1. Butterflies And Hurricanes Piano
2. Butterflies And Hurricanes Piano Sheet Music

DedicationVolume I & II of my life's story, 'Look to the Stars,' is affectionately dedicated to my children. They are the golden link between the rich heritage of my past, and the bright hope of the future. My love for them is boundless. May they always see the beauties of this creation, and may their rejoicing ascend to Heaven.

Copyright © 1983-1985 Alice Isom Gubler Stratton

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Intro 1The little barefoot boy pattered down the street in Rockville. There on the sidewalk was a nickel. Excitedly he picked it up. Further on he found a dime, and then another. Holding the coins in his hand he marveled. Such a lot of money! Walking ahead of him was a stranger.

'Hey mister,' the boy called, racing to catch him. The man turned as the boy thrust the coins at him. 'Do you have a hole in you pocket? I found these on the sidewalk behind you.'

The man put his hand in his pocket. Sure enough there was a hole. Scrutinizing the lad, the man asked, 'Are you William Robinson CrawfordWilliam Crawford's little boy?'

'No. I am Raymond DeMille,' came the reply.

'I thought you must be William's son. I didn't know there was anyone left on the earth as honest as he is.'

Bishop Raymond DeMille related this incident to me. 'Your grandfather, William Crawford had the reputation of being the most honest man alive. When he was bishop of Springdale, and people turned their skinny cattle in for tithing, your grandfather gave his own fat cattle to the church, and kept the skinny ones to fatten up. That's the kind of man he was.'

And that's the kind of people my forebears were. They recognized the truth when they heard it, and accepted the gospel. My great-great grandfather Alpheus Gifford baptized Heber C. Kimball, grandfather of Spencer W. Kimball. In a letter, dated September 3, 1975, President Kimball has written:

TO THE MEMBERS OF THE GIFFORD FAMILY

Dear Friends:

As one who is very grateful, may I express the gratitude of the Kimball family that your ancestor, Alpheus Gifford, was so responsible for bringing our ancestor into the Church.

I believe in family reunions and believe that much good can be accomplished by the association of family members to recount the stories of the family and keep them fresh in the memory of the people of the family.

I hope also that the members of your family will keep records of their own lives and the lives of their family members. Such biographies and autobiographies become very precious as time goes on and generations succeed each other.

Please accept my best wishes, and may I express appreciation for the other members of the Kimball family and also for the Church for your faithfulness and devotion and loyalty.

With kindest wishes,

Faithfully yours,

Spencer W. Kimball

President

Heber C. Kimball returned the favor many times over. He baptized our grandparents John Parker Sr. and John Parker Jr. and Ellen Briggs when he took the gospel to England.

Intro 2Great-grandfather Freeborn DeMill was baptized by Hyrum Smith and confirmed by Joseph Smith Jr. at Colesville, Broome County, New York.

Our people came from England, Canada, New York and Illinois, joining the pioneer trek to the Great Salt Lake Valley. From there, Brigham Young sent them on to colonize towns further south. They lived in dugouts and wagon boxes, and ate pigweeds, cane seed and wild berries at first. They became bishops, patriarchs and auxiliary heads in their wards, part of them living in the United Order.

Our father, George Isom, grew up in Virgin, Utah, going on horseback up the river to Oak Creek selling encyclopedia sets. That's where he met our mother, Annie Crawford, the sixth child of William and Carnelia Crawford's family of thirteen children.

According to Aunt Fanny, Papa had to court Mama in the living room where the family was. Fanny was mischievous. She hid behind the kitchen door, where Papa attempted to kiss Mama goodnight. She poked a comb through the crack just before their lips met, and they kissed the comb.

AKI express my appreciation to my daughter Lolene Gifford for the many hours of proofreading and careful checking of my manuscript, and to my granddaughter Laura Gubler, who came as a lifesaver at the conclusion of the book to do the technical job of indexing, and to my granddaughter Marie Gubler who read for me when eye troubles beset me. Special thanks goes to my husband Ermal, whose patience was tried to the limit with my endless typing, but who endured with good humor. I appreciate my children and grand children who have cheered me on, encouraging me to finish this work. I appreciate my sisters who have helped recall the scenes of my childhood, especially Kate for her work of art in illustrating the place where I was born.

The digital version of this book was created posthumously, after Alice's passing in 2000. The following made significant contributions to bringing Alice's book to the digital realm:

• Kendall P. Gifford—Grandson of Alice—bulk scanning of the original book, conversion to text, formatting, editing
• Aaron D. Gifford—Grandson of Alice—some scanning, conversion to text, formatting, editing, web hosting
• Andrew G. Gifford—Grandson of Alice—conversion electronic format
• Lolene G. Gifford—Daughter of Alice—conversion to electronic format

Online Scanned Pages:

The entire book, complete, can be read online, by viewing scanned images of typewritten pages. All pages were scanned by grandson Kendall Gifford and are available online here:

To go directly to a specific chapter, click on one of the small links to the left of the bold 'Chapter X' text in the above table of contents.

The Entire Book:

You can read or print the entire book (except for INCOMPLETE) sections all at once by visiting the following web link:

3While I was still in Heaven, my cousins Iantha and Ianthus Campbell were born. Aunt Mary and Uncle Lew already had five girls and Iantha made six. But Ianthus was a boy! It's easy to guess how tickled Uncle Lew was about that. The twins arrived on August 10, 1909.

Mama and Papa had had four little girls, but my sister Josephine only stayed a little while, then returned to Heaven. That left Annie, who was six and one-half, Kate, not quite five, and the toddler, baby Mildred. Annie decided to ask the Heavenly Father to send twins to our family too. Kate also prayed for twins for awhile, then she decided Mama had enough girls, so she just asked for a little brother. Annie persisted in asking for twins. For eleven months she prayed. She has written:

Finally our prayers were answered! One night in mid July of 1910 when we went to bed, we said our prayers as usual, and when we awoke in the morning, the miracle had happened! Grandma was holding a tiny baby boy in her arms and there in the bed with my mother was a tiny baby girl. How wonderful! Words cannot express our joy. The Lord had answered our prayers by sending the desire of our hearts. Twins! We named them George and Alice for our grandparents. How we loved them!1

We arrived on July 17, 1910, on Aunt Ellen Spendlove's birthday, and on the anniversary of the landing of Noah's ark. (Genesis 8:4) We were born in a little lumber shack at the sawmill on Kolob. Grandma Isom was the doctor and the nurse.

According to an old Chinese tradition, if the first food a child ever tasted was baked apple, the child would become a fine singer. So Grandma baked an apple and scraped a little of it onto each of our tongues. I have no idea what my voice would have sounded like if it hadn't been for that.

My parents had been homesteading on Kolob since 1908, returning to Virgin in the winter time. Recorded in Mama's Memoirs is the following:

In 1911 we closed up the old home at Virgin and came direct from the mountain to Hurricane, where we had built a 12 X 14 granary but the babies took sick and being so cold and crowded, Alice and William Spendlove took us to their home where we could give them better care. … A week after we moved to Spendlove's, George died of inflammation of the bowels and was buried amid one of the most terrible north winds we have known. It was too severe for anyone to go to the graveyard except those that did the burying.

The Hurricane Canal froze over. Water, running over the ice, spilled down the banks, glazing the streets. Mama stayed with me, for I was not expected to live. My sisters wept. Annie remembers lying on the family bedrolls in Aunt Alice's living room, crying bitterly. She could not be comforted. Papa's heartbreak must have been great.

Is it possible that I remember my twin brother? It seems like I do. In my mind is a picture of another baby sitting with me on Papa's lap, while he sang a happy, nonsensical thing like 'A chicken went to bed with the whooping cough.' We both wore little white dresses. I have had an awareness of my brother George throughout my life, and I have grown to love him dearly.

4The first five years of my life were my dominant ones. Kolob was Heaven to me. As soon as my sisters were out of school each spring we prepared to return to the ranch. The bustling of cooking and packing was a joyous time to me. I was surprised to learn years later, that the business of moving a family back and forth was just plain hard work for Mama.

We always camped at Sanders's Ranch on our way and one of Uncle Ren Spendlove's boys, either Whit, Ianthus or Cliff came along to help with the team. I loved camping out. I reveled in the smell and the squeak of harness leather and the clinking of buckles and the sounds of the wagon as it sighed and relaxed, cooling off in the night. Stretched out on the family bed spread on the ground, I listened to the horses munching grain in their nose bags, the gentle crackle of the dying campfire, and the stars, the millions of singing stars!

'Mama,' I asked, 'are all of the stars whirling? Is that what makes them sing?'

Mama listened thoughtfully, then she said, 'No, the music you hear is made by the crickets and katydids and night birds in the bushes and trees, and by the water in the creek tumbling over pebbles.'

I listened again and realized that the chirping and twittering and gurgling really was ascending up to instead of down from the stars.

Carlyle once said, 'Give us, O give us the man who sings at his work. … The very stars are said to make harmony as they revolve in their spheres.' The Prophet Job was informed that while the foundations of this earth were being laid 'the morning stars sang together.' Job 38:7

Well, the last morning star had scarcely faded when we broke camp and were on our way again. We had a long hill to climb before the sun got too hot for the horses. At Lamb Springs we ate breakfast and let the horses rest before their long hard pull through the sand.

We had to walk to lighten the load. I bawled because the sand burned my feet, still I pulled my coat around me.

'You're a ridiculous child,' Mama remarked.

'But the wind is cold,' I complained, then added, 'If the trees would stop fanning then the wind could quit.'

'The trees don't fan the wind,' Mama explained, 'the wind fans the trees.'

'What a backwards situation,' I thought.

With the deep sand behind us, back in the wagon we rode up around the cinder knoll and on past Mulligan's Point, to Maloney's Ranch and then to the Slick Rocks.

The Slick Rocks was the terrible test to the stubbornness of teamsters and the agonizing willingness of horse flesh. We gladly piled out of the wagon here. Vivid in my mind is the picture of Papa slapping the reigns on the horses' backs and yelling, 'Git up Mag! Git up Dick!' Iron wagon tires screeched over steep red sandstone, horses strained muscle and sinew, pulling, pulling, leaning forward until they went to their knees. Terrified, I watched. Mag's and Dick's eyes glared wildly, their ears laid back. Sometimes the wagon started to slip back and Papa cracked the whip and yelled louder. The wagon could roll over the ledge on the right and all would be lost. With Papa's yelling and urging, the stout-hearted team made it over the bad spot, where, breathing hard and their hides shining with sweat, they stopped to rest before going on to the summit. The terror was over.

5We had made our safe return to Paradise, Kolob. My childhood Kolob was bluebells, wild roses and sego lilies. It was sandstone that could be rubbed into the shape of dolls, and pine bark, thick and soft for Cliff Spendlove to carve into toy horses. It was pollywogs in clear pools in the willows and water snakes that left narrow roads through our dugout playhouses in the sand banks. It was games in the twilight, scurrying through the soft sand and across the meadow calling, 'barey ain't out today,' while imagining the bear was crouching at the edge of the meadow behind the dark trees, ready to pounce upon us as we dashed into the house. It was the smell of pine and sage and oak, the cackle of the sage hen, the flicker of the bluebird and the hammering of the jay. It was the sight of Rube and Jody Maloney's sheep wagon with its bucket of sourdough hanging on the side, dough dripping down the wheels. It was the cheese house, cool and inviting where squirrels played tag through the rafters. It was the little brown wren that nested under the eaves. It was the crack of lightning and the clap of thunder and pine trees falling in a pillar of fire. It was the howl of the coyote. It was water rising in the damp sand where the shovel sought a water hole. It was Old Tiny, the dog, barking down the trail, bringing the last stray calf in at milking time. It was new milk guzzled from a tin cup at the corral gate, making a thick foam mustache across my upper lip. It was tall cool ferns packed around sweet pounds of butter ready to be sent to the store at Virgin. It was hot corn bread drenched with fresh butter at supper time, and the smell of lamp light on an oil cloth covered table. It was little new potatoes scrabbled from under the vine and sweet garden peas and juicy turnips. It was Paradise!

We moved from 'Milwaukie,' the sawmill canyon, to 'Pinevalley', a mile or so on top, but we often hiked back. We would take a picnic and spend the day, where we gathered iron ore rocks eroded in the shape of peanuts, marbles and little dishes.

Skyrim display room mod guide. Jun 04, 2016  This is a mod that adds various displays for unique artifacts, items, and weapons you can find throughout the wonderful land of Skyrim and Solstheim. I always wanted more for the DLC Hearthfires, a display area for all the cool stuff find. But sadly, that wasn't the.

Elisha Lee's family came to celebrate one 4^th of July with us. Papa put the alphogies2 on the saddle horse, with Edith in one leather pouch and I in the other. We rode around the mountain to the ice cave, where he filled the alphogies with ice. Edith and I rode back home in front of and behind the saddle with Papa. Mama made ice cream in gallon buckets that were set inside galvanized water buckets packed with ice and salt. The ice cream was turned back and forth by the bail. Every little while the lid was pried off the gallon bucket and the frozen cream scraped down from the sides with a knife, a drooling operation. There is nothing in all the world that compares with the ambrosia that came from that bucket.

Mama had a special No. 2 tub that she kept sterilized and shining for cheese making. The dairy thermometer, bobbing in the tub full of milk, fascinated me. I watched her stir in the rennet when the temperature was right, and with a long, thin bladed knife, cut the curd as it set, yellow puddles of whey separating as the curds became more solid. Hungrily we hung around. We loved curd, from the first soft white ones to the final squeaky yellow ones after the whey was drained and the coloring and salt added. Probably none of the cheese would have reached the press if Mama had doled out as much of it as we wanted. Still she was generous.

The cheese molds were made of pine slats held together with hoops. The press was a log, outside on the shady side of the house, rigged up for a lever. Mama lined the molds with cheesecloth and the sweet curd was packed inside and put under the press. We were eagerly on hand when she unmolded the cheese, for the pressure had6squeezed tantalizing little ruffles of it up around the edges of the mold. Patiently we waited as Mama trimmed these off, for we knew she would divide the .trimmings. among us. Next she rubbed the yellow discs of cheese with butter, smoothing and sealing the goodness in, then set them on the swinging shelf in the cheese house behind our cabin to cure.

Mama sometimes sent me to the sand wash with a little lard bucket to fetch water. We never wore shoes in the summertime and the sand often burned our feet. Once it was so hot that I cried. Mildred took her bucket and ran back and forth to the wash, burning her own bare feet to make a puddle path for me. I carried my bucket of water all the way to the house on the wet patches she had made, while she ran back to refill her bucket.

One sad little task was helping Papa take small animals from his traps while he held the steel jaws open with his foot. His hands were too crippled to set the traps, so that was our job too, while he supervised. I grieved for the woodchucks and gophers and other animals.

Uncle Ren Spendlove's boys took turns helping us. When they came from Hurricane they brought fresh fruit. During those years I never saw fruit that wasn't bruised from a rough wagon ride. I thought peaches and apples had to be bruised to be good. These were squashed, brown, oozy and delicious.

The big pine tree where our chicken coop was anchored was struck by lightening one night, which electrocuted our entire flock of chickens as they slept with their heads under their wings.

The only toys we knew were those we made. Our doll houses were dug into the sand bank with a spoon and decorated with lacy, sweet smelling Jerusalem Oak. The dolls were made of flowers with heads of the shiny black berries from the deadly nightshade. Our wagons were the bleached vertebrae of bones of animals found in the sand. Our miniature world was imaginative and happy.

I was five when the folks stopped going to the ranch. I was the one who closed the gate for the last time behind the wagon. In my hand I had a few tiny new potatoes the size of peas and one little golden cheese that had been pressed in a salt shaker lid. These small rations belonged to my rag doll family. I set them down at the foot of the big yellow pine that the gate was hinged on. After closing the gate, I climbed into the wagon. We were miles down the road before I remembered them. I felt badly. Two years later-when I went to Kolob with Aunt Ellen's family I looked, but there was no sign of them.

That was my last trip to Kolob as a child. All that remained to me were cherished memories. We used to climb the Hurricane hill often, my sisters and I, but we never turned around until we could see the white Kolob peaks and the Steamboat mountain. That was the goal of every hike.

My love for our Heavenly Father began at Kolob. I remember kneeling at Mama's knee as she helped me with my prayer. I felt warm and secure, knowing that even in the dark the Heavenly Father watched over me. This realization took the eeriness out of the shadows that moved outside the tent, and gave understanding to the noises of the night. Pine needles falling on canvas had the same lightness as the scampering of squirrel feet and the occasional thump of a falling cone sounded friendly as it rolled off the tent to the ground.

One day Mama let my sisters and me hike down to the sawmill canyon alone. We became so engrossed in gathering fancy rocks and wild flowers that time slipped away. The sun was settling into the grove to the west as we trudged7through sand and sage on the last stretch home.

With our arms full of treasures, we raced to the house to show Mama. The tantalizing smell of hot cornbread greeted us, for it was supper time. But the room was strangely empty. Mama was not there. I shot out the back door. Running to the tent where our beds were, I lifted the flap. The setting sun, filtering through canvas, filled the tent with a golden glow. There, kneeling beside her bed, was Mama. In astonished reverence, I waited.

'What were you doing?' I asked timidly as she arose.

'I was asking the Heavenly Father to bring my little girls safely home,' she replied tenderly.

'I didn't know you could ask Him for things in the daytime,' I marveled. I had supposed that aside from our regular family prayers, we prayed only before tumbling into our beds.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Mama drew me to her. 'We are our Heavenly Father's children,' she said. 'He loves us and will listen to us anytime.'

It was all so clear. Father really meant father. I was really and truly His little girl, and I could call upon Him whenever I needed to! My heart was jubilant.3

We not only draw spiritual dividends from childhood memories, but other blessings as well. As the composer has said .The song is ended, but the melody lingers on,. so Kolob memories are a melody to me.memories that paid my tuition for my first year in college.

In 1928, my English teacher, Mattie Ruesch, without my knowing it, entered one of my compositions in the lyric poem contest at the B.A.C. On College Day I was awarded the Spilsbury Memorial Scholarship for my—

Memories

Polliwog pond
I see you still
With mud pies on your banks.
I hear the toads a croaking
At our foolish, childish pranks.
Old pine log
I love you yet,
The moss grows o'er your sides—
I seem to see the hollow
Where the scolding squirrel hides.
Bluebell bed,
Your fragrance sweet
To me is ever dear.
I see the wind a blowing
Your blossoms far and near.
Childhood days,
You'll ne'er depart.
In memory you'll dwell.
You'll always be my sunshine,
For of happy hours you tell.

1. Story 'Double Blessing' published in Friend, May 1978, p. 2.
2. Alphogies are leather pouches big enough to hold a child, that hang on each side of a pack horse.
3. Story 'Home Safe' published in Friend, September 1975, p. 48.

8Our brick house was built during the sad winter that my little brother died. Mama was tied down with the two of us and couldn't visit the house during construction. Then came the day that Papa took her to see it.

'Welcome to our home, sweetheart,' he said as they entered the front door. The winter sun streamed through the windows and the house smelled sweet from new plaster and pine wood. From the spacious living room, Mama thoughtfully walked into the kitchen, visualizing where the stove and cupboard would be. Opening the stair door, papa beckoned her on, pausing on the stairway. Proudly he said 'See this closet! It's something extra we hadn't planned.' Actually it was a square hole in the wall above the cellar steps, with room to store a couple of quilts. On upstairs he led her through the four cheerful bedrooms. In the master bedroom, the one with the double windows facing the east, Mama hesitated. With a troubled look she asked 'Where are the closets?'

'Closets are an unnecessary expense,' he explained.

'But we drew them in our plans.'

'The carpenters convinced me that this was easier to install, and much cheaper,' he said pointing to a board nailed horizontally across one wall. Protruding from it was a row of spike nails. 'There's one in each bedroom.'

Fury welled up inside Mama. How perfectly horrid the rooms would look with the family's droopy clothes dangling from nails on the wall! Couldn't Papa realize that these were modern times! That they had planned real closets! She bit her tongue to keep from saying what was on her mind. Even her own mother hadn't had to put up with nails. At least her father had provided wooden pegs! Sick at heart, she suddenly realized that every special feature they had planned in the house had been omitted.

Papa's stock answer, as she questioned him was 'The carpenters convinced me I didn't need it,' or, 'It was a foolish frill.'

Mama's heart lifted when she saw the ample shelves in the pantry where pans of milk could cool, and she appreciated the cellar, underneath the kitchen, with, its rock walls and dirt floor, and enough shelves for bottled fruit, crocks of preserves and buckets of lard and molasses. In the beams overhead were spike nails for hanging bacon slabs, cured ham and dried herbs.

Papa saved one little surprise for the last. In the northwest bedroom downstairs, was a doll-house sized door. Opening it, Mama saw the rough underside of the stair steps, spike nails protruding from them. If dresses weren't too long, they could hang here. So, in all of this big, eight room house, this little miniature was really her only closet! Airing her disappointment would only have cast a pall of gloom, and this was to be a day of rejoicing. Compared to the drafty granary where they had lived before moving in with Aunt Alice, this was a castle.

The family moved into the new home in January 1912. Although Mama never confessed it to Papa, the absence of closets always rankled in her heart. Years9later, at the time Winferd and I were building our home, she related the above incident to me. 'Alice,' she said, 'a woman should be on hand when her home is being built. If she isn't, the carpenters will talk her husband out of every thing she wants.'

Winferd's mother, who was with us at the time, said 'She's right. I had to be right there to get what I wanted when Hen built our house, and I did get clothes closets. When I insisted on a bathroom, Hen complained 'We're not millionaires.' but I stayed on the job and we got it.'

All we had was outdoor plumbing down by the barn.

But our home was a happy one. On winter mornings when we were small, we were awakened by the sound of Mama shaking the ashes down in the kitchen stove. After the kitchen fire was made, she started a fire in the living room stove. Soon there was a warm spot for us to race to after we had dressed in the arctic zone upstairs. It is hard to visualize, unless you've been there, how cold a house can get during the night when the last whisper of heat dies with the dying embers after the family has gone to bed.

Papa couldn't chop wood, so that chore fell mostly to Mama and my older sisters. Try as I would, I could never swing an ax good enough to make the chips fly. And speaking of chips, they were mighty important. Without them, kindling a fire was difficult. Mama claimed to be the world's champion chip sifter.

Flickering firelight lent to the coziness of winter evenings. That, and our one kerosene lamp, furnished our lights. Some of our neighbors were 'two-lamp-families.'

At supper time, Mama often went to the pantry for more bread or milk, taking the lamp with her. The living room moved with weird shadows as she left, and then was dark. Then the fire in the little heater danced all the more merrily. On nights when there was no fire, we sat in the dark. It was a dark dark. There were no street lights or car lights to filter in from the outside. The only outside lights were stars or moon or lightning. On drizzling nights, nothing. The only way to comprehend real darkness is to crawl into a tunnel and feel your way around the bend. When Mama carried the lamp into the back part of the house the living room was too dark to even talk. We sat around the table smothered in black velvet silence, until the long, funny shadows backed away at her approach.

Shadows were an animated part of winter evenings. With our fingers and hands we made shadow pictures on the walls of dogs, horses, rabbits and cats. With the lamp positioned just right our animals would wiggle their ears, twitch their noses or bark. Actually they were quite classical.

Shadow games were popular at parties. The boys sat in a dark room and the girls were in a room with the lamp. A sheet hung over the doorway in between. Pantomiming in front of the lamplight, the girls cast silent shadows on the sheet. Each boy picked out his partner for the next game by identifying her shadow.

One night Mama and Papa were invited out. It was the only night I can recall being home without them. We actually had a whole, unsupervised evening to ourselves. When Mama and Papa came home, there, boldly traced in charcoal on the white front room walls, were the silhouettes of all of us. Our task the next day was to wash the walls.

10The early years in the house that Papa built were probably much the same as that of the first settlers in America. We were on the very tail end of an era. I marvel that I should have been privileged to live the old life style before the world exploded into the new. Hurricane had no electricity, no pipeline, no automobiles and only one telephone. Airplanes, radios, etc. were undreamed of so far as we were concerned.

But Hurricane did have one modern marvel. In March of 1914 Charlie Petty opened a moving picture show hall. It was run by a gasoline motor. When they cranked it up the 'putt, putt, putt' could be heard all over town. Mama let me go one night with my sisters Annie, Kate and Mildred. They had to pay a nickel but I was only four, so got in free. The picture trembled and flickered a lot. Men in white overalls were painting a house. Charlie Chaplin, with his funny duck walk, blundered beneath the ladder and a bucket of paint fell upside down over his head. I cried and ran home, but my sisters stayed. They laughed at me when they got home and said I shouldn't have left because no one really got hurt, it was only a picture.

Grandma Isom built her cute little brick house next door to us. Grandma was as much a part of the family as Mama or Papa or any of the rest of us. She had her special rawhide bottomed chair with a cushion on it, and her corner at the table. She cooked on our kitchen stove and ate all of her meals with us, except when she had company, and then she served her guests on her own polished table, on a fine linen cloth set with elegant china, silverware and crystal.

I was her legs, trotting back and forth between houses, carrying the butter dish, pickles or preserves. Her friends were the satin and lace bosomed, talcum faced, kid curler1, kid glove and kid shoe variety, and they called me 'little Alice.' They usually picked me up, smothered me to their bosoms, kissed me and said 'She looks just like Evadna.' I hated to be kissed.

'She's a chatter box and has a wild imagination,' was Grandma's usual retort.

'Grandma,' I asked one time, 'do you wish I was an umbrella so you could shut me up?'

'No,' she answered. 'Now say your little piece then run along home.'

My 'little piece' was one she had taught me. I recited, 'I am a little chatterbox. My name is Alice May. The reason why I talk so much, I have so much to say.' The ladies were delighted, mostly because I was going home.

In contrast to Grandma Isom's house of old English finery, the house that Papa built had bare, pine board floors. Mama braided scatter rugs to make it homey. Uncle Jake Crawford made our dining table. It, s the same drop-leaf table that stands in the front room of the old home today. After Uncle Jake sanded, stained and varnished it, it gleamed like a mirror. The lounge, desk and the wash stand where the water bucket and wash basin stood, were made by John Hinton, a furniture maker from England. Our few rawhide bottomed chairs were made by my great grandfather Samuel Kendall Gifford. Our iron bedsteads and other chairs were freighted by team from the railroad depot at Lund, Utah and probably came from Sears & Roebuck. The desk was a two pieced affair, the bottom part standing high enough for me and my sisters to play paper dolls under. The sloped lid covered a bin where catalogs, or anything else we wanted to get out of sight, could be stashed. The top part had doors that concealed pigeonhole compartments, and stood so tall that the whole of it towered above the living room.

11One blustery day I climbed upon the lounge to look out the window. A man sauntered down the sidewalk past our white picket fence.

'Mama, who is that man?' I asked.

'I don't know,' she replied.

Craning my neck to get another look at him, I thought, 'Oh my, he must have come from the other side of the earth. He must be from China.' Never before had I seen anyone that Mama didn't know. In Hurricane, everyone knew everyone.

On September 3, 1914 Mama had a cute little baby girl. She was the second baby born in the house that Papa built, but I don't remember anything about when Edith came. She was just there like the rest of my sisters. What puzzled me was that the new baby's birthday was one day earlier than Edith's, still Edith was two years older.

Now Mama and Papa had six girls in a row! Aunt Ellen said it was a shame the new baby couldn't have been a boy. I didn't think so. I knew exactly what the folks should name her: Elva. Elva Crawford was the prettiest person I had ever seen. Her eyes and hair were dark and her skin fair. She was as nice a cousin as a girl could ever have. If Mama and Papa would name our new baby Elva, then she would be pretty and nice. I coaxed them to and they didn't say they wouldn't. At Sacrament Meeting I listened, and when Papa named our baby LaPriel, I scrunched my eyes tight to squeeze back the tears. LaPriel was an ugly, ugly name and I'd never, never call her that. What's more, I'd never tell any of my playmates what her name was. I was embarrassed. Then a funny thing happened to the name. It got nicer every day and before LaPriel even learned to goo, I knew Papa had named her right.

A chill autumn wind was scattering the poplar leaves. Barefoot days were over. Will and Maude Savage of LaVerkin, drove up to our gate in a buckboard and delivered a woven rag carpet to us. We'd never had such a luxury before because it took many rags and many rag bees to tear, sew and wind enough balls for a carpet. This was our one and only. Will's Aunt Adelaide was the weaver, and his mother Mary Ann the rag inspector. Adelaide wouldn't weave anything that might make the carpet lumpy. (Adelaide and Mary Ann had walked all the way from Council Bluff, Iowa to Salt Lake when they were little girls, and their mother Ann pushed a handcart.)

Mama piled wheat straw on the living room floor and the new carpet was stretched tightly over it and tacked down. Edith and I tumbled and bounced upon it. The floor was so springy that I felt like I was walking with bent knees. So let the wind scatter the poplar leaves. The house was snug and cozy.

1. Kid curlers were made from soft, flexible wire covered with kid skin.

11Papa was a blessed man, surrounded by women! He had always been surrounded by women. He was the only boy in Grandma's family, and his sisters, Ellen, Alice, Mary, Kate, Annie, Evadna and LaVern loved and fussed over him. Now he had Mama and six lovely daughters. (Mama and Papa never told us we were lovely. They simply didn't talk that way, but we knew they thought so anyway.) Our Aunts Ellen, Alice and Mary lived in Hurricane, and they traipsed to our house12real often to see that 'George was eating right.' They pampered him and he often reminded us with a grin, that he was 'the cutest little boy along the river.' Just imagine what Mama had to put up with! All that adulation, plus his special little side dishes at the dinner table and all.

Papa took all of the fussing for granted, as though it was his just dessert. He played his role with dignity, and set the rules that our household had to abide by. Although his feet could not run, his voice reached everywhere, giving instructions or laying down the law. He was the disciplinarian. Mama executed his orders.

We got more training at the dinner table than anywhere else. Papa, Grandma and Mama were a trio. Grandma always said, 'Now mind your manners,' and Papa would say, 'Don't take anything on your plate you cannot eat.' Mama put the food before us and silently ate.

Once when I couldn't finish the molasses on my plate, Papa said, 'It looks like your eyes are bigger than your belly,' and Grandma added, 'When the pig gets full, the slop gets sour.' My plate with its puddle of molasses was set on a pantry shelf, and the next meal it was set before me. Before I could have anything else, I had to clean it up. Eating off a dirty plate was punishment. It never happened again.

If I over-estimated and took too much food, I struggled until it was gone. But it wasn't fair to have to eat what someone else put on my plate, like pig rind. Once when Grandma dished up my beans, there was a wiggling, curled up piece of pig rind floating in my soup. The fat side curled out, half clear, jelly like and slimy. My stomach lurched at the sight of it.

'Now you eat it,' Grandma demanded. 'If you waste it, there'll come a day you'll wish you had it.'

We were always threatened with starvation as a matter of discipline. I couldn't enjoy the beans because I knew I had to eat the rind. I'd rather be thrashed. With Grandma sitting next to me there was nothing to do but cut into the detestable morsel and try. The greasy piece stuck in my throat and I gagged. Tears welled in my eyes. Rubbing them away with my fist, I obediently gulped down all of that horrid rind. I resolved right then to never, never force a child to eat what he didn't take.

There was some conflict in Grandma's philosophy, however. Tough as she was about our cleaning our plates, she would still say, 'It is better that food should waste than a belly should burst,' when we licked up the last morsel left in a bowl as we cleared the table.

To have Papa and Grandma boss us was an accepted thing, but to have Kate think she could do it too, exasperated me. Just because she was five years older than I didn't give her any authority. Annie didn't boss me; neither did Mildred. They were peaceful. Mildred and I cut out paper dolls together and made little houses under the desk when Kate thought we should be doing something else. Kate was a lot like Papa and Grandma. One day when she hit me, I sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor and howled in fury.

'If I bawl loud enough,' I thought, 'Kate will get slapped!' I yelped a mighty blast, and Mama, walking past, swatted me across my wide open mouth. In shocked surprise I shut up instantly. Without saying a word, Mama had straightened me out.

In the springtime, when the apricot tree was in bloom, our new carpet was taken up. This was part of the spring-cleaning ritual for these were the days13before vacuum cleaners. We swept with a straw broom. On Saturdays, to make the carpet nice for Sunday, the broom was dipped in a bucket of water, then shaken. The damp straw picked up extra dirt and kept the dust down. And now, with sunshine spilling everywhere, the carpet was pulled out and hung over the clothes line to be beaten clean and stored for winter. The straw that had been shiny gold last fall was pulverized to powder, to be swept out and burned. The hush of winter's insulation was gone, and the bright, scrubbed room echoed as merrily as the sparrows in the currant bushes.

The smell of blossoms and the song of the birds put a wanderlust yearning within me. Frank Beatty's family lived kitty-corner across the street from us. Mildred Beatty was my playmate and she had relatives living in Leeds. One Saturday morning I wistfully watched her Pa hitch their team to the wagon.

'Alice, would you like to go to Leeds with us?' Sister Beatty asked.

'Oh yes,' I gasped.

'Run and ask your mother,' she said.

I ran across the street, but I was afraid Mama would say no. We never went anywhere but to Virgin, Kolob or Springdale. I wanted to go with Beattys more than anything, and couldn't bear the thought of being refused. Slipping into the house, I hid behind the front door with my face to the wall. 'Mama,' I whispered, 'can I go to Leeds with Beattys?' 'Yes you can go,' I answered softly. Racing back I said, 'Mama said I could go.'

I should have enjoyed my first view of the other side of the earth, but I didn't. My conscience nagged me. It was dark before we got home. I took my scolding because I knew I deserved it, but the terrible thing was the nightmare I had after I went to bed. All night long the 'bad man' chased me in his long legged underwear. He was big and flabby fat, pale and bald headed except for one gray wisp of hair that waved when he ran after me. The whole night through I barely managed to keep out of his reach.

I had tasted the wages of sin and was relieved to see daylight streaming in through our bedroom window and to hear the resounding ring of Papa kissing Mama.

Papa's and Mama's bedroom was down the hall from ours, and always when he awoke in the morning, his kiss reverberated through the upstairs rooms, sounding like the ring of Uncle Lew's hammer on the iron tires of his wagon wheel. Although I couldn't see, I knew exactly how Mama's face looked. Papa wore a big, bushy mustache, and his kiss was much the same as being kissed by a haystack. His lips never met Mama's because she always screwed her mouth away from him, giving him lots of cheek which he smacked with a merry sound.

He also puckered up after every meal and leaned toward her at the table, planting his bristling affection upon her cheek, and we watched with pleasure, because Mama's mouth was drawn half way across her face to the opposite ear.

My sisters and I came in pairs. Annie and Kate were a team and slept in the southwest bedroom, Mildred and I in the northwest bedroom and Edith and LaPriel in the northeast bedroom just off Mama's and Papa's big southeast bedroom. Mama and Papa had a feather tick on top of their shuck tick. When we piled into their bed we almost sunk out of sight. Our beds were crackly corn shucks.

Papa was surrounded by girls, including our playmates. Uncle Lew and Aunt Mary Campbell's family lived in the next house east of us, and Uncle Marion and Aunt Mary Stout's family lived in the next house west of us. Venona Stout and Iantha Campbell were a little older than I but they played with Mildred Beatty and me, and they were very important people in my life.

14When strangers came to our house, Edith would crawl back against the wall under the lounge and stay until after they left. Once she stayed there almost all day.

Papa was a loving patriarch. He called the family together daily for family prayer. Our days began and ended with all of us on our knees together.

14The desk in the front room was a hazard. It stood on legs high enough for the baby to toddle under without bumping her head, and the cabinet on top teetered precariously when both doors were open, so Mama put the top part on the floor in the north room. It made a cool counter top for the pans of milk in the summer.

This was our first summer in Hurricane, and the upstairs bedrooms were like a furnace compared to Kolob, so we slept downstairs. Edith and LaPriel slept on the floor in front of the desk top. One morning, as they played on their bed, they hung onto the desk doors and it toppled, spilling the milk on them. Looking like drowned rats they spluttered and bawled. Their hair was matted with slathers of cream and their nightgowns were plastered to them. They were a ridiculous sight in their puddle of milk.

It didn't seem right to not be going to the ranch, but summers in Hurricane brought new discoveries. I learned that July fruit is not always bruised. When Uncle Ren's boys brought apricots and peaches to Kolob, the fruit arrived bruised, oozy brown and delicious. I thought it grew that way and I loved the bruises.

Hurricane had been celebrating Peach Day since 1913, but this year was our first time. The fruit was spread under the shade of the trees on tables made of planks. Melons, peaches, apples, plums and grapes were heaped high. People even came from Cedar and St. George in their wagons. Indians pitched their camp north of town. This was a two day celebration. On the afternoon of the second day, the melons were cut and everyone ate the fruit display. How jolly it was! Dozens of wagons. with teams tied to the side of them, were parked on the north end of main street where Marzell Covington lives today. Horseshoe pitching and other sports were in progress, when from somewhere in the direction of LaVerkin, a strange roaring and popping was heard. The horses moved uneasily, snorting and tossing their manes. Then a chugging vehicle appeared, laying a trail of dust, puffing clouds of smoke from its rear. Wild eyed, the horses reared on their hind legs and squealed. Men hung onto the horses halters to calm them. The vehicle came to a stop where the crowd was the thickest.

'It's an automobile, an automobile,' some kid shrilled.

Wow! If we'd been on Kolob, I might never, never have seen one! It made a terrible noise, and smelled awful, but it ran without horses. Wagon covers and buggy tops were white, but this vehicle was black topped. The wheels had wooden spokes, were smaller than wagon wheels and had rubber tires.

Mr. Fox owned the car, and he offered to take passengers for 10¢ a mile. Five people could ride at a time. Grandma gave each of us a dime and I sat in the front seat by Mr. Fox. All the way to the flour mill and back I sized up the car's interior. It had isinglass windows rolled up like blinds, and a bristling coco mat on the floor. Mr. Fox had a mole on his right cheek with three hairs sticking out. Maybe that's why they called him Mr. Fox. My, how I wished I had another dime!

15In September I went to the Beginners in the same room with the First Grade. My sisters went to school in the Church House and in the Relief Society building, but we were in Robb Stratton's building that was supposed to be a store, on the corner of what is now 112 West and State. You had to be seven to go to the First Grade. My cousin Josephine Spendlove was our teacher.

In the winter we were either too hot or too cold, depending on where we sat from the pot bellied stove. Probably that's why we were dressed like cocoons.

'Guess what?' I piped one evening at supper. 'We had a program in school today and I sang a song all by myself.'

'You did!' Mama exclaimed.

'What did you sing?' Grandma asked.

'I sang 'Oh that chicken pie, put in lots of spice. How I wish the goodness that I had another slice.' With a happy sigh, I settled back waiting for the family's praise. Instead, everyone grinned, then someone whispered, 'She can't even carry a tune.' I was crushed. Later, when Miss Spendlove asked me to sing, I refused.

Coming home from school each day, we walked past the loafers, or what some folks called the Spittin' an' Whittlin' Club. The front of, or the side of Charlie Petty's store, depending on the season, the wind or the sun, was the gathering place for the farmers. After school, we'd pass them, leaning against the store, or squatting on their heels, enjoying the afternoon break before chore time. Some of my playmates used to stop and beg their dads for nickels. Impressed, I decided to try it.

'Papa, can I have a nickel?' I asked, expecting him to say no.

Instead, he dug into his pocket and handed me one. I felt sheepish. I didn't really want the nickel.

Walking into the store, I surveyed the jars of hard tack candy and the packages of gum. I couldn't spend the money on something that would be eaten up and forgotten, so I bought a yard of inch wide, red, white and blue striped ribbon that I took to my room. Occasionally I'd spread it across my lap, or thoughtfully run it between my fingers.

A fun pastime was making up little plays and charging ten pins for the ticket. One afternoon we noticed the door to the wooden church house ajar, an open invitation to go on stage. We'd just cast the parts to Red Riding Hood, when Clark West's frame filled the doorway. He was the janitor. With the terrible voice of authority, he demanded to know why we were there. I was scared. He stood with his feet spread wide and I observed how long his legs were and how much room there was between, so in a sudden longing for freedom I darted between his legs and ran home.

Meat markets and refrigeration didn't exist. Grandma and Papa had cattle 'on the range,' and when a beef was butchered the word was spread through town. Papa always had his beef animal done in the early morning before the flies awoke, and people came from all over town with their little pans to buy a cut of fresh meat. We usually ended up with the heart and the liver. Mama stuffed the heart. We called it 'Yorkshire Pudding' but it was more like sage dressing than a pudding. Trying to eat the liver is what made a vegetarian out of me.

Thanksgiving day, plank and saw-horse tables were set up in the church house and covered with snowy white table cloths. People came in buggies and wagons,16bringing their good food and pretty dishes. We walked through the ankle deep snow. My feet were soaked and my toes ached, but nothing could dim the joy of the only community Thanksgiving I can remember.

Grownups had a good thing going in those days. They expected total respect from young folks, and they seemed to get it. An oft repeated axiom was, 'Children should be seen and not heard.' This was simply a matter of discipline. Also, it was an accepted custom, that at any large dinner, grownups ate first. Youngsters, out of respect for their elders, must learn patience and wait their turn. So it was with this community Thanksgiving. The grownups ate while we got our shoes still more soggy by trying to make a snowman. When our fingers got purple, we collected around the stove. Our good behavior was rewarded by the full and loving attention of the grownups as they waited on us as we were seated around the second table.

A few days after Thanksgiving, my sisters brought their baking powder cans tinkling with pennies and nickels and dumped them out onto the table to be counted. Wide eyed I watched and listened to their chatter about paying tithing.

I didn't have any nickels or pennies. I didn't even have an empty baking powder can, but I knew a little about tithing. I had seen the loads of tithing hay being hauled to the tithing barn, and I had watched Mama push the firm, yellow butter from the wooden mold onto the wrapper for 'tithing butter'. And our chickens laid 'tithing eggs.'1

'Mama, when can I pay tithing?' I asked.

Mama's dough covered hands stopped still in the big pan where she was mixing bread. She looked at me for a long minute then smiled. 'My goodness, you are getting to be a big girl, aren't you? Why of course you want to pay tithing.'

After the dough was washed from her hands, she said, 'Come with me'.

I followed her to the chicken runs, where she scattered a little wheat. Greedily, the chickens flocked around her and she slipped her hands over the wings of a young, black rooster.

'Here,' she said, handing him to me, 'hold him while I tie his legs.'

From a bunch of used binding twine that hung on the corral fence she selected a short piece. Securing the rooster's legs she said, 'You've been a good girl to help feed the chickens, so you can take this rooster to Bishop Isom for tithing.'

My sisters giggled at the rooster squirming in my arms, as I announced I was going to the bishop's with them. I hugged my rooster as we walked the six blocks to his house and the rooster chuckled back at me.

When Bishop Samuel Isom saw us coming through his gate, his front door opened wide. His ample front was made for hugging children and his big mustache made his laugh seem extra jolly.

Seeing the rooster he asked, 'Ho, ho, what's this?'

'He's a tithing rooster,' I announced.

'Ah, he's a fine one,' the bishop said, taking the chicken from me and setting him down on the porch.

17The Bishop sat at his roll top desk and my sisters paid him their nickels and pennies and he made out our receipts. As he handed them to us he gave us each a loving pat.

'Will you please read my receipt for me?' I asked, looking up at him.

'Gladly,' he replied. Taking it from me he read, 'Alice Isom has voluntarily contributed to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, one rooster.'

I tingled all over. The church was so big and I was so small, still I had contributed to it!

When we got home Mama gave me an empty mentholatum jar. 'You can keep your tithing money in this from now on,' she said.

The jar was shiny and warm from the scrubbing she had given it, scrubbing off the label. The translucent milk white glass was beautiful to me. I loved that mentholatum jar and used it all through my childhood.2

1. Eggs were considered a woman's petty cash. Women tended the hens and turned her surplus eggs in to the store for 'script.' There were 'tithing eggs' and 'Sunday eggs.' The two-roomed, brick Relief Society building in Hurricane, Utah was built with 'Sunday Eggs.'
2. Story 'The Happy Tithe Payer', originally published in Friend, May 1976, p. 2.

17ZCMI used to give Grandma a box of creamy, soft, swirly chocolate at Christmas time. The box was big, but so was Grandma's posterity, and I knew one piece was all I'd get. And this piece I licked fondly until there was nothing left but the good smell on my fingers. Sometimes Grandma gave me the empty fluted cups and breathing deeply I'd bury my nose in them. She knew what a rare treat this was to all of us.

One day when we were at Grandma's house with our cousins, she brought out her chocolate box. Breaking the cellophane from the shiny, pink box, she removed the velvet ribbon. Our mouths watered. She lifted the lid and chocolate aroma filled the room. To each child she passed her treasure. Breathlessly I waited and finally she held the box before me.

'Do you want a chocolate, Alice?' she asked.

Trying not to appear too eager I timidly replied, 'I don't care.'

'Well,' she retorted, 'If you don't care, I'm certainly not going to waste one on you.'

And she didn't. I was crushed. But the lesson she taught me has never been forgotten. I learned that I'd better let it be known that I do care, one way or another, about everything of importance. I also learned to say, 'Yes please,' or 'No thank you.'

Grandma's house had plush carpets of red roses and dark green leaves on a rich brown background. Light, filtering through white lace curtains, was reflected in the soft sheen of her polished furniture.

Butterflies And Hurricanes Piano

Edith and I were her dusting girls. Sometimes our cousin Virginia Campbell helped. Edith was Grandma's favorite duster because she sat tirelessly under the dining table, working the dust cloth into every curlicue of the carved legs. Her fingers also went round and round through the fancy iron work under the sewing machine. I detested fussy details. Still, Grandma gave me as many lemon drops and peppermints as she did Edith. Edith knew she deserved18more and she and Virginia helped themselves from the shoe box of candy on the marble top table in the parlor. Those frosted lemon drops were as tempting to me as to them, but my nagging conscience held me back. So Edith and Virginia snitched freely and I shared the blame.

Grandma didn't blame gently either. Once she accused me of using all of her black shoe polish.

'Grandma, I didn't do it,' I said.

'It's no use for you to tell me that, for I know full well you did,' she snapped.

I stood up for myself the best I could, but she said I was being disrespectful and sassy. I was humiliated, because Aunt Mary Campbell was there. I hated being scolded in front of company. One look at my shoes would show that they never had been shined, except with soot, and that rarely.

Tears stung my eyes and my throat ached. I was trying hard not to cry. Aunt Mary put her arm around me. The squeeze of her hand and the look in her eyes told me she knew I was innocent. I resolved that when I became a Grandma I would never tell a grandchild they did something if they said they didn't.

Grandma braided my hair snake-braid. The idea was to weave each lock of hair in so tightly that it couldn't come undone. She wore a thimble as she braided, claiming it helped her do a neater, tighter job. That wasn't the real reason. The thimble was for thumping my head when I wiggled. I had to sit like a statue. She pulled my hair so tight at the temples that she almost braided my skin in too, and slanted the outer corners of my eyes up, and the corners of my mouth as well. A scowl would have been impossible because the muscles were stretched the opposite way. I became so tough headed I could have been hung by my braids without feeling it. But my hair, as Grandma lamented, was like snakes, crawling all of the time. Mama called it wiry. No way could the ends of my braids be fastened so they would stay. Once undone, the braids unraveled like pulling a thread on a knitted sock. That meant more head thumping from Grandma's thimble.

No squirrel ever stored more diligently for winter than Grandma did. In our granary she kept a forty-gallon wooden barrel with grapes pickled in molasses and water, and one for pickling corned beef and one filled with brine for cucumbers. All winter she dipped into these barrels, doling out goodies into her little brass bucket for us to take to her friends. On Saturdays or after school she would send me pattering across town with the shiny little bucket taking her offerings to Grandma Spendlove or Grandma and Grandpa Hinton or to Albert Stratton or Lizzie Lee.

Grandma ate her meals with us except when she had company. Then she cooked on our stove, but served her guests on her own pretty table with her elegant dishes. Once when she was taking currant pies from the oven, she dropped one. It spilled from the plate in a broken heap. I was glad, because she said, 'You young ones can have it.' No pie ever tasted so good as the one we ate from the kitchen floor. Her daughters used to say, 'Ma is so saving, that if a fly lit in the molasses, she'd lick its legs before turning it loose.' Papa said she was thrifty.

Even though Grandma and Papa did most of the disciplining, there were times when Mama took a hand, and when she did she made it good. She wouldn't tolerate19our quarreling or fighting. If two of us got into a scrap, she cut three willows, one for each of us and one for herself.

Raising her stick, she'd say, 'All right, if you two want to fight you're going to do it right. Now you hit each other or I'll hit you.'

My arm would go weak in the elbow. I couldn't begin to lift my stick. Looking at my sisters then back at Mama I'd whimper, 'I don't want to fight.'

'Do as you're told and hit each other,' she would demand.

We'd both be sniveling by now. 'We don't want to fight,' we'd howl.

'Then kiss each other and behave yourselves.'

Kissing each other was the worst punishment of all, but it was either that or the tingling of the willow. Usually it was the latter. But Mama didn't have to use this method on us often. It was drastic enough to make for lasting peace.

But the world wasn't at peace. Grandma digested the Deseret News each evening and we got a review of the news the following day at meal time. Often when I was busting to talk, Papa would say, 'Shhh, Grandma is talking.'

A war was going on. The Germans, especially Old Kaiser Bill, were the bad guys and the English, with the British Fleet were the good guys and they were scrapping over France. Little Belgium was the stomping ground.

When our stable was cleaned, the manure was always pitched out of the two east windows. The mounds dried and we used to play one mound was Bunker Hill and the other Golden Hill. We wore a powdery trail in between as we ran back and forth. Now these piles became France and Germany and we played 'Kaiser Bill went up the hill to kill the king of France. Kaiser Bill came down the hill with bullets in his pants.'

As Grandma reported the news, vivid pictures built up in my mind. The British and Germans were deadlocked somewhere in Belgium. Neither side could advance, so they dug trenches for themselves. Parallel lines of trenches ran clear across northern France from Flanders to Switzerland. 'No man's land' was the strip between. I pictured the Germans burrowing in their muddy trenches like mean little gophers. Grandma's reports were awful! Millions of lives were lost in those trenches by machine guns, poison gas and liquid fire.

Stories of German submarines filled the news. Grandma was aghast at the news when the Lusitania was sunk, drowning over a thousand people. The Lusitania was a British ship of war, but was carrying just plain people, a lot of them Americans. President Woodrow Wilson let Germany know we didn't like this one bit, but Germany sank eight more American Ships. In a single week they sank eighty-eight ships. (History of the American People by David Saville Muzzey, pages 631-637)

President Wilson said, 'It is a fearful thing to lead this great and peaceful people into war … but the right is more precious than peace.' (Muzzey, p. 631)

On April 6, 1917 the United States of America declared war on Germany! Our country was involved in World War I. (Muzzy 632)

Fortunately, the world continues to turn, war or no war, and springtime brings sheep shearing time. The Goulds Shearing Corral upon the Hurricane Hill was fast becoming the biggest operation of its kind in the world, so the story goes. Aunt Alice and Uncle Will Spendlove ran one cook shack, cooking for thirty or forty men, and Thad and Lizzy Ballard ran the other cook shack, cooking for the20same number of men. Uncle Will came to Hurricane almost every day for water and supplies, and Thad did too. Thad had a water tank that was as long as the bed of his wagon.

Papa decided it would be a good family outing to go to Goulds so he borrowed Uncle Ren's team and wagon. To ride anywhere was a treat to us. Mama put a denim quilt over a shuck tick in the wagon box for us to sit on and packed the grub box. She sat up front on the spring seat beside Papa.

I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. I thought of the good picnic Mama had prepared and of seeing Aunt Alice and Uncle Will and of watching the men shear sheep.

When Papa slapped the reins, on the horses backs, the wagon creaked and swayed as the horses pulled into the ruts in the road. Going up the Hurricane Hill was scary, because the dugway was narrow and steep, but I savored each turn of the wheels. Once on top, the horses settled into an easy gait and I stretched out on the bed, enjoying the protection of the tightly stretched wagon cover over the bows that the beating sun illuminated but did not penetrate. The horses jogged along and the wagon wheels ground pleasantly in the dirt, lulling me to sleep. When I awoke, we were going down the hill and Papa was pulling back on the brake rope.

'Aren't we going to Goulds?' I asked.

'We have been to Goulds,' one of my sisters replied.

'But I haven't,' I cried.

'Oh yes you have. You just didn't wake up,' someone said.

Crawling over to where Mama sat, I said, 'Mama, I haven't been to Goulds, have I!'

She looked at me in surprise and put her arm around me. 'Bless you,' she said, 'I guess we forgot to wake you.'

'Oh Mama,' I cried, 'you didn't have the picnic without me did you?'

She looked stricken. 'I'm afraid we did. There were so many people, I guess we didn't notice you were still in the wagon asleep.'

I didn't just cry. I howled broken heartedly. How could anyone do that to me! How could they, when we simply never, never went anywhere! 'I didn't even get to see the shearing corral,' I bawled.

Everyone was sorry, but I knew I would never get to go again, and I didn't.

My disappointment over the Goulds trip was deeper than I can express. It had been so good just to smell a wagon cover again and to hear the clopping of horses. A longing for the annual trek to Kolob was revived, stirring within me almost to the point of obsession. I yearned for the sight of bluebells, pink phlox, squirrels and pine trees.

I'm sure Mama felt very sorry about the slip-up on the Goulds trip too, so when Aunt Ellen and Uncle Ren Spendlove invited me to go to Kolob with them for the summer, Mama and Papa consented to let me go. I was transported with joy. I loved every turn of the road, camping under the open sky, watching the dying embers of the campfire, hearing once more the sound of horses munching grain in their nose bags. With a happy heart I drifted off to sleep.

The early morning climb up the mountain brought us to Heaven! A Heaven of long needle pines, the smell of sage and racing through the meadow with Venice and Velma.

21Aunt Ellen made corn bread for supper. She put a piece on my plate with yellow butter melting through it. I took one bite but could not swallow. I looked at the dear faces in the lamplight. WHERE WAS MAMA? WHERE WERE MY SISTERS AND PAPA? My throat tightened. I picked up my plate and headed for the door.

'Where are you going?' Aunt Ellen asked.

With a gulp I answered, 'I want to eat my corn bread outside.'

It was still twilight. I sat with my back against a pine tree, my plate in my lap. I tried to eat but couldn't. Tears were splashing on my dress. Why? Here I was at my very own Kolob, sitting against my favorite tree, with my favorite food on my plate, still I was crying. Digging a hole in the sand, I buried the bread and then I cried hard. In that moment I knew Heaven would never be Heaven without my family.

The next day Lafe and Tennessee Spendlove galloped in on a little buckboard to deliver some things to Aunt Ellen. They were returning to Hurricane that afternoon, and I begged to go with them. Venice and Velma coaxed me to stay, but I would not.

When I got home, Hurricane looked hot, dull and dry. I realized that I had run away from Kolob. This time I fell desperately ill. Heartbroken, a homesick longing as big as the earth and sky seemed almost to crush the life out of me, a longing to bring together the two dearest things on earth to me, my family and Kolob. And this could never be.

It was quarterly conference and the house swarmed with relatives from 'up the river.' I was on the bed in the northwest bedroom and was going to die. I knew it and I knew Mama and all of the relatives knew it. This was the end. Then I saw the concern on Mama's face and I said, 'Mama, if you will get Brother Barber and Brother Jepson to help Papa administer to me I will be better.' They came and after the administration I was well instantly.

On June 5th, my cousin Ianthus Campbell died. He was one of the babies that had inspired my sisters to pray for twins. Now Iantha was left without her twin the same as I was.

Ianthus used to play ball in the street with us. Our balls were made of tightly wound carpet rags, stitched on the outside with carpet warp in a honeycomb stitch. Our bats were pieces of board whittled narrow at the handle and wide as a paddle—the wider the better our chance for hitting the ball.

Sometimes Ianthus teased me. Once I got so aggravated I hit him with the garden rake. I couldn't hit him good because the rake was too heavy for me to swing, but I got him good enough to make him run home bawling. Uncle Lew said he was going to take me to Kolob and use me for coyote bait. Now Ianthus was gone and he would never pitch a ball to me again, and I wished I had never hit him.

But Uncle Lew and Aunt Mary still had one boy, Marcus, the same age as Edith. The nearest thing Papa had to being a boy was me. Grandma said I was a Tomboy, and Papa encouraged it. When Sam Pollock came to play checkers, Papa used to get me to shinny up the porch poles. Sam would say, 'Ah George, she can climb as good as any boy.' I wasn't interested in being 'as good as.' I wanted to be 'better than,' so that's when I started climbing to the peak of the barn. When Grandma22saw me walking along, the ridge of the barn roof, she fluttered into the yard screeching, 'Aaalliss, come right down before you break your neck!' From my perch she looked wonderfully small down by the woodpile, and I loved her clucking and ruffling her feathers over me. I climbed down, but I knew I would climb up again because I wanted Papa to brag about me. Then there was the mulberry tree in front of Grandma's house. The top limbs were even higher than the barn. When Grandma saw me swaying overhead she went into a most satisfactory dither and I climbed down to please her. Between her spasms and Papa's bragging I felt famous.

We used to sing a song that went something like this:

My sister wears a velvet dress and ostrich feather hat
And white kid gloves and shiny shoes and all such things as that.
She goes to parties, matinees and dances all she can,
But she can never do the things I'll do when I'm a man.

Chorus

A girl can't be a cowboy, or run away to sea,
Or be an Injun fighter, like I intend to be,
So I don't care what she may wear, it never makes me mad,
For I shall run the country when I'm big like Dad.

This song made me wish I was a boy. Sometimes I honestly resented being a girl.

Although it had been years since Grandma had closed her store in Virgin, she could still buy wholesale from ZCMI. In fact, ZCMI not only gave her chocolates every year, but they also gave her a rich looking satin dress piece every summer when she returned to Salt Lake to visit relatives and friends. And always she returned with a big cardboard box filled with white canvas slippers, a pair for each of her granddaughters. She bought them for ten or twenty cents a pair. With each pair she gave us a half-moon shaped piece of chalk to keep them white. We only wore them on the 4th and 24th of July and on Sunday. The rest of the time we went barefooted.

Sometimes we made moccasins out of the backs of old overalls, to protect our feet from the scorching earth and from the grass burs. Our winter shoes—and there was only one pair a year—had high tops that either laced or buttoned. A button-hook hung by the door between the front room and the kitchen. Saturday nights we turned a stove lid upside down and with a rag and spit we rubbed soot on our shoes, blacking them for Sunday.

Frank Beatty traded property with Charlie Workman and moved his family practically off the earth. They moved at least two miles away in the Hurricane fields. That meant that I lost Mildred Beatty for a playmate. But Workmans built a house a half block up the street and I got a new playmate, Eloise. Eloise's sisters Hazel, Flora and Delsey used to read stories to us. When they read the people in the stories came alive, they were so full of expression. Eloise's brothers Carl and Eldon treated us like grown-ups and entertained us, and Sister Workman would put out big glass fruit bowls filled with dried malaga grapes and paper shelled almonds on Sunday afternoon. We loved to visit at Workman's home.

In the fall, a most disgraceful thing happened! When school started they put all of the dumb little six year olds in with us. The 'Beginners' was discontinued and the new kids started right out in the first grade! It wasn't fair!23With a wounded, superior air, we looked down on those little 'babies' the whole year through. But one thing eased the blow, and that was that it made us kind of distinctive for we were the last of the beginners, and the new little kids were the first, first graders to be only six years old.

The new school building was not quite finished, so we started the first grade in the Relief Society building.

Great things were going on in Hurricane. Tall power poles were being planted down every street. How exciting it was when electricians began wiring our house! My little sisters and I were right underfoot to grab every metal slug the men dropped to the floor. They were the size and color of nickel coins.

The electric power was turned on in Hurricane in September 1917. Every corner had a street light and lights shone from every home. How beautiful it was!

Light globes were delicate, exquisite things of thin, crystal clear glass, with delicate wires inside, glowing first red, then bright yellow when the power was turned on. A globe hung from a drop cord in the center of each room in our house. The front room, kitchen and hall had wall switches—push buttons in a copper plate. In the other rooms the lights were turned on at the globe. We were fascinated with the magic that took place when we pushed the button, but Papa sternly said, 'This is no play thing. You will wear out the switches.' He made a strict rule that the lights were to be turned on only once each night, and we could take turns at that. When it was my turn, I looked forward with excitement all day for the coming of night. We boasted and bragged to our playmates about the brightness of our lights. To out-do us all, Iantha said their lights were so bright they had to open the door to let a little dark in.

Burned out light globes became treasures. Women crocheted lace coverings for them and used them as ornamental curtain tie-backs.

But electricity was undependable. We didn't put the kerosene lamp away, because with every gusty wind or rain squall, the power went off. Each time Mama lit the lamp, Papa remarked, 'Another cow must have stepped in the Santa Clara Creek.' That's where our power came from.

On the morning of October 30th Grandma came from Mama's bedroom. 'Good morning girls,' she said, 'the stork brought you a little baby brother in the night.'

Papa came into the room with a funny look on his face. It was a grin with tears in it, like he was laughing and crying at the same time.

'Come quietly and you can see your new brother,' Grandma said, going into Mama's room ahead of us.

Mama smiled at us and pulled the covers back so we could see the little creature that was bundled beside her. Well! He certainly wasn't any beauty. He was bald headed as a jack-o-lantern. If he had waited one more day he would have been born on Halloween. 'If I were Mama,' I thought, 'I'd stick to girls.'

What I couldn't quite figure out was why everyone who came to our house made such a fuss over Papa. All of our Aunts kissed him and said, 'Well George, at last you have a fine son,' and the corners of Papa's mustache twitched and he batted his eyes like something was in them. Not one soul said, 'Well George, you have six lovely daughters!' Except Sam Pollock. When he came to play checkers with Papa he'd sort of say it in a round about way. He'd say, 'Ah George, someday the devil will pay you off in sons-in-laws.'

Our brother was named William Howard for a whole line of grandfather Williams going back on both sides, and for our Howard ancestry that came from England.24Papa had Howard in his name too, and since George had been given to my twin, our new brother got the Howard part.

During all of the excitement of Hurricane growing, and our family growing, Grandma still kept us posted about the war with Germany. We heard about, saw and felt the effects daily. Every man between the ages of twenty-one and thirty had to register for military service. Looking back, I don't see how our country could have had such a jaunty air about going overseas. Our soldiers joked and laughed and sang, making the war appear to be a romantic adventure. Snatches of their songs went something like this:

Johnny get your gun, get your gun, get your gun,
Take it on a run, on a run, on a run,
Make your daddy proud of you, and your own red, white and blue.

Over there, over there, send a word, say a prayer,
For the Yanks are coming, their hearts are strumming,
The drums are drumming everywhere.

… We're going over …
And we won't be back till it's over, over there.

