Pass It On

This is something I wrote for Dad in 1994 for Father's Day. It's meant to be read in the tone and rhythm of "The Raggedy Man"--that old poem that he and Mom read to us now and then. I hope it provides a glimpse of the energy and love he put towards being a husband, father, and decent man. He has always been a great example to all of us of facing life with a positive attitude and lots of passion. Thanks so much for that, Dad!

Pass It On

When I was just a little girl

I had the best dad in the world.

He was young and handsome and strong.

He taught me what was right and wrong,

that we should seek to understand

the world in all its beauty, and

whatever good life brings to you

it’s your sacred duty to pass it on.

Pass it on.

When Daddy was a little boy

He learned that hard work was a joy.

When he came from work his dad would say,

“Did you earn your wage today?”

He taught us kids to do our best:

“Only with sweat you’ll meet the test.

Love your work and earn your pay.

Come home with honor every day”.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy really liked the girls.

He made them laugh and pulled their curls.

He’d hold their doors, their errands run—

he always was a gentleman.

He loved to wrestle with his sons,

and boasted them as “number ones”.

They learned to take the bolder stride

and bear their family name with pride.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy like to joke and tease.

He’d tickle us silly til we begged “Please!”.

He’d razz the girls about their dates—

blink the lights when we came home late.

He’d challenge the boys to any sports,

and usually won on field or court.

Work was work, and fun was fun.

He believed in both ‘fore the day was done.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy loved his married life

and thought Mom was the perfect wife.

He used to sing her “sweetheart” songs

(We thought he kissed her much too long).

Sometimes they’d clear the kitchen floor

and dance the Lindy, Swing, and more.

When Mom was mad he’d make her smile.

He loved his girl with charm and style.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

Daddy loved to help another:

He knew how to love his brother.

Always ready with a hand,

always there to understand,

he learned to listen and was wise

about the best way to advise.

Help your neighbor. Serve your ward.

Teach your family. Love the Lord.

Pass it on. Pass it on.

One day when Dad’s a hundred-and-seven,

like all good men he’ll go to heaven.

His mom and dad will likely wait

to ask him at the pearly gates,

“What have you done with our good name?”

and he won’t hide his head in shame.

“I helped my neighbor, served my ward,

taught my family, and loved the Lord.

Just like you—I passed it on.”

Barry the Mountain-Goat: Cimbing Mt. Nebo

{this is a bit of a rough draft, I'll have to return to edit it soon}
In [about] 2005, I was in Utah.
I had been interested in climbing Mount Nebo, the highest peak on the Wasatch front {I believe} for several years.
Dad said he'd like to join me. I believe that he had climbed up to the South Peak a few years earlier with Margaret, Steve, ..[a few others]. They agreed that it had been a rather challenging hike. This report whetted my appetite all the more.
I do not remember all of the details of that march at this moment [I may have some notes on it in an old journal-I'll plan to check that before the final edit.] But I recall that the weather was rather favorable, though a bit windy as we gained altitude.
Though it was a bit of a long grind, everything was going well, except that it began to become clear to us that our water was likely to run out before the miles did. We began to ration our dwindling supply.
Eyed trickle from out of the hillside thirstily; though at the time I/we still rather wary of contracting [water-borne..] Giardia [since that time/or shortly thereafter..because of this..risk =exaggerated, at this height, & little likelihood of many animals [prime carriers]..
finally could see the peak above us. a long slow, fairly steep, windy haul. By now,the altitude and thirst were slowing our steps. We finally arrived about 7 or 8 others were arriving or resting at the peak. congratulating one another on successfuly completeing the climb.
enjoyed the view; but (now almost completely out, our thirst was insisting that we begin our descent.
)
I looked North there were two other peaks evenly spaced, stretching along the summit line much of it connected by a knife-edge, with shear cliffs on either side, perhaps a quarter mile between each. On the far end was the North Peak ofNebo, the highest by a mere [? 26 feet]
I looked at the North Peak for several seconds, then back to Dad. " I have to do it, you know." I said. " From my point of view, that's the peak' and I didn't come this far to turn around before reaching the peak."
He shook his head, but I don't recall him really trying to disuade me. He told me to be careful. I told him to hurry down, that I'd catch up to him on the trail.
When I headed out some of the others there looked rather incredulous
...a bit tricky, and quite windy; it was not much fun really. Relieved to get back to the South Peak. , then raced down to catch Dad.
Caught him in 25min ?
We were very thirsty..trudging; finally had to take a few sips from those little rivulets, cold and delcious! Trudged on down. a little worried about Giradia, but after another mile, wished I had drunk more deeply, and filled my water bottle.
Finally made it back to the car shortly after dark; headed for a store to find a drink! Wow, a great climb!
People are invariably amazed when I brag about my father, the retired banker,
climbing 5000 vertical feet at age [75?]!

Foul Fowl

I believe it was in the summer of 1978 when a truckload of chickens arrived at the house. These were laying hens that were past their prime and, therefore, ready for slaughter. They were contained in burlap bags. Since I was too young to be of much help I moved from station to station observing the process.
Outside the garage in the space between the driveway turnaround and the fence, Dad and Brad had placed a couple of tree stumps where the heads would be lopped. On each chicken was placed a little fabric hood which Mom had made. I'm not sure if it was to shield the victims from the descending hatchet or to keep Dad from having to look the chickens in the eyes as he chopped off their heads. It seemed humane.
In the garage were placed the large canning pots filled with hot water. I think Kathleen was in there dunking headless chickens, which were then plucked of all their feathers. I will never forget the steamy stench which permeated that space and the wet feathers that stuck to everything they came in contact with. I can hardly think of a worse memory.
Up the stairs in the kitchen, my mother disemboweled the now bare fowl. It was so interesting to me to watch her do this. She would extract an egg, almost ready to be laid, followed by a shell-less egg, then a whiteless yoke, then a smaller pea-sized yoke. Each egg removed was less developed then the one before. I had no interest in the rest of the process, for the smell which overtook the kitchen, as in the garage, turned my stomach.
Mom divided the meat and put it in the freezer. There was a lot of food stored that day. But after that, every time chicken was on the dinner menu, I refused to eat. The smell overwhelmed me and brought back the memory of that day. It took many years before I could enjoy chicken again.
Margaret

Mt. Fujiyama

Climbing Mt. Fuji, the highest and a sacred sight for most Japanese, had been in my mind for several years. But I needed to have a friend to join me. My assistant, Paul Draughn, joined me on a trip to the Orient in August 1966. We had visited Tokyo and then to Sapporo in Hokkaido before arriving at the foot of Fuji on August 12th. The plan called for beginning the climb at midnight so that we could reach the top at sun up to enjoy the rising of the sun. The climb started at around 2600 feet and the top is 12,395 feet.

Naturally we had flashlights and I bought a walking stick, which was marked with a brand at several sites along the way. There were several hundreds of other climbers, not a few who were non-Japanese. At several locations along the trail there were places to buy food and/or to rest/sleep. You could look up to see a string of lights moving slowly up the volcano.

As we hiked upward the scene in all directions was quite spectacular. The night and sky were clear so that you could see maybe fifty miles as the lights twinkled afar off. Our timing was just right, as we arrived on top just before the sun rose over the east horizon. Like the flag of Japan, the sun was large and bright red.

After waking around the cone on top, we deceded to hurry down as we had an appointment to play golf at mid-morning. Because of the crowded trail, we decided to try waking straight the lava ash slope. We found that we could run at top speed and plant our feet so that we more or less skied down for a considerabe distance. So we were able to get down in maybe half an hour.

We approached a taxi driver and told him where we wanted to go to our hotel near the golf course. He shook his head to say that he knew a more direct and quicker way. So off we went on a lumber road that shook us up and took a long time to reach the hotel. I suspected that the slow way increased the fare.

We were not able to catch a nap after a shower, as our starting time had required us to even miss lunch. To my surprise I played very well, as the Fuji climb had loosened my body so that I could really hit the ball. Our caddies were Japanese girls, who giggled a lot.

