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.

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.