JOHN DEERE TRACTOR

My closest call with death came in what I believe was the summer of 1945.  Dad had bought a new John Deere tractor, of which he was very proud.  It was green and tall and fast. 

1945 John Deer tractor

One day I drove it up the hill on the road to Weston to pick up our mail at the intersection beyond the canal flume.  Then I drove it up the road to our neighbor’s, Wash Thompson.  I can’t recall why I went there, but after a few minutes I decided to head for home. 

From their barn there was a long straight driveway to the Weston road, where you had to turn right or left on to the road.  I put the tractor in high gear, probably to show off to the Thompsons.  As I approached the road, the tractor was probably going 20 miles per hour.  I didn’t think to slow down, partly due the fact that the mail, which was on the seat under my right thigh, was jostling loose.  I reached down to secure the mail just as the tractor was entering the roadway.  Since I needed to go left toward home, I quickly pulled the steering wheel left and more quickly let it go to reach back across to grab it on the right side and pull it across left again to make the turn.  But as those will know who have driven tractors, they are engineered to very quickly return the front wheels to straight ahead.  So I was rapidly heading for the barrow pit on the opposite side of the road.

Then a flash came to my mind that I could touch the wheel brake on the left to slow the left rear wheel, thus swinging the tractor to the left.  By the time my foot hit the brake the tractor was almost across the road.  The only problem was that in my quick reaction, I hit the right wheel brake, not the left one.

The next thing I knew I was on my back in the barrow pit, with the tractor upside down on top of me.  Actually the tractor seat was across my groin, pinning me to the ground.  The tractor was still running and the huge rear wheels were turning. The left wheel was on top of my right leg pulling it forward. 

The engine finally killed, about the time that the Thompsons came running up to see if they could help.  After extracting me from under the tractor, they pulled the tractor upright.  The tall exhaust pipe that had risen upright from the top of the tractor engine had been clearly bent over.  This exhaust pipe was bent upright; and the engine started.   So I drove off home with much dread over ruining the appearance of Dad’s new cherished John Deere tractor. 

I can’t recall what Dad said when I got home, but it seems that he was very kind to me and didn’t punish me for my foolishness in ruining his prized tractor.

I have pondered many times this impossible survival of what should have been severe injury or death.  The incredible speed of the tractor flipping over so fast that I was not aware of it, and slamming into the barrow pit, so that I as not bruised except for where the seat arm pinned me to the ground is astounding to me.    I can only assume that angels protected me.

High School Days

HIGH SCHOOL DAYS

Due to the fame that Weston High School had achieved in basketball, and the excellent gymnasium that had been built to continue it, I had looked forward to entering in the fall of 1943.  World War II was in full fury, but for a 13 year old boy, the excitement of going to high school in the 9^th grade was all-consuming.

 

           Barry, 1943                                                       Weston High School

Many of the high school teachers had roomed at Grandma Lundquist’s home, and were friends to my parents, which helped me to be optimistic about the big step up in class work and other activities.  The high school building was located on the brow of Weston hill, so that one could see it for miles to the east and south.

A few days after school started in late August, a tradition came in to play.  All freshmen were required to dress up on a Friday and were subjected to some hazing and to a late afternoon party.  The boys were to wear dresses or skirts and blouses.  I chose the latter.  It was a hot day and the wool skirt I wore itched like crazy.  Furthermore, I had my fill of hazing, so during the afternoon party I slipped over the hill and ran down it toward home.  After I crossed the railroad tracks, I ran into the barrow pit and took off the skirt.  Then I ran home in my bathing suit and blouse.

My neighbor, Francis Rasmussen, was Student-body President.  He was also a member of the six-man football team.  The team had three men on the line and three in the backfield.  We had a really fast fellow as halfback, so he scored quickly and often.  I believe we won the district but I don’t recall any state tourney. 

I don’t remember much else, except that I was a member of the band, playing trumpet. Our teacher, Frank Parker, occasionally played trumpet to help us out.  He would stand in front and hold the trumpet up high.  When he would breath, his Adam’s apple would move up and down, carrying his necktie with it, which caused me to nearly fall off my chair in laughter.

Barry posing with Weston High School Band—second row, second from left.

While I played trumpet in the band for four years, I grew tired of playing trumpet, so I faked that my trumpet was in repair.  That didn’t faze Frank Parker, because he then had me play the bass horn.  Since I wasn’t very big, it was heavy and the part was not interesting; next he put on the baritone horn, which I liked pretty well; then it was the French horn, which was not so interesting.  Finally I got my trumpet back and was able to play it without complaint.

I was quite active in Boy Scouts at this time, earning and receiving Second Class, First Class and Star Badges. The following merit badges were earned: Athletics, Bird Study, Civics, First Aid, Pathfinding, Public Health, Electricity, Firemanship and Farm Layout & Building Management.

When I was about 14, I acquired a new bicycle.  So Clyde Smith, who lived across the river, and I decided to ride our bikes to Preston to take in a Saturday movie.  I think Dad agreed to milk the cows that night, so that we could stay for the evening movie.  It was about 7 miles to Preston, at least half of which was on gravel roads.  On the way home I recall that the night was quite dark.  We rode along with each of us on a separate track of the gravel road.  Clyde was really a daredevil.  As we neared his home, he rode rapidly ahead on familiar roadway and down a short but steep hill.  Then he stopped to wait for me to catch up.  As I came down the hill pretty fast, I crashed head on into Clyde and his bike.  I flew off over the handlebars onto the gravel road.  Fortunately my glasses were undamaged, but my handlebars were turned 180 degrees.  We turned the handlebars around and drove off home at a much slower speed.