Harold B. Lee & the Holy of Holies

In about 1970 I read a news article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer posted by a newsman of an American press service. He reported a tour of excavations underneath the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. The tour guide took the group to a point where he stated no further work would take place. When asked why, he said they believed this was near the entrance to the Holy of Holies in Solomon's Temple. To enter the Holy of Holies was restricted to the High Priest; however the Jews did not have a High Priest.

Deeply impressed by this news story, I filed it away, but carried a copy on my trip to the Middle East that would include Jerusalem.

On or about September 7, 1972, Palestinian commandos had captured the Israeli athletes at the Munich summer Olympics. I was then in Teheran, Iran ready to fly to Tel Aviv, Israel on September 8th. A cable came to my hotel from the President of the Central National Bank in Cleveland instructing me not to go to Israel but to return home.

Since I had been anxiously anticipating going to Jerusalem and seeing the sites of Jesus' life and crucifiction, I pretended that it had not been received. The flight to Tel Aviv on September 8th was routine. Clearing customs was not difficult.

The following day I visited several Israeli banks, the last being Bank Leumi le Israel. The men at Bank Leumi engaged me in converstion about my going to Jerusalem Thursday afternoon, September 10th, Rosh Hoshana, the first of the 10 high holy days. They gave me a book about Jerusalem authored by former Mayor Teddy Kollech. I think they learned that I was LDS, because later the Jerusalem Manager knew it. On the bus ride to Jerusalem I read the book that told of the history of the old and new city.

Not long after I arrived in the Inter-Continental Hotel on the Mount of Olives, the local manager mentioned that the President of our church would be arriving there in a few days. I thanked him and then reviewed the information in the book about the 10 high holy days, which were in process at that very day. Then I observed that President Harold B. Lee would arrive on Yom Kippur, the highest and most holy day, when the High Priest entered the Holy of Holies, the Day of Atonement, to make an offering for the sins of the children of Israel. I was greatly awestruck that the great High Priest in the world, President Lee, would arrive just on Yom Kippur. I wondered if this meant that some significant event would take place, like permission for missionaries to serve in Palestine. Some years later I leaned that Apostle Gordon B. Hinckley had traveled with him to Jerusalem.

FAST TRIP TO ARIZONA

We drove to Mesa and Tempe for the holidays in 1989. As I recall we drove through Las Vegas and across the Hoover Dam then on the long stretch to Phoenix. I must have driven at least 75 MPH on the latter route to make it by sundown.

The next morning I wanted to drive to a service station for some gas and an oil change. I left the house and stopped at a stop sign; as I began to turn onto the street, the car wouldn't move. I can't recall how we got the car to the dealer garage but there we learned that the right front axel had pulled out of the transmission. Had this happened as we drove at high speed on the way, the wheel would have collapsed and we would have careened off the highway at high speed. We could have been killed or injured seriously out on that lonely highway. Why did this not happen as we traveled at high speed, whereas I was turning at maybe 1 or 2 MPH after the stop sign?

I have said it on other blogs where there was danger that my guardian angels have watched over and protected us. This is certainly one of those times.

Disaster at Jacob Lake

First Security Bank had provided me with an Olds Ciera for making calls, which was available for personal use if I paid for the gas and maintenance. Just before New Years 1986 Ellen, Margaret, Martha and I started at noon to drive to Arizona to see family. The trip was much anticipated since our weather had been three weeks of an inversion of smog/fog.


At Tocquerville we exited I-15 so we could drive past Colorado City where the polygamists were living and then to Jacob Lake and Navajo Bridge. Margaret volunteered to drive so that I could catch a nap. Soon after leaving Jacob Lake and heading down toward the Bridge, she hit some black ice. The car veered right toward a steep drop off; then the car hit some dry pavement and careened left toward the rock wall, hitting it and then sliding across the highway toward the cliff. The car settled just at the edge of the drop off.


But the crash into the rock wall caused Ellen and Margaret to hit the windshield and Martha and me in the back seat onto the back of the front seat. I recall feeling a sharp pain in my lower back which paralyzed me and prevented any monvement. I heard the Ellen and the girls wailing and moaning. I finally opended the back door and rolled out onto the pavement but couldn't get my legs to work. Finally I was able to arise and to appraise the damage. Margaret was almost crying while she wailed, "I'm so sorry, Dad." She observed that Ellen's face was covered with blood. I crawled across the front seat, put my hands on Ellen's head, and blessed her to recover. It would appear that the blood ceased to flow promptly.

The left front of the car was mashed, so there was no moving it from the right lane. One car careened by us to stop down the hill. A person walked back, and around the car, and left without a word. Later we were told it was an Indian who reported no problems. Margaret took a blinking signal up the road a distance to warn oncoming vehicles. About 20 minutes after the accident, another car and trailer almost hit us and then came back to assess our condition. He said that he would call the police, who came in another 20 minutes. The officer called for an ambulance and a wrecker from Kanab, about 40 miles distant. The patrolman asked us many questions, took Margaret's license, and repeatedly talked to Ellen who had a concussion. We were freezing, partly from shock, but Ellen was particularly in a worrisome state. The ambulance arrived after 45 minutes and the wrecker shortly thereafter.

Finally we were loaded aboard the ambulance and headed for Kanab with some polygamist nurses caring for us. It seemed to take a long time but they didn't feel were injured seriously. At the Knab hospital we were examined, x-rays for the girls, and tested for various conditions/ailments. At 11 o'clock we were released to go to a motel for the night.

On Saturday morning I called Brad but couldn't reach him. So I called Dennis to have Brad call, which he did at 9:30 AM. We waited all day for his arrival at 6:30. After a short trip to the garage, we loaded our gear into the Mercury to reach home at 10:45 PM.

As we mused on this episode, we feel most blessed that we sustained only minor injuries. We had many thoughts about our blessings from the Lord, especially that the car had not gone over the cliff.

Wild ride down I-80 canyon

It was the summer of 1950 that I decided not to return to the farm in Weston. I needed a job for the summer, which came about through the help of Jimmy Reed. He was a delivery man for Coca Cola of Salt Lake. I got the delivery route that no one else wanted and with the truck that should have been retired. It was a Ford 1940(?) that had only mechanical brakes and transmission.

My route included the west side of SLC around the area of West High School. Two days weekly I drove up the canyon to Park City and Kamas. In those days Park City was almost a ghost town. Maybe 100 people lived there, since the mines had been abandoned years before.

On a warm August afternoon I was driving home down I-80 freeway that had been completed but for the construction zone at Lamb's Canyon. This was the largest site that had required months of filling the canyon with thousands (millions?) of tons of dirt and gravel that had to be compacted prior to paving it with asphalt. The roadway over the fill was really bumpy, requiring vehicles to transverse it at about 5 MPH to avoid going over the side for a 1000 foot drop off.

On this beautiful descent down the smooth freeway I decided to kick it out of gear and coast along at about 50 MPH. I was enjoying the scenery until I noticed ahead about half a file the Lamb's crossing. So I hit the brakes to no effect, then I pulled the emergency brake with a similar result. So my next remedy was to try to shift into high gear. But with the prehistoric transmission it was not possible to shift into high, then I double-clutched and even triple-clutched to make engaging high gear. Needles to say, although I make all of these efforts to slow down, the half mile to the crossing had shortened considerably.

I seem to recall that a prayer was formed in my mind, while I was trying to do my personal best to save my truck and life. So I made a final effort to jam the gear shift into high---Hallelujah, it popped in, slowing me down some. Pretty quickly I made the next down grade into second gear. My next frantic effort was to aim the truck onto the track across the crossing. We hit the crossing doing about 20+ MPH. Coke bottles were flying off the top of the truck as I guided the truck so as to avoid the drop off into the canyon. The truck bounced along and finally arrived at the paved freeway and a slowing stop on the side of the pavement. There I likely offered a more orderly prayer for the help of my guardian angels.

No more coasting for me!

ROTTERDAM TO ISTANBUL

I had hoped to organize an event for our family that we would enjoy and always remember. Since I had been traveling Europe for several years, I hoped to share the history and beauty of Europe with our entire family. My plan formed in my mind around the summer of 1975. We would rent a small boat in Rotterdam or Amsterdam and head up the Rhine River, across the new canal to the Danube River and on to the Black Sea and then down to Istanbul. This journey would probably take four to six weeks during the summer. Further, we would want to take it in the coming two summers before Doug would serve a mission.