In every little church house in every little town farewell parties were held. The entire town gathered for the farewell party when the first soldier boys left Hurricane. Sweethearts and mothers were in tears. I remember Josephine Spendlove, Mattie Segler and Annie Workman, sweethearts of Elmer Wood, Ren Spendlove and Claude Hirschi. The girls were dressed in sheer blouses, and their lacy camisoles with tiny pink or blue ribbon bows showed through. They looked so romantic to me. Through their smiles, they shed just enough tears to make the occasion sweet and sad and I got a lump in my throat. The following two songs were sung and continued to echo in my mind, because we heard them many times afterward:

SMILE AWHILE

Goodbye means the birth of a teardrop.
Hello means the birth of a smile.
Over high garden wall, the sweet echoes fall
As a soldier boy whispers goodbye.

Smile awhile, you kiss me sad adieu.
When the clouds roll by I'll come to you.
Then the skies will seem more blue
Down in lover's lane, my dearie.
Wedding bells will ring so merrily,
Every tear will be a memory.
So wait and pray each night for me
Till we meet again.

SO LONG MOTHER

So long my dear old mother, don't you cry.
Come, kiss your grown up baby boy goodbye.
Somewhere in France I'll be dreaming of you,
You and your dear eyes of blue.

Come, let me see you smile before we part.
I'll throw a kiss to cheer your dear old heart.
There's a tear in your eye, don't you sigh, don't you cry.
So long mother, kiss your boy goodbye.

The following day people gathered on the streets to wave goodbye as our soldiers left town in a Model T Ford, on their way to Camp Lewis.

25In 1917 the Hurricane and LaVerkin towns bought water rights from Toquerville and both towns began to look something like Northern France. With picks and shovels men dug trenches down every street. But these were not grim trenches like the ones in France. These were happy ones where kids could race, whooping and laughing and hollering, after the workers had gone home for the day. What fun we had, until it was discovered what a lot of dirt we were knocking down for the men to shovel out again, then we were forbidden to play in the trenches anymore.

In the trenches wooden pipes with wire coiled around them were buried, and by January 1918 water flowed through them. We had a tap under the cherry tree close to the kitchen door. Up to this time we drank 'cistern' water. Papa owned a cistern in with Uncle Lew and Uncle Marion. It was built just below the canal. It had boards over the top to keep kids and critters from falling in, but every little while it had to be cleaned to get rid of polliwogs, snakes, snails and moss. Cistern water was piped to the corral and the cow's trough was slick and green.

With the new water system, our drinking water was no longer murky, but crystal clear, and the taste took some getting used to. People called it 'Toquer-Bloat.'

In January the entire school moved into a new school building. In our new class room we sang, 'Good morning to you, good morning to you. We're all in our places with bright smiling faces. Oh, this is the way to start a new day.' Then before our opening prayer, Miss Moody said, 'Today we must give special thanks for this lovely new class room.'

The new building was steam heated with silver painted radiators that knocked and banged and sometimes steamed at the valves. On an inside wall in each room was an 'air hole' next to the floor, big enough for a kid to crawl into. Oozing plasters hardened between the laths in the air holes, made a beckoning ladder where adventurous boys often vanished.

The bell in the belfry rang exactly thirty minutes before marching time and could be heard clear across town. In the school yard, each grade had an assigned spot to line up in double rows. When the piano started playing 'The Stars and Stripes Forever', the littlest grade marched first. We marched, one line at a time, swiveling for a right angle turn, marching up the steps four abreast, stepping on the bottom step with the right foot. The Principal clapped his hands calling, 'Left, right, left, right,' and we never broke rank until we were in our seats. The names of those who got out of step were jotted down and they marched in the awkward squad after school.

In the spring, the locust trees that lined the sidewalk in front of the schoolhouse hung sweet with clusters of white waxen blossoms. At recess time we greedily munched the flowers. Green groceries in the store did not exist. The locust blossom satisfied a craving, as did watercress.

The pear trees in our front yard were a cloud of blossoms and bees. I loved to sit on the front porch holding our baby brother on my lap. His curls were honey colored, he had a round laughing face and his eyes were blue. I'd pat out the soft folds of his white dress so people passing by would look26over the picket fence and say, 'My, what a pretty baby!'

On May Day everyone went a Maying. Happy picnickers gathered with their teams and wagons at Berry Springs, where high swings hung from the cottonwood trees by the pond. Caterpillars, with furry backs rippling, crawled merrily on the limbs, dropping their fat little bodies among the picnickers. Shivering, blue-legged little girls in ringlets and pink, blue, yellow and green mosquito netting dresses braided the colored streamers on the May Pole. May Day was often chilly, but always wonderful.

Now that Hurricane had electricity, we no longer heard the loud popping of the gasoline engine which 'ran the dynamo and created the juice' for the operation of the picture show on Wednesday and Saturday nights. Charlie Petty built the new Star Theater, which opened in May 1918.

I was wild about picture shows. Since we seldom had nickels, if I wanted to see a movie, I earned the ticket. I passed handbills whenever Charlie Petty would let me. All of the shows were good, no matter how bad they were. There were the good guys and the bad guys. If the bad guys didn't repent they were punished. Right prevailed. The girls were pretty and the men handsome. Love triumphed. Endings were happy. Never was the audience left with that oh-no-it-can't-end-that-way feeling. Pictures were black and white and silent. When the words were flashed on the screen, grownups could be heard all over the hall reading to the little ones. A melodeon, a cross between a player piano and an organ, rolled out background music during the wild stampedes or gun fights. A woman treaded the pedals as the roll of music played.

In the summer time I took for granted the hard work that Mama and my older sisters did. Mama dug ditches and put in the gardens, doing what Papa would have done if he could have, and Annie and Kate milked the cows. Perched on their three-legged stools, one on each side of the cow, they milked together. Annie scythed the green lucern, raking it in a pile, then plunging the pitch fork into the heavy load, she'd swing it over her shoulders, looking like a moving haystack as she went to the corral. We each had our tasks to do, but play was more fun to me than work.

Playing with Iantha and Vinona was so much fun. Iantha was clever at making rag dolls. Our rag doll families were cute and we had a technique where we could make them without needle or thread, and even without scissors if necessary. We did need scissors for the silk scraps Iantha furnished from Aunt Mary's dressmaking. Aunt Mary Campbell did custom sewing.

It was no sin in my sight to make rag dolls first, then do my dishes afterwards. Neither Kate nor Annie saw it that way. Kate shouted so persistently for me to come downstairs one day that I shouted in exasperation, 'You're just old maids. You ought to be married and have kids of your own to boss. When I'm as old as you are, I'll be married.' Kate was just thirteen. All the rest of the summer she reminded me that I'd better get busy on my trousseau.

Dirty dishes and bossy sisters can never squelch childhood happiness. My cousins were fun to be with. Eating bread and milk and little green onions up on the canal bank with them was the best kind of picnic.

One day our curiosity about cigarettes spurred Iantha and I into action. Sitting on our woodpile, we rolled up fine cedar bark in catalog paper, sticking it together with spit. Holding a roll in my lips I struck a match and sucked in my breath. The flame went through the bark and the smoke up the27back of my throat behind my nostrils and eyes. Choking and coughing, I struggled for breath. Tears streamed down my cheeks. When I could breathe, I looked at Iantha, and she was choking and coughing and tears streamed down her face, too. Our curiosity was satisfied.

One day, while Will Sanders from LaVerkin visited with Papa in our yard, he took a plug of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a cud. His eyes crinkled with pleasure and he made a sucking sound through his teeth like he was slurping watermelon juice. Expertly he spat in the dust, then chewed some more. Watching his face I thought how wonderfully good chewing tobacco must be. Papa kept a box of 'horseshoe' plug tobacco in the granary for sick cattle. When no one was looking, I took the box from the shelf. The tobacco was fresh and moist and biting off a hunk was easy. What a shock! My mouth burned and I spit and spit. I had been deceived!

Street lights added a new dimension to our lives. On summer evenings, after the supper dishes were done, we played barefooted in the squishy dust that was fluffy as talcum in the wagon rutted road. We never played further away than our own corner street light, within the range of Papa's voice when he called us in for family prayer. How good it was to pause in our play and run across the front porch, pressing our faces against the screen door to see Mama and Papa. They were always there. Sometimes Mama chorded on the organ and Papa sang 'The Bowery', 'Rosy Nell' or 'Sweet Birds, Oh Say That My Lover is True.'

One evening as Iantha and I played together, a girl from across town came along. 'Will you kids walk home with me?' she asked.

'l can't,' I answered, 'it's too late. It would be dark before we got back home.'

'That's why I want you to go with me. It will be dark before I get home and I'm scared.'

'Ah, come on,' Iantha said, 'let's take her home.'

'I can't,' I protested.

'If both of you go, then you won't have to come back alone,' the girl pleaded.

'Nope, I can't,' I insisted.

'All right, don't you do it then,' she retorted, 'but I'll tell you one thing. If you don't, the devil will get you.'

'He won't really, will he?' I asked.

'He will really,' she affirmed. The girl was two years older than me, so she should know.

Even the mention of the devil's name scared me. I had the urge to run in the house quick but the girl was saying, 'The devil will really get you and you won't ever see your Mama again.'

That did it. I said. 'We'd better hurry and take her home.'

Holding hands, the three of us ran. Dusk turned into thick black velvet as we scooted through the tunnel of trees up her lane.

As we got to her gate and said, 'Goodnight,' she pulled us to her. 'Because you had to be coaxed and didn't come with me when I first asked you, the devil is going to get you anyway,' she said. 'He won't get you until28the first night you sleep away from home. Not unless you tell somebody that I told you this. If you tattle, he'll get you that night.' With that expression of gratitude for our protection, she ran into her house, and we sped terrified through the darkness to home.

As I slipped quietly into the welcome light of the living room, Papa said, 'This is a fine time to be coming home,' then went on jouncing Willie on his knee and singing, 'A chicken went to bed but it was no use, roll Jordan roll.'

Grandma was reading the Deseret News and shaking her head and saying, 'Tsk, tsk, tsk, what a shame.' Mildred was playing with the paper dolls we had cut out of the Montgomery and Sears catalogs, and asked me to play with her. She played with the ones that didn't have any feet, and with the black and white ones and let me play with the slick, colored ones. Things seemed all right as long as the family was around and the lights were on, but after prayers, everyone went to bed. Then the terrifying prediction came back to me and I realized that all the days of my life I would never be able to leave Hurricane because my first night away from home would be my last one on earth. Burying my head under the covers I finally slept.

In the brightness of day I was able to dismiss the grim promise, until one of my sisters mentioned going to Springdale, then the torment within me became intolerable. I hoped Uncle Lewis wouldn't bring his grist to the mill until fall, because if he did, he'd probably invite Mildred and me to return to Springdale with him. But something just as worrisome happened. Papa planned a family vacation to Moccasin to see Aunt LaVern Heaton's family. Moccasin was in Arizona. We'd never been out of Utah. My sisters were as tickled as if Moccasin had streets of pure gold. I wasn't tickled, I was scared.

Mama hummed while she baked mountains of cookies and bread, and everyone was busy and happy helping get ready to go. I helped, but I wasn't happy. Ianthus Spendlove drove to our house in Uncle Ren's wagon and our bedding and grub box were loaded in, I knew that this was the very last day of my life.

I didn't have to go with the family, but if I didn't, I'd have to tell why, and that would be tattling, and that would be the end. I might as well go along and enjoy the remainder of my life.

It was good to be perched upon a pile of bedding with the other kids. We chattered and giggled, guessing what we'd find around each bend of the road. Far across the open stretches, gray forms raced with the wind.

'Are they wolves?' I asked.

'No, they are tumbleweeds,' Papa replied.

Later we came to where they were piled high in a barbed wire fence. Ahead was a mountain as blue as Pinevalley Mountain.

'Will we go over that mountain?' I asked.

'Tomorrow,' Papa answered.

Oh, dear! If only I were going to be alive tomorrow I could see what the rocks on a blue mountain looked like. They must be made of blue glass. I could gather my lap full of them and take them home to Venona and Iantha. My heart ached with regrets and I became engulfed in a tide of misery.

At sundown Papa said it was time to pitch camp.29Ianthus brought the team to a halt off the side of the road and took off their harnesses, rubbing their sweaty flanks as they snorted with satisfaction.

We ate our supper around the camp fire, then made a wide family bed on a canvas on the ground. After we were all tucked in I lay listening to the contented sounds of the horses and the chirping of crickets. My emotions swung like a pendulum between fleeting surges of happiness and misery. I loved sleeping under the stars and the sounds of the night. Nothing could be more fitting for my last hour on earth. I studied the dark bushes around me and I knew that lurking behind one of them was the bad man, waiting for everyone to go to sleep so he could get me. I felt sorry for the family. They'd never know what had happened to me, and they would be sad as they went on to Moccasin without me.

This was the zero hour!

I might as well tell, because it didn't matter now. I could shout to the hills the whole tale of my misery, and it wouldn't make any difference.

I crawled out of the warm spot between my sisters and snuggled under the covers by Mama. There was no use to tell Papa because he would only say, 'That's all a pack of nonsense. Go back to bed and get to sleep.' But Mama would listen.

'Mama, the devil is going to get me tonight,' I whispered.

'Of course he isn't,' she said hugging me.

'Oh, yes he is,' I insisted.

'Who told you that?' she asked.

I blurted out the whole miserable tale to her.

She said, 'The Heavenly Father doesn't let the devil get little girls. When things trouble you, you should always come to me.'

'But that would be tattling.'

'It isn't tattling to talk to your mother.'

'Do you mean I will still be alive tomorrow and that I can go to Moccasin?'

'Of course. When you go back to your bed say your prayers. Remember, the Heavenly Father will always listen to you and bless you. You must not let foolish things other children say make you miserable. The Heavenly Father wants you to be happy. Now have a good sleep.' She pushed back my hair and kissed my forehead.

Oh, my! What a big load had dropped from my shoulders. As I crawled from under the covers a breeze fluttered my nightgown and my heart was light as a feather. A sky full of stars glittered above me. Snuggling down between my sisters I silently thanked the Heavenly Father for my mother who made things seem all right again, and drifted happily to sleep.1

The next day, as the wagon creaked through the silent sand, the mountain that had appeared blue yesterday became the color of dirt. There would be no glass rocks to take home. That's when I learned that even Pinevalley Mountain is not blue, but only appears that way because of the atmosphere in between.

Moccasin was a little town, seeming to cuddle between the low hills, gardens, trees and flowers. Little springs bubbled out of the white sand, blurping like little mouths. Moccasin folks cooled their cans of milk in a springhouse in the hillside and an Indian reservation was nearby. But best30of all was the reservoir with a boat on it. We'd never seen a boat before. We'd never even seen enough water to hold a boat.

Around the reservoir were clumps of water willows. Standing on the bank, I watched the Moccasin boys push out from those willows on planks. Their feet were spread apart, balancing themselves, as they pushed with long, slender poles. Enviously I watched them skim across the water. I knew I could do it too, and I begged them to let me try, but they said I was too little. So I watched my chance, and when everyone was gone, I ran to where the boards lay in the shallow water. Climbing on one, I spread my feet apart and balanced myself as the boys had done, and with a pole, I pushed out onto the pond. There was an ecstatic moment of smooth, glistening water under me as I floated graceful as Hiwatha. Then came a shout from a boat rowing out from the willows. 'You'll drown!' The splashing of the oars rocked my plank as the boat pulled alongside.

'Get in,' Ianthus Spendlove demanded.

The moment I lifted a foot to step in, the plank scooted from under me, and I went blubbering to the mossy bottom. I knew nothing about swimming, so I didn't even try. Thoughts flashed rapidly through my head. I would drown. Never would I see Hurricane or Venona or Iantha again. They would cry at my funeral. Glurk, glurk, glurk, down, down I went. I was surprised when I bobbed up like a cork and Ianthus caught my skirt, hauling me into the boat. The grace and beauty of my venture had turned to awkward misery as I was dragged toward Aunt LaVern's house, water weeds stringing from my hair and my wet clothes clinging to me. A trail of kids tagged, following me right into Aunt LaVern's kitchen, where she let down the oven door to warm me. Outraged, I stood helplessly shivering as she stripped me naked in front of everyone, boys and all.

After the humiliation, I was showered with such tender affection I felt as though I had returned from the dead. Goodness! Wouldn't I have something to tell my playmates when I got home!

The day Grandma gave me 10¢ so I could ride in a car to the flour mill, I never dreamed that some day there would actually be car owners in Hurricane, but Dr. Wilkinson bought one. And then Walter Stout bought a car and finally Ira Bradshaw, making three cars in Hurricane. Brother Bradshaw said a car couldn't have come to Hurricane until the convicts made a road, taking out the rocks and patching over the sand at the Black Ridge.

Forty convicts with teams had been assigned by the Governor of Utah four years ago to build roads in Washington County. They had finally reached Hurricane, setting up camp below the canal, two blocks north of us. The convicts sold pretty little hand-crafted things. Annie had a pincushion made from a mentholatum jar covered with tiny sea shells. The cushion part was blue velvet.

The day I turned eight years old, Aunt Ellen Spendlove sent me a cup of molasses so I could make some candy. I was born on her birthday. Mama and Uncle Ren climbed the canal bank with me and my sisters and a cluster of playmates followed us through the willows. Uncle Ren baptized me in the canal, then he and Mama went back down the hill and we stayed to swim in our old dresses. The only time Mama let us swim in the canal was on the fourth and twenty-fourth of July and on my birthday.2

We'd splash upstream as far as the bridge where the road crossed the canal.

There we'd flop on our backs, feet downstream, letting the water carry us31around the bend through the sun-splotched shade of the willows, as far as our cistern. Joyfully, we splashed, feeling the security of our rumps bumping along the sandy canal bottom. Or we'd crawl upstream walking on our hands while we kicked a jet stream with our feet. This was the canal version of the 'Virgin River Crawl.' To us this was real swimming, and could be done in as little as one foot of water.

In August, when the peaches were cut and spread on planks to dry, the pits were saved to make carbon for gas masks. All of our nation's industries were thrown into the war effort. Even our dinner tables were supposed to feel the effects, but the only awareness I had of this was verbal. We were urged to eat less so we could send more to our soldiers. Recipes for eggless, sugarless cakes and for all kinds of substitutions were published. Mama already knew all about substitutions. She could make something out of nothing. Women knitted socks, mittens and sweaters, and all of our wool scraps were made up into quilts to send overseas. We chanted a jingle that came from the Deseret News. I've forgotten the words, but it went something like this:

My beds they are sheetless, my stockings are feetless,
My pants they are seatless today.
My meals they are meatless, my food it is sweetless,
I'm getting more eatless each day.

There were a number of verses, each one ending with 'Oh, how I hate the Kaiser!'

The scream of mortar shells became real and telegrams bearing sad news began reaching home. The heart of the nation was reflected in their music, like the plaintive song:

I've heard the prayers of mothers, some of them old and gray.
I've heard the prayers of others, for those who went away.
Oft times a prayer will teach one, the meaning of goodbye.
I've felt the pain of each one, but this one made me cry.

Chorus

Just a baby's prayer at twilight, when lights are low,
Poor baby's years are filled with tears.
There's a mother there at twilight, who's proud to know,
Her precious little tot, is dad's forget-me-not.
After saying, 'Goodnight Mama,' she climbs up stairs,
Quite unawares and says her prayers:
'Oh, kindly tell my daddy that he must take care.'
That's a baby's prayer at twilight, for her daddy 'over there.'

The wonderful women who went overseas to tend the wounded, inspired the song:

There's a rose that grows in No Man's land,
And it's wonderful to see.
Tho' it's sprayed with tears, it will live for years
In life's garden of memory.
It's the one red rose the soldier knows.
It's the work of a master's hand.
'Mid the war's great curse, stands the Red Cross Nurse.
She's the rose of No Man's land.

The first of September my sisters and I went to the dry farm with Papa and Whit Spendlove to gather corn. Papa drove the wagon down the rows and we pulled the ears and threw them in. At night we slept on the floor of the32little camp house. I was on the outer edge of the bed and the covers didn't reach. The floor was hard, the night cold, and coyotes howled. My aching, freezing bones, the eeriness of the mournful howling, and the weird shadows cast by the moonlight was combined misery, terror, and tingling joy of adventure. In a happy sort of way I suffered.

At home the corn was piled in front of the barn and we shucked it. How good it was to dump last years dilapidated corn husks from our shuck ticks and fill them with fresh ones. The first night sleeping on a newly filled shuck tick is exotic. The crisp shucks crunch and crackle and the sweet aroma of the corn field fills the room, making sleep serene.

I skipped to the first day of school in my new blue dress, and Edith in her pink one. Mama said my eyes were bluer when I wore blue, and Edith's cheeks were pinker when she wore pink. I yearned for a pink dress. Edith was pretty even when she was angry, for then the colored part of her eyes were all pupil, black as coal. Her hair was the color of fresh wheat straw and hung in fat, shining braids over her shoulders.

Bernice Gates was our second grade teacher and she was far above the human race, like an angel. I had disdainfully accepted the younger kids in our class because two of them, Ray Bradshaw and LuWayne Wood, were almost the smartest ones in the room.

Iantha and I were playing upstairs in our northwest bedroom on a Sunday afternoon (22 September 1918). As we dressed our rag dolls, we talked about the Kaiser and the Germans. Then something struck the roof like a gun shot. Startled, we ran to the window. Then came another bang, and another. 'The Germans are shooting at us,' I cried. As the din became a deafening roar, we saw hail stones as big as peach pits peppering the ground. Because we were so war conscious, even this terrible storm seemed German sent. With the first lull, Iantha ran home. Soon she was back, her face drained of all color.

'Eldon Workman just got killed,' she breathlessly exclaimed.

Eldon was Eloise's brother. The sky hung low and gloomy. A melancholy pall settled over me.

'Come and see where he died,' Iantha said.

Trembling, I took her hand and we pattered down the muddy street to the tall power pole with the transformer on it, by Petty's store. In the soft, wet dirt at the foot of the pole was the outline where Eldon had fallen. The hail storm had disrupted the power and Eldon had climbed the pole to restore it. In my mind, he too was a World War casualty.

The news reported thousands who were killed in France and thousands more who died of disease or were wounded. Our country was brought to her knees. President Wilson asked the nation to fast and pray for peace. That fast day was the longest day of my life. We had always fasted on fast day, but not so long as this. Mama said we could eat after the sun went down. I was starved, and the setting sun hung for hours just above the peach trees, before it finally sunk out of sight. Not too long after this, the Armistice was signed.

On November 7, the Yankees cut through the Argonne Forest, which had been considered impossible and cut off the enemy's main line of communications. The battle of the Meuse-Argonne was the greatest ever fought by American troops, Two days later, the Kaiser and the Crown Prince signed letters of abdication and fled to Holland. The German delegates signed the armistice in a railroad33car in France, and at 11:00 a.m. on November 11, 1918, the news that the war was over was flashed around the world. The United States and all of the Allied countries celebrated. In Hurricane the church bell rang continuously for hours, and the few car owners honked and honked their horns. People cheered and whistled shrill glad whistles. Soon after that our soldier boys returned home.

But war leaves its scar. Not all of the boys came home, but all of the ones that I'd seen leave came back. The big scar we felt was the Spanish Influenza. It broke out first in Europe but had reached America by the fall of 1918. By the last of October the, Church had closed its temples. The schools, churches and show halls were closed. The only public gathering in Hurricane was the crowd outside of the post office at Aunt Molly Hall's. After the mail was sorted she handed it out the window as each person stepped forward. Everyone wore gauze masks. Anyone caught on the streets without one was subject to arrest. Mama kept a pan of Lysol water on the back of the kitchen stove, where gauze masks simmered, and she kept a stack of fresh clean ones ready for us to wear when we went down town. The only place we didn't wear masks was around home or when we climbed the hill by ourselves.

The quarantine was long and lonely. In spite of Lysol, isolation and loneliness, our family came down with the flu. We lay sick all over the living room where we could be near the fire. The lounge was pulled out for a double bed and there were beds on the floor. If Mama got sick we didn't know it, because she moved among us constantly, administering water, soup, mustard plasters and a cool hand on hot foreheads. Food was terrible. The taste of death stuck in our throats, and a black dizziness flattened us when we tried to sit up or walk. Many people died. In some towns there were not enough well people to care for the sick. The epidemic was so severe that generally the well didn't dare go among the sick. However, there were many heroic stories of dedicated neighbors who took the risk. Men in Hurricane and LaVerkin chopped the wood, milked and fed the cows and did outside chores for their sick neighbors. In some instances, one man took care of a dozen sick households this way, delivering needed items to their doors. Some women went into homes bathing, feeding and cleaning and they seemed blessed and protected for this very purpose. Papa's cousin Clara Jones, died the last of November, leaving a large family of children.

Mama fixed our food as nice as possible to attract our appetites, but everything tasted like the dogs had dug it up. We were so depleted that it seemed we too must die. Then Mama fixed some hot, stewed tomatoes which cut the dark, deathly taste from the back of our tongues. Tomatoes and toast was the first food that tasted good. As we ate, we recovered.

December 22, 1918, was set aside by the Church as a special fast Sunday 'for the arrest and speedy suppression by Divine power of the desolating scourge that is passing over the earth.'

This year, because of the influenza, there would be no town Christmas party. So the day before Christmas Santa Claus stopped at every gate in town in a Model T Ford, distributing red and green mosquito netting stockings filled with candied popcorn. I liked him, even though he wore a mask, because his 'Ho. ho, ho' was hearty, and he was a man. I didn't like the Santa Clauses at Primary parties because they wore pillow stuffing and had women's voices.3

34Christmas Eve, a neighbor left a little pine tree on our front porch. We didn't always have a tree, because we couldn't go after our own. When we did have one it couldn't be decorated until after supper, because it had to be set up in the middle of the table. The decorations were polished apples, strings of popcorn, and small twisty candles clipped to the tips of the branches with metal candle holders. Christmas morning Mama lit the candles. (Pine needles are flammable, and the candles had to be lit with care.) We admired the tree breathlessly and briefly, then the candles were blown out, the tree untrimmed and taken out so we could set the table for breakfast.

Our gifts were never wrapped, but spread out on the lounge like items in a bazaar. usually there was one gift apiece, and spread out this way they looked more abundant. This year I got a doll, the first talking doll I had ever seen. Grandma's silk bosomed friend Alice Therriot from Salt Lake City sent it to me because my name was Alice. The doll had a bisque head, hands and feet on a cloth body. A sound box in her middle made a sound like 'mama' when I tipped her forward. Her cheeks were rosy and she wore a mischievous Kewpie grin. Her pink dress was lace trimmed and I loved and adored her. Up to now I had only had a Polly. A Polly was a cloth doll, the features, dress and all stamped on percale, then cut out, sewed and stuffed. Her arms were separate enough to get hold of, and eventually ripped in the armpits and her stuffing oozed out, but usually she lasted until summer.

Santa Claus belonged strictly to the world of make-believe. We were aware of Mama's struggle to get us a gift apiece. Still no one loved playing make-believe more than we did. We enjoyed Christmas as much as our friends did who tightly guarded the secret of Santa.

'The saddest day of my life,' Mama once said, 'was the Christmas when I was twelve. Father hadn't returned from his peddling trip and Mother was sick. We got up Christmas morning to total bleakness. There was no sign of Christmas not a single evergreen sprig or gift or anything. Heartbroken I went to Mother's room. 'Annie,' she said, 'if you'll look on the bottom shelf of the cupboard, you'll find a few cookies in a tin pail. I intended to make more, but couldn't do it.' Searching, I found a few burned molasses cookies. Mother told us that day who Santa Claus really was, and that he didn't come down from the North Pole with his reindeers. This came as a terrible shock and I grieved for days. I felt as though my dearest friend had died. I resolved right then that I would never do such a thing to a child of mine.'

One mystery we could never solve was where the pan of animal cookies came from each Christmas. We knew Mama knew, by the way she smiled. There were more than a dozen kinds of animals, with shapes intricate and perfect, not clumsy ones like ordinary animal cookies. At Aunt Mary Stout's house was also a pan of the same kind of cookies. Still, our searching through both houses never revealed the cookie cutters.4 If Santa wasn't real, at least his elves were.

The element of mystery lent such fascination that Mildred and I decided to create a little mystery of our own. Edith and LaPriel were our gullible victims. In the ceiling above the door to Mama's and Papa's upstairs bedroom, was an open manhole, which was the only entrance to a never used attic. To enter, one had to climb the door.

'Santa Claus can't come down our stovepipe,' we told our little sisters, 'so he has to come down through this hole.'

Skeptically Edith shook her head, but LaPriel's eyes grew wide with excitement.

35'Santa has a work shop up there, you'll see,' I said.

Concealed in Mildred's pocket were two strips of fleecy flannel, one red and one white. 'We'll climb up there and ask Santa Claus to stick his hand out of the hole so you can see it,' Mildred said.

Like lizards we climbed the door, hoisting ourselves into the dark manhole. Creeping back on the timbers above the lath and plaster I said, 'Hello Santa Claus what are you doing up here?'

Making her voice deep as possible, Mildred replied, 'I'm getting ready to pop corn.'

Rapidly both of us clapped our hands. 'Can you hear the corn popping?' I yelled.

'Yes,' LaPriel answered.

The popping stopped because we had to arrange the flannel on Mildred's arm, putting on the red first and then a white cuff around her wrist.

'Santa, reach out your hand so Edith and LaPriel can see you,' I said.

Mildred stuck her arm out and LaPriel shouted, 'I can see it, I can see it!'

The attic was dark and eerie. We had mystified our sisters, so we were glad to scramble down. LaPriel was charmed but Edith was dubious.

1. Story 'Mama and the Heavenly Father' published in The Relief Society Magazine, July 1962
2. Story 'Baptism is a Family Affair' published in Friend, November 1977, p. 46.
3. Since my hair has turned to silver I've become more appreciative. The most delightful Santas I have known were women, especially Edna Gubler and Geneva Segler. But they didn't wear masks.
4. After I was grown I learned that Grandmother Crawford owned the cookie cutters that were passed around to all of her children to use each Christmas season.

35Papa was the water tax collector and the stray pen keeper, and our meals were constantly interrupted with people paying taxes or being mad because someone had put their animals in the stray pen. We ate in the front room and I felt self-conscious about people looking on, because there were so many of us around the big table. I wished we had fancy food to show off like strawberry shortcake. But at least Mama alumys saw to it that we had a fresh white table cloth on, and we set a full table, even if we were only eating bread and gravy.

It undoubtedly wasn't easy for Papa to provide for so many of us, but generally he was cheerful. But when he voiced his frustrations it threw a pall of gloom over me.

'I guess we might as well buy our caskets while we've got the money,' he remarked one day. 'We could put them in the cellar to store dry beans in.'

A chill ran through me. Mama sent me to the cellar to get a bottle of fruit and I stood in the dim light, visualizing ten caskets, including Grandma's, side by side on the dirt floor. I would have to crawl over them all the rest of my life to get the things Mama sent me after. The dry beans we dipped from them would eventually be turned into skeletons—our skeletons!

Another thing that scared me was the terrible song they sang in church about the moon being turned into blood and the waters into gall. Nothing could ruin a Sunday afternoon like that song could.

Sometimes even my dreams would petrify me and I would wake up tingling. Sometimes I wandered in my sleep, bumping into things. Papa slept with both ears wide open. A cat couldn't even sneak through our garden in the night without him36hearing it. With the first touch of my foot to the floor he'd shout, 'Alice, get back to bed.'

'I am in bed,' I'd whimper.

'You are not,' he'd yell.

His yelling confused me and I didn't know where my bed was. Agitated, I'd crouch in one of the little windows under the eaves, fumbling at the screens, hoping to get away from the sound of his voice. Mama had seen to it that the screens were solidly nailed in place. After so much shouting Pape finally awoke me, the room came into focus, and I crawled back into bed.

A fun pastime to me was drawing pictures, and I thought I was pretty good. I especially liked my drawing of a fat girl with a butterfly net, so I submitted it to The Juvenile Instructor. When it was published I was practically launched into an artist's career. My prize for the drawing was a beautifully illustrated book 'Through the Looking Glass' or 'Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll. What a thoughtful editor to send me a story of Alice. Often I was called 'Alice in Wonderland' and I liked it because it justified my many flights of fancy, like the day Iantha and I found the egg upon the hill.

We were playing among the chaparrals when we found what appeared to be an ordinary looking chicken egg under a bush. Now what would ever possess a chicken to climb the hill to lay an egg?

'Maybe it's a turtle egg,' Iantha suggested.

'Or an alligator egg,' I said. 'Let's take it home and hatch it and see what comes out of it.'

Taking turns, we carried our treasure down the hill, and our speculations grew more vivid and exciting each step of the way. We followed the road, for climbing over rocks might break the egg.

'What if it is a dragon egg?' Iantha asked.

'Or it might be a prince that some witch has turned into an egg,' I added. 'If we break the egg then we'd break the spell, and the Prince would be so happy he'd grant us all our wishes.'

We had reached the Lombardy poplar trees at Workman's corner by now. I was holding the egg. My imagination had reached such a pitch that I could stand it no longer.

'I'm going to break the egg,' I said firmly.

'No, don't! Little snakes might run out of it.' Iantha jumped back as I whacked the egg against a fence post.

I emptied the shell upon the ground. If a genie had spiraled into the sky we would not have been more surprised than we were to see only a firm, yellow yolk surrounded by clear egg white. We came back to reality with a thud!1

In the summertime, suppertime came before sundown, and it was easy to play outside too long. Once when LaPriel came in after the supper table had been cleared, Papa said, 'Lapriel, stay out of the pantry.' Oh no, I thought, he isn't going to make her go without supper. She had played so hard and must be awfully hungry. I wished I had some little thing to give her, but I didn't. All of our food was kept either in the pantry or the cellar, and the same door led to both.37Holding my breath, I expected her to cry, but instead she turned and went out the kitchen door. Pretty soon she returned with a loaf of bread. Seeing it, Papa shouted, 'LaPriel, I told you not to eat. Now put that bread back in the pantry.'

'You didn't tell me not to eak,' she wailed, 'you only told me to stay out of the pantry.'

'Then how did you get that bread?' he demanded.

'From Aunt Mary Stout,' she replied.

'You march right back to Aunt Mary's with it,' he ordered.

Obediently she returned the loaf and went to bed without supper.

Aunt Mary Stout's was the logical place for her to go. We were always as much at home there as we were in our own home. We took Venona and Leah as for granted as though they were our sisters. Aunt Mary treated us like we were her own. When Uncle Marion's wagon trundled down the dusty dugway coming home from Rattlesnake, we ran along with Aunt Mary's children to meet him. We knew there would be biscuits in the wooden grub box fastened to the side of his wagon. Dry biscuits with the exotic flavor of dry farm dust.

Another time when LaPriel came in from play after supper was over, Papa said, 'Mama, pack her things and let her go find another place to live. If she wanted to live with us, she'd come in on time.'

I don't think Mama wanted to do it, but she always cooperated with Papa. Quietly she tied a little dress and a night gown in a dish towel and handed it to LaPriel. My heart almost broke as LaPriel's little face crumpled with unhappy tears.

'Now go on,' Papa ordered.

An aching misery swept through me as I watched her clutching the bundle in her arms and sobbing as her little bare feet trudged out the front gate. Slowly she walked outside the picket fence, her head bowed, then some bushes screened her from my view. I ran across the yard to Grandma Isom's house and up the stairs. From the south bedroom window I could still see her. Near the and of the fence hung a loose picket with only one nail in the top. LaPriel pried it back and crawled through. At the end of the raspberry row was the wooden box our organ had come in, which we used for a playhouse. LaPriel curled up in a corner of it, her face buried in her bundle, crying. I cried too. I don't know what discussion took place between Papa and Mama, but after awhile Mama walked through the raspberry patch, and kneeling down, put her arms around LaPriel. Then taking her by the hand they walked to the house together.

Brother Roundy and his family lived through the block from us. In the spring time when he was plowing, we used to crawl through the fence, racing over the fresh turned soil.

'Tell us a story, Brother Roundy,' we would beg. He'd tie the horse's reins to the plow handle and sit in the furrow with us and tell us 'injun' stories from the Book of Mormon.

He had other talents too. He could charm a toothache away or buy our warts for a nickel and make them disappear.

After school was out, Mama let Edith and me go to Cedar with Brother Roundy and his boy Karl in their stripped down, topaess Model T. We had never38been to Cedar before. The road over the Black Ridge was narrow, steep and rocky. We were impressed with 'dead-man's hollow' and a dream gold mine. Every turn in the road came alive with Brother Roundy by our side. Once over the ridge, the car coughed, sputtered, then died. It was out of gas.

Relieved, Brother Roundy sighed, 'I've been praying for the past five miles that we could stop. The gas feed was stuck and I couldn't slow down.'

We were probably doing at least twenty miles per hour.

Karl went on foot to a ranch house across a scrub oak flat. A light mist of rain began to fall, so Brother Roundy drew us into his arms and told us 'injun' stories. After awhile Karl returned with a quart bottle of gas he had found in a ranch house. Lifting the hood he poured it into the carburetor. The car sputtered and shook, but that was all.

Brother roundy sniffed at the empty bottle. 'Coal oil,' he said.

Again Karl hiked through the brush. It was dusk when he returned with a white horse. With a rope they hitched it to the car, and the horse pulled us on to Ren Roundy's ranch house. 'Ren's playhouse,' they called it, because it was so small.

Ren and his sisters Reva, Reba, and Anise were there. They fed us sour dough biscuits and fried mutton and bedded us down. Five of us slept cross-wise on one bed. The night was long, cold and crowded. The next morning the horse pulled the car on to Kanarra.

Brother Roundy's oldest daughter, Sarah Sylvester, fixed breakfast for us and combed Edith's and my long, tangled hair. She kept sending me to the ditch to dip the comb until she got us braided slick for the rest of the journey. The round trip to Cedar took us three days, mostly just chugging along.

In the fall we helped Mama dig the carrots, turnips and parsnips and put them in a straw lined pit covered with boards. She gave us some to sell so we could earn a little money. By peddling to the neighbors, selling my vegetables for 5¢ a bunch, I earned 30¢. Feeling rich, I skipped to the drug store and bought six packages of gum. After I got outside, a feeling of guilt overpowered me. I had squandered my money, not even saving 3¢ for tithing, so I returned the gum.

Fall meant we were back to school again. Jean McAllister was my third grade teacher. What a china doll she was with her ivory skin, black hair and pretty dresses! Considering that a kid had to look at the teacher all day, this was important.

The upstairs room she rented in the Isom Hotel had an east window above the porch roof. One snowy Saturday morning, as I pattered along the sidewalk in front of Petty's store, I saw her looking out of her open window. Below her in the rose garden, Irving Isom scooped up a snowball, hurling it into her window, splattering her with snow. She screamed, and he laughed, and I stood transfixed watching the love scene. Soon all of the third grade knew that Irving loved Jean. She was my romantic ideal until one fateful morning.

After the opening exercises, she said, 'Everyone turn to the left and put your feet in the aisle.' Pointing at me she boomed, 'Alice Isom, there are plenty of shoe buttons, darning needles, and carpet warp in this world. You'd better see that your shoes have all their buttons on by tomorrow morning.'

The kids tittered and my eyes smarted with self conscious tears. I tucked my sloppy feet back under my desk. Each saggy shoe top was held up by only two39buttons where there should have been eight. That night I not only sewed on the buttons but turned a stove lid upside down, and with spit and a rag I sooted my shoes. And Miss McAllister became a human being in my sight from that day on.

Threshing time was a highlight of autumn and we hailed with excitement the day it was our turn. Frank Reber had cut our field of wheat and stacked the tied bundles in the barnyard. When we heard the clatter of the the threshing machine coming in at the barnyard gate, my sisters and I raced through the peach orchard to watch. We perched on the woodpile with the neighborhood youngsters who tagged along.

The men on the thresher set the blower so the straw would go under the north shed of the barn. After the shed was filled, the blower was turned to go over the top, where the straw piled higher and higher until it almost buried the barn. How shiny, slick and slidy it looked, a continuous slope from the peak down into the yard, almost to the bellflower apple tree.

After the thresher and its crew had left and Papa had returned to the house, our playmates lingered. What a golden day. Golden sunshine, golden peach trees, golden poplars along the sidewalk, and a shining golden straw stack beckoning with golden opportunity. It was too much. Like soldier ants we crawled in a continuous stream up to the top of the barn. From there we tumbled and slid all the way to the bottom, compacting the airy straw solidly beneath us, creating a slick chute for the endless stream of laughing, shouting youngsters. Exhilarating! It was the epitome of happiness, a happiness too great to endure, for above the squeals of laughter came a loud, discordant voice. Instantly we were hushed as Papa loomed like a giant before us. The last kid silently slid to the bottom of the stack and there we stood in a contrite huddle.

'I won't have you kids wallowing my straw stack down. Get a march on, everyone of you, and come right out of there,' he demanded.

The only way out was through the little gate where he stood. One by one we meekly filed past as Papa's heavy hand 'tunked' us each on the head. A 'tunk' was Papa's version of a thump. It was administered by the end of the three middle fingers coming down with a thud on the top of the head. How mortifying! I couldn't believe Papa would treat our friends the same way he did us.

After we were all out of the enclosure and my friends had scampered home, I looked up at the golden straw stack. How I wished Papa could slide down it, from the top to the apple tree just once. If he knew the thrill of it, he'd ask all of our friends to come back.

Fall was butchering time. The big fat pig that had been slurping our dishwater all summer, and that had greedily climbed up the side of the pen for the ears of corn, had become a personal acquaintance by now. I had no particular love for him but I didn't want him killed, either. When the black tub was steaming over the fire and the boards for scraping the pig were arranged over the saw horses and George Spendlove arrived, Mildred and I figured it was shooting time, so we ran down into the dark cellar and crouched on the floor with our fingers in our ears. We didn't want to hear the fatal shot, but we kept one finger a little loose in one ear so we would know when it was safe to stop not listening.

Our sentimental feelings were pretty much forgotten when the pig was no longer a creature that could look at us out of little mean eyes, but was simply sausage, bacon, head cheese or lard for making pies. Nothing could be better than Mama's bottled sausage seasoned with sage.

As Christmas approached, I rooted through the sacks of scraps and rags Mama had stored upstairs. Rag bags and their doll making possibilities fascinated me.40As I rooted, I ran onto two orange-colored glass bowls that glinted with a transparent golden sheen. Transfixed, I held them up to the light. How beautiful they were. One was rounded in at the top like a crystal ball and the other had a fluted top like a petunia. My eyes were dazzled with their exquisite beauty. Where did they come from, and who did they belong to I wondered. Excitedly I started from the room to show everyone what I had found, when Kate met me in the hall.

'Quick, take them back where you got them from,' she whispered.

'But guess where I found them?' I cried.

'I know. Annie and I hid them there,' she answered. 'We bought them for Mama for Christmas.'

The gleam of the colored glass stirred something inside of me. An enchantment akin to what I felt as I read of Aladdin gathering rubies, diamonds, sapphires and amethysts in the underground garden, or of Dorothy and her friends being dazzled by the brilliancy of the Emerald City in the land of Oz. And the enchantment has remained. Always before, Christmas gifts to Mama had been useful, like stockings or an apron. But ornamental glass! What a surprise!2

1. Story 'A Piteous Day' published in The Relief Society Magazine, vol. 56, no. 5, pp. 338-342, May 1969.
2. Story 'The Golden Bowl' published in The Relief Society Magazine, vol. 54, no. 11, pp. 823-828, November 1967.

40Every day Papa walked to Dorty (George) Gibson's barber shop with his checker board rolled up in his back pocket. This checkerboard, made of narrow slats on a canvas back, was a gift from Grandma to him when he was a boy and is a marvel to me to this day for its smoothness and fine finish, considering the years of constant use. Dorty was the town barber and champion story teller. His shop was a social center and Papa was the town's undisputed checker champion. There was a satisfaction in being a champion's daughter.

One day just before sundown. Papa came home to supper. As he sat down to the table he took a pink celluloid bracelet from his pocket.

'Oh Papa,' I cried, 'where did you get it?'

'I found it on the sidewalk on my way home,' he replied.

'Can I have it?' I asked.

'No, it belongs to the person who lost it.'

'But we don't know who lost it,' I reasoned covetously.

'But we must try and find out.'

'If we don't find out, then can I have it?'

'Yes,' he replied.

'Some little girl is sad tonight because she lost her bracelet,' Mama said.

'I would be sad if it was mine and I lost it,' I admitted.

The next morning Papa told the principal of the school about the bracelet. What neither Papa nor Mama knew was that I had taken the bracelet from the cupboard. I didn't own anything pink, and I wanted to wear it for just one day, so41I slid it above my elbow under the long sleeves of my brown dress. I kept touching it through my sleeve during the day, knowing how pretty it was, even though I couldn't see it. After school I put it back in the cupboard just in time, because Stella Campbell came to claim it.

Stella had everything pretty—pink dresses, ribbons and beads. She had all of the things I did not. She even had Sunday shoes. Not many girls in town owned two pair of shoes. But Stella deserved the bracelet, because she missed a lot of fun that the rest of us had. In the summertime when we played in the big ditch under the mulberry trees east of Mae Petty's house, Stella couldn't play in the mud with us.

That ditch was as important to us as the beach is to people who live by the ocean. The clean, white sand from the canal seemed to build up at this one spot, making the best ditch in town for mud houses and for making little roads with spool wagons and for all of those wonderful things. Stella used to stand on the ditch bank silently watching us. She looked like a boudoir doll with her pretty starched skirts ruffled above her lace petticoats, and her crisp white collars and cuffs, and her hair shining like silk. A speck of dirt would not have dared get on her. I felt like she would have liked to crawl in the soft sand with us. Naturally the pink bracelet was much prettier on her arm than stuffed up under my brown sleeve.

Easter morning Mama busied herself helping us get ready for Sunday School, and then she suddenly disappeared. Pretty soon Grandma came into the kitchen and said, 'The stork just brought you a new baby brother.'

'Grandma,' I cried, 'why weren't we outside to see the stork?'

Grandma bustled back into Mama's bedroom oblivious to my question.

'Oh dear,' I lamented, 'we'll never have a chance like this again.'

Grandma was a midwife and she delivered babies to lots of mothers. She kept a black leather bag behind the marble-topped table in her parlor that she used to deliver them with. I had a hard time getting this straight in my mind. If Grandma delivered babies in her black bag, what business did the stork have delivering them too? Since she never answered me when I asked, I had to draw my own conclusions. Our third grade reader had a story called 'Tom and the Water Babies.' There were pictures of dozens of chubby, curly headed babies swimming and playing among the water lilies. The babies with hair must have come from there and Grandma had carried them in her bag. The bald headed ones like Mama had must have been delivered by the stork. I wished I had seen the stork carrying our brother in his beak.

They named the baby Clinton Floyd, and we loved him a lot. In no time at all he learned to laugh and his hair came in shiny and curly.

Mama subscribed for the 'Hearth and Home,' a magazine filled with love stories, recipes, old time songs and poems and crochet patterns. It cost 35¢ a year. For selling three subscriptions, I could earn a birthstone ring. Getting the subscriptions was no problem to me, but waiting for the ring to come was. I watched the mail every day. Finally the package arrived. In it was a little blue velvet box containing a gold ring that had a sparkling red ruby stone. My heart almost burst as I gazed into its depth. Proudly I wore it, putting it in its case each night. Then somehow, somewhere, I lost my treasure. Promptly I got out and sold three more subscriptions for the magazine, earning a new ring.

42My success at getting a second ring impressed me with other luxuries that lay within my grasp. A girl brought a Lee's Manufacturing Catalog to school and at recess a cluster of us pored over the list of premiums. A pretty vanity case with a mirror in the lid was especially appealing. Five of us decided to earn us each one, so we divided up the town, taking orders for dishes, pots and pans.

We sold enough to earn our vanity cases, but we had a problem. The order had to be sent in the name of an adult. We really didn't want to discuss this with our parents for fear they would put a stop to our venture. Finally I volunteered Mama's name, and in our clumsy way, we sent the order off. This time I didn't hail the arrival of our order with joy because I wasn't sure how Mama would take it.

Well, I found out. When Ira Bradshaw came with his freight truck from Lund and unloaded a fifty-gallon barrel in our yard. Mama and Papa were flabbergasted.

'We haven't ordered anything,' Mama said when presented with the freight bill.

Scared as I was, I spoke. 'Mama, Iantha, Nona and I and some other kids took orders for some dishes. We thought you would like them to come to you.'

'You what?' she asked in a tone I'd never heard before. 'What did you say?' She was shaking me as she spoke.

'Load the barrel right back in your truck and return it,' Papa demanded.

'Please,' I begged. 'Can't we keep it? There're pretty dishes in it that the people want.'

'Who is going to pay the freight?' Papa demanded.

'The people will give us the money and we will pay it,' I pleaded.

'But the bill has to be paid right now and we don't have the money.' Papa reasoned.

Mama's lips set tight, angry veins stood out on Papa's forehead, and Brother Bradshaw looked embarrassed. 'I do have to collect the freight,' he said simply.

Silently Mama walked into the house. Since it was safer to stay close to her heels than to be alone with Papa, I followed. She took a little cream pitcher from the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard and dumped out some nickels, dimes and quarters. After counting them out, it took almost all of them.

'You'd better collect for these dishes right away, because this is the money for the light bill,' she said.

I ran to tell the other kids the dishes were here. We gathered together our crude records of who had ordered what. Mama helped us take the dishes from the excelsior packing, sorting them into little piles. There was an awful mixup in our bookkeeping and Mama scolded all of us. Usually she was quiet about everything, but this time she was mad as a setting hen. It took her a few days to reconcile our orders and get us out to deliver43and collect.

After it was all over, there was a stack of eight dinner plates and one big vegetable bowl, in an allover pattern of gold lace and pink rosebuds. This was the grand prize for the orders we had taken. I thought Mama would divide them up with the five of us, but she didn't. She said they were hers, that she had paid for them a dozen times over, and I'd better not ever do a thing like that again.

After things calmed down, we enjoyed our vanity cases that were like a status symbol to us as we carried them to school. But I had been sufficiently warned not to get involved in any more group business deals. Selling seeds or Cloverine Salve to earn a little bottle of perfume or some talcum powder was the extent of my next business ventures.

On September 15, the first 'aeroplane' flew over Hurricane. The roar of the four-winged craft brought people running into the streets. Excitedly I waved my hands and shouted, 'Hello, hello.' Grandma Dolly Humphries, whose house was just south of Grandma Isom's, was standing by my side.

'Hello, hello, hello,' I called. Then I thought I heard a voice from on high. 'Grandma Humphries, I heard him. He said hello!'

'Ello, eh?' she chuckled.

The plane landed on the Bench Lake Flat. A short time later Hortense Beatty, on horseback, galloped up to our gate. Breathlessly she said, 'I touched it! I touched it. I raced on my horse to the Lake Flat, slid off and touched that aeroplane.'

Our eyes were wide with admiration for Hortense.

Nora Barber was our fourth grade teacher, but etched in my memory is her sister Christie who played the piano for us to march in by, and who read 'The Little Colonel' books to us. From her I acquired a deep love for the south and negro mammies and little pickaninnies. I loved Christie's dialect as she read. I loved the shine on the lenses of her glasses and the stray locks of hair that curled around her face. Books became dear to me, for through them I visited far away places and people. 'The Little Dutch Twins' books created a fascination for Holland within me, and I longed for a pair of wooden shoes.

Halloween was a time for painting funny masks on pieces of old bed sheets with crayons, but we wore them only to Aunt Mary Stout's and Aunt Mary Campbell's. We didn't go out on the streets. Trick-or-treat had not yet been heard of. Halloween was all 'trick', and boys played all of the tricks. Papa still sat back and laughed about the tricks he used to pull when he was a boy. Again we heard, between the raucous grating of tick-tacks on our door, about the time the boys at Virgin dismantled the bishop's wagon and reassembled it straddle of the ridge of the church house roof. And about the time they strung a wire from the church bell, through the apple orchard to Brother Beebee's mule's leg, which kept the bell rinqing all night.

The most interesting part of Halloween was the morning after. I could hardly wait to see whose front gate was hanging on the cross bar of a power pole, or how many outhouses were assembled on the school playground, or how44many wagons were piled in a heap on the streets. Outhouses were the choice targets of goblins. The one I loved most was the one parked on a wagon in the dead-end lane by Uncle Lew Campbell's place.

Usually people needed their property and retrieved it the next day, but this little house was unclaimed for days, so Iantha and I moved in. With lye soap, scrubbing brushes and buckets of water we scrubbed every inch of the interior until the lumber took on the yellow of fresh sawed pine. From old magazines and catalogs and a bucket of flour paste, we papered the walls, putting the prettiest pictures in the best places. Aunt Mary let us have some discarded lace curtains that we hung on the wall. Putting a board over the seat, we padded it with an old camp quilt. Two velvet cushions, borrowed without the asking, gave it the homey touch. On the floor was a hooked rug that had been put away for repairs. This little privy became a castle in our eyes. We could hardly wait until school was out each day to go and play. Then we came home one day to find the wagon, the house;and all of our finery gone. We couldn't grieve, because we knew eventually it would happen. We could only imagine how delighted the owner must be to see the transformation.

With the beginning of school a major change came in our family. Grandma Isom moved to St. George to spend the winter doing temple work, and our sister Annie went with her to attend Dixie High. Mildred promptly graduated from sharing my room and moved in with Kate, and Edith moved into my bedroom. The general shifting was like 'fruit-basket tipped over.' Life took on new dimensions. Mildred had always pampered me by seeing that I was safely in bed before she turned out the light. Things were mighty different now.

Edith was scared of the dark. I had to go to the room first and turn on the light, then Edith came cautiously and looked under the bed. 'Nope. Nobody there,' she'd say, then leap into bed, burrowing under the covers, and I turned out the light.

This nightly ritual gave me the prickly feeling that eventually we'd find a monster under the bed. In fact, he could suddenly appear after I had turned out the light. He could reach out from under the bed and grab my feet before I pulled them up under the quilts.

Once I decided to beat Edith at this game, so she'd have to turn out the light. I snuggled down in bed, and with a look of fright, she turned out the light and leaped through the air, landing in the middle of the bed with such a jolt that the board slats under the springs clattered to the floor. I had to get up and wave my arms through the dark searching for the drop cord to turn the light on so we could rebuild our bed.

As Christmas drew near. Mama began making a red calico dress, just my size. As she fitted it to me she said, 'This dress is for Venona Stout. It's her Christmas present from Aunt Mary, so we must not let her know about it.'

I loved the dress, and felt excited as I modeled it. I knew it was for me, and that this was Mama's way of surprising me. And then on Christmas morning, Venona burst into the house to show off her new red dress. I survived the shock, because Mama had been honest.

Dr. Davis rented Grandma Isom's house while she was in St. George. He gave us each a big orange for Christmas. Oh,my!

45Usually I loved thunder because it reminded me of Kolob. Lightning, at a safe distance, was appealing to me too, but when the very air snapped and my hair prickled, I felt a mite jittery. This particular March night an electric storm was beginning to get unruly. I had gone to my room for something and as I reached to turn out the light, balls of liquid fire spilled from the ceiling down the drop cord and down my arm. Dazed, I crumpled to the floor. I had the sensation of being sucked into a deep, dark cave. From somewhere far, far away, I could hear someone screaming and screaming.

After what seemed ages, dim lights cast weird shadows in my bottomless cavern. Mama appeared, carrying a lantern. Kneeling, she held me in her arms. But that screaming, that detached, far away screaming, would not cease.

Mama brushed my hair back and rubbed my face, saying gently 'There, there, you are all right.'

Suddenly I realized the screaming was coming from me! How could that be? How could I be screaming and not know it? I tried to stop. Mama held me close and at last my screams turned to sobs, violent, shaking sobs. Try as I would I could not control them for a long time.

At the precice moment that I had reached for the light, lightning struck the transformer on the power pole at the comer of our lot. My sisters said balls of fire raced along the wires down our street. As the house went dark and my screams piercing he air. Papa remarked, 'Well, there's one thing we know for sure, Alice is still alive.'

The incident left me afraid. I was afraid of night, refusing to even go into the kitchen alone. And then the thing I feared most of all happened. Another electric storm. In the early evening too, the same as the last one!

Right during the thunder, Richard Bradshaw knocked on our door. 'Sister Isom, can Alice go sleep with Hortense tonight?' he asked. 'Hyrum is away and she's afraid.'

Hortense was our cousin and I often slept with her when her husband was away. But this night I held my breath, waiting for Mama's reply. She knew what a coward I had turned out to be. I expected her to say Mildred would go instead, but she didn't. She told Richard I'd be glad to come and he left.

'Oh Mama, I darsen't go in the storm,' I wailed.

She put her arm around me and said, 'There's nothing to be afraid of. The Heavenly Father doesn't want anything to hurt you. He will protect you. '

My fear left me. As I walked to Hortense's place the lightning and thunder reminded me of Kolob once more, and I loved it. Mama could speak words of assurance that made the heart happy.

46There was something about Sacrament Meeting that bothered me. Number one: Meetings were too long. Figeting on a bench for two hours wasn't fun. Number two: The speakers were always so gloomy. Why couldn't they ever come up with a happy talk just for kids? The doleful things they often said really made me squirm. Number three: The only screens on the windows were the coarse kind to protect the glass from basket balls. Flies flitted cheerfully through them, seeming to love to come to church. And the building was hot, extra hot, because we had to sit still.

Mama and Papa never made us go to church. They simply took us. I decided that when I was my own boss I'd quit.

One Sunday afternoon a group of youngsters decided to escape to the river. When they invited me to go along, I swallowed my guilty feelings and went. I felt shabby in my everyday clothes and there was no happiness in the hike. My feet had the worrisome feeling of wanting to turn back and my conscience nagged at me. And the river! Big deal! It wasn't as inviting as I had thought. It was only a trickle.

The Sunday sun had an abnormal glare, making my eyes feel squinty. Gnats buzzed in my ears and a pesky little fly zigged-zagged in front of my face, refusing to be brushed away. Everyone had fun wading in the water but me. I sat in the sand with my back to a boulder and suffered. I'd lots rather be sweltering and shooing flies in church. I longed to be with the rest of the family.

I expected a scolding when I got home. All Papa said was, 'Well, did you enjoy the afternoon?'

Shaking my head I said, 'No. It was awful. I'd lots rather go to church.'1

I had made an important discovery. Sitting in church was actually quite nice. All of the folks I enjoyed most were there. And when I really listened, the speakers were right interesting.

Benjamin Franklin LeBaron lived just below the black knoll coming into Hurricane. In the fall persimmons hung like oranges along his terraced hillside. Flowers and fruits made his place a garden of Eden. He was a sweet, gentle and loving man who attracted children.

Hurricane was mostly orchards. In fact, it was the fruit in our valley that brought the LeBarons. Brother LeBaron was responsible for the Evaporator that was built by his home. It should have been one of the biggest business ventures in our area, for there were tons and tons of peaches that fell to the ground every year for want of a market. Farmers had been using lumber scaffolds on saw horses to dry fruit on, making every effort to save their crops,but it wasn't enough. The Evaparator dried the fruit and extracted juice by power. But for some reason, the business was of short duration, lasting only a season or two. The brick building still stands and is an apartment house today.

We belonged to the St. George Stake, and Brother LeBaron became the first Stake Patriarch in Hurricane. One day, as I was passing LeBaron's, on a sudden impulse I knocked on their door.

'Brother LeBaron, will you give me a patriarchal blessing?' I asked.

47'Of course,' he answered, 'come in.'

He put his hands on my head and Sister LeBaron acted as scribe. I'll admit that I tried to dictate to the Lord as Brother LeBaron spoke. In Sacrament Meeting, a young woman who had just returned from the mission field, reported her mission. She had a radiance about her that I admired with all my heart. As I listened to her, I knew that someday I too must go on a mission. So I listened hard for our Patriarch to say I would, but he didn't.

He said that my basket would always be filled with plenty. Since we had been warned so many times by Grandma that if we wasted even a crust of bread, the day would come when we wished we had that crust, to have my basket always filled was a comforting thought. When Brother LeBaron promised me that the Tempter should never have power over me, I felt very strong. That promise has sustained me time and again throughout my life. Other things he said have been a guiding light to me as I grew up. Many times when I've been filled with anxiety, I have re-read that blessing and have been strengthened and comforted.

Annie, Kate and Mildred did housework for women who had new babies, took in washings and picked fruit. They bought all of their own clothes, never expecting a penny from Papa or Mama. I wanted to be independent too. I was agile at climbing trees, so I should have a real talent for picking fruit. But being able to swing from the skinniest or highest limb doesn't fill a bucket with fruit. To my dismay, I found out I was actually one of the slowest pickers. I honestly tried. I took every job I could get picking strawberries, cherries or apricots, and each day in the orchard I resolved to beat all of the other kids. But I never did. It gave me an inferiority complex, so much so in fact that I even developed a grudge against mourning doves. Those birds were always in the fields with the crack of dawn, mourning. Such a bleak, tired sound, when a fellow should still be home in bed!

But by my eleventh birthday I had still saved enough to send off to Chicago Mail Order for my winter's supply of long cotton stockings and a pair of shoes. Shoes! New shoes! How I loved them. The shine of new shoes on my own two feet to me was the number one richest blessing!

The fifth grade was an important milestone in my life. We had a man teacher, Kenneth Cannon. Romantic! Any love affair I had had before this was child stuff. Mr. Cannon had a happy sense of humor and school was fun. Except when Freal Stratton, who sat behind me, dipped the ends of my braids in the inkwell. Or worse still, when he removed his inkwell and tied my braids to the desk through the hole. He worked so carefully that I didn't know I was tied down until I went to get up. The yank of my braids almost broke my neck. Sometimes he tied my sashes to the bench and my dress tore when I got up. How embarrassing it must have been to the Lord for having created him.

At Christmas time, I received what was to be my last doll. Although I never played with dolls anymore, my love for them was unchanged. This doll was a beauty, with a 'boughten' head, real hair, and a rag body. Mama had dressed her in pink dotted-swiss, and she looked beautiful on my dresser in my room.

1. Story 'I Know He Lives' published in Friend, June 1976, p. 10.

48In the spring of 1922, Kate graduated from the first, Second YearHigh School Class held in Hurricane. After school was out, she went toCedar to work for Gwen Matheson. Annie had a summer job working in ZionCanyon at 'The Wiley Way.'

And Mildred came down with one of the most severe cases of constructionfever that ever hit a fourteen-year-old girl. She took it out on thesteps outside the kitchen door. Why those steps were as much a part of thehouse as the roof was, and I would never have dreamed of changing them.But Mildred had visions of a cement porch. From somewhere, she came upwith a faded pair of bib overalls that had room enough in them for two ofher. (Papa only wore waist overalls held up with galluses.)