I don’t remember much about my Sophomore year (1944-45), except the burning of the high school the night of December 20, 1945.  Somehow Dad heard that the High School building was burning, so we hopped in the car and drove up there about 11 o’clock at night.  Apparently someone had dropped something hot in a garbage can in the kitchen after a ball game, which took awhile to ignite.  We were among the first to arrive there, but the decrepit old fire wagon could do nothing to stop the fire.  I recall that heat on our faces and the cold on our backs, so that I would turn around occasionally to equalize them.  It was a great sad day for Weston.  The town was never the same after the fire. 

We were transferred to a smaller building in Clifton, which meant a long bus ride for me each day.  The name was changed to West Side High School.  We had a small gym there but the basketball and football teams never did much after that.  I do recall a small building nearby where I attended seminary, with Ellis Rasmussen as the teacher.  He would later marry Mom’s cousin, Oda Fonnesbeck, and go on to become a leading Biblical scholar and head of the Religion Department at BYU.

In 1945 I earned my Life Badge with the following merit badges: Camping, Pioneering, Personal Health, Safety, Carpentry, Gardening, Farm Mechanics, Farm Home & Its Planning, Poultry, Scholarship, Wood Work and Wood Turning.

I think it was my Junior year (1945-46) that I joined the boxing team at the high school.  I had boxed occasionally in Weston.  One time we were boxing against Preston High School.  My second cousin, Duane Lott, and I were the same weight.  On that night I fought first and lost.  Duane was to fight next against Kelly Bowles, who had a fearsome reputation and was built like a bulldog.  So I rushed into the locker room to take off my gloves, so that I could go out to watch the bout between Duane and Kelly.  As I was walking out of the locker room, they were carrying in Duane who was unconscious.  Whew!  I played football my Junior year, although I didn’t get in any games.   My sister, Margaret, was born October 2, 1945.

It was this Junior year that I thought that if I did not do well in my classes, that my persecutors would like me better and stop teasing me.  So I goofed off and did not answer questions in class as I had previously done.  The result: same treatment as before.

In 1946 I worked hard on my scouting, earning the following merit badges: Agriculture, Animal Industry, Handicraft, Metal Work, Painting, Hog and Pork Production, Reptile Study, Weather, Corn Farming, Reading, Textiles, Sheep Farming and Farm Records & Bookkeeping.

                           Barry with Weston Ward Boy Scout troop—front row, third from right.

Mike Fonnesbeck was our Scoutmaster, Mom’s cousin, and a very effective leader.  One time we were at Downata Hot Springs working on swimming and lifesaving merit badges.  I had not perfected my swimming, despite ongoing efforts in the West Cache canal and Bear River.  So I was sitting at the deep end watching others swimming, when Mike came up behind me and pushed me in.  I swam for my life and had no problem swimming thereafter.

One of the highlights of the year was a dance (not a date) partnership with the prettiest girl in the high school, classmate Rhea Griffith, at the Junior Prom.

The summer following my Junior year my pal, Lynn Neuenswander, and I dated two girls from Dayton—Alice Moser and Marilou Balls.  After taking the gals home about midnight, I drove south half a mile to an intersection at a T-corner.  As I approached the corner, I tried the brakes but did not follow up on the soft braking.  So the car headed right into the big ditch bank with a crash.  I was draped around the steering wheel, and Lynn asleep in the back seat was thrown forward over my head into the sprung front door and bounced back outside the car to near the left rear tire.  

After I squeezed out from the steering wheel, I called to Lynn who lay moaning on the ground.  He had a concussion, which caused me to be really scared.  I stowed him in the car and then sprinted non-stop back to the Balls’ home.  There I called home to let them know our disaster.  After a couple of hours Lynn’s parents picked us up and took us home.  After a couple of days Lynn was OK .

The Plymouth was towed to White’s garage in south Dayton, where it took a couple of months and $500 to repair.  I earned all of the money to pay for the repair over the ensuing year.  Our family was relegated to riding in our 1935 Ford truck until the Plymouth was repaired.

In my Senior year (1946-47) I decided to get serious about studying and the result was that I gave the Salutatory speech (second to Valedictory).  I took part in a school play with both happy and negative feelings.   My brother, Tom, started grade school.

Inside of Weston High School 1947 Commencement Program:

A page of Barry’s salutary speech:

Although I don’t remember much about it, Dad spent the winter working at the mine in Ruby, Arizona, where Uncle Grover Duff was Superintendent.  This meant that we boys cared for the stock and milked the cows.  It seems that we had few cows to milk, so that it was not such a burden.

I was on the boxing and football teams, although I can’t remember much about the competition.  I was just a little guy, weighing in at about 130 pounds at year end.  

In 1947 my scouting effort eased off, earning only one merit badge: Horsemanship.  Earlier my pals in the scout troop had come near a national (?) record of something like 14 Eagles at one court of honor.  Since I had not done it too, the earning of Eagle was important to me.  But it would be later that I got my Swimming and Lifesaving merit badges while attending BYU. 

The following summer Lynn and I dated two cute girls from Preston, Verdeana Seamons and Nellie Perkins.  Nellie was the first girl I kissed, although I had played Post Office several years previous.  But most of the summer was spent in preparing for going to college.

In my last year of high school, Dad allowed me to buy a large sow that had been bred.  I think I paid something like $30 or $40 for her.  Eventually she had 11 piglets, which I sold with the mother for $400+, a substantial sum for my freshman year at BYU.