We would sleep on the boat which we could anchor any time we wanted. The scenery along the Rhine and Danube would provide ongoing sights that would inspire our imaginations about the great events that had transpired over the past centuries. Whenever we stopped, we would ride our bicycles around the countryside to visit the castles, museums and villages.

To allow us to enjoy these adventures we would assign certain members of our ontourage to study a language that could be shared with all of us as we encountered the natives. These languages would include Dutch, German, a Slavic or two (Roumanian which is similar to Italian, and Bulgarian), and lastly Turkish. Needless to say, with a year or two before engaging in this adventure, we could become familiar with the history and sights along the route so that we would be sure to enhance our pleasure.

On a trip to Washington, D.C., in November 1975 I arranged an appointment with Melvin Payne, President of the National Geographic Magazine. He listened to my story about a family of 10 boating across Europe, and the suggestion that we would photograph and write an article for the National Geographic Magazine about our trip. He asked if I would be capable of taking pictures of our adventures. I assured him that I had a fine camera and knew how to use it. He seemed quite interested in my proposal, but he said that he would have to present it to their editorial staff to see if it would fit in future issues.

A few days later Andrew Brown, Assistant Editor, wrote to me on November 21 to say that they had already considered such an article by their staff people. At a later meeting Mr. Brown said that I might try my plan with the airlines which all print their own stories in their in-flight magazines. He gave me a list that included TWA Ambassador, PanAm Clipper, British Airways Highlife, Air France, Lufthansa and National Airlines Aloft.

Looking back I recall that this plan caused some excitement from our family. Each of us thought about which language we might focus on and what preparations would be necessary.

The Magic Carpet

For several years I taught a night class at BYU on International Finance. At the beginning of each class I told the students that I had a story about a Magic Carpet that I would tell them on the last class at the end of the semester. I think our family will remember the carpet that was mounted on a wall in our Fairfax home and today is rolled up in our front closet.

During the early 1970s I had visited the Middle East several times, and had observed beautiful carpets in the souks and bazaars. But I had never seen one that I wanted to buy.

In the fall of 1976 I had planned a round-the-world trip that would allow me to visit Nepal where I anticipated viewing the Himalayas. I would visit several countries in the Far East before attending an annual meeting of the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank in Manila, Philippines. Then I would fly on to Nepal on a weekend and then to the Middle East, inclulding Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Egypt. At that time it was fairly difficult to get a visa for Saudi because everyone wanted to go there at the peak of the Saudi's prosperity and influence. In any event, I didn't have time to get a visa in the USA; however I was assured that I could easily get one in Manila.

The trip went well until I tried unsuccessfully to get a visa for Saudi Arabia in Manila. I was told that it would be easy to get one in Kuwait. So I blessfully went on to Nepal, which was my most sought for goal on the trip. Finally I reached Kathmandu on a Friday night, where I was surprised to find a casino in the hotel where I was staying. The Nepalese were not allowed to gamble, but they were permitted to watch the foreigners gamble.

The next morning I stood in the hotel lobby trying to decide what to do regarding some sightseeing in and around Kathmandu. A Hindu fellow approched me and offered to be my guide, which was the only time in my life that I have engaged a guide. We visited several local stupas and shrines, and were driving across a meadow toward some shrine, when we passed some roadside stalls that were filled with carpets. As I expressed some considerable interest in the carpets, the guide pulled over to the roadside so that we could get out and look them over.

As we entered the stall, I saw a red carpet on top of a large pile that really impressed me. I pretended to look over other carpets, while really determined to purchase the red one. When I asked the price, the Tietan owner said $80. My effort to bargain with him to reduce the price was to no avail, probably because he read my determination to have that one. So we drove back to the hotel to get some travel checks, returning to make the purchase. The merchant rolled the gorgeous red Tibetan carpet with the bottom side out and tied it with some burlap string.

On Sunday afternoon I flew to New Delhi to catch a flight on Air India to Kuwait. Since the flight to Kuwait didn't depart until after midnight, I had several hours to wait. As I sat in the New Delhi airport with my bags, a little Indian man came and offered to check my bags on Air India. Being somewhat groggy, I surrended my suitcase and the carpet for his check in. After he left I suddenly realized that the carpet would be worth several months wages for this man. On previous trip to India, I had some gifts stolen, causing me to be very uneasy over my foolish surrender of my baggage. After a seemingly long wait, he returned with two baggage checks, but I still had an uneasy feeing that I wouldn't see the red carpet again.

We finally left India for Kuwait, arriving at sunrise. As I waited for my bags, the suitcase showed up but not the carpet. After a long wait, I reported my lost carpet to the Air India claim desk. They assured me that they would find it before my departure for Riyadh two days hence. Arriving at the Sheraton Hotel I learned that it was totally occupied and that my reservation didn't mean a thing. As I persisted to badger them, they finally found a room for me, but told me that it would be for two nights only.

I went about making my scheduled calls on the Kuwaiti banks and trading companies. On the second day, I went out to the Saudi Embassy to get a visa. It was way out on the edge of the city amongst the sand dunes, arriving just before noon. When I reached the visa line outside the rear entrance, there were at least 20 persons ahead me. They were Arab types who were trying to come from foreign places to work for big wages in Saudi Arabia. It was evident that the Saudi clerk was out of patience with the heavy work load, and he wanted to quit for lunch and the customary afternoon off. He heard my plea that I had appointments in both Riyadh and Jeddah. At first he refused to do anything, then finally he said that he would give me a visa for one city only. Knowing that I could not change my airline and hotel reservations, due to the heavy influx of visitors, I walked away. Since it was now the noon hour, it was impossible to get a taxi, so I had to walk back to town in 100+ degree heat.

As I entered the hotel, I rushed to the airline desk to find a flight out of Kuwait. As the hotel had warned me that I would not be allowed to stay that night, I knew I had to leave ASAP. I learned that there was only one flight that afternoon for Europe, on Air France to Geneva, Switzerland. It would leave in about one hour, so I rushed up to the room to pack and head for the airport. I threw my belongings in the suitcase and was heading for the door, when the phone rang. I debated whether I should answer it due to my time constraints. But I did answer, and was told that it was Air India. They had found my carpet---it was in New York. But not to worry, they were already bringing it back to Kuwait. Telling them that I was leaving Kuwait momentarily, they instructed me to see their baggage claim desk at the airport to give them further instructions.

When I arrived at the Kuwait Airport, I found that it was bristling with armed guards with automatic weapons, due to some alert, and I was told to walk directly out to the aircraft and not permitted to see the Air India people. Needless to say, I thought I would never see the carpet again.

Arriving at Geneva, I got a hotel room for the night. Then I called my secretary Maria at the bank in Cleveland to tell of my changed plans. Then I mentioned my carpet problem and asked her to call Air India in New York to request that it be brought back to New York or Cleveland. The following day I flew to Paris and spent the next couple days at our Representative Office plus some calls on several French banks.

Then on SAturday I caught my regular flight from London on Air France for New York. When were about half way across the Atlantic Ocean, the pilot announced that we had encountered such strong winds in the jetstream, so that we would have to land in Newfoundland to refuel for the flight to New York. The refueling was accomplished and we arrived two hours late at Kennedy Airport. With the help of Air France I made a reservation for United Airlines for Cleveland. As I had at least an hour to get to the United terminal, and the taxis refused to take a fare inside the terminal, I jumped on the bus with my suitcase and attache case for a leasurely ride on the great circle route that exists at Kennedy. When the bus moved along I watched closely for United, but it never came. Finally, about ten minutes before the flight was to depart, I noticed the United sign about a block away (apparently it was next door to Air France, so I had gone the whole circle, when I could have walked it easily in a few minutes). I jumped out of the bus, and ran with my two bags to catch the plane.

As I was about to enter the United terminal, I passed a van parked at the curb, where the driver was talking to a man standing at the curb. As I ran past them, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the man was leaning on a round bundle that looked very much like my carpet. I walked backwards a couple of steps and mentioned to him that the bundle looked like my carpet. It was covered with tags, evidencing the several times it had been across the ocean and other distant places. He aked me my name, then looked at the claim tag which evidently had my name on it. So he handed it to me, without my having to go through customs and paying customs duty. I made my flight to Cleveland and now proudly possess a beautiful Tibetan carpet, which quite magically left me in New Delhi and found me in New York City six days and many thousands of miles later.