Mildred ripped away the wooden steps and hauled wheelbarrow loadafter load of rocks, filling up a form she had built of boards. Her endurancewas uncanny. Just one load of rocks like she hauled, was enoughto do me under. But it was her project, and she persisted. Papa providedthe cement and she hand-mixed it and dumped it over the rocks. Then Ithink she wore out, because the porch was never troweled, but had a rustic,rugged, non-skid finish. It was possible to trip, but never to slip onMildred's dream porch. And it endured for years, a lasting monument toour sister.

It was interesting how attractive Mildred was to the boy who livedthrough the block, while she slaved away, blistering her hands on rocksand cement. He reclined under the cherry tree next to the house, tryingto flirt with her. Boy friends were something new in our family. Wefigured ourselves to be the shy, spinster type. Papa cautioned Mildrednot to take up with any boy that would loll in the shade making sweet talk,while she pushed the wheelbarrow. 'He is nothing but a trashy, lazy lot,'he warned.

Mildred went to work for Grandma Petty on week days and for HannahHall on Saturdays. Every other week, I had to help Mildred carry Petty'swashing home. It was packed tight in a No. 1 tub, along with the homemadelye soap. The tub was heavy and we had to set it down often in thetwo and one-half blocks, to change hands.

Washing took all day. The fire under the black tub had to be builtfar enough away from the house to avoid the smoke. We had no hose, butcarried every bucket of water from the tap by the porch, down the path tothe tub. When the water was hot, we poured in a teaspoon of lye and a grayscum of hard-water rose thick to the top. After skimming this off, wecarried the hot water up the path, up the steps and into the kitchen tofill the 'Easy' washer. Every drop of wash water and rinse water had tobe carried in and carried out, bucket full at a time. And the clotheslinewas beyond the garden by the lucern patch, quite a distance forcarrying heavy, half-wrung out baskets of clothes. Sometimes it took thefollowing day for things to dry. By the time they were gathered, foldedand hand-carried back in the cumbersome tub, we had earned fifty-centseach. Before the 'Easy' washer came into our home, everything had to be49scrubbed on the board. I have no nostalgic longings for the 'good oldwash days.'

And no nostalgic longing for bare, pine board floors. With my sistersaway, the Saturday scrubbing fell more often to me. Lye soap and one hourof scrubbing and rinsing made every board look new, but left my water-wrinkledfingers raw with lye holes, my knees red and swollen, and an achein my back. The woven rag carpet had long since been discarded, hookedand braided scatter rugs taking its place. Linoleum covered the otherfloors in the house.

By this time I was fairly well trained for scrubbing floors on myhands and knees. Homer and Joe (Josephine) Englestead rented our twonorth rooms. We loved to tend their little girl Alice, and Joe oftenflattered me into scrubbing her floors.

While I scrubbed, Joe would say, 'Alice, you are a champion floorscrubber. If I were you, I'd ask my mother to let me scrub floors all ofmy life. No one can do it better than you.' And then before I'd groanat the thought, she'd say, 'Open your mouth.'

Sitting back on my heels, I'd open my mouth and she'd pop a chocolateinto it. Ummmm! How good, how good. On and on I'd scrub. When I wasfinished, she'd pay me a dime. It wasn't the flattery, nor the dime thatkept me scrubbing, but the chocolates.

Joe was a story teller. Her quick sense of humor and keen imaginationmade her a natural. She used to tell us tales about people andplaces she knew.

'I used to get 'A' in English Class for my compositions,' she'd say.'Mine were the best. You have to tell some whoppers to be the best.'

She used to tell of a kid named Ed who was tampering with tobacco.His mother suspected it, so she asked him to kiss her goodnight, but herefused. Instead, he clomped outside, climbed the ladder to the atticand crawled into bed without even saying his prayers. His consciencenagged him and he could see his mother's troubled face.

He tumbled and tossed and pretty soon a swarm of little red devilsscampered up the ladder into the attic and danced upon his bed. Then heheard a rumbling and bellowing and the old bull lumbered from the pastureand came puffing up the ladder.

Sticking his monstrous fat head in the attic window, he rumbled,'Ed, Ed, get up and say your prayers.'

Ed was scared almost to death and he got up and prayed. The littledevils left, the bull went back down the ladder and Ed kept himself fitto kiss his mother every night after that.

Edith's and LaPriel's Saturday job was to scrub the wooden chairs andsweep the yard. Sometimes they kept sweeping until little paths went rightup to Mama's flower beds, and a broad, impressive path was swept all theway to the barn. We didn't have a lawn, but hard-packed dirt yards, borderedwith flowers, pomegranates and grapes.

When the Saturday's cleaning was done, we were free to climb the hillto gather wild flowers. We must have denuded the Hurricane Hill, because50we picked every larkspur, buttercup or sego lily we could find.

One Saturday, I hiked to the river with Retta Humphries, she broughtalong a frying pan and a couple of trout and we fried them by the riverbank. Eating out of that frying pan was a most satisfying adventure.Later I learned that Retta's family was upset over the mysteriousdisappearance of the fish.

For sometime now I had been Grandma Isom's sleeping companion. I sleptin the big folding bed that had a full length mirror underneath. When thebed was folded up against the wall in the daytime, it looked like a polished,hardwood wardrobe. Grandma slept on a spool cot at the foot of my bed. Thecot swayed like a hammock at the slightest touch. If Grandma was in bedasleep and someone accidentally bumped into her cot, it sent her into oneof her 'spells.' 'Heart spells' is what she called them. Actually it wasgas crowding her heart. The pain was terrible and sometimes she screamedin such agony she could be heard as far away as Aunt Mary Campbell's.My job was to rub her back and arms until she got relief. Grandma said Ihad the right touch. As I rubbed up her arms, and up from the small of herback, the gas began to move and she burped again and again. Then limp andexhausted, she'd fall asleep. These nightly spells came so regularly thatI automatically got up and rubbed her in my sleep.

On summer afternoons we often played in the dusty road in the shadeof the Lombardy poplars. We played Steal Sticks, Pomp, Pomp, Pull Awayor Prisoner's Base. Run, Sheep, Run, the most spine-chilling game of all,had to be played in the dark. This was no game for sissies. It had suspenseand daring. The players were divided into two teams, each with acaptain. A bonfire or a street light was home base. One team stayed onbase while the second team disappeared into the dark to hide and to decideupon their code calls. Then their captain returned to base. The home teambegan their search and the hidden team's captain continually called out theposition of the searchers in code, such as 'lizzard', which might mean'We're approaching from the south', or 'black bear', which could mean 'Laylow, for we're close to you.' The hidden team silently crawled through cornpatches, grape vinyards and fences, sneaking toward home base, their heartsthumping as they listened for the signals. The searchers moved stealthily,alert for every sound. The squeaking of a gate or the snapping of twigscould send them racing back to base. If the hidden team's captain sensedthe danger of them being discovered, or if their position was right, he'dcall 'Run sheep, run!' and both teams crashed through the fields for home.The first man to arrive on base claimed the victory for his team. Thisgame was thrilling and chilling even in 100° weather.

On the thirteenth of July, our brother Wayne was born. Since wealready had two little boys in the family, Wayne's coming was quietlyaccepted as an added blessing. He was an entertaining little kid, andfit right in with the rest of the family.

Back to school again, Paul Gates was my sixth-grade teacher. In ourroom were two 'tough guys' who had been held back a couple of years. Theynever opened a book or took part in a discussion. They still thought itwas still funny to disappear up the air hole and be brough back to classby a juvenile officer. One recess they stayed out longer than the otherstudents and when they finally swaggered in, their corncob pipes protrudingfrom their shirt pockets, they reeked of tobacco.

51'All right you fellows, bring those pipes to my desk,' Mr. Gatesdemanded.

Instantly they leaped upon him, pinning him down. Terrified, wewatched the tangle of feet and fists. One of the students darted fromthe room and returned with the principal, who grabbed the ruffiansby their collars. They were expelled from school, never to return.

Karl Larsen was our music teacher. When he taught us to read notes,I became excited about learning to play the organ. Enthusiastically, Istudied the organ book that was stored in the music compartment of ourtreadle organ. After I had mastered 'The Mosquito Waltz', I informed oneof my classmates that I was going to be a musician.

'Let me look at your hands,' he said. Taking my hand in his, he spreadout my fingers. 'You'll never learn to play,' he said flatly.

'Why won't I?' I asked.

'Because your hands aren't shaped right. Your fingers aren't longenough.'

What a let down. Foolishly, I believed him and quit trying, exceptto fiddle out a few tunes by ear, like 'Springtime in the Rockies.'

In October, when the sweet smell of steaming cane juice wafted acrosstown, we knew Will Wilson's molasses mill was running. After our Saturday'swork was through, Mama often let us take our lard bucket to the mill, andWill always filled it with skimmings. The pulp and trash from the cane wasin the skimmings, but there was enough syrup underneath the foam to make abatch of candy. If we didn't have almonds, we used peach pits for nuts,which made the candy a little bitter. Eating too much of it made ourstomachs ache. Golda Campbell was sick a long time from eating peach pitcandy. More than the satisfaction of eating the candy, was the fun ofcracking the hard shelled pits and of trekking to the mill, and seeingthings on the way, especially the tiny toads no bigger than honey bees.

On winter afternoons when school was through, we played baseball inthe street. Even when I hit the ball, I could never beat it to first base.In choosing up teams, they always chose me last. I could have developed acomplex, except for the fact that in school when they chose up sides for aspelling match, I was always chosen first.

I don't know whether Papa answered an advertisment, or how the Excelcisrepresentative happened to call at our house, but call he did. And while hesubtly hypnotized Papa, my Lee's Manufacturing exploits leaped to Papa'smind and my potential qualities loomed before him, and I was signed up totake the agency. What Papa didn't realize was that my salesman days wereover. It had been nothing more than a passing childhood fancy. By now Idearly hated selling. No matter! In one brief hour, I got all twelvelessons on how to mesmerize the housewife, or how to hoodwink her intothinking she couldn't live without what I had to sell.

What a gloomy, sad day! The bold confidence I had felt when I earnedmy little vanity case, or my ruby birthstone ring, had long since turned toself-consciousness, and I was actually afraid.

But sally forth I must! Filling my hands with little yellow pricelists. Papa sent me out into the world to seek my fortune. Timidly52I knocked on the first door, hoping no one would answer, but in those dayseveryone was at home. When a lady suddenly appeared before me, all of thedoor approaches the representative had taught me fled from my mind.Timidly, I half whispered, 'You don't want to buy any extracts of spicesdo you?'

'No I don't. We have plenty,' she answered.

'I have face powder, coconut pie filling and lemon pie filling,' Iadded.

'Pie filling?' Her eyebrow raised.

'And cake mixes,' I added hurridly.

'Tell me about your pie fillings and cake mixes,' she asked.

Ready mixes had not yet appeared in grocery stores. I was in business.Curious customers were eager to try my mixes and so was I. I squanderedmy first month's commission on them. The cake was the crustiest, bestmorsel I had ever eaten. (Every cake was the best I had ever eaten, theone at the moment that is, because cakes were rare.)

I was a little dubious about pushing cosmetics. Hearing Papa andGrandma talk of the Harlots of the Virgin Oil Boom Days, had given me theidea that only bad women used make-up and perfume. Still I was aware thatwhen Grandma was decked in her satin and lace and the kid curlers unwoundfrom her hair, she smelled of carnations and her skin had the look ofvelvet. But I was apologetic about selling a sinful thing like face powderand when I told Annie Wright (who was the age of Mama) that the Daughtersof Zion shouldn't use such things, she bought some.

Right then I shed my Quaker standards. That's when I started dabblingwith my perfume samples, which came in thin glass tubes. One of them brokein my pocket at school during music period one day.

'Phew!' Mr. Larsen exclaimed, 'What's that stifling smell?'

'It's Alice,' one of the boys piped up.

'Open the windows before we smother. Alice, you may leave the room.'

Wafting the aroma of lilacs, I drifted out, knowing I had blessed theroom with a breath of spring. It was almost time for school to let out forthe day anyway.

Papa was a Republican. In all of the history of Washington County,there had been only one Republican sent to the State Legislature, and thatwas J. W. Imlay of Hurricane, two years before. At election time weheard a lot ahout politics in our home. This year an interesting race forthe State Legislature was putting Hurricane on the map, because both theDemocrat and Republican candidates were from our town. David Hirschi,Republican, was running against Charlie Petty, Democrat.

Even as good a Republican as Papa was, he surprised us just beforeelection day by coming in with a wide grin and a flat can of McGown'ssalmon—a salmon steak, it was, like you never find in a can anymore.

'Where did you get that?' Mama asked.

'Charlie Petty gave it to me,' Papa replied.

53'You take that right back,' she demanded. 'Charlie Petty isn't going to buy our votes.'

I looked at the can of salmon, my digestive juices flowing with asudden sensation of total starvation. The room became very tense. Papaput up some kind of plea, but Mama was firm. Papa seemed so meek and Mamaso mghty, their roles were completely reversed. Papa was on trial andI so much wanted him to win. This is the only recollection I have ofMama ever opposing Papa.

Then I guess Mama got to thinking how humiliating it would be forPapa to have to return the salmon, and how domineering it would make herappear. She loved Papa, so she let him convince her that Charlie onlygave him the salmon as a friendly gesture. So we opened the can and putthat beautiful steak on a plate for supper, and David Hirschi won theelection.

What a heap of difference there was between our little brothers.Willie was still the top star in Papa's heaven, because he arrived beforeClinton and Wayne. At five, he still had a bit of angel shining throughhis wit and mischief, and knew how to influence people. Clinton, at twoand one-half, was already off on exploring expeditions. His interest wasnot so much in people as it was in places and things. He learner to climbthe highest piece of furniture before he could even walk. He had aninsatiable curiosity that led him into everything. Fondly we called him'Freckles', not because he had freckles, but because of the song that said,'Freckles was his name. He always used to get the blame, for every brokenwindow pane,' etc.

In a letter to Annie, dated November 6, 1922, I wrote: 'I'll tell youabout the main thing first. That is chasing our cows in every few minutes,or chasing the neighbor's cattle out of our corn and putting the pig in,or taking Clinton off the table and out of the slop bucket and cleaning uppreserves which he brakes the bottle of preserves on the floor.'

Wayne was still in the age of innocence, a little doll in his dainty,white dresses.

Thanksgiving day, which was normally a day of happy expectancy, dawnedforlorn and lonely. Grandma was away, sharing herself with her daughters.Annie was living with Uncle Will and Aunt Kate Palmer and going to schoolat the B.A.C. in Cedar, and Kate was working in Cedar too. Even Mildredwas helping someone else on this particular day, and Mama was sick in bed.This was the first Thanksgiving I could recall when there weren't pies andcakes made ahead, and a suet pudding bubbling in its little cotton sack ina kettle on the stove. Such bleakness was almost crushing.

'Mama,' I said going to her bedside. 'I wish I knew how to make a cake.'

'We haven't rendered out the lard yet,' she said.

Vegetable shortening so far as I know, was non-existent.

Mama closed her eyes as if she were thinking, then she said, 'Perhapsyou can borrow half a cup of lard from Aunt Mary Stout, and I will tell youhow to make a cake.

The room suddenly brightened. My feet fairly flew to Aunt Mary's and54and back. In and out of Mama's room I went for step-by-step instructions,and carefully I watched until the cake came out of the oven, a golden-brownbeauty. Good things from the cellar made the dinner complete and Mama wasable to come to the table. My heart swelled with true thanksgiving for Ihad discovered the joy of doing things. Everyone enjoyed my cake. It wasvery good and I knew it, and I had made it myself.1

1. Story 'The Not-So-Pitiful Thanksgiving' published in Friend, November 1979, p. 2.

54In a letter to Annie and Kate, dated January 11, 1923, Mama says:

Dear Girls,

I certainly have a comp for you both. William came in with an egg and said 'The hen laid this that has a face like Kate. There's one hen with a face like Annie's and one with a face like Ianthus Spendlove and there's five black hens that have faces like Kate's.' I remember the time when things looked that way to me. Even houses had faces with frowns or smiles and usually resembled some member of the family that lived in them.

Wayne has his second tooth and can say 'coon' through his nose just like Annie used to sing 'coon, coon' and he can say 'pop, pop, mom, mom, pop.'

Feb. 14—Mildred has gone to a Valentine dance tonight and the others are flying about town and we are sitting here without a fire and it is bed time and as I can think of nothing to write, I think we will hie to bed.

Maybe I had better tell you about Freckles. When Grandma was out, he went in and struck a lot of matches and mixed up some dope, then came home and drank all her pepper sauce, then cried till bed time, thought he was hungry because his stomach burned. Today he made another visit there. She discovered it and brought him home. He broke a bowl, poured all my yeast out and I didn't know it till I was ready to make the bread. I put some kindlings behind the stove for morning and he started to build a fire there. LaPriel bought a valentine. He burned that up. Well, that's nearly a daily program or its equivalent. Love, from Mama.

Clinton's mania for matches kept Mama constantly on guard. He had a fascination for electric outlets too. Instead of plug-in sockets, we had screw-in sockets, which were little wells in the wall. The well was protected with a round copper door hinged onto a wall plate. We all wore high-topped button shoes, so the button hook hung handy-by on the door casing between the living room and kitchen, near our one electric outlet.

On his exploratory rounds, Clinton pushed his chair into the doorway, and climbed after the button hook. The pretty copper wall plate caught his eye. With nimble fingers he opened the little door and caught sight of the shiny copper spot in the center of the well. To touch this with the button hook was the logical thing to do, so he took a jab at it. A sputtering circle of light whipped like a lasso around the room, and with a yelp, Clinton landed on his back on the floor.

55Following are parts taken from a letter written by me to Kate and Annie, dated March, 1923:

Dear Sisters … Clinton says to tell you our turkey layed a egg. Did you feel a breeze up there day before yesterday? Well, it struck us. The ground just flew around in the air. The peddles on the apricot flowers layed on the place where the ground ought to be. Some ground got in a pan where the milk ought to be. The milk got on the floor where the ground ought not to be. My hair flew up in the air where the sunshine ought to be, the sunshine was up in the clouds where the rain ought to be. Some storm.

Kate I heard a comp for you. I heard that you was the most unselfish and best girl ever. Good for you.

Annie I am glad you are looking and feeling so well. I hope you soon ketch up with your work.

Mildred gets the sore throat every Saturday so she can get out of the work. .. When you kids get home I will squeeze you to pieces. Beware!!! … Kate I am the only girl that wears ribbons in my hair. I don't care. Oh yes, Ione Tiffony wears her hair that way too. … I am as ever your loving sister, Alice. OX OX OX OX Two hugs and kisses apiece.

One morning in history class, Karl Larsen said, 'Alice, will you ask your Grandma if she'll come and visit our class?'

'Oh yes,' I exclaimed. I knew Grandma could hold the class spellbound with her stories.

When I asked her. Grandma said, 'I'll be happy to come.'

'Mr. Larsen said he'd come for you in his car. Our class is at 10 o'clock,' I told her.

Next morning I said, 'Mr. Larsen, Grandma will be ready when you call for her.'

'Good,' he replied, proceeding with the class.

I was so anxious for him to go after her that the class seemed eternal. Finally, slipping up to his desk, I whispered, 'Aren't you going after Grandma?'

56'Why, I haven't asked her to come yet,' he answered in surprise. 'I only wanted to know if she would.'

I felt horrible. Dashing home at noon I found Grandma waiting and watching out the window for Mr. Larsen's car. She had even curled her hair with irons heated in the lamp chimney. Primly she sat in her black satin dress, the one I loved most of all with the ecru lace dickey and the embroidered red rose.

'Oh Grandma,' I cried, 'I'm so sorry. Mr. Larsen didn't tell me which day he wanted you to come.'

A hurt look flashed across her face, but quickly she smiled and put her arm around me. 'It's all right. I'll come when he wants me.'

Mr. Larsen never did say when he wanted her, and I struggled with my tottering faith in grownups.

Our bishop died February 2, 1923. He was the only bishop I had ever known. It pleased me when he gave me a pat on the back. Paying tithing had been fun ever since the day I took him my rooster. Bishop Isom's home was beautiful, with a stairway sweeping grandly down into the living room. Before he built his home, he lived in a tent. In those days he kept the tithing and fast offering money in a can in his wheat bin, and when the Church Auditor came to see him, he put a horse blanket around the Auditor to keep him warm.

People paid tithing in cash if they could. If they couldn't, they paid in produce, and the Bishop gave them a receipt. The produce given to the 'worthy poor' didn't have to be turned into the Church as cash, but the surplus did. If the Bishop couldn't sell it, he bought it himself. Since he already raised everything he needed, he usually ended up giving the surplus to those who didn't qualify as 'the poor.' He had always been kind and good to everyone, and the people loved him.

Ira Bradshaw was put in as our new Bishop on May 20, 1923.

I was absent the day our class planned a party for the closing of school, so my invitation came by mail in a pretty pink envelope. It read 'Lady Alice, robed in velvet, scarcely deigned to fling a glance, on the coarse home woven cotton, flitting through the rustic dance. Lady Alice will you please me, by coming to the school house bright, very early in the evening at 7:30 Saturday night?' It was signed 'Theron Lathum.' He had happened to draw my name.

At the party we danced awkwardly together, and then the class played games. Because our house was on the way to his, Theron walked me home after the party, but neither of us said anything. Theron's cheeks were fat and pink. I liked bashful, round-faced boys, and thought of him as my boy friend after that. I saw him cast shy glances in my direction too, but we never did get around to speaking to each other.

Just before school closed, our entire class sneaked off to Gould's Wash, to picnic, including me. I hadn't forgotten my unpopularity on April Fool's Day last year when everyone disappeared but me. Even the teacher looked annoyed when she saw me sitting there alone. The memory of it gave me the57courage to sluff with the rest of the class.

After school was out, a letter from Annie informed us of the day she would be home. Excitedly we watched every car as it came around the bend by Pete Lathum's.

'Annie will be in this car,' we'd cry. As the car sped on, we'd say, 'Nope. She wasn't in that one. She will be in the next one.'

And so the game continued during the anxious waiting hours. As night came. Papa entered the game. Each set of beaming headlights was the one. At last! A car stopped at our gate and Annie got out with her suitcases!

How pretty she was. Her cheeks were round and rosy, an infallible mark of beauty, her eyes sparkled, and her clothes looked like college. With my flair for romance, I was excited to learn that Annie had a boyfriend, too. His name was Rass Matheson. She met him while Kate worked for Rass's sister-in-law Gwen. Instinctively I knew she would marry him, and all of the Mathesons would be our relatives.

Annie was an efficient stenographer, speedy in shorthand and typing, so Charlie Petty hired her. So now, after having been gone for so long, she was finally living home again.

Summer is happy things sandwiched in between work. After school let out, Mildred went to work for Orson Hall in St. George, but she got homesick and I was glad. Together we made a cozy nook with our pillows and an old camp quilt among the willows along the canal bank and settled down to read love stories. My favorite was B. M. Bauer's'Chip of the Flying U.' My emotions soared like a bird on the wings of romance. The background music of water racing through the headgate and splashing down the hill, the rustling of the willows, and twittering of the birds helped. Next we read 'The Sheik.' It was a little more sophisticated, but still we were transported.

The Sheik, on his white horse, dashed across the desert and kidnapped a French girl from the caravan, holding her close to his beating heart under his flying, sweet smelling white robes. They galloped over the moonlit sand to his private tent, apart from his harem. She never knew when he silently slipped away in the night.

Unluckily, Grandma got hold of the book. 'Annie,' she exclaimed to Mama, 'do you know what sort of trash these girls are reading?'

'Grandma, if isn't trash,' I said defensively. 'It's a good love story.'

'It's trash,' she insisted.

The book vanished and we never saw it again.

Reading with Mildred on the canal bank was a short-lived joy, for she went to work in the laundry at the Wiley Way in Zion.

Just as sleeping with Edith had had its humor, like her peeking under the bed to see who was there, so she livened up the dish doing. Pointing to some specks on the shade at the kitchen window, she would say, 'Each dot represents a hundred-thousand people.' Then she'd launch into a Grand Opera performance, mimicking a lady in town who had a penetrating, high vibrato. And so she sang as she washed, while I wiped the dishes.

58But Edith did not believe in unnecessary drudgery, especially at her expense. One day, as we cleared the dinner table, Edith gave LaPriel a swat on the head.

'What was that for?' Papa demanded.

'She didn't have to dirty her whole plate,' Edith retorted. 'She could have put her molasses on just one spot.'

Papa did his best to carry on the normal activities of a man, likeriding the range. Mama used to carry a chair out in the yard for him toclimb upon to mount his horse. He stayed in the saddle all day long, andwhen he came home at night, she helped him dismount.

One day a bull gored his horse and Papa was thrown off, breaking acouple of ribs. Uncle Ren Spendlove's boys helped him home. That was thelast time he ever rode for cattle, but as soon as his ribs mended, he resumedwalking to the barbershop every day with his checkerboard.

Across the street from the barbershop, was the Isom Hotel, where thetraveling salesmen, or 'drummers' put up. They, too, joined in the checkergames. One drummer, Mr. Van Horn, came to our home in the evenings andtaught Papa the game of chess. When Papa was involved in a game, he wasoblivious to everything else.

One evening, Robert Woodbury came to visit him, but he was involvedin a chess game with Mr. Van Horn. After visiting with Mama for a spell,Brother Woodbury finally arose. Papa and Van Horn were silently staringat their chessmen. It had been minutes since either one of them had spokenor moved.

Grinning, Brother Woodbury said, 'Well, goodnight Annie. Please tellGeorge I've been here to see him.'

With Annie clerking in Petty's store, luxuries began to appear on ourtable, like bananas and pineapple. Annie made wonderful new kinds of pies,too. And more than that, she set our table with beautiful, new dinnerplates. They were larger than the ones I got from Lee's ManufacturingCompany, and nicer. She bought a generous set, enough for our big table.Lovingly I washed them when it was my turn to do the dishes.

Then it came LaPriel's turn to clear the table. She stacked the plates,and carried them in one load to the kitchen. Somehow they slipped, shatteringin fragments on the floor. What a disaster! I think all of us wentinto shock.

'LaPriel, look what you have done,' Papa shouted. 'Now you will haveto get busy and pay for every one of them.'

LaPriel was our littlest sister, scarcely nine! Conscientiously,she saved every penny she earned, then finally Annie and Mama came to herrescue and helped her. Mama never scolded when we broke a dish. She knewhow we felt, and that was punishment enough.

Taking out tonsils was a neighborhood affair. When LaPriel had hersremoved. Dr. Baker did the mass operations in Will Wilson's home. Now itwas time for Willie and Clinton to get their tonsils out. The leaves on our59dining table were opened up for the slaughter. How many youngsters wereoperated on in our living room, I don't recall, but I do remember that thehouse was heavy with chloroform, and there were groggy, blood-spitting kidsrolled up in blankets lying all about the room.

Papa's enthusiasm about my sales ability with Excelcis was so great that he decided I should cover LaVerkin, too. Because of his desire to help, he walked the two miles down the dugway, across the river and up the other side with me to LaVerkin. The sun was blistering hot. By the time we had canvassed the town as far as Grace Stout's home, my world turned black. Sister Stout said I was having a sun stroke. She had us come in and rest, and she brought us a drink. As we left, she put one of her daughter's pretty straw hats on my head. The hat had blue streamers down the back. A man came along in a wagon and Papa asked if we could ride with him to Hurricane. When the goods arrived from Excelcis, Papa arranged for a car to take us to LaVerkin. I earned about $5.00 a month for taking orders.

One day I sat yearning over a picture of satin pumps in the ChicagoMail Order Catalog. Holding my feet in front of me, I fancied I could seethe soft sheen of black satin and the glitter of rhinestone buckles uponthem. With a sigh I looked up as Mama came into the room.

'Look how pretty, Mama, and they only cost $2.00. Can I order them?'

'Don't be foolish,' she cautioned. 'Satin becomes rags. To put thoseslippers on your feet would be like casting pearls before swine.'

What a thing for Mama to say! I knew very well she didn't think of meas a swine. Mulling this over in my mind, I realized that since all I everhad was one pair of shoes at a time, satin pumps wouldn't be so good forclimbing upon the hill.

That fall I was in the seventh grade and Karl Larsen was my full-timeteacher. I remember Karl mostly for his beautiful art work on the blackboardin colored chalk, for his excellence in teaching music, and forsaving Lalif Wood's life. Lalif was so happy about his new necktie that hekept tying and untying it. Once he slipped the knot so tight under hiscollar that he couldn't loosen it. His face got red, then redder and redder.When his ears turned purple, one of the boys shouted, 'Mr. Larsen, look atLalif!' With a bound Mr. Larsen was down the aisle. Quick as a flash hepulled out his pocket knife and cut Lalif's tie free.

I submitted a second drawing to the Juvenile Instructor. This one wasof a boy with a rag wrapped around his stubbed toe. When it was published,I received a Hiawatha Reader 'Being Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha' edited byRobert George. In the preface is written, 'To teach a child to read, andnot teach him what to read, is to put a dangerous weapon into his hands.'Then it goes on to say that the Song of Hiawatha is recognized as one of themost fascinating poems in our language. The book is beautifully illustratedand although loved and worn, is still on my book shelf today.

The biggest event each fall was the coming of the Ellison White Chautauquatroupe to Hurricane. For five nights they played on stage in the schoolhouse. Posters announcing their coming were up in Judd's and Petty's storewindows, and I was always waiting in the school yard as their vans, loadedwith stage props, arrived. Every year I passed handbills to earn a season'sticket.

60Each night I sat spellbound, as the troupe of actors played their great and moving drama and my tears flowed freely as I lived every line, until one night, during 'The Great Divide,' Fern Ruesch leaned forward, putting her face in front of mine.

'Alice, you're crying,' she giggled.

Embarrassed, I wiped my cheeks. In that moment I resolved to neverbe caught crying in public again. Now I wish I could shed tears morefreely.

At Thanksgiving time, Mama wrote the following letter to Kate, whowas working in Cedar.

Hurricane, Utah

26 November 1923

Dear Daughter:

We will send your underware so you can be warmer. Wish you had them now as it is getting colder. There was ice on the step this morning where the spray came from the tap, and I saw a very thin ice in the corral a few mornings ago, the only bit I have seen this fall. The wind is blowing frightfully just like it did twelve years ago tonight when our only little boy left us. The whole of this month has reminded me so much of that one, but I must not think of such things when there are so many things to be thankful for.

I will tell you of some of our friends (friends in need, friends indeed) good acts. Perhaps you remember of Charles Allen hauling our hay last summer and there was so little of it that he would not take pay, then Brother Reber cut the grain and when Papa told him to bring his sacks at threshing time for his pay he did not do it, just laughed and said he could do that much for nothing. James Stanworth put in the fall grain out in the field and when we asked his bill he said 'Nothing.'

Charles Allen hauled two cords of wood for us and had the town credit one to himself and the other to Uncle Ren, on woodhaulers day for the disabled and widows and Papa got him to put up our last cutting of hay on shares here and when we got after him, he said that was all right, just to let him know any time he could help. And Howard Isom sawed our wood and said their regular price was $5.00, but would only charge us $3.75 Uncle Ren and Uncle Will have both thrown off a few sticks of wood occasionally when passing. When we asked Will Spendlove his price for taking you up there, he said he was glad to do that much to help you.

Well, good night and keep well. Love from Mama.

The dining table was the family social center. When the leaves were up it could seat twelve people. Usually, after the supper dishes were done, wesat around the table with our school books and studied. Sometimes we playedgames, like 'Up Jinks' or 'Button, Button,' or 'Pox and Geese.' Our gameswere all homemade, except, of course, Papa's checkers.

At Christmas time, Annie gave the family a deck of Finch cards. Duringthe holidays we played the game with fascination. Never had we enjoyed aholiday season more. Day after day we played, until the game became an61obsession.

Once, when Papa asked us to set the table for supper, someone said,'In a minute. We are almost finished.'

Sternly Papa arose, demanded that we hand him our cards, then he threwthem in the fire. We sat in stunned silence. We couldn't believe he woulddo such a thing to something that had brought so much pleasure. It waslike a bereavement. We were each crying bitterly within, but knew betterthan to show any outward signs. Instead, we quietly set the table.

61Oak Creek, my mother's childhood hometown, was situated inside of whatis now Zion National Park, and covered the area from the Park Entrance andon up the canyon, beyond the present site of the Visitor's Center.Grandmother Crawford, and most of my Crawford cousins lived there.

'Grandmother' meant Grandmother Crawford, and 'Grandma' meant GrandmaIsom. That's how we distinguished between the two. Grandmother was ashomespun as Abe Lincoln and Grandma was as genteel as George Washington.Grandmother's home was as Early American as Grandma's was Old English.

Thoughts of Grandmother bring memories of her spacious living roombuilt onto the old log cabin. The scrubbed pine board floors were brightenedwith braided scatter-rugs, and the walls were papered with slickmagazine pages, fresh and fascinating, and the windows were hung withcalico curtains. A hand-carved mantle shelf topped the fireplace, and onit stood the pendulum clock that had ticked away the years, and standingbeside the clock was the kerosene lamp. Currier & Ives pictures hung onthe wall, their home-made frames intricate with woodcarvings of oak leavesand acorns. Our Great-Grandfather, Samuel Kendall Gifford, was the craftsmanwho made the Gifford chairs, and these were the kind used in Grandmother'shome. The woven, rawhide bottoms were cushioned with crazy patch, embroidered,velvet pillows.

'Grandmother' is a world of memories to me. It is her calico dress andher checkered, gingham apron with the cross stitch border. It is the bluewillowware dishes in her kitchen cupboard. It is Grandfather's two broad-brimmed,felt hats above the kitchen door, giving the impression that Grandfather had justbarely hung them on their pegs. It is the spinning wheel upstairs, and theaffectionate sound of Aunt Emma's voice as she welcomed useach summer, and the sugar cookies, sprinkled with nutmeg in the blue crock,and cold fried chlcken on a plate. It is picking plump, yellow currants andeverbearing strawberries in the garden, and gathering big, brown eggs fromthe clean nests burrowed into the haystack by the speckled hens. It is thebird-of-paradise blooming by her kitchen door. It is everything that sendsmy blood racing with the happiness of childhood. 'Grandmother' and 'OakCreek' are synonymous to me.

When our uncles from Oak Creek brought their grain to the grist mill,we made our garden hoes smoke, because we could go with them to Grandmother'sif we got our weeding done. We rode in the wagon with either Uncle Lewis,Uncle Dan, or Uncle Jim, until Uncle Johnny started driving the mail truck.Then we rode with him.

62It was a day's journey by team. The dirt roads were rough anddeeply rutted. Dust poufed up from the horses' hooves, and squirted fromthe ruts as the wagon wheels jogged along, settling thick over us and thesacks of 'grist.'1The clopping of the horses and the creaking of thewagon lulled us and we learned to sleep, our heads bouncing against asack of flour or thumping against the bare boards in the bottom of thewagon. By the time we arrived at Grandmother's house we peered fromdust-rimmed eyes, like furry racoons. The water bucket with the grayenamel dipper in it, and the wash basin, soap, and towel were ready for uson a bench by the door. After the first night at Grandmother's, ourcousins showed up and it was decided who should have the honor of hostingus for the rest of our precious week.

Our Oak Creek and Springdale cousins were not just ordinary people.They were especially created to live in Paradise. (Oak Creek and Springdale.)Oak Creek and Springdale were only two miles apart and we wererelated to everyone who lived in both places, except the Langston family.Grandmother had thirteen children, and some of her children had eleven,thirteen, and fifteen children. So we had cousins by the dozens, andevery one of them was special in a wonderful way.

Our 'up-river' cousins can best be explained by saying they were apart of the canyon, a canyon made deep by towering peaks of brilliant hues.Our cousins were as refreshing as the canyon breeze that came every morning,sweet with the scent of boxelder, and as joyous as the river ripplingover rocks. How else can I say how much I loved them? I will introducethose nearest my age.

Elva belonged to Uncle Lewis and Aunt Mary Crawford. She was just myage. Aunt Mary came from the south, bringing with her that southernhospitality. She talked and laughed, and listened to Elva and me as thouchwe were grownups. She and Uncle Lewis used to take their hoes and shovelsto the field and work together, coming in together at meal time. Eachsummer, when we were there. Aunt Mary packed the picnic basket while UncleLewis hitched up the team, and we would spend one day at Raspberry Bendin Zion. Raspberry Bend is the big bend in the river between Weeping Rockand the parking lot in the Narrows. Grandfather used to have a corn patchthere and I am of the impression it was he who originally planted theraspberries. Back to their home in the evening. Uncle Lewis used to siton the front step and play his harmonica under the stars.

Leata was my age, too, and belonged to Uncle Dan and Aunt Sarah Crawford.Usually, I said 'Leata and Elva' in one breath, because these twocousins lived close together and we always played together. Leata was thewitty one, reminding me of Edith. Aunt Sarah was fastidious, and Leatacould not go to play until the house was shiny slick.

Mary Gifford was a year older than I and belonged to Uncle John andAunt Fanny Gifford. They lived half-way between Oak Creek and Sprinqdale.I loved to show up at their place just before sundown, because I kneweither Aunt Fanny, Ida, Inez or Lella would stir up a batch of corn breadfor supper. They knew my insatiable appetite for it, and they always hadit when I came. Mary and I used to play on the foothills, down by the river,or through the cane fields together, and Uncle John shared his fresh,roasted peanuts with us. Aunt Fanny became as close to me as though she63were my own age. We never talked much, because she was quiet, but shepoured out her inner feelings in letters to me, and always sent cardsfor no occasion especially, except that it was springtime or harvest time.One card I cherished until the edges became soft and frayed was a pictureof a rainbow above an apple orchard in full bloom.

Rupert Ruesch belonged to Uncle Walter and Aunt Marilla Ruesch, wholived in Springdale. He was a year older than I and couldn't really bebothered with girl cousins. But Aunt Marilla's scintillating wit andUncle Walter's colorful language, made visiting at their house somethingwe wouldn't dream of missing.

Heber belonged to Uncle Sammy and Aunt Emmie Crawford. To get totheir place, we went over a swinging bridge across the river. UncleSammy was a skilled carpenter, and so was Heber. Heber's miniature barns,corrals,and houses in their back yard were the cleverest I had ever seen,and playing with his spool wagons over the winding roads under the shadetrees was cool fun.

Reuben belonged to Uncle Jim and Aunt Ellen Crawford, and he was nomore interested in playing with girls than Rupert was. Uncle Jim and AuntEllen made up for this default. Uncle Jim used to play his wind-up phonographfor us. The records were cylinder shaped and the sound came out ofa big, blue petunia-shaped horn. Aunt Ellen fried up heaps of rabbit meat,golden and crusty. It was good, but I couldn't eat it, because I had spenttoo much time leaning over the rabbit pen, watching the big-eyed, furrysoft babies play.

Norman belonged to Uncle Johnny and Aunt Eliza. He was half-way betweenMildred and me, and more interested in her. Aunt Eliza, Susan andLucy made me feel cuddled and loved. Because they lived next door toGrandmother and Aunt Emma, I felt that their household was one and thesame.

Besides the Uncles, Aunts and Cousins, there were Grand-Uncles andAunts. Especially Uncle Freeborn and Aunt Jane, and Uncle Moses and AuntAiry Gifford. Uncle Freebom and Aunt Jane ran an ice cream parlor inSpringdale. Besides ice cream, they sold chocolates, the old fashionedbon-bon kind that came in wooden buckets. It was wonderful to have a grandunclewho had these things, because that made them free to us. I figuredanyone who owned a store could have anything they wanted for nothing.Aunt Jane always set us down to a big bowl of home-made ice cream and UncleFreeborn doled out the chocolates. This was before the days of electricityin Springdale, which made summertime ice cream more exotic.

Uncle Freeborn had an ice pond in Oak Creek Canyon. In the winter heran a thin layer of water into the pond, letting it freeze. On top ofthis he ran another layer and so on, until he could saw solid blocks ofice from the pond. He hauled these by team and wagon to his shed in Springdale,and packed them in sawdust. The ice lasted all summer in this insulation.

Sometimes in the summertime, his team would pull into our yard in Hurricane.Packed in his wagon, well-wrapped in ice and quilts, was a fivegallon freezer of ice cream to share with ours and Aunt Mary Stout's families.

Uncle Moses bought treats from Springdale, too. Those flour sacks,filled with yellow transparent apples in the spring were mighty welcome.64He used to compose songs and poems to sing and recite at parties. Theywere humorous and he was a fun granduncle, but sometimes I wished he'dleave Aunt Airy (Aranna) home, for often, when he was at his best, she'dsay, 'Oh, Moses,' in such an unflattering way, and then he'd quit.

I saw little of Mildred during our week together at Oak Creek, forshe was off with Merle and Myrtle being a butterfly with the older cousins.She felt beautiful, desirable and free as a butterfly, and that everybodyloved her. Consequently, everybody did. All the while, I was having agrubby good time, crawling along on Heber's spool wagon roads, or snaggingmy dresses on bushes and ledges.

Once Uncle Lewis gave Elva, Leata and me a ripe watermelon. We decidedto eat it above the ledges below the Watchman. The melon was heavy, sowe changed off often, taking turns carrying it up the steep foothills. Thelast pitch, lugging the melon past the ledges,was almost too much. Finally,we sat panting precariously above a cliff, clutching our treasure. Oneof us moved, and the melon rolled out of reach, over the edge of the cliff,and smashed to bits down below.

Swimming in the river in old dresses and bloomers, was a popular sportwith the Oak Creek and Springdale cousins. The swimming holes were somethingmore than belly-crawling in the Hurricane Canal. I only had to bepulled out twice to realize that I could swim in knee-deep water only.

Finally came a summer when spool wagons, crawling in the dirt, andpuddle wading seemed kid stuff to me. Just before I was fourteen camethe glorious, three day, Crawford reunion. I discovered that my uncles andolder cousins were amused at my wise cracks, which made my blood race andmy head feel keen. I discovered also that boys were fun to flirt with.Even uncles teased in a fun-filled way, especially Uncle Jake Crawford,whom we seldom saw, because he and his family were globe-trotters. His boyEarl was about my age, and very polite. I didn't understand why he alwayssaid 'Sir,' or 'Mam,' but it had a charm, like reading a book. Aunt Effie'sdeep blue eyes rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and dark hair was very pretty.

The following was recorded in my diary: 'Elva, Venona, Leata, Edith andI hiked up in a canyon east of Uncle Sammy's. We came back with our armsfull of beautiful wild flowers and our mouths full of wonderful pine gum.…At meal times there were one-hundred and seven hungry stomachs to fill.It was wash, wash, wash dirty dishes and serve, serve, serve hungry people.Leata, Edith and I gathered peppermint and made some tea. We passed a cupof tea down the table and all of the men smelled it and passed it on untilit came to Uncle Jake and he said if we would turn our heads he would drinkit. When we looked back, the cup was empty. I told him I didn't believehe drank it, so he put his arms around me and marched me to Mama and said,'Annie, have you ever caught me in a lie?' Mama said, 'Why no.' 'Well, ifyou can show me the tea, I'll believe you drank it,' I said and everyonelaughed. Uncle Jake took Leata and I with him after he drank our tea, andhe was as much fun as a kid.'

But this reunion! There were long tables in Uncle Johnny's yard, andsomeone was always setting it or clearing it. Roving crowds were alwayseating. I never saw Mama during the whole time, except briefly I learnedshe never got out of the kitchen, and that she was against three-dayreunions.

65Carl Crawford had a car—and at last, I was young lady enough to gofor a ride with my older cousins. I wore the soft royal-blue satinjumper dress that Grandma Isom had made me. I felt as lovely as a movie star.Carl took us to see the new Rockville Bridge. To give us a thrill, hefloor-boarded the gas, and going over the bridge, hit a rut. I was in thebade seat, and was thrown against the car top, skinning my nose againstthe hardwood bow. My face swelled and went black around my eyes. Worsestill, the blue satin dress came apart. It was a tiered skirt, and eachtier separated, leaving the cording and satin hanging. Like Cinderella,my finery had turned to rags. There was one saving grace; this was thelast afternoon of the reunion.

1. Grist was the flour, bran and cereal made from the grain.

65In the spring, Mildred graduated from the ninth grade. Grandma saidschool was just a waste of time for Mildred anyway, because she was the'marrying kind'. She should have said 'romantic kind', because Mildredloved everybody, and took it for granted that everybody loved her.Occasionally someone even referred to her as 'the pretty one'. Now I wouldn'tgo so far as to say that. When it came to looks, she really didn't haveanything over on the rest of us.

But she had a good disposition. She never got angry, and she was goodto everybody. She didn't even have fun indulging in witty sarcasm. Shenever said smarty things that felt good on the tongue. In fact she neversaid anything bad about anyone, no matter how funny it might have been.She was simply a happy person, who liked to make other people happy.

So when she went to work for Mattie Ruesch in Fredonia, she promptlymade a hit with the Fredonia boys, especially Maurice Judd. When shementioned him in her letters to home, I knew instantly that this was 'lovein bloom'. Reading between the lines in each of her letters, I sighed withdeep satisfaction.

And Rass Matheson was still dating Annie, even bringing his sister andbrothers to see us. Just like I figured he should. I liked the idea ofgetting a lot of in-law relatives.

Kate was working for a Marsh family in Cedar City, and with Mildredaway, Annie and I became close companions. My diary entry of June 11, isas follows:

Last Sunday, Annie and I gathered up a stack of old Juveniles, and went upon the hill to read. We found a shady spot in Uncle Lew's pasture just big enough for both of us. we sat down and read a continued love story. Annie can make a love story sound enthralling when she reads. We read until we were tired, then put a big rock on the magazines we had finished, and took the remaining six in our arms and hiked toward Chinatown. We walked and walked over one little gray hill after another. The top of each little hill showed another gray hill ahead. Still there was a fascination that kept us going on. I had a grand feeling all over. I supposed it is because I was off in the wilds of nature.

66 At last, at the crest of one little hill, our gaze rested upon a semi-circle of beautiful pale blue, pink and white mountains along the eastern horizon. 'Look!' I said to Annie. She said 'Hurrah! We have been rewarded for our long walk'. We could see two white peaks of mountains that sent a thrill of joy and homesick longing through me. It was my mountain home. My Kolob!

We walked on to the Chinatown Wash and sat down and finished our love story. As we turned toward home, a lone coyote trotted in and out among the gray bushes.

'Hi there,' Annie called. The gaunt, ragged animal sat upon his haunches, turned his inquisitive nose toward us, pricked up his pointed ears, gave us one inquiring glance, then trotted off, this time faster than before.

We gave a last, longing look at our mountains and turned toward home. We arrived just at chore time.

At the spring closing of Primary, I graduated from the Sea Gull class.Boys graduated from Primary at the age of twelve, because of the Scoutprogram, but girls just grew bigger and bigger for the next two years andstayed in Primary coloring pictures of pioneers until they were fourteen.Aunt Mina Hinton was the Primary President, and had been ever since Hurricanewas settled. She also led the singing. Aunt Mina was Primary, andwe loved her, but I resented the fact that boys could go to Mutual twoyears before girls could.

Both Grandma and Papa constantly reminded me that fourteen was plentyyoung to start going out at nights. I lived for my fourteenth birthday,because on that day I would automatically be grown-up, and would no longerhave Grandma hounding me to go to the Primary dances. She had warned meand forewarned me, that if I didn't learn to dance in Primary, I'd be asocial failure. But who wanted to dance with those little kids?

Well! What a shock I was in for when I went to my first 'grown-up'dance. The other girls my age were swinging about the floor with ease andgrace, and I didn't have the least idea of which foot to put where.Bashfully, I sat on the sideline, fearful that someone would ask me to dance.Well, no one did, and fifteen minutes sitting there seemed forever. Iremembered a wisecrack about Wall Flowers trying to look like AmericanBeauties, and felt self conscious, so I slipped out the door and ran home.

On August 6, the day before Mama's birthday, Grandma cooked a finespread and invited our aunts and uncles, and Mama and Papa, to dinner.When it came to cooking. Grandma was the best, and this time she did itup royally.

In the evening, when I went to her house to go to bed, the reminiscingand laughter was still going on. And then. Grandma went into one of her'heart spells'. I wanted to massage the pain away, but my aunts said,'Don't worry about Ma, Alice, we'll take care of her.'

The night was hot, so I lay down with my quilt and pillow on Grandma'sporch, in case they should need me. Grandma always said that no one elsecould rub her anns and back the way I could. Her cries of distress67were terrible and I knew they should call me, but they didn't. Then I dozed.

Pretty soon Aunt Alice shook me. 'Alice, Ma is dead,' she said.

'Oh,' I groaned, relieved for Grandma, but ashamed of being thankfulthat it was all over. I had been alone with her in her agony for so long,for so excruciatingly, terribly long, and had pictured myself running at2:00 a.m. through the dark to our house, to wake Mama and Papa to tellthem Grandma was dead.

But it didn't happen that way. She passed away at 10:00 p.m.,surrounded by her children, at the age of seventy-six. Grandpa had beengone for thirty-nine years, and now Grandma, who had loved him so dearly,was with him again.

Throughout the years, her children had come to see her as often aspossible. Aunt Ellen came daily. Grandma often said, 'Oh Ellen, youshouldn't traipse across town just to see me,' and Aunt Ellen would kissher and say, 'I had to see that you were well, Ma.' Aunt Mary and AuntAlice also came often, but not every day. And Papa was an absolute Mother-worshipper.

Once, when I complained that I did not like my name because it wastoo common, Papa's eyes filled with tears and he said, 'We gave you themost beautiful name on earth—the name of my mother.'

And now Grandma was gone, but her name would live on. Besides AuntAlice, Grandma had had six grand-daughters named Alice. But I was theonly Alice Isom.

Grandma's burial clothes were neatly pressed and folded in a dresserdrawer. She had shown them to me, explaining what to do, and she had herfuneral planned, too. She said, 'I want Kate Spendlove to sing, because shehas such a beautiful voice.' Kate was Aunt Ellen's daughter. Grandmawanted no speakers—only a testimony meeting, and her wish was granted.She was buried beside Grandpa in the Virgin cemetery. As they loweredher into the grave, the people sang 'Nearer My God to Thee'.

Grandma had willed her house to Mama and its contents to her daughters.After the funeral, the family stayed to divide her belongings.This shocked me. It was hard to realize that she was really gone.

In the years that followed, I heard Grandma cry out in my dreams andI got up to rub her back. Papa shouted at me until I awoke and went backto bed. Night after night I saw the hurt look on Grandma's face as Idreamed she returned to find her house empty. The emotional strain oftaking care of her through these painful 'heart spells' had left a scarthat only time could erase.

But time can never erase the influence she had upon the lives of allof us. Memories of her will always come crowding back to warm my heart.She was a great lady, and did her best to make a lady out of me.

'Every girl should leam to sew a fine seam by hand,' she used to say.'When I was a girl, every stitch I had on, but my shoes, I made myself.'

Grandma was skilled at knitting, crocheting, tatting and macrame, andwas a one-woman production line. But her big thing was to see that everygrand-daughter learned to sew by hand before she touched a sewing machine.So she organized a sewing class, teaching her grand-daughters to make dolldresses. The class stopped when it got to me. I was her private struggle.

68Because I slept at her house, my evenings were spent piecing quiltblocks. I hated the sewing, but loved the lamp. The shade was a smoothglass bowl, milk-white underneath and robin-egg blue on the outside. Mystitches were crooked and ugly. I filled a cardboard box with miserableblocks, not one of them fit to go into a quilt top. The box, blocks andall were probably burned when Grandma's things were divided, since no oneever confronted me with them.

Grandma either read, or reminisced to me as I struggled with my needle.She loved to remember her courting days. She was the 'Belle of the Ball',and in demand for her beautiful singing voice. As she talked, I could seeher spinning and weaving and pouring tallow candles, or swirling througha square dance, showing the lace on her many petticoats. Ah, no doubtshe was a proud beauty. She boasted that her bosom was so high and firm,that she could set a match-box on top and it would not fall off. I don'tdoubt it, for she still wore starched ruffles under her dresses that gaveher the same high curve. Wasp waists were popular when she was a girl.If the young man who came courting could span the young lady's waist withboth hands, hers was a beautiful figure. To her dying day, Grandma wasstill so tightly laced her waist couldn't expand. She would have fallenapart without her corsets.

Grandma admonished us to never kiss a boy until becoming his wife.'The first time I ever kissed your Grandfather was over the altar,' shesaid, and this was no doubt true. Still, I admired the story the masterof ceremonies told on Grandma at an 'Old Folks's' party one night.

When Grandpa was courting her, so the story goes, he kissed her goodnightat the gate.

'George! You shouldn't have done that!' she said in exasperation.'No boy has ever kissed me before!'

Just then Albert Stratton and James Jepson jumped out from behindthe bushes where they had been hiding.

'Never mind, George,' Albert said, 'that's what she told us when wekissed her goodnight.'

The story impressed me and I regarded Grandma with new interest.

Grandma saved everything. In her upstairs were white flour sacksfilled with bits of silk, ribbon and lace. Everything that could possiblybe worked into a quilt or a rag rug or made over into dresses, wasalready done up. These tiny scraps were for making a rose bud for a hator a bow on a dress. She always tacked a lace medallion or a bow here orthere, on the dresses she made for us.

Grandma's world was satin, velvet, fluted crystal, hand painted chinaand silver—in other words, elegant. Oh, we were going to miss her a-plenty. She had been so much a part of our daily lives, so much a part ofthe very fiber of our souls. And now, because I was exactly her namesake,I liked the idea that I had a personal representative in Heaven.

Becoming a Bee Hive girl was my next important milestone. The BeeHive book my teacher Lena Isom gave me, was my prize possession. Upstairsin my room, I pored over the list of things I could do to fill'cells'. For the first time, I discovered that I actually enjoyed making69my bed, because I was earning 'cells'. Ideas for things I could do for myroom began to take shape. How intriguing was my sunflower, crystalized in asaltpeter solution, and the hooked rug I made from burlap and worn out wooldresses, and the cushion made from new scraps.

Sometimes Lena had us come to her home for classes. On one of theseevenings, a cloud burst came. With the first lull in the storm, wescurried out the door toward home. We were almost to the corner whenlightning struck the transformer on the power pole there. We were scaredenough at the white light that sputtered and burned, but the black catthat streaked across the sidewalk in front of us made it worse. With ahoarse squawk, Fern Ruesch clutched my arm.

'Come back, come back, don't go over that line,' she cried.

And then, down came the rain again. Although it meant walking twoblocks further through the downpour, we had to go home another way toavoid stepping over the path of the black cat.

It wasn't that we were superstitious—goodness no! It's just thatwe couldn't take a chance on a black cat bringing bad luck. Besides that,superstitions are sometimes a lot of fun, like getting a first glimpse ofthe new moon over your left shoulder and making a wish. Sometimes we hadto chisel a little on that one, because until we knew just where the newmoon was, we couldn't turn our back to it and look over our left shoulder.But when I got the new moon just right, I always made a wish quickly,before my eyes were diverted. I kept two standard wishes on hand. One wasfor a house full of gold, or else a golden doll. The other was that Icould have every wish granted that I ever wished. I knew I'd never geteither, but I wouldn't have felt right about not making them.

I was in the eighth grade now, with Will Woodbury as my teacher.Will had a rich voice, which was wonderful when he gave dramatic readings.He had his gentle and tender moments, but was fiercely stern when thesituation required it.

One day, when the class got a little out of hand, he kept us all in,and made us march in the awkward squad. The embarrassing thing was thatthe Fredonia basketball team had just arrived for the game that night.Maurice Judd, Mildred's boyfriend, was on the team. Mildred had previouslybrought Maruice to meet the family, and all of us had fallen in love withhim. I didn't want Maurice to see me marching in the awkward squad, but Ihad no choice.

Mr. Woodbury marched us down the hall and outside into lineupformation. Then we marched in again, and out again, into lineup formation,in again, and out again, over and over. He escorted us all the whilestomping his left foot, clapping his hands and loudly shouting, 'Left,right, left, right.' At first, the whole class giggled. The Fredoniateam looked on with ill-concealed amusement. Mr. Woodbury's face becamea livid red and veins stood out on his forehead. Back and forth we marcheduntil the class sobered up. Mr. Woodbury was thorough and always won hispoint.

Across from me in our Geography class, sat a girl that I'll call Nellie.To my Quaker standards, she was empty-headed and overpainted Hereyelashes were gobbed together with stuff like black wagon grease, her facecaked with powder white as flour and her cheeks painted with round patches70of brilliant red. She never participated in class, but remained silent.The only important thing to me was to be able to get 'A's' on my reportcard, so I regarded Nellie as dull.

When our Geography teacher, Eldon Larsen (Karl's brother) said,'Alice, I want you and Nellie to stay after school,' I was in shock. Kidswho had to stay in were in trouble.

After the class had filed out, Mr. Larsen flatly stated, 'Your examinationpapers are identical. One of you copied.'

Hotly I thought, if one of us copied, he should know which one it was.Didn't our past records speak for us? As I saw it, to cheat was the lowest,the most despicable thing a human could do, and yet I was being accused.'I have never copied anyone's papers in my life!' I spluttered.

'One of you copied,' he insisted.

Contemptuously I thought, even if I wanted to cheat, I wouldn't copyfrom her. Angry tears splashed down my cheeks and Nellie began to bawltoo, but her red eyes were hidden behind the brim of her pink felt hatthat fit like a bowl over half her face. How I wished I had a hat likehers at that moment!

'You both realize that to let someone copy your paper, is also cheating,'Mr. Larsen continued.

'I don't let people copy my papers,' I blubbered.

'How about you?' he turned to Nellie.

Black tears streaked her face. 'I didn't do it,' she sniffled.

Neither of us had handkerchiefs. Mr. Larsen shook his head at ourdrizzling and sniffling and dismissed us. I suddenly realized that Nelliewas far smarter than I had supposed, for how on earth could she copy mypaper without my knowing it?

Mr. Larsen never did apologize to me, although I felt that he should.All he did was grade my Geography paper with an 'A'.

One day, I got a letter from a girl in Cape Town, South Africa. Shehad found my address in the Instructor. I could hardly contain my excitement,and replied by return mail. The girl's name was Olive, and she sentme pictures and news clippings about Cape Town and told me about the MormonChurch there. Her father was a branch president.

Africa seemed as remote to me as the planet Jupiter, and I cherishedeverything she sent. And I felt certain that she too would be happy forany little thing from America, so for Christmas, I sent her a littlecelluloid kewpie doll, that I had dressed with red satin ribbon. Thedoll was something I personally would have loved to receive. In themeantime. Olive had asked me for a boy pen pal, and I had sent her mycousin's name, Edwin Stout. Little did I dream that she imagined herselfdeeply in love with him, and that she was making plans to come to the UnitedStates to marry him. She laughed at my doll, and wrote Edwin saying that Iwas a ninny. Many other things she said that should never have been written.Aunt Mary saw the letter and brought it to Mama. They were both upset,and Edwin and I immediately lost our pen pal.

71Papa owned the first Holstein animals in Hurricane. He had a registeredbull and cow shipped from New York, which he proudly displayed to anyone whowould look over our corral fence. Marion, the cow, was a wonderful producer,and people came from all quarters of town with their bottles to buy babymilk. One afternoon, when Wilson Imlay's big red bull heard Papa's Holsteinbellowing, he broke out of his corral. Both bulls rumbled back and forth ateach other all the while the Imlay animal ambled across town. By the time itreached our place, our bull had broken out into the street where they bothmet head on, pawing dirt. My sisters and I were in the yard watching. Thebulls thundered around the comer to our front fence, where their massivehulks smashed through the pickets as though they were match sticks. We raninto the grainery and peeked out the door.

Hearing the rumbling and bellowing. Uncle Lew came running. 'Herehere now,' he called, waving a spindly little stick.

I expected to see Uncle Lew flattened and trampled, but the animals paidno attention to him. Finally, men on horses came, breaking up the fighta,which seemed a pity, for seldom did we get to see such a spectacle. Mama wasrelieved. She confessed that she was afraid the bulls would bump into thegrainery and it would collapse with us in it.

Papa took a pride in his animals. He subscribed to 'The Holstein FrisianWorld,' and eventually bought other Holsteins from New York. Later, ofcourse, he raised his own.

Our cows were trained to be milked from either side. When Edith sat onone side of the cow and I on the other, she made me feel inferior, becauseshe squirted the milk in a steady stream raising a two inch foam on herbucket. Laboriously, I squeezed out thin little squirts so slowly that itcooled and the cream almost raised in my bucket. But I tried. One thing inmy favor was that the cows were usually patient. All but old Agnes. She'dstand just so long, then she'd give me a bat on the head with a tail thatfelt weighted with lead, then she'd either step in the bucket, or kick it over.

Agnes usually worked up to a climax and had to be thrashed once a month.Eacn day she'd gradually get ornier and ornier until she became impossible,then Mama would take a whip to her. The whipping made her contrite for acouple of weeks, then gradually she'd start getting fidgety again.

Once when Kate was helping me milk, Agnes pressed her head against thestable gate.

'Oh, look at the poor thing,' Kate bewailed. 'She must have a headache.'

Old Agnes heaved a sigh and rubbed her head sadly against the top board.

'Poor, poor cow,' Kate soothed, 'don't you feel good?'

Just then Agnes swatted, wrapping the long hair of her tail around Kate'shead. At the same time, she sent the bucket of milk flying. Then she dartedfor her usual race around the corral, but this time something was different.During the night the water trough had run over, and low temperatures had madea skating rink out of part of the corral. Agnes bolted onto the ice and herfeet sprawled out. Wild eyed she stood, unable to move.

72My, what a joyful gleam Mama got in her eyes when she surveyed thesituation. Always before, when Agnes got her monthly tune up. Mama had hadto chase her around inside the corral. This time the cow was trapped.Triumphantly, Mama picked up the whip and gave Agnes her just dues, then lefther to think it over until the sunshine softened the ice. Agnes was acontrite cow for a long, long time after that.

When I was younger, it was hard to decide which was the most perfectChristmas gift, new shoes or a doll. New shoes thrilled me clear through,and dolls were a lasting love that could never diminish. But, at the ageof fourteen, I discovered a Christmas gift that was greater than either ofthese when Kate gave me a book. In books one can travel far and meet suchinteresting people. Kate gave me the book, 'Keeper of the Bees' byGene Stratton Porter.Each afternoon during the holidays, when the sun streamedinto my upstairs bedroom, I curled up and read. Ah, such rapture!

72April 13. Saturday after scrubbing the front room floor, I put on myoveralls and middy and Edith and I went Eastering with Venona Stout, KateHumphries, Lawrence Stout, and Marcus Campbell. We hiked up the canyon abovethe Sulphur Springs. The air was sparkly spring and the river a clear trickleAfter we had eaten our picnic, we hiked back toward the bridge.

'Hey, this is my island,' Mark said as he jumped to a little sandbar inthe river. With his hands he scooped out a pond in the sand.

'I'll have this peninsula,' Edith announced.