It probably was the summer of 1947 that I determined that I would finally thin an acre of beets, a goal that had been achieved by few, including my Dad and his two brothers, LeGrande and Victor.  I don’t remember how many times I thinned an acre in a day, but it was a proud time for me.  Uncle Vic recently confirmed that I had thinned an acre in a day, but how would he know, unless Dad told him?!  He suggested that it was much easier for them to thin an acre a day because they preferred to thin fields in Linrose where the ground was sandy and the beets were easy to thin.

Boyhood Experiences with Animal & Pets

We had many adventures and close calls with the farm animals.  One time I was riding my pony, Sweetie Pie, chasing all of our work horses that had broken out and were in a far field near the sand hills. We chases them up a hill at breakneck speed.  As we came over the top of he hill, I was surprised to see a pond o water about thirty feet ahead of us.  I jerked on the reins and hollered “Whoa!”, causing the horse to put on all four legs stiff-legged. The grassy ground was fairly wet, so we slid toward the pond.  We stopped at the edge, but I slid forward up its neck until I was sitting astride her neck clear to her ears.

The horses got out another time, probably due to the great skill of Bird, who could open most gates. All of the horses had gone east toward Bear River.  Dad told me to go after and bring them home.  So I took off running in a light rain. The horses had crossed the river at the bridge and up the hill to Fairview.  When I finally caught up with them, they were eating juicy grass at the top of the hill.  Then they ran right for about block before the road turned east again. I thought I could cut across the hay field and get ahead of them. In angry frustration I started to hurdle the one wire fence, only to find out in mid air that the fence was electric. What a shock! But the shock ust have given me increased energy, because I ran like fury through the wet alfalfa to head off the horses and turn them for home.

One of my most memorable memories was the time that the horses broke out of the corral and into the pasture across the road from our house.  We were eating breakfast, when, all of a sudden, Dad jumped up and out the door on the dead run. We watched him race across the road and over the fence into the pasture out of sight.  Pretty soon the work horses came up the hill and turned into the corral.  Then we saw Snowball come up and veer away from the gate and back into the open field. Just as she turned, Dad caught her by the tail, and away they went down the hill with Dad holding on to the tail and taking giant strides caused by the pony running scared at top speed.  A moment later we saw Snowball and Dad come up the hill, with Dad swishing her tail from side to side. This time she didn’t head back to the pasture.  Evidently, she had had enough of Dad hanging on to her tail and swishing her from side to side.

Following this amazing performance, I asked Dad about the danger of flying hooves by handing on to a horse’s tail. He told me that when he was young, at celebrations or fairs, one of the contests was for men to hang onto the tails of quarter horses (which are the fastest sprinters among horses) for as long as possible. So he had confidence that he wouldn’t be hit by our pony’s hooves.

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Other stories involving the animals can be recalled.  My mother was deathly afraid of snakes. One time a snake, wither garter or blow, got into our house.  As I recall, I was sent to capture it and take it away, but I could not find it (presumably it departed as it had arrived, certainly afraid of humans), so I pretended to capture I and take it outside, far from the house to appease my mother.

Usually we milked the cows by hand, which I disliked.  Some of the stalls near the door had broken mangers, so the cows were free to move about, or out One time Dad had finished his cows at the far end and had released them from the stalls, while I was still milking near the door.  When the cows began filing out, my cow got excited and backed out, throwing me across the aisle in the path of the oncoming cows, which made all the cows excited.  They rushed toward the door with their hooves hitting and missing me. I was stepped on several times, including my head. I was scared but unable to do anything until they had all exited. Was I relieved to be in one piece!

One year, big rats invaded the area.  They made nests under a large woodpile in our barnyard.  In the morning milking session, I would peer out the barn door to see the baby rats playing and eating from the pile of horse manure.  There were so many rats around that Dad decided to destroy them once and for all.  We got our dogs out and armed ourselves with clubs. Then we started to dismantle the woodpile. One by one the rats tried to escape, but the dogs were afraid of them. So it was up to Dad and me, and perhaps Dennis, to club them.  We must have been successful because I don’t remember having seen the rats again.

I recall one day in the barnyard seeing a chicken hawk flying over us. Then all of a sudden, he dived from maybe 150 feet up straight down to pullout at high speed and clip a chicken on the neck, severing it cleanly.  Unfortunately for him, I go the chicken, and we had it for dinner.

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One of my most vivid memories of the farm was the time that I was raking up tumbleweeds in the field east of our home. Old Maud was pulling the big dump rake.  We would go back and forth to rake up the weeds that I would dump in a row so that we could burn them.  The ground was hard so that the big iron wheels would bounce around as we moved back and forth across the field. In order to finish this task as soon as possible, I conceived a plan to start a small fire in the tumbleweeds caught by the rake so that the burning could take place while I was raking.  The flaw in this plan became apparent when I tried to trip the big tines that held the weeds but the weeds were so tangled that the tines wouldn’t lift high enough to release the weeds. There were two ways to raise the tines: by stepping on round trigger with my foot; and by reaching back to a long steel handle and pulling it forward.  Neither of these methods seemed to free the weeds that were burning right below my iron seat.  The fire was very hot on my legs and the smoke was suffocating.  Since I was concentrating on trying to raise the tines, and to avoid the heat, I pretty much ignored Maud.  With the reins rather loose, Maud started to trot (maybe she felt the heat on her hind legs too) which meant that the rake was bouncing around.  It was getting so hot under me that my rear end was too hot, causing me to stand up, all the while stepping hard on the foot pedal and/or reaching back to pull the lever…with no success.  Meanwhile, Maud was trotting faster, in fact she even started to lope, so that I was fearful of being thrown off the rake that was bouncing all over.  But finally the weeds were dislodged through our racing around the field in an area where we had already gathered the weeds. Following my getting control of Maud and stopping the rake, I sat there, contemplating my good fortune in surviving this crazy escapade, and vowing that I would not try it again.