Weeks later I happended to be in Cincinnati and saw an expensive carpet store. They had Tibetan carpets that were priced at $800.

The Fall of the Lombardy Poplars

I think it was the summer of 2003 that a big wind came out of the northwest to blow over a poplar tree that fell over the back fence into our neighbor's yard to the south and the top on to the east into Michie's yard. Fortunately both neighbors were away, so I hiked over the fence and cut up the limbs and trunk and tossed them over the fence into our yard.

It was easy to see that the seven very tall poplars were slowly dying, which would put other trees in line to be toppled by wind or other means. Fearing that some of these trees might cause damage or injury to my neighbors and their yards/houses, I determined to fell them inside our back yard as they withered and died.

The seven trees were shorter in the east and had grown bigger and higher to the west. I seem to remember that in the summer of 2004 I invited Steve and Margaret to help me to bring down the next three trees, progressing from the east to the west. We tied nylon ropes to the trunk of the tree being felled to the a greener tree next to the west. Then we cut the felled tree near to the ground, causing it to swing to a horizontal position and suspended by the rope. If we miscalculated where to tie the rope to the fallen tree, the top might descend into our neighbor's yard. Then Steve and Margaret would endeavor to counter-balance the weight so that we could swing the top of the tree back into our yard. The next step would be to either cut off a chunk of the tree and/or lower it to the ground for further cutting. I never knew what our neighbors thought of our crazy operation.

The next summer (2005) brought David to stay with us and to down the next two trees. One of them caused some unwelcomed result. I think we miscalculated the height and where it would fall. Instead of falling onto our patio, it veered to the west over our garden and crashed into the shed behind our garage. It smashed the plastic roof as well as our raspberriy bushes. Every time we felled a tree there would be a depression in our lawn where the trunk hit. Needless to say, I, and also David, enjoyed cutting up these trees and then splitting the sections into smaller blocks for eventual burning in our fireplace in ensuing winters (a big saving on heating costs).

Now to the good part! In the summer of 2006 I decided to take down the largest tree (80 feet), without any help from family eager beavers. After the crash onto our shed with a shorter tree, the felling of the grandest of all required careful engineering. I decided to cut only the top half (40 feet) so that it could fall onto the lawn and not endanger our house. So I took our two 20-foot aluminum ladders to allow me to ascend 40 feet to the mid-section of the tree. The first ladder was extended up the tree. Then I took apart the other ladder and raised a ten foot section next to the tree and wound a nylon rope through the hollow steps and tied them with strong knots. Holding fast to the tree I then repeated the rope up the ladder until the section was secure to the tree. Then I repeated the procedure for the second 10-foot piece. I should say that in this dangerous arrangement I tied my body to the tree with a bow-line knot so that I would not fall to the ground due to some careless movement.

So now I have secured the two ladders to the tree, allowing me to position myself at the mid-section of the tree at 40 feet. I recall how high that was, so that I could look over the roofs and most of the trees in the neighborhood. The next in this master plan was to put the nylon rope as high as possible on the tree above so that there would be leverage to pull the trunk to the ground and in a line that would not endanger the house, i.e., to the northeast toward Mt. Timpanogas. Tied to the tree, I tied the end of the nylon rope to a padlock, and then put the end with the padlock on a long (7-foot) pole over a crotch in the end of the pole. Now I looked high above for a branch where I could knock the padlock over the crotch . Then the weight of the padlock would cause the rope to fall on the opposite side of the tree. Eventually I could reach out and grab the padlock and pull the rope to me and then on to the ground below. Because of the size of the tree, I determined that it would be necessary to pull the rope again over the crotch so that there would a double strand for pulling the top section down. This was a nervous activity, especially when the wind blew and caused the tree to sway.

The next step was to cut the trunk at about the 40-foot level before pulling it over. Needless to say I decided that it was too dangerous to cut it with the chain saw. I had had some close calls with chain saws before when I was standing on the ground, so I wouldn't want to try it tied to the tree. First I tried to saw the trunk with hand saws. Hah! Then I had a great idea of bringing my electric hand drill up with the long electric cords so that I could drill half inch holes all around the trunk. This procedure took hours which weren't sufficient to allow me to pull the section over, particularly since I hadn't much leverage 100-feet away on the ground. I even tried cutting the notches between the holes I had drilled but the section remained firm and unwilling to fall. I guess I must have climbed the tree a hundred times over several weeks and my neighbors probably thought I had lost it!?

I knew that I had to find a way to exert more power in pulling the 40-foot section over. Ahah! Did I have enough rope to extend across the back yard, over the fence into the front lawn? The rope would have to be four strands, so I guess there must have been 400 plus feet of the nylon rope. Now the rope must be tied to something that had sufficient power. That was provided by the Lincoln Mark VII with a trailer hitch on the rear. I backed the car up near to the fence and tied the rope securely to the hitch. I drove so that the rope was tight and would not tear off the corner of the house or the fence. Then I eased forward without success. The tree section held firm. Then I backed up a few inches and then gunned the engine two or three times. Then I heard a crash and the rope slackened. Dry leaves and dust filled the air in our back yard. When I got through the gate I saw that the tree had fallen exactly across the yard toward the cherry tree and not causing any damage except to the deep dents in the lawn where the trunk had fallen.

What a thrill it was to then cut up the 40-foot section with the chain saw so that it could be removed for the fall of the next 20-foot section in a similar manner. And then the final 20-foot section. The cutting the large and heavy sections was a huge task. Then it was necessary to split the huge blocks so that they could be stored in our back shed for drying and eventual burning on cold winter nights. Some of those splittings are still being fired today (winter 2010).

There was enough danger and patience in this project to make it the most satisfying of all my ventures. It also reaffirmed my belief that anyone can do marvelous things, if they are willing to plan carefully and are willing to spend the time and energy to make it work.

Deseret Peak

As I think about my dad, there are many things that come to mind. One of the things I remember fondly is his sense of adventure. He has always been interested in exploring some new place – no matter how remote. Probably about ten years ago (perhaps a little more)
I heard about Deseret Peak from a Navy Reserve buddy of mine. He’d mentioned that he’d been out there the previous year on the 4th of July, and that he’d only seen three other people on his hike to the summit. This sounded like my kind of place, as I love remote places with few human to spoil the solitude. I told dad about this place, and he was up for the new adventure. So, one day early that summer (perhaps dad can remember the year), we headed out west on I-80 to see if we could find how to get there.
We passed the exit for Tooele, and finally got off at Grantsville. We found the road that heads out of town to the south along the Stansbury range. I knew that Deseret Peak was the tallest of the peaks that presented themselves there, and that it was close to Grantsville, so we eyeballed the second peak south from I-80, and aimed for it.
From I-80 and even from the smaller road we followed now, the mountains basically just looked like huge mounds of dirt and rock – as dry as could be, and almost without any interesting features whatever. But my friend had described more – so we took this on faith and continued on. Within a few miles we found a road that headed west toward the mountain, and followed it up the slope.
Shortly, the road merged close to a small stream that had emerged from a narrow opening in the mountain further up the piedmont. I never would have expected any water to come out of this mound of dirt, but there it was.
A little further on we came to a cleft in the rock and dirt where the road entered and the stream left a narrow canyon. There were steep rock cliffs on either side as we entered the canyon, which soon widened and the cliffs gently sloped back away from the rode a little. As the slope flattened some, the canyon began to display cedars and other normal greenery for this part of the state. Eventually these gave way to pines and quaking aspens.
Within just a couple of miles or less, we found a place to pull over at a trailhead. We parked next to few other cars there, and slinging our packs, headed into the forest (to our amazement and joy). The trail quickly steepened, and we passed through a section of quakies that were among the largest I have ever seen. The trunks were enormous, and they were very tall. We were amazed that this place existed in what had appeared to be a dry pile of rock and dirt just a few miles to the east.
We soon hiked into a beautiful wide valley, which reminded me more of a vision out of Heidi than a remote trail in Utah’s west desert. As we hiked higher and higher, we found one of the most geologically diverse areas I’d ever visited. It seemed that at every turn, there was some new and interesting terrain that was very different from what we had just left. At times the clouds wrapped around us like a heavy fog, and at others we baked in the searing sun.
Despite the fact that Deseret Peak was only about 200-300 feet shorter than Timpanogos, the trail is much shorter, and so can be summited in much less time. It’s a steep trail for much of the hike, but the pay-off is great if you can just push through it.
We finally summited in the early afternoon, and the view was spectacular! I later read that on a clear day, one can see Nevada, Idaho, Wyoming, and Colorado from the peak. It wasn’t that clear for us, but I can believe it!
This was one of quite a number of adventures I have shared with my dad. I have always known that I was lucky to have someone like him who is a kindred spirit. I expect we will have many more adventures in the future.