We all got landlord fever, and with rocks, weeds, and wet sand dribblincthrough our fingers, we built little castles.

From the LaVerkin side of the canyon we heard galloping horses, theclatter or a wagon, and a man frantically yelling, 'Woa!'

'It's a runaway!' Mark shouted.

Racing through the shallow water for a better view, we saw a team ofhorses tearing around the bend, their tails and manes flying.

'Woa, woa,' the driver cried, straining on the reins.

The wagon bounced and leaped at the horses' heels as they bolted down thedugway. Instead of making the turn at the bridge, they crashed through therailing. The wagon, with its few bales of hay, literally exploded on the bankbelow, and the dazed horses clopped out into the water and stood, silentlysubdued, their broken harnesses and reins dangling. The man had leaped tosafety on the bridge.

Suddenly, I realized that Edith was nowhere in sight. When I last sawher, she was running for cover under the bridge. With a sickening sensation,I knew she had not made it. The runaway outfit had come too fast, and shewas buried beneath the wreckage, where a cloud of dust still hovered.

73Panic seized me. Then I saw a blonde head poking up from behind aboulder. It was Edith! Her face was paper-white and the pupils of her eyesdilated big and black.

During the past winter, Kate lived with Uncle John and Aunt EvadnaHopkins, and attended the Cedar High. While there, she made applicationfor summer work with the Utah Parks and was given a job in Zion CanyonIn her brief interlude between school and Zion, she helped Aunt AliceSpendlove. When the time came for her to leave, she attempted to breakme in on the job.

The last morning before she left, she took me into Aunt Alice'skitchen to fix breakfast. While I watched, she scooped flour from the bininto the sifter, spooned in some baking powder and added a good sized pinchof salt. Next, she worked in a hunk of shortening and poured in just enoughmilk to make the dough right for rolling and cutting. When she took thebiscuits from the oven, they were golden and puffy, and Uncle Will and AuntAlice bragged on her.

As we did the dishes together, I pleaded, 'Please don't go, Kate. I'mscared. I won't know what to do.'

Aunt Alice will tell you. All she needs is someone to keep the houseclean and to fix the meals.'

'Oh Kate,' I wailed, 'I daresn't cook for other people. What if itdoesn't turn out good?'

'You'll do all right. Don't worry.'

The next morning I stood helplessly in Aunt Alice's kitchen. Kate wasgone and I was on my own. Through the open door I heard the corral gatecreek. Uncle Will had gone to tend the horses and milk the cows. He wouldexpect breakfast to be ready when he came in. I longed for the comfortingsounds of our own kitchen.

Standing like a scaredy-cat would get nothing done. Mama always sangwhile she worked. Perhaps that would help.

Resolutely, I scooped flour into the sifter as Kate had done. WhenUncle Will came in with the milk, I was singing 'Sweet birds, oh say thatmy lover is true,' and stirring a big batch of something. Flour was spillingaround the edge of the pan onto the table.

'Just like your mother, singing while you work,' Uncle will remarked.'And to think, I thought you were afraid.'

So he thought I was afraid! Well, if he only knew! That quaver in myvoice was no operatic vibrato. But I sang, and mixed, and rolled, and cut.My! What a big pan of biscuits—three times as many as Kate had made.

As I popped them into the oven, confidence stirred within me. While thebiscuits baked, I put a fresh cloth on the table. After setting the table,I put on the milk and apple butter, then scrambled eggs Scrambling isless fussy than worrying about a perfect yolk. Uncle Will asked the blessing,then I went to the oven for the golden, fluffy biscuits. What I pulled out,were anemic dough gobs.

'Oh!' I cried in dismay.

74'Did you burn you?' Aunt Alice called.

'No. I'm all right,' I fibbed. A burn would have been mild comparedto what I was feeling as I looked at the pan of sodden blobs. What did Ido wrong?

'Good. Now hurry with the biscuits, the eggs are getting cold.'

Well! There was no use crawling to the table with them, even if Idid feel low. Taking a plate from the cupboard, I heaped the biscuitshigh. At least there were plenty. Setting them in front of Uncle Will, Ihurried back to the kitchen, for fear I would cry.

'Aren't you going to eat?' Aunt Alice asked.

'I forgot something,' I replied.

'Everything is on. Come eat your breakfast while it's hot.'

Might as well face it, I thought, so I slid into my chair.

'Guess I'll go fishing today,' Uncle Will said, straining to lift a biscuit.

'Nonsense. You know you never fish,' Aunt Alice remarked.

'But with these sinkers I could fish the very bottom of Blue Springs.'

My face burned.

Holding a biscuit above the table in his right hand, he let it fall,at the same time bringing his left hand down with a heavy thud. His eyestwinkled and I knew he was teasing.

'Eat your breakfast. Will,' Aunt Alice said, 'the biscuits are righttasty.' She had spread one with apple-butter and was eating it as thoughit was good.

Uncle Will bit at one with pretended effort. 'Ow, ow, I think I brokesomething,' he said grabbing his jaw.

He was funny, and I laughed, in spite of myself, and then buttered abiscuit and took a bite. Tt wasn't bad at all, especially if one washungry.

Uncle Will ate at least three of them. 'A very substantial breakfast,'he said, patting my back as he left the room.

As I cleaned the kitchen, I mulled over the problem of disposing of theheap of left-over biscuits. It was no use putting them in the bread boxbecause Uncle Will would tease me every time he saw them. I could sneakthem to the pig pen, but those big, fat pigs were used to good sweet corn,and would probably root the biscuits out of the trough along with the corncobs, and then I'd really get laughed at. If I threw them into the canal,they'd probably float through the headgate and onto the garden. I'd neverhear the last of that. I was afraid to take them to our own pig for fearhe wouldn't eat them. If Mama saw them in the trough, she'd ask questions.

Since Uncle will was such a torment, the only way I could be certainthat I wouldn't get a box of dehydrated biscuits for Christmas was to disposeof them now. I put them in a paper sack and waited until after darkbefore going home, then I threw a biscuit into the weeds in each lot as Ipassed. they lasted all the way home. Uncle will and Aunt Alice never didask what had become of them.

75Aunt Alice promised to sew for me, to pay for my help. But the dressesshe made for me were a problem. She was a good seamstress, but Grandma hadsaid the difference between Aunt Alice's and Aunt Mary's sewing was thatAunt Mary made clothes to fit now, and Aunt Alice looked to the future. Thedresses she made were too big. The Sunday dress she made me was the mostbeautiful one I had ever seen, of fine, red voile, with puffed sleeves insertedwith sheer, flowered material. but it was two sizes too big. Theother dress was for school. It was a blue percale, printed with red rings.When it was finished, it hung way below my knees. The style was above theknees.

'Now Alice,' she said, 'I've made this dress long enough to look nice.I can't stand to see a girl going around showing her knees. Put it on andgo show your mother how nice it looks.'

I went upstairs to put it on in front of a mirror. Ugh, I thought, Ilook like I'd walked across the plains. Hastily I started to base up thehem, when Aunt Alice called, 'Hurry Alice and show me how it looks.' Irealized there wasn't a chance, so I pulled the thread out and modeled thedress.

'Now Alice, you look lovely,' she said with pride.

Lovely to here, but I felt sick inside, for she was insisting that Iwear the dress through town to show Mama. There was no getting out of it,so feeling old fashioned and queer I walked home. Once I hid behind amulberry clump when a car passed by.

At home I fumed and hemmed the dress where it belonged, hoping AuntAlice wouldn't notice it. When I got back she peered over her glasses atme and said, 'Alice, I didn't know I had made that dress so short. Takeit off and I'll let the hem down for you.'

'I need to finish my work now,' I replied, but I was careful not to wearthe dress in front of her anymore.

'Don't you like your new dress?' she asked one day.

'Oh yes, I really like it a lot. I'm saving it for school,' I replied.

After Aunt Alice felt better, Uncle Walter Reusch came for me to go toSpringdale to help Aunt Marilla. Great Day!!! After three years of peddlingExcelcis products, this was reason enough for Papa to consent to let me quit.I had hated the job. I figured people could buy what they wanted at thestore, and could get it for less. I developed a great antipathy for door-to-doordoor salesmen that has never changed. If it hadn't been for three particularwomen, I could never have stood it. They were Hanna Hall, who always waited,anticipating my call, with her order previously made out, and Lizzy Lee, whosat me down to a cool drink and a friendly visit, and Annie Wright, with herlively good humor. They lightened the burden of my task.

Aunt Marilla was scheduled to go to the hospital and I was to keep housewhile she was away. Before she left, she told me what to put in Uncle Walter'slunch, and for the next two weeks he got exactly the same thing every day—bottledmeat between slices of bread, and a thermos of boiling coffee. I didall of the essential things, like opening a bottle of tomatoes for supper eachnight, and cooking mush for breakfast, and sweeping and doing the dishes, butsomeone hinted that when Venona Stout had worked there the summer before,she did things different. Naturally she would. She was a different girl.76Venona washed and scrubbed like she actually enjoyed it. And with some feel-ings of guilt, I suspected she was quite a resourceful cook. But I lulledmy conscience with the thought that I could get Reita and Allen to sit quietlonger than she could. The balcony above the front porch was a favoritespot, where we curled up on the mattress in the afternoon shade while Iread stories to them.

Almost everyone in Oak Creek and Springdale danced, that is, everyonebut me. The sound of dance music made me forlorn, for I knew Grandma hadbeen right. Already I was a social failure. Nevertheless, I went to aSaturday night dance with my cousins. I planned to just sit and watch.But because I was a new girl in town, all of the boys asked me to dance.'I don't know how,' was my miserable reply. I suffered, and wanted to runhome. One boy, who had called on me at Aunt Marilla's, asked for a danceand I refused. Angrily he said, 'No girl ever refuses me a second time.'I suffered.

During the evening a stranger swaggered in. 'The treat's on me, folks,'he said, passing a bag of candy to the crowd.

I remembered a story about a girl who took candy from a stranger, andlater on she had an illegitimate baby. I stoutly refused the stranger'scandy, and everyone ate it but me.

Occasionally, when my work was through, I walked to Oak Creek to seeGrandmother.

'You've got to quit hiking along the highway alone,' Uncle Walterwarned. 'You could be kidnapped by some tourist. Grandmother would thinkyou were with us, and we'd think you were with her, and you could be hundredsof miles away before you were missed.'

He made me feel leery, but not leery enough. Sunday after church, Iwanted to show Grandmother the dress Kate had given me. It was a filmy,lavender georgette, with rose colored roses, and was trimmed with wide ecrulace. My fat braids were wound in a bun over each ear, and I had a sense ofwell-being. After I had passed the last shade tree in Springdale, the sunbore down upon me. A couple in a Model T car stopped.

'Would you like a ride?' the man asked.

I really wanted to ride, but I knew by their dark glasses that theywere tourists and could be dangerous.

'I'll just stand on the running board, ' I said, cautiously stepping on.If he goes to kidnap me, I'll jump, I thought. 'I want to get off at theroad to the big white house in Oak Creek,' I said.

'Fine,' the man replied.

As I hung on, I realized how easily I could be kidnapped, when heapproached the takeoff to Grandmother's, I imagined he speeded his motor.To be on the safe side, I jumped, skidding in the gravel. The man slammedon the brakes.

'You little fool!' he shouted. 'Why did you do that? I was goinq totake you to your Grandmother's door. Now get in.'

I was dazed and hurt, my dress riddled, gravel ground into the flesh ofmy hip, arm, and deep into the palm of my right hand. I was bloody and dirty.77He took me to Grandmother's house, venting his wrath upon me before leaving.Grandmother and Aunt Emma cleaned my wounds with hot water and soapand dug out gravel. Word got to Uncle Walter and he came after me. I wasbandaged and left to do the best I could around the house. I hurt. Myarm throbbed painfully all night and the next day. By afternoon, dark redveins ran from my wrist to my elbow. The throbbing and pounding was un-bearable. Aunt Marilla's kids had scattered. Uncle Walter was at workand I was alone. Desperately, I walked to Gotfried Ruesch's house. He wassitting under the shade of his mulberry tree.

'What are these streaks on my arm?' I asked.

'Blood poison,' he said in alarm. 'Ivan, Rowena, come here,' hecalled to his kids. 'Go to the river quick and bring me some freshsquaw-bush bark. Hurry!'

Laboriously he arose from his chair. He was a heavy man, and walkingwasn't easy. I followed him into his kitchen, where he mixed a concoctionof boiling water, corn meal, sticky-gum, and what else, I wish I knew.When the squaw-bush bark was brought, he pounded it to a pulp and added itto the pasty mixture. Digging out more little rocks that were embedded inmy festered hand, he spread the poultice on. It was warm and soothing.Gradually, the throbbing subsided, and like mercury in a thermometer, theangry red lines receded and my wound came clean. I know now that I owe mylife to Gotfried Raesch. By the time Aunt Marilla came home, I was healed.

Uncle Walter must have said something to Aunt Marilla about the foodhe had endured. I never saw such a fancy lunch as the first one she packedfor him after she got home. His sandwich was a production of diced meat,dressing and pickles, besides the square of freshly baked, thickly icedcake. My face burned, thinking of the awkward, identical lunches I hadgiven him.

In spite of my feelings of inadequacy, I enjoyed working at AuntMarilla's. She had a player piano and many rolls of music. One roll Iespecially liked was 'The Fate of Floyd Collins', because it made such alump in my throat. Floyd was a boy who became lost in a cave in Kentucky,and was never found. As we worked the treadles, the music went from rollerto roller, and the words appeared so we could sing along. Ah, what sweetsorrow!

Floyd's fate called to mind the heart rending songs of my childhood.There seemed to be a satisfaction in grieving as we sang, 'Oh don't you remember,a long time ago, when two little babes, whose names I don't knowwere lost in the woods, one bright summer day,' etc. The babies died inthe woods and the robins covered them with leaves.

I would swallow and swallow, to get the ache out of my throat whenGrandma or Papa sang, 'Oh what is this?' the policeman he cried. 'Twaspoor little Joe. On the ground he had died. No mother to guide him, inthe grave she lie low. Cast on the cold street was poor little Joe','when they sang about the little girl who tried to get her drunk father outof the saloon, because poor Benny was dead. She pleaded, 'Come home, comehome, oh Father, dear Father, come home.' Also many people died of brokenhearts in those old songs. Soulfully we sang about the lonesome cowbov whocame home to find the newly made mound where his broken-hearted darling wasburied. In the song, 'Juanita,' the Americano died with a dagger in hisheart. At every campfire party, we sang about 'the night birds crying, the78breezes sighing. Far, oh far, far, away, her brave lies sleeping, whileRed Wing's weeping, her heart away,' and about the wail of woe in FallenLeaf's wigwam. There seemed to be something so exquisite in suffering setto music.

Aunt Marilla had lots of happy music, and lots of the very best, butthe roll I remember most was about Floyd.

After Aunt Marilla returned home from the hospital, things became moreinteresting. I was entertained with the exchange of words between her andUncle Walter. At home, things were never so lively. Papa always calledMama 'Sweetheart', and she silently accepted his adoration and that was allthere was to it. I had no doubt but what Uncle Walter and Aunt Marillawere just as in love as Papa and Mama, but there always seemed to be somesort of conquest going on.

One morning, Uncle Walter grabbed his lunch bucket, bolted for hispickup and barrelled out like he was leaving forever.

Aunt Marilla said, 'I won't be around when he comes home. I'm leaving.'

Hastily she stirred up a cake, fried some chicken and made a salad,packing them in a basket.

'We'll just take you and Reet, and go to Mother's and stay. I'm notcoming back,' she said.

I wondered why she didn't pack any clothes, but didn't ask. As shedrove her car toward Oak Creek, she made it quite clear that she was throughwith Uncle Walter forever. She was so convincing that I knew she would bemiserable without him. Just before she got to the turn-off at Grandmother's,Uncle Walter came driving down the road from the Park. He steered his pickupover on her side of the road, forcing her to stop, then he eased his frontbumper up against hers. Angrily she bit her lips, glaring at him. He gotout of the pickup, walking resolutely around to where she sat under thesteering wheel. No western movie, and no Ellison White Chautauqua had everhad half the drama I was witnessing at this moment. Uncle Walter's eyeswere narrow slits of steel, and his mouth was set in a firm, straight line.He looked positively romantic. Aunt Marilla proudly held her head high.

'Where do you think you're going?' he said in a firm, level voice.

'To Mother's,' she retorted. 'I'm leaving you.'

'Turn that car around, and go right back home,' he ordered, thenjumped into his pickup and backed up, leaving her room to turn.

Without one word, she turned the car around, and he followed her home.She set the table with her scrumptious food, and the family ate in totalpeace. I knew for sure Aunt Marilla was plum in love with Uncle Walter.

After I returned home, Uncle Walter came to pay me, but I refused totake anything. He left fourteen dollars on the table. After it was tithed,it was enough to buy a winter coat from Chicago Mail Order Company, the firstpretty coat I had ever owned—a brown one with a fur collar.

How good it was to be home again. In my diary I wrote:

We celebrated by sleeping out in the barn—Katie, Anni and I. We loved it. So did the mosquitos. Mildred came home Sunday, so all four of us slept in the barn. This time, Chess Slack's dog came up in the barn and slept with us. He lay down with me. I told him to go away, but he just yawned, put one arm over me 79 and licked my face.

July 17 — My birthday. Celebrated it by hiking up the hill with Annie, Kate and Mildred. Kate took her Kodak. We hiked to the third falls I found two cactus apples and we each ate half…We went in swimming in the canal…In the evening Annie and I went to wish Aunt Ellen a happy birthday. I was fifteen today and she was fifty-five. We came home and had a candy pull.

Hiking with my sisters was a favorite pastime. My diary continues:

Annie brought a can of pineapple home from work, and some vienna sausages. I made a jelly roll and we hiked through greaswood, matchbrush, cactus and chaparral. We came to some thimble-berry bushes in the red foothills of Goosberry Mountain. Dusty cedar trees along the way stirred homesick longings for Kolob. From Goosberry, we hiked extra miles to get to the road. Fred Bebee came along and picked us up at Lookoff Point. We were glad for the ride.

Cable riding was the current fad in Hurricane. A number of barns hadsteel cables strung from the gable end, then across the barnyard, where theywere fastened tightly either to a post or a gate. On the cable was a pullywith a crossbar from which dangled a rope. Standing on the ground, the'rider' gripped his hands tightly onto the ends of the crossbar, and likeflying a kite, another boy ran along the ground, pulling the rope until the'rider' had glided up the cable to the peak of the barn. He then saileddown on his own, which was the next best thing to flying.

Usually only boys rode, but one Sunday afternoon, the girls were invited.It happened to be when the St. George Stake was having quarterlyconference in Hurricane. I had attended the morning session with the family,and my conscience nagged loudly for me to return in the afternoon, but neverbefore had I been invited to ride the cable, and I might never be invitedagain, so the folks left me to choose what I thought was right.

Putting on my bib overalls, I crawled through the fence by our lucernepatch, into John Petty's barnyard. Kids were already sailing up and downthe wire squealing and laughing noisily as blackbirds. When my turn came,I hung on, and Les Ashton ran along the ground with the tow rope and I soaredthrough the air. One of the wires on the cross bar worked loose, gouging myhand. It hurt. I tried to wiggle free and lost my grip on the bar. One endof it flipped up, leaving me dangling by just one hand. By now, I had reachedthe top. I either fell slowly, or my mind raced fast, because in that airbornmoment at the peak of the barn, I considered the hazards below. The old irons,plows and the red tractor didn't look good for a landing spot.

Then my lights went out, and I felt nothing. When my lights flickeredon, I stood up. I hadn't landed in the machinery at all, but on dirt. Butsomething was queer. John Petty's corn patch slithered up from the ground,hanging upside down, corn tassels dangling from the sky, then the worldturned black. The next time I opened my eyes, I was in Ira Millet's bedroom.Mama and Papa were bending over me and Trudy was saying, 'We haven'tlet her go to sleep. We've kept her talking all of the time.' I wonderedhow she could say such a thing. I had neither spoken, nor heard a word.

The next time I awoke, it was Monday afternoon. Very strange, I thought,and closed my eyes again. the family said I talked quite a lot in the daysthat followed, but I didn't know it. What aggravated me most of all, was to80open one eye and find Kate holding a mirror in front of me, and laughing.My other eye was swollen shut, and my misshapen face was purple and black.It didn't cheer me any, to see how ugly I was. One foot shot pain up myleg when I tried to move. I couldn't see what Kate had to laugh about.She didn't even know whether I was going to live or not, because therewasn't anyone in town who had fallen as far as I had.

Kate's face blurred and the world passed away. For two weeks, I submerged,then surfaced briefly. All I remembered, was seeing people takeshape by my bed and then melt in fog, and seeing that maddening mirror.

The saddest part of the whole ordeal was, that every boy had totake his cable down, by order of his parents. I was filled with humility.

I recovered from my fall in time to pack peaches. Hurricane wasmostly orchards at that time, and peaches were shipped by the tons. Menand boys did the picking and girls did the packing. If a girl was extragood, she could pack and face fast enough to earn five or six dollars aday. Two-and-a-half a day was my speed, and that was good.

Peaches were dumped by the wagon load onto burlap-topped tables tobe sorted and packed. The fuzz built up and clung like nap on velvet.'Goofer feathers', it was called. Sometimes we packed for fifteen hours aday, and were so weary that all night long we dreamed of peaches. I usedto dream of sleeping on the packing tables with nothing on but fuzz, whilefruit inspectors marched endlessly by.

After the packing shed closed down, our Bee Hive class took a trip toGrand Canyon. This trip filled pages in my diary. I was so in love withlife! I marveled over the ponderosa trees, the little pond that we calledJacob's Lake and the ninety-five foot observation tower that I climbed threetimes. Maggie Petty was our chaperon, and Alma Isom the chauffeur. Almahad a panel truck that screened us in like monkeys in a cage.

On the first lap of the journey, gas fumes made us all car sick. Wewere glad when a tire blew out above Gallager's Dugway, so we could get outand lay on the sandrocks among the cedars. In those days, blowouts wereincidental to every trip. It took Alma four hours to hike to Pipe Springsand back to fix the tire.

Going through VT Park, we draped ourselves on the outside of the car.Alma let us ride on the running boards, lounge on the fenders, perch on tneback end of the truck, and cling like lizards onto the heavy gauge wirepaneling—just anywhere to be on the outside. We were togged out in knickersand hiking boots, with red bandannas tied on our heads.

Mildred was one of the girls hanging onto the wire paneling, and whenAlma drove through a narrow cut in the forest, everyone was able to jump offbut her. She was wedged between a tree and the car, with a limb gougingher side. Our screams stopped Alma, and he let the truck roll back. Shecould have been killed.

To me, Mildred was the girl that all love stories were written about.Vicariously I lived her romance with Maurice Judd. No doubt, it was her 'inlove' look that attracted the black-eyed Italian at the service station atVT Park. 'your sister is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,' he said.He took our entire Bee Hive class for a ride in his pickup, just to get herto sit in the seat beside him.

'Can I marry her?' he asked me.

'Not,unless you take us both,' I retorted.

Well, she wasn't quite that pretty to him.

We slept under four quilts at Grand, and when we were caught in a cloudburst, we found cliff dwellings enough to shelter us all. My closing entryon our Bee Hive trip was, 'My heart tugged inside as we ate our last mealbefore leaving the forest. No one could possibly know how much I longedfor just one more day. The truck stopped and I climbed the observationtower and looked over the forest and said goodbye to it. I wish I couldlive in a forest.'

More diary notes:

August 12 — Maurice Judd and Clarence Brooksby came in from Fredonia. Maurice is in love with Mildred and our whole family is in love with him. If Mildred doesn't want him, I'll take him. (Mildred wants him!)

September 10 — Venice and I went to Cedar City with Cliff Spendlove. Venice, Clara and I slept together in the hay loft. We tied our big toes to each other's with strips torn from an old shirt. Clara said it was a way of telling our fortune. The strips were soft, and easy to break. Clara said the one who had the shortest string on in the morning, would be the first to marry. If there was one without any string on at all, they would be an Old Maid. When we woke up in the morning, Clara had a short strip on her big toe. Venice slept in the middle. She had a long strip on each toe, and I had none. That didn't jolt me. I always figured I'd be an Old Maid.

September 12 — Cliff came back from his peddling trip to Beaver, and he brought back a wife! Viola Murdock. And she's no older than I am; Oh my, but she's a beauty! Black hair. Black eyes, and so cute it's' easy to see why he kidnapped her!

September 15 — Hyrum Bradshaw is off hauling wood, and Hortense doesn't like to. sleep alone, so Mama sent me out to stay with her. On my way I met Butch.1 He put his arm around me. Ever since Grandmother Crawford told me about how she kept the boys from being fresh with her, when she was young, I had a mind to try it. This was my first chance.

'Does your arm hurt?' I asked.

'No. Why?'

'Because it's out of place.'

If Butch had been like the boys in Grandmother's time, he would have been embarrassed and dropped his arm. But he didn't. He just laughed and hugged me harder and put his face against mine. I kicked his shins until he let me go. Come night, when I said my prayers, I prayed that he would be decent. He's a poor, motherless kid and nothing but a tobacco fiend He smelled like Bull Durham.

December 12, 1925 — Today the entire High School went upon the hill and spent the day building the 'H.' Anthony Isom was High School President and engineered the building. He formed us into rock brigade lines, fanning us out from the four points of where the 'H' was to be built. Rocks were gathered and passed down each line and put into place by those assigned to fill in the block letter. Each line moved, as the rocks became depleted. It was neat and efficient. The 'H' was completed and whitewashed before night. It can be seen for miles, when approaching Hurricane. I am glad to be in this history making group.

82This was my first year high. Our cousin, Elva Crawford, lived at ourhouse and went to school with me. Tuition was high. It cost $28.00 toenter the ninth grade, so I took a janitorial job.

At Christmas time, Annie and Mildred got boxes of chocolates from theirbeaus and bosses. The biggest box was a five pound one from Charlie Petty.With all of the homemade candy around, the chocolates remained unopenedin their pretty boxes on the dresser in the front room. Christmas night,Kate and I found ourselves alone. Mama and Papa and the younger kids hadgone to bed and Annie and Mildred were out with Rass and Maurice.

Mischievously, Kate gravitated to the chocolates. 'I wonder what thecandy in this box tastes like,' she mused.

'I'll bet Annie could tell us.'

'But she's not here. Look, the ribbon is loose.' She slipped offthe bow as she spoke. 'Ah,' she inhaled, lifting the lid. 'I know what!I'll get a paring knife and slice into one piece to see what color it isinside.' It was pink.

She closed her eyes in ecstasy as the slice of chocolate melted onher tongue. 'Raspberry! Ummmm!'

Then impishly she sliced into another piece. 'Maple! I love maple!'And she popped that into her mouth.

I was intrigued at what she was doing, but wasn't quite brave enoughto help myself, until she said, 'I know what! We'll dump all of thechocolates onto the table and repack them. There'll be plenty left over forus.'

The idea of repacking the candy seemed fun, so I helped. When wewere finished, the boxes looked full, and we had eaten what we wanted.The next day we confessed to Annie and Mildred what we had done, and theyactually seemed pleased at our cleverness.

82We knew that eventually our ranks would be broken, but it was goodbeing one of six sisters who were always home for Christmas. Five of uscould wear the same size of shoes and dresses. People, meeting any one ofus on the street would say, 'Hello Kate,' or 'Hello Mildred,' or any oneof our six names.

Since Annie started working for Charlie Petty, we had anticipated hercoming home each evening. She and I had packed many a lunch and hikedmiles together. She had been good to the family too, making payments onthe washing machine, cream separator, and sewing machine, and bringinghome luxuries the family had never been able to afford. Conscientiously,she had managed to add a little at a time to her trousseau too.

When her wedding day was finally set, she bought a wonderfully beautifulwedding dress. On the l7th of June, she and Rass were married in theSalt Lake Temple, and Cedar City became her new home.

83Working in the Parks in the summertime serving bus loads of touristsmade Kate sparkle in my eyes. The girls in the Parks serenadedthe tourists as the busses arrived, and whenever Kate came home for ashort visit, she sang for us her Grand Canyon songs. She enjoyed her job.

During one of Mildred's interludes at home, Mama and Papa took Edith,LaPriel and the boys to Oakcreek to spend a week with Grandmother andAunt Emma. Mildred and I were left to milk the cows and feed the pig.Never before had we had the whole place to ourselves. To us, it was avacation. Mildred made a layer cake with cream filling and icing, andwe ate cake everyday. Deciding to transform the place, we housecleanedfrom the upstairs to the cellar. Instead of being work, it was funand the house looked beautiful. We could not have had a happier vacation.

After the family returned, a blustering wind broke a limb in themulberry tree. Willie decided to chop out the broken limb. Elton Stoutcarried the axe and Stirling Isom came along. Clinton started up the treeahead of them. When Willie demanded that he come down, he refused.

'Shall I chop his toe off?' Elton asked.

'Yaw,' Willie replied.

Elton only meant to scare Clinton, when he swung the axe, but instead,he chopped right through his big toe. Horrified, Elton dropped theaxe and he and Stirling streaked for home. Willie, white as a ghost,helped his howling, bleeding brother into the kitchen. Mama grabbed Clinton,whose toe was still hanging by the skin, and sat him in a chair,while Willie fell in a dead faint upon the floor. After cleaning Clinton'sfoot, Mama bound the toe in place, where it healed, but it still has a humpof a scar across the top of it to this day.

Each September brought a particular dawn when we were awakened by theclinking of chains and the clopping of horses, as a caravan of wagonsclattered up the Hurricane hill. This was the day the winter's wood wasgathered to heat the school and the church building. At night, after thecedar and pine wood was piled high behind the schoolhouse, the town'sfolks celebrated with a Wood Hauler's Dance. In spite of the fact that Iwas afraid to dance, there was still a deep longing within me. I wasglad to be asked to help serve. I loved the feel of being dressed in viole,and in patent leather slippers. (Childhood days of only one pair of shoeswere past.) As I served the cake and cocoa, guests made flattering remarksand I loved being sixteen.

That winter I took a lead part in the school play 'The Burglar.' Init, I had to scream. I'd never really screamed since the lightning struckme. Now, when I tried, it wasn't clear, beautiful and pierce butmostly a squawk. I wanted to scream pretty, so after the evening milkinqwas done, and the hay pitched into the manger, I stayed up in the barn topractice. One night, Howard Isom came running to see who was being murdered.Two days before the performance, I became hoarse.

'Oh no,' I moaned, 'my first rea1 part in a play, and I'm losing myvoice!'

Anxiously, I gargled with salt, listerine, lemon juice, pepper-sauce,soda and aspirin—with anything that anyone suggested. I tried so manyremedies that I became sick. The night of the play, I went on stage, forcingmy voice to the limit. I squeaked, instead of screamed. After the84final curtain, members of the cast patted my back sympathetically. My headthrobbed and I went home to bed. For the next two weeks I couldn't speak.I learned what it was to die trying.

84One evening as the family sat at the supper table, Papa noticed Clintoncontentedly munching on a slice of cheese.

'Clint,' he scolded, 'you can't eat your cheese alone! Eat some breadwith it.'

Instantly tears welled up in Clinton's eyes. 'I already ate twoslices of bread with nothing on them, so I could eat my cheese alone.'

'All right,' Papa chuckled, and Clinton was permitted to revel in hisluxury.

Mildred worked for Fosters in Cedar, and early in March I received apackage from her. Opening it, I beheld a breath-taking creation of palegreen and apricot colored georgette. A note read, 'I thought you might begoing to the Junior Prom.'

As I lifted the dress from the package, its delicate filminess gave methe sensation of petals blowing in the breeze. The dress was trimmed withdainty, fluted ruffles. It had a nipped in waist and a flouncy, gatheredskirt.

'Oh Mildred, Mildred,' I whispered. 'This dress must have cost youtwo weeks of your skimpy salary.'

'How can I ever thank you? The dress tickles me to pieces,' I wrote.

Elmer Matheson, Pass's brother, replied for her. 'If the dress ticklesyou so much, take the feathers out of it.'

I wore the dress to the first Junior From ever held at Hurricane High.The Junior Class had been added to the school just one year before. Theclass members had spent weeks making paper flowers to decorate the archesand trellises for the 'Japanese Gardens', the theme of the Prom. Beyondall doubt, nothing so elegant had ever been put on in Hurricane before.The hall was so beautiful, and I felt so lovely in my Prom Dress, it neveroccurred to me to worry about the dance. By now, I had acquired a clusterof non-dancing friends, and we mingled happily among the throngs who hadcome to enjoy the decorations and the floor show.

Another great event in the family was Kate's graduation from the B.A.C.She came home with her Teaching Certificate, and a contract to teach schoolin Summit the next fall, in Iron County.

On May 20th, Charles A. Lindberg flew across the Atlantic, from NewYork to Paris, in his aeroplane, the 'Spirit of St. Louis'. This was theflrst non-stop flight ever to be made across the ocean. He flew 3,600 milesin 33½ hours. His pictures were splashed in every newspaper and he became85a world hero. Lindberg was single and handsome, and girls almost swooned atthe mention of his name. Song writers didn't waste a moment in putting tomusic this big event. The hit song of the day was about the 'Lone Eagle.'

Chorus:

Lindberg, oh what a wonder boy is he.
Lindberg, his name will live through history.
Over the ocean he flew all alone,
Gambling with fate, and with dangers unknown.
Others may make a trip across the sea,
Upon some future day,
But take your hats off to plucky, lucky Lindberg,
The Eagle of the USA.

Mildred suddenly became a major family concern, she had worked in somany different places, and got attention from so many different peoplethat misunderstandings arose, and she broke off her engagement to Maurice.She became engaged to a man who was much older than she was, and a sad, sadsubstitute for that darling, sweet Maurice. The family grieved for weknew Mildred was eating her heart out. She cried over every little thineand became a jumpy, nervous wreck.

One week end, a letter came from Maurice, and Mildred ran to her roomto read it. As Kate and I went up the stairs, Mildred ran past us and outthe kitchen door, weeping. Maurice's open letter lay on the floor at thehead of the stairs. I picked it up, and together Kate and I read it, thenwe went into our room where we both wept. The letter was a heartrendingplea for Mildred to do the thing that would bring her the greatest happiness.Each word was one of stabbing pain.

The family's anxiety, and Maurice's unselfish surrender broughtMildred to her senses and she and Maurice were married on the fourteenth ofJune, in the St. George Temple.

Oh, happy, happy Wedding Day, even if sister Judd (Maurice's mother)did set a hot iron on Maurice's brand new suit and burn a flat-iron shapedhole clear through the sleeve. Maurice was cooler in his shirt sleeves athis reception that night. It was customary for brides to wear their goingaway clothes at their reception. Mildred's dress was a lovely pink, flatcrepe

Maurice had a younger brother Orval, who occasionally dated me. Whilehe worked on Kiabab Mountain, logging for a lumber company, he bought a newFord Coupe, shiny and black. Orval was a sporty chap who wore his hat at arakish angle and had a fetching grin. When he drove up in his Coupe andannounced that he had come to give me a driving lesson, I was excited. Islid under the wheel and he explained the gears, gas feed and brakes, andcautioned me that a car must go slow for the first five-hundred miles. Wecrept for the two blocks from our place to Frank Ashton's corner, Orval keepinghis hand on the wheel to steady it until after we had made the turn.Then I held the wheel alone. The car wobbled, making crazy tracks in thedust of main street. Giddy with pride, I noted the loafers, perched likestarlings on the iron rail in front of John Petty's pool hall. I fancied Icould hyear the say, 'Well blow me down and call me horizontal, if that isn'tAlice Isom driving that car!' The thought of it made the car sweve crazily,but I got it under control. Further down the street were more loafers in86front of Walter Stout's Garage. I wanted everybody to see me drive, so Ihonked the horn. Then the car really swerved, landing in the ditch. Orval,with the help of the amused onlookers, lifted it out. He didn't chastise me,but patiently told me what not to do, especially not to turn corners at40 MPH, like I did at Frank Ashton's comer on the way back home. Thus endedmy first driving lesson.

When Mary and Walter Stout went away for a week's vacation, they askedme to come each evening and stay over-night with their children. Theiroldest girl. Wealthy, was Edith's age, but they felt better having someoneolder there at nights. Venitta was the girl next younger, and there was apassel of little brothers. Every one of the Stout children were exceptionallygood looking—fair skin, blue eyes, blonde, with ready smiles thatshowed their dimples. They gathered around me each evening with happychatter, and went all-out to be good to me. At breakfast and suppertimethey eagerly urged me to eat more. Their approach tickled me. 'If youdon't eat it, we'll just have to give it to the pigs,' they would say.

Walter Stout owned the first radio in Hurricane. Two years earlier,a group of us went from Mutual to his home on a summer evening, andlistened while he turned some buttons in the maze of tubes and wires spreadover a table. Through the static, he brought in some distant music, whichwas a miracle.

On August 14, Mama and Papa became Grandma and Grandpa, and the restof us became Aunts and Uncles. Annie's and Rass's baby boy, Keith, was born.It was an exciting day when Annie and Rass brought the little bundle to seeus. We clustered around Annie when she pulled the fluffy blue blanket backfrom his funny little face. We laughed heartily when the baby squintedat us, then stuck out his lips like he was trying to say, 'You.' I think hewas trying to ask, 'You all my relatives, huh?'

That fall, Hurricane High bought thirty typewriters. They only hadfour the year before for their first type class. Since no certifiedteacher was to be had, they hired Bradshaw Chevrolet's secretary, LauraLund. She was almost as young as her pupils, and so anxious to make good,that she worked hard with each individual student, patiently drilling dayafter day. By Christmas, most of the class had their thirty-word certificates.By spring, many were doing sixty words-a-minute, and a few weredoing seventy. Laura was cute and conscientious, and won the heart of everystudent.

The school also added Seminary to their curriculum that fall, withseventy-five students enrolled in Old Testament History. Jesse Rich was theinstructor and classes were held upstairs in the Sandberg Building. Mr.Rich was badly crippled with arthritis, and came to Hurricane to be nearthe Hot Springs, where he could soak every day. He was the city attorneyfor Logan, and hired me to type his legal papers. He allowed no erasures,and paid me $1.00 a page. The training was great. I also did his blackboardwork in Seminary.

Mr. Rich became dear to every student and they absorbed the Old Testamenteagerly. When the question came up, 'Why did Jacob seemingly useso many tricks to get the best of his father-in-law?' or 'Why was Davidpemitted to be a prophet, when he had committed such a serious crime?'Mr. Rich patently reminded the class that the Lord uses the best material87he has. This point was repeatedly emphasized, whenever anyone was prone tocriticise.

When Mr. Rich came to Hurricane, he hobbled with a cane in each hand.After nine months in Southern Utah's climate, soaking daily in the HotSprings, he had discarded both canes.

Seminary was to the school what dessert is to a meal, and Chorus,under Karl Larsen, was like cream on the dessert. Almost all of thestudents were enrolled in both.

87Papa counseled us more often than Mama did, simply because he wasusually there, especially in the mornings and evenings, and Mama wasalways busy. Since Sam Pollock had repeatedly warned about the devil payingour parents off in sons-in-laws. Papa did his part to see that thedevil had nothing to do with it. He didn't take my dating with Orval Juddseriously, because Orval was Maurice's brother, and more like a relative.But when other dates came on the scene, I was lectured about the dangersof going with strangers.

I tolerated the lectures and Papa's anxious counseling, realizingI was also included in his prayers. It was Papa who always called to usfrom his bed upstairs when we came in at nights. No matter how late wewere, he never slept until we were safely home.

One of my girl friends worked at the Bradshaw Hotel, and on Sundayevenings, when she was off-duty, our gang collected there. At the Hotel,we naturally met strangers.

One evening, three of the hotel guests invited three of us to go fora little spin. I had a queer feeling as I got in the front seat of the carwith the driver. The other two couples took the back seat. Because Ididn't want to be a 'wet blanket' I ignored the prompting to not go. Iknew Papa would never approve of the stranger at my side.

For awhile, we cruised about town. Pilled with apprehension, I satspeechless, and the other girls seemed tongue-tied too. The driver slowlyturned down 'lover's lane', a road leading into a thick grove of fig trees,and parked. I was scared.

When he slid toward me, I quickly opened the car door and said, 'Shallwe walk?'

He was agreeable, and we strolled out from the dark cover of the treesand down the lane. Oh, how I wanted the Lord's protection, but I felt embarrassedto ask him. But in the starlight, opportunity for escape loomedbefore me. It was the gate to my cousins Burr and Evadna Bradshaw'splace.

'Well, it has been nice knowing you,' I said, 'and now I'll say goodnight.Thanks for walking me home.'

Flabbergasted, he said, 'This isn't your house is it?'

88'Sure,' I fibbed.

'Well, I'll be—. Say, you can't go in now. We just got together.'

'Sorry, but I've got to go in. The folks will wonder what happened tome.'

'Goodnight then.' He reached for me, but I sped up the walk.

The house was dark, but I knew I had to go in, so I opened the doorand stepped inside. Peering through the screen, I watched as he reluctantlystarted back up the lane. I was afraid my pounding heart and shaking framewould wake Burr and Evadna.

Would that man ever get far enough away so I could slip back outside?At last, I could see him no more. Flattening myself against the wall, Islid out the screen door and along the porch to the rear of the house. Ibanged into an old wash tub in the back yard, which almost gave me a heartattack. Crouching, I listened, but could hear no one coming. I knew Ihad to make time, because when the man got back to the car, he would learnthat I had pulled a fast one on him, and the others would come looking forme.

Running through the trees, I scratched myself on the branches. When Icame to the big ditch, half the canal, it seemed, was tumbling through itsrocky banks. I would be seen if I crossed the foot bridge, so I steppedgingerly from rock to rock. The beam of a spot light bobbed up and downthrough the orchard. Slipping, I stumbled. Drenched to my knees, Icrouched behind a clump of poplar saplings on the bank, just as the carturned its beam on the spot where I had been. I huddled, panting, as thespot light lingered on the saplings, but the thick clump concealed me, andthey went on by.

On reaching the street, I ran like a deer. Now the car was comingback toward me. Winded and beat, I dropped to the ground and rolled undera barbed wire fence into the grass. The spot light criss-crossed the road,playing along the fence and lingering on every bush. Secure in the grass,I could get my breath. Back and forth they went, searching the grass whereI lay. Knowing I couldn't be far away, they persisted. A bent, dry grass-headgouged my ear, but I didn't dare move. Insects crawled on me, stillI lay motionless. At last, the car turned the corner and took off in anotherdirection. They must have supposed I had taken another way home.

I crawled from under the fence, and my feet flew. I just got to EtherWood's corner when I saw them coming again. Our house was kitty-cornerthrough the block, so I darted through Wood's gate, around their house andthrough the trees. The spot light played up and down the sidewalk.

I cut through Uncle Marion Stout's corral. The horses snorted anda big red bull came toward me. Caught between a maze of fences and thatrumbling bull was more frightening even than the spot light. Terrified, Iscrambled through, and at last was on home soil. Panting, I sped up thepathway from the barn, and through the kitchen door.

From upstairs. Papa called,'Is that you Alice?'

'Yes,' I answered gratefully.

'This is more like it,' he said. 'I'm glad you're getting home early.'

89The spot light played on the front of the house, and I knew in thatmoment how Peter Rabbit felt when he stumbled gratefully into the rabbithole after the farmer had chased him.

This episode livened up the party for the others, for the 'fox chase'definitely beat parking. My friends realized the folly of our going fora spin in the first place.

Annie and Rass ran the Flatnose Ranch in Nevada for Uncle JohnHopkins. Kate and I took the train from Cedar to Lund, where Rass met us.This was my first train ride. Rass, Annie, and little baby Keith, dressedin his bib overalls and big straw hat, took us in their rattling pickupsight seeing. Kate and I sat in the back and sang, and raised sun blisterson our noses as we jounced along. We visited igloo-shaped lime kilns,mining towns, ranchers and Mexicans.

Back at the ranch was an out-door shower made of a barrel mountedon a platform. We carried water from the creek, and climbing the ladder,poured it into the barrel. Standing beneath it in our bathing suits, weturned on the shower. We had to soap and scrub fast to get clean beforethe water was all gone.

At the head of the alfalfa field was a reservoir of warm water. Katewas a good swimmer, but that dark, mossy water scared me. As I walkedgingerly into the edge of it, fluffy mud swirled about my feet and the ickystuff oozed between my toes. I felt like the water was inhabitated bygoggle-eyed, stinger-tailed creatures tangled in the long strings of waterweed. I'd rather sit on the bank and watch the overhanging branches ofthe black willow dip and dimple the water.

With notebook and pencil, I leaned against the tree and scribbled myrandom thoughts. Mama had requested that I keep a diary during my seventeenthyear—and that year was almost over. She said to keep it for abirthday gift to my oldest daughter when she turned seventeen.1

Vaguely I recall the essense of my scribbling under the willow treeat Flatnose. Seventeen is on the edge of some great thing. At seventeenthe grass is taller, the moon bigger, and the world glides in a grandersweep. Seventeen is melodramatic, comic and frivolous, and some of thecreepiest boys look like heroes!

On August 26, 1928, the Hurricane Ward was divided into the North andthe South. Frank Johnson was put in as our new bishop (of the North ward).Ether Wood was put in as Sunday School Superintendent, and I was called tobe Sunday School Secretary, with Freda Fullmer as my asstant. This wasmy first church calling. How happy I was to be considered worthy!

Kate taught school at Iron Springs until Thanksgiving, then the IronCounty School Board closed the school down, and transferred her to Parowan.

I was given the job of cleaning the sewing room and library in the eastend of the old Relief Society building, to pay my tuition for my senioryear in High School. Anthony Isom had the job of keeping the rest of thebuilding clean. We were both to make our own fires, but Anthony was to carrythe fuel. I always ran out of kindlings, so day after day, I groveled forchips behind the school house where little kids played on the teeter tottersand swings, and the big boys tossed basket balls at the backboard by the90woodpile. I tried to make myself small and inconspicuous. Picking up chipswas humiliating to me. If I had it to do over, I think I would skip andsing as I toted the black coal scuttle after kindlings. I took no joy inpushing the heavy broom over the splintering, oiled wood floor, nor industing the shelves and tables with the waxy rags that should have beenburned. Attitude makes the difference between Heaven and Hell. My attitudemade this job Hades, especially on the dreadful December day when Hurricaneshivered in a sixty-mile gale.

I struck half a box of matches that morning, trying to get the firestarted. I had only slick magazine pages and damp chips. My teeth chatteredand my fingers were numb by the time the fire took hold. The roomwas bitter cold, so as the fire flamed up, I fed it more and more wood andcoal, until the pot-bellied stove glowed red.

Then the twenty-foot stove-pipe collapsed across the sewing tablesand over the book shelves. The stove was located on the opposite side ofthe room from the flue, so more heat would be given off by the long, blackpipe wired to the ceiling. Generations of soot, which had collected inthe pipe, billowed into the room, blinding and suffocating me. Flames andsmoke shot up from the roaring, red hot stove. Anthony, who was working inthe next room, came running. I was both angry and terrified. Through thechoking, black confusion, he remained calm. Summoning help from thestreet, he put out the fire, then cleaned up the pipes, anchoring themback in place. We had no vacuum, and the feathery soot swirled like aflurry of mischievous spirits in front of my broom. For days, whisps ofsoot puffed out to plague me from between the books on the library shelves,until I had been able to deep clean every crevice. Sewing classes were suspendedfor one day.

Our sewing teacher, Cleone Smith, dispelled the gloom of winter inthe sewing room, by ushering in Spring in December. She had her studentsstart on their spring dresses. The room became cheerful with voiles,chiffons and georgette in rainbow colors. Cleone was the beautiful daughterof the Church Patriarch, Hyrum Smith. We were honored to have her asa teacher, and even more honored when she married Alma Isom from Hurricane.

Stella Willis, the world's champion typist, presented a lyceum assemblyat Hurricane. She could carry on a normal conversation, and type one hundredand twenty-five words a minute accurately, at the same time. Iwas dumfounded when she called me to the stage to give me a concentrationtest. Dazed, I sat down to the spanking new Underwood, with my copymaterial before me. At the signal to start, the typewriter purred. It wasa good machine. As the questions were fired at me, I managed to brieflysay 'sure', 'yes', 'no', 'of course', and 'I don't know'. Miss Willischecked my finished sheet and announced that I had accurately typed ninetywords a minute. The assembly applauded. I was glad to get off the staoeand melt in with the crowd. I felt certain Miss Willis had exaggerated myability.

Our first year type teacher, Laura Lund, had married the elementarymusic teacher, Elvis Bird Terry. June Bunker was the second year teacher.She took a group of us to Cedar to the High School Days at the BAC. ThereI won a typing scholarship. At the same time, Mrs. Ruesch, our Englishteacher, had entered my 'Polliwog Pond' poem in the lyric poetry contest,and it won. I had to choose between two scholarships, so I acceptedthe Marlow Spilsbury Memorial Poetry one. I remembered how handsome Marlowwas when he dashed on his horse past our place, driving his herd of cattle.He was young and attractive. Not long after that, he died of a sudden illness.

1. I kept the diary, and re-read it to myself when Marilyn was just fifteen. Embarrassed at my outpouring of sentimental feelings, I burned it. Now I am sorry I did.

91One day, after the sewing room was cleaned, I sauntered home with myarmload of school books. The afternoon sun was warm and the air smelledof spring. Although it was still February, the apricots were in bloom.Papa was anxiously waiting as I came into the house.

'Emil Graff wants to talk to you,' he said.

Afraid to hope, I hurried to the store, where Mr. Graff sat me downin the shoe room.

'How would you like to clerk a few hours after school each day?' heasked.

How would I like! How would I like to not pick up chips anymore?How would I like to not be a janitor anymore? How would I like to havethe moon? All of the shoe boxes on the shelves looked friendly.

'I would love it,' I replied.

Briefly he explained store policy and wages then said, 'Be preparedto start work on the first of March.'

My feet scarcely touched ground as I flew home. Excitedly I burstthrough the door. 'I'm going to clerk in the store,' I announced. Mamasmiled and Papa blinked.

How much of what happened next was coincidence, or how much was maneuvered,I wasn't certain, but the first salesman that showed up in the storeafter I started clerking, was from a correspondence school. It just happenedthat he had already visited Mr. Moody at the High School, and had been tosee Papa. Well, he sold me a course in shorthand and business correspondence,along with a beloved Underwood Typewriter (rebuilt). Now I couldclerk all afternoon, and go to school only one-half a day. At nights Istudied. Papa dictated shorthand and timed speed tests, and my completedlessons began to fly in the mail to Chicago. The corrected ones, alongwith my grades, were returned to Milton Moody, the High School Principal.

One day, Mr. Moody called me into his office. 'You have been chosento be the Valedictorian at the graduation exercises. We also need yourpicture for the Year Book.' Year book pictures were taken the day we wereat the B.A.C., so we missed out.

To make my senior picture special, I got my first beauty parlor appointmentfor a marcel. Most of the girls had their hair 'bobbed off'. Cut,that is. Papa wouldn't hear of such a thing. My hair was long, done up inbraids, and wound around my ears.

'Be not the first the new to try, nor yet the last to lay the oldaside,'('An Essay on Criticism' by A. Pope) Papa often recited, then he would add, 'A woman's hair is her crownof glory, and it can't be, if it is cut.'

With the help of Isaiah, he kept us in line by quoting, 'Therefore, the Lord will smite with a scab, the crown of the head of the daughters ofZion…instead of sweet smell there shall be stink;…and insteadof well set hair, baldness.'(Isaiah 3:17,24)Each night as I tumbled into bed, with mybraids falling across my pillow, I'd think, 'Well, at least I still have92my crown of glory.' I didn't want to be one of the wanton creatures thatfulfilled Isaiah's prophecy. Still, Papa failed to notice that we were the'last to lay the old aside'.

My friends harangued me, and now that I was clerking, customers tormentedme constantly with the question, 'When are you going to cut yourhair?' Like water dripping on a rock, it was wearing me down.

As I sat in the beauty parlor chair. Hazel Langston took one fat braidin her hand and asked,'How would you like to have your hair cut, Alice?'

Her assistant, Felma Webb, grabbed the other braid. 'Oh Alice, pleaselet us cut your hair.'

I didn't believe they were serious. Those braids had been a part ofme for eighteen years. Jokingly I said, 'Go ahead.'

With heavy shears. Hazel whacked off a braid, dangling it before me.A sickening fear swept through me. Gleefully she asked, 'Do you stillwant your hair cut?'

'Sure,' I gulped. What else could I say?

Never were two beauty operators more enthusiastic than Hazel and Felmaas they worked on me together. They had so much fun they should have paidme, instead of me paying them. When the cutting and marcelling was done,they held a mirror in front of me. What a doll! I felt self-consciouslooking so cute. But I didn't dare go home for dinner. I just skipped it,and went to work instead. All afternoon I was heaped with compliments. Byquitting time, I felt like a blue-ribbon exhibit.

The news ran ahead of me. As I opened our front door, even beforePapa looked at me, he exclaimed in disgust, 'You've made a mess of yourself.'Nothing more was said. Days later, I heard him confess to Joe Englesteadthat cut hair was neater than long.

My graduation dress was a pink, fluttery thing that sparkled with rhinestones.It gave me composure. The thoughts for my valedictorian addresswere triggered by a couple of poems. The first one was 'Opportunity'by John James Ingalls:

OPPORTUNITY

Master of human destinies am I!
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace—soon or late
I knock, unbidden, once at every gate!
If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore.
I answer not, and I return no more!

This poem sounded so fatalistic, that it would scare a body to ever sleep.The second poem was also titled 'Opportunity', by Walter Malone. Hisphilosophy, I wholeheartedly accepted.

OPPORTUNITY

I felt the exhilaration of weaving my thoughts around those of thegreat masters. I was a shining star with all eyes upon me. It was toobad I couldn't have stayed at the podium. But, like a meteorite crashinginto the forest, I came down onto the floor where benches had been slidback for the dance.

Men from the Pine Creek road camp crowded the dance floor. The Ziontunnel was under construction at this time. Normally, every dance had itsrow of wallflowers, but not so this night. Every girl was popular. I wastrapped. One stranger after another took me onto the floor. The crowd wasmy only salvation, because if I got out of step, it could be because someoneelse bumped into me.

That night, I realized that other things in life were as important asgetting 'A's' in school. I felt like a grub, and longed to be a butterfly.

Mama and Papa weren't at the graduation exercises. They never wentout at nights. But in some quiet way, they managed to know what was goinqon. When I came home from work the day after graduation, I noticed thepack of cards that my talk had been written on sticking out of Papa's shirtpocket.

'What are you doing with those?' I asked.

Papa blinked back his tears of pride and grinned. 'I took them to thebank for Senator Hirschi to read.'

What a tribute! Papa considered Dave Hirschi highly intellectual.If he hadn't liked my talk, he wouldn't have let Dave read it.

94With school out, I clerked full time. The 'self-service' systemdidn't exist. Customers asked for each item they wanted, and clerkss'curried about the store to pick them up. It was time consuming. I soonlearned why the clerks detested certain customers. The only way to keepfrom detesting them myself was to make a project of them. Whenever the undesirable,the disagreeable and the ignorant customer came through thedoor, I stepped from behind the counter as though tickled to see them.Amazing! I discovered that even the grumpiest people were really quitehumorous.

Once in awhile, my motives weren't rightly understood, and it broughtthe wrong kind of company to our home, and some angry lectures from Papa.He worried because I was gullible, naive, and too trusting.

For example; a certain road camp guy hung around the store too much,and no one liked him. He was repugnant to me, but I determined to give himthe 'glad to see you' routine to see if it worked. It worked. Like aboomerang! He came to our house one night, just after we had finishedsupper.

'My name is George,' he said, shaking Papa's hand.

'My name is George too. Isom, that is. Who are you?'

'George Wickey, and I'm a member of the Church.'

'What Church?'

'Baptist.'

'Doesn't mean a thing to me.'

'Mind if I sit?'

'Don't mind if you do.'

'Your daughter Alice is a nice girl.'

'Yes. Alice is a nice girl.'

George and George sat and visited. They talked about the progress ofthe Zion tunnel and whether it was going to be a long, hot summer or not.(The summer was getting quite stuffy at this point.)

'Your daughter Alice is a nice girl,' George Wickey repeated.

'Yes, Alice is a nice girl,' Papa agreed.

'I came to ask if I could take her to the dance tonight.'

'I don't like my daughter out in a car with a stranger.'

'I'm walking. My friend will pick me up after the dance.'

'Well, you've been gentleman enough to ask my consent. I'll expect youto be a gentleman and treat her right and get her home early.'

Since I'd started this whole thing of being nice to Wickey, I might aswell swallow this bitter pill and go with him. I went to my room and put onmy pink organdy. At least he should be safe on foot. Papa's final admonitionfollowed us as we walked out the door.

95Well, I thought, if we're going to the dance, we're going as fast asour feet can trot. I had no notion to linger under the stars with George.

'What's your hurry?' he asked.

'We're late. Can't you hear the music?'

'Come on. At least we can hold hands.' Clutching one of mine, heslowed me down.

Just before we got to the old shoe shop, he grabbed me in his arms.When I resisted, he backed me up against Will Ruesch's fence, breathingon my neck. 'Are you a gold digger?' he asked.

'Do you mean someone who goes prospecting out in the hills?' I asked,pushing him away.

'No. It's a girl who gives a guy something for money,' he said,hugging me.

'No I'm not!' I struggled to get away. He tried to kiss me. I'd assoon kiss a toad. Breaking loose, I ran. There were lights and peopleoutside the school house, so I was safe. Once inside, I squeezed throughthe crowd and hid. Wickey pushed through, craning his neck looking forme. As he edged in, I edged out.

Overhearing a neighbor say, 'Should we run home and check on the kids?'I asked, 'Can I go with you?'

'Sure thing,' was the reply.

I was home earlier than expected, but Mama and Papa were as relievedas I.

'I was wrong to let you go,' Papa admitted, 'but there's one thing Iwish you would remember. You can't be friendly to everyone. Evil men willtake advantage of you.' He had said this to me a hundred times before.His message was beginning to sink in.

Most of the customers in the store during the morning hours werewomen bringing in their butter and eggs. We paid for these in storecoupons. Coupons were considered 'women's money', because she was the onewho tended the chickens and who churned the butter. An egg was as good ascash. An egg was a handsome reward to a child for getting his work done.Little kids came to the store daily, exchanging their one egg for a coupleof sticks of candy.

In our town, everybody knew everybody else, and poked fun at eachother's idiosyncrasies. One family in particular was noted for theirtight-hidedness. Of the man it was said that he had just got his horsesused to not eating, when they up and died, and that he put green goggleson his cows so they'd think straw was hay. And each morning, he gave hiskids a nickel if they'd drink a quart of water before breakfast, and thencharge them a nickel for their dinner. When he took his wife out for anautomobile ride, she had to lean forward to save gas, and the family hadto jump the fence, to save the gate hinges. The fact is, they were verygood people and everyone liked them, but the man was more frugal thannormal.

96On his wife's birthday, he came to the store with a fist full of heregg money. 'Shoot,' he said, 'I've got to get Mariah1 a present. I wantto see your enamelware.'

Enamelware consisted of cheap metal pots, pans and dishes, glazedwith a gray, blue or white porcelain-like finish that chipped like glass.The chipped places rusted. Enamel dishes were used only at the sheep herd,in ranch houses, and for camping out, but not at the dinner table at home.

'I'll take six plates and six cups. Mariah is going to be mad as ahornet, but shoot! We can't afford the way our kids are breaking dishes.'

How touching, I thought as I wrapped them, for him to use her eggmoney, to buy her a gift that was going to make her mad. My mind conjuredup a lively scene of Mariah throwing the dishes at him until they were allchipped, and then the family eating off the hideous things the rest oftheir days.

Another practical man bought a copper boiler for his wife's birthday.A copper boiler was an oval-shaped container made to fit over two holeson the wood stove, to boil white clothes in on wash day. Lifting wetsheets out of the boiling lye water with a stick was back breaking. Acopper boiler was a symbol of drudgery. A very sentimental birthday gift.But it tickled me when this man's wife bought him an axe for his birthdayso he could keep the wood chopped so she could keep her boiler bubbling.

Only local, homemade butter was sold in the store. After the butterwas churned, the excess buttermilk was worked out with a wooden paddle.The butter was then pressed into a mold, then unmolded onto wet parchmentthat was labled with the woman's name, and neatly wrapped. Whencustomers sorted through the stacks of butter in the store showcase, itwas like judgment day. Each woman whose name appeared on the wrapperwas discussed, whether her kitchen was clean or not and whether she tieda bandana over her hair when she churned. Some women wore crisp whiteaprons over their housedresses when they delivered their butter. Theyadvertised their cleanliness, demanded five-cents a pound more fortheir butter, and got it.

Salley Jones1 had the reputation of accumulating her cream until itreeked. Once a month she'd bring fifteen pounds of butter to the storein her big water bucket. Before the days of refrigeration, that was alot. Local customers wouldn't touch it, so naturally, we filled sheepherderorders with it. We got a note from one guy out on the ArizonaStrip, saying that the butter we sent him was so strong he had to tie arope around it to keep it in camp.

Ether Wood hauled freight for Mr. Graff. Once when he took hisbrother Andrew with him, there was only half enough butter in their grubbox to last for the trip. So Ether told Andrew that Salley Jones hadmade the butter. Andrew wouldn't touch it, and Ether enjoyed Myra Lemmon'sgood sweet cream butter for the entire trip.

Roving gypsy bands occasionally came through Hurricane in the summertime.People called them dirty horse-traders and thieves, but to me theywere venturesome, carefree and happy. The women, in their bright scarvesand swirling skirts, were beautiful.

97It was a midday in June. Walter Eagar, Amelia and Jessie Webb,three of the clerks, had gone home for lunch, when the gypsies arrived.Mr. Graff and Ruby Ruesch were in the back, marking a shipment of new shoes.I was alone in the front part of the store when I saw the gypsies scatter.A dark-eyed girl came swiftly through the door and behind the counter whereI was dusting.

'If you'll cross my palm with silver, I'll tell your fortune.'

'I'm sorry, but I can't do that,' I said uneasily. I knew the redfolds of silk that covered her were for more than color. I backed away,but she moved with me, her eyes riveted on mine as she kept talking.She was young, and very pretty. I was both fascinated and frightened.It seemed silly to yell for help, but I wished someone—just anyone,would come into the store.

The girl backed me past a small showcase on top of the counter thathad the glass door slid open. Our cash register, a tall, fancy, chrome bedeckedfour-drawer one, was under repair, and all of the drawers wereconspicuously open and empty. In a shoe box, along with the cosmetics inthe open showcase, was the currency, silver and checks.

'Cross my palm with just one piece of silver. There are wonderfulthings in store for you,' she said, her face upturned to mine.