Grade School Years

Grade School Years

In April 1936 Dad bought a farm at a price of $7500 across the river in Weston, where Uncle Art Moser’s family had lived a few years previous.  It was an exciting place with a nice home and a big barn.  There were 40 acres of irrigated land, 60 acres of dry farm, and 20 acres of lower pasture. We raised sugar beets, peas, beans, corn, potatoes, and alfalfa on the irrigated land, and wheat and barley on the dry area.  All of our farming was done with horses. We had a small herd of cow that I would take to and bring back from pasture. We always had a good dog which could be a big help in bringing in the cows. There was first Jeff, then Napoleon, and Wolfe. I rode a pony to bring in the cows and horses. I preferred bare back and was a good horseman.

There was always too much work, resulting in big weeds in the beet and potato fields. Since Dad was often busy with other things, I spent many long days pulling giant weeds all alone. On these long time I thought about the places around the world where I  had stamps in my collection. I poured over maps and the news where World War II was being fought, hoping some day to see these places.

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Grandpa Lundquist smoked until a few years before his death. I would join him ono the sunny side of the house or the smokehouse, where he loved to sit in the sun. He would roll up his cigarettes in a most adept manner. He used Prince Albert, Half and Half, and Bull Durham tobacco.  He loved to sit in the kitchen, where he would prop his legs on the over door and drink his coffee.  He would pour the hot coffee in to its saucer, blow on it through his big white moustache and drink it from the saucer. All of these things were fascinating to a young boy who loved his grandpa.

Grandpa Lundquist

                                                    

But the most memorable for me was the oft-repeated story he told me about the picture of the ship Titanic about to hit the iceberg. Somehow he would make the telling of it so compelling that I would listen raptly, and then ask him again and again to tell it again. I would be sitting on his lap, feeling his gentleness and love.

Another activity I enjoyed with Grandpa Lundquist was fishing in Bear River, just below our farm.  He loved to fish and taught me to thread an angle worm onto a hook, then throw the hook and sinker into the river.  He urged patience and quiet, saying that the fish would hear us talk and would swim away.  We caught many carp and suckers, and an occasional catfish.

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My first grade class picture. Can you find me in the middle row, right side?

In the fall of 1936 I attended first grade in Weston, and my teacher was Mrs. Nelson.  It was about this time that my dad bought me a .22 rifle, which held 21 rounds (bullets), making it quite heavy for a six year old.  Then in the second grade my teacher was Mrs. Schoells, who held spelling and addition contests frequently.  I excelled in and enjoyed these contests, usually in final competition with my friend, Cleve Neuenswander.  My teacher in third grade was Laurel Jones. At about this time I became very active in playing marbles in a circle ring at recess.  Each player would put up so many marbles in the ring, and then lag toward the ring at the far side to see who would shoot first.  I won most of the time and eventually won the tournament as the champion. We played another marble game where there were a series of holes in the dirt, which we shot our taw into, and then progressed on until we became “poison”, then to seek out our opponents to hit (poison) them.

                                      

Another game that we played often at recess and noon-hour was “last one on the bridge is it”.  On a signal we would race toward the far side of the area.  The last one to reach the far side, was declared “it”, so it was his task to catch someone and pat them on the back so that they could join him in catching others. Eventually several kids were caught, making it easier to catch the faster kids. Usually it was the bigger kids who were last, but they finally were caught and patted on the back.

Barry's 3rd grade report card

Barry's 5th grade report card. You'll notice in the comments that he skipped to 6th grade mid-year, and adjusted admirably.

When at home from school, there was always plenty to do around the farm.  We always had cows to milk night and morning, plus feeding them and taking them to pasture during the spring through fall.  There were other animals to feed: pigs, chickens, horses and sheep.  We also hauled the winter supply of manure out to spread on the fields. In the years when we had silage in the pits, we had to haul it to the cows. When they knew it was nearing the barnyard, they would throw their tails in the air and come running, because it was partially fermented and delicious to the cows.  Because we always raised sugar beets, we had a quota of beet pulp and molasses for purchase.  We would go to the sugar factory in Whitney and haul a load back to a pit new the feed mangers. The cows loved both the pulp and the molasses, especially the latter. They would have even eat straw if it had been covered with molasses.

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One of the reasons for Dad buying me a .22 rifle was the big problem of ground squirrels in our fields. The squirrels were eating our sugar beets and other crops.  So Dad agreed to give me 1 cent for every squirrel tail, obtained by either shooting or trapping.  I grew pretty good at setting out traps, and was able to shoot a few.  The .22 shells cost 25 cents for 50 rounds. I enjoyed matching wits with the squirrels and in saving our crops.

There was quite a problem with magpies in Franklin County, so the county agreed to pay 5 cents for each magpie head. Magpies were clever scavengers that ate chicken and pheasant eggs, and robbed grain and other crops.  I was always ready to try to shoot them with my .22, but they were leery of people.  One day, on the last day of grade school, Carroll Whitney and I walked home from school in Weston down Weston Creek toward our homes. On the way we robbed magpie nests of baby magpies. We wrenched their necks, and snapped off their heads. We probably secured 20 heads that day, paying us $1—a lot for boys during the depression.

One of the most interesting times for me as a boy was skating on the frozen ponds in the river bottoms.  Some of the ponds had gas bubbling up from the pond bottom. I don’t know if it was natural gas or swamp gas.  In any event, we could set it afire to warm us on really frigid days.  Our skates had a broad strap that would cover our instep, with our toe caught under a hook in the front.  Needless to say, the skates could be a little wobbly, and skating was not easy, but we had fun in the very cold weather, sometime below zero.

