the house. When my parents asked me to clean out the garage I would somehow drag this simple job out for literally hours and hours, wasting my own time and frustrating my parents, I’m sure to the point of torture. As I look at their garage now I can hardly believe it. It is a small, single-car garage. Now, I am certain that I could clean it out in less than ten minutes, regardless of how dirty it was. What a difference perspective and experience make in one’s life.

If only young people could see themselves as capable and worthy and empowered what an incredible difference it could make in their lives. I am sure that some young people do see themselves in this way and it does make a difference. For those of you who are my descendants that are reading this as children please take some time out and realize who you are. You really are capable of any good thing. You have the seeds of greatness inside of you. Nourish them and let them grow within you every day. You are children of God. It is only natural that you grow to become like your spiritual parents. I wish now that I had learned, earlier in life to work hard and to work effectively.

Occasionally my family would take the long journey (45 miles) up to Salt Lake City. When I was young there were no malls, only downtown districts of major towns like Salt Lake City or Provo. ZCMI was the biggest, best store in the state then. There were four or five floors in the building. I don’t think that they remodeled it into a mall until I was in my late teens. ZCMI was a big, impressive place with old fashioned engraved tin ceilings and elaborate fixturing throughout the store. I’m sure that many of these fixtures and finishes were originally installed during the late eighteen hundreds or early nineteen hundreds. I don’t remember buying much when we went to Salt Lake but I do remember the Orange Julius stand and the Morrow’s Nut House on Main street and large theaters and lots of lights. It really impressed me as the big city.

It was interesting to visit Temple Square then and see the historical museum on the south side of the block, the Seagul Monument, the Tabernacle, and of course the Temple with the golden angel Moroni on top. I used to love to walk into the Hotel Utah across the street to the east. Everything in Salt Lake seemed big and cosmopolitan to me then. Now I appreciate it the way it is because it isn’t so sophisticated.

In Orem there was an organization called SCERA. This community organization built and managed the one and only indoor movie theatre on about 750 South State street. Behind the theater they built a swimming pool. This is where I learned to swim. The first day I came to the pool was a little scary. The water was such a beautiful color and looked so fun. But I didn’t know how to swim, and I knew I didn’t know how and that worried me. The instructor was patient though and soon my little class and I were in the water, clinging on to some kind of white floating boards that kept us from drowning while the teacher could reassure each of us as we paddled our little legs around the shallow end of the pool. Little by little, we progressed from kicking behind these boards to hanging onto the side walls of the pool to venturing out into the pool, dog paddling to keep afloat. Before long I as able to swim across the pool by myself and

really felt confident around the water. This began a lifetime of fun swimming. I have always enjoyed swimming, diving from the diving board and when Jan and I moved to San Diego in 1976 I even learned to scuba dive. But I’ll talk more about that later. Later on SCERA built an "Olympic Sized" swimming pool, across the street and to the north of the theater and when they did, they covered up the old pool, behind the theater and made it into a parking lot.

One night my Mother served us liver for dinner. I have never really liked liver, however, I have now learned that there are ways that it can be prepared to make it more palatable. When I was young I didn’t have this knowledge and I really had a hard time eating the liver that was serve that night. My Dad encouraged me to eat it. I declined. He suggested more forcefully that I should reconsider my position. I continued to refuse. Finally my Dad gave me an ultimatum. He told me that if I didn’t eat it immediately I would be sorry. I guess that I must have said something a little less that respectful at that point and the fur began to fly. He jumped up, grabbed my dinner roll, which I had carefully prepared with butter and jam and lifted me up by my neck and floated me out the front yard where he proceeded to wash my face with the jam, butter and dinner roll. I think that I started crying. I then got to go back into the dinner table and finish my liver. This is one of only two times that I remember my father physically disciplining me. As a rule, my Mother was the one that dished out the discipline at our house. As you might imagine, I have some pretty strong feelings about liver, to this day.

In Provo there was a roller skating rink called Riverside Roller Rink. We used to love to go there on Saturday afternoons and skate to the music. I learned to roller skate when I was much younger, at home with little metal skates that you would strap to your shoes and tighten some little clamps that would move in and out on the sides to accommodate larger or smaller kids shoes. These skates didn’t go very fast, compared to the nylon wheeled rental skates at the roller rink but they were probably a lot safer for little tikes to start out on.