Just then, Mr. Graff materialized, and the gypsy fled. Reachingfor the shoe box, he found the currency gone. He ran out the front doorjust in time to see the other gypsies help the girl into the back oftheir ramshackle truck, which went wheezing down the road. Quickly, hesummoned Tom Isom, the town marshal, and a posse of men were gathered,who followed in hot pursuit.

The only way out of town was the road going down around the SulphurSprings. It was not a swift road for a fleeing band in a rattle-traptruck. The posse blocked their way before they crossed the river. Intheir swift little visit, the gypsies had looted every business house intown. The marshal and his men relieved them of their merchandise andmoney, and ordered them never to set foot in Hurricane again.

In a council with his clerks, Mr. Graff firmly told us to shoutalarm if ever another gypsy came into the store. But the band that fledfrom Hurricane that day seemed to be the last of a vanishing race.

One day Mr. Graff said, 'Alice, why don't you take my car and runafter the mail?'

I had just finished cutting off a slab of bacon for John Sanders.

'I think I'll go with you,' John said. 'I want to go to Will Sullivan's,so while you're out, maybe you can drop me off at his place.'

Neither Mr. Graff nor John knew I had only been behind a steeringwheel once. I got into the little sports roadster, and John settled downbeside me. Smartly turning around in the back yard, without knocking overthe trash can, I came out onto the road. While I tried to recall whatOrval Judd had said about stopping the car, the Post Office appeared.Driving alongside, I knocked out a fence post, and the wire mesh stoppedus.

John was out of the car like he had been rocket-propelled. 'Nevermind about taking me to Will's,' he said, 'I'll walk.' He didn't evencall for his mail.

98I might as well have taken him to Sullivan's. I drove back to thestore perfectly fine.

Jessie was more experienced at clerking than the rest of us, exceptfor Walter. She knew everything from the size of horse-shoe nails, tohow much cloth it took to make a dress for a six year old. When womenasked for ideas for making a dress, without hesitation, she'd assemblematerial on the counter.

'I think this cloth would be pretty, with these little buttons downhere, and ribbon and lace around here,' etc., designing the dress rightbefore their eyes. They always bought what she put before them.

One day, when I answered the phone, it was Emma Bradshaw. 'Alice,'she said, 'I want to tie off a comforter this afternoon. Ira is on hisway to the store now. Please pick out ten yards of your prettiest cretonne,and send it home with him.'

'Jessie,' I called, hanging up the phone, 'your Aunt Emma wants youto pick out ten yards of cretonne for her.'

Mr. Graff overheard me. With a hand on each of my shoulders, heasked, 'Who did Mrs. Bradshaw ask to pick out that cloth?'

Ducking my head, I replied, 'Me.'

'All right. Now go and pick it out.'

'But I don't know what she will think is pretty.'

'Go right now and look at that cretonne. Decide for yourself which isthe prettiest piece, and cut ten yards off from it. Jessie's choice isn'tone bit better than yours.'

I'd never thought of that. Amazed, I looked at the bolts of floweredmaterial. They were all pretty, but one piece in particular was much theprettiest. Taking it down, I measured it off, and just got it wrapped asIra came in the door.

A short while later, the phone rang again and I answered it. 'Alice,this is Emma. I want to thank you for your picking out such pretty material.It is exactly what I wanted.' How pleased I was!

Mr. Graff's home was in LaVerkin, so Walter kept an extra set of keysto the store in case of emergencies. The store carried patent medicines,and every once in awhile, he had to open up in the night for a childchoked up with croup, or for some other ailment. Going into the store atnight was spooky, because the place was dark.

It was just my luck, the one time Walter left the keys with me, Ihad to do a lot worse than go after medicine. Mr. Lewis, who was rentingthe two north rooms in our house, died. The sad weeping of his children,who were at his bedside, awoke me. The family realized they had bettertravel as far as they could in the cool of the night, to get him to hisold home town for the funeral, so they got me up to go after his casket.

If ever I pretended to be brave, it was then. To go into the farend of the dungeon where the caskets were, was one thing I never did.Just the sight of the dusty, pine boxes, conjured up in my mind my childhoodimaginings of the ten caskets of beans in our cellar.

99Two of Mr. Lewis's sons went with me, and with a dim flashlight, Ifound the light switch inside the back door. The wooden steps creaked aswe went into the basement. When I put my hand out to steady myself, thecement wall was damp and cold. I had seen the black widows suspendedabove their egg balls on the beams overhead, and imagined spider webs entanglingme as I descended. In the dim light, at the far end of the basement,the men selected the casket they needed, and we found help in gettingit out. This incident was merely a dress rehearsal for the one that was tofollow.

Soon after that, one of our neighbors died. In those days, deceasedloved ones were not rushed to a mortuary, but were 'laid out' by theRelief Society sisters. Ice was brought from the meat market and packedin fruit jars all around our neighbor to keep her cool until the funeral.She had been washed and dressed in a pretty white dress, and her hair doneup in a bun on top of her head. I was asked to sit with her from ten atnight, until two a.m.

'Why sit up with someone who is dead?' I asked. 'Mattie1 isn't goinganywhere is she?'

'There have been cases when people were only thought to be dead. Ifthey gasp for breath, they may need help.' Horrified, I looked at thecomplacent sister who supplied this information. 'Then of course, we haveto watch for cats,' she continued. I groaned. 'You don't have to worry.You won't be alone. Her grandson Elmer will sit with you.'

Now that was just great! Elmer1 was one of the ruffians with the corncobpipe, that had beat up on our sixth grade teacher, and he was alwayssoused.

When I talked to Mama about sitting with the dead, she said, 'It issimply a nice and considerate thing to do. The family will rest betterknowing you are there.'

Mattie's bedroom windows were open, and the sheer curtains softlybillowed out into the room. She lay very still under a white sheet, andan electric fan droned, vacillating back and forth, at the head of the bedThe breeze from the fan kept lifting the sheet from her hair, untilfinally a lock, the size and shape of the tip of a cat's tail, unwound.It waved back and forth, back and forth with the fan. I watched, until Icould stand it no longer. I got up and went out on the front porch, whereElmer had passed out, dead drunk, in the casket box. Every time he moved,his heavy shoes clanked against the pine boards with a hollow sound.

Hot as the night was, I was getting chilled from the melancholy droneof the fan, and Elmer's mumbling, groaning and clattering in the casketbox. Suddenly a terrible yowling and shattering of glass brought me tomy feet in terror.

'Elmer, Elmer, wake up,' I cried hysterically, shaking him.

Groggily he arose. 'Whassa matter?'

'Something has happened in there,' I choked, pointing inside.

I didn't move until he went with me. Switching on the basement lights,we saw broken bits of fruit jars strewn down the cement steps. They ha'been knocked from the ledge above the steps, where they had been stored.

100'Blithering cats,' Elmer grunted.

Where they came from, or where they went to, I didn't know. Wildhorses couldn't have dragged me into the basement to find out. I was ralievedand happy when two women came to replace me, and I could go home.

Since I was practically the only one to occupy the southwest bedroomupstairs, I had free rein in fixing it up. On the floor was a hooked rug of my own, original design, and I had appliqued my pillow cases. The curtainswere some old lace ones, but they looked pretty, freshened up. Someof the pictures on the walls were Cloverine salve premiums, and otherswere slick, colored magazine pages. Neither Mama nor Papa ever looked inmy room to say, 'How pretty.' and everyone else was equally oblivious. Iwas the lone admirer. It was here that I spent my evenings after work,cramming on my shorthand and business correspondence, to prepare forcollege. My desk was a shiny, polished table with fancy carved legs, thatI had bought from Graff's.

The following incident came as natural as breathing. A business machinesalesman came into the store. The cut of his suit, the wave of his hair,the shine of his shoes, the smell of his after-shave lotion, the tone ofhis voice and the twinkle in his eye gave me to know that this man was agentleman. Mr. Graff was out, and since I was the one who ran all of hisoffice equipment, which consisted of an antiquated Oliver typewriter, anda hand-crank adding machine, logically I was the one to talk to him. Wesat in Mr. Graff's office, which was two chairs by a desk in the shoeroom.

The conversation got around to my brilliant future in Civil Service,globe-trotting for Uncle Sam. The handsome salesman seemed interested,throwing out lead questions to let me know that we were kindred spirits.I had no romantic illusions toward him. He was simply part of summer, likenew mown hay, or the magazine pictures on my bedroom wall.

I suddenly remembered there was a catch in my typewriter that neededfixing. I asked him if he could do it, and he said he could. 'I'll finishmy business calls, and be back to pick you up at closing time,' he said.Closing time came at dusk, and he was waiting in front as I came out thedoor.

At home, suppertime was at dusk. For some reason, regardless of theseason, the family could never eat supper in daylight. As I came in thedoor with my friend, there sat the family around the big table in theliving room, eating their bread, milk, and fruit. Although the table clothwas fresh and white, suddenly the room, the table and the family looked so—so— —my conscience smarted to even dare think it—so back-woodsy.

Papa always took too lively an interest in anyone we brought home, andheaped them with questions. I hurried the salesman past him as quickly aspossible, with only a brief introduction, explaining that he had come tofix my typewriter. I ushered him into the kitchen and up the narrow stairsto my room.

Oh dear! The room that had seemed so charming this morning, nowsuddenly diminished in my eyes, and looked hicky. The man sat down to mybeautiful table to look at Oscar. Oscar was the typewriter. He ran thecarriage back and forth, flipped a few levers and said the machine was nowin perfect order. He was too kind to say there was nothing wrong with it.

101'It just needed a little tuning up,' he said.

Just as he leaned back in his chair to visit, Wayne came in and sat onmy bed, making a nest in the sagging mattress that I had patted out socarefully. I could tell by his sunburned grin, that showed his front teeththat were too big for his face, that he was settled down to stay. No waycould I have a heart-to-heart talk with this magnificent man with thislittle pest around, so there was nothing left to do but thank him forcoming, and lead him back downstairs.

Graciously he said goodnight to the family. Then came the explosion.'It is disgraceful, sinful, and immoral to take a strange man to yourbedroom,' Papa shouted, his face a livid red.

'There is nothing wrong with taking a repairman to fix my typewriter,'I hotly defended.

'I want it understood that when your typewriter needs fixing, you willdo it downstairs on this table.'

'You know I can't lug that heavy thing down the stairs,' I protested.

'You've done it plenty of times,' he reminded me.

'But the family was eating supper.'

'That doesn't make any difference. He could sit on the lounge andwait until we cleared a place.'

Oh sure, sure. I could see it all—what with Papa bombarding himabout his morals and religion.

'Only a cheap, loose woman would take a man to her bedroom,' he stormed.

'Papa!' I burst into tears.

'This is what Isaiah meant when he talked about the daughters of Zion,'he continued, and I knew exactly what he was going to quote.

I ran to my room and plopped onto my face, crying a puddle of tears onGrandmother's crazy-patch quilt. How could a family be so unimaginative andlacking in understanding! Not one of them knew the least thing about how agirl felt.

Softly, Mama came into my room and put her arms around me. 'You'dbetter come and get some supper, Patsy,' she said.

'I don't want any,' I blubbered.

'Don't feel so bad,' she coaxed. 'Your father is right. There are somany things that will look differently to you later on. Come on down andbe with the family.'

I began to feel that Mama did understand. I knew I had to face thefamily, so I went down with her.

Penitently, Papa said, 'I'm sorry I was so harsh.' Tears stood in hiseyes. 'It is because we love you, and we know you are too innocent,' heexplained.

The next day, when the salesman returned to talk to Mr. Graff, I got sobusy with customers that I didn't have to face him.

102A certain customer, who always bought laundry soap, really turned mygenerator on when he entered the store. Even if I was fitting boots onthe Prince of Wales, I think I would have left him in the shoe room ifWinferd Gubler appeared. But about all the response I ever got fromWinferd was his money when he paid for the soap. The rest of the clerksknew I had a crush on him, so they left him for me to wait on.

Winferd managed the swimming pool at the LaVerkin Hot Springs. Thesoap was to launder the towels and swim suits. I figured if he ever dateda girl, she would have to be a princess, so the most I could hope for washis smile as I bagged up his Fels-Naptha and Crystal White soap.

My dating, for most of the summer, was 'gang' dating, which took usoften to the swimming pool. I couldn't swim, but usually sat on the stepsdangling my feet in the water. Sometimes, I sat on a bench, and if Winferdwasn't busy, he sat and visited with me.

One evening, just before I left for college, he said, 'Alice, you'retoo nice a girl to be running around with this kind of company. You'recheapening yourself, so that the right kind of fellow wouldn't want todate you.'

Stunned, I looked at him. He was the one I'd rather date than anyonein the world, but he never condescended to ask me. The kids in the gangalways came for me. There was nothing wrong with them, except they had abottle once in awhile. But they knew better than to offer it to me.

'How kind of you, Mr. Alligator,' I retorted.

'Alice, I mean it,' he said earnestly. 'Don't sell yourself short.'

I could see that he did mean it, and somehow I wasn't angry with him.But now, summer was over, and the gang split up. I never saw them again.

Ah College! The Grand Old BAC! Kate was the Fairy Godmother whowhisked me there. For the first two weeks, we stayed with Aunt Evadna andUncle John Hopkins. I planned to become a fine School Teacher, and wordsof praise would dribble back to Mama and Papa about me, like they didabout Kate. But Uncle John changed that.

'Alice, don't register for normal training,' he said. 'There are toomany old-maid school teachers already. You may not even be able to get acontract. And even if you do, you'll spend your life teaching your schoolmates' little kids. That's no way to catch a husband. Go into businesswhere you'll be working with adults.'

He made sense, so I changed my course on registration day. The daybefore, Kate took me to Henry Berkstrom's exclusive shop, where she boughtme an entire wardrobe of beautiful, beautiful dresses. The fabrics wererich and the tailoring superb. Transformed, I was as sharp looking as anyco-ed on campus. I blossomed under the touch of her magic wand.

One thing was lacking. I was not transformed into a divine dancer.I was something less than Cinderella at the registration dance. But thePrince was there, in person of Lyle Thomas, the best looking, curly-headedfootball player at the BAC. As I entered, clipping along in my smart,patent leather slippers, elegant dress, and soft windblown hairdo, he sawme. With the first strains of music, he grandly glided, swirling and103bowing, the full length of the mirror-bright floor, swooping me off myfeet. Literally off my feet! Stark terror gripped me, and the room spun.When Lyle almost stumbled with the frozen icicle (me) in his arms, hehastily returned me to my seat. He never looked at me again. The miracleof the incident is that I didn't run home crying. I stayed and watchedall evening. Self-consciousness turned to indignation. I resolved tolearm to dance.

For the next two weeks. Cedar City lay shivering under wet, blackclouds. New clothes, the college campus, school activities—nothing,could stay the longing for home that built up inside of me. All I couldthink of was how nice and sunny it must be at home. I developed a toothacheand needed to see old Doc Gibson. That was reason enough to go home.

Saturday morning, I walked down Cedar Main, with my little suitcase.I couldn't find a soul from home. At Petty Motors I inquired, 'Do youhappen to have a car going to Hurricane?'

'Can you drive?' Charlie Petty asked.

'Oh yes,' I answered. I was homesick enough to drive anything goingmy way.

'I've just sold a car to Chester1 and Albert1, and they don't drive.Can you chauffeur them?'

'I sure can,' I replied.

Chester and Albert were timid bachelors from Rockville.

Looking at the shiny cars, I asked, 'Which one is yours?'

'Ours is out back,' Chester answered, and I followed him into thegarage.

A mechanic was under the hood. Slamming it down as we approached,he said, 'Your little jewel is ready for the road.'

At my startled look, Albert said, 'We got it for twenty-five dollars.We ain't goin' to drive anywhere only around in the field.'

The car was a faded blue. The interior resembled a mouse's nest withcotton oozing from splits in the upholstery. I was thankful the mechanicbacked it out of the garage, because I'd never driven in reverse.

'Are you ready?' I asked.

'Yep,' Chester replied, getting into the front seat.

I slid under the steering wheel and Albert got in the back. I pushedthe starter button, the car coughed and puffed a cloud of black smoke, Iput it in gear, and we chugged out of town. Every time I gave it the gas,the car shimmied, so I eased it down to a crawl. It was better for me, forI still wasn't used to steering.

Except for the rumble of the motor, we traveled in silence. I lookedat Chester. He had gone rigid, with his back stiffened against the seat,his feet pushing against the floorboard, and his eyes glued to the road.When I turned to see how Albert was, he made a startled, choking sound, andsat up tall, to watch the road while I looked at him. I couldn't see whythey were so scared. There was no speedometer, but we couldn't possibly104have been doing twenty-five miles per hour. If we had gone faster, the carwould have been shaken to pieces.

Well, if they wanted to go into a coma, that was up to them, but thiswas my first time driving on the open road, and I was going to enjoy it.My tooth didn't ache anymore because I was going home. Happily I hummed,'Mid pleasures and palaces,' and the little car jerked and twitched overthe Black Ridge, out of the clouds, and down into the sunshine of our littlecorner of the earth. I knew Albert and Chester were still breathing, foroccasionally I heard one or the other gasp.

A new road was under construction between Toquerville and LaVerkinand I almost missed the right-angle turn. When my eye caught the detour,I made it so sudden and sharp that it took the car a few feet to getback on all fours. I had planned on driving clear home, but at the take-offto Rockville, Chester said, 'You'd better stop here.'

'Stop?' I asked.

'Yes. We don't want to go no further. You get out and we'll take thecar home.'

Well! Talk about appreciation, after all I'd brought them through.I was still four miles from home!

Mr. Graff came along and stopped just as Albert set my suitcase bythe side of the road. For the first time, those old bachelors came alive.I had thought they were dead to any feeling, but with me out of their carthey radiated. Enthusiastically they thanked me, over and over, for bringingthem this far. Mr. Graff whisked me off for home. As I looked back,Albert and Chester were waving goodbye.

Monday morning, Ether Wood brought me back to school. Ether freightedfor Mr. Graff, and waited on all of the college students from Hurricane.He transported them, and brought packages from their mothers, cheerfullyand without pay. (He filled Papa's coa1 bin without pay, and always checkedto see if there was bottled fruit to be sent to us.)

Our apartment in the Will Simpkins home was ready, and we moved inwith our cousins Lula and LaVerna Heaton. Their brother Freddie livedwith Aunt Kate and Uncle Will Palmer. Freddie and his friend, Lovell,used to visit us. Since we were all duds at dancing, we set up a classm our living room. Day after day, we danced to the music of Lula'sphonograph, until we gained confidence enough to tackle the school dances.

'It's turning that gets me out of step,' Freddie confessed. 'Theeasiest way is to bump into someone at each corner of the room, thenturn my partner while I'm already out of step.'

One night at a school social, I was dancing with Lovell. The floorwas slick, and he slipped. Afraid we'd both go down, I let go of him, andlanded on his back. I felt so terribly sorry, because I knew exactlyhow he felt.

Social prestige on campus came with membership in a sorority or fraternity.Initiation into these clubs was one of the highlights to a'freshie'. Initiations ranged from the dangerous to the ridiculous. TheNu Omega Rho Sorority made a bid for me. For the three weeks of my initiation,I carried a brick with 'goat' written on it. The brick was heavy,but I was never to lay it down. Each day at school, one of my 'superiors'105made a goat out of me. One day I had to wear my graduation dress to school,along with a pair of knee-high hiking boots, and an alarm clock danglingaround my neck. The alarm went off during English class, and Mr. Haywardsaid, 'Alice, you may leave the room.' So with rhinestones flashing, pinkgeorgette fluttering and heavy boots clopping, I made my 'inconspicious' exit.Always, we had to do the mortifying thing requested of us, for we werespied upon by our 'superiors'.

All of the Nu Omega Rho 'goats' had to plead poverty, and beg theirway into the movie. We were humiliated and ridiculed by the manager, butfinally admitted. (Our tickets had previously been paid for.) LornaLowe and I had to order a meal at Lunt's Cafe, then slip out without paying.We were grabbed, and sent to the kitchen to do dishes. We knew thiswas rigged, because they had saved up mountains of dirty dishes. We washedall afternoon.

After three weeks of embarrassing, humiliating experiences, we weretaken to our final court at midnight, blindfolded, and led into a darkroom. We were pushed from upper-story windows, burned with red hot pokersand fed gritty, raw oysters. All of this was phony, except the oysters.The power of suggestion was supposed to make us feel we were falling whenwe were caught in a net, and ice was supposed to feel red-hot. It was adisappointment, because things seemed like what they really were.

But I became a sworn-in Nu Omega Rho, and was given a red silkhandkerchief, with the insigne in the corner. This was my first (and last)step up the social ladder. I was too blithe a spirit to be a good NuOmega Rho. Sophistication bored me.

To gain prestige, the Omegas made a grand splash for Mrs. Jack London,when she came to town. They fixed up the college social hall, renting anupholstered set from Hunter Hardware, along with a crystal punch bowl andother dishes, a polished table and lace cover. They bought 'frappe', anexciting new frozen dessert, and cakes. Mrs. London graciously spent anhour with us. The party cost each club member $5.00 apiece, at a timewhen bread was 5¢ a loaf! Mrs. London never did get her husband to dedicatea book to us, and even after the financial drain, which hurt wescarcely made the news.

The college kept an honor roll posted in the front entrance of OldMain. I was surprised when I saw my name next to the top. That challengedme. Why not get it on the very top? I dug in and made it, but keeping itthere was something else. I kept my name on the honor roll all year, butthe top spot was shared.

My one diversion from the heavy courses I took, was an art class fromBastow. To help pay expenses, I worked in the combined Creamery and BookStore a couple of hours each afternoon, under Hazen Cooley. My homesicknesshad vanished.

When we went home for Thanksgiving, I slept with LaPriel. Thanksgivingmorning, LaPriel awoke with the mumps!

Back at school, I enrolled in a dancing class under Ballentyne. Joyously,I looked forward to the Christinas dance at home. I had a strong premonitionthat Winferd Gubler would really see me for the first time. Ofall the guys on the college campus, there was no one to compare with Winferd!

106Christmas morning, I awoke with the mumps! Fat and ugly. I was toosick to join the family downstairs, and too sick to care. Late that nightEdith came home giggling. She had been out with that funny Winferd Gubler.Funny? There was nothing funny about it to me. It was tragic! I wouldhave given the world to be with him. Now, I was really sick. Sick withtotal frustration!

I spent the entire holidays in bed, barely getting over the mumps intime to return to school. I had lost fifteen pounds.

At quarterly conference held in December, the St. George Stake wasdivided, and the Zion Park Stake was organized, with Claude Hirschi asStake President, and James Judd and Russell Swenson as counselors.

1. Not their real names.

1. The two poems titled 'Opportunity' that Alice quotes in her original typewritten book are slightly different than they appear in The Little Book of American Poets on pages 239 through 241.

   Alice's original manuscript moves a few stanzas of the second poem around. And a few words and punctuation choices differ as well. Alice also attributes the second poem to Robert B. Malone instead of the correct Walter Malone. It could be that her source for both poems was different.

   Perhaps Alice compiled the quotes in her book from her original notes from 1929. No matter what the reason, this note is here to alert readers that the poems have been adapted in this online presentation to match them as they appear in the book The Little Book of American Poets (a version of which was very likely Alice's original source).

   —Aaron Gifford, 25 Jun. 2011

2. The Marcel Wave hair style:
   1. Wikipedia: Finger wave (including information about the Marcel Wave
3. From 'An Essay on Criticism' by Alexander Pope)
4. From the Old Testament, Isaiah chapter 3 verses 17 and 24

   17 Therefore the Lord will smite with a scab the crown of the head of the daughters of Zion, and the Lord will discover their secret parts.

   24And it shall come to pass, that instead of sweet smell there shall be stink; and instead of a girdle a rent; and instead of well set hair baldness; and instead of a stomacher a girding of sackcloth; and burning instead of beauty.

106Across the room from me in English class sat the most collegiate lookingboy on campus. The name that fit him most was 'BAC'. From the cornerof my eye, I often saw him looking at me. When I returned his glance, hesmiled.

'What's the lettering on your pep sweater?' he asked one day.

He knew it was my initials, but I made the most of it. 'It's A-1.I am an A-1 Co-ed.'

Grinning, he said, 'I've been noticing you for a long time, and that'sexactly what I've decided you are.'

That was the beginning of a romance that made me forget Winferd.'BAC' and I went to the college functions and movies together. I littlerealized a fellow could be so considerate and nice and still be so much fun.

Cedar City had been blanketed with snow and ice all winter, and whenMama's letter came saying the peach trees were in bloom, I persuaded 'BAC'to go with me and see. His sister and her girl friend came with us. Afterwe dropped down from the Black Ridge into Utah's Dixie, we were in anotherworld. Toquerville, LaVerkin and Hurricane were mostly orchards, envelopingthe little towns. What a garden of Paradise they were! My collegefriends, who had never seen springtime in Dixie, marveled at the beautv ofit, and I felt so proud of my 'homeland'.

We visited with the family and enjoyed their hospitality and Mama'sgood dinner, then went to Papa's field into the pink world of peachblossoms. Bees hummed in every tree, and meadowlarks filled the air withtheir melody. The sun was golden and warm. If ever I loved Hurricane, itwas that day. We gathered arm loads of flowers to take back to Cedar.Looking back across the years, that day still stands out as the mostblossom-filled, music-filled, sunshine-filled, 'I love life' day that I canrecall.

That day, 'BAC' made a date with me for the prom. My feet almostskipped to campus and back in the days that followed. And then the collegestudents went to the LaVerkin Hot Springs on a swimming party. The manager107of the resort was the last thing on my mind. As I entered the building with'BAC', Winferd Gubler saw me—really saw me for the first time.

Managing to get me aside, he asked, 'How about a date for the collegeprom?'

What an exasperating moment. A year ago, if he had asked me for adate, I would have accepted so eagerly that it would have frightened himaway. But now, I was simply annoyed. 'I'm sorry,' I answered. 'I alreadyhave a date.'

Unabashed, he asked, 'If I come to the prom, will you get me a date?'

'Sure,' I replied.

Mary was just his type—intellectual, and pretty too. They'd make aperfect match. Mary was thrilled, and bought an expensive formal, andarrangements were made for Winferd to call at her home.

I got my first floor-length formal, and 'BAC' gave me the first corsageI ever wore—pink rose buds. (I pressed the roses in 'The Last Days ofPompeii' where they remained for years.) The dance was dreamy, until I sawMary make a late entrance, accompanied by her parents.

'Where is Winferd?' I asked.

'He didn't come,' she answered. Her eyes were red from weeping.

I was furious! That bounder! Here I had played him up to Mary for abig hero, and he had let her down.

Much later, he arrived, full of apologies and explanations about cartrouble. Mary danced with him, but refused to let him take her home.

My college romance lasted through the summer, even though 'BAC's'visits were infrequent. Papa set his heart on him the same as he haddone with Maurice Judd. So far as Papa was concerned, I had arrived. Winferdlooked at it differently.

I was back in the store clerking for Mr. Graff, and Winferd made moreticky trips for laundry soap than he'd ever done before. He knew I wasdating someone else, and this sparked his interest in me.

One afternoon, it took him an hour to buy four bars of Fels Naptha.To keep busy after I had bagged the soap, I dusted a pencil display rackover and over, taking every one of the one-hundred and fourty-four pencilsout of the little holes individually, and polishing around them. Finallyafter Winferd left, Mr. Graff appeared.

'Well, did you get a date?' he asked.

'Yes,' I replied.

'I have a vacant lot between my store in LaVerkin and Gubler'shouse. It is a fine building spot,' he grinned.

It was the enchanted hour between daylight and dark when Winferd'sgreen Chevrolet drove away from our gate. I was the girl sitting besidehim. Once, I would have felt as breathless as though riding on a magiccarpet, but things were different now. Winferd was no longer the great,unreachable prince.

108I had been warned that heart-smashing was his game. Certainly, he wasdifferent from anyone I had ever been with. He was suave and polished, witha maturity that made all other dates seem juvenile, still he had a spontaneousgood humor that was as refreshing as a breeze.

We stopped to enjoy the last pink and gold that splashed the sky inthe west. 'I love the twilight,' he said, 'it is my favorite time of day.'We watched the jagged silhouette of the mountains blend into night, asthe car climbed the Rockville hill. By the time we reached the summit, thestars were out. He showed me how to locate the North Star in relation tothe big dipper.

'That is the North Star,' he said pointing. To make sure I was seeingthe right one, he put an arm across my shoulder. I felt a warm radiance athis touch.

He drove around the loop from the Rockville hill, down the Hurricanedugway, and home. Taking me to the door, he kissed me lightly on the tipof my ear, said 'Goodnight,' and was gone.

Something had happened to me. I thought I had lost all interest inWinferd, but I discovered it was not so. Papa sensed it too, and was concerned.

'I wish you wouldn't go with Winferd,' he said. 'You'll never find abetter man than 'BAC!'

'I know I won't. Papa. But you don't need to worry. A girl doesn'tmarry every fellow she goes with.'

'And she never marries a fellow she doesn't go with,' he replied.

My heart was troubled.

In the evenings, after the day's work was through, I sometimes wanderedthrough the trees, and down into the lucern patch. I had so much thinkingto do. Instinctively I knew that the house I had grown up in wouldno longer be my home after I returned to college in the fall. Perhaps itwould be a career that would take me away, or perhaps—.

I thought of my visit to the dentist last week. Old Doc Gibson hadtaken it upon himself to counsel me.

'Oh little chick,' he said, 'eventually you will venture forth upon thesea of matrimony. But you will never. I repeat never have children. Remember,you must not have children.'

I didn't bother to ask why. He filled my tooth, I paid him and left,thinking he was weird. And then, of all things, as I walked home from workthe following evening, Sister Wood called from her porch.

'Alice, come in and visit with me for a few minutes.'

As I sat with her on her porch, she gave me the same counsel. Was thissome kind of conspiracy? Why shouldn't I have children? Sister Wood didn'tsay, but as an afterthought , she added, 'Of course, the millenium couldcome soon. In that case, your children would be all right.'

Then the thunderbolt struck, when a Santa Clara Dutchman, who had datedalmost every girl in town, decided it was my turn. He relaxed in our front109room, visiting my parents. Singing was his favorite pastime, and Mama andPapa were good listeners. They requested one old-time song after another,and he seemed to know them all. Finally, he asked me to go for a stroll.Walking in the summer evening was pleasant.

After visiting for awhile, he finally said, 'I'd marry you, I'd marryyou in a minute, if it wasn't for that Parker blood.'

Well! Whatever made him think I'd marry him?

'What about that Parker blood?' I asked.

'All of your children will be crippled, like your father,' he replied.

'How do you know?' I asked.

'Don't you know?' he quizzed.

'No I don't.'

'Well, everybody else does. That's why the boys in Hurricane don'tdate any of you. Their parents have all forbid them too. Your father hasa hereditary disease, and no one wants to marry into it.'

I simply didn't believe it!

'Thanks for telling me,' I retorted. 'And to think, I had planned allalong on asking you to marry me!'

How strange. My father's condition had never been discussed in ourhome. He was crippled as far back as I could remember, and it had neveroccurred to me to ask why. He was just our father, and that's how he was.No one, absolutely no one, had ever said one thing about it to me before.When I asked Mama if what our Dutchman friend had said was true, she saidit was, but not all of my children would be crippled, but perhaps some ofthem would. Wayne was the only one out of her eleven that showed anysigns.

Oh my, what a lot I had to think about as I walked in the lucern patchin the twilight. But for some reason, after the first shock, I did not feeldespair. The breeze, the first dim stars, the sleepy twitter in the branchesoverhead, all spoke peace to me. I could only be grateful that my motherand father had had me and all of my brothers and sisters, because they weremy favorite people, and our home had been happy and good. I thought of allof the people I knew who were afflicted like my father, and they were highlyintellectual, and they were good, and I knew the Lord loved them. Happinesswas inherent. My heart could not be burdened. If other folks wanted toworry about us, let them. Then I stopped. Oh, those poor troubled people.Of course they would worry. I myself wouldn't want my children to marry intoinfirmities.

Going toward the house, I met Mama coming down the walk. 'Mama,' Isaid, 'I've been wondering what made you decide to marry Papa when you wereyoung. Did you know what you were doing?'

She smiled. 'Yes, I knew full well. I thought it through thoroughly.I have never regretted my choice, because I love your father, and am gratefulto have such a fine, eternal companion.'

110My summer clerking proved to be one of the most interesting assignmentsI had known. Mr. Graff had a small chain of stores and gas pumps, and I washis vacation-relief clerk. When Alvin Hardy, who managed his Springdalestore, took his family on vacation, Mr. Graff sent me there. I stayed withmy cousins, Nancy and Squire Crawford, who were precious and dear to me.

One weekend while there, Winferd came to take me to an Indian cave atAntelope. Some years before, when he was there herding sheep, he chased arabbit, that disappeared into a hole. To Winferd's astonishment, the slantingrays of the sun penetrated the hole, revealing an underground chasm.

He eased down through the hole, and found himself in an auditorium-sizedIndian storehouse. Along the rock shelves were rows of moccasins,pottery and grinding stones. Feverish with excitement, he gathered anumber of specimens. Later, he took a collection to the B.A.C. and one tothe B.Y.U. Both colleges gave him scholarships for the Indian artifacts.

Time had elapsed and Winferd had not returned to the spot until thisparticular day. Winter storms had taken their toll, and the roof of thechasm that had held for ages, had partly collapsed. Winferd was terriblydisappointed. Together we walked inside. Overhead, lime had oozed ingiant curlicues on the ceiling, like tooth paste out of a tube. Winferdexplained that the pressure of the rain soaked earth, as it settled, hadcaused this. Tons of earth had covered the rock shelves, but still exposedwere many Indian treasures. We brought home a man's size thirteen hemp moccasin. Caked in mud was the print of every toe, and the ball of the footof the brave who wore it.

After Alvin Hardy returned, Mr. Graff sent me to run the store in Leedswhile Walter and Jessie Eager went on vacation. One morning, just after Ihad unlocked the door, the town drunk staggered in and clutched on to me.Helplessly I struggled to get free. Then to my great relief, a deaf-mute bythe name of Horace burst in. He grabbed the drunk by the collar and pitchedhim out the door. For the rest of the two weeks, Horace took up guardduty staying with me during store hours. Before Jessie and Walter left,Jessie had said, 'Horace will watch out for you. Don't worry a minute abouthim. He is as good as gold.' And he was. He swept and dusted and helpedin countless ways. He was truly a guardian angel.

Dates with Winferd were different. He always had something special inmind. His portable, hand-crank phonograph and book of records rode aroundin the back seat of his car. The Zion Tunnel at that time was an invitingplace, with its rock finish interior and unrestricted parking space inthe wide, open windows. No cement-work inhibited the cars, and traffic waslight. Sometimes in the early twilight, Winferd parked his Chevrolet inthe biggest window of the tunnel, put waltz music on the phonograph, and wedanced. When the light began to fade, we sat on the window ledge, lookingdown the canyon, and ate the picnic he had packed. Sometimes we went uponthe hill for a dutch oven chicken fry with his little brother Donworth,and Donworth's friend Jasper Crawford. They were the comedy feature. Winferdbrought them along for the fun of their uproarious wit.

Open-air dancing was the current fad, and we danced at Hidden Lake,Kanarra, New Harmony and Santa Clara. On previous summers, Winferd hauledthe drums for the orchestra, along with the 'extra ladies' who crowded inbeside him. Since he belonged to no one, he seemed to belong to everyone.111And now, even on nights when he had a date with me, the girls who had beenused to inviting themselves to the open air dances still piled into theback seat of his car. Winferd was a gregarious fellow and seemed quitehappy when surrounded. No doubt, this is how he had preserved his bachelorhood.Dates with 'BAC' were far more proper and normal.

Papa's anxiety mounted. 'It isn't right for a girl to be dating firstone fellow, and then another,' he lamented.

'But Papa, what is a girl to do? Blindly make up her mind who she isin love with? How can she make a right choice, if she only dates oneperson?'

'I think I know your heart far better than you do. This Gubler man isnot the marrying kind. You're wasting your time on him. He's been aroundtoo much. Besides that, he's too old for you.'

Winferd was twelve and one-half years older than I. And he had beenaround, spending two years in Ohio on a mission for the Church, thenattending the B.Y.U., and working in the Eureka mines. He and his missionarycompanion, Dell Fairboune, had done a lot of double dating, managingto keep themselves quite unentangled.

Winferd's Aunt Josephine, who was our neighbor, warned my parents.'Winferd will only break Alice's heart. He goes with a girl until she fallsin love with him, then he drops her. He will never marry.'

This caused even Mama, who had let Papa do all of the fretting, tovoice her concern. Here I was, past my twentieth birthday, but feelinghelplessly confused as a child. When Winferd asked if I could spendSunday with him at Kanab with his Bowman relatives, I took my parent'scounsel, and turned him down. My heart felt like a blob of lead.

I went with Ervil Sanders instead on a Stake Sunday School visit tothe Short-Creek, Canebeds Branch. I was the newest board member.

Throughout the week, my not-so-happy heart concerned Mama, so whenWinferd asked the following week if I could go to Bryce Canyon with him,she helped pack the sandwiches, handed me my class sweater and said,'Have a happy day.' How I loved her for that.

Time passed swiftly, and soon I was back registering for school, andback to my college romance. Obedient to Papa's counsel, I had asked Winferdnot to see me anymore. He wept. The test was terrible.

As he said goodbye, he handed me a phonograph record. 'I bought thisfor you. Will you accept it please?'

Shaking my head I said, 'I can't.'

'Please,' he urged. 'It's the last thing I can do for you.'

I took it and shoved it on the back of a shelf.

The secret of forgetting is to be busy. Back at school, I was caughtup in the honor roll scramble, working with the year book staff, and clerkingin the bookstore. The fall quarter was over and my college romance hadleft for the sheep herd. Then one afternoon, I found myself alone at ourbachelor quarters. Thoughts of Winferd overpowered me, so I dug out therecord he had given me, and played it.

112Tenderly the strains of 'Moonlight on the River Colorado' filled theroom. To me, the voice was Winferd's. Once more I saw the light of theAugust moon shimmering on the rippling waters of the Virgin River. Togetherwe stood on the bridge that spanned the narrows as he sang thissong. Tears coursed down my cheeks. I knew in that moment that the dearestsound on earth was his voice. Hastily I scribbled a note, 'Please comeback,' and mailed it.

The family told me that he had been moping around for weeks, and thatno one could cheer him, that when he got my note he ran all the way homefrom the post office. (One-half block.) Within two hours after he got myletter, he was knocking at our door.

He registered for the winter quarter at the B.A.C. When Ruby Rueschand Roland Webb sent us an announcement that they were being married onDecember seventeenth, Winferd said, 'Why don't we surprise them and makeit a double?'

So Winferd Gubler, the heart-smasher, the confirmed bachelor, wasactually proposing marriage!

'How come you didn't get married years ago?' I asked.

'You were too young,' he replied. 'I had to wait for you to grow up.'

Monday and Tuesday we had tests to take at school. It's odd that wewere so conscientious we couldn't take time out to prepare for our weddingday. We didn't even warn the folks. Tuesday, after our last class, wecame home and broke the news that we were going through the temple the nextday.

Exasperated, Mama said, 'Don't you ever do a thing like that again!'

Poor mama. She urried among the relatives, borrowing temple clothing,and pressing them for me, while I went for an interview with Biship Johnson.We went to the Wednesday night temple session and were married in the eastsealing room, Ruby and Roland first, and then Winferd and I. I wore KateAllen's dress. The room was packed with friends and relatives.

After the ceremony, Mama said, 'I have but one piece of advice to giveyou. Don't ever let the sun go down on your wrath.'

Winferd's mother said, 'He has been raised on bread and milk for supper.Don't spoil him.'

It was 3;00 a.m. before we got back to Winferd's dinky apartment inCedar, but we both reported for our 8:00 classes on Thursday. We hadmissed just one day of school.

School let out for the holidays Friday night, and I had promised Mr.Graff I'd clerk for him during the Christmas rush, so we hustled back toLaVerkin. We needed the money. Winferd only had fifty dollars when we weremarried, and he spent eleven of that to buy a dress for me, because hedecided we were going to have a wedding reception as soon as christmas wasover.

The dress was a black crepe with a pleated skirt, with white lace collarand cuffs. Kate remarked that it looked like I was going into mourning towear black to my own wedding receiption. Since street dresses were the vogue(thank goodness) I let her remark pass. The depression of the thirties wassetting in, and this in itself produced some practical people.

113I clerked for Mr. Graff for five days, while our harrassed parentspooled their efforts to prepare for our reception. They made rows of pumpkinpies and gallons of hand-cranked ice cream. Winferd bought a keg offresh pressed concord juice from Clyde DeMille, and his orchestra friendsfurnished the dance music as a gift to us. The recreation hall in theHurricane school house was packed. The one thing that got the most commentof all was the Concord juice. Although it was fresh and sweet, it had developeda tantalizing zing, and even years afterward, we were occasionallyconfronted with a grinning question such as, 'Do you remember who servedwine at their reception?'

Finally with Christmas and the reception over, we found an hour of ourown to be together. In my mother's kitchen, I packed a lunch, then wewent picnicking in Grassy Valley, south of Hurricane. Winferd ate and ate.After he had slicked up the last crumb of Mama's fruitcake, he said, 'Thesample was good. When do we eat?'

'We just did,' I said.

'We did? I thought that was the appetizer. I mean, when do wereally eat?'

Oh no, I thought. The guys were right! Bill Sanders had asked, 'Howare you going to feed the monster?' and Roland Webb had said, 'He eatslike a horse.' Even his own mother remarked that Winferd really enjoyedfood. I eyed him over with astonishment.

Finally he burst into a peal of laughter. 'Don't worry. I'mfuller than a hop-toad. I couldn't eat another bite.'

It didn't take long to learn that during his bachelor years, Winferdhad courted the favor of every woman in town by bragging about her cooking.At ward parties, they heaped extra goodies on his plate, just to see hisenthusiasm. He had built a reputation for himself. He was the ward recreationdirector, and he was the one who made the parties fun.

We strolled through the lengthening shadows of the afternoon, thisactually being our first chance to talk since we had conceived the madcapcap idea of trying to beat Ruby and Roland to the altar.

Winferd, since you knew my family well, why did you marry into it?'I asked.

'Because we were mated in Heaven. If it had not been so, I would havemarried someone else years ago. It's like I told you, I had to wait for youto grow up.'

Thoughtfully, I shook my head. He was evading my question. 'Winferd,why did you marry into our family?' I repeated.

Taking my hand in his as we hiked through the chaparrels, he said,'Alice, I thought a great deal about the problem. I tried to ignore you,but couldn't. When I asked Mother about marrying you, she said, 'If youlove her, marry her. We do not marry for this life only, but foreternity.'

oh, my precious mother-in-law!

114We talked of many things, of ideals, hopes and plans, but one thingspecial remains in my memory. Winferd said, 'During my bachelor years,I've noticed one thing in particular about my married friends. Too oftena husband makes his wife the butt of his jokes, especially at parties. Orhe refers to her as 'the old battle axe', or 'the ball-and-chain', or perhapsthey will call one another 'the old man', or 'the old woman'. Itsounds disrespectful, and someone always ends up being hurt.'

I knew what he meant. More than once I had seen a friend of minebristle, or sit silently on the verge of tears, while her husband roaredwith laughter at her idiosyncrasies.

'Let's promise that we'll never belittle one another in front of anyone,'Winferd continued.

This promise was easy for both of us to make, and we found it just aseasy to keep.

114With the holidays behind, I moved my belongings from our bachelorquarters at Vergene Simpkins' home, to Winferd's dinky apartment. Katehad been a second mother to me for a year and a half of college, providingthe place to live and the groceries. Kate had fussed over me, loved me,and worried about me. A lifetime of gratitude or good deeds on my partcould never repay her for all that she had meant to me. Vergene's apartmentwould be more serene without me, since there were still three schoolteachers, Kate, Edna Heaton and Sylvia Jones, living there, and onestudent, LaVema Heaton. The extra closet space would be appreciated.

Winferd took me to live in the basement laundry room that had beenhis quarters since starting school. He paid his rent by sweeping snowand making fires for Amy Leigh. The cubby-hole 'apartment' was furnishedwith two built-in, cast iron, laundry tubs, hot and cold running water, andassorted pipes, both large and small, that criss-crossed the ceiling.Winferd had squeezed in his camp cot, folding table and chairs, and hislittle gas stove. And that was Home Sweet Home.

Surveying our bridal suite, I said, 'Shall we fix up the place?'

'You're the lady of the house. Where do we start?'

'Let's put a broom stick across this corner to hang our clotheson, then we can get your shirts and pants down off those pipes. We canuse a piece of cretonnefor the closet door and to curtain the little window.'

The transformation began. An Indian blanket replaced the denim campquilt on the bed, and a bright flowered cloth covered the metal table.Inspired, Winferd built a couple of shelves for books and dishes, and Imade a curtain for them too.

'My, what a difference a woman and a piece of cretonne makes,' hegrinned.

115At the end of the winter quarter, I took a job at BradshawChevrolet, and Winferd stayed in school. That $50.00 a month pay checklooked pretty big. The depression was on, and prices hit rock bottom.A three-pound box of soda crackers sold for 18¢, and a not-very-prettycotton dress could be bought at Penny's for 35¢. People traded labor orbartered as far as possible, but some things demanded cash.

Now that we were rich, we rented an apartment with room to move aboutin. Before, one of us had to exhale, when the other went by.

We moved into Stephen's Apartments on Main Street. The rooms were big,pretty, and fully furnished. There was a bathroom, too! It was like gettingheaven for $10 a month.

Winferd became a victim of a teacher's contract fraud. For a $25.00fee, a phony firm guaranteed him a contract at the end of the school year.The salesman who took his money did a lively business throughout Utahbefore being convicted. Winferd was summoned to Salt Lake City to testifyin court, so early one Monday morning, I took him to the Union PacificDepot to catch a train.

Becase we had overslept, there was barely time for him to dress andgrab his suitcase, while I slid into my slippers and kimona. The town wasjust beginning to rouse, so Main Street was deserted.

Stopping the Chevy under the trees by the city park, Winferd turnedoff the ignition, gave me a big hug and a kiss, then bounded across the streetto the Depot. The train pulsated and puffed as it idled on the track.Winferd was the last passenger to climb aboard. The whistle blew, and thewheels began to grind. Fascinated, I watched until the caboose disappeared,then with a sigh, I stepped on the starter of the car. Nothing happened.

'Oh no,' I whispered, 'It can't be stalled here!' Over and over I tried,but there was not one spark of life.

By now the town was fully awake and Main Street bustled with people.I was a sight! My hair hadn't been combed, my pajamas looked slept in,and the Japanese silk of my kimona fluttered bright as a beacon light. Thescuffs on my feet were little better than being barefoot, and our apartmentwas at the opposite end of Main. What a predicament!

'Please help me,' I cried in humiliation to the boy at the cornerservice station. 'My car won't start.'

Leaving his gas pump, he looked under the hood of the car, but he wasas helpless as I. I wished I could become invisible. Certainly I couldn'tmarch down Main Street looking like this.

I fled to a wash east of the park, and followed its meandering routeback of town. My sandals scooped gravel and my feet hurt. what a tortuousdetour! Hurrying along the least inhabited alleys, I eventuallycame to my end of Main, and there I had no choice but to cross.

For once, when I least wanted to be noticed, the man at the servicestation across from our apartment bubbled with good humor. 'Good morningAlice,' they called, then one of them added, 'Well, well. Did youget up before breakfast?'

116'Sure did,' I sheepishly grinned.

I couldn't stand at the curb waiting for the traffic to ebb, so Idarted through the first gap between cars, and into our apartment house.

Although our apartment had a gas stove and refrigerator, I yearned toacquire something of our own. I went in debt $300 for an electric stoveand refrigerator, to be paid at $10 a month. Electric appliances werea luxury, and priced high. Although the new things looked beautiful in ourkitchen, still the monster debt nagged me.

When school let out, Winferd got his teaching certificate, but no contract.The depression was so acute there was not a single vacancy. UncleJohn had been right when he steered me into business. Winferd returned tothe farm in LaVerkin, and I stayed on at Bradshaw's. Then it happened.Business houses in Cedar City that employed married women were boycotted,so I lost my job. My $300 debt might as well have been $3,000. With nojob and no money, either amount was impossible to pay.

A poster in the Civil Service office announced examinations to begiven. One was for a position in Hawaii. Why not try for it? I could workthere at least until we were out of debt.

When Winferd came on Saturday night, I broke the news that I had lostmy job. Spreading out the Civil Service literature, I said, 'Look, nextMonday they're giving an examination for a job in Hawaii. Do you care if Itake it?' He was silet for a long time. 'I know I can pass. Please letme try. You could get a job in Hawaii too.'

'Would you like that?' he asked.

'I think it would be thrilling.'

'Why don't you come to LaVerkin with me. The farm is the best place tobe right now.'

We might as well get some real adventure,' I argued. 'Please let metry.'

After much coaxing, he finally said, 'It's up to you.'

Sunday evening, before Winferd returned to LaVerkin, we rode up CedarCanyon. Each weekend since we were married, we had either picnicked orcamped there. In the winter when the road was closed, we had driven as faras we could, then pitched our tent in the snow. We were dressed for it,and we did a lot of hiking and climbing. Now this chapter of our lives wascoming to a close. Tomorrow, I would take the Civil Service exam, and letour apartment go.

Kissing me goodbye, Winferd said, 'Good luck on your exam,' and left.

The examination was scheduled for ten the next morning. I was excitedas I dressed. Then I discovered my glasses were missing. I searched everywhere.Without them, I wouldn't be able to read a word. Then I remembered.As Winferd kissed me last night, he ahd removed my glasses, putting them inthe glove compartment of his car! My heart sank. The vision of palm treesand white-capped waves blurred through my outraged tears.

117'This can't happen to me,' I cried. grabbing the phone, I dialed.'Operator, give me Medford 2740 in LaVerkin, please.' There just might betime for Winferd to run the glasses up to me, if he broke the speed limit.

Hello,' Ovando said.

'Van, I've got to talk to Winferd quick.'

'Well, he's out in the field somewhere, do you want me to get him?'

'Yes, please. I'll hold the line.'?

As I held, minutes dragged into eternity. Finally the operator cut in.'Maam, you've held the line until you've run up $2.00 on your call. Do youwant to hold it longer?'

'$2.00,' I wailed, 'that's all I've got left!' Sorrowfully I hung up.It was no use.

Throwing myself face down on the bed, I howled. With the crying overand my future blighted, I sadly began to pack.

That night, Winferd came in his dad's truck. Handing me my glasses,he said, 'I'm sorry, sweetheart,' and I buried my face against his shirt andbawled some more.

Patting me tenderly, he said, 'I have found a nice place to live inUncle Willie Hardy's house.'

'How will we pay the rent? I blubbered.

'Uncle Willie is grazing his calves in Dad's pasture, and I am workingfor Dad. That will take care of it.'

He was so blooming cheerful as he loaded the truck, that I suspectedhis taking my glasses was no accident. Somehow it didn't even matter.Happiness oozed through me, and I knew it was going to be fun moving intoUncle Willie's house.

Winferd was right about the farm being the best place to live during adepression. Poor President Hoover! He stoutly resisted the Federal Governmentbeing any part of the dole. He maintained that that should be in thehands of the states. But in the cities, thousands of people were strugglingto stay alive, and finally, federal loans were made to the states tofeed the poor. The American Red Cross distributed wheat and flour throughoutthe nation. A flatbed truck stopped, and a man lugged one-hundredpounds of wheat to our door. It was not asked for, but delivered none-the-less,throughout town. Later, when loads of flour came in, we requestedthat they not leave any with us. Undoubltedly it was a life saver to folksin need. The 'dole' was set up to feed the people, but it was embarrassingto see many people line up to get their grapefruit, pineapple and cornedbeef, who were farm folks and far from starvation.

Winferd's work on the farm paid well in milk, eggs and other produce,but not in cash. Being penniless was normal, and trading was good. Whenthe dance orchestra played for produce, we paid our tickets with turnips,and danced to the tune of, 'We ain't got a barrel of money'. My worn outdress shoes were replaced with a pair of fifty-cent Keds, which gave quitea different look to my junior prom formal.

118I take my hat off to song writers, the melodious historians of ourcountry. They have faithfully captured important events and moods, settingthem to music. 'Side by Side' was a fun dance tune, and the words, as wesang along, had a substantial goodness. the following words are not exactlycorrect, but they convey the message:

Side by Side
(1927)

Oh we ain't got a barrel of money,
Maybe we're ragged and funny,
But we'll travel along,
Singin' a song,
Side by side.
Don't know what's comin' tomorrow,
Maybe it's trouble and sorrow;
But we'll travel the road,
Sharin' our load
Side by side.
Through all kinds of weather,
What if the skies should fall;
Just as long as we're together,
It doesn't matter at all.
When they've all had their quarrels and parted,
We'll be the same as we started;
Just travellin' along,
Singin' a song,
Side by side.

• 'Side by Side' (1927) as performed by Paul Whitman with the Rhythm Boys (including Bing Crosby)

Once, when the cows went down on their milk, we were without butterfor quite a while. Then, one cold winter day, Winferd found a broken crateof bakery bread along the highway. Gathering it up, he brought it home.Bakery bread was like cake to us.

Aunt Eunice Hardy said, 'If you'll trade me half of your bread, I'llpay you in butter.'

It was a deal! We enjoyed the luxury of buttered toast for quitesometime.

That winter, blackbirds came in clouds to feast on the scattered seedin the cane fields. Winferd and Walter Segler shot into a flock, bringingdown 150 of them. After they were gathered and cleaned, Winferd broughtme seventy blackbird breasts.

'Let's have blackbird pie for dinner.' he said.

After the meat was browned and arranged in a pan for the crust, Iturned sick at the thoughts of the seventy lives it took to make one pie!We at it because it would have been sinful not to, but the meat wasdark and tough, like eating crow.

'Please,' I begged, 'don't ever kill anymore blackbirds!'

He never did.

Walter Segler had planted a crop of carrots for the market, but wasnot able to sell so much as a bushel of them, so he invited us to helpourselves. They were big, crisp and sweet, and we ate them until we werealmost carrot color. During December, Winferd got one week's work on aroad job at Short Creek. His check came to $17.00. That was all of thecash we had for the rest of the winter.

119How dear the town of LaVerkin had become to me. Farm and ward activities accelerated, but Saturday afternoons were declared a half-holiday, and it was a time to lay down the shovel and the hoe and gather at the town square for fun and games. Also, the All-Church Music Festival was planned for June Conference in Salt Lake City. The Church was small enough then, that there was no restriction on the number of singers a ward could send. Throughout the early spring months, Winferd and I gathered with other young folks around the piano in Graff's living room, in the back of their little store, and LaVerna taught us the festival songs.

Before conference time, Winferd had bid to run the Sulphur Springs, and his bid was accepted. So on the first of June, we moved from Uncle Willie's home into the little house down in the canyon. After two weeks, we left the place in Donworth's care, while we went to the music festival.

Always I had longed to actually see Salt Lake City, and now here we were, breezing along in the sun on hard church benches with eighteen others in the back of Paul Wilson's yellow truck. The men wore hats, pulled tight against the wind. Some of the girls had straw hats, but others tied brown paper sacks, shaped like sunbonnets, on their heads. At Salt Lake, Winferd and I got a room in the Whitehall Hotel, where a home town girl, Ida Isom worked.

'This is our Honeymoon Hotel,' he grinned.

This was the first time I had ever stayed in a hotel, and the first time I had been to Salt Lake. 'And to think,' I marvelled, 'we actually came all the way in fifteen hours! What would Grandfather Crawford have thought of that?'

After an early morning practice in the Tabernacle with those who filled the choir seats and the balcony around it, Winferd took me window shopping. Sales signs loomed big in all of the windows. I'd never seen a sale before, and I was afraid I never would again. Goodness, how I wished I could splurge. Winferd bought me a fluttery, filmy blue chiffon dress for $1.66, and a pink suit for $3.47. Such elegant proof of his love. And for 10¢ each, we saw a movie, a 'divine musical' called 'Honeymoon Lane.'

The Saturday night music festival was broadcast over the radio, and as we sang under the inspirational baton of A. Noble Cain, we visualized all of the home folks glued to the radio, listening. We tingled to be a part of this beautiful music, with the hush and the swell of sweet, controlled voices. At home, the broadcast did not come through.

At the Sunday morning session of Conference, President Heber J. Grant promised us that we would never lack for necessities if we paid our honest tithes and offerings. This promise came with great impact. He also warned us against investing in dream mines. At this particular time, there was a rash of dream mines. President Grant also pleaded with us to keep our thoughts and speech clean. He had the entire congregation stand, and with raised right hands, pledge themselves to never tell an off-color story.

120Etched in my mind throughout the years, is the picture of myself, standing beside my eternal companion, and taking this pledge before the Prophet of the Lord. Whenever Winferd or I were tempted, in the years that followed, to repeat an off-color funny, we have remembered this pledge and remained silent. (Most of the time.) I repent of the times when an overheard witticism has escaped from my lips, to the surprise of my children. Something within me so loves a hearty laugh. I renew my pledge to President Grant to keep my remarks above question.

Back home from conference, my life in the river canyon really began. The Sulphur Springs was mostly owned by the people of LaVerkin. They had developed the springs, building a swimming pool and five private baths. Three of the baths were directly behind the pool, and two of them were built at the source of the springs. Water in the pool was cooled down for swimming, but a Niagara of hot water pounded into the steaming hot baths. Stockholders received privilege cards of one-hundred baths every spring. Some stockholders owned two or three cards. These free swims made it possible to do a lively business without taking in a dime. There was no such thing as a motel or municipal swimming pool at that time. The warm pool at Veyo, the 'boilers' at Washington, and the LaVerkin Hot Springs were the only swimming pools within hundreds of miles. Scout troops came from as far away as Provo to swim at LaVerkin in the wintertime.

Winferd never turned anyone away for lack of money. The mineral water ran in an open ditch about 175 yards from the springs to the pool. Once exposed to the air, the heavy mineral coagulated in ragged gobs along the bank, and unless the ditch was constantly swept, greenish black and yellow jelly-like masses floated like sea monsters into the pool. There was always a sweeping job for anyone who wanted to work for swims.

Winferd took pride in the place, dumping the pool and scrubbing it often. Dumping was done always after the last midnight swimmer had gone. Together, dressed in our swimming suits, we scrubbed the walls of the floor of the pool as the water receded, then whitewashed the interior and turned the water in. When the mineral scum, that had risen to the top like a sheet of ice, was broken and pushed over the spillway, the pool sparkled like a blue-green jewel, beautiful and hot.

Swimming didn't come naturally to me. Kate and Winferd were my tutors.

'Ok. Sit on the steps and let me show you,' Winferd said. 'Put your feet back like this for the kickoff. Lower your head and extend your arms like this. Inhale, then kick. You'll float to the other side.'

Time and again I posed as directed, but I couldn't make that final kick.

'You're a coward,' Kate said.

'Don't be a pantywaist,' Winferd said.

Words of encouragement, like fraidycat, sissie, boob, chicken, came in a torrent. Finally I became angry. I'd show them! I'd kick off across the pool and drown. With face down, I gave a furious kick and scooted through the water, bumping my head on the opposite side of the pool. Pulling my feet under me, I stood up in surprise. I didn't sink! I floated like they said I would.

121They applauded, cheered, and praised me as though I had floated across the Atlantic. From then on I could swim, but I never passed a life-saving test. Whenever I practiced rescuing Winferd, I dragged him, face under water, the full length of the pool. It's a good thing he had extra lung capacity.

By the time we reached the shallow water, he'd come up spluttering. 'Look dear, you just drowned me.'

Papa gave Annie and Mildred each a Holstein milk cow for a wedding present, and this, he planned on doing for each of the nine of us. Now that Winferd and I were back from school, he gave us our cow, and Winferd grazed it in with his dad's milk cows.

For a wedding gift, Winferd's dad gave us our choice of ground to build a home on. If we selected land that was already under cultivation below the canal, we could have one acre, but if we chose Donkey Hollow, he would give us enough ground to build a ranch. Winferd was taken up with the idea of a ranch.

A small spring of water went with Donkey Hollow. Winferd drew plans for a reservoir, with ducks, trout and water lilies. He drew the house plans, and the plans for the garden and orchards. Then he contacted the Dixie Power Company about getting electricity to the place, and the city about pipeline water. His beautiful plans suddenly appeared to be a millionaire's dream, so he settled for an acre of ground in town.

I ran the pool during the daytime and Winferd walked the ditch for the Power Company every morning, going up the canyon to the sand trap. This was applied against the debt I had incurred for appliances, and kept our light bills paid. Then he worked on the farm for his dad, or worked on our one acre, putting in gardens and an orchard. The first tree he planted was a pecan tree which Uncle Joe Gubler had budded for our wedding gift.

Winferd had a hearty appreciation for our garden, which yielded, lush and beautiful. When he brought the first ripe cantaloupes and tomatoes from the garden, I thoughtfully regarded him as he ate.

Finally I said, 'Winferd, I read an interesting article in a magazine about how to make your marriage work.'

'Did it describe us?'

'Not really. The article had some good pointers in it that might help us though.'

'Such as?'

'Well, for one thing, it says we should be as thoughtful about marriage as we are about business. For instance in business the employer periodically interviews the employee.'

'In a husband-wife situation then, naturally the wife would do the interviewing, right?'

'Silly. The article says that both of us do lots of little things that irritate each other, and we should talk it out and then it won't irritate us any more.'

122'Oh, I see. Seems like I read something like that in a book once. I believe it said there are many adjustments to be made in marriage, and that wives are the ones to do the adjusting. Wives are usually younger and smaller than husbands, and naturally more pliable. A husband can't change. He is big and burly and set up like hard clay by the time he gets married.'

'Now you're teasing. I'm serious. It stands to reason that I do hundreds of little things that annoy you, but I'm unaware of them. If you pointed them out to me, then I wouldn't do them anymore. On the other side of the coin, I should be able to sensibly call to your attention the things you do that bother me. It's a 'growing to love each other more' period. It sounds reasonable to me.' I paused to see if my comments aroused interest.

'I'm game,' he said. 'Go ahead and shoot. If you have grievances, now's the time to get them out and over with.'

'Are you sure you won't be hurt?' I hesitated.

'Positive,' he replied. 'Since it's your idea, you go first.'

My face was beginning to burn already. What if he should take me wrong! 'Maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all,' I said.

'I'm waiting. You don't mean to let this opportunity pass you by, do you?'

'Well—' I reluctantly started. 'I wish you wouldn't always hang your dirty shirts on the door-knob. Wouldn't it be just as easy for you to put it in the dirty clothes hamper in the first place?'

'It's habit, I guess. Subconsciously I enjoy having you wait on me. Go on.'

'Right now while we're talking, you're salting your cantaloupe. Just before that, you sugared your tomatoes. Isn't that a little inconsistent?'