                                         

Similarly, I had a pair of long broad skis that had a strap over the instep.  I would carry them to the top of a hill in our pasture and then ride them down. It was a lot of hard work for a few seconds of dash to the bottom of the hill. One Saturday a friend and I carried our skis up the slopes of Big Hill south of Weston.  We walked for several hours on the deep crusted snow, sometimes falling through the crust. Finally we hopped on our skis and raced down the long slopes of the grain fields covered with snow toward town.  It was all over in about 10 minutes. Too much hard work for the quick pleasure of the descent!

Everything in Weston revolved around church and school activities. I recall participating in a Christmas musical program where I was dressed in a crepe paper clown’s costume and played a water whistle.  It was hot in the recreation hall over the grade school and I must have brushed my face with my hand, which was wet with drops from the water whistle.  The result unknown to me was that red coloring from the crepe paper was spread across my face. What a sight and a matter of enjoyment to the audience.

Another event of ready recollection was a Primary program in which our class did a dance to music.  My partner was Joan Olsen. Our dance required us to kick over the bowed head of the partner.  We practiced without a flaw, but the night of the performance she must had lost concentration because she kicked me in the head.

In grade school we always looked forward to the high schoolers coming to announce some play or music program.  They would snake up and down the aisles chanting:  “Your pep, your pep, you gotta go get it or you’re going to lose it, your pep, your pep, your pep”.

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We always looked forward to holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, because we usually got together with our cousins for a big dinner. All of the mothers were great cooks, so we had wonderful things to eat.  And then the men would sit around telling stories, which we boys really enjoyed.

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While I was slow to learn to swim, this didn’t deter me from joining other boys in going swimming with friends at the West Cache Canal just above our home or down to Bear River a half mile below our house.  We skinny-dipped.  Some of the older boys would run atop the big wooden flume across the gully rather than wade against the swift current inside the flume. Since the road to Weston ran below the flume, the boys could be seen by occupants of the cars driving by.

At Bear River there were big sandy beaches that sloped away from the river where we could sun bathe or play in the sand. But the insects were fierce due to the sloughs that abounded there.  The worst pests were deer flies, followed by mosquitos and other small insects.  When I learned how to swim, I especially enjoyed swimming in the river as it wound around with deep hole and shallow places. As there were stories of people who had drowned in Bear River, this gave the experience a touch of danger.

Sometimes in the hottest days of summer, Dennis and I would sneak off from our weed hoeing to get a quick dip in the river just below our fields.

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Dennis and Barry. 1938

A vivid experience in which I did not observe the action, but felt the gravity of the consequences, involved my .22 rifle and my brother Dennis. I must have been about 13, and Dennis about 8. He had wanted to shoot my .22 but I had resisted for a long time. One day I relented to his pleading as we were finishing milking the cows.  I told him he could take the .22 to the house across the road from the barn. He wanted to shoot some sparrows that were always pestering us. 

Evidently he stopped at the side of the road between the barn and the house, seeing plenty of sparrows in the box elder trees in front of our house.  He probably raised the rifle up to sight on a sparrow, but before he could line up the gun sighs with the sparrow the weight of the gun caused it to sag downward, thus foiling his lining up the bird with the gun.  After several attempts, he apparently pulled the trigger, sending the bullet off right toward our house.  The bullet went through our big front room window, on across the living room and through the doorway into the kitchen, hitting the door of the refrigerator, and then bounced back across the room to the feet of Grandma Lundquist, who was standing at the sink.  Dennis has claimed that the bullet dropped into Grandma’s tea cup.

When Dad and I got to the house following milking the cows, we were surprised at the alarm caused by the realization of the close call of Grandma and others.  Needless to say, it was a long time before Den got to shoot the .22 again. The hole in the window was not repaired for years, reminding us of the Lord’s blessing on our family.

I recall several occasions when Dad and I would cross Bear River to visit our two farms in Fairview.  Rather than take the gravel road across the bridge, it was maybe less than half the distance to swim the river directly to our pasture on the east side.  We would ride bare back to the river and plunge cross with the horse swimming.  The water would come up over the back of the horse, so that our legs and maybe our sit down would get wet.  If we were brave enough, we could stand up on the horse’s bac during its swimming across the river.  Needless to say, this was an exciting experience for a little boy, and one of admiration for my Dad who seemed so much a super man to me.

Welcome to the first installment of the Ivan Barry Thompson personal history! We'll be posting it one juicy chapter at a time, hoping for oohs, aahs and other comments from his adoring family and fans. If you have a photo that fits with a particular chapter that you would like to share, please do. With a drumroll. please...back to the beginning....

The Pre-School Years

Mom and Dad were married in Logan on January 7, 1828, and then sealed in the Logan Temple  the following January 7. I was born December 31, 1929 at the Budge Hospital in Logan. Evidently it was a difficult delivery, because Mom had some corrective surgery several months later in Salt Lake City.  She had read my name in a magazine, so that I was given the name of Ivan for my father, and Barry for Mom’s preference. However, as was quite common then, Bishop Thomas Rose was voice in my blessing at church.

While Mom and Dad had lived with Mom’s folks after they were married, they then moved in April 1929 to Preston into the red brick home owned by Grandpa Thompson on 6^th South.  The next two years, beginning in November 1930, we lived on the Taylor place in Fairview near Bear River.  My earliest memory was in the Taylor house, where I would race around the covered porch in my cart.  We had a big black walnut tree in back. Mom tells of being out of patience with my learning to potty-train. So she took me outside and put my bare bottom in a pan of snow.