When we lived at the Fairfax Road house in Cleveland Mom decided to bring some more culture to our lives and strum Dad's nostalgic strings by giving him a trumpet for either Christmas or his birthday. I don't know when he had played it earlier in his life, but he was sure that playing the trumpet was like riding a bike--once you learned how to do it you never forgot how. Dad practiced his lip-buzzing (I think it was a good excuse to smooch with Mom and give us girls Bugs Bunny kisses) then applied his improved embouchure to morning reveille. It was awful to begin with, then much improved but annoying over time. I'm sure that Dad felt justified in using this cruel and unusual punishment to get us up for family prayer and scripture study, which is a testimony to the fact that he took his priesthood responsibilities seriously. We were all relieved when Mom gave him a mute a year or so later. I remember a 4th of July flag raising ceremony where Dad played a rather stirring patriotic melody, after which I felt that he should retire the trumpet on a high note. Although he never reached a performance level worthy of Tommy Dorsey, Dad's ingenuity in using his trumpet to advance his musical prowess while ensuring that his children were doers of the word (if only in body) at the risk of their eardrums should certainly qualify him for a Purple Heart or a Grammy (or at least a Grampy), and lots of brownie points in heaven.

In April 1980 I made a 3 1/2 week trip to the Arab World and made the following entry in my Journal: I returned from visiting Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Iraq, Kuwait, Bahrain, Abu Dhabi, Saudi Arabia, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria and Spain. While I had traveled the Middle East before, this long trip was unusual in several ways. One thing for sure, it was long and lonesome.

All over the Middle East there are workers traveling from their homelands---Ceylon, Korea, Philippines, Yemen, India, Pakistan, Egypt, Sudan, Pakistan and Palestine refugees---to work in the oil rich nations of Kuwait, Libya, Iraq, United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia. They were garbed in their native attire, often squatting on their haunches or stretched out asleep, but always surrounded by great bundles containing their worldly goods. What a fascinating study in dress, physical appearance and language sounds! The Lord has certainly created a Babel of varieties.

"The love of money is the root of all evil" came to my mind several times. The trappings of great, and sudden, wealth in the hands of many Arabs has brought out many of the evils---pride, arrogance, condescension, immorality, etc. Formerly they were rather strict and devout, but have succumbed to the temptations of the flesh.

Consumption is paramount, almost as if prosperity and worldly goods will go away, if not enjoyed or consumed immediately. I'm sure most of them remember when they didn't have so much, and may fear that it will disappear again.

Despite huge differances in beliefs, backgrounds, etc., people are so similar in ways they express themselves, react to situations. Consequently they may be influenced in similar ways. People are basically the same everywhere, and always have been. If this is so, and I believe it is, we can learn much from history. Nonetheless, while we can learn, we probably won't, because the present is so overwhelming and dominant. It takes so much personal discipline, and faith, to forego consumption today, for later usuage. It makes the future for our children somewhat bleak. Only a strong, authoritative and trusted person, or group, can convince mankind to live for the future. This supports Joseph Smith's comment in his Articles of Faith---a religion that does not demand everything from its members does not have the power (ability) to save them.

A final observation: the eight children of our family are choice spirits. I'm convinced that the family life and mutual experiences and interactions are powerful training in righteous understanding and living. Each of our children has a good and strong comprehension of the Gospel. Doug's mission and comments have been a very positive influence on all of us. The children are positive influences on each other. Despite their different personalities and attitudes, they (we) have a common and close bond of friendship. Ellen and I need to stay on friendly and a dependable basis with each of the children to prepare them for independent lives.

I'm not sure we (I) know each of them very well. They are definitely individuals. Eventually they will do/act as they please, therefore we all can influence each other through being personal friends, consistent in our behavior (example). Since there are 10 of us, we have an advantage. Each has 9 friends who care what we do and say. In addition, we need to develop close relations with other righteous people, particularly church members, who will add to the group of interested friends who care about what and who we are. There is the genius of living righteously and happily.

Close Call at the Point of the Mountain

About 2005 I was driving the Lincoln Mark VII to Salt Lake City. As usual everyone was driving fast and the traffic was fairly heavy. For some reason I was in a hurry to make an appointment, so I moved over into the inside fast lane.

As we neared the top of the freeway going over the Point of the Mountain doing about 70 MPH, I looked down at something in my lap or the seat for just a couple of seconds. When I looked up my lane was stopped about 50 feet ahead. At 70 per there was no chance of my braking to avoid smashing into the cars ahead. My left hand grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it instantly to the left. There was just enough space between the cars ahead and the cement barrier dividing the freeway lanes for my car to whiz by all of the stalled cars. Within 50 yards I had slowed down so as to find a gap in the fast lane at a much reduced speed for the remander of the trip north.

In the minutes following this close call my mind was full of gratitude for survival for me and those in the cars I might have smashed with the heavy Lincoln. I attributed this miracle to my guardian angels.

Jump off the roof

Around the early fall of 2004 Ellen and I were staying in the house because there was a terrific wind blowing and rain was increasing. A good afternoon to stay inside. Then Ellen rushed upstairs to tell me that water was spilling through the light fixture in the kitchen.

My first guess was that the roof was leaking from the driving rainstorm. So I rushed outside to struggle to put up Dave's 20-foot ladder up to the roof on the back of the house. With the wind blowing so hard I was less than delighted to scale up it to the roof top. Carefully I moved around the roof over the kitchen and then all over the roof, finding no place that appeared to be taking rain. By this time I was completely soaked and chilled, since the temperature was probably around 40 degrees. Then suddenly a big gust of wind carried the heavy ladder down crashing to the ground.

Although I shouted as loud as I could, the noise of the wind drowned it. Perhaps Ellen heard its fall, because she came out on the back patio. She was going to lift the ladder back up, but I shouted to her that she could not do it because it was so heavy. I asked her to find a rope to throw up to me so that I could tie it on top and scale down the rope. While I stood up there shaking with wet and cold clothing, she finally come out with a rope. Needless to say, there was no way she could throw it up with the wind blowing so hard. Then she disappeared for what seemed a long time, so that I surveyed the roof top to see if there wasn't some way to get down. But it was almost 20 feet to the ground and I had no wish to jump.

While Mom was in the garage trying to fashion several poles together so the rope could be lifted up, I was really feeling desperate. I took another look at the pine tree in front of our bedroom window. It was at least 12 feet from the edge of the roof, but there were branches that reached to the roof. The branch was so small that I was certain that it would break easily. As I looked down, it seemed the ground was a long distance below. When Mom did not respond to my shouts in the back, I decided that I would have to somehow to get down via the tree.

My leather gloves were wet, which gave me added concern about being able to grab hold of the limbs. Then I decided to jump as far toward the tree trunk with my left glove on the limb. As my left hand started to slip, my foot hit another branch below and to the right, allowing me to lurch forward with both hands moving lickety split along the branch toward the trunk. When I got to the trunk, I grabbed both the trunk and the limb, holding on until I surveyed the branches available that would allow my descent to the ground. Terra firma never felt so good.

I ran around to the back to find what had happend to Mom, finding her with some poles tied together. We then rushed upstairs with a step ladder to get into the attic to see where the water was coming down. There wasn't any rain coming through the roof into the attic. Then I moved down to our bedroom which was above the kitchen. Ahah! Water was spurting out of a copper pipe in the shower, splashing over the carpet and on down through the light fixture to the kitchen floor. All we had to do then was shut off the water into the house, until a plumber could be engaged to put in some new pipe. Later we had a new shower installed.