'Merely a matter of preference.'

'Here's a pencil and paper. Each thing I mention undoubtedly gives you and idea of things you want to point out to me. I'll finish what I have in mind, then it will be your turn.'

He began taking notes while I talked. 'About your eating habits,' I continued, 'I guess it shouldn't bother me that you want your toast so brown it is burned, and your egg so raw that I have to look the other way while you eat it, but—.' On I went until I had finished my gripes.

Winferd's list was beginning to look pretty long, and I wondered how I ever had the nerve to start this in the first place.

After a pause, I said, 'I hope I haven't hurt you. Now I'll be quiet while you read your list.'

He regarded me silently. Nervously I arose and put the sugar bowl and salt shaker away. 'Go ahead, I'm listening,' I urged.

He arose, took me in his arms and said, 'I have been writing a list of all the things I adore about you. I wouldn't change a hair of your head.'

'Oh,' I exclaimed in humiliation. Never had I been so eloquently chastised. I buried my face against him, and he chuckled merrily.'1

123With a hand puncher, Winferd washed the swim suits and towels in a black tub over the fire, near the corner of the house. The wash water drained down the rocky slopes to the river. Our kitchen scraps were also tossed down the slope, as well as the bouquets of cut flowers, after they had faded. (We grew beautiful zinnias in our garden up town.) The wash water irrigated our garbage, and to our surprise, watermelons, potatoes and zinnias sprang up among the boulders. Some of the melons had to be cut before we could pick them, because they were wedged between black rocks. The potatoes were queer shaped also, but delicious. Our sloping, garbage garden was a real delight to us, and the squirrels and chipmunks share-cropped with us.

In the fall, Winferd gathered grapes and almonds on shares, and spread them on the roof of the house to dry. Often we heard the scampering of little feet of our thieving pets, on the roof. Because they were so cute, I had encouraged them by tossing out tidbits from the table. When I put out the scraps, the big gray squirrels bounded down the hill with a fluid motion, but the little chizzlers darted in from nowhere, performing fancy didoes, clowning the food right from under the gray squirrel's paws.

Early one morning in August, a cloudburst came before Winferd had returned from walking the ditch. A flood roared down the canyon, and the river rose higher and higher until it slapped against the bridge, some of the waves breaking over it. Flood water swelled to the level of the path-walk along the ditch, splashing over it and muddying the pool. The rumbling of boulders being swept along with the flood, and the sight of uprooted trees tossed about like match sticks, filled me with terror. To add to my fright, Will Hinton turned the Hurricane Canal down the hill, and the stream tumbled and churned into the rock-walled ditch at the edge of our house. Because the flood level was higher than the Hurricane Canal intake, Will had to open the headgate above us to keep the canal from breaking. I was trapped between the river and the canal stream. A lashing wind added to the fury of the storm, whipping spray from the waves through our bedroom window.

The only pacing place left for me was between the pool and the house. I paced and watched for Winferd's return, but he did not come. Sinister shapes floated by. A bobbing roll of denim could have been somebody, perhaps Winferd. I began to cry. I prayed and pleaded for his safety. The hours dragged into midday. Our telephone had gone dead. I became hysterical. I knew Winferd had been washed away by the flood.

Late in the afternoon, Wilford Thompson came on horseback and shouted above the sound of the canal stream. 'Alice, Winferd is all right. He said to tell you he has a crew of men forking trash off the tunnel screen, to keep the water going through the pipe. The flood is above the sand trap, so he can't turn the water out.'

When the flood damage was appraised, we learned that many of the upriver farms had been badly gutted. The people in Springdale and Rockville and Virgin lost corrals, cows, horses, pigs, farm tractors and other equipment. Big fish were washed up on the river bank, and people gathered them by the tubfuls.

124Relief Society swimming parties delighted me. Some of the women's suits were of an early vintage, flapping around their knees like skirts, and some wore queer long-legged gray ones. The women used to play 'back-out' by running in and out of the pool. Aunt Pearl Webb always managed to be on the end of the line. Everyone ran onto the diving board and plunged in, one at a time. Aunt Pearl froze on the end of the board. Shivering and clowning, she couldn't be coaxed in. When she started to retreat, someone ran toward her, dangling a mouse by the tail. Aunt Pearl screamed and dove, neat as a penguin.

Her screaming was worth going to a lot of effort to hear. Once Winferd even put a tiny red racer in a paper sack, and said, 'Here, Auntie, this is for you.' She reached in the sack, and her scream sustained Winferd for the rest of the day.

It's a wonder Winferd survived his many little surprises. One day he brought a red racer home in his lunch bucket. When I opened it to get his dirty dishes, the racer ran up the kitchen curtain. I almost knocked Winferd out with his lunch bucket. (Anyway, I would have, if I could have caught him.)

Once, when a mouse got in the house, Winferd grabbed the broom and took after it. 'Here, stand by the door, so it can't go into the living room,' he ordered.

He poked the broom behind the refrigerator, and the scared little mouse darted out, making a bee-line for me. With a screech, I jumped, landing on the hapless little creature. Shuddering, I covered my face, while Winferd slapped his thighs and roared with laughter.

While attending Dixie College, Winferd's brother Tell fell in love with Audrey Gregerson, and oh my, how Audrey fell in love with him. Winferd's philosophy had always been that when two people discovered they couldn't live without each other, then was the time to get married. This seemed to be the situation with Tell and Audrey.

Secret marriages were a contagion at this particular time. My sister Edith had secretly married Eugene Herman on the sixth of March.

Audrey was only sixteen, so Tell talked Winferd into taking them to Las Vegas to be married. Talking wasn't hard. This was a chance to take a trip with someone else paying for the gas. So on April 15, Audrey and Tell mere married in a bleak, barren, dusty room, by a Justice of the Peace in the Clark County Courthouse. This was my first glimpse of Las Vegas.

Tell's parents were unhappy about him getting married without consulting them, especially his mother. An interesting turn of events was, that on the twenty-third of November, Grandma Gubler was part of a conspiracy in another secret marriage. Winferd's sister, LaVell, had been dating Percy Wittwer of Hurricane. Percy was not yet of legal age, and painfully under his father's thumb. Even at the age of nineteen he had never been permitted to drive a car, and his parents didn't want him to date at all. They had plans for him. Percy was talented in music and had played the lead role in the school opera.

125Whenever Percy dated LaVell, he either had to walk to LaVerkin, or catch a ride with someone else. Often he had to hide, because his father came looking for him. Courting became so difficult that marriage seemed the only solution. Grandma Gubler played Cupid, making the arrangements in the Kanab Courthouse, in the forenoon of November 23. On the return trip home, the five of us stopped at Three Lakes, where Grandma spread a wedding dinner on the picnic table, of fried chicken, salad and fruit cake. We had no time to loiter, because Percy had to get home in time to catch the school bus. After a few days, the business of sneaking out at nights to see his wife grew tiresome, so Percy simply gave up and moved.

And then the boom fell! On us, that is. We had retired for the night when there came an angry shouting and pounding upon our door. Winferd arose, and Joseph Wittwer stormed in.

'I'm getting the sheriff after you for kidnapping my son,' he shouted. He was so enraged words tumbled in a torrent. We had committed a crime punishable by law in helping a minor to get married. Wittwers had planned a great future for Percy, and now we had blighted them. Their grief, sorrow, and fury would never be abated. On and on for an hour he raged. I felt so sorry for him. Sleep did not come for either of us that night.

Evidently Joseph had spent himself, because we never heard another word about going to jail. Grandpa Gubler felt left out, because he hadn't been included in the planning. But Grandma took a mischievous delight in out-smarting Joseph, who eventually recognized the marriage as a blessing.

The first cold snap of winter froze the exposed pipeline that carried our drinking water from Hurricane, so we had to haul our fresh water. Ruby and Roland, Winferd and I, celebrated our wedding anniversary together each year, and this year it was our turn to be hosts.

I set the table with our beautiful wedding dishes—the hand painted china from Mr. Graff, and the thin blown crystal goblets and fruit dishes from the B.A.C. Faculty. Although there were only four of us, we used mountains of dishes that couldn't be washed until we hauled more water.

'Forget the dishes,' Winferd said. 'I'll do them while you're in Sunday School in the morning.'

We had to take turns going to church. After Sunday School, I came home to find the kitchen slick and clean. Not a dish in sight.

'Yoo hoo, I'm home,' I shouted.

No answer. I walked to the swimming pool. There were no swimmers, and no Winferd. I went through the back to the hot baths, and there, above the tumble of the water, I heard the rattle of dishes. I opened the door and looked. Bustling about in his swimming trunks was Winferd, picking up broken bits of glass and china and piling them into the wash tub. I couldn't believe my eyes! He had conceived the idea of an automatic dishwasher, piling our lovely treasures into the tub. He aimed to hold it under the spillway, but hadn't reckoned with the force of the stream, which knocked the tub to the concrete floor. The crash broke everything but the knives and forks, and they were turned black by the sulphur water. Winferd looked humble down in the pit amongst the wreckage. Humiliated and upset, that is. Nothing I could say would change things. It really was a bit of a mess.

1. Story 'Adjustment' published in The Relief Society Magazine, May 1964.

126 With the New Year came the snow, which clung stubbornly to the shady slopes of the canyon, and capped the dugway to Hurricane with ice. One morning as we started up the dugway, an old fellow hailed us, so Winferd kindly stopped to pick him up. The grade was too steep and slick. Our car wheels spun, and we skidded into the barpit, stalling three other cars behind us. The drivers all got out to push and help each other, but the old fellow who was the cause of it all, hobbled out of our car and mumbled, 'I might as well be walking on.' Finally, when all of the cars got traction enough to crawl up the hill, the old man tried to hail a ride again, but no one stopped.

Winter concentrated itself in the canyon, but the snow melted in the sun-swept fields up town. Winferd plowed the garden and excavated a basement for our house. The excavating was done with a fresno (scraper) and a horse. Neighbors traded work for swim cards.

I stayed to tend the business, which was so slow I had time to explore every nook of the shadow-trapped canyon. On the shortest days, the first rays of the sun reached the house at 10:00 a.m. and were gone by 3:00 p.m. Five hours of sunshine was not enough. The pipe line remained frozen, so hauling water became routine.

When the ice finally melted, little green things pushed up through the wet sod and the sun at last traveled above the south rim of the hill. Still, we had no water. Surely no ice could remain in the pipes in such weather, I thought, so I followed along the pipeline to investigate. There, just barely on our side of the meter, was a stream oozing into the ground where the pipe had burst. We could have had water long before, if only we had checked.

When the marshal made his six-month's reading, he gave us a water bill for $110.00.

'But we haven't had a drop of water for three months,' I protested.

'That's too bad. The water was delivered to your meter. The bill has got to be paid.'

'Look,' I cried, 'if the town had buried their part of the pipe, we wouldn't have been frozen out.'

'Well, if you folks want to sit this out in jail, that's up to you,' he said.

Luckily for us, Hurricane changed marshals at this time. Wilson Imlay became the new marshall. He walked along the pipeline with, and then said, 'Would you pay $10 for water used?'

Would we! We were happy to. His kindness was greatly appreciated.

Grandmother Crawford passed away on April 13, at the age of eighty-two. I felt that she died of homesickness. Less than two years before, Zion National Park had extended its boundary line to encompass all of Oak Creek.127The house that Grandfather had built, as well as the homes of my uncles and cousins, were torn down. Although Grandfather had been gone for twenty years, Grandmother had kept his memory alive with touches of his personal belongings here and there about the sunny bright home he had built. How she loved and cherished every reminder of him, and now, she had been literally torn away from the one spot on earth that she held most dear. The little new house that was built for her in Springdale was never home to her. It seemed that it would have been a pitifully small thing for the Park Service to have let her remain in her home until her mortal life was through.

One day LaPriel tended the pool, while Winferd and I scouted the Pine Valley foothills in search of building sand.

'A herd of sheep has recently passed this way,' Winferd observed.

Just then, we heard a plaintive little cry, so we followed the sound up a wash. There alone, among the scrub oak, was silky white baby goat. Kneeling, I held my hand out coaxingly. I was wearing a white wool sweater, and the little kid quickly saw the resemblance between me and his mother. Dainty-footed he came, nuzzling and whimpering into my sweater.

'Oh, please Winferd, can I have him?' I coaxed.

'You're asking for trouble,' he protested.

'Please. We can't leave him here alone,' I begged.

The little goat's tail flitted back and forth, as his head bunted and begged.

'Oh, alright,' Winferd surrendered. 'You're both too much for me.'

Well! That little billy goat was the most sociable critter that ever lived at a public swimming pool. He adopted everyone and everything, cars included. No car was too slick or shiny for his prancing hooves. The number of vehicles we had to wash became mortifying.

'We've got to get rid of that goat,' Winferd complained.

We had lots of takers, but I couldn't part with him. Early one morning, Winferd announced with a grin, 'Billy won't bother us today.'

'What happened?' I asked suspiciously.

'He's in a good safe place.'

Leading me out the door, he pointed to a ledge above the swimming pool. There on a little shelf, the goat looked down at us, plaintively bleating.

'Oh, Winferd,' I exclaimed, 'we can't leave him there.'

'Why not? It's a good place for him,' he laughed.

'Please get him down,' I begged.

'It's a perfectly proper place for a goat,' he said. 'When he gets ready, he'll figure out how to get down, the same way he got up.'

128Surveying the situation, I could see that if the goat jumped he'd kill himself. While Winferd cleaned the dressing rooms, I climbed above the ledge and let myself down onto the shelf beside the goat. I had intended to get hold of him and boost him on top. Much to my distress, I found the shelf too narrow for me to stoop. I'd fall over the edge if I tried it. The goat was so tickled to have company that he wiggled against me, almost knocking us both off. Digging my fingers in the cracks of the rocks, I screamed for help.

Winferd came out of the building, and seeing our predicament, bounded up the hillside. Standing above the little cliff where we were trapped, he looked down at us. I was so scared I whimpered almost as pitifully as the goat.

'You're a fine pair,' Winferd panted.

After pulling me onto safe footing, he reached down and got the goat. His sense of humor was maddening. He chuckled all the way down the hill.

Homer and Joe Englestead came for a swim, and when Joe said, 'I'll give you a dime for that goat,' Winferd said, 'I'll take it.'

Tickled over the deal, Joe took the little fellow in her arms as she got in the car to leave. 'You precious little darling,' she cooed.

Homer started the moter and Joe said, 'Oh, oh,' raising the goat up from her lap. A steaming puddle glistened on her black satin skirt.

Laughing uproariously as Homer, Joe and the goat drove out of sight, Winferd said, 'What shall we do with the dime?'

In the evenings, Winferd drew house plans with as much zeal as if he had money toexecute them. Digging a hole for a basement was one thing, but building wasanother—especially without cash. But optimistically he planned. Our contractto run the pool would soon be up.

The dirt that came out of the basement was sticky, red gumbo, so Winferd conceived the idea of building forms for garage walls, and tamping in the clay. For reinforcement, he strung old barbed wire and scrap iron.

The original settlers in Hurricane and LaVerkin had lived in tents or graineries while they built their permanent homes. With the coming of the automobile, people built garages for their temporary homes. And so our garage sprouted, growing round upon round, as the hole for our basement increased. Window frames and door frames took shape, and finally a roof was shingled, cement floors were poured, and walls plastered. The total cash investment was $100, and we owned a home that was all paid for. True, it was a mud hut, with cracks in the outside walls that had dried too quickly, but all of this would eventually be covered with siding. The mud, like adobes, was excellent insulation, and the little house was cozy.

Whenever I could break away, I'd hike up town. Up on top, the fields were green, and the horizon stretched beyond the orchards to the mountains. I had grown weary of having my view hampered by canyon walls. Up on top, I felt like a bird out of its cage. I wanted to fluff my feathers, flick my wings and warble. Anxiously I counted the days until the first of June. And guess what! We were going to have a baby! Every day I chattered happily about moving and about plans for our baby.

129On the last afternoon in May, when we should have been packing, Winferd put his arm around me and said, 'We won't be moving tomorrow.'

'Why not?' I asked in alarm.

'I have signed a contract to run the place for another year.'

All the happiness I had felt drained from me. 'Oh no,' I sobbed, 'I can't stand this canyon for another year.'

'Look, darling,' he pleaded, 'now that there is a baby coming, we have no choice. I don't know any other way to make a dollar.'

After all, he was the provider, so I had to accept his decision.

He did his best to relieve me of 'canyon fever.' Donworth, LaPriel or Kate often tended the springs on a Sunday afternoon, so we could get out.

One afternoon, as we cruised above Duncan Flat, something across the river caught Winferd's eye. Slowing the car to a crawl, he pointed.

'Look over there, beyond that clump of cottonwoods.' Then he gasped, 'Look out!'

He had steered in the direction of his pointing, and we were slowly going over the bank. I sized up the pile of Russian thistle trapped below, and knew we would land in it, upside down.

But we didn't. Surprised, we hung as though on a sky hook. The rear of the car was in the air and we were leaning against the windshield. Gingerly, Winferd rolled the glass down and peered out.

'We're caught on the end of a culvert,' he announced.

Carefully he crawled out, then after rescuing me, we scrambled up the bank to the road.

'Wait here,' he said, 'while I go for help.'

As I sat on a rock, I mused. We were unharmed. We could have been pinned beneath an upturned car, but we weren't. We weren't even scratched. I thought of the important little person who would soon join our family. It was all quite clear. That little life was not to be snuffed out before it had begun. For our car to come down at exactly the right angle to become firmly balanced on that culvert was no thing of chance. We had been protected.

Winferd hiked to Evan Lee's farm. Oddly enough, drillers from the Virgin Oil Fields were there with a crane. Greasy, black and cheerful, they came to our rescue. With a hook and chain, they hoisted our car onto the road. Total damage: two smashed milk bottles in the back seat.

When Franklin D. Roosevelt was sworn in as President of the United States in March ofr 1933, estimates of the number of unemployed ran as high as 18,000,000. He made his inaugural address to a badly frightened nation. 'All we have to fear, is fear itself,' he said.

He had been working on reform measures since he accepted the nomination in 1932, and he immediately called Congress into an extra session, known as 'The Hundred Days,' although it was actually only ninety-nine130days. Every important measure the President asked for was passed, usually by an overwhelming majority. Franklin D. Roosevelt knew exactly what he wanted and moved swiftly to get it. These measures became known as 'The New Deal.'

President Roosevelt was a Democrat, and we were Republicans, and there was a definite difference between the two parties in those days. The President had the brilliant idea that we could spend our way to prosperity by getting money into circulation.recklessly, it seemed to me. Even his philosophy about fear scared me. But he seemed to thrill and excite our nation. Certainly he got things going. As always, song writers reflected the spirit of the times. Snatches of two songs, that came daily over the radio, still come to my mind:

Happy days are here again, the skies above are clear again,
Let us sing a song of cheer again, happy days are here again.
All together shout it now, there's no one who can doubt it now,
Let us tell the world about it now. Happy days are here again.

And—

There's a new day in view,
There is gold in the blue,
There is hope in the hearts of men.
All the world's on the way
To a sunnier day,
'Cause the road is open again.

Oh, I'll tell you, to the optimistic, President Roosevelt held a magic wand that would banish all of the ills of the depression. Fearful Republicans could see the beginning of national debts.

One of the first measures that struck close to home, was the setting up of the Civilian Conservation Corps. The radio continuously broadcasted the need for young men to save our natural resources, plant trees, build dams and bridges and fight fires. Thousands of men from coast to coast signed up, and CCC Camps were built, one in LaVerkin, one in Leeds, one in Washington, and one in Zion Canyon, and boys and men in khaki green swarmed the country side. They built picnic tables and made recreation areas such as Oak Grove, and the Pine Valley Campground. Through the CCC's, President Roosevelt was responsible for many romances and quick marriages. Many of our local girls married CCC boys. (In fact, my dear children, that is how you got your Uncle Luther Fuller. He was supervisor over the construction of the LaVerkin CCC Camp.) Missionary work was done on a large scale, and some of our strongest church members were converts from President Roosevelt's 'Happy Days Are Here Again' program.

Winferd and Kate, scheming together, planned vacation for Mama and me. Mama needed rest, and I needed to get out of the canyon. Winferd took us to the Pine Vally Campground, which was under construction, pitched our tent and set up our supplies. Kate was to run things at home in Mama's stead. Poor Papa. How he suffered. For thirty-two years Mama had never been out of his sight. This vacation, not planned by him, was total agony to him. After Winferd had made our camp cozy, he returned home.

The first night, after Mama and I had snuggled into bed, we heard something rattling about among our things. Startled, I started to rare up, but Mama pulled me back.

'It's a skunk,' she whispered.

131During the day, the woods swarmed with CCC boys. Often we had to take cover when they dynamited. Tiny clods and pebbles sprayed down through the trees onto our tent.

Daily, Mama and I hiked seven miles, round trip, to the Pine Valley post office. Usually we were rewarded with letters from home. Papa was so homesick for Mama it was pitiful. At the end of the first week, Winferd brought him to see her. A week later, when it was time to break camp, he brought Wayne and Papa too. They spent the day fishing. Winferd didn't catch a thing, but Wayne caught one fish on his water-willow pole and string. Wayne was so sunburned, his ears were peeling and his red face made his white hair look even whiter. The excitement of catching the only fish in camp stretched his grin across a face that still hadn't grown up to match his two big front teeth.

This vacation was a choice experience.the only time in my life when I had my mother all to myself. But we were both glad to return home.

The LaVerkin Ward boomed with the coming of the CCCs. I first met Luther Fuller when he came to the Springs to get me to type the parts of a three act play. Luther was the Drama Director for the MIA, and we had never had it so good. His performances were some of the most outstanding our area had ever seen. He built all new scenery for the stage, and with his efforts, our church house suddenly spruced up. He was a real blessing to the ward. (He married Winferd's sister Rosalba, 5 July 1934.)

It was during 1933 that all of the banks in the nation were closed for four days. Panic-stricken people had made a run on the banks, withdrawing their money, so President Roosevelt ordered that all banks be closed until they could prove they were on solid footing. Zion's Bank, our one and only stood the test.

Our radio was our most treasured luxury. Grandpa Gubler had won it at a Christmas Eve drawing, two years before, at Graff's store. Grandpa already had a big cabinet radio, so Winferd swapped his phonograph for this table model. We listened regularly to 'Amos and Andy,' 'Lum and Abner,' 'Fibber McGee and Molly,' 'George Burns and Gracie Allen,' and to 'One Man's Family.' And we sang along with familiar songs. One of them in particular seemed written for me. Part of the words were, 'She may be weary, women do get weary, wearing the same shabby dress, and when she's weary, try a little tenderness. I know she's waiting, just anticipating, things she may never possess, and while she's waiting, try a little tenderness.'

I used to sing this, almost with a lump in my throat. I wasn't used to beingpregnant. I had just two maternity dresses, and was awfully tired of them both.

Our baby was to be born in January, so at Christmas time I felt quite unglamorous. When I opened my gift from Winferd, it was a glazed cotton dress of blue and white, with a white lace trimmed dickey.

'To wear after the baby comes,' he smiled.

132I tried it on. It fit. It fit me now, on Christmas Day!

Oh, how weary I had been 'wearing that same shabby dress.'

'I'm sorry darling,' Winferd said. 'I got the dress much too big for you to wear after the baby comes.'

I hugged and hugged him. Such happiness was mine to wear a new dress on Christmas Day. 'You made a wonderful mistake,' I assured him.

Online Publication Notes

Online notes provided courtesy of Andrew Gifford, 11 Jul. 2011.

1. 'Happy Days Are Here Again' was first recorded in 1929 as a song for the film Chasing Rainbows in which bootleggers celebrate the upcoming repeal of Prohibition. It was later used by F.D.R.'s campaign, and has since been associated with his 'New Deal' politics. See Wikipedia: Happy Days Are Here Again or hear the original song on YouTube
2. The Road is Open Again (1933) was a short film put out for the National Recovery Administration (NRA) by Warner Brothers. The song, with the same name, was written by Irving Kahal (lyrics) and Sammy Fain (music), and is sung by Dick Powell as the credits play at the beginning. Watch a short film which included the song at the beginning - FDR Presidential Library Internet Archive
3. Wikipedia: Amos 'n' Andy or listen to a radio episode of Amos 'n Andy on YouTube
4. Wikipedia: Lum and Abner or listen to a radio episode of Lum and Abner on YouTube
5. Wikipedia: Fibber McGee and Molly or listen to a radio episode of Fibber McGee and Molley on YouTube
6. Wikipedia: Burns and Allen or listen to a radio episode of George Burns and Gracie Allen on YouTube
7. Wikipedia: One Man's Family or listen to a radio episode of One Man's Family on the Bay Area Radio Museum

8. Try a Little Tenderness
   (1932)

   She may be weary,
   Women do get weary
   Wearing the same shabby dress
   And when she's weary,
   Try a little tenderness.
   You know she's waiting,
   Just anticipating
   Things she may never possess.
   While she's without them,
   Try a little tenderness.
   I'ts not just sentimental,
   She has her grief and care,
   And a word that's soft and gentle,
   Makes it easier to bear.
   You won't regret it,
   Women don't forget it,
   Love is their whole happiness.
   It's all so easy
   Try a little tenderness.
   

132'Winferd,' I called, shaking him out of a deep sleep. 'Wake up.You'd better get McIntire quick.'

Something had jolted me wide awake, just after midnight on the eleventhof January. Winferd jumped out of bed, ran to the kitchen and vigorouslycranked the power company phone. At the power plant, LaVina Brooksanswered.

'Sister Brooks, get the doctor quick. Our baby is coming.'

Shivering, I huddled in a blanket on our homemade couch, while Winferdbuilt a fire.

When Dr. McIntire arrived, he asked, 'Is the baby to be born on thecouch?'

'No. We're going to move the bed in here,' Winferd replied.

'Well, somebody better move fast.'

The doctor and Winferd lugged bedding, mattress and our homemade wooden bed into the front room by the fire. By the time the top sheetwas on, our baby had arrived. Sweat poured down Winferd's pale face, buthe was grinning.

'Go get your nurse,' McIntire instructed. 'I'll wait until youget back.'

So Winferd awoke Mira Lemmon in the night, and stood over her whileshe gave the baby an oil bath, and swirled soft curls in her sikly blackhair. Sister Lemmon wrapped her in a soft pink blanket and laid her inmy arms. Our darling little daughter!

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Winferd gazed tenderly at her. 'Youknow,' he said, 'I've always thought a baby wasn't worth looking at untilit was at least six weeks old. But our baby doesn't look at all likea mud fence. She's beautiful!'

Every morning for two weeks, Winferd went in the car after SisterLemmon, who bathed the baby and me. My cousin, Hazel Spendlove, was thehired girl who did all of the housework. If I even so much as leaned upon my elbow, someone would say, 'Lie down! If you don't lie still, you'llbe sorry.'

133Old ladies frightened me with tales of invalid mothers who eitherdied early, or suffered a lifetime of misery because of their foolishnessduring the critical two weeks after childbirth. I lay still andsuffered. On the fifteenth day I was permitted to sit up a little. Myhead spun. On the sixteenth day I tried to stand. My feet tingled whenthey touched the floor. When I tried to walk across the room, I staggered.Hazel left at the end of six weeks, and I almost cried in the dish pan.

Marilyn was fed every four hours, and even if she cried her littleeyes out, we didn't futch one minute. She was never picked up when shecried. The Government Bulletin said babies learned to get attention bycrying. So she was changed, or picked up only when she was good. Shewasn't neglected. She never stayed wet a minute. I washed two dozendiapers every day. But the thing Marilyn protested most was being put tobed after her six o'clock feeding in the evening. She wanted to play.The book said to put her down and leave the room, so I did, and she crieduntil eight every night.

A germ wouldn't have dared get near her. I wouldn't even take her toSacrament meeting to be blessed, for fear someone would breathe on her.She was blessed at home.

The baby kept me so preoccupied that I had no time to think aboutleaving the canyon. But another June was approaching, and with it, theend of our contract. The little mud house in LaVerkin was looking morehomey each day, for now it was plumbed, and the kitchen cabinets installed.

As we anticipated moving, I realized that life at the springs hadbeen an adventure. There had been sweet times, like family gatherings atbaptisms, and funny times, when we were awakened to the laughing andsplashing of swimming parties that came in the night.

We had a system for checking up on spontaneous parties. The lightswitch to the pool was just inside our kitchen door. One of us, usuallyWinferd, went to the pool, then the other one flipped the switch, floodingthe building with lights.

One night, when the plunging and splashing awoke us, I went ahead,and Winferd turned on the lights. Moonlight, streaming through thedoorway, revealed a group playing back-out in and out of the water. Asthe lights came on, four nudes came racing on the wet cement toward me.Seeing me, three men dove into the water, but the man on lead skidded,landing on his back, with his feet almost touching mine.

Bewildered, he grinned and said, 'Hello.'

Winferd had arrived by that time, and I retreated.

'We didn't want to disturb you,' one of the men said. 'We left themoney for our swims on the little shelf by your office door.'

And they had. They were business men from Cedar, returning homefrom a convention in Las Vegas.

The next time squealing and splashing awoke us, Winferd went first,and I turned on the lights. Pink bodies, screaching and running, disappearedout the back door. Clothes hung on pegs in the dressing rooms,but no one returned for them until the afternoon of the following day.

134Chagrined boys and girls had climbed barefoot and naked, up to the canal,through boulders and brush, and waded home. Some of them lived on theopposite side of Hurricane.

On Easter weekends, there were more people in the pool than water.This was the busiest time of the year—the one time when the money rolledin. Pleasant memories lingered as I recalled the Sunday School classes,Scout Troops, and family gatherings at the pool. I thought of Will andMaria Simpkins, the people we lived with the first year I went to college.

Sister Simkins came to bathe for her arthritis. Will also needed tosoak his black and blue face. When asked what happened to him, Willreplied, 'Maria hit me.'

'Honest Will, did she do that?' someone asked.

Sister Simkins' hands were so crippled with arthritis she couldn'thave hit anyone. What really happened was that when Will started tohobble his milk cow, she kicked him before he was through, and the loosehobble struck his face.

Their granddaughter Glennis stayed at the springs for two weeks withthem. Every afternoon, she and I went in the pool, where I tried to eachher to swim. She was such a skinny little kid that she never even learnedto float, but trying to teach her was fun.

For the past two years I had been swimming daily, except for the timewhen Marilyn came. Now I wondered—was I hooked on swimming? Could Istand not to swim? Each time I went to town to look at our little house,and to breathe the smell of fresh plaster and new pine lumber, I had noquestion where my heart was.

Johnny Larson took over the springs on the first day of June and wemoved into our home.

Aside from the stove, refrigerator and radio, the furniture in ourhome was made by Winferd. The couch was made from old barn boards andcar spring seats, firmly padded, and covered with an Indian blanket. Hemade the Early American cabinet for our books and radio, and he madethe table and our bed. Kate painted a wood scene with squirrels and alittle boy, on unbleached muslin curtains, that served as a closet doorbeneath the high fruit shelves. Our new little home was as cleverly andcompactly arranged as a sheep wagon, and we loved it.

President Roosevelt had some kind of surplus buying program going,and the government bought our little range cow that Grandpa Gubler hadgiven us, for $14.00. With the money, we bought a crib for Marilyn—ourfirst real purchase since moving to LaVerkin.

My first ward job was to teach Trail Builder boys in Primary. Itaught the Blazers, Helen Glendenning the Trekkers, and Aunt Harriet Woodburythe Guides. We planned all of our activites together—kite tournaments,cook-outs, and home coming programs. Day after day, our boysmolded clay animals and little farmers from the smooth, sub-soil fromour basement. When the little models were cured and dried, they paintedthem with poster paints and shellacked them. Aunt Harriet designed afarm yard, buildings and all, making tile roofs from corrugated pasteboard.The Home Coming display was cute and clever. Aunt Hattie andHelen were two of the most tireless and devoted Gospel Teachers that haveever touched my life.

135Whatever Winferd did, he did it big. Mama once said, 'He even has abusy way of stirring molasses candy.' His whole body bustled to the rhythmof his whistling while he stirred. He had a busy, important air abouteverything he did. Nothing was ordinary. Not even an accident. Like thetime Marilyn climbed up in her baby buggy, pulling the glass mixing bowl ofcream down over hear head. She gasped and blubbered while thick creamrolled down her nightie, onto her blankets and dribbled to the floor.

'Wow!' Winferd exclaimed. Like a streak, he was outside filling theblack tub and building a roaring fire under it. By the time he announcedthere was plenty of hot water, Marilyn had already been bathed, the creamwas mopped up and everything was under control.

Winferd's enthusiasm reflected in his work. He had a whistling goodtime making Marilyn's cute play pen. But he worked ten hours a day, sixdays a week for Emil Graff, so it seemed necessary that I do a littlecreating of my own.

I had rooted a dozen cuttings from Mama's pretty geraniums, but I hadno window sill. My calculating eye appraised the sunny, south windowsof the garage doors. An ideal spot, of only there were shelves. Winferd'ssisters were competent carpenters, but not I. I couldn't saw a boardstraight, or drive a nail all the way in without embedding the head insidewise. I have always been a bailing wire, adhesive tape type of carpenter.Adhesive tape would never fasten a shelf to a door, let alone holdpotted plants.

With spike nails and bailing wire, I hung loops on the doors, and slidslats from orange crates through them. When Winferd came home, I had a rowof geraniums potted in the tomato cans lined up on my shelves.

'What's that?' he pointed in dismay.

'Plant shelves,' I replied.

'They look like donkey shelves to me.'

'I've never heard of a donkey shelf,' I said.

'Neither have I,' he grinned. 'Here, move your plants and I'll helpyou.'

With solid iron brackets and smooth white pine, he built two beautifulshelves.

I discovered a secret that day. If Winferd was too busy to do a jobfor me, I could do it myself. If it happened to be carpenter work, itusually turned out to be a donkey job. With loving compassion for my awkwardness,he always took over.

One Saturday morning, a regional MIA convention was being held in St.George. Since Winferd was the WMMIA Superintendent, he was supposed to be there.

136Whe I got up, I felt terrible. We were going to have another baby,and Dr. McIntire had kept me in bed for a few days because I was threatenedwith a miscarriage. But now, I was supposed to be up and around.

'Winferd, I'm scared,' I said as a sharp pain stabbed me. 'Please don'tleave me.'

With a look of concern he said, 'I have to go. I am furnishing transportationfor the others.'

'But I need you here,' I pleaded.

With a hug and a kiss he said, 'Darling, you're going to be just fine.Now I have to be about the Lord's errand.' And he left.

Holding my middle, I groaned as a hard cramp grabbed me. Tears of selfpity coursed down my cheeks. Curling up on the bed, I wept. Wasn't thatjust like a man! To think things would be fine just because he said so!What if the worst happened? What if I died? One thing for sure, therewould be no use dying just before MIA, because he'd have to tend to thatfirst. He always maintained that the Lord blessed you for doing as youwere told.

Marilyn played happily with her spool doll in her playpen, but it wastime now for her orange juice, so I arose. Then I realized my pains weregone. I felt great! With a spurt of energy, I shined the house and didmy baking.

When Winferd returned that evening, he touseled my hair. 'I knew youwould be fine,' he said.

'But how did you know?' I asked.

'Because I asked the Lord to please take care of you, and I receivedthe assurance that he would.'

Always his faith was justified.

136In the dark morning hours on the 29th of February, we were up andbustling. This time, the bed was already set up in our front room.

'Doc, can't we wait until tomorrow to have this baby?' I asked.

'Great Scott, why?' he asked.

'Because it's Leap-Year Day. The poor little kid will only get abirthday once every four years.'

'That's too bad, but this baby isn't going to wait,' he answered.

So scrawny little Murry Norman came, all six pounds of him. Afterthe doctor and the nurse had gone, Winferd kissed me and said, 'Now wehave a son.'

'Look, he isn't breathing,' I cried.

Norman's face had turned purple. Winferd grabbed the limp little137fellow, shaking him until he began to breathe. White-faced, Winferd satholding his little son. Again the baby's face turned dark, and Winferdworked frantically to get him breathing once more. Goodness! Didn't ourlittle boy want to stay with us?

LaPriel was our hired girl. One thing the Government Bulletin hadleft out was the fact that a child should learn to feed himself. I hadnever let Marilyn hold her own spoon because she would make a mess. Andnow, I lay in our combined bedroom, kitchen, dining room, etc., and watchedin distress as LaPriel put Marilyn in her high chair and handed her a dishof food and a spoon. I wanted to cry out, 'Feed her,' but suddenly I wasashamed of my own default—ashamed to admit that although Marilyn wasmore than two years old, she didn't know what to do with a spoon. LaPrielseemed unaware that she scraped all of Marilyn's frood out for the firstfew meals. But that was all. Instinct took over. LIke a little pig,Marilyn finally dug in.

Winferd killed a chicken before he went to work one morning, leavingit for LaPriel to clean. The chickens were Marilyn's playmates that sheshared her cracker crumbs with. Her eyes grew big at the sight of theliveless one, and when LaPriel started to scaled it over a tub, Marilynscreamed, 'Don't. No, no, don't hurt chickie!'

A look of horror came over LaPriel's face. 'Alice, I can't stand it.'

'Come here, Marilyn,' I coaxed.

Reluctantly she came. LaPriel finished scalding the chicken, andstarted to pluck it.

Breaking away from me, Marilyn screamed, 'No, no. Don't take offchickie's clothes.'

LaPriel almost wept as she finished the task, and Marilyn sobbedbroken-heartedly.

Grandma Gubler was the nurse that came daily for two weeks, bringingwith her special treats.

Marilyn took over the baby in every possible way. One morning, whenhe lay on a blanket on the table ready for his bath, she climbed up on achair to watch. 'Nice baby,' she cooed, kissing him on his bare tummy.'Nice baby brudder,' kiss, kiss.

'Wah, wah, wah,' Norman howled.

Whirling from the sink, I grabbed Marilyn, scooting her down. Tell-taleteeth marks showed red on Norman's soft, pink tummy. Marilyn hadloved too deeply.

Another time, when Norman fussed in his basket, Marilyn said, 'Brudderwants dinner.' And then a choking sound came from the basket. I ran.She had dropped half of a shelled walnut into his mouth.

The excavation in your yard yawned wide, waiting to become a basement.The wind, the sun and the rain took over. Sucker shoots from the Lombardypoplars along the fence sprouted in the clay walls, and were fast becominglong, leafy saplings. Wind borne seeds came to rest in the subsoil,and weeds grew. In the center of the hole, a tamarack grew, a beautifullacy thing, waving pink plumes.

138'Wow isn't that nice,' I exclaimed. 'We have a flower garden already.'

Winferd's brow crinkled. 'But I didn't plan this for a sunken garden.'

'Sunken garden!' My mind leaped at the words. 'Why not? Winferd, wecould have fun and really enjoy our basement until we get money enough tobuild.'

With a pained look he said, 'That tamarack is growing in the halloutside the bathroom.'

'That's all right. We won't be moving in for a few days.'

I stood transfixed as the tamarack danced in the breeze. 'Boy, ohboy, I can see it all now. Come here!'

Grabbing his hand, I led him into the house. We sat tat the table whileI sketched a design for a formal garden.

'Might as well,' he conceded.

With tape, hemp string and pegs, we laid out the design on our 'basementfloor'. He wheelbarrowed a thin layer of barnyard litter and sandon the little plots.

'Now it's up to you,' he said. 'Have fun.'

With the tamarack as the focal point, we began with a diamond-shapedpatch of lawn. Next came an alyssium border, then a cinder pathwalk.Bordering the outside of the path were nasturtiums, followed by purplepetunias. In each corner of the basement was a triangle of zinnias. Thegarden grew as pretty as planned. Standing on the bank looking down atthe flamboyant flower faces was satisfaction. If we'd had money to build,we'd never have known the fun of a sunken garden. Poverty is sometimeselegant.

When Marilyn begged to sleep on the camp cot outside, Winferd said,'Why not?'

Shocked, I said, 'A little two-and-one-half year old kid sleeping outside alone?'

'What difference does being little make?'

'She'll get scared in the night.'

'There's not a thing out there to hurt her.'

So Marilyn slept alone under the pecan tree. She loved outdoors andeverything that lived there.

And the chickens loved her. The wire hook that fastened the pen gatewas within her reach, and she couldn't resist the fun of the feathered excitementas the flock squawked past her into the garden. The paddling shegot seemed worth the pleasure of doing it again and again. And then eggproduction dropped, in spite of the daily cackling chorus. One afternoonI heard Marilyn giggling above the clucking of the chickens. I found hersitting on the ground in front of the woodpile, the entire flock of fathens gathering around her. On her lap was a pan of eggs. One by one shewas breaking them onto a shingle, where the greedy chickens guzzled them.

'Stop it, Marilyn' I shouted.

139'But the chickies like eggs,' she replied.

Shooing the flock away, I grabbed the pan from her and turned her overand paddled. but always, the fluttering, cackling and clucking of thechickens pressing against the mesh wire at sight of her was too much. Sheslipped into the run to drop an occasional egg for them to devour. The wirehook on the gate had to be replaced with a strap buckled through the fence.

The milk cow received the same loving attention from her that thechickens did. Often, when the cow was lying down, Marilyn crawled throughthe corral fence and climbed onto her back, laying her face against thecow's hairy hide. Oblivious to her, the cow continued to chew her cud.

Grandma Gubler had a skitterish nag that jumped whenever a car wentdown the street. When she was fastened to the plow, she often jumped sidewise,almost tangling Winferd in the reins. She was dangerous.

One morning when Marilyn had disappeared, I spied her in the fieldnext to the house, her arms lovingly wrapped around the nervous nag's hindleg, her face pressed against its flank. Winferd caught sight of her, too.As he reached my side, he put a finger to his lips, indicating that we mustnot make a sound. Silently we watched and prayed. Marilyn loved and pattedthe horse to her heart's content, and it never flinched a muscle untilafter she walked away and crawled through the fence to safety.

But the animals weren't always so considerate. One Sunday morningwhen I had dressed Marilyn in a new yellow dress and bonnet, she felt sogrand that she walked to where the cow was staked in the grass. Spreadingout her skirt, she said, 'Hi cow. See pretty dress!'

The cow lowered its head, and with a snort and a bunt, landed Marilynin a steaming fresh pile of manure. She cried like her heart would break.To try to describe my feelings would be futile!

In June, the County Agent, Anson call, took a bus load of beet seedgrowers on a tour through Arizona and Southern California, to study methodsof harvesting and raising beets. The Beet Seed Industry had been growing inWashington County since 1932. Since Winferd cultivated and tended GrandpaGubler's beet seed crop, he was asked to take the tour. It was an opportunityfor a real vacation for him. He enjoyed the change of pace, and thechance to be with 'the boys'.

A smorgasbord was spread before them at each stop. Once, when RolandWebb noticed a bowl of what looked like mashed turniips, he exclaimed, 'Ohboy, I love buttered turnips,' and proceeded to heap his plate. When tearsstreamed down his face over the first spoon full, someone exclaimed,'Horseradish,' and everyone laughed.

In September, Winferd went to Salt Lake as a delegate to the RepublicanConvention. While there he enjoyed a reunion with some of his missionarycompanions, Allen Wood, Del Fairbourne, and Royden Mccullough, and attended aGrocer's Convention, where they forecasted a future day when shoppers couldactually buy pre-cooked food. Also they forecasted a time when dish washingwould be done away with. He ate off a plate that was consumed with hisfood.

140We attended a pageant at the St. George Temple, a dramatizeation of theprogress of Utah's Dixie. Two thousand spectators viewed it from thesoutheast lawn. One of the most thrilling moments was when Dilworth Snow wasspotlighted near the top of the temple, singing, 'This is the Place, DearUtah'. Earl Bleak accompanied him on the trumpet. Mary McGregor, a feastfor the eyes in her Indian costume, sang in a clear, beautiful voice,'Indian Love Call'.

When the chill of the nights and the gold of October days reddened andripened the heavy bunches of cane seed, and turned the blades on the stocksto rattling, rasping swords, then came Molasses Making time in LaVerkin.An unwritten law, which every Molasses Maker's wife understood, was thesingleness of purpose in their household—Molasses Making. The cane wascut and topped, then hauled on horse-drawn sleds to the mill, where thegreen, frothy juice was squeezed out between heavy steel rollers. usuallythere was one man on the boiler and two on the sleds. The wives of theMolasses Makers waited on their men until the session was over.

When I came into the Gubler Clan, I married a Molasses Maker. Most ofthe time, Grandpa 'boiled' and Winferd and his brothers 'hauled and squeezed'.Horses hitched to a sweep marched in a circle all day long, turning the mill.Grandma or the girls toted the men's dinners to them in large pails, becauseneither the boiler nor the mill could be interrupted. The men ate onthe job. Even though the cane grew just across the street from the house,dinner was still carried to the field. As the boys married, their wives continuedto tote their pails, perpetuating the old custom. Usually, makingmolasses was a race against oncoming frost. The race lasted from three tosix weeks and everyone put in double time.

The dinners were not lunches, but full-course meals of hot, mashedpotatoes, gravy, meat, salads, and pies, the same as would have been servedat the table, using just as many dishes. This required a huge milk bucketfor each man. The bucket was cumbersome and heavy to lug.

So now we found ourselves living just over the fence from the canefield. Dutifully, I neglected my house and babies to prepare the bigbucket of hot dishes for my man. Anxiety trailed me across the field, becausei never knew what the 'old baby' might do to the 'new baby' while Ilugged my hot and awkward load across the rough furrows and stubble of thecane field. Often I met Winferd in the field and he sat on the sled andate, while I waited to carry back the dishes.

Butterflies And Hurricanes Piano Sheet Music

Rebellion arose within me. 'Why should I knock myself out draggingthis weary load into the field,' I asked myself, 'when he drives right bythe house? After all, it is easier for him to come into the house andcarry his food out in his stomach, than it is for me to fuss and arrangeall of those cumbersome bowls.'

'Look dear,' I said, 'from now on, you just hop over that fence andcome and sit down to the table. All the world knows a man has to take timeout to eat. You're not more than one block away from your own table any ofthe time during Molasses Making. If it isn't worth your time to come inand eat, it isn't worth my time to take the food to you.'

That was it. Winferd came home to eat. The idea caught on. Otherstook a turn at the boiler, and even Grandpa learned to go home to dinner.

141Betsy-Wetsy, Marilyn's doll, joined the family Christmas day. What a mess she turned out to be. She left puddles on every chair, but we endured. Then one day, Betsy demanded more than water. When I went to feed the chickens, I overheard Marilyn's voice coming from the corral.

'Stand still cow. Come on cow, stand still. Betsy wants some milk.'

Peering through the board fence, I saw Marilyn snuggled underneath the cow, squeezing a teat with one tiny hand and holding Betsy's bottle with the other. Obligingly, the cow let down a trickle that filled the bottle.

When the little rock school house, erected in 1906, settled and cracked, Ed Gubler and I were selected as committe members to go before the County School Board to appeal for a new building. Our pleas were unheeded. The board members informed us that the day of the one room school house was over. (Our building had two rooms, since the lean-to had been added.) We were informed that it was too costly to maintain a little school. Consolidation was the tide that was sweeping the school system from coast to coast. Bus drivers and school busses were more economical than heating and lighting, and employing teachers for little schools. A little school could not be equipped like a consolidated school could. Children in large schools had more educational advantages.

We told of the love of the townspeople for our little school, of the outstanding programs preparted for all special occasions, of the you of having children educated near enough to walk home for dinner, of how our little school was the heart of the community, of how our town would become lifeless without it.

The response was no, no no. LaVerkin could not have a new schoolhouse. So funds were allocated to erect a new Hurricane High School building, which had its grand opening on November 6, 1936. The old building became the Elementary, where eventually the LaVerkin children were to be transported. People grieved. Helen Bradshaw and Bryon taylor were the last ones to teach school in LaVerkin. I substituted two days for Bryon, and the old fever I had once felt for becoming a school teacher momentarily flared again.

After the eight grades gave their final program in the spring of 1937, the little rock schoolhouse was closed. Loren Squire was given the material in the building if he would tear it down and clean up the property. No more would the walls echo the sound of children's voices singing, 'Good morning to you, we're all in our places, with bright smiling faces.'

Winferd and his brothers and sisters had all attended the elementary grades in the little rock schoolhouse, but our children would never have the privilege of going to grade school in their own home town. When the yellow busses stopped in September to pick up the kindergarten children, it seemed like harsh cradle snatching.

142Heavy road equipment carved a highway through LaVerkin fields and orchards, and Hurricane's dream of being on a throughfare was finally to be realized. Up to now, Hurricane had almost been a dead-end street. Although there was an unimproved road between Hurricane and St. George, the main travel went by way of Toquerville and Anderson's Ranch, then down around by Leeds to St. George. There was virtually no travel through the 'cutoff.'

Road construction began in 1936. Simultaneously, cement was being poured for a new Zion Park Stake and North Ward Chapel, the sugar beet industry was building a new plant in St. George, and the 1.06 mile long Zion Tunnel that had been open to traffic for six years, was being reinforced with cement. In this case, beauty was sacrificed for safety.

On October 15, Hurricane and LaVerkin celebrated the dedication of the largest, one-span bridge in the State of Utah, the bridge that spans the Virgin River between the two towns. Not only was this the state's largest one-span bridge, but the State's highest bridge.

Statistics are sometimes interesting, so I shall quote them. the 194 foot high, 400 foot long bridge, contains 513 tons of steel, and 4,000 sacks of cement. Christensen and Gardner were the contractors, and W. E. johnson, the engineer, and G. P. Holahan, superintendent of construction.

I'll not forget the day, when we lived in the canyon, that I had a wreck on the spooky blind point of the dugway as I was returning from Hurricane. (This point has since been chiseled through.) Usually i didn't mind the return trip from Hurricane, because I could hug the hill. On this particular day, as I approached the big point, I snuggled close to the bar pit for fear of meeting another car. Exactly at the sharpest, blindest point, a car appeared, nudging over on my side of the road. We scraped fenders.

Why I should have been endowed with such idiotic sweetness beats me, but by way of saying, 'I'm sorry this smashing thing happened to us,' I got out, looked at the six frightened women in the other car, and lamented, 'Oh dear, look what I've done to your car!' That was my first lesson on what not to do in case of an accident.

I drove my dented Chevrolet on down to the springs, and the women in their bruised vehicle proceeded to Hurricane. Winferd wasn't home when I got there. in shock, I shivered and shook, then I began to cry. Howard Isom came for a swim and I sobbed out my sorry tale.

'I'll never drive again,' I wept.

'That is the wrong attitude,' he said. 'The thing for you to do is get back in your car and drive every day until this fear leaves you.'

A few days later, we received a bill for $30 on the other car. When I protested that I had been crowded into the hill, the driver of the other car said, 'You admitted before six witnesses that it was your fault.' We paid the bill.

143No one was more pleased than I to abandon that old dugway. Now I could go see Mama and Papa without having the urge to get out of the car and peek around the spooky point, before driving around it. Oh joy! Now I could breeze along above the river and the ledges. In fact, Hurricane became so suddenly close that I could walk it in minutes if I pleased. that's what I thought, but that was mostly a pipe dream, what with two little youngsters. Be that as it may, to me, amongh the greatest unsung heroes are road builders and bridge builders. Gratefully I salute them!

Winferd and I were both board members of the Stake Sunday School, with Frank Barber as Stake Sunday School Superintendent. Brother Barber's enthusiasm was a constant joy to us. He made each stake visit and each board meeting seem like a delightful social event. My position was a new one, Cradle Class Representative. My job was to get Cradle Classes started in the wards. This assignment brought a lot of fun, working with the women in our ward making rag dolls and stuffed toys. LaVerkin ward was the Pilot Ward in the Stake. Winferd was also serving as a trustee on the LaVerkin Town Board.

143In the wintertime, we cooked on the little camp stove that heated thehouse. One day, Norman bathed his rubber doll and put it on a cookie sheetin the oven to dry. Not knowing it was there, I built a fire and baked it.When the air turned blue with rubber smoke, I yanked open the oven door.There, looking like a gingerbread man, lay the doll, melted flat and bubbly.Norman cried brokenheartedly.

'You can play with my old doll,' Marilyn consoled, 'but don't cook it.'

Whenever our watering turn came, the ditch became an irresistable lureto Norman. Deliberately he lost his balance whenever he got near it.Constantly I paddled him and changed his duds, but the magnetism of that ditchdrew him to it, where he helplessly (?) tumbled in. Then capering into thehouse, trailing mud, he'd look at me in wide-eyed innocence and say, 'SpankNorman. He fall in ditch.'

One day, I changed his clothes three times. He was getting down torock bottom. Mariliyn said, 'Little brother can borrow my clothes. He likesto be a girl.'

And he did. He grinned proudly as he wore her dress, and managed tostay out of the ditch for the rest of the day.

Thum sucking was Norman's big obsession. By tying his hands ingloves bulky as boxing gloves, I managed to keep his thumb out of hismouth at nights, but he made up for it during the day. Whenever he toucheda bit of fur, wool, or cotton, up went his thumb. Anything fuzzy wasappealing. If he couldn't enjoy his thumb peacefully in the house, whichhe never could while I was around, he'd go outside. We had pitched a tenton the lawn in our sunken garden, and Norman would stand in the tent door,hanging on to the frayed edge of the marquisette screen with one hand, andenjoying his thumb with the other. Or he'd crawl through the fence to the144north of the house and get hold of an old deer hide Winferd had stretchedout on the wall. Or he would go out on the square and sit down in ameadow of fuzzy foxtails. Every friendly pup that let him hang onto itsneck, or cat that brushed him with its tail, inspired his thumb sucking.One day I found him by a mullein clump, rubbing the soft nap of thefuzzy leaves with one hand and joyfully sucking his thumb. Fearful thatI would never break him from the habit, I hoped his wife would carry onfrom where I left off. He could be such a bad example to his children,going around with his thumb in his mouth. It would be like having onlyone hand. Of course, his wife could announce, 'Supper's on.' Mealtimes he loved, and his thumb got a chance to dry off. Often he'd watchas I set the table, and would ask, 'Doing Alice, Mudder?'

One night Winferd and I went to a Sunday School Board meeting atHurricane. Since we couldn't get a baby sitter, we consoled ourselveswith the thought that since we were on the Lord's errand, the childrenwould be looked after. (I don't recommend this philosophy to myposterity.) It was a hot July night, and our beds were outside in thetent. We wanted the children to sleep in the house while we were gone,but Norman begged so hard that we lefet him alone in the tent.

Hurrying home from the meeting, I went to check on Norman, whileWinferd went to the house to check on Marilyn. Norman was not in thetent. A queer little tremor went through me, but I supposed he must havegon in the house.

'Have you seen Norman?' I called as Winferd came to the door.

'No, he isn't in here,' he replied.

I felt again in his bed, and in Marilyn's and in ours. I looked underthe beds. There was positively no Norman. Together we searched throughthe house, the clothes basket, the shower, in the closet and undereverything. Still no Norman. Frantically I ran to Vernon Church's, whileWinferd called and searched about the lot. Still we could find no traceof Norman. I took the flashlight and Winferd went in the car across thesquare. I stopped at every tree, looking through the clumps of saplings,and as just going to the church house, when Winferd called, 'Here he is.'

Breathing a prayer of thanksgiving, I ran to where they were. Winferdhad found Norman between the screen door and the wooden door to Graff'sstore, just sitting, looking out and waiting.

'Norman, what are you doing here?' Winferd asked.

'I wanted to go wif you,' was his reply.

Masculine ego begins early. While Norman was so little, he oftenfelt so big. He'd put on his hat and say, 'I gotta go to work,' and strutout the door, his short legs making time. Everything he did was big andimportant, just like his dad.

When I'd ask Winferd about some little thing, he'd offer answer, 'Ididn't notice. I had more weighty matters on my mind.'

What a pair! Always thinking big things.

Norman would often march to the door and say, 'Goodbye, Alice. I'mgoing to California.'

145I would kiss him goodbye, and two minutes later I could hear himimitating the motor of a car as he buzzed around in his sandpile. He builtbridges, roads, tunnels and dams, if only I had the imagination to recognizethem. But he didn't keep his construction in the sandpile. Everymeal he buzzed around his plate with a crust of bread for a car and builtbridges with his spoon. Marilyn often followed suit. Occasionally theircars went down a tunnel and were swallowed. We could only take so much,especially when they started having waterfalls from their spoons withtheir juicy food.

Marilyn and Norman usually cooperated in their ventures. Even whenI tied them up for running away, they enjoyed themselves by making a gameof it.

Marilyn often had weighty matters on her mind, too. One day sheasked, 'Mother, will you take care of me when I have my baby? And canmy husband and I live in your house while he builds a new house for us?'She shared this same concern about Norman's wife too.

One day she solemnly stated, 'If Daddy had known you was going tospank your kids, he wouldn't of let you be his wife.'

Another time, she breathlessly reported, 'Mother, there's some horsesout in Daddy's Mother's Husband's field.'

As I stooped to kiss Norman goodnight, at the close of a day when hehad been dreamily singing himself to sleep, he said, 'Mother, my song saysthe buttercups say the bright moon is in the tree tops and the birds saysit's the bright sun.'

145One February day, Norman sat on a bench outside, his shoes beside him,as he tugged at his stockings.

'You can't go barefooted yet,' I said, putting his shoes back on hisfeet. 'When the trees put their green dresses on, then it will be barefoottime.'

'Is the leaves the trees' dresses?' he asked.

Later, I undressed him for his nap, and he gathered up his shoes andstockings, putting them in the woodbox.

'Why are you doing that?' I asked. 'What if someone should burn themup?'

With a pelased grin he replied, 'If somebody thought they was woodand burned them up, then I'd have to go barefooted, wouldn't I?'

One day, as he awkwardly whittled at a stick with my butcher knife,he cut his finger. As I taped up his finger, I lectured him about usingmy knives. Regarding me with interest, he observed, 'If you put that tapeon your mouth, then you couldn't even talk.'

146On April 19,1939, our third child, Merwin DeMar, was born in our garage.He was a chubby, almost nine pound little guy, with a mop of dark hair.Goodness! How glad I was to see him. Never had I been so impatient as Ihad been for his arrival. McIntire was the doctor and LaVell Hinton thenurse and Wealthy (Tillie) Campbell was our hired girl.

Our washing equipment was set up outside under the grape arbor, whichalso shaded Winferd's work bench. One day as Tillie was busy gettingthe fire going under the black tub, Norman climbed upon the work bench andspilled a can of lye. Quickly Tillie boosted him down and sent him to thehouse, then hurried to fix the fire. Before she had a chance to cleean upthe lye, Marilyn came to the work bench to get a can of wheat for thechickens, and Norman tagged. He reached to pull himself upon the work bench,then suddenly screamed and ran into the house. Never had I heard such anagonized cry.

'Norman, come here,' I said.'

His eyes were scrunched tight, but he fumbled his way to the bed, andas I lifted him up beside me, I could see white powder on his eyelashesand on his cheeks and down the front of his coveralls. Where tearsstreaked his face, blood pocks began to appear. Putting a speck of thepowder to my tongue, I tasted it. It burned like fire.

'Lye!' I exclaimed.

Tillie, who had raced in behind Norman, ran like the wind across thesquare to call the doctor on the store telephone.

A ghastly picture of my little boy living in darkness all his lifeflashed before me. 'Oh, Norman, Norman,' I cried.

The sun sent a shaft of amber light through a bottle on the window sillabove me. Consecrated oil! Grabbing it, I unscrewed the cap, pouring theoil into Norman's eyes and on his face. I had to pry to get it into hiseyes, and what I saw made my heart turn cold. Even the colored part of hiseyes had turned milky white.

'Oh, Heavenly Father,' I ipleaded, 'please, please don't let my littleboy go blind.'

Out of breath, Tillie burst through the door. 'Where's the vinegar?'she gasped.

I told her and she grabbed the bottle and dashed vinegar into Norman'seyes and over his face and hands. He writhed and screamed with pain.

'The doctor can't come. He said to bring Norman to him,' she said.

Winferd was mixing feed for Graff and hard to contact, so Tillie ranback to the store for help. While she was gone, Norman lay whimperingbeside me.

'Open your eyes, please,' I coaxed.

He finally did. They still were a murky white.

'Can you see me Norman?' I asked.

'No,' he answered.

147'Try hard. Can't you see Mother?' I begged.

'No,' he said.

I waved my hand before his face. 'Can't you see my hand?'

'No,' he sobbed.

'Shall we ask the Heavenly Father to make your eyes better?'

'Yes.'

'Do you want to pray with me?'

'I can't Mother. You pray.' His sobbing never ceased.

I rubbed oil on his blistered face. I was so anxious for my prayersto get through that it seemed almost as if my feet were racing to theportals of Heaven and my hands were pushing the curtains wide. 'Please,dear Heavenly Father, spare my little boy's eyes. He needs to be ableto see to serve Thee.'

Tillie returned and carried Norman out to Aunt Mae Gubler's car.Marilyn had gone to find help, too, and she returned with Ovando. He gaveme vinegar soaked cloths to wash my arms which were spotted with purpleblisters from peeling Norman out of his lye splattered overalls. I hadbeen too concerned over Norman to realize that I was burned. Ardella cameand changed the sheets. By then I was burning and itching all over andanxious for a vinegar bath.

Ages later, it seemed, Tillie and Aunt Mae returned, smiling, withNorman. 'He's going to be ok,' Tillie said. 'He has to keep the bandageson his eyes for a week, but he'll be able to see.'

With a relieved sigh, I said a silent prayer of thanks.

With a chuckle, Tillie reported, 'When the doctor asked what happened,Norman said, 'I got lye in my eyes and on the same day that I fell out ofthe swing, too.' Then the doctor said, 'There's nothing wrong with youreyes. They are pretty and blue.' Surprised, Norman said, 'Are they?'

When the bandages were removed, his eyes were pretty and blue. Therewere only the scars from the lye holes inside his lower lids and on hischeeks. Norman could see! My prayers had been answered.

As our family grew, the house shrunk. With five people sleeping inour wagon-box sided bedroom, it was a squeeze. Winferd built double-deckerbunks for Marilyn and Norman and we painted them ivory, decoratingthem with chubby animal and kid decals. DeMar occupied the crib.

Winferd cast a calculating eye at my sunken garden. 'Guess we'llhave to grow something besides flowers down there,' he said, and ruthlesslyscooped the hole clean.

Walls were squared up, footings poured, and a house began to grow.Eagerly, Norman was on the job, constantly underfoot, until Winferd's helpbegan to complain.

'I'd like to help them,' Norman muttered, 'but they won't let me.'

Patting him on the head, Winferd said, 'Come on feller. Here's justthe job for you.'

148Elated, Norman scraped cement into the forms with a tablespoon.And so, the walls of the house grew rapidly, with Norman and his spoon onthe 'off' side, and Winferd and his help pushing wheelbarrows up the rampon the 'on' side. Soon there was a roof overhead. But little did wedram of the long delay befeore we would live under that roof.