 

Since we were way out in the countryside, I had no playmates. My pal was Fido, a half-breed Boston terrier who had many pups.  One time she had a litter of eleven, so Mom was forced to put the pups in a gunny sack and throw them in Bear River to drown.  A neighbor reported that a dog had killed his pig, and apparently he was sure that it was Fido, and wanted her destroyed.  So she was shot. It was a sad time for me, because she would follow me around as I wandered around the farm. 

Since we lived in Preston until I was about two, we must have been down on our Fairview farm when this event happened because it was reported that I was only a baby.  Anyway, we had gone down to the banks of Bear River to get a load of sand. As we were going up the steep dugway from the river to the road at the top of the hill, the pin cam out of the doubletree so that the horses with Dad holding the reins went on up the dugway, while the heavily loaded wagon first stopped and then started back downhill. Mom was sitting in the high seat on the wagon with me in her arms.  Evidently Dad yelled to her to jump because the wagon was headed straight for the river.  She probably did not feel able to jump with me in her arms, so she threw me over in to the side of the dugway next to the hill. I have never learned how it exactly happened, but the wagon veered into the side of the dugway, averting going over the embankment, to be retrieved in a few minutes by Dad coming back down with the horses.

On December 1, 1933, we left Idaho in a new 1929 Chevy car to go to California to look for work.  We rented a little house in Hollywood, with a couple (Ken Nielsen) from Weston next door.  I recall our going to an orange grove, where we picked huge oranges.  It was the depths of the depression, so Dad was unable to find work. At Christmas time we went to the May Department store to visit Santa Claus. I recall that he looked and acted very convincingly, causing me to say that I knew that the other Santas were phonies, but he was the real one. I received a red police car that shot sparks from  Santa that Christmas, and I was pleased that he would remember me.

 

The following spring we moved back to Idaho, and then lived in Preston in an apartment owned by Dad’s Aunt Sadie Jenkins. My brother Dennis, was born 20 February 1935 in Preston Hospital. In the spring of 1935 we went to live in a log cabin up the hill from the Taylor place in Fairview. It was the log house where my Dad was born. That fall Mom took me to Fairview to see if I could enroll in school there.  I assume that I was not old enough to attend first grade. It was the summer  of 1935 that Uncle Grover Duff gave us a Buick cloth top roadster—a pretty fancy car.

In April 1936 Dad bought a farm at a price of $7500 across the river in Weston, where Uncle Art Moser had lived a few years previous. It was an exciting place with a nice home and a big barn. There were 40 acres of irrigated land, 60 acres of dry farm, and 20 acres of lower pasture.  We raised sugar beets, peas, beans, corn, potatoes, and alfalfa on the irrigated land, and wheat and barley on the dry area.  All of our farming was done with horses. We had a small herd of cows that I would take to and bring back from pasture. We always had a good dog which could be a big help in bringing in the cows. There was Jeff, Napolean and Wolfe.  When I was older, I rode a pony to bring in the cows and horses. I preferred bareback and was a good horseman.

One of my fonder memories is of Grandpa Lundquist. He had such an engaging personality. One time when I was perhaps 3 or 4, he invited me to join him and Sy Gassman to go to the mountains to prospect for gold and other minerals. I faintly remember looking down into a big hole in which they were digging. It was very exciting for me. But when I got back to their home, my Mom gave me a real licking for not asking before I went.

It seems that about the Christmas before entering grade school that I was determined to see Santa Claus when he came to our home.  Mom and Dad thought that was a good idea, so they let me stay up on Christmas Eve.  No doubt I fell asleep pretty soon, since our bedtime was always early to that we could arise early in the morning to milk the cows.  When I awoke on Christmas morning, Santa had come without waking me.  The gifts under the tree helped moderate my disappointment.

October 18, 2014

It has been some time since any blogs have been recorded, so this will bring us up to date with two close calls/adventures.  It must have been in the summer of 2002 that I had built a playhouse about ten feet up the big apple tree in the southeast corner of our back yard.  Then I noticed that the limbs on the west side of the playhouse formed an opening to the west of the yard.  Then I thought how fun it would be if we had a zip line across the yard from the playhouse.  I was able to get about 65 feet of heavy cable from Scott for the zip line.  The next thing was to secure it in the apple tree and find a place on the other side to anchor it at a lower height, thus allowing enough descent for a fun ride.

I thought it could be anchored to the apricot tree; but the rider would crash into the tree trunk.  So I bought two metal poles that were buried into the ground and connected at the top with a steel rod that I had used for pullups.  The steel line was anchored to the steel rod, so that the rider would be stopped from crashing into the wood fence.  I found that the steel rod needed to be braced strongly, as the rider would be coming rapidly with considerable momentum.  The zip line was secured at both ends.  Then I purchased a canvas seat that was hung from the zip line from a pulley.  Then the zipline was adjusted many times to find the best tightness for a successful ride.

Then I tried the ride a few times until the best speed was achieved, WOW, what a ride.  My neighbor, Wynston Sumpter, also enjoyed it too.  Under close supervision it was also enjoyed by the Willis boys and Madelyn.  Ellen even tried it after much coaxing.

Then a near disaster occurred.  I rode it on a thrilling ride that ended with me flat on my back with the steel rod across my chest and head.  The force of the crash could have seriously injured both head and body.  I am sure that my guarding angels protected me.  But later improvements were added to allow many fun rides.  When the Johnson kids allowed a hefty baby sitter to try with it--- a slight accident, I retired the zip line to our garage for installation in another yard some day.