But I thought then and many times since how my guardian angels carried me safely to the trunk of that tree. Just one of many miracles in my life.

Raking & Burning Tumbleweeds

David suggested that this escapade qualified for telling:

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, on which I was seated on a metal seat. 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 and bumpy so that the big iron wheels would bounce around as we moved back and forth across the field. In order to fiinish this task as soon as possible, I conceived a plan to start a small fire in the tumbleweeds caught by the rake tines so that the burning could take place while I was raking, thus saving time.

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 realease the weeds. There were two ways to raise the tines: by stepping on a round metal trigger with my foot; or 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 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 on the metal seat that I couldn't sit on it and found it necessary to stand up, all the while stepping hard on the metal trigger 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 in front of the metal tines. 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 never to try it again.

That Dad Blast It Cupboard!

The family home evening cupboard may have been my undoing, but Dad's downfall was another one of the cupboards in the kitchen at the Corydon Road house. To understand the situation, you have to understand the layout of the kitchen. The refrigerator was placed right next to the doorway that led to the side entry of the house and to the basement stairs. That junction was well used by the whole family. Over the refrigerator was a short cupboard that had two doors, which opened in opposite directions, and stuck out beyond the edges of the fridge when open. I don't remember what was kept in the cupboard because it was far too high for my reach, but Mom must have housed something significant in it because the doors were left open on a number of occasions, which coincided with Dad's entrance into the kitchen. It was a grand entrance, announced to anyone in earshot with a loud thud followed by what sounded like "Dad blast it, Ellen!". Dad was the only one in the family tall enough to have a problem with the errant cupboard door which he would run into pell mell as he bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. Usually it resulted in a temporary headache for him, but I remember once seeing poor Dad wiping blood from his forehead. I think that one of the selling points of the Fairfax Road house had to be the kitchen with no Dad Blast It Cupboard over the refrigerator!

The FHE Cupboard

Margaret's posting about the game closet prompted my memories about another storage space with a unique purpose. At our first house in Cleveland--the green house on Corydon Road--there was a window seat built over the radiator in the eating area off the kitchen. On either end of it there was a small cupboard. One of those cupboards was the "family night" cupboard, where Mom kept materials for lessons. I have two memories connected to that cupboard. For at least a year during the time we lived at that house we had spiral bound family night journals, in which we wrote or drew something each week--depending on our age and ability--in response to the family night lesson. I remember that my notebook was yellow and that I must have been in 1st or 2nd grade ( we moved from that house when I was in 3rd grade). In one of our lessons we apparently talked about the Holy Ghost, and took time at the end of the lesson to record something in our journals. I don't know whether we were invited to share what we had written, or if an older sibling was curiously looking over the shoulder of a younger one, but I remember the older kids laughing, and then Dad joining in, while Mom tried to keep her composure when they all looked at one of the younger kids' entry. Jon, David or I had shown our very literal comprehension of the lesson with a carefully drawn blob covered with spots--the "holey" ghost. Maybe Dad or Mom can remember who the artist was.

The other memory I have of that cupboard involves one of my naughty moments. Usually our breakfasts were structured and supervised, but one winter Saturday morning Mom and Dad were absent from the kitchen when a couple of us kids were eating breakfast. I had poured myself a bowl of my favorite Cheerios and was about to dig in when Brad or Doug brought out a pitcher of fruit juice from the fridge. They said something like " I wonder how this would taste on cereal". I loved juice and loved Cheerios, but had never thought about eating them together. Without Mom or Dad to intervene I became bold and poured the juice into my bowl, delighted at how the juice swirled into the milk. My delight turned into dismay when I tasted my cereal and discovered why juice and milk are not sold in a mixed product. It was awful. I was on my way to pour my disaster into the sink when I heard Dad coming up the stairs from the basement. I wouldn't be able to reach the sink before he got to the top of the stairs, which ended just past the sink. I quickly retreated to the breakfast table, anxiously looking for a way to hide my mistake. The family night cupboard! I hastily put the bowl in the cupboard and looked innocently around to see if anyone had noticed. I was able to get a new bowl of cereal and eat my breakfast without being discovered. I intended to retrieve my mistake out of the cupboard when everyone had cleared the room, but got distracted by something else and forgot. The radiator kept on working on heating the kitchen--and the bowl of Cheerios-- for the rest of the day and the next. On Monday night when Mom went to the cupboard for the journals at the end of her lesson, the sour smelling bowl was found, my naughtiness was revealed, and a second impromptu family night lesson was taught for my behalf.

Climbing the west face of Timp

Our family had climbed Timpanogas many times from Aspen Grove, so Brad and I decided to climb the west face of Timp. There is small canyon above Lindon that leads directly toward the saddle above the glacier on the east side of the mountain. We reasoned that it would be best to climb the ridges as they would have less foliage. As we made our way to the ridges, we were surprised that the growth turned out to be dense and difficult to climb even to get to the ridge.

So we struggled with frequent rest breaks, but we were finally about 200 yards from the saddle. Then we noticed that some dark clouds were moving in fast from the west. We would be lucky to reach the saddle by the time the rain arrived. So we decided to head down as fast as possible.

After about an hour of hurried descent, the rain came down in torrents and it began to be dark as well. We had hoped to reach the road that winds up the canyon from Lindon. But we were unable to find it. We were soaked and tired. To avoid the heavy underbrush, we stumbled down the bottom of a ravine. It was so dark that we could not see where to step causing us to stumble on large rocks and brush in the ravine.

I said to Brad that we ought to pray for the Lord's help so that we would not get injured and that we could climb out of the ravine to find the road. Soon the rain moderated and we were impressed to climb out the right slope to find the road. What a relief and to know that our prayer was answered.

JAPANESE EMPEROR'S PALACE STAMPEDE

After seven months in Korea, I was given an R&R week to visit Tokyo. On January 2nd 1944 two buddies and I learned that the public would be permitted to enter the palace grounds, since it was Emperor Hirohito's birthday. When we arrived at the huge parade grounds across the moat from the Palace, there were thousands of Japanese dressed in their finest clothing. I was particularly fascinated in the kimonos worn by the women and young girls. The huge crowd were pushing toward the stone bridge that crossed the moat.

My buddies became bored with the long wait and left, but I stayed to take pictures of the people and scenery. I was swept along by the crowd that was pressing toward the bridge. The pressure became intense and many women seemed greatly ill at ease. But there was no going back as the crowd pushed harder. Evidently they thought the bridge would be closed soon.

As I was a foot taller than the Japanese, it was easy for me to take pictures and see what was going on. When I was about 50 yards from the bridge, there seemed to be much excitement at the entrance. People were screamingand some were climbing up on the stone works. Eventually I could see people being pushed into a huge pile at the entrance. Then I was pushed onto the pile of people, but neither they nor I could escape due to the prssure from behind us. I was calm and confident that I was strong enough not to be injured.

The police had arrived from the other side of the bridge and were pulling the persons in the human barricade. Then those near me were able to break through and move on to the bridge. There were dozens of people laying all over the bridge entrance who had been trampled upon, some dead and/or injured. This was particularly true for the women in their tight kimonos and sandals.

I took a number of photos of this carnage. Then we were herded on across the bridge to walk past the Palace, although the Emperor was not there in the gloom to hear the people salute him with "Banzai." The next day the newpapers said that 16 had been killed and dozens injured.

RUNAWAY CAR HEADING FOR THE CLIFF

I had just flown from Tokyo to California and arrived at Camp Stoneman where I was being discharged. On the weekend I went to visit the Basingers in nearby Berkeley. Walt Basinger and family had lived at Grandpa Lundquist's house when he was Principal of Weston High School several years prior. They were great friends of our family.

Sister Basinger was a real estate sales person. On the Sunday afternoon after church, she had to go for a quick visit to a house that she was selling in a hilly neighborhood. Her daughter, age about ten, was seated beside her in the front seat and I was in the back seat.

As we pulled up in front of the house, Sister Basinger jumped out to run into the house. She apparently thought she had put the car in park, after turning off the ignition. After a few seconds, the car started to slowly roll forward down the street. When her daughter and I realized the gathering speed, she got in the driver's seat to do I don't what. By the time I got her to move over so I could climb over the seat, the car was heading rapidly down the street toward a drop off.