In his discourses, Brigham Young said a young man should build him anest, then put a little bird in it--that he should paint his littlecottage and plant flowers around it. While Winferd concentrated on buildinga house, I turned my thoughts to the little nest that five of us birdswere tucked into alread.

When Graff had a paint sale, I realized that Winferd's wages werealready gone for building material, but our speckled hens were layinggood. So with egg money, I managed a gallon of floor paint. My, how itmade our bare cement floors shine. But now the windows suddenly lookedbare. Ah! Wide soft ruffles of pale yellow crepe paper was the answer.It tooko away the bare look and complimented the flowers on the window sill.

Mary Bastow, my art teacher from the BAC came to see me. 'Oh Alice,'she exclaimed. 'What a pretty house!' Her eyes swept the room. 'Yourgrouping of living room furniture in this end, and your kitchen appliancesin the other, makes two beautiful rooms in one. Would you mind showing methe rest of the house?'

'I'd love to,' I said.

She exclaimed over the cute bunk beds, but when she saw the fruitshelves, clothes closet, shower and toilet grouping, she said, 'I've neverseen space so economically and artistically arranged. Would you mind if Iinclude your place on our economy homes tour list?'

How flattering. I could only reply, 'I'd be awfully pleased.'

The tour she spoke of never reached LaVerkin, but the thoughts thatit might made our little house smile.

Building drained our pockets dry. 'It's like pouring gold into abottomless pit,' Winferd remarked. We tried to build and keep out of debtat the same time, turning deaf ears to the critics and free-advice givers,who clamoured, 'For Heaven's sake, get a loan, finish your house and enjoyit.' We did play 'pas-the-button' with the deed to the place with ZionsBank, making only small loans at a time that could be cleared quickly.

Wickley Gubler set up his power saw and cut all the limber for thehouse. When he and Winferd worked together, the structure echoed withmusic, for they both whistled and sang as they worked. By summer, thehouse stood like a skeleton—rough cinder-cement walls, open floor joists,with loose plank paths and empty holes for windows. Winferd's overallshad been patched on top of patches so many times that barely a shred ofthe original denim could be seen. He was a cheerful, champion patch-wearer.

Norman showed concern for his Daddy in his materialistic prayers.Kneeling in his lower bunk bed, he prayed, 'Heavenly Father, please give usmore milk and cream and butter, and Heavenly Father, Daddy works so hard onour new house and he needs some glass for the windows.'

149He was appreciative, too. Seldom did I make cocoa, but I happened toone morning when it was Norman's turn to ask the blessing. He bowed hishead and said, 'Heavenly Father, thanks for the cocoa, and please bless it.Amen.'

One afternoon, a woman tourist dressed only in halter and shortsstopped at our gate to ask directions. Marilyn and Norman eyed her up withfascination.

After she left, Marilyn exclaimed, 'Oh my, but wasn't she skinny!'

'She wasn't skinny,' I explained, 'she was fat.'

'She was fat, but she was skinny too. She had lots and lots of skinall over her.'

'That's because she drinks skin milk,' Norman remarked. 'Skin milkis what makes lots of skin.'

During the summer, I sewed cute dresses for Marilyn to wear to kindergarten.On the first day of school, Norman watched with admiration when Idressed Marilyn in her crisp blue, pleated skirt and brushed her shiningringlets around my fingers. His eyes shone as she skipped to the bus.

'All of the people will say sister is a pretty girl,' he said proudly.

But after she was gone, and there was no one to play with but thebaby in his crib, he slumped. Unhappily he began to mutter, ' you don'twant me to break the light, do you? … You don't want me to cut yourdress, do you? … You don't want me to scratch the paint off from thechairs, do you? … What would it do if I banged the buckets on thecement as hard as I could? … Would you like me to spit in the flourbin?' … Etc.

'What makes you think of such things?' I asked.

'Well, I was just thinking you wouldn't want me to.'

'I really wouldn't,' I replied. 'I think it would be more fun if youscrubbed your hands and helped me with my baking.'

The bread dough I had mixed was pushing the cover off the pan.Norman opened the cabinet door under the kitchen sink and swung the hingedstep in place, that Winferd had built. While he climbed upon it to wash,I set out the cooky sheet, raisins, cinnamon and sugar. He loved to mold'gingerbread' men from bread dough on baking days.

Whenever Marilyn or Norman got out of the range of my voice, I rang acow bell, and it brought them home. It saved a lot of chasing. I had areally good thing going, until too many wise cracks from well meaning friendsmade me feel self conscious about it.

Marilyn went to school in the afternoons, and that half-day was endlessto Norman. One day he disappeared right after dinner. I rang and rangthe bell, to no avail.

'Well, baby,' I said, picking DeMar up in my arms, 'we're going to makesome house calls.'

The neighbors hadn't seen Norman. DeMar grew heaver and heavier150as we trudged from door to door, and a dark cloud of worry loomed over me.Finally, Cleone Iverson came by in her car.

'Alice,' she called, 'Norman is with his Daddy at Graff's feed house.'

'Thanks,' I called back.

'Winferd, Winferd, how could you do this to me,' I whispered to myself.'How could you take that little kid with you without letting me know?'

I was fagged from lugging a two-ton baby. The afternoon was shot,and my monstrous ironing was still undone.

Hours later, when the errant pair returned, I was so glad to see themthat I forgot to scold. Norman looked so little, wan and white. Miller'sdust had settled on his hair and powdered his coveralls. Crazy black eyebrowsand a drooping moustache accentuated his whiteness.

'Where in the world did the stage makeup come from?' I asked.

'He found some tar. It just happened to land in the right places,'Winferd explained.

When I told what a bad afternoon I'd had, Winferd said, 'I'm sorry.'

He hadn't really abducted Norman. It was all innocent enough. Sincehe was almost late getting back to work, he drove fast, bouncing throughthe pockets and ruts of the dusty road. He hit one mud puddle thatplastered the front of the car. When he reached the end of the bench,Mr. Drennen hailed him.

'Hey, do you know you have a kid hanging in the spare tire on thefront of your car?'

Winferd hopped out to investigate.

'You could have knocked my eyes off with a stick when I saw Norman,'he related. 'He was dripping wet with mud.'

'I was hanging on just dandy,' Norman added.

I shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn't hung on'just dandy'. Winferd's first reaction at finding Norman was to spankhim and make him walk hime, but he was afraid he might not make it, so hekept him with him. When Mrs. Iverson came along, he sent a message to me.

Kindergarten gave a new dimension to our lives. Marilyn announced,'I learned a new game in school today. Norman, get up on the table andI'll show you how to play it.'

Kids on the table were scarcely more welcome than cats, but I wascurious enough to let her go.

Norman perched upon the table, and she went out the door, picked upa stick and came in chanting, 'Every night, when I come home, the monkey'son the table. PIck up a stick—now Norman, when I hit you, jump off—andgive him a lick—'. She gave him a whack that was more than he expected.Letting out a yelp, he landed on his shoulder on the cement floor.'Pop goes the weasel,' she shouted.

151Norman lay on the floor crying. He had cracked his collar bone, andwore his arm in a sling for the next three weeks.

One day I sent Marilyn to the store for yeast. A hullabaloo of barkingdogs brought me to the door. Instead of coming home on the beaten pathacross the square, Marilyn meandered through the tall tumbleweeds, heryellow sunbonnet barely showing above them and the busy plumes of dog tailsthat wagged around her. Like a whirling mass of fur, the dogs milledaround her as she scampered through the gate. Laughing, she ran throughthe open basement door of our unfinished house. The dogs leaped throughthe window frames and raced with her. Her peal of laughter mingled withthe chorus of barking that vibrated and echoed throughout the unplasteredrooms.

She loved all things that could creep or crawl. One day she broughta milk snake in the house.

'Get that thing out of here,' I shrieked.

Quietly she stroked it. 'Mother, look at it,' she said, 'it's is pretty.'

'You get it right out of here,' I demanded.

'Please Mother, look at it. It is beautiful.'

'Oh Marilyn,' I said in desperation, 'maybe it is, but I can't see it.Please take it out and turn it loose.'

Disappointed, she obeyed.

Winferd was largely responsible for his daughter's attitude towardcreatures. As I sat snapping green beans one day, Marilyn dumped a fat,green, tomatoe worm in my lap.

'Daddy sent this to you,' she announced.

I jumped and screamed. Just outside the door I heard the burst ofWinferd's laughter.

One day Marilyn presented me with a black widow spider. She simplycould not resist the gleaming jet marble on legs. She seemed immune tofear, and all creatures respected her.

After the children were tucked in at nights, Winferd often read to mewhile I mended or ironed. This is the way he prepared his Sunday Schoollessons, or read from his good books or magazines. One night he read fromthe Better Homes and Gardens that each one of us goes through life with ome unfulfilled desire, like the little old woman who had always wanted agold thimble. Her family scoffed at her silly whim and bought her instead,what they thought she should have.

'Do you have an unfulfilled dsire?' he asked.

'Yes,' I answered. 'I have always wanted one big doll with real eyelashesand deep blue glass eyes.'

'And you never got one?'

'No.'

'But you did get a doll?'

152'Oh yes. I had a Polly that tore at the armpits and her cotton oozedout, and a doll that said 'mama' when I tipped her forward. Then one ChristmasMidred and I got dolls alike, with painted faces and glued on hair.Mama bought the heads and made cloth bodies. Remember? That's the doll Ihad when we ran the swimming pool, and our little guests demolished it.'

'Do you still wish you had a big doll?'

'Kind of. When I got big enough to pray quietly by myself so no onecould hear, I used to ask for a golden doll. I knew I wasn't going to getit, but it was fun asking and a happy way to drift off to sleep.'

I thought no more about this conversation until I awoke Christmasmorning. There, in Marilyn's rocking chair, was a big doll with my nameon it. She was the same size as DeMar. She had real eyelashes and deepblue glass eyes that opened and shut. Over her soft brown curls, she worea red sunbonnet that matched her dress. Her molded arms and legs werechubby and her fingers lifelike and separate, on pudgy little hands. Shewas an absolute beauty.

'Oh Winferd!' I exclaimed, 'how could you, when you're struggling sohard to build?'

With a hug, he said, 'It's Christmas. If I could, I'd put the wholeworld in your stocking.'

'But she must have been terribly expensive,' I remonstrated.

'Fear not,' he grinned, 'I got her at a bargain.'

'Thank you,' I said, throwing my arms around his neck. 'She's adorable.'

She was an important doll in the years that followed. To get to rockher was the reward for being good and getting things picked up. Our childrenliterally loved her to pieces. She stayed with us a long time, buteventually, the elastic that held her arms and legs together lost itsstretch, and her bisque finish crazed and peeled. Finally, she mysteriouslydisappeared.

152Marilyn's school hours were lonely ones fer Norman. He missed her. Most of the time he was good about the little errands we occupied him with, but we didn't give him quite all of the companionship he craved.

'If you don't be careful how you treat folks,' he'd say, 'someone I know will make an awful racket in this house till it falls down.'

When Winferd wouldn't let him saw up the lumber pile, or use his brace and bit, Norman complained, 'It will be just too bad when I'm a man. I won't knew how to build bridges and I won't know how to make houses and Iwon't know how to do anything. I'll just be like a baby. If big folks won't let me learn things when I'm little, I can*t do nothing when I'm a man.'

All right, son,' Winferd said, 'see what you can build from these boards. Here are some nails and a hammer you can use.'

Day after day, Norman nailed little boards together, making airplanes. He took each one on a test flight, buzzing loudly as he dragged it around on the end of a string.

153At the first of the year Norman announced, 'It's 1940, isn't it!' When I replied yes, he said, “1940 is when I will have a really, really birthday, isn't it!'

We marked each day off the calendar. The day before his birthday, he was accidentally poked with a stick in his right eye, so Dr. Mclntyre put a patch on it. While we were in Hurricane, we stopped at Graff's store where Norman tried on hats. As we started to leave without making a purchase, Norman asked, 'Aren't you even going to buy a guy I know who's only got one eye, a hat?'

'Can you keep a secret?' I whispered.

His one eye opened wide. 'I know a guy who can really keep a secret.'

'Ok. We wanted to surprise you for your birthday. That's why we tried on the hats.'

'Well,' he loudly whispered, “you just take the hat home and I'll sure be surprised.'

The long awaited February 29th dawned bright and clear, a perfect spring day for a party. Norman hovered about, excitedly watching with one eye, the cookie and candy making. Eagerly he gathered wood for a 'hot-dog cooking fire.'

The party was set for 4:00 o'clock. The sun shone until three, when out of the nowhere came dark clouds, and pelting hail fell thick and fast. Suddenly the roar and commotion ceased. As suddenly as it came, so it left. For about five minutes the ground was white, and then spring came again, warm, yet cloudy with the smell of damp earth. The guests arrived and we played the old standbys, 'pussy wants a corner,' 'blind man's bluff,' and 'pass the button,' and roasted weiners. Thunderheads appeared again from behind the hill and the sky darkened, so we passed out animal cookies and fudge and sped the little folks home.

'That was a really, really birthday,' Norman said, counting his loot.

Marilyn's kindergarten year goes down in family history as 'the year of the plagues.' First, she brought home the chicken pox, followed by scarlatina, mumps, and finally whooping cough. We were lucky to get Norman's party over with between plagues.

Marilyn and Norman fared pretty good with the whooping cough, but it was almost too much for DeMar. He wasn't yet a year old, and it hit him hard. He lay in bed, a limp, helpless little fellow, so the doctor put him on sulfa, a new miracle drug. We gave it to him for twelve hours, as directed, then he turned blue, and whimpered a weak little cry, never stopping. The doctor gave him pills to counteract the sulfa. We could have lost him.

Long before DeMar could walk, he climbed on everything he could push a chair up to; the kitchen cabinets, the table, refrigerator, or stove. He understood only one direction, up. Whenever I heard the grating of chair legs on cement, I knew DeMar planned on going up. How to get down, he had no idea. The usual way was for me to grab him, but if I wasn't quick enough, he fell. His head bumped the cement floor often enough it should have pounded in an idea, but it never did.

154When he crawled outside, there were new things to climb, like the ladder against the house. Just when he reached thetop where he could peek into the attic window, he fell, cracking his skull on an iron tire rim.

'You're going to have an epileptic on your hands if this kid bumps his head one more time,' Dr. McIntire warned.

'What can I do, keep him on a leash?' I asked in distress.

'Pad his head with rubber sponges,' McIntire replied.

'How?'

'If you expect him to be normal, you'd better figure out how.' The Doctor was serious.

I got a pretty package of four square sponges, pink, green, yellow, and blue. Stretching a nylong stocking overDeMar's head, I stuffed the sponges inside, arranging them like a football helmet, then turned him loose in hiswalker. He wheeled his way to the sand pile under the apricot trees, but the sponges slid down over his eyes andears. No matter how I tied them, they wouldn't stay in place. They got in his way and made him more awkward thanever, so after a week's struggle, I gave up. The first time he found himself free, he scooted out the door in hiswalker and down the basement steps, banging his head on each one. I almost bawled as I gathered him in my arms.Tenderly I cold-packed his bruised little head and wiped away his tears. The only noticeable effect was the gooseegg above one eye.

A heavy plank made a wheelbarrow ramp into our new house. When I saw DeMar crawling up it, I yelled and ran.Giggling, he put on speed, crawling across the rough subfloor. Facing me, he sat on the edge of the yawning holeto the basement. Before I could grab him, he reared over backward and fell. I let myself down through the openingto where he lay motionless. Grabbing him, I shook him. Finally he gasped and then began to cry. Dr. McIntire couldfind no injury, but DeMar whimpered for the next four months. He was not good, even for a minute. Then onemorning he broke out with a bumpy, red rash all over. His crying ceaced and he was a happy little boy after that.

But I despaired of him ever learning to walk. He seemed destined to be a quadraped. The day he was fourteenmonths old, he had crawled to the grape arbor, where he gingerly got to his feet. Quietly I watched as he stoodalone. With a look of exaltation, a grin spread over his face and he took a step. The grin grew bigger and hetook another step, and another. I wanted to cheer, but kept silent. Carefully, so very carefully, DeMar walkedin my direction, keeping his eyes on the ground. Then he saw my feet, he ran the last few steps and hugged my legs.

'DeMar, you're a big boy,' I cried, grabbing him in my arms. 'You can walk all alone!'

I kissed and kissed him. From that moment on he was a two-legged creature, never crawling again, except at play.

155'I'm going to find me a new mother,' Norman announced one morning.

'If you can find a new mother that likes you better than I do, that's just fine,' I replied.

'A new mother would know that if a fellow put his shoes in the wood box, that he needed new shoes,' he retorted.

'All right young man. You don't burn your shoes just because they have mud on them. You get busy and clean them.'

With a wounded air, he put his dirty shoes on, stuffed his pajaes in his little suitcase, and went out the door.There he hesitated, as if he hoped I'd coax him to stay.

'I'm going now.' He stood at the door and waited.

'Goodbye,' I said, kissing his cheek. 'Be nice to your new mother.'

He trudged through the lot toward Sister Church's. A short time later, the sun cast his shadow across the floor.Looking up, I saw him standing outside the screen, his face downcast.

'Well,' I said in surprise, 'I thought you had moved away.'

His voice choked. 'They didn't want me.'

'Well, if you will be good, you can be my boy,' I said opening the door.

'Sister Church said, 'Now Norman, you run along home 'cause we got to go to St. George,' and she didn't even askif I was going to be her boy,' he said sorrowfully.

'Here, take this scrubbing brush and knife and scrape all that dried mud from off your shoes.'

Setting his suitcase down, he took the proffered tools, and went out to do as he was told.

'My, what a beautiful job you did,' I said when he returned.

Beaming, he sat on a chair watching me mix bread. 'Mother,' he said, 'maybe I'll always stay here. Maybe I'lldecide not to get married like those men over to Grandpa and Grandma Isom's place.' (Meaning my brothers, Bill,Clint, and Wayne.)

'Good. I hope you won't get married for a little while, anyway.'

He slide from his chair and went out to play, but every few minutes he came in and asked, 'Are you about ready to bakethat bread?'

'Why? Are you getting hungry?' I finally asked.

'Oh,' he replied, 'I was thinking you might bake some pie today.'

'I haven't time to stop for pie,' I answered.

'Oh my, I was wishing you'd make about five of them so I could eat a whole one.'

'I've got to dig carrots for dinner.'

'I can dig the carrots and you can stay in the house and bake.'

156'You're a nuisance,' I said, dismissing him.

Presently, I looked out the window and there in the garden, laboring with his dad's shovel, was Norman. The ground was dry, but he worked hard. Soon he came in triumphantly with six big carrots that he had cleaned under the tap.

'Here's your acrrots, he announced expectantly, then ran out to play.

My heart melted. With a chuckle I got out the mixing bowl and rolling pin. Norman had won again. He usually did.

A favorite method of his was to come staggering in, mid-way between meals, with an arm load of wood.

'How nice,' I would say.

Arranging it in the wood box, he'd beam at me, then wander about the room with a sigh, and say, 'Ho hum, I'm hungry. I'd sure like a cracker.'

I'd give him three or four, but when hunger pangs hit him again, the pile in the wood box increased.

One day Norman made an intimate call on a wasp family and as warmly received. Marilyn and her little playmante, LaReta Church, had asked him to get the nest down out of the attic. He completed his mission all right. The nest came down with the first whack, and almost simultaneously, two wasps got him. There was a shriek and Norman came tumbling down. I plastered his stings with wet soda.

In the evening as I sat writing, Norman whined at my side, because he had unwittingly wandered in just at bed time.

'I wouldn't a come in if I knew you waz gonna amke me go to bed.' (Whine, wine.) 'The sooner ya make me go to bed, the sooner I'll die.' (Pause for effect. I continue writing.) 'Yep, the sooner I have to go to bed, the sooner I'l die, so it's just up to you.'

'Well, everyone must die sometime, so you might as well go on to bed.'

'But I don't want to die.' Regretfully. 'I want to live as long as everyone does.'

Winferd diverted my attention momentarily, then I suddenly realized the droning in my left ear had ceaced. Norman had slipped out as quietly as a shadow.

Looking back, I'm chagrined at our laxity in keeping the Sabbath. After we had attended Sunday School and Sacrament Meeting, we still had many daylight hours left of the Sabbath day. The poet who said, 'It seemed so then, and it seems so still, that I'm nearer to God on the top of a hill,' expressed my feelings exactly. Especially if there were pine trees on top of that hill. With conscience clear (almost) and hearts carefree (almost), we often packed our three youngsters and our picnic basket into the Chevy sedn and chugged up the mountain raod, (almost any mountain road) until we caught the cool, sweet whiff of pine.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, we aimed to picnic at Peter's Leap on Pine Valley Mountain. Winferd stopped the car at the rocky edge of a little meadow, and Marilyn and Norman scampered out. The had only gone a157little way, when Marilyn keeled over in a convulsion. As I reached her, a snake slithered away from her and I was certain she had been bitten. I screamed and Winferd ran to her.

'It feels like mys wallow is coming up in my mouth,' Normal whimpered near my elbow. The color had drained from his face.

We examined Marilyn, but could find no sign of a snake bite. She came out of the convulsion and lay limp and white. We laid her on a blanket and nauseated little Norman slumped beside her. When I went to the car for DeMar, I discovered he had vomited on the back seat. All three of our children were sick, possibly from gas fumes. With water from the creek, we cleaned things up, then sitting in the shade beside our three whimpering youngsters, we looked gravely at each other.

'Winferd,' I finally ventured, 'do you suppose the Lord is trying to tell us something?'

'I've been wondering the same thing,' he confessed.

'That worry feeling deep down inside each time we go on a sunday picnic must be a prompting that we've blindly ignored.'

'I agree. From now on, we'll stop kidding ourselves,' he asserted.

From that time forward, we did things more in keeping with the Sabbath, like reading, visiting, and enjoying good music. Our recreation came on afternoons when Winferd needed a break from his farm work.

'Let's go to Oak Grove and cool off,' he often said.

Dutch ovens and food were assembled in minutes. We loved watching evening shadows fall and listening to the music of Leeds Creek as the water trickled and eddied down its steep, rocky course. No longer was there an 'almost' in the carefree rejoicing of our hearts as we sought out the pines on top of a hill.

157The young married folks in LaVerkin enjoyed getting together. If it wasn't Finley Judd's or Wayne Wilson's birthday, we celebrated because it was June or July, or someone had ripe melons, or because the nights were crisp enough for a bonfire. Wherever Winferd was, there were games; and wherever Bill Sanders was, there was singing, especially around a bonfire.

After the last marshmallow had been toasted, and we sat cross-legged on the ground watching the glowing embers, Bill started the singing—'Just a Song at Twilight', 'The West, a Nest and You', 'Utah Trail', or some other beloved melody. The richness of his voice and the flash of his smile was compelling, and we sang until there was only the starlight to see us home.

And then we came down with a rook-playing fever. Once a month we played cards. Finally one brave soul said, 'Sometimes I get the feeling that we could spend our time better than this.'

158Still another brave soul suggested, 'We should be spending this time doing temple work instead of playing cards.' Then the rest of the crowd confessed their true feelings, and the card playing stopped.

Winferd had already been spending one night a week in the temple, and now this became a 'get-together' night. Cleone and LaFell Iverson were our travel companions and took turns driving. Elzyvee or Ursula Segler tended our kids.

Mr. Graff was very good about letting Winferd off at 4:00 o'clock on Thursday afternoons. Each evening after the temple session was finished, we went to the Whiteway, an ice cream parlor kitty-corner from Penny's store in the center of St. George. The ice cream was homemade from fresh milk and cream. Mixes, synthetic food and drive-ins hadn't yet been invented. A banana, split lengthwise, heaped with ice cream, topped with strawberries or pineapple and nuts, was delectable. I could work cheerfully all week sustained by the happiness of last week's date with Winferd and the Iversons, and with the anticipation of the coming Thursday night. Dressed in our best and radiant from our temple session, with a dozen other young couples, we flocked into the Whiteway, where we surrounded the little tables and delicately savored our ice cream, served in sparkling cut glass boats.

On his second birthday, DeMar was just recovering from the chickenpox that had freckled him for the past week. Winferd was late for dinner, but the table was too pretty for DeMar to resist, so he climbed upon a chair, exclaiming, 'Pretty, oooh, pretty, pretty.'

As I stepped out of the room momentarily, I heard a crash and a wail, and DeMar lay on the floor crying. In each hand he clutched a tiny birthday candle. As I picked him up, he held out one broken candle.

'Boke, boke,' he sobbed.

A fringe of coconut whiskered his mouth. In reaching for the cake, his chair slipped from under him, but he was far more upset about the broken candle than the fall. I carried him outside to meet Daddy. That was always antidote for any ill.

To DeMar, Daddy was a man who came home near the end of the day and let him ride on his shoulder from the gate to the house. Then after the evening meal, took him on some little errand in the car, or pushed him in the swing, or let him carry water to the cow and let him stand by while the milking was done. Daddy never scolded, but treated him like he was a darling little boy. To Mother, DeMar was a two year old boy who could be very naughty at times and had to be spanked. Of course Mother had to kiss him better a dozen times a day, and cuddle and love him. His latest two discoveries were how to kiss, and how to open and shut a door. Opening and shutting the bedroom door was his greatest fascination. Always before, when he shut himself in a room alone, he'd persistently call, 'Come in', until the door was opened for him.

By now we had another child on the way. From the first queasy months to the ungainly latter months, I was in the temple each week with Winferd and the Iversons. During that time, Gretchen Stratton and I were counselors in Relief Society to Areta Church. I also taught a genealogical class159on Monday nights. Grandpa Gubler was the ward genealogical representative. Fifth Sundays, in those days, were genealogy Sundays.

One morning when I was busy getting my little ones ready for Sunday School, Victor King, the stake genealogical representative, knocked on our door.

'Sister Gubler,' he said, 'will you give a talk on genealogy in Rockville this afternoon? Alvin Allred from Springdale will take up most of the time. If you'll take up five minutes, we'll appreciate it.'

I gulped. I had never talked in church. Even when I bore my testimony, my heart pounded 'till the building shook. The thoughts of talking in Rockville terrified me. Besides, my baby was almost due and I felt big as Pinevalley Mountain. Helplessly, I looked at Winferd, hoping he'd rescue me. Instead, he gave me his of-course-you-can-do-it smile. His philosophy was to never say no.

My voice quivered, 'I'll try.'

'That is good enough,' Brother King said.

After he left, I plunked down on the couch and howled, 'Everybody ought to leave me alone.'

'Weeping won't help,' Winferd said. 'Dry your eyes and get yourself dolled up and go do as you're told.'

'Why don't you do it for me?' I wailed.

'You're the one that was asked,' he replied.

'You don't want to see your wife lumbering like a hippo up the aisle to stand before an audience, do you?'

He put his arms around me. 'You were never more beatiful than now. When you're expecting a baby, your face has the tenderness of an angel. And your blue silk pleated smock with the lace dickie is cute. Come on now and smile. The people will love you.'

His mind was made up that I would be a great success. He and the children went with me. Well, at Rockville there must have been at least thirty people in the congregation, but no Alvin Allred. Although I watched anxiously for his form to come through the door, it never did.

After the sacrament, the bishop announced me. With a fluttering heart I arose, clutching my Book of Remembrance. My voice quavered as I said, 'Everyone should have a Book of Remembrance.' Then I opened mine and told briefly what it should contain, said 'Amen' and sat down. I had used the five minutes Victor asked me to do, and now it was up to the bishop to call on someone for the sermon. Instead, he announced the closing song, they prayed and filed out.

Shaking my hand, a little old lady said, 'That's the best meeting I've ever been to, because it was so short.'

My face burned.

When Victor told his secretary, Aunt Suzie Campbell, that he had sent me to Rockville, she exclaimed, 'Sakes alive, couldn't you have let her stay home and have her baby?'

160Innocently he replied, 'I didn't know she was expecting.'

Three weeks later our baby arrived. Shirley was born 20 September, 1941. She was our first child to not be born at home. Maternity homes were the latest thing. Shirley was born in LaVell Hinton's home. LaVell was the full-time nurse, cook, and wash woman. She took total care of the mother and child for two full weeks for $50.00. The doctor charged $50.00 for his few minutes at the time of delivery.

LaVell also took care of DeMar during those two weeks for a small additional fee. Her daughters Shirley, Beverly and Lorna romped and played with DeMar and he had fun running through their house banging doors. His crib was on the opposite side of the room from me. In the nights, I'd awake and tiptoe softly to him to pull his little blankets over him. I was a little fearful of the old wives tales that if I ever so much as sat up in bed within the two weeks, I'd be an invalid for life. But from the third night on, for the full two weeks, I walked to DeMar's bed every night. I felt great. I felt so strong that laying in bed all day seemed silly. On my last day I confessed what I had been doing.

'You should never have done it,' LaVell scolded. 'I am responsible for you. What if things go wrong? I will be condemned.'

I hadn't considered that angle. 'But I've always been faint and shaky after two weeks in bed. Now I feel great. I've liked walking in the night.'

'You should never have done it without the doctor's permission,' she insisted.

When we said goodbye to the Hinton children, as Winferd came to take me home, I looked at their cute faces. 'Shirley,' I asked, 'can we borrow your name for our baby?'

Giggling, she nodded.

Our Shirley was named for Shirley Hinton and for the child star, Shirley Temple. Since our baby had spent the last nine months of her preexistence in the temple, that was a natural.

'Ah, Alice,' Sister Church used to say, 'Shirley is the lily of your family.'

She was an angel of delight. It takes a fourth child before one can begin to really appreciate a baby. The tenseness of sticking to government bulletin rules eases with the fourth baby and relaxed enjoyment sets in.

On Sunday morning, December 7, more than one-hundred Japanese fighting planes, torpedo bombers and dive bombers attacked Pearl Harbor, the United States' largest naval base in the Pacific. When the attack ended one hour and fifty minutes later, five of the American battleships had been sunk and a number of other ships damaged. The American dead included 2,343 sailors, soldiers, and marines. In Tokyo, the Japanese Government declared war on the United States, Great Britain and the Netherlands. On December 8, Pres. Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war on Japan.

161Again the world was at war. Actually, the twenty years between the signing of the Versailles Treaty and the time Germany invaded Poland was more like an armed truce than a period of peace. World War I was a struggle for empire and power. So was World War II, but it was also a struggle between democracy and fascism. President Roosevelt called it a “war for survival.”

Adolf Hitler, dictator of Germany, was a megalomaniac, possessing the same kind of world power ideas that Kaiser Bill once had. Isaiah must have witnessed the scenes of World War II when he asked the Lord to close the vision. The most horrible accounts of human torture that can be conceived came out of the Second World War. In this conflict, the different theaters of war affected every ocean and continent. It was a total war. When Germany invaded Russia, reporters commented, “Let dog eat dog.”

Our ward had farewell parties for every departing service man and missionary, with dancing, cake, and freezer ice cream. Big money jobs with Uncle Sam boomed across the land, with wages as high as $60 a week. All it took to become a carpenter for Uncle was a pair of white overalls and the willingness to leave home. There was a general exodus of farmers rushing to Nevada to build barracks and ammunition dumps. Orchards and fields were forsaken. The gold rush was on.

Marilyn turned eight years old in January, and Winferd baptized her in one of the private baths behind the swimming pool. After he pulled the board to let the water out of the bath, we left Marilyn to dress. As I stood outside her door, I heard the water pounding from the spillway into the empty bath. Then came a crash and a scream. Pushing the door open, I peered through the steam. The bench Marilyn had been sitting on had rolled with her into the cement pit below. She lay with the bench on top of her, and the water splashing over her. Poor, bewildered little girl. I gathered her up and soothed her.

The following day, Winferd and I faced the greatest test of our married life—that of parting. He had been a farm hand for Mr. Graff, but now the “gold fever” hit him. Now was the time to make some of the big money so we could finish our home. Six people crowded into our little garage was beginning to be a problem. In our twelve years together, we had never been apart, except for a day or two at a time. Suddenly I felt timid and uncertain of myself. Could I cope with being without him? Then I was buoyed up with the thought that the Lord wouldn’t want me to be a weakling. I’d pray earnestly every day, and we would get along just fine.

Brother Iverson offered to take our milk cow. I had never confessed to Winferd that I knew how to milk, because I didn’t want anyone to expect it of me. But now I said, “Thanks, Brother Iverson. I will take care of the cow myself.”

162On January the 12th, Winferd left for Nevada, and I was left with our four children, the cow, and a flock of chickens. With a queer, hollow feeling, I realized Winferd would not be home for supper. He wouldn’t even be home when darkness fell. He wouldn’t be bringing in the bucket of milk for me to strain. I was on my own! My heart trembled. Cry? Who, me? Oh, no, not I. I would think brave, strong thoughts. I walked through our new house. The windows were in, the floors laid, and the doors hung. Exciting projects leaped to my mind. “I’ll clean the putty off the glass. I’ll paint the baseboards, the doors, and the closets. I’ll get the lot plowed and planted, and put in fruit trees and berry bushes.” Projects presented themselves to my mind with exciting rapidity, and mentally were as speedily accomplished. For a full twenty-four hours I felt the strength of Atlas and the speed of light.

Then I listened to my trembling heart and whispered, “I am not big and brave. I’m little and alone.” After the children were asleep, I walked under the stars and wept, “Come back, Winferd. I can’t live without you.” Loneliness stalked every quiet moment. How thankful I was for the children. How blessed, I thought, is the house that is noisy with children.

For two anxious weeks we called at the post office, then finally a letter came from Winferd. He had checked out jobs in different localities and at last had arrived at Hawthorne, Nevada.

Brief excerpts from parts of our letters will pick up our story:

Hawthorne, Nevada, January 22, 1942

Dear Alice and family: Journey’s end for the present. Arrived here about 4:20 yesterday and spent the rest of the time till 9 looking for a place to lay our heads, then Elmer and Leona Hardy opened their davenport for us.

The ride out was uneventful and there is little to see but the same kind of hills with no vegetation except shad and match brush. No trees hardly the whole day. … This morning we went to locate a job and got a place to fix up here in town. The other work is out of town from two to four miles. A Greek is having his bar enlarged and we go to work at noon. The other big job we came up here for is held up for material, so this little town job will tide us to the time the other outfit can use men. … This is just a note to put your mind at ease somewhat. I have been imagining all the fun (?) you’ve been having since I am out of the picture. Still, I hope “distance lends enchantment” to a point where you can still go on thinking a few kind things. When I know where I can change my mind, ways, clothes, or do as I please, I will have a little more to say on the subject, but now I will just leave it to I love you always. Winferd.

LaVerkin, January 24, 1942

Dear Winferd, we’ve had your letter about two hours, but it seems if I write back at once, I may speed the next word from you. Norman brought your letter in while we were at the dinner table. The kids hovered breathlessly over my chair while I opened and read the precious document. I admit I felt somewhat the same as they.

Norman complained that Jane and Dee had letters from their daddy that were all theirs. He and Marilyn wanted to divide your letter.

163DeMar cried for you last night. That’s the first time he’s mentioned you. It’s odd, but he’s never thought of saying his prayers until the first night you were away. He listened from his bed to Marilyn and Norman, then he called, “Com’mere Mudder. Mar get up say blessing.” I let him out of his snuggler and he kneeled in his bed while I helped him. Each night since, this has been repeated. I’d say, “..and take good care of Daddy and bring him home to us.” He’d repeat it after me each time, but last night he started to cry when we got to there. He said, “Daddy come home,” over and over.

I suppose you’re overcome with curiosity about me and the “old sot” (the cow). Well, I’ll put your mind at rest. We’re getting along famously. Fact is, the old gal has concluded that I’m quite nice. I lead her to the tap each time and let her carry her own water. While she’s here at the house, we get the milking done, the cow and I. She sniffs the stool each time, trying to make out what it’s for. (Winferd never used a milk stool.) It took me one-half hour the first time I milked. Yield: One gallon. Gradually we’ve increased to nine quarts a milking. I was so elated at first, I could have kissed the cow, but I got over that. My milking muscles that have slumbered all these years, began to groan and creak over the sudden burst of activity. I’m lame up both arms, clear to my ears.

Your dad and Uncle Joe brought a bunch of Wickli names from Switzerland for me to type on family group sheets. They don’t know I’m too lame to plunk a typewriter. My days are crammed to the brim and topsy-turvy. I can only type a little in the evenings. My world is upside down. Everything I do seems but a part of a strange dream. My senses have all suffered a relapse. I do not cry. I could not. I feel nothing of fear, loneliness, anxiety, in fact, I feel nothing, only my arms. I work harder than ever before. I shut you up in my mind and heart and try not to let you out. Otherwise, I would be swept away in a flood of loneliness that I could not endure.

I raked yards most of the morning and turned over a corner of garden for lettuce and fenced it off with chicken wire. Van will plow the lot when it’s dry enough. It’s still too soggy..Goodbye, and lots of love. Alice

P.S. Shirley is sitting on my lap watching the pen with great interest. She’s a perfect darling.

Hawthorne, January 25

…Well, I joined the union, or should I say, paid my first fee to the tune of $10.00. I am supposed to pay a dollar a day for each day I work till my $50 is in, then I get my card good anywhere.…I eat at cafes and sleep in hotels, so it is sure costing plenty, when you think of spending $1.00 a night for bed and an average of 50 cents for regular meals.

This burg harks back to the good old days. I tell you, there is plenty of the same spirit. Gambling bars everywhere. There must be ten places here, or more, big saloon type places (bars) and believe me, the gangs do pile in and toss around the cash. There was supposed to be a dancer at one place last nite. We went down to see her, but it was plenty tame. I think every girl and woman smokes and drinks and they all have the genuine look of the roaring ’50s when these mine towns were booming. This village is about as crumby a place as ever was.Shacks all over with no regard for cleanliness164or anything. Old frame shacks of the old past and no sidewalks to speak of…I pray all is well with my family, and I do look forward to getting a letter. Best wishes and all my love, Winferd.

LaVerkin, January 27

Dear Winferd…I’ve just come in from Mutual. I stood around after it was out, waiting. Suddenly I realized you were not walking home with me. I looked around the hall, and you were not there. I haven’t come to the realization yet that you are really and truly gone. I keep thinking of things to tell you when you come home at night, and then with a queer feeling I remember you are not coming.

Your folks are so nice. Rosalba, Van, and your dad all came Sunday afternoon. Van milked the cow Sunday night and tonight. Your dad staked her out. Kate stayed all day Sunday. I took her home in the flivver at nine at night. I’ve parked it to stay now. It has developed a new complaint. The kids (your kids) have wounded it fatally. That old pitchfork was hanging over the front bumper when I went to use the car, and as I filled the radiator, water spurted like a geyser from the front of the radiator. I suspect the fork on the bumper explains the hole.

Van plowed our place today, and you should see it. It is sticky and boggy. He suggests that I let it dry hard to slack and clods, and then pond it with water, and when it’s dry enough, harrow it. He’s going to come down the last of the week to look at it.

Wednesday, 11 p.m. Thank you so much. Your letter came today. We were so happy to hear from you. Marilyn brightened when I read in you letter that you were thinking of Las Vegas, that you might come home once in awhile.

Sister Church, Sister Thompson, and Sister Stratton were here when Norman brought the mail in. (The Relief Society Presidency. I was a counselor to Sister Church, along with Gretchen Stratton. Kate Thompson was the secretary.) They left at 4:30. They were here two hours. I could hardly wait to open your letter…We are going to knit for the Red Cross in Relief Society, so I suppose I’ll be learning the art…

Thursday. “All things come to him who waits!” How many times have you aggravated me with that statement? I could not post my letter yesterday because those ladies stayed too late, and anyway, I didn’t want to post it until after I had your package in the mail.

LaPriel and Jimmy went to California for their honeymoon. They were coming back here before he goes in the army. (Cornelius.)

Pop and Clint looked in on us yesterday to see how we were surviving your absence. All of a sudden folks are kind and thoughtful as though there had been a bereavement in the family. The similarity is striking…

Later. There was another letter from you. My, but we did enjoy it…You know, the funniest thing, Sunday during church, the thought came to me, “Winferd was called to speak in Sacrament meeting today.” And sure enough, you were! That’s pretty good, isn’t it!

I’ve checked everywhere. Nobody has a scrap of hay to spare. I stake the cow around, and she does quite well.

165January 27 - Marilyn dictating: Dear Daddy - The chickens sure wish they could get in the car to lay an egg. They are always jumping up and looking in the window and thinking how nice it would be. They sure wish they could lay an egg. The new yellow chickens are laying now. There is a nest in the basement and there is one under the bridge by the berry bushes. I looked down the ditch bank and behind the currants and i found a rotten egg and I stomped on it and the top blew off and went “plunk” way up in the air. Sure was funny. We sended your parcel too. From Marilyn

Norman dictating: Dear Daddy, my trike seat came off. Marilyn pulled it clear out and I took the pliers and fixed it and then it wouldn’t turn. It would be a good idea to go down to Las Vegas and then you could come home some Sundays. Mother saw a bee when she was out washing one day and she told me to bring my cherry plants outside so they could get cherries on. And lots of love X O O X from Norman

January 29 … This is the most measly town you’ve ever heard of. Thora says practically everyone in town has measles. Marilyn has come down with them now.

Note: Winferd shares a room with Luther Fuller (Lew). His letters are sprinkled with Lew’s views. Since Lew took possession of the two-foot table for his correspondence, all of Winferd’s letters were penned on his knee as he sat on the edge of the bed. Lew prefers the outside of the bed, so Winferd has to climb over him, mornings and nights. “One day I’m going to have a bed with two outsides.” The Sears Catalog is Winferd’s encyclopedia, which brings forth Lew’s scorn. For three days they debated (argued) over who sold the best tools, Sears or Pennys. Three of Winferd’s letters were filled with the debate. Winferd says Lew was bullheaded. Of course, Winferd wasn’t. He just hung doggedly to his original opinion. The debate was a tie.

LaVerkin, February 3 …Shirley has discovered her feet. She sticks them up in the air all the while she’s awake and watches them. Her booties won’t stay on five minutes. I buttoned those little red doll shoes on her today. That tickled the kids. Norman wanted me to put her down and let her walk. He insisted she could if I’d just let go of her. Marilyn is still in bed with the measles, but she got up to see Shirley. The kids screamed and laughed so much at her that she became as delighted as they were. I wheeled her bed into the front room where the kids could watch her, she was so interested in the shoes.

…You’d feel repaid if you could see how delighted the kids were with the cards you wrote them. They carried them around all afternoon. Norman says, “Daddy sure can write good letters, can’t he.” DeMar has been rigging up a play car today. He says, “Fix a car up and go find Daddy.”

Hawthorne, Nevada, February 4

…This place is going to be the biggest operation Uncle Sam has anywhere before they are through. …I spent an hour or two yesterday and sewed up my coat,. The sleeves and seams were out. I bot some size 16 thread and self threading needles for 20¢ and did the job myself. The shop wanted 50¢ for doing it. …It’s surprising how many things I see every day that reminds me of some phase of home life—kids, wife, house, etc. etc. …Ardella told me that Paul and Clifton Wilson were drafted. …I was just thinking, this is one place where kids don’t166have to be scolded about keeping out of water. No mud, no ditches, no water. …Be writing soon again and between time thinking a lot of lovely things of my family. Hello to all my kids and kiss each one for me.

LaVerkin, February 4

…When I was introduced to Maud Reid’s mother, Maud said, “This is Mrs. Gubler, Mother.” Her mother said, “Indeed? That is number twenty. I’ve counted them all and you are the twentieth Mrs. Gubler.” …I wanted to tell you how much we want a buggy for Shirley. It has been such wonderful weather. Shirley could have enjoyed it so much if I’d had a buggy for the kids to wheel her about on the square. When I look at the baby laying in her bed, with all this spring weather going to waste, and the kids needing occupation, I mentally take the buggy out of the luxury class and put it down among the necessities.

Later: What is a person supposed to do when the cow gets too affectionate? I just came in from milking. I got a handful of hay and came up the lane with it so she’d follow to water. If I didn’t do that, I’d have to tug and tug on her chain to pull her past the hay. She kept stepping a little faster and stretching her neck a little longer, and I kept stepping faster until finally we were running, and I got scared, so when she grabbed the hay, I let her have it, and we were only to the sand pile by then. I tried to gather some of the hay and come on, but she made awful noises at me. Worse noises than you’ve ever heard her do, and she looked funny, too. When she finally came for a drink, I sat on the stool to milk her and she kept sliding over to me, and I kept hitching my stool back a little further, like she was going to lay down on me, and I was thinking how heavy she’d be. Finally, she turned her head way around and looked at me. I wondered whether she was friend or foe, then she sniffed at my sweater and tried to lick my face. I think she likes me, but I hope she doesn’t expect me to romp with her. When I staked her out, she bucked and took after me. I ran. I was glad she could only go to the end of her chain.

Sugar rationing makes me mad. On one of those defense broadcasts, they said there would be enough for our needs. Well, the store is out of sugar. They’ve used up all of their allotment and won’t be able to get any more for awhile, and when they do, people will have to buy $2.50 worth of groceries for each ten pounds of sugar, and then it costs 75¢ for the sugar. And we don’t even buy groceries. We have all the milk, eggs, butter, etc. we can possibly use, with the fruits and vegetables we grow. As I said before, it makes me mad.

(Note: Times were crazy. Because of the war, building material and everything containing metal was frozen. Metal was reserved for ammunition and building material for barracks and ammunition dumps. Fabrics were reserved for uniforms. For a time, all yard goods disappeared from store shelves. People, in a panic, had begun hoarding. To buy nylons, one had to be on a black market mailing list. For a price, you could get six pair, all of which shot runners at the first wearing. Lines formed at checkout stands in the big stores. When customers saw a lineup, they automatically got in it, knowing that some extinct item was being dispensed at the other end. It didn’t matter what it was. If it was hard to get, everyone wanted it. Meat, sugar, and gas were rationed. People had to register the number in their household before they could receive stamps to buy them.)

167Hawthorne, Nevada, February 8

Here it is just after meeting and I still feel the need of visiting with you, Sweetheart. After years of only having Sunday as a day of leisure, working early and late the others, and spending what time I could where you were, I did it this way.

It is such a beautiful day. The lake looks beautiful down the valley and the pure white tops of the mountains west are restful and serene. It would be a pleasure to climb the hill.

Today has been nice for several reasons. The Stake President, Brother Hurst, and Relief Society Stake President, Sister Purdy, were here for meeting. They had to drive 136 miles to get here, so their visit meant quite something. Willard Duncan and Brig Hardy’s son Frank played a duet with accordion and guitar, “O My Father,” and it was nice, too. Brother Hughes, Superintendent of Sunday School, had a heart attack and the doctor gave him up completely. They had the Priesthood in and held prayer circles and feel like the hand of death had been stayed. The doctor said only some magic power saved him.

I wish I could hurry and get my debts off my mind. They’re heavy. I do considerable daydreaming for a man of my age, but then I need some pleasurable time consumer to to keep up my spirits. Our needs are so many and our wants quite a few. I grow impatient. I buy up no more dead horses after the herd is paid for, providing my purchases can be timed to travel alongside the purse. My daydreaming is not always on just financial lines. I spend a lot of time connected with my family and their needs.

How my love goes out to all of you. There is far more pull in your direction than I ever could have known when you were single, much as I loved you then. I think you are a good sport, a brave woman, a lovely pal, and the sweetheart of all my idealism.

Got your clock turned on tonite? Never did see just what good that faster time did for anyone. Makes me peeved. … Oh, my, I’ve been on the go so much and an hour earlier out here that I begin to get my usual Sunday weariness and with only a half rest all day. Guess I’ll join L.C. (Lew) and take my beauty sleep. If I’m up early, I can add a few fresh lines tinted by morning sunshine. Bless you dear for your virtues, and I’ve asked it at the right place for “his” too. Good nite and pleasant dreams. W.

LaVerkin, Sunday February 8

… The one that’s away from home misses out on the fun of the family. The kids are swell. Shirley is the cutest little tyke I’ve ever met. She’s unbelievably good. I’m too busy during week days to hardly look at her, but I’ve been playing with her this afternoon. DeMar is cute, too. Shirley was fussing a while ago, and he took a book to her crib. “Don’t cry, Shirley,” he said, “Mar read a tory.”

Kate slept here Friday night and we talked until one a.m. I was dopey all day, and then last night I was up till midnight. My usual Saturday night jinks. I thought I’d rest today while DeMar napped, but the little scrub lay and hollered, “Wanna gettleup.” He was in that cheesecloth snuggler. When I finally took him out, there was nothing left but the zipper.

Marilyn is broken out with measles again. Dr. McIntire says to keep her down, but she’s bounding all over. Her eyes are awfully red. I’ve carried168a tray of food to her bed each meal until this morning. I decided it was silly. She’s been in here half the time, crawling back in bed when I started to fix a meal. She gets a thrill out of that tray. Man! Has she got galloping consumption! She’s constantly shouting that she's hungry. With elation she counts each dish I put on her tray. She can't comprehend my extravagance with dishes. I put everything on at once to shut her up so I won't have to trot my legs off. Being an invalid is just one big vacation to her.

Hawthorne, February 11, 1942

Yesterday I visited with Leah (my cousin Leah Stout Pearce) for an hour or more. She wanted me to stay longer. First time she has been around anyone who knew the same folks as she. She had a letter from her mother and learned of LaPriel's marriage.

… I trust the kids all got a kick out of the package and the valentines … I keep thinking about my kids. Trying to figure what they would be doing and how they are making out. How long before the others will be down with the measles, etc. You're doing a great and mighty work. Try to keep up the cheer and just kick ole man worry in the seat of the pants. I may be a long way off so you can't hear, but I'm cheering you on in this race. Every nite I ask our Father to keep my family, and I know he will.

LaVerkin, February 12, 1942

We got two letters and the valentines yesterday. The candy came today. The kids were excited and the valentines amusing. That 'from the bottom of my heart' one of Norman's made the kids giggle. The 'Hi Honey' to Shirley was most appropriate. She is a wonder and a marvel. Never really cries, just fusses when she's uncomfortable. She's a noisy tyke. You should hear how lively she can scold. The kids laugh over that too. Your valentine to me was the nicest of them all. The letter in it made it so. I hope before I'm through with this life I can justify all the good things that come my way … We appreciate your prayers in our behalf. DeMar prays for 'Daddy way off to Pok Corn.' I can't get him to say Hawthorne.

February 13. - DeMar climbed upon Shirley's bed and it scooted out from under him, banging his head. I put a cold pack on his forehead. His eyes had a funny, glassy look. That was about 4:00 p.m. He hadn't snapped out of it by milking time. The cow was out and I almost froze before I found her. When I got back, DeMar was whimpering in his rocking chair. He acted like he had an awful headache. I felt so sorry for him.

That old brute of a cow almost gets me down. As I led her across the square, she'd stop every little way and shake her horns at me, jumping stiff legged in little circles. I didn't dare run. Once when I ran, she took after me. All that saved me were the trees I ran behind, where her chain caught. I know she'd ran her horns through me. When she does that wooden legged dance, I stand still, scared to death, hoping my guardian angel is close by. I was so mad at her yesterday I felt like I couldn't stand it at all. She kept at me all the way home. I was weak from fright and anger and when I came in the house, there was DeMar. His head looked bad. Then he got sick to his stomach. I knew I'd never rest until he was administered to, so your Dad and Van came and gave him a good blessing and said he'd be all right. I felt tons better. After they left, I went back to that old hag of a cow. She was ornery about being milked, lifting one169hind leg then the other, way up high, all the while I milked her. I don't know what possesses her. I've been giving her a quart of oats morning and night. Maybe they're making her frisky. Please get rich quick so you can come back home.

February 17. - Things always happen when I leave the kids alone while I do the outside chores. Last night, instead of taking off his shoes, Norman decided to kick them off. One of them flew through the upper window pane above the sink. I nailed up a pasteboard to match the bedroom window that he broke last week and paddled him good. He said he'd go earn the money to buy new windows. It was dark and cold, but I was so enfuriated I told him to get started. He took off on his tricycle. I called to him that he could sell his tricycle and get enough to pay for the glass. He got almost up to the store three different times and then came pedaling back home, howling all the way, to tell me that all the world knows that any little boy wouldn't like to sell his tricycle that Santa Clause gave him to keep, and besides he could run errands lots faster if he had it and I might be in an awful hurry some day. So I handed him the flashlight and sent him to the basement for coal. Intrigued by the light, Marilyn went with him. She liked to ride the tricycle too, Norman reminded me, so that was another reason why he shouldn't sell it … After I dressed DeMar this morning, he came holding up one foot saying, 'Get the cinder out.' Taking off his shoe, I discovered it had a marble in it.

Yesterday at dinner, Norman said, 'Can I have another doughnut?'

'No, you've had enough,' I said.

'Well, can I have another?' he asked.

'I said no.'

'Well, can I?'

'What did I tell you?' I was exasperated.

'You said no.'

'Do I ever say yes after I've said no?'

'Well, once when Joseph Smith was writing from those gold plates, he asked the Lord if he could take what he'd written and show his folks. The Lord told him no and so he asked again and the Lord told him no and he asked again and the Lord told him yes.' A triumphant gleam was in his eyes.

'And what happened to those records?' I asked.

'They were lost, but I wouldn't lose the doughnut. I'd eat it. Can I?'

'No!'

Somewhat downcast, he said, 'I thought you'd be as good as the Lord.'

You need to be with your children. They are a joy. DeMar says such amusing things, and Marilyn and Norman are learning to assume responsibilities. Marilyn would take full care of Shirley if I'd let her. Shirley is so cute. She sits up and takes notice of all that goes on. My mother says Shirley is unusually peaceful and sweet because the Lord has honored us for keeping up with our church activities.

170Hawthorne, February 20, 1942

You just can't imagine the cash that's in circulation here. Just like gold rush days. Think of guys like Orin and Sheldon working at 75¢ an hour for ten hours a day, getting eleven hours pay, making $8.25. Everybody feels like money is nothing, after the first pinch is over, and four out of five of them just throw it around just like any gold camp. Most people don't want to go into a cabin or housing game, because it costs more for labor than the cabin is worth, and being unable to guess the future, don't do anything but eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow, who knows. … I hope your cow trouble is going to be less. I dreamed last night that i was there on the sqaure and feed was knee high, and you were looking well.

Home, Saturday night, 11:20, February 21, 1942

Do you remember those 'little moments of eternity' when we could relax at the end of the day? Do you remember how we caught a bit of heaven realizing how much we loved our life together. … You have a beautiful sould which makes itself felt across the miles. I feel your humility, sincerity and kindness in every letter. It is lovely to be Mrs. Winferd Gubler. … I went to see your dad tonight to get a little cow-education. He and Van made merry over my troubles. They said I'd been too good to the cow, that she was trying to show her appreciation. I do get nine quarts of milk every day. They told me not to give her two quarts of oats a day but to cut down a little. That cow has got me hoodooed. She chases after me and bucks every time I come in sight. When I stake her out, she chases me to the end of her chain and then stands and bawls because she can go no further. I led her onto the square tonight and she thundered after me as I went after the peg and hammer. I got over the fence into the field and ran to the house. She bellered and beat me there. I didn't take her back, but hooked her to a post in front and gave her a flake of hay. Your folkscame in the car and Van turned the lights on her. When she tried to follow me into the house, they all laughed and said she was idolizing me. I don't go for this cave man stuff, especially from a cow. I don't know what to make of her. We just don't speak the same language.

I didn't get a letter from you today. Kate says that's good for me, that disappointments strengthen the soul. Well, they don't I want to cry and be cuddled. I get tired of being a brick, of being brave and dependable. I'd enjoy throwing a tantrum. I'd rather be my sinful self and quit trying to be what I'm not. I don't like Hawthorne, Nevada. I don't like war. I don't like concentration camps and the draft and all the farmers wearing carpenter overalls. I'm sick of people grabbing for this and that because they're afraid they can't get any more. I hate newspapers. I'd like to tie a pillow to Hitler's face until he smothers to death. I'd like to sink Japan in the ocean and take a broom and sweep the world clean and tell you to come home where you belong, and let you have your cow back and quarrel with you and kiss and make up and I'd like everything that is not! There! I've got that out of my system. Oh, darling, I love you so. Goodnight.

Hawthorne, February 23, 1942

I hope I see something for Norman's birthday around here. I guess he wouldn't mind what I got him. … I love to write to you for it seems that then I draw close to you, that you ought to talk to me. I love to think about you and dream about and even wonder. Though that usually brings on a great yearning to be with you. I'm trying to keep on the sunny side of life and like a good LDS, go on living for the future171when all things will be restored and brought together. If I am, I'm not on the right sea. Gosh, beautiful, I hope that compensations will be large enough to bribe me for awhile and bring visions of other things to keep the mind obscured from immediate personal desire. I'll go right on loving and caring with all my heart.

Home, February 24, 1942

The world is white outside. Norman Fuller just delivered your amazing package. DeMar was enthused over each treasure that was extracted from the box, especially your shirt with the spot of mercurochrome 'where Daddy was shot,' taking into his own personal possession the bread wrapper and the nail. I speedily put away the rest of the hardware lest Norman G. get hold of it and be as positive as DeMar that it was meant for him. DeMar has concealed the nail in the pages of a Digest, and is unwilling to relinquish it to anyone. It is from Daddy. Was it Ruskin who said, 'If a straw tickleth a man, then it is an instrument of happiness?' … I like your wisecrack about how interesting a wife would be if she was as spirited as a cow. Now that you've had your little joke, I'll tell you one. She's been a good cow since she has her new headdress. Does that remind you of a wife? The halter your dad made for her has calmed her right down. Now I'm worried about feed. She has grazed the square bare, and the same with the back lane. And there's no hay to be had. There just isn't any feed. I took her across the road today. There's about two day's feed there. It hurts my pride to have to drag her all over town. Can't we build a shed before another winter, so her hay won't spoil? Oh dear! There goes a big wagon load of hay this minute in front of our window. Let's see! No, it didn't turn up the hill. It went on. I wonder who and where! I've never been so interested in hay before.

Hawthorne, February 24, 1942

After supper tonite we walked up to see if the kids were back with their wives. Yes. They got in about 3 a.m. and Ardella was quite tickled to see us. Willard was moving in an old stove Orin and Sheldon brought out, not half so good a one as we sold for five dollars.

Ardella said you were sitting on your door steps pining your heart out. Oh my! What must I do? Life without the fruits of love, and a world without love are two bad examples of famine I think I should never want to overtake me. … I feel strange being on a big job among total strangers. I get quite a variety of tasks to do - putting on roofing, trimming the outside of the buildings, helping on the planer. … I went to the store and told the lady i wished I could find a spoon for my lunch bucket and she had her boy run in the house and bring me one of their odds and ends. It is a fine enough spoon too. Now I can take me a can of beans along for dinner. … Guess I had best be visiting the sandman. I'm still in love with you and hope you can find a few sparkles of light for your fairy dreams now as I begin to get some pay days. Be good to my best girl and all my kids. W.G.

Hawthorne, February 25, 1942

Sweetheart, hear another heart warmer. Only because I love you do I write, or do a great many other little things in your behalf. But I love everything that brings you near me, and here I am. Only telling is a trifle, and repetition is very sweet when it goes for making sure you never forget for one little moment the fullness of my heart for you. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, when one lives for long with just a sweet bit of heaven for a memory - always forgetting the dross of life - then it is what I call an eternal, unfalterable love. Now I've known the sweet, I have to come away to appreciate my loss the more keenly and you may be sure I couldn't stay away for many moons.

172I saw a beautiful sunrise this morning, right out in your direction, and even that took me to memory lane. And I've discovered why it is I like to go to shows. The love scenes can take me over into a reincarnation of mine for you. Then Lew is hardly the right pal to stay with steady, now is he?

The idea of me nearly filling a page without one blush. Now I had expected to start my letter entirely different. I got out the paper and Lew said we had to be going if we saw the show, and the girl in it was so much like you I had to come home and tell you over again.

I'm mailing Norman his birthday card. Also enclosed is a little expense money. I have some to do till Saturday night, then I will see a pay day. They make the weeks end on Thursday night, so I get me about $20 this week. … Just you keep on dreaming and let's make a few of them come true. That's what I'm here for and with the Lord's help, we can't lose. … I'm on the ground floor now on the job, and on the past two days, I'm getting the tempo of the works. I enjoy working with the bunch very much. They are mostly California guys. We work in a big shed (shop) and two of us work on a setup. There are three tables and we make forms on them. We only do three a day and they don't pile up very fast. We will be months getting a bunch ready, then they will use each set about ten times - make ten buildings and then have us tear off the plywood and put on new. It's a big job. They figure on making about two buildings a day, and they have hundreds to make, so unless Japan can get the U.S. taken over sooner, this job here is as long as the war lasts. … I wrote and told Dad I would return to the farm if things turned out that he was left without help.

Don't blame my baby brother for wanting to join the Air Corp. I know very well I'd be just like he is if I took the notion my draft was closing in on me. Now would you afterall? The farm didn't do anything for Don but pile up debts, and the Air Corp pays $75 a month and expenses while you learn and then $250 per while training others. Attractive eh? As compared to $21 to $30 in the draft.

I'm packing my lunch as I told you, and liking it. I get by for so much less and have a good third more to eat for so much less and can get more variety than at the cafe. There it is the identical thing every day. I'm going to buy a bottle of preserves to make my sweet sandwiches and cut down (out) taking a bar each day. … Is your grain up at all yet? Cheers to my little farmer. Yes, we must get a shed up for next year. That's a project. See Ed and find out if he would have some hay to spare. Max had some of Nellies once. He may still hold it for sale.

What has become of your folks? You never say much about them. Have Bill and Clint come out and get some of this easy money. They could go to work the next day after getting out here and make $40 or $50 a week.

Hawthorne - No date.

Surprise again darling. You will get one every day for two days. I just finished my supper a bit late, and now I'm sleepy. Your letter came today and duly enjoyed. The kids art work was great stuff. Give Norman two more years and he will do some pretty good drawing, won't he? … I long for the day when we can begin to lay up our supplies. I live down there with you half the time while I work out here at the job. You play a big role in my little world and I would like to rehearse with you again so the play can go on. Or is it me that's off the state? Well, anyway I still love to think about a bright day in the future when there will be a difference.

173Don't go without anything you need. And I'll pay your ticket any time you can find a ride to Hurricane to a show. … Why don't you get yourself a new spring coat? I didn't have your measurements to send for one. But I would like to have you get one. Also a dress so as to make up a snazzy outfit. I'm getting my old gray trousers cleaned and fixed up and I can use them for clean up each evening. … Well, I'll close out today's account and send along a nice big hug and kisses to go with it. I'm a lonesome man, I'll have you know, and all I can do about it is tell you and make you that much more so. But be long suffering, and there'll come a day. My blessings on the little gal, and someday I'll be a pal. W.