I remember one winter when I was invited to go down to the Provo Boat Harbor to ice skate. I had never ice skated before but my parents had acquired some used hockey skates from some hand-me-down source and I found, after a little experimenting, that there was a pair that would fit me so I went. The morning was really cold. The harbor had frozen over, not exactly smooth, but it was solid enough to safely hold everyone. They had started a fire on the edge of the ice to warm everyone up. They had thrown old tires into the fire as fuel. I don’t suppose that this kind of fuel would be politically correct today! At least the fire was warm. The important thing with tire fires was to stay away from the side where the smoke was blowing to. I spent a lot of time hovering around the fire that day because I couldn’t get the hang of skating.

I must have looked like a new calf with my wobbly ankles. I since learned that figure skates are the best way to go. That wasn’t an option this morning though. Any way, I drank hot chocolate, stood by the fire a lot, and ventured out onto the ice a time or two. I was REALLY glad to be able to finally go home that day. A few years later they built a funny turtle-shaped building in Provo with an ice skating rink inside. This is now the Reams store on about 200 West and 1300 North. I think that I can remember going there a time or two and having a better time. (They rented lower profile bladed figure skates). Boy oh boy, using the right equipment really does make a world of difference.

My favorite time of year was summertime. But from about March with all kinds of kites and other adventures through November I was pretty free to roam all over north east Orem. I just loved to be out of doors. In the summer time, sometimes I would be lucky enough to be invited by someone like my cousin Tommy Bunnell to go fishing someplace like Strawberry reservoir. This was pretty rare though. I always felt like everyone else got to go fishing except me. As I grew up I made sure that I rectified this situation. After we were married we would go up whenever we could, usually to Strawberry and we had a ball. I never had much luck catching fish as a young man but when I grew up I got better and better at it. Today one of my most

favorite things to do is to bundle up our boat, fishing poles and some snacks and the portable TV and head up to Strawberry to catch some big ones with the family. Often times we will sleep overnight in the boat. We’ve had some pretty interesting times waking up to ice all over the outside of the boat, with fish on our lines that we left from the night before. Strawberry is a great place to play.

When I was young my family would sometimes to on vacations. These vacations were typically taken in connection with the annual Postmaster’s convention held each summer, somewhere interesting around the state. I remember going down to southern Utah one time and running into a deer near Panguich, Utah. It ruined the front of the Cadillac that we were driving. I still remember the upsetting night when we were forced to take an unscheduled stop in some little cramped motel nearby while something was done to repair the car’s radiator enough to proceed. Another time we went to Vernal. Another year saw us in the four corners area. I think we stayed in Blanding that time. Another time we went to Moab when Eva and Jay and our cousins lived down there. We also visited Zions and Bryce Canyons. Another year we visited Kanab. I don’t ever remember traveling outside of Utah until I was fourteen and got to take a Boy Scout bus trip to southern California. Boy, was I impressed. I thought I was really something the first time that I got to see and touch the ocean. I really loved it then and now.

Whenever I get the chance to be near the water, either fresh water or ocean I take it. I love the feeling of being around these great bodies of water. They seem to soothe my spirit and bring peace to my heart.

I took piano lessons for several years during my youth. Unfortunately, I never got interested in it and almost none of the lessons stuck with me. I do remember playing duets with my sister Merrie and being asked over and over to practice. I really do wish now that I had kept with it and developed the ability to play for myself and my family now. Music can be such a powerful influence in a family’s life. It can uplift and inspire or it can degrade the spirit. I really did have a strong heritage of quality music. Even today, I hear music that my parents played in our home when I was a child and I remember fondly the uplifting feelings that this music brings back to my heart.