When I finally got behind the wheel, I found that the brakes wouldn't work with the ignition off. So I steered the car from one side of the street to the other running over curbs and then into small trees until we finally hit a large tree that stopped the mad dash for the drop off. My memory is that Sister Basinger was chasing us at a dead run down the street. We stopped not far from the dead end drop off. That was more dangerous than my tour in Korea.

BIG SCARE IN MADRAS, INDIA

When the plane touched down in Madras, I had been traveling in South Asia for almost a month. I was feeling rather blue due to the long time from home. So I decided that I would quickly check the local newspaper to see if there was an English-language movie playing. I saw that there was a Jerry Lewis movie, so I hopped into a cab and headed for the theater. As we neared the theater, the driver offered to wait for me, but I refused rather impatiently.

We were on the waterfront area, so I thought that maybe I should sit close to the door so as to be the first one out to catch a cab. I enjoyed the movie, but as soon as it ended I bolted out of the theater to find that there were no cabs. Everyone emptied the theater in a couple of minutes and headed around the side of the theater to their vehicles. In a few minutes everyone was gone and I was standing alone in an empty parking area.

Finally I looked down a street away from the waterfront and saw some cars crossing about 6 or 7 blocks ahead. So I walked rapidly toward the street in almost total darkness---there were no street or residence lights. Occasionally I would hear noises coming from the buildings along the way, which I ignored, and walked faster. When I got to the street , there were no cars to be seen.

Then I saw a theater marquee another couple of blocks away. When I walked in front of the theater, it seemed that it was an Indian movie. There was a bicycle rickshaw standing there, with the driver talking to a person. I leapt up into the seat, and he asked me where I wanted to go. Since I had only a few rupees and was sure that it wasn't enough to go across town to the hotel, I wracked my brain and came up with the train station.

So he wheeled away up a narrow alley. A thought came to me that maybe he was taking me into a trap, where I would be robbed and beaten up. I prayed for deliverance, while deciding if I would fight, run or give anything I had. After about ten minutes the alley opened up into a plaza that held the huge train station. I jumped out of the rickshaw and gave him half of the few rupees in my pocket.

Then I looked around the plaza that was filled with people sleeping on the ground. Finally I found a taxi whose driver was asleep, woke him up, and told to take me to the Connemara Hotel. I was surprised that he accepted the few rupees I had for the fare. Whew! What a hair raising adventure.

A CLOSE CALL ON MT. TIMPANOGAS

Since I/we had not climbed Mt. Timpanogas in 1998, Ellen and I and the Willises decided to climb it on the Labor Day weekend. Always in the past, we had climbed Timp from Aspen Grove. This time we wanted to try it from American Fork Canyon on the Tipanooke Trail.

Inasmuch as Steve and Margaret had baby Tyler in tow, we determined that Ellen and Margaret would cllimb up to the lake at the bottom of the glacier and wait for us. So Steve and I left them to scale the north ridge with Margaret's advice that we slide down the glacier in tandem.

When Steve and I reached the top, we observed that a thunder cloud was moving north from Y mountain with both rain and lightning coming down. Consequently we hurried south along the ridge toward the saddle above the glacier. About half way to the saddle, the rain started with increasing fury and strong winds. We tried some shelter on the lee side of the ridge, but were getting increasingly wet from the rain. Finally I suggested that we push on down and try the glacier. By the time we reached the saddle, we were soaked; and then the rain subsided.

When we got ready to slide down, Steve sat in front of the plastic garbage bag, and I prepared to sit immediately behind him on the sack. As we started to push off, I must have got my right foot caught in the snow, because the next thing I knew I was sliding pell-mell down the icy glacier headfirst on my back. I tried to dig my hands and arms into the hard, slick surface to slow me down, but I was sliding so fast that it was impossible. The surface of the glacier was pockmarked with ridges and small holes so that the back of my head and shoulders were banging hard at an incredible clip. My feet were thrown up by the banging of my hips on the rough surface.

Finally my slide slowed and stopped about 100 yards down the flacier, much to my relief. I can only guess that I may have been sliding faster than 15 MPH, certainly faster that I can rurn. While the wild ride occupied my concern to get control of my body, I had fleeting thoughts of dropping into some of the large potholes that dotted the glacier, which would have broken my neck or caused some other serious injury, or death. As I gained my feet and was able to review my wild slide, the awesome realization of the consequence of heading into one of the potholes on my back headfirst brought a rush of great relief and gratefulness to the Lord and guardian angels for my survival.

As I stood to view the scene above me where I had traversed seconds before, I was somewhat dizzy, due in part that my glasses were missing, as well as my hat. This situation was relayed to Steve who had stopped shortly after our aborted takeoff and had observed my dangerous journey. We scanned the trail of my slide without finding the glasses but did retrieve my hat.

Our descent of the glacier was made without much difficulty, despite my feeling some unsteadiness from the slide and the impaired sight due to the loss of my glasses. We caught up with Margaret and Ellen and reached our car after a seemingly endless trail with Steve and I taking turns carrying Tyler. Without my glasses, I drove home somewhat cautiously.

The following week I acquired some new glasses. About three weeks later Douglas came to a meeting at BYU and wanted to climb Timp during his stay with us. In part to overcome any residual fear of climbing Timp, I agreed to accompany him, again on the Timpanooke Trail. When we reached the top and then hiked down tot he saddle, we met a couple climbing up the glacier to the saddle. As we chatted with the young man, we recounted to him my near disaster previously. When I mentioned that I had lost my glasses, he said that he had seen a pair of glasses at the hut near Emerald Lake at the bottom of the galcier. When we reached the hut, I found my lost glasses, no worse for the icy stay up above.

Pick a Game, Any Game

The game closet in Cleveland was my favorite room in the house. It's door was about three feet high and it was situated under the staircase off the front hall. It was a cosy little room filled with our family games. It housed Funny Bones, Uncle Wiggly, Flinch and Rook, Chinese checkers, Shoot the Moon and Labyrinth. There was Old Maid, Concentration, Checkers and Go Fish. There were countless puzzles, many with 1,000 or more pieces.
I have always loved playing games with my family. With ten people in the Thompson house there was always someone to play with. On New Year's Eve I recall games of Risk and Monopoly that seemed to go on all night long. I could never last. Around the holidays there was always a puzzle out on the game table. I would sit and work at it for a while, usually aside Dad, and then come back to it in bits all week long.
I received my very own game of Sorry when I was about ten years old which my boys now play with. Although I never learned to play chess as a child, my boys taught me the rules as they learned the game during our travels in Europe.
In most recent years we have enjoyed going over to Mom and Dads to play Uno, Chickenfoot and Quiddler, although anytime we get together as family, any game will do. No visit from the cousins is complete without a night capped with the playing of games.

Plymouth car wreck

The summer following my junior year at West Side High School my pal, Lynn Neuenswander, and I dated two girls from Dayton---Alice Moser and Mary Lou Balls. After taking the gals home about midnight, I drove our Plymouth half a mile to an intersection at a T-corner. As I approached the corner, I tried the brakes but they did not slow us much. I was rather sleepy and did not hit the brakes again. So the car headed directly into the big ditch bank with a crash.

I was draped around the steering wheel, and Lynn who was asleep in the back seat was thrown forward over my head into the front door that had spring open, and then he bounced back near the left rear wheel outside the car. After I squeezed out from behind the steering wheel, I called to Lynn who lay moaning on the ground. He had a concussion and babbled words I couldn't understand, so I was really scared. I stowed him in the car and then sprinted non-stop back to the Ball's 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 recovered his senses.

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 old 1935 Ford truck until the Plymouth was repaired.

Throw the baby off the wagon

Mom said I was a baby when this adventure occurred. We were living on the Taylor place west of Bear River. We had gone down to the banks of Bear River to get a load of sand, presumably for a sand pile for me. The wagon had a heavy load pulled by four head of horses. As we were going up the steep dugway from the river to the road at the top of the hill, the pin came out of the doubletree, so that the horses with Dad holding the reins went on up the dugway. The heavily loaded wagon first stopped and then started backward downhill to a steep drop off into the river.
Mom was sitting on the high seat with me in her arms. Evidently Dad yelled to her to jump because the wagon was headed straight for the embankment into the deep river. She probably did not feel she could jump with me in her arms, so she threw me over into the side of the dugway next to the hill.