Hawthorne, March 2, 1942

… Oh my, but today has been a beauty. Spring fever has me. I sure like one scene here and that is the white peaks up above the pure blue lake, both in sun or moonlight. I took a stroll down the street, drinking in the scene and fresh air and thinking of you. I always come to that and wish a thousand wishes, mostly tied up in our biggest wish of all, that you could be with me. It is funny to think of it being so true with both of us, and yet there is such a little known of what lies ahead, that one instinctively hesitates to take any very costly action to realize the desire. Luther asked me today, as he sat here thinking, (I reading the paper) if there was anything that would keep you from coming out here for two years. Now he has the idea of getting our families our here and just staying on as long as the job lasts. Well, it could be made into something. And a lot of members here are doing the same.

Just before I turn in to do a lot more thinking before the sand man gets me, I want to do just a few lines of the favored song hit, 'I Love You Truly.' That theme is my great comfort and protection. So much of life that is exotic and enduring comes to life in us only when in turn can both give and receive love. Across the miles I send you a heart full to the brim, and life is only worth the living when you have some measure of it to help carry the load. I don't know how to appreciate all you mean to me or do for me than to more than say, Sweetheart, how I love you. Winferd. P.S. Tell Marilyn and Norman I am going to write to them next, and for them to write back to me. I've looked for notes from them ever since I sent cards before.

LaVerkin, March 1, 1942

… I'm afflicted with the affection of a cow. I haven't tied the old heifer up since milking her this morning - jus gave her full range, but she keeps trotting to the house and stands looking at the windows and bawling. I get so mad at her. I take her back to grass and the old biddy follows me back like a puppy. I took her to the bottom of the lot then came to feed Shirley. Soon there was a lot of squealing outside. Going out, I found Marilyn and Norman and all of their friends up in the apricot tree, holding onto the cow's chain. They practically had her standing on her hind legs. Her nose is so sensitive since Van fixed her halter. They were really hurting her. I scolded the kids and made them get down. After I went back to the baby, I heard shouting and laughing in a new direction. The kids had corralled the cow and were climbing all over the fence, yanking her chain this way and that. I saw red and threatened to whip every one of them. I took the cow up the lane and pegged her out to keep her from following me.

174Today is a red letter day for Marilyn. Her duck laid an egg in the straw. She ran all over with the egg, lovingly rubbing it before finally taking it back to the straw. Those ducks have been furnishing their share of occupation lately. The kids dug that hole wider where you got the clay for your mortar. They flood it then they each catch their duck and carry it to water. They heard them there and won't let them get out. The female doesn't mind spending the day in the water, but the male would rather stand outside squeaking his admiration at her.

Marilyn gave Norman a can of viennas for his birthday and DeMar gave him a package of punch powder. Norman was impressed with the idea that he could do with them just as he pleased. The minute dinner was over today, he asked for bread and butter sandwiches and a bottle to make punch in and the kids went up the late for a picnic. They consumed their second dinner before one o'clock.

Hawthorne, March 3, 1942

… My little visit to the bishop tonite netted me a job of ward teaching. They have eleven beats here of four families each. I am to go with a Brother Hughes, a young priest. … By the way, I bought a piece of rock salt for the cow and it was up in Ed's pear orchard by the gate. She needs a taste once in awhile, every week I guess would do. Take Marilyn or Norman along to carry it to her. … I sure did enjoy your letter. I don't take any grains of salt with the nice things you tell me either. … My check for the last week's two days was $4.00 more than Lew's. I don't know just how the company did it. But he got $1.25 an hour and I $1.50. It would be great if they kept that up a few weeks. … At present I am with

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Online Publication Notes

1. The following links give some background information about the city of Hawthorne, Nevada during the World War II era in 1942, specifically as to why the town had a lot of job opportunities, which was why Winferd went there to work:

   • https://www.nevadaweb.com/cnt/pio/hawth/ - See about half-way down the page

   —Andrew Gifford, 9 Jul. 2011

2. It seems that Winferd was referring to a couch that folds out to become a bed, whether made by the A.H. Davenport company or not, as can be implied from theWikipedia entry for 'Davenport (sofa).'

   —Andrew Gifford, 9 Jul. 2011

3. According to Dictionary.com, a flivver is 'an automobile, especially one that is small, inexpensive, and old.' Also it may refer to 'A Model T Ford' automobile.

199With the exodus of farmers from our area, our ward suffered a man shortage. The Young Men's Mutual Organization had been dissolved, and Vilate Hardy carried on as Young Women's president, with Geneva Segler and me as her counselors. Although our numbers were few, we had a lot of good times together.

Vilate and her husband, George, were in the turkey business at this time. In the springtime, Vilate asked us to come to her home to an officer's and teacher's meeting, which also included the bishopric. Actually, it was a surprise party for all of us. She had prepared a most extravegant turkey dinner for the crowd.

In April, Bishop Squire and his two counselors attended conference in Salt Lake City. This was a special occasion for Winferd.

Percy and LaVell Wittwer had moved from Las Vegas to Orem, Utah, where Percy worked as an electrician for Geneva Steel. One day in April he was killed in an accident at the roller mills. We were stunned at the news. It seemed impossible that our ranks would ever be broken. LaVell was left with four little children, her baby being only three months old.

Shirley was a cute littler talker by now, but she had one real hang-up. She hated to have her hair combed. It was so curly that it took the two of us to get the job done. Winferd would hold her on his knee while I brushed and wound her shining ringlets around my fingers. Winferd's eyes lit up with admiration as he looked on. Then he'd set her down, and she'd take hold of his hand, and together they'd walk in the yard, Winferd chuckling at her constant chatter. She'd stoop to watch the ants among the leaves, and make little beds for them in the grass.

'There now, nice little bug, go to sleep,' she'd purr.

She couldn't pronounce 'Gubler,' so she called herself, 'Shirley Booger.' This always brought gales of laughter from the kids, which pleased her, so she'd say it over and over. Even after she learned to say 'Gubler,' she still referred to herself as a 'nice booger.'

One day she shut the window on two of her fingers, taking the nail off one. Her crying stopped as she watched me wrap each finger. 'Nice dollies,' she cooed. 'Shirley Booger's nice dollies.' She kept the rags on her fingers a day or two longer than necessary, because she loved her 'dollies.'

And my how she loved DeMar. Although he teased her to tears every day, she always coaxed, 'Come on DeMar,' when she went out to play.

On July 28, our little boy Gordon was born. When LaVell Hinton placed him in my arms, I felt like all the angels of heaven rejoiced. Cute! Oh my yes! His dark hair hung down over his flannel nightgown, and the quizzical look on his little face let me know he was eager to find out what life was all about. Gordon was born at LaVell Hinton's maternity home, and of course McIntire was our doctor.

200When Gordon was a week old, his cousin, Leon Duncan, was born at LaVell's also. Ardella and I had one full week togther there, with our husbands visiting us in the evenings. The event took on a social atmosphere.

The Fruit Grower's Association had imported Japanese help, and peach picking was in full swing when I came home with my baby. John Judd hired a Japanese merchant from San Francisco, who came to pick fruit during his vacation. The man and his wife lived in the northeast basement room of our new home. My cousing, Sylvia Gifford, was our hired girl. She did our cooking and housework, but since it was peach bottling time, there was an extra load.

As I prepared to help, the Japanese lady said, 'Oh no! In Japan a mother never puts her hands in water until her baby is one month old.'

She stayed right in our kitchen and helped Sylvia until our bottling was all done. Her husband was right at Winferd's side as soon as his day's work in John Judd's orchard was done. Landscaping was the man's hobby. Our garden and yard never got such a grooming as it did at this time. Both the man and Winferd seemed to be having an unusually happy time together. These people were of the very highest calber. So were the four Japanese boys who picked Winferd's fruit. They lived in a tent under the poplar tree on the square.

The Secretary of War had marked off military areas to provide for moving American born Japanese, as well as enemy aliens. Under the office of War Relocation Authority, camps for displaced Japanese were set up, some of them in Utah. This is how the Japanese happened to be working in our area. With their help, the Fruit Grower's Association shipped 107 carloads of fruit from here in 1943. It takes 528 bushel to make one car load.

I was absorbed with bathing the baby, when Bishop Squire entered. He didn't come to see Winferd, as I had supposed, but to see me.

'The Lord has directed us to ask you to be YWMIA president,' he said simply.

I gathered my baby in a blanket, and sinking into a chair, gazed silently at the bishop. Was I hearing right? How could I think of MIA with my baby so new? Did the Lord really know about this?

Seeming to read my thoughts, the bishop said, 'We discussed this in bishop's meeting, and your husband approves. You will be blessed in the selection of your counselors and will find joy in this calling.'

What was there left to say but, 'I'll do it.'

Belva Sanders and Ellen Woodbury were sustained as my counselors, and Lucille Gubler as secretary. The YMMIA was also organized, with George Sandstrom as YM president, and Horatio Gubler as both counselors, and Walter Church as secretary.

On October 21, Tell's wife, Audrey, died. Her passing was as sudden as Percy's had been. This came as a terrible shock. It seemed incredible that our ranks could be broken again so soon. Audrey left four little201children between the ages of ten and two. Tell was returning from a scout training school in New Jersey. Audrey died from a heart attack in the morning, and he arrived home that afternoon. Since Tell had to be away to earn a living, Grandma Gubler took care of his children.

At the close of 1943, ration stamp books were still in force. Many canned goods were rationed, as well as sugar, meat, butter, fats, oils, gasoline, tires, and building materials. Rents were frozen at the July 1 level. Americans were urged to buy more war bonds and U.S. savings stamps. School children gathered scrap metal and scrap rubber for the war effort. People were urged to turn in all of their bacon drippings and every spoonful of grease. In fact, they were almost made to feel guilty if they used any to cook with. One patriotic woman proclaimed, 'It is better to give the fat to our country, than to carry it on our hips.' Thus was the state of affairs with the people.

The world itself was restless. This was the year the little spiral of smoke curled up from a Mexican corn field, and the volcano Paricutin, was born. This was the first recorded volcano where man actually witnessed its birth. It built its cone 1,200 feet above the plowed sod.

201With Dixie Harrison as chairman, the ward celebrated an old fashioned May Day, down on Wayne Wilson's Ash Creek farm. Swings were fastened to tall cottonwood trees, game tables were set up in the shade for 'checkers' and 'fox and geese,' an area was cleared for soft ball, and pegs planted for horseshoe pitching, and of course, there was a May pole. A long table, made of planks on saw horses, was set up for the potluck dinner. The day promised to be a perfect one.

Winferd had gone ahead with the older children, while I stayed to care for the baby. As I prepared my salad and casserole, Winferd returned, carrying a glassy eyed little boy into the house.

DeMar was floppy and quiet. Poor little fellow. Usually he was awfully noisy, imagining himself a feed mill with a roaring engine, or an airplane. Now he lay still. As I wrung out cool cloths for his head, I thought how gentle and sweet he was. Could this possibly be the same rowdy rebel of yesterday? Today he appreciated my attention. Yesterday he didn't like my attitude. When I took a cake from the oven, he wanted me to cut it right then.

'No,' I replied, 'it's for dinner.'

He regarded me for a moment, then announced, 'I'm going to get me a new wife. I'm tired of my old wife.'

202'Who is your old wife?' I asked.

'You are.' he replied.

He could see no reason why a boy had to sit down to eat with the family at meal times when piecing all day long was easier. He thought boys should not be expected to bathe and get ready for bed when night time came, either.

'I feel like busting down the house. Old drawer,' he said to his chest of drawers, 'I'm going to break you for holding my sleepers.' To his bed, he said, 'Old bed, I'm going to burn you up.'

But when I put my arm around him and said, 'Kneel down now and say your prayers,' he earnestly prayed, 'Heavenly Father, please help me to be a good boy.'

DeMar had hastened Gordon's growing up, too. The other children learned to crawl before they walked, but not Gordon. When Gordon was only ten months old, DeMar came growling across the floor at him.

'I'm a bear and I'm going to eat you up.'

Gordon squealed and ran, wrapping his arms around my legs. From that day on, he walked.

The day after May Day, I realized how beautiful DeMar's motor sounded. How relieved I was that he was ok.

In July, Leonard Hardy's family and our family went on a camping trip together at Navajo Lake. One afternoon, as we hiked to the ice cave, Neil and Norman ran ahead, and we lost track of them. We called and called, but our voices were muffled by the trees. An hour passed without our seeing any sign of them, and I became panicky. The sun was dropping behind the trees and it would soon be dark. We might have to call out a searching party. I visualized spotlights and lanterns shining through the trees all night. To make matters worse, someone suggested that there were bears on Cedar Mountain. At the height of my anxiety, Neil and Norman came down the path toward us. They had raced to the ice cave ahead of us, and since we were forever catching up, they had been on an exploring expedition.

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207In the spring, Winferd hooked the truck onto the sagging wire fence across the top of the lot and yanked it out, along with the blackberry bramble. He built a rail fence in its place, and hauled in sand for lawns and flowers.

'I'll leave the fence for you to paint,' he said, 'and since we can't eat flowers, I'll leave them for you to grow, too.'

Our new lawn came up thick, but as the days turned hot, keeping the young grass watered was a problem. Terry was walking by now, and he and Gordon were like a pair of ducks, going everywhere side by side. I had to guard the spray nozzle or they would dig holes in the lawn with it. Like a kangaroo, I constantly leaped up and down the steps to my housework, then back to the lawn sprinkler. If I found it gullying out the lawn, I scolded. Gordon and Terry learned to disappear when I came in sight. Once, when I heard Gordon say, 'See Terry, I'm spraying the walk,' I charged out the back door and around the house to surprise him. when he saw me coming, he was too startled to put the hose down, but froze, with the spray208nozzle turned full upon me. I gasped and spluttered, charging into the cold, stinging spray. Bewildered, Gordon began to whimper, still aiming the nozzle at me. When I saw the look in his eyes, and heard the unhappy whimper, I cooled off, (to put it mildly), replaced the hose, and took the three of us inside for dry clothes.

One afternoon, I drove to Ruby Webb's house to ask her to give a lesson in MIA on 'Safety in the home and on the farm.' Gordon rode in the back seat.

'You stay in the car,' I said. 'I'll only be a minute.'

I parked with the gears in reverse, because of the slope. As I entered Ruby's house, she said, 'Your car is going.' I ran, but the car was gaining speed. It crossed the intersection, bouncing through an abandoned ditch, mowed down a couple of Powell Stratton's fence posts, and came to rest in his pomegranate bushes. Gordon was pitched over the back of the front seat, where he limply hung, wide eyed and white. Ruth Stratton ran from her house, and was there ahead of me.

As I opened the car door, Gordon said in a quivering voice, 'I didn't drive it. The car runned away.'

I was too shaken to back the vehicle out of its predicament, so Ruth did it for me. I almost didn't have the nerve to tell Ruby why I came.

My mother used to say we should start getting ready for Sunday on Monday. I knew she was right, but it never worked out that way for me. Come Saturday, I usually had a week's work to be done before night. The particular Saturday I speak of was typical. I had cooked, mended, and scrubbed, both house and kids, until I got my usual Saturday sag. Finally, the last child was tucked in, and I collapsed into a chair with a sigh. Oh, for one blissful moment of relaxation! Then, from the basement, the nightly ritual began.

'Motherrrrr, I need a drink.'

'Mother, I need to go to the bathroom.'

'Make Norman stop hitting me.'

'DeMar is pulling my hair.'

Like a martyr I arose, responding to each cry.

I felt abused. Then annoyed. Then aggravated. Then exasperated. THEN DOWNRIGHT FURIOUS! I HAD HAD IT! As sounds of unnecessary vitality vibrated from the rooms below, I stormed to the head of the stairs.

'ONE MORE SOUND OUT OF YOU KIDS, AND I'LL COME DOWN THERE AND PITCH ALL OF YOU OUT.' (That's not all I said, but that's all I'll admit to.)

Then I turned. Standing in the hall, grinning at me, was Emerald Stout. Behind him was Wilford Leaney and Lafe Hall, the Stake High Priest Presidency. Winferd was their secretary, and they had come to our house for a meeting. The men had let themselves in, because Winferd was momentarily out, and I was yelling too loud to hear their knock. Emerald and Wilford were amused, but as Winferd walked in, Lafe gave him a sad, sympathetic look. The tone of my voice, and my shouted words echoed back in209in my ears, and I stood appalled, hearing myself as others heard me. My face burned.

The Fruit Grower's Association imported a bus load of help from Mexico, when the crops were ready to harvest. Winferd's pears were never more beautiful. He had pruned, sprayed and thinned, and the crop was bounteous. Still, at the packing shed, his pears were culled back, and culled back, because of bruises. Once, he walked into the orchard, instead of driving. That's when he discovered his trouble. His men were in the tree tops, whacking the fruit down with sticks, and filling the baskets from the ground. These men were from Mexico City, and knew nothing about farming. The Association had a bunch of unhappy farmers that year.

In September I was released as WMIA President, and sustained as Stake Special Interest leader.

An example of an art deco Hull Art Mardi Gra vase, of 1940s vintage, perhaps similar to what Alice describes.

Winferd and I were usually involved in setting up the LaVerkin Ward Fruit display at the Hurricane Peach Days each summer. Often, we captured the blue ribbon. This year I also entered my flowers. My garden had been a mass of bloom all summer long, and at the Fair, I took first place. With my prize money, I bought a set of three Hull Art vases, fluted and tinted from a clear pink at the top, fading gradually, like evening clouds, to sky blue at the base. These were absolute luxuries. Normally, we never bought anything but necessities. Then when Winferd went to Salina after a load of coal, he brought me a necklace. That was an absolute luxury, too.

'I saw the necklace in the window of Christensen's store,' he said. 'The sun was shining on it. I stood glued to the window, fascinated with its jets of colors, and I said to myself, 'Alice has got to have that necklace.'

It wasn't my birthday, or Christmas, or anything like that. That necklace was a total, thrilling surprise. I had two other necklaces. One was a string of blue glass beads that Winferd had given me on our second date, and the other was of braided seed pearls that he gave me on our first Christmas. That was the year I bought him the white buckskin gloves with the beaded gauntlets. The Indian woman who had made them brought them in to the store to sell, when I was helping with the Christmas rush.

209Throughout the year of 1947, the Church celebrated the 100th anniversaryof the saints entering the Salt Lake Valley. As Stake MIA Special Interestleader, I was in charge of the Centennial Dance in March. With feed sacksdyed a pretty blue, I made my centennial dress. The floor length skirt wasfull and swirly, and the the waist nipped in to a slenderness that I recall withlonging. The shell pink lace dickey, fastened around the throat with abeading of black ribbon. Lace ruffled at the wrists of the mutton leg sleeves.I made a swallowtail coat for Winferd from an old dress coat. He wore kneebritches, long stockings, and had gold buckles on his shoes. We curtsied,and gracefully swayed through the minuet, in the floor show. This beautifulaffair is highly embellished by memory, because Winferd was there, escortingme on his arm, bowing and smiling at me. The camera of my mind undoubtedlytook a lovelier picture of the affair than any ordinary camera would havedone.

210Utah had a state-wide beautification project that year, and I waschairman of the committee in LaVerkin. Opportunity had flung her door wideopen to me. When we built our home facing the square, we little realizedthe complications we were heaping upon ourselves. There was no throughroad. To get in and out, we had to drive across the square. Every timeit rained, the hard packed clay became as sticky as flypaper, and wecould neither get in nor out with a car. The Vernon Church family, tothe west of us, had to either go around three blocks to get to the churchhouse, or to walk through Uncle Jo Gubler's field on a little footpathalong the ditch bank. Town people often cut through our lot to go toChurch's. We regretted building our home where there was no road. Checkingthe original plat for LaVerkin, I found where many of the roads hadbeen closed, and sold to the adjoining land owners, with the stipulationthey would be reopened when the need arose. The need was now.

Grandpa Gubler said he would give Winferd the necessary land on thenorth side of our lot so we would still have an acre of ground, andWickley Gubler said he would give up the north row of pear trees in hisorchard. We would have to sacrifice a row of English walnut trees.

When I presented the plan to the town council, there was some lamenting.'No one will use the road but you,' I was told.

'You promised that if I would take this job, I would have your fullsupport,' I reminded them.

A Lombardy poplar

The first (or foremost) in a line of several such trees. (Populus nigra, Italica or Lombardy cultivar)

Public domain image

Reluctantly they agreed to opening up the road. I scheduled a Saturdayin March to cut down the poplar trees along the square that were inthe middle of the right-of-way. Practically every man in the town came, withaxes, saws, chains, and all of the necessary equipment. First, they toreout the old grandstand. This was like a funeral. The ball players grievedopenly, and as they looked up at the tall lombardies that had been plantedby the first pioneers, they shook their heads.

'Someone is going to be mad at you next summer, ' one of them remarked.

'The trees are rotten,' I responded. 'They break in every wind.'

The lombardies in front of our house were an ugly litter of brokenbranches.

The whine of the saw went through the first tree, and it crashed to theground. The huge old trunk was nothing but pithy, dry rot, with the exceptionof a two- or three-inch live section around the outer edge. Whenthe men saw this, there was never another word said. They not only cut downthe trees along the right-of-way, but went on around the square, felling allnineteen of the old pioneer sentinels. Like beavers they worked, sawing upthe wood, and stacking it behind the church house, and cleaning up thelimbs. By sundown, the square was clean.

The people worked diligently to open up the road, clearing away all ofthe nut and fruit trees, and graveling the surface of the new road. Webuilt new, tight fences. Sanders Brothers had their turkey hatchery inoperation above the canal, and trucks began rolling daily down the newroad. As long as the hatchery was in operation, this road was the maintrunk into town.

211The day we went to St. George to buy car licenses, we didn't havemoney to buy two sets of plates, so we only licenced the sedan. At hayhauling time, Winferd had a problem. He couldn't haul hay in a passengercar. Besides that, he only had one battery and coil between the two outfits.So he parked the car that wore the license plates, and put thebattery and coil in the truck.

'I feel like there are phantom cops behind every tree,' Winferd confessed.One day at dinner, he announced, 'A cop pulled me over today.'

'Oh no,' I groaned. 'License plates are cheaper than fines.'

'But I didn't get a ticket,' he said. 'The cop just yelled, 'Heymister, get those kids off from your cab. Do it now!' then drove away.'

'What on earth were the kids doing on the cab' I asked.

'I thought they were riding on the load of hay, but when that coppulled me over, there sat Norman and DeMar, perched upon the cab. I wasdriving fairly fast, too.'

'And he didn't get you for not having license plates?'

'I'm sure he would have, but the kids were so conspicuous that hecouldn't see anything but them.'

'Thank goodness for small favors,' I sighed.

After that little brush with the law Winferd didn't push his luck,but took time out to go to St. George to license the truck.

Again the Fruit Grower's Association imported Mexican help, but thistime they were not city boys, but farmers. Winferd's four Mexicans livedin our little house. They were destitute. The Mexican government hadkilled their cattle and burned them in trenches, because of the hoof andmouth disease, and their families were hungry. These men were industriousand faithful. They never went to Hurricane to a movie, or even so much asindulged in a bottle of pop, but sent every possible penny back to theirfamilies. At the end of the day, they would sit in our yard and sing.Their voices were mellow and rich, and we enjoyed them. They appreciatedfresh loaves of bread from our oven, and loved baked apples heaped withhomemade ice cream. They liked our big front room, too. Often, as theysat there, they'd say, 'You teach us English. We teach you Spanish.' Wedidn't grab the opportunity as we should have.

One evening after they said goodnight, Winferd remarked, 'They're soloveable that they'd almost come in and sit on our laps.'

After the pear harvest was over, we packed our camping gear in the truck,ready to take a long-planned vacation. I had baked many kinds of cookiesand sealed them up in molasses buckets. I had patched overalls and packedcoats, bedding, dishes, and grub boxes, while Winferd tied up loose ends onthe farm. The truck was outfitted with a canvas, drawn tightly over wagonbows. We whistled as we hustled with our preparations.

Then Ovando burst through the front door. 'Where's Win?' he asked.

'Watering the lucerne.'

'Tell him I won't be able to use Donworth this week, so he'd betterstart cleaning the molasses mill while he has help.'

212'But we're leaving for Bryce Canyon in the morning,' I gasped.

'You can't earn a living by going off on vacation,' he said gruffly.

'You sure can't,' I snapped. 'That isn't earning a living. It's living.'

'When you're depending on the farm for a living, the farm comes first.We can't use Don tomorrow, so Win had better use him while he's available.It's a lot of hogwash running off on vacations. When you're working withother people, you had better arrange your affairs to fit theirs.'

My eyes were beginning to shoot sparks. 'Look, just because you andHoratio can't pick apples tomorrow, you want us to change our plans. Thefamily comes before the farm. If it wasn't for families, who'd need a farm?'

'If you don't take care of the farm, the family can't eat. If Windoesn't get the mill ready, we'll run into frost before the molasses is made.'

I couldn't believe him! 'Do you think we're going to let our kids downjust because of your schedule? We've made plans and promises. Everyone isexcited and ready to go.'

'Well! If you've made up Win's mind, there's nothing I can do,' hehuffed, whirling on his heel.

Almost bumping into him, Winferd said, 'She didn't make up my mind.I promised the family this trip, and now we're ready to go.'

'You'd better get the mill cleaned while Don is free to help. You'llset us back till frost if you don't.'

'The mill will be ready before you are,' Winferd promised.

With a snort, Van was gone.

Ooh! I wanted to storm after him and smash him.

Putting a strong arm around me, Winferd said, 'Calm down dear. Ovandojust doesn't understand about wives and kids.'

'I'll say he doesn't. I get so mad at him. It burned me up when hescolded you for buying me a winter coat, instead of using the money to buycabbages and onions to peddle. Forty-seven years without a wife ruins afellow.'

Winferd grinned. 'Someday he'll marry, and we'll all get a kick out ofwhat happens to him then.'

As I cooled off, I had to admit Ovando was the family pet, and everywoman in town was always picking out the perfect wife for him. And weenjoyed him a lot on Saturday nights, when he came to exchange haircuts withWinferd.

We were gone five days on a camping trip to Duck Creek and Bryce Canyon.As Winferd had promised, the mill was cleaned and ready long before anyonewas ready to cut the cane.

That November, our precious Lolene was born at LaVell Hinton's home.As I looked at her, I wished that every woman in the world could have a babygirl exactly like her. She was born under the 'new order.' I DIDN'T HAVETO LAY IN BED TWO WEEKS. I could even get up and go to the bathroom, and Icould sit up to eat. After ten days, I came home happy and strong, and hunga washing on the line. The December sunshine was glorious.

Online Publication Notes

1. Alice refers to a cultivar of Populus nigra (or black poplar) trees, or the Italica cultivar, that grows with branches nearly parallel to the main stem, forming a very columnar shape and coming to a narrow crown. Because the cultivar originated in the Mediterranean region, it is adapted to hot, dry summers. It is a male clone with a short lifespan, prone to fungal diseases, which can be blown over in high winds. This matches Alice's narrative. See the Wikipedia article, 'Populus nigra' article, the Cultivars section.

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321January 9. When I stopped to pick Lolene up tonight, Allie said,'I'm not going to sustain you in Stake MIA one more time. It's all nonsensefor you to go out on stake work when you've been away from yourfamily all day.'

'What are you going to do next Sunday at Stake Conference? Hold upyour hand when they say, 'opposed'?'

'You bet I am,' he said.

'Good. I really need to be released.'

Allie is a bishop, too.

Sunday, January 11. In conference today, the Stake Relief Society,Stake Sunday School, and Stake MIA, both young men, and young women,were released. Guess who they sustained in my place! Kate!

Chucking, I congratulated Allie. In a state of shock, he said,'Your kids have got you now, but I have lost my wife.'

When he came to our house this afternoon, I piled my stack of MIAmanuals in his lap. 'Take these to Kate, please.' He just tared atthem.

January 12. No stake meeting for me tonight. I can't believe it.To stay home on Monday night!! I was in the laundry room merilly singing,'This is the night I iron my clothes, etc.', when the door burstopen and Bessie Judd and Margarete Nuttal came laughing in.

'We're lonesome,' Margaret said.

Bessie was trying to cushion the shock of our release by clowning.She remembered every funny little thing that had happened while we weretogether, and dramatized them for us. We planned a party to celebrateour new status, and Bessie outlined a skit. In it, she poked fun atthe entire board. Margaret and I laughted until we ached.

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329'No. It registers one-half full.'

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Saturday, 1 August. Last Sunday the state of Arizona made a raid onthe polygamists at Short Cree, Arizona. However, there was still somemopping up to do on the Utah side, so Washington County officials joinedin. The following account is from the Washington County News, datedJuly 30, 1953:

Washington County News—July 30, 1953

'Utah officially joined Arizona Wednesday in the breakup of United Effort cultists.… Washington County Sheriff Antone B. Prince and Israel Wade, deputy of St. George, arrested six Short Creek women on Arizona warrants and held warrants on 15 others.… Warrants of six women and 3 men and 12 or 15 other women, all were given to Sheriff Prince by a deputy attorney general of the state of Arizona. Formal extradition 330 papers had earlier been flown to Utah's Governer, J. Bracken Lee.… Residents believing the raid to be a joint Utah-Arizona break claimed to have stayed in their Utah homes, awaiting state troopers.… Meanwhile $43,000 bail has been raised and posted in Kingman, Arizona for the release of the 34 men and 50 women taken custody there Sunday. Short Creek has been bottled up from all sides and is under surveillance of state patrolmen of Arizona and pilice officers. Only official visitors are allowed to enter.'

For days, prior to this raid, the Washington County clerk's officehas been haunted by government snoopers from Arizona. They have beensearching through marriage license records to learn which of thepolygamist wives were lega. The wily 'pligs' it seems, have been bleedingArizona of its welfare funds by filing false claims. When Arizonaofficials became suspicious, an investigation was made, which ended in Sunday'sraid.

'It is illegal for men law officers to sieze women,' Antone Princeexplained, as he pinned deputy badges on Helen Bleak and me. Since wewere the only two women who were elected officials, we were deputized togo on last Wednesday's roundup.

The dust from Antone's car gave the warning signal that we werecoming. As we neared the shacks on the Utah side, we saw women, longskirts flapping, fleeing for the cedars. Dividing our ranks, Helenaccompanied Isral, and I went with Antone.

Before entering any of their shacks, Antone knocked, then called,then went in. In one place, bread dough was raising over the sides of themixing pan. In another, fruit boiled in a kettle, waiting to be bottled.In another, a tub of steaming suds held clothes waiting to be scrubbed onthe washboard. Everything bore witness of the hurried flight. Much as Idetest polygamy and the cowed-down looko on the faces of the women, Isuddenly felt very sorry for them.

The only people we found at home were old man Jessop and some of hiswives. Antone left me and his car in front of their gate. Handing me apistol, he ordered me not to let anyone leave the premisis, and showed mehow to call on the radio if I needed help, then he took off on foot.

After he lefet, the old man, his scraggly gray beard hanging down overhis chest, ambled through the gate. The pistol trembled in my hand.

'Pardon me, Mr. Jessop,' I said, 'I have orders not to let anyonecome out of this gate.'

The old man's rheumy, soppy red eyes looked into mine. 'I ain'tgoin' anywhere,' he said. His voice quavered, and I wondered at the gallonsof tears he must have shed. 'I only want to feed the goats.'

Looking at the barren goat pen near by, I said, 'Ok, but don't goany further.' I watched as he pitched a little flake of hay over the fence,then returned to the house.

Later in the afternoon, after they had rounded up all of the refugeespossible, court was held in a large government tent set up for this purpose.Reporters from national magazines and newspapers were there, eagerly anticipatingthe proceedings. One women on the stand was asked, 'Don't youeven feel jealous, knowing that your husband is making love to anotherwoman?'

331'Of course I do,' she replied, 'but we recognize the fact that a womanloves only one man, and that a man loves all women. It is God's will thatwomen understand this, and adjust to it.'

How revolting! It's lecherous old men's will. Nothing more.

A reporter from the Los Angeles Examiner grinned and said, 'Why didn'tI know about this years ago? This is the life for me.'

The whole affair was a long, hot, pitiful, dusty ordeal. One day asa deputy sheriff was enough for me.

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333January 20. Virgil1 left for the mission home last Monday. We said goodbye week ago tonight. I accompanied him as he bid his friends goodbye. It was like dropping valentines. He's a big guy. On all the doors he knocked big, and received big welcomes. People love him. I felt honored to be in tow. He didn't say goodbye to me. He said, 'Goodnight. Be happy.' After he closed the door, I stood looking into the glowing coals in the fireplace. To myself, I said, 'There he goes, out of my life forever.'

January 13. My prayers and pleadings for Norman have been filled with anguish. Finally I surrendered and signed the papers so he could enlist in the Air Force. He is still 17. I took him to catch the midnight bus in St. George night before last. As we rode, we talked of standards. I wanted him to carry with him the culmination of a lifetime of teachings. His bus pulled in at the Big Hand Cafe just five minutes after we arrived. He kissed me goodbye, and I watched as he climbed aboard and sat down, then I drove away.

At Middleton the bus passed me up. For a few miles I followed, my lights shining on its rear as it carried my son away from home, closing the chapter of his childhood. How I have worried over him, and loved him. Our long talks together have been precious. He's been the guy to man the furnace and get breakfast while I did other necessary chores before going to the office. Seeing the bus taking him away from me was to much. The night was dark and I was alone. No one would hear or see me cry. The road simmered through my tears, as I gripped the steering wheel, crying harder and harder. As the tears streamed down my face, it seemed there should be a hand to slip into mine. I slid one hand onto the empty seat, but no hand reached for mine. I was alone. But wait! Was I really alone? I prayed. I've never prayed harder—asking our Father in Heaven to take special care of the vanishing bus and my boy, and to help him come home whole and clean.

As I passed through Washington, there was a boy thumbing a ride. He was the same size as Norman. Brushing away my tears I stopped, and he ran, opening my car door.

'Where do you want to go?' I asked.

'To Cedar City.' he replied.

334'Oh, I'm so sorry. I turn off at the Y.'

'I'd better stay here,' he said.

I really wanted to pick him up. Who else would take him out of the cold at 1:00 a.m? If he had been going my way he could have slept in Norman's bed.

29 January. We got our first letter from Norman today. He is stationed at Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas. He writes:

'It's quite a coincident how I found the LDS branch here. This morning the commander had all the men fall out and go to the portestant services. After the opening song the chaplin stepped up and offered the opening prayer. The minute he started I knew he was a mormon, and immediately after the meeting I visited with him. He is son of the Secretary of Agriculture, Ezra Taft Benson. Talking to him sure gave me a lift. I sure needed it too. His name is Reed.

Tomorrow starts the third week since I left home and I haven't received one letter from anyone yet. I wonder why. I have written so many letters.'

Terry has been in the St. George hospital for a few days. He was too sick to enjoy all of the attention he got at first—earache, sore lungs and shots. But the servings day began to look pretty nice, and from there on those bed tables that roll up to any position, with the mirrors underneath, and hidden trays and mysterious compartments, what with molding clay, toys and cheerful nurses, made him feel like a monarch. Now that he's home he gets treated ordinary. He even has to wipe dishes, and he wonders if he came home too soon.

We have a motionless pile of fur at the back door, but it isn't a rug. It's cats. Everyone gives my kids cats. They're real soft to step on when you go out, but it makes you feel a little unsteady. They are silently waiting, yearning for a few scraps to be tossed into their midst. Then they spring to life, snatching and growling. I'm always trying to give them to the neighbor kids, but the trouble is, they've got parents.

Our canal has been pushed out of existence with a bulldozer—trees and all. They've stripped the trees for firewood and hauled us two big loads. Edward Gubler brought them in the dump truck. It looks mighty good to me. They kids are having fun building with the wood. LaVerkin is going to have a new cemented canal.

February 13. Lolene awoke and stretched. 'Oh my! I had the best dream. I dreamed I climbed a tree and all of the limbs were made of chocolate. I filled my lap with them and when I looked down, the ditch was full of pink and yellow and green lemon drops. There was a kid just going to step on them and I hollered 'don't' and then I woke up.'

A few mornings back, Terry came up from his room. 'Man! You otta seen what I dreamed Mother. I saw a car come down the hill and it wrecked and splattered all over. It was blue and it just splattered.' As each of the kids came up, he'd say, 'Man, you otta seen what I dreamed,' then he'd repeat his dream. When Bishop Wayne Wilson stopped by, Terry said, 'Man you otta seen what I dreamed.' The bishop listened, then he related to Terry his own funny dream about flying like a bird.

335March 16. The newspaper belatedly carried a story about my children. It began, 'Alice Gubler's boys were burned when they attempted to start a fire with kerosene.' The item concluded that, 'they didn't think the boys would recommend starting a fire that way.' How trite. When folks inquire about the incident, they invariably remark, 'I guess they learned their lesson.' I think that kind of interest is impoverished. The whole thing was an accident—the result of a home without parents. How can I warn my children of all of the things they're going to do that are dangerous? I cannot know what they will think of next. It would be silly for me to say, 'Don't roll tires off the roof,' (which they've been known to do) or 'Don't fall out of the top of a tree—or don't fall off a ledge and break your arm—or don't climb a power pole and electrocute yourself.' (Norman hung from a power line by the ball park while frozen onlookers watched for the electrocution, but there wasn't a complete circuit.) I can't say, 'don't blow the fuses while I'm gone, and don't walk the rails of the bridge across the river.' (The boys report their breathtaking exploits, doing just that.) I can chastise them after the deed is done, and counsel them, and try to make them safety minded, to plead with them that they not take foolish chances, but to suggest what not to do, would only plant ideas in their heads. Goodness! All of this soliloquy because of the mundane, unimaginative, lacking-in-understanding statement, 'I guess they have learned their lesson.'

And now for the kerosene episode, which happened on February 27th. I'm very prejudiced against a cold house. My kids have never cold. Even if the inside temperature was zero, and I asked the boys to make a fire, they'd reply, 'It isn't cold.' They love fires, but they prefer them out in the yard or down in the tunnel in the garden that they call their underground house. The smoke looks mysterious curling out of a pipe sticking up through the plowed ground. They're always making fires, but not in the furnace. What's more, they don't like to carry coal. Sometimes I have to say, 'No fire, no supper.' That gets action.

The kerosene incident happened on a bleak Saturday when I had to go to the office. It was one of those dampish cold days that makes you wish spring was more sincere. Mud—cold house—kids full of promises about the things they'll accomplish while you're away. Then the world is all at once interesting and unsupervised, and promises are postponed. After the boys whittle so many little cars, or the gang plays a game of Monopoly there will be time enough to do the things Mother said to do. But time skips a couple of hours here and there, especially during the Monopoly game. And suddenly the accusing hands on the clock remind them that Mother will soon be locking the office door and coming home. Now what was it she said? Oh yes. Have a warm, clean house. Whoops! Somebody let the fire go clear out! My! Mother will scold! Not much time left either. How can we speed things up? Ah, DeMar has the answer. Kerosene. Put fresh coal on the hot ashes. There. Now kerosene. Wow! The smoldering heat has a lot of vitality. More than DeMar expected. Black smoke billows around and around inside the yawning furnace. The kids gather to watch. It begins to behave like a monster that could get out of hand. What to do? If the furnace is shut it might blow the house up.

'I'd better strike a match to it,' DeMar said.

KIP tube and box (from a CollectorsWeekly.com web page)

Shirley was afraid. She coaxed him not to, but somebody had to do something. Terry, Lolene and Shirley decided to clear out. DeMar struck a match and threw it in. There was a boom that shook the house. Flames 336 enveloped DeMar and Gordon. Gordon was standing well back from the furnace, but the flames took off his eyelashes and the top layer of hair. Demar's arm that threw the match was seared, also his neck, face and head. They saw only the flash but didn't feel the flames at first. 'Boy, oh boy,' they laughed, running upstairs. And then the burns began to pain. They cried and writhed. The clock said Mother should be coming. But the time passed, dragging painfully now. No Mother. One hour. Why doesn't she come? Shirley was desperate. Someone had to do something. She sent Terry to the store for some 'Kip.'2 She plastered both boys good, and the pain subsided.

Two hours later I opened the kitchen door. There they were—my five bewildered little kids. DeMar's and Gordon's faces were swollen, and purplish red under the greasy streaks of Kip. DeMar's puffy ears stood out like Mickey Mouse's. Excitedly they told me the story and my heart hurt with a yearning for my little people. I had no need to say anything—only to help them.

The concussion had blown ashes from the fireplace across the living room, and yet there's no connection between the fireplace and the furnace flue. DeMar's face was so bad he missed a couple of weeks of school.

March 27. Maurice Judd, the family sweetheart, the one all of us courted for our sister Mildred, was killed last Sunday, March 21st, as he and Arden and Arcola went out on the mountain to tow a car. Strange incidents connected with the accident make it appear that this was no happenstance, but rather that he was called. I stayed with Mildred for a few days. How deeply I do appreciate the gospel of Jesus Christ. The peace of understanding helps ease the hurt.

April 2. Lolene pulled one of her baby teeth the other day. I noticed a blank space in her mouth, but was so busy making a ballet costume for Shirley I didn't give it much thought. Yesterday morning she climbed out of bed and hustled up into the attic. Pretty soon she came down with a glass of water. In the bottom lay her little tooth.

'Look,' she said disgustedly. 'Do you believe in fairies?'

'Sure,' I replied.

'Then why didn't this tooth turn into money?'

I had no idea she had put it in the attic. 'Maybe it takes time,' I answered.

She returned the glass to the attic. In my hustle to get to the office, I forgot the tooth.

This morning she scampered to the attic. 'Just look,' she said out of patience, displaying the tooth in the glass.

'Doesn't it take quite a few days?' I asked.

'I don't know,' she said, taking it back.

Again I forgot. This evening as I was ironing, I saw an empty glass in the laundry room. 'DeMar, take that glass in the kitchen for Shirley to wash,' I said.

'I found it in the attic with water in it,' DeMar said.

'Oh!' I clapped my hand over my mouth.

'What's the matter?' he asked.

337'Sh!' I whispered, hurrying into my room.

He followed. 'What you doing?'

'Sh!' I looked in my purse. No money. In all the vases. Empty. Through my chest of drawers. Finally, I found one little tarnished dime. Dropping it into the glass, I then filled it with water. 'Here, DeMar take it back quick,' I said.

Terry had been following us, curious and amused. 'Oh,' he said, 'Lolene put her tooth up there didn't she?'

'Now don't say anything,' I whispered.

He and DeMar sauntered into the kitchen where Lolene was wiping dishes for Shirley.

'Hey, Terry,' DeMar said, 'Do you remember when we used to put a tooth in a glass of water, and the fairies turned it into money?'

'Oh yeah,' Lolene spoke up, 'they don't.'

'How do you know?'

'I tried it. I got a tooth up in the attic now.'

'It takes a long time,' DeMar said.

'Well, I only look at mine in the mornings.'

'But night is the best time.'

Unconcerned, she went on wiping dishes. They kept coloring up stories about their luck with fairies. Finally, she climbed down from her chair, and put down her dish towel. She came in where I was ironing, and everybody tagged.

'Night is the best time to look,' DeMar kept saying.

'Oh well,' she said, 'I'm not going to anyway. The attic is dark.'

'I'll turn on the lights,' Shirley volunteered, running up the steps.

Lolene followed, returning with the glass with the dime in it.

'Just look,' DeMar said, 'the dime was made the year you were born.'

Her eyes danced. There followed a lively discussion of fairies. After the kids had all gone to bed, she snuggled up to me and whispered, 'Mother, I don't really believe in fairies. I just made believe I did, because they all liked me to.'

May 28. The swimming hole above Sheep Bridge at the Virgin narrows is the current rage. Pickups and jalopies loaded with boys make their daily pilgrimage there. I am given to worry. I can vision whirlpools of water pulling little boys under, and all kinds of nightmarish things. So my boys decided there was wisdom in getting me to the swimming hole to see.

'I'm too busy to go.' I said.

'If we do all of the work will you go?'

'You never could get enough work done to get me to go,' I replied.

Well, they decided to try. When I came home from the office night before last I was overwhelmed. DeMar was blistered and sunburned from 338 planting corn, and the other youngsters were grubby and sweaty from giving the house a total scrubbing and raking the yards. Speechless, I walked to my room and my troops followed, waiting expectantly.

'All right, all right,' I laughed, 'let's go swimming.'

There was a happy scurry from my room. With the scissors, I whacked the legs off from my old green slacks, and ripped the long sleeves out of an old flowered blouse. Presto! A fine swim suit.

And that swimming hole! How could I ever have missed it? Sand dunes rippled from the ledges and rocks along the river, back to the green brush beyond. The river bottom was caressingly soft beneath the warm water.

'You'd better let me go ahead, Mother,' DeMar suggested as we got out of the car. Running before us he shouted, 'Women and girls are coming.'

A scurry of nude bodies scrambled for the brush. I felt a little cruel to end their fun, but then boys really don't have to go naked.

The sand was warm and good to roll in when we got out to dry off, and there was plenty of driftwood to roast wieners with. I thanked my youngsters for insisting that I go to the swimming hole.

September 16. Norman came home on a furlough the last of August. I had worked like a Trojan painting and papering his room. I was Kemtoning3 the hall by the bathroom when he walked in. We were all in a rush getting ready for him. He came a day early and caught us in the upheaval. He looked polished and sharp! What a difference these months with Uncle Sam has made in him.

Norman arrived in time for the County Fair, and to see the excitement of DeMar getting his calf in the calf scramble. DeMar named the calf 'Wild Bill.' He's the wildest little critter that ever came off the range. Allie Stout delivered him in his truck. He sent me and the little ones into the house while he unloaded him. The calf shot like a bullet out of the back of the truck, leading the boys on a mad chase down the back lane, before he was finally penned in the pasture.

October 5. Wild Bill is undoubtedly going to be the star of the livestock show at Cedar a year from now. His formula is as fussy as a baby's. Bill weighed 350 pounds when DeMar got him. DeMar already had a heifer calf, Gazelle, but she lost importance when Bill arrived. She was put out to graze in Donkey Hollow, because we couldn't afford formula for two calves.

Donkey Hollow is pretty. The rabbit brush is bright with golden plumes, and bevies of quail run there. The male quail wears the brightest feathers, but it's his little lady that wears the topknot. I like that.

My boys have burrowed under for the winter. At nights when I come home, I can't see a boy nor hear a sound. I find Lolene cutting paper dolls on my bed, not saying a word, but making an awful litter. Shirley is in the laundry room making her hundredth doll dress and doll bonnet on the sewing machine. But the boys! The only evidence that I even have a boy is the red clay that has to be cleaned out of the house daily. If I wanted a boy, I could call from the back door all day and they'd never hear me. I have to go to a big gopher hole by the bamboo clump and throw my voice down it. Usually, I'm aggravated by this time, and I say, 'I'm standing right here until you come out, so hurry.' One by one, snake fashion, they slither out—three of mine, and six of somebody else's—a whole string of 339 them with red dirt in their hair and all over their overalls. This is a deluxe underground house with four apartments in it, two fireplaces, and little recesses for candles. They've dug enough under there to lay a pipeline to the street. If I had asked them to dig that much they would have felt burdened. When they coax me down under, I shiver at the thoughts of all of the little worm eyes that are staring at me from out of the walls.

Shirley is at the height of her boy hating stage. She hates the ones that ask her to dance twice in a row, because DeMar teases her until she cries. Pickle (Dilworth Griffith, or Dill) came in the kitchen as the family sat down to supper Friday night. As he stood in the doorway, he turned to me and asked, 'Is Shirley here?' She was sitting all of 16 inches from him.

'Yes, she's here,' I answered.

'Do you think she'd like to go to the show with a bunch of us?' His face flushed red underneath the deep tan. It had taken all the courage he could muster to ask for a date in front of a tribe of kids who were smothering their giggles. Shirley was giggling under her breath as she kept her face turned to mine.

'Do you want to go to the show Shirley?' I asked.

'Yes, I'd like to see a show,' she answered.

'Well, he's asking you.'

The 'bunch' included four of the girls in Shirley's crowd, and the boys were DeMar's age—Cookie, Pickle, Hazard and Wes. They had squeezed inside the door behind Pickle to fortify him. They didn't walk when they left, but ran. After the show they ran back to the house. At the door Shirley remembered to shout, 'Thanks.' I enjoy the way Shirley hates boys.

Election time approaches, and again we are on the campaign trail. Gail Thomas is my opponent. She is a pretty and very much liked young widow.

The Republican candidates went out as a group together. When we knocked on Max McMullin's door in Leeds, he stepped out onto the porch with a cordial grin and shook our hands.

'Yes, I'll vote for you,' he said, 'I'll vote for everyone of you. That's what I told the Democrats when they came here yesterday too. I always vote for everyone on the ballot. Some I votes to come, and some I votes to go.'

November 3. Election day is over, and I was voted in for a second term. The office hums today with the activity of a tax run, and people who are congratulating me on the privilege of taking their money for the next four years. I am reminded of a man who came into our office on election day two years ago.

'I'd better pay my taxes while I've got the money,' he said. 'If Ike Eisenhower goes in, all the banks will be closed, and there will be soldiers marching down the streets a week from today.'

'What in the world makes you think that?' I asked.

340Sober faced he pointed to the calendar. The following Tuesday was Armistice Day, and sure enough, there would be a parade of heavy artillery and veteran soldiers down the streets of St. George.

November 5. Yesterday Israel Wade came to work with sore eyes. He looked real miserable and I felt sorry for him.

'Why don't you wash your eyes with boric acid water?' I asked. 'It always makes mine feel better.'

'How do you fix it?' he asked.

I told how and this morning he came to work peering out of little slits. His eyelids are as swollen as if a bee had stung each eye. He looks like a frog.

'Israel!' I exclaimed.

'I did what you told me to,' he said, sadly shaking his head.

Great Scott! I had no idea anyone could be allergic to boric acid. I'll never dare prescribe again.

November 11. My little grandson Darwin has a baby brother born yesterday. I'm twice a grandma!

1. When Alice mentioned Virgil, she was talking of Virgil Goates. Lolene mentioned of him that 'he used to give me handfuls of loose change out of his pockets. He had a dry cleaning business in Hurricane. He courted Mother for awhile. He may have gotten scared off by all her kids.' (Memory from Lolene Gubler Gifford, 22 April. 2018)

   —Andrew Gifford, 22 April. 2018

2. Shirley sent Terry to the store for some 'Kip.' This was a brand of burn salve or ointment that had wintergreen and other oils in it that was advertised in the 1940s and 1950s. You can see an ad for it here.

   —Andrew Gifford, 22 April. 2018

3. When Alice talked of 'Kemtoning the hall' it appears she was talking about painting the walls. Kem-Tone Wall Finish was 'the first commercially successful, durable, waterborne interior wall paint' that the Sherwin-Williams Company introduced in 1941. See the ACS.org article.

   —Andrew Gifford, 22 April. 2018

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The Robin

Last week I was watching a robin,
As busy as a bee,
Gathering grass and flowers,
Building her nest in a tree.
Her task was nearly completed,
When a windstorm came that way
And destroyed in only a moment
Her labor of many a day.
But I do admire the robin,
Though mistfortune she has met,
She does not droop in sorrow,
Or brood in vain regret.
But she is working harder than ever
In sunshine and in rain,
And the nest that was ruined a week ago
Is almost built again.
I think she looks to the future.
That's why her song is sweet.
She will not be discouraged,
Or own she has met defeat.
She sings as sweetly as ever
Tho' her loss must have cost her pain,
And the nest that was ruined a week ago
Is almost built again.
I wonder if we as humans
Who brag on how much we know
Can do as well as the robin
And sing as we suffer a blow.
Or don't we much more often
Just kick and growl and whine
And make our loss just double
By wasting precious time?
I hope I have learned my lesson
From the robin and her nest,
And that I may meet discouragement
With new hope in my breast.
FOr I have come to this conclusion,
Tho' we may be six feet tall,
We often haven't as much backbone
As the robin, after all.

This poem is a favorite of Ermal's, and expresses his life's philosophy,as is shown in the following account.

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735January 1.HAPPY NEW YEAR! Ermal arose with the spirit of celebrating,resolved to watch the Cotton Bowl and the Rose Bowl parade on TV. And Iresolved not to be sidetracked, no matter how many times he called,'Hey, hon, come look at this float,' because every time I rush to his summons,he says, 'Oh, you're too late.'

The year begins on Saturday, so I determined to give the place a quickslickup, because Ruby and Roland are calling for us at ten. We have a datewith them.

Well, my poor spouse! He has flipped the TV on and off with muchlamenting and murmuring. 'There's nothing but school bands, and all thatyacking and chit chat between the announcers.' Between the flipping theswitch on and off he has paced the floor. He might as well have had a dustcloth in his hands while he paced around. Finally the Rose Parade reallybegan and he settled down to his constant calling, 'Hon, this is a prettyone, come see.' Or, 'Hon, you gotta see this one.' I gratified him bysticking my head in once in a while. But I just barely got the place slickedup when the Webbs called for us.

We headed for Mesquite to have dinner at the Western Village. rolandstopped at the hospital in St. George, and I ran to see Marilyn. Shewas 100% better. I was happy to see that she was her old smiley self.

At Beaver Dam we turned off the road and went up a little draw to whereHarold Blackmore and his two wives Gwen and Florence were working on theirunderground house. The wives hugged all four of us, although I'd never seenthem before. They made me feel like I was a dear old relative, and Haroldgave us a big, hearty handshake.

The underground house is really on top of the ground, but built backagainst a hillside, with dirt scraped up on two sides and partly on top.Gwen and Florence were full of talk, witty and lively as crickets. Gwengave us each a bag of fresh, raw peanuts. I think I never stopped chucklingwhile we were there.

Western Village was full of people who heaped too much food on theirplates because they could get all they could eat for $3.49. We saw manyfolks from home.

On our way home we toured Bloomington and Santa Clara Heights. This,that was a barren desert so short a time ago, is newly landscaped andoccupied with many elegant homes.

January 2.The first fast Sunday of the year. I made some New Year'sresolutions. One of them was not to be such a weakling when it comes to fasting. I'll confess, that in allof my 72 years, I've secretly not hailed fast day with oy. I'd get gaunt just thinking about it. We're supposedto fast with a purpose, so today, I fasted and prayed that I'd enjoy fasting. And I really did.

We went to the hospital with Donworth. When we got there, Marilyn wasvisiting in Harriet's room. Harriet has pneumonia. Marilyn will be releasedtomorrow.

736January 3.My new visiting teacher partner, Ora Morrill and I got thenew year started out right. Our visiting teaching is done. Our familiesare Pearl Allen, Betty Owens, and Anna Mae Halterman. Ermal went to thehospital and brought Marilyn home while we were out.

This afternoon, my teachers came. They are Pam Lind and Joy Gubler.

January 4.John brought Clayton with him to our house tonight andshowed us his slides of Uruguay. It makes me appreciate our living conditions.But John says those people are happy with their life style.

Marilyn and I visited until midnight.

January 5.Chance made a hydraulic wood-splitter for DeMar. I watchedas he split big saw logs as easily as if they were chips. Chance is veryresourceful. He can create anything that can be done in welding and mechanics.

DeMar's little baby, Crystal Lynn stood fascinated watching the splitter.Hwerever DeMar is, Crystal wants to be. And DeMar is flattered byher devotion. He adores her. She runs into his arms every time he comes home.

Having Marilyn with us is a joy. Tonight John, Kelly, Clayton, Mimsi, Helen and DeMar came to seeKathy's slides and to her her Christmas tape.

January 6.Leon says, 'I just love Aunt Marilyn, because she's interestedin everything I'm interested in.' He brought a magazine advertising fancy chickens to show her. They decied togo into business together. She will order the baby chicks, and Leon will raise them out for half.

Leon has 30 baby chicks in their furnace room now that he hatched out from 30 eggs.

January 7.Convalescing is taxing Marilyn's patience. She wants to be upand doing, but doesn't have the vitality. 'I want to make an apricot cobbler,' she said.

So Ermal, Marilyn, and I made a united-effort-apricot-cobbler. Marilyn wrote down the recipe, and supervisedand measured. I gathered the material around her, heated the oven, and greased the pans. Ermal stirred thebatter and licked the bowl. We made two cobblers, because Marilyn wanted to give one to Uncle Ovando.

Shirley and Lolene and their little ones had dinner with us. Later DeMar and Helen joined us.

This evening, while Ermal went with Horatio to a priesthood session inthe temple, Marilyn and I took the cobbler to Edna and Ovando. There washugging and laughing.

January 8.Chance too Marilyn home today. Our place seems empty.

January 10.My Holy Ghost story was returned from The Friend withsuggest alterations.

January 11.We bought our new scriptures today, and we're all excitedabout them. I re-wrote my story and returned it to the Friend. I like thisversion more than the original one.

LaPriel and Jim returned from their month long vacation in Hawaii.There's a volcano going on over there that has been spewing lava for days.737In November, the islands had a devastating hurricane and tidal waves. Jim's and LaPriel's vacation was sandwiched in between.

LeGrand Richards, our beloved apostle, died today. He was almost 97.

January 12.Ermal and I went to town board meeting tonight to see if any relief was coming from the cloud of dust that hangs over our town. I have to hose off the Rambler each time, before I drive it. Dust is so bad, that if I don't hose off the car, within five days it begins to slide in şheets down the glass. Thera'es no need for a blade of grass, or a green leaf to grow, or a flower to bloom under this pall.

At the meeting, they told us that eventually the roads would be fixed. How eventually, they do not know.

January 13.Paulette was our little girl until time for the noon bus. I wanted desperately to write. It seems like something comes up every day so I can't. So I left Paulette in front of TV and came to my room.

My conscience said, 'Shame on you. It's seldom that you have a little granddaughter with you. What's an hour and a halfin terms of eternity? Don't leave her in front of TV.'

I approached her. 'Paulette, which would you rather do, go for a walk or watch TV?'

'Watch TV.' She never took her eyes off from it.

I returned to my typewriter. Then Paulette shouted, 'It'soff!' So was my typewriter. The power was off. So we went for a walk,

We went above the canal, along the hillside to the tunnel, then down the road past Devar Gubler's. DeVar's big black dog joined us. He was feeling foxy. He'd growl and scratch up the earth, then trot ahead a bit and do it again. At Gaye Lynn's, little dogs met us and tumbled with the big black dog.

'Go home, Herm, this isn't your territory,' Gaye Lynne said.

We just got home in time to make a peanut butter sandwich with red jelly on it, before the school bus came. After school, Paulette was at the door wanting to take the same walk again, but I was scrubbing the kitchen. She stayed for supper and I walked her home and told her the names of the few stars I knew. The sky fascinated her.

January 15.Tomorrow is my sister Annie's 80th birthday. Today Alene had an open house for her. Annie was radiant--simply beautiful. Her pink dress accentuated the pink in her cheeks. She has the face of an angel.

January 16.Dennis and Sandy had a baby boy born today (McKay). Ermal and I were guests of the second ward Primary on their sharing time this morning. I told the children the story of the Primary children fasting and praying for Ermal's grandmother when she was blind, and of her sight being restored.

Having our families around us livens up our days. DeMar drops in often to share a hot muffin he has just baked, or a tape of music he especially enjoys, or a picture, or a joke in a magazine. Always he has a little girl or two with him. He plays Paulette's make-believe games with her when she hides under the table.

'Daddy, where am I?' she'll call.

You're in a doll house,' he answers.

738'Nope.'

'You're in a castle.'

'Nope.'

'You're in the apple tree,' etc. Finally, he slides her out by her feet,tickles her stomach, and says, 'Come on mischief. We've got to go.'

Vaughn comes selling the Grit and stops to visit. Leon comes with arooster under his arm to discuss his meat-growing project. His 30 littlechicks are living in his outdoor fireplace with a light bulb in it.

I listen as Lolene reads her letter to the editor of the Spectrumabout rotten movies, and Shirley calls to see how we are, and over thephone Susanna says, 'Hello, Grandma.' Our families are what really count.

The exhaust from the chain saw melted the leg of Ermal's polyesterpants. When he felt his leg burning, he moved the saw. I was sick of thatpair of pants anyway.

January 17.Dana wonders how she ever deserved a little tykelike Shannon. Today, after she bathed and dressed her, the phone rang beforeshe emptied the baby's tub. Shannon climbed back in, shoes and all.

Scott left his bedroom door open when he went to school, and thebottom drawer of his bureau was left open. Shannon climbed into the drawerand the bureau tipped over on top of her. The fish aquarium, which was ontop of the chest of drawers, crashed to the floor, breaking glass everywhere.Shannon screamed. She was pinned under the drawers with the broken aquariumon one arm. Gravel, water, and flopping fish were on the floor. Dana isready to go on vacation.

Ermal fixed LaPriel's sewing machine, and tonight Jim brought a lemon piewith whipped cream on it with her thanks.

January 24.A letter came today from John R. Ward, M.D., Professorof Medicine, Chief, Division of Rheumatolog. This was in response to my letter to the Universityof Utah about my wonderful release from arthritis ater I had been to Salt Lake for mouth surgery.

He says, 'In terms of your response to penicillin after your root canalprocedures, I noticce that you were given dexamethasone, a cortisone derivative. … It ismy prediction that once the dexamethasone is discontinued that you will have a flare in your arthritis.

'It is clearly demonstrated that cortisone derivatives are effective incontrolling the symptoms of many forms of arthritis but are associated with some potential severeside effects if continued in high doses for prolonged periods of time. …'

I appreciate very much his kind letter and the information which is certainly correct. My totalfreedom from arthritis has already vanished.

I returned Wayne's laundry tonight, and Lapriel will take over again.

January 27.Ermal is talking about trading the van for a motor home.I'm simply not interested. I told him I'd much prefer a car that I can drive with comfort.The Rambler is a beast, when it comes to shifting gears, sometimes balking badly when I try to get it into second.The Armstrong steering is pretty bad, when the arm isn't strong. I need power steering. The Rambler has been sun-baked for 18 years and is falling apart.

739January 28.This morning I put on a pot of chicken backs, necks, wings, gizzards, and hearts. I explained to Ermal that I was going tosimmer off some broth, so I could make some exotic onion soup, like SistermoRrill demonstrated in Relief Society. Well, my hearty husband didn't listen to me. When I got home, he ahad dinner on. He had dumped noodles into that pot of bones! It looked quite revolting.

He had also steamed parsnips. His crop this year is the smoothest,whitest, biggest, sweetest parsnips he has ever raised. And we haveparsnips three times a day. That's how our menus go. When the greencorn is on, we have corn three times a day. When the squash is on, we eatsquash three times a day. We eat one thing until its cycles is finished. Ermalgrows it, and fixes it, and bursts with joy at the fruits of his labors.And I love, and adore, and endure him.

Lolene, Kendall Paul, and Shauna ate with us. Lolene proof-read 60 pages of my book for me. Today was her top production.

January 30.Scott Stratton was ordained a deacon today. Roger camewith Corinne to be there for the event, and then he came to 'play' with Grandma and Grandpa. Heplayed two tunes on the zither, then opened the Jumpins game