Orem was originally a small, rural farming community where lots of fruit orchards were planted. About the time I was growing up these fruit orchards were slowly converted into sub-divisions were many homes were built to accommodate the families that were growing up and moving into the area. The community was very family oriented. Our new home on 383 East 100 North was built in about 1955. It was constructed on red brick and it has a basement. Sometime after it was built, I assume, probably in the early 60s an addition was added to expand the living room and also provided additional storage space behind the garage. I remember when the cement was poured for this room behind the garage that my Dad somehow obtained a military coffin and used this as a form to leave a large hole in the cement to be used for winter storage of potatoes, carrots, and apples, etc. Sand was added to the hole to provide some insulation from the cold of winter.

The basement was also later finished off to accommodate the growing family. Originally it was just a cement floor with exposed stud walls. I remember how exciting it was to see things take shape as sheetrock was added, then paint and wallpaper to personalize each room for its resident child. My Dad was always very hands-on in the process of construction projects around the house. I think that things were pretty much do-it-yourself during these projects.

When I was young I remember going to Harris’s Rexall Drug strore with my Mother. It was located about 350 North State in Orem. It was always interesting to go there to see what kind of new treats or small toys were to be had. One day I must have taken something from this store without paying for it. I can remember the serious talking to that I received when my parents discovered my little theft. It was terrifying when they told me to get into the car to go back and return the item apologize to him and ask Mr. Harris to forgive me. This made a strong impression on me then and I can still feel those feelings of embarrassment and shame that I felt that night. Mr. Harris was very kind about the incident and never mentioned it again. His son Lynn and I were friends in school, in the Ward and played little league baseball together.

At Christmas time during my youth I used to love to go down to downtown Provo with my parents to window shop and enjoy the experience of Christmas in the "big" city. When I was a child, downtown Provo was the largest shopping area near our home. There were no shopping malls at that time. The main shopping area for the Orem/Provo area was along Center street in Provo from about 100 East to about 300 West. The main stores that I can remember are JC Penny on the corner of 100 West Center and Woolworth’s and Kresses just across the street to the west. Across the street from Kresses was the Jarman shoe store and next to Jarman’s was the Spudnut doughnut store. I also recall Firmages, Taylors,

I think that Taylors was originally dalled DTRs for Dixon, Taylor, Russell’s. Later, other fancy stores opened up called Hoovers and north on University avenue a couple of blocks was Clarks.

I used to love to go there in the cold winter evenings during the Christmas season and buy a Spudnut with white frosting and sliced almonds. And if I was lucky enough to get one still hot from the fryer I was in heaven! This is one of the sweetest memories of my youth. Unfortunately, I believe that there are no more Spudnut stores anywhere in the country. If there are, I haven’t seen them. Somehow, I don’t really think that, even if I could find one of these stores on some cold winter night and they did have a spudnut right out of the fryer with white frosting and sliced almonds, that it would taste anything like how great they taste in my memory. There is something about a child’s taste for sweets that somehow gets lost on the way to adulthood, I think.

The Kresses store originally had wooden floors and old fashioned fixtures like I expect you would have found in an old general store on the prairie. Kresses had lots of different kinds of candy, toys, and other interesting stuff. At Christmas time, it was particularly interesting. It really had an old feeling about it. I guess that is why a few years later, it was completely remodeled.

One of my favorite things to do as a child was to participate in the SCERA summer recreation program. This program provided a number of activities centered in and around the old Lincoln Jr. High School facility located next to the SCERA Theater. These activities included storytelling, swimming, and crafts. One of the favorite crafts involved making things out of plastic by gluing pieces of clear or colored plastic together with colored glue to construct necklaces, rings, or pendants that could be worn around the neck on a chain or given to others as gifts. These little objects could be shaped with sandpaper then polished and buffed to a high clear gloss on electric buffing wheels. We would also make wrist bracelets out of colored strips of this colored plastic which we would heat and then bend to fit our wrists. These would also be sanded and buffed to a high shine.

We would always hope to get a little money from Mom when we went to recreation so that we could buy some candy from the little store outside of the swimming pool after recreation was finished. Some of the most popular treats were frozen Milkshake candy bars and Winner Suckers. The Frozen Milkshake candy bars were something like a Three Musketeer’s bar with a popcicle stick stuck in its end then placed in the freezer. These really hit the spot on hot summer days. The Winner Suckers were larger than normal suckers wrapped in paper. In every box, one of the suckers would have a winner strip hidden inside. If you were lucky enough to buy the sucker with the winner strip inside you would receive another sucker for FREE! Wow, did we love to win these suckers. It was a pretty effective gimmick to get kids to keep buying.