I have never learned if she then jumped because the wagon veered into the side of the dugway. In any event, Dad came down with the four horses to hook up with the loaded wagon for the trip up and back to our home. Later I grew to love to swim in Bear River, but that was not the time.

John Deere Tractor Wreck

My closest call with death came in what I believe was the summer of 1945 (15 years old). Dad had bought a new John Deere tractor, of which he was very proud. It was green and tall and fast.

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 lead for home.

From their barn there was a long straight driveway to the Weston road, where you had to turn right or left onto 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 to 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 to front wheels to straight ahead. So I was rapidly heading for the barrow pit on the opposite 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 to the barrow pit. 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 under the wheel.

The engine finally killed, about the time that the Thompsons came running up to see if they could help. After extracting me from the tractor, they pulled the tractor upright. The tall 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 don'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 was not bruised except for where the seat arm had pinned me to the ground is astounding to me. I can onlly assume that angels protected me.

The sweet sounds of music

It was important to Dad and Mom that their children be exposed to the cultural arts. Being a closet artist, Mom sought to grace the walls of our home with beautiful artwork, and keep a supply of art materials in stock for our creative outlet. Mom and Dad’s mutual appreciation for good music resulted in a state of the art stereo system, and a significant collection of musical recordings that ranged from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and classical music to Big Band from the 1950’s and Broadway musical scores to the best of the Three D’s. Dad listened to Mozart, Wagner and Copeland while he read the paper. Mom listened to Vivaldi and Tchaichovsky while she did her housework, and to Christmas music when she was homesick. The girls danced many a private ballet recital to The Nutcracker Suite and The Waltz of the Flowers, and knew every word to every song from The Sound of Music. Although the boys professed to be less inspired by classical music I remember playacting with them to Peter and the Wolf (David especially liked to be Peter, while Brad was the wolf) and witnessing a spectacular three man sword fight to Edvard Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. All of our listening to good music, whether intentional or incidental, prepared us for the chance to attend professional musical events with our parents. Dad and Mom would invite, and sometimes cajole, us to be their guest several times a year at some of the many amazing cultural offering in the Cleveland area, including ballet, opera, Cleveland Orchestra concerts and plays. I remember attending the opera Aida and, although I didn’t understand a word that was sung, being strongly affected by the emotion of the performance. I’m sure that Doug’s interest in the guitar inspired our attendance at the classical guitar recital at the outdoor Blossom Music Center. Blossom was also the venue for a fantastic Man of La Mancha performance and several Cleveland Orchestra concerts. When the Broadway cast of The Wiz came to town I think the whole family attended that performance, and came home singing “Ease on down, ease on down the road. Don’t you carry nothin’ that will be a load. Come on and ease on down, ease on down the road”.

Geographically speaking

For many years we had subscriptions to the National Geographic magazine, whose pictures alone took us to far away places that we had to find on the globe. Often when we found an unfamiliar country name on the globe we would turn to the encyclopedia to learn more about it. Brad was particularly fascinated with far-off places and the trivia associated with them. Because he was the champion of all things geographic, he initiated the on-going globe competition designed to stump his siblings. The idea was to challenge someone to find a country on the globe, which was rather detailed with tiny print. Brad prided himself in finding the tiniest and most remote places to challenge his opponent. The rest of us tried to turn the tables on him by giving him exotic places to locate, but he always seemed to rise to the occasion. I remember once that Brad challenged someone—I think it was David—to find a country that none of us had ever heard of before. We looked for hours it seemed then cheated by consulting the encyclopedia, just to discover that it wasn’t listed even there. When confronted with this fact Brad was pleased to tell us that the African country had just recently experienced a coup, and that its named had been changed, but since the borders had not been altered the country was technically there on the globe, so he had won the competition.

Bedtime stories

I don’t know if Mom knew it instinctively, or if Granny Keeler had modeled it for her, but she seemed to follow Emilie Buchwald’s observance, that "children are made readers on the laps of their parents." I don’t recall when I began to learn to read, but I know that it was before my first grade teacher began reading groups. It seemed to be as natural as breathing to me, which I attribute largely to the considerable time I was exposed to reading and oral language from birth on. Mom was in her element when she put on her reading glasses, propped a pillow behind her back in the middle of her big bed, and let the pages fall open on the bookmarked page of the book du jour—be it The Tin Woodman of Oz, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, or Little Women. She’d flip back a page or two and recount the prior night’s adventure, then launch into the next chapter. Her penchant for drama would kick in, and soon she would transport her listeners to the Emerald City or the five little Pepper’s home or Aladdin’s cave. The natural vocal nuances in her oral reading drew in her audience so that, even when we were old enough to be well able to read ourselves to sleep, we would often sit just outside her bedroom door and listen with one ear while we worked on our homework. The fact that we all still enjoy reading and a good storyteller is likely a direct result of Mom’s efforts.

"You may have tangible wealth untold.

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be –

I had a mother who read to me."

— Strickland Gillilan

Dad also contributed to our love of words. Although we weren’t blessed to have him as our nightly storyteller on a regular basis, we occasionally enjoyed his reading as well. I remember him reading excerpts from Peck’s Bad Boy, Maori Tales and poems from the two fat Poems from Home volumes. My favorites were “The Raggedy Man, The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, and the eerie Highwayman:

“ The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding--

Riding--riding--

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.”

Establish a house of learning

Although they grew up in different circumstances Dad and Mom both came from homes where learning and thinking were important. They took both their formal and informal education seriously, which spilled over into their marriage and child-rearing. Early in their marriage they joined a book club through which they began collecting the extensive family library that we remember growing up. Making the accumulation of books a priority, rather than any one of a number of other possible collections that married folks embark upon, says much about what was important to them and what they had in common from the start. Somehow in their ever-busy lives Mom and Dad found time to read, often very early in the morning or very late at night. On a number of occasions I found one or both of them asleep with a book in their hands, presumably after they had tried to sneak in some personal study or relaxation time between their parental responsibilities. Their mutual love of learning has been evident throughout their life together, and has had a profound impact on their progeny. They have sought to follow the counsel to “Seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith…Establish a house of learning” (D&C 88:118-119).

There was never a problem finding something good to read at the Thompson house. In each of the homes our family lived in, from Hamer Drive until the present, I have clear memories of bookshelves lined with books, and a variety of reading opportunities. One of my most distinct memories has to be of the study in the tudor home in Cleveland, which I always called the library. I loved to curl up on the window seat and read a book or listen to the stereo. The built-in bookshelves lining three walls of the room were brimming with hundreds of volumes Dad and Mom had collected, including the classics by authors such as Alfred Lord Tennyson, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and Mark Twain. There were numerous church reference books, books on history, politics and philosophy, and a set of The World Book Encyclopedias. I remember perusing the titles on the book bindings wondering about books titled Jesus Was Married, The Last of the Mohicans, and The Naked Capitalist. Some of my childhood favorites from the “grown up” shelves included the beautiful origami coffee table book, the etchings in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, the Especially for Mormons series, and many of the nature and travel books produced by National Geographic. I spent hours reading the Childcraft set (the children’s companion to the encyclopedia), especially the volume titled “Things to Make and Do”. The wide variety of books exposed us to numerous wonders of the world, so we each had the opportunity to choose topics of interest to explore that appealed to us personally.

Of course we had a library of children’s books as well, some housed in the big bookshelf in the upstairs hallway, and some personal favorites that we kept in our bedrooms. There were several large volumes of storybook collections (like A Treasury of Children’s Literature), board books for the toddlers, Little Golden books (I remember The Poky Little Puppy), Disney classics, all kinds of chapter books, science and history-focused books, scripture story books, and paperbacks that Mom let us purchase through Scholastic book orders (The Borrowers series was one of my favorites). If I had an hour of undirected time Mom knew she would often find me curled up with a book in the library or in my bedroom. This was heaven for me because, like Jorge Luis Borges, "I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library."