Another close call  occurred  when Ellen and I were returning from shopping.  As I started to turn left off  Orem  Blvd,  Ellen suddenly urged me to go straight for some other shopping.  So I quickly turned right to continue on Orem Blvd, but a heavy duty pickup truck hit our front right fender, knocking our Tiburon to the left.  I drove it to the right side and parked it, while I hurried up the street where the woman in the pickup had stopped.  We looked at her pickup chassis and could not see that it had been damaged.  But our Tiburon right front fender was smashed.  If the pickup had been a second slower in passing us, Ellen and the right side of our car would have  been crushed.  Guarding angels again.

Thompson Barn Construction Update

After many years of delays and false starts the reconstruction of the historic Thompson barn will begin this summer. For those of you not up to date on this long-anticipated project, the Ivan Thompson family was mostly raised on a farm in Weston, Idaho. The only remaining structure from that time is the barn, almost a hundred years old, where animals lived and grain was stored. And where the Thompson kids worked and played.

In 2005 during a family reunion trip Doug decided to try and purchase the wood from the barn and to re-build the barn on their family's land up Hobble Creek Canyon outside of Springville, UT. This turned out to be a timely decision, as the farm land was sold for development soon afterwards.

In 2006 the Doug Thompson family and Barry and Ellen traveled to Weston and removed the outer wood from the barn. The larger beams were too heavy to handle and remained - a skeleton of a barn!

Since that time the barn construction has been delayed, mostly because of a lack of funds. The wood, which was stored on the land in Hobble Creek Canyon, deteriorated until it was placed in a storage shed, but was still at risk of pests. The fire prevention regulations in the canyon did not allow untreated old wood to be used on the outside of a new building, so a few years ago most of the barn wood was milled into flooring, which will be used on the floor of a new barn building, constructed to exact measurements from the original.

Given the improving real estate market in Phoenix, and a recent refinancing which included paying down the mortgage, the AZ Thompsons have enough equity and savings to finance the beginning of the barn construction this coming summer. The plan is to build the foundation and lower floor this summer, and complete the building the following summer.

More to follow.

MENDICANT -THOMPSONS DEPARTING CLEVELAND

Of all the good and faithful families who have left our ward in the recent general exodus, perhaps none have been harder to say goodby to than the Thompsons. The fact that Barry, Ellen and their children comprise nearly 10% of those leaving accounts for only part of the loss. For years now, there has been at least one Thompson featured in every youth activity, every derama or banquet or graduation, evey ward controversy, every issue of the Mendicant. Their departure has decimated the ranks of the MIA, Primary, the scouting program and the Relief Society Presidency. It has also left an empty place that members since cannot fill. The Thompsons served as unofficial Deans of the ward, and no one else can simply be called to take over in that capacity.

When Barry and Ellen moved to Clevalnd Heights 11 years ago, they were in their mid-thirties. They had seven children: Doug was only ten and Margaret Lynn was two months old. The others: Kathleen, Brad, Ginny, David and John ranged at predictable intervals in between. Martha was born two years later. They lived on Corydon in a big blue house later purchased by the (Bishop) Bulkleys. After three and a half years they moved on to the big rambling Tudor at 2945 Fairfax.

In those days there were just two Cleveland wards, Cleveland East and Cleveland West. "The building was up," Barry recalls. "We didn't help build it, but we got to help pay for it," The opportunity to help pay appears to have been ample and extended. It was almost a full year before the Cedar Road chapel was finally dedicated in May of 1970. The event was memorable, none the less. Prsident David O. McKay was here to dedicate our chapel.

There have been four prophets since then, and the Thompsons can remember three stake preidents (Squires, Anderson and Watts), and six bishops (Lee, Wyatt, Summers, Walborn, Bulkley and Clark), without having moved more tha a few blocks, they have lived in the Cleveland East Ward, the Cleveland III and the Cleveland II.

What else do they remember? The year they haunted their house for Halloween. "The pulley broke, and I had to lower Pete Gail through a trap door by hand." The year the whole family entered the Spring Sing and won (They sang about home storage). The year five Thompsons were in the cast of Saturday's Warrior. Doug played the heavy (pro-population control) very convincingly, while Ellen assured us repeatedly that he would have been "just as good in a righteous role." Martha stole the show as Emily.

Kathleen remembers decorating Bishop Walborn's house with almost a years supply of toilet paper. She also remembers some long sessions in the Bishop's office with MIA leadrs to "discuss" a not-so-voluntary MIA dress code." She and Brad and Ginny remember between them six youth conferences.

The family has made a seminary film at the Kirtland stone quarry with "dubbed in Utah drawls." They also appeared together in a stake musical entitled "A Family Affair." There have been countless road shows, programs and major productions, and every year on the Fourth of July was Thompson family flag raising ceremony.

Cleveland has been the scene of many family milestones for the Thompsons. It was here that 7 of the children were baptized, 4 received the Priesthood, 3 graduated from high school and one left on a mission. It was here that Doug discovered his testimony; Margaret, her music; and Ginny a knack for scholarship; it was here that Kathleen discovered Travis; and it was here that Ellen found NATURAL foods.

To say that they will be missed is, of course, understatement. How can you replace, not just the sheer quantity of their numbers and talents, but the quality and dedication of their service as well? During their tenure here, Barry and Ellen have served at both the ward and stake level in virtually every auxiliary and almost every capacity imaginable. Many of the children have been class leaders as well.

"What wil you miss?" I asked them. "The trees", "the PEOPLE", "This house", "An attitude of tolerance and acceptance here that I don't expect to find just anywhere", Ginny remarked. "A firmness and a sense of strength, " added Barry. "I think the weather here builds character." (It certainly ought to build somthing!) "The melting pot atmosphere," added Brad, "I like that." "We'll miss the Mormon history areas like Kirtland and Johnson Farm." And they'll miss Second Ward.