On Saturday afternoons the SCERA Theater would show Saturday Matinee movies. These would always include a cartoon, and usually some kind of dopey serial like Flash Gordon, (a black and white space adventure). The most important part of going to the Saturday Matinee was the treat table out front. We would buy all kinds of fun penny candy from this table. When we had a little extra money we could go to the east end of the Theater lobby to the ice cream bar where we could buy a root beer float or an ironport drink, or a malt or a shake. It was fun to look at the little fish swimming around in the aquarium that was always in the lobby of the Theater. This theater seemed huge at that time in my life. It is still a very nice theater and it specializes in family quality entertainment. I can recall attending Stake conference in the SCERA theater. I don’t know why they held it there. Perhaps none of the chapels were large enough to accommodate the crowd for some reason. Since my youth SCERA has continued to expand its facilities to the north to include a new swimming pool, an outdoor amphitheater and lots of lawn and picnic areas.

I loved exploring as a child. Whenever I could escape from the house I would take off into the neighborhood to see what I could find. One day in the late fall I was walking around in the field behind my house when I came upon a pheasant sitting quietly amid the weeds and grasses of the field. I wasn’t looking down at the time and almost put my foot on her as a walked along. Suddenly he flew up in my face, clucking and shrieking at the top of her lungs. Boy, was I scared. I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. Somehow I lived through it. It’s so interesting to find natures surprises all around us as we reach out beyond our private domains.

One of the most foolish yet interesting things that I did as a boy was to build match head bombs. I don’t remember how I figured out that they were explosive but somehow I did. I guess it all started when I was quite young, probably under ten and found a big green canvas bag in my Father’s things in some storage area of our home. When I opened it up I discovered lots of very strange and interesting things that my Dad had collected during his time as a soldier in World War II in Japan. It seemed like everything was a soldier green color. There were little Japanese trinkets, medals, rations, clothes, and bullets. Wow! Bullets! I had never seen bullets before except in books but I knew immediately what they were when I saw them. What a curious appeal bullets and guns have to young boys. It was fun to examine each bullet and hold them in my little hands. I’m sure that I was into something that my Dad would have preferred that I stay out of but I gave no thought to that. I was exploring a new and wonderful stash of stuff that transported me to another world. I tried to imagine what it must have been like to be a soldier for him. What were the Japanese people like? Why was their writing so weird? Everything Japanese seemed really really different to me, even the paper was different.

It’s interesting that I am writing about this at this particular time because I am now sitting in a hotel in Japan on a business trip in 1997, looking around me at all the things and people that are still very different, yet in many ways familiar. I have been here for two weeks, working for Engineering Geometry Systems, a CAD/CAM software company. I have been meeting with our distributors here and many of their key prospective customers, demonstrating our software and assisting our distributors in defining an effective sales and marketing strategy for this market. I will go home tomorrow, and I can’t wait. I really miss my family. This trip is particularly hard because I was on another trip to Europe visiting England, France, Belgium, Sweden, Denmark, and Germany during the preceding two weeks. So I’ve been gone for a month from home. I don’t ever want to do this again, unless I am traveling with someone from my family. That makes all the difference in the world.

Anyway, back to the duffle bag from World War II. After I had torn through the entire bag’s contents to make sure that I had not missed anything, I decided to take a few of the bullets to show my friends. I knew that they would be impressed and interested in my new find also. When I showed them we noticed that each bullet was actually constructed of a casing, a bullet slug, a primer, and when we pried the slug out of the casing we found that it was also filled with a light, fine black gray powder - gunpowder! What an interesting little invention. What power we held in our hands. We poured the gunpowder out on the sidewalk and lit it with a match. FLASH! It all lit up and was gone in a swoosh. That left us with an empty casing and a slug. What could we do with these seeminly worthless items. This is where the match heads came in. We decided that if we took regular wooden matches and broke just the heads off of each match that we would be left with something that would flash into flames, a lot like the gunpowder had and that if we put these matchheads into the bullet casing and closed off the top end by bending it over with a pair of pliers we could make an interesting bomb that we could try to blow up over in the field.