The Thompsons have been happy here. "It is hard to leave, " they assured me. Perhaps it's eleven years of a life that is hard to interrupt, or perhaps it's just the way the Thompsons have learned to live no matter where they are. Maybe it's literally throwing yourself and your time and your abilities into your ward and into your community that makes memories worth hanging on to and friends who are hard to leave. Becky Chandler

32 FOOT MOTOR HOME

In July 1976 we decided to drive west to see our relatives in a comfortable way, rather than crowded in our station wagon. So we surveyed the rentals in Cleveland and found we could rent a 32 foot motor home. It had a rest room and small kitchen with plenty of beds. Doug stayed in Cleveland for football training.

The size of the gas tank was rather intimidating (glad the gas was not at 2011 prices). Kathy did much of the driving even though she was onlly 16 and a new driver. It was rather interesting in thata when the restroom tank was full and we had to find a place to dump it. Then too the motor home was so large that it was not easy to find a place to park it, especially Granddad's driveway.

Then Mom grew unhappy with you kids scrapping, so she disappeared which caused us some anxiety. We all wondered what to do, since we could not find her for a long time.

YELLOWSTONE & MT. RUSHMORE

Mom and I traveled to Europe, while you kids were staying with Grandma and Grandpa and our Arizona relatives. Mom was pregnant with Martha. When we returned, we wanted Mom to take Margaret and Jon to fly home to Cleveland, so that the rest of us could drive home.

We decided to drive north to see Jackson and Yellowstone. You kids were really impressed with Yellowstone. The following day we drove over the beautiful Wind River Mountains and down to Buffalo, Wyoming; then we drove on to Mt. Rushmore to look over the four presidents. I think we camped in tents for the total drive home. Do any of you remember this trip?

MARGARET'S 8TH BIRTHDAY

Recently I viewed a disc of the CES visit to the Kirtland Temple by our family to celebrate Margaret's eigth birthday. It showed some episodes that I and Doug had not participated in, which included the quarry and the birthday dinner outdoors.

I thought that the Thompson children in the slides acted quite well. It might have been different, if it had been a movie. Anyway the visit to the quarry and the picnic area before Doug and I joined the family was well presented. The voice overs by Utah Mormons was amusing but well written dialogue. The dubbing of the scenes inside of the Temple was something that we did not participate in, but was informitive for seminary and institute students.

Then the final scene where Margaret was scheduled to thank me for bringing her and our family to the Temple for her birthday. In retrospect I am sure that the day in rather cold weather was not overly pleasant for all of us. But I was surprised that Margaret was firm in nixing that scene.

I suppose some of you have seen the CES disc and have enjoyed comments from friends about our Utah acdents. If any of you wish to have a copy, I would be happy to make a disc for you.

Favorite Christmas Memories

The combination of Dad's teasing and Mom's creativity genes and influence resulted in some interesting nicknames and phrases from the boys. One of my favorite memories of Christmas-time with our family, which are many, is of the year Brad put on his wish-list something along the order of "Red Bird-Dog Peanut Skin Cheese". Possibly the same year, Dave asked for "Black Fungus". I had recently aquired familiarity with how to make a cheese ball, and was able to make one for Brad that I covered in red peanut skins and labeled with a picture of a "bird-dog". I think I remember that Kathleen found a package labeled "Black Fungus" and put it in Dave's stocking. Another favorite memory was the first year? I had a "real" job and was able to purchase something for each member of the family that they really seemed to like and appreciate. I learned that it is much better to give than receive! That didn't take away from the enjoyment and wonder I experienced from Brad's present to me one year of a Polaroid camera, the fruits of which I still have to remember our Christmas gatherings. Trying to figure out gifts for each member of the family, and our caroling or drop and run with fruit baskets to needy or lonely ward members and neighbors, always lent a spirit of love and giving to the Christmas season that I want my children to experience and remember. Inspired by an older couple playing the guitar at the grocery store, my two oldest daughters and I sung Christmas carols together as we rang the bell for the Salvation Army last year. It was precious!

What about Mom?

I know this is Dad's blog, but you can't have bread without butter, and you can't have the great man without the woman standing beside him. What about Mom? This post is for a big lady in a little body. This is the poem I wrote for her for Mother's Day in 1997. It seems even more appropriate now than then, because her shoes have grown a lot since then. We love you, Mom!

Little Feet, Big Shoes

My mother’s feet are tiny,

My mother’s hands are small,

And when she talks you might not hear

Her quiet voice at all.

But Mom will be a giant

Until her dying day

For she never does a single thing

In a little way.

She always is the first one up

And last to rest her head.

There’s far too much to think and do

To waste her hours in bed.

Her days are full of motion:

She’s never still for long.

And when the rest are resting,

Mom’s still going strong.

Mom’s family’s always growing,

Spreading out through the years,

But her adages and stories

Still ring inside their ears.

She taught with great intensity

(Her lessons were dramatic):

Once learned, not soon forgotten—

On that she was emphatic.

There’s no such word as “average”

In Mom’s vernacular.

A simple plan in Mother’s hands

Soon turns into spectacular.

We had no minor holidays—

Each one a main event.

And all Mom’s work so fast enjoyed

For her was time well spent.

Mom’s talents are considerable

(She’d be tough to out-do).

It’s good she had so many kids

That she could pass the on to,

For though Mother’s hands are tiny

And her feet are smaller still,

Somehow her shoes are far too big

For any one of us to fill.