So we tried it. The only problem remaining was how to ignite the bomb? We decided that if we placed the bomb on a slab of cement and dropped large rocks on it from above on a tree limb that we could cause the bomb to explode and probably not get hurt. It was like the launch of an Apollo spacecraft to us. I was joined by Doug Thayne, and Harley Lynn Richardson in the experiment. We carefully positioned the bomb on the cement slab. I awkwardly carried one large rock after another up into the tree and attempted to drop them, just so, trying to hit the bomb just right to make it explode and finally KABOOM! The rock hit it just right and it exploded with a boom. The only problem was that when it exploded, the primer exploded out of the end of the casing and went flying along the ground and hit my friend Harley in the finger, even though he was standing 75’ to 100’ back away from the bomb. I remember how scared we were when we realized how dangerous and stupid we had been. Harley’s finger was scratched but not bleeding badly and soon healed. Everyone else was unharmed, luckily.

There were other experiments with explosives during my youth but after this one, I was always very, very careful. This is not something that should be played with. Explosives do serve an important purpose in mining and excavation projects, managed by professionals but they certainly are not an appropriate toy. It occurs to me that there are a lot of things in life like explosives. In the right setting and under the careful control of responsible people, they can be beneficial and really be a blessing to the human family but if misused, they can harm us in permanent and sometimes irreparable ways. We need to carefully respect these things and protect ourselves and our loved ones from their misuse. Another of my friends named Randy Bunker, I think used to love to play with pipe bombs during junior high school. One day, he was making his own gunpowder, mixing the ingredients up in a mortar and pestle when the power he was mixing ignited. He was burned horribly all over his face and hands. It is a miracle that he wasn’t killed. Some things were never intended to be used as toys.

One summer morning the Thayne boys and I were looking for something to do and I decided that we should construct a parachute and try it out. My mother had just thrown out a large Tide box that looked like a perfect seat in which to sit while floating down in the air. We grabbed a spare bed sheet from one of our Mother’s linen closets, the Tide box, and some cord that we found in somebody’s garage. We connected several corners of the sheet with lengths of the cord, tied the other end to the top edge of the Tide box and our parachute was ready for testing. We looked around for the tallest perch that we could find to test it out and decided that Thayne’s roof was the best place because it was the easiest to climb up to from their fence. I climbed up, stuck my legs into the Tide box and looked down, wondering whether or not to jump. I double checked my engineering of the system and decided that it would work and off I went! Believe it or not, I hit the ground like a rock! My chute did not open as I had planned and I was left sprawling on the ground with the air knocked out of me, lucky to not have broken any bones. I would really recommend against do it yourself parachutes. In fact, I would probably recommend against using any kind of parachute, if you can avoid it.

Another summer morning we were exploring in the field and came across a small field mouse. We caught it and played with it all morning long. It was really exciting to catch a wild animal and keep it in submission as a pet. We were pretty proud of ourselves. Unfortunately our captured beast died from our mishandling and we were left with only its lifeless body. I wondered if we could bring it back to life by shocking it a little so we started looking for some wire around our yards and finally came up with some. We also found a shaving razor, because I felt that we would need to operate on the little critter to expose its heart to which we would apply the shock.

We set up our operating room inside the back of Thayne’s garage because that is where we found the wire. I remember slicing open the little mouse’s chest to expose its inner organs and then I carefully

peeled the insulation from the ends of two lengths of wire and stuck one wire in each of the two holes of the electrical plug on the wall. I then proceeded to touch both the wires to the rib cage of the little mouse. As you might expect, the mouse just jerked and sizzled a little. I guess the Frankenstien thing isn’t such a good idea. Not to mention not a very safe idea.

I don’t know why but sometime during the 50s my parents decided to have our family appear on the Eugene Jelesnik TV talent search program. This interesting little man sponsored amateur talent shows on TV once a year or so for several years. My Mother prepared us to sing some kind of song as a family. It was winter time and when it was time to go, early one morning the heater in the car did not work. In order to keep warm my parents got some bricks, I guess left over from the construction of our home and put them in the oven to heat them up so that they would give off enough heat to keep us warm during the cold winter journey that morning. I don’t suppose that we won any awards that morning but it was a very memorable experience. I remember how impressed I was, wondering around the TV studio before we went on stage. It was pretty heady stuff for a little kid.

One of my earliest memories of scouting occurred when I was just eleven. I wasn’t quite old enough to be a scout but I was a Webelo scout and was I ever excited when I heard that there was going to be a giant Boy Scout Jubilee/Camporee right across the street from my home in the empty field. It was in the summer time so it was warm and there wer hundreds of scouts that came to the event. There were demonstrations on camping, cooking, knot tying, pioneering, safety and lots of other activities to keep the kids interested. Everyone that came to the event had the opportunity to work at different activity stations throughout the camp area.

They received a blue card upon which they would receive signatures from the instructors when they had gone through each activity. After participating in a certain number of events, each scout was awarded a gold seal, as an award for completing them. Somehow I was permitted to participate, in spite of my younger age and that really made me feel great. I loved participating in these exciting activities with the older boys. I even completed my blue card and received my gold seal. I may still have this treasure somewhere.

Scouting always meant a lot to me. I was always anxious to go to scouts every week at MIA. (MIA was the Mutual Improvement Association, held weekly on Tuesday or Wednesday night for the teenage kids of the ward).

I immediately began working toward my Eagle badge when I started participating in scouting activities. I don’t know why, but I was drawn to this, perhaps as a right of passage or proof of my abilities or as a means of comparing myself to others. There was kind of a competition between another boy in the ward named Bert Clark and me to see who would get their Eagle badge first. I honestly don’t remember which of us won but I remember that we were pretty close. I got my Eagle just before I turned 14. I feel strongly that the scouting program is inspired to help young men to gain experience and learn skills that will be valuable to them later in life. I hope that all my sons and grandsons will be Eagles.

One time when we were about 12 or 13 Lynn Harris’s Dad asked Lynn, Art Allred, and me if we would like to go on a trip searching for Indian artifacts in southern Utah. I had never done this and it sounded very interesting. We loaded up our camping gear and took off one afternoon. I believe that we went to a place called Height Ferry, along the Colorado River, before Lake Powell was formed after the construction of the Glenn Canyon Dam. I recall how hot it was and how unusual it was to see the red dirt and rocks everywhere.

One afternoon while we were exploring we found ourselves in a severe sand storm. I have never since seen such a terrible sand storm. It was impossible to see where you were driving and completely impossible to stay out of the car without closing your eyes. Everything in sight got sand blasted. After a while it calmed down but wow, what a storm it was. We found a number of interesting artifacts during our trip. Mr. Harris collected these kinds of things and helped us to identify the items that we found and to verify their authenticity. Under a large red rock overhang, way back in the back, half buried in the red dirt, we found some shards of broken Indian pottery and some small ancient corn husks that were pretty well preserved. We also found some grinding stones and probably a number of other items of interest. This area must have been home to numerous groups of people over the eons of time. I really enjoyed being able to go on this adventure with my friend. It was sure good to get back home and enjoy a good soak in the tub though when it was over. Camping can be a pretty grimy experience.

I was really excited to become a Boy Scout. The week before my twelfth birthday my parents said that it would be all right if I went to MIA or Mutual, as it was called then. Unfortunately not everyone else felt the same way. I remember one of the other boys named Art Allred who said that I had no right to be there until I was twelve. I think that he had turned twelve earlier in the month. I am surprised at how deeply this hurt my feelings.

I’m surprised that I can still remember how crushed I felt. Remember how sensitive peoples feelings are and how easy it is to bruise or hurt them. I didn’t let his remark dampen my enthusiasm for the scouting program.

I just couldn’t wait to start earning my rank advancements and within a very short time I was on my way to becoming one of the youngest Eagle scouts in the area. I remember that before I turned fourteen I received my Eagle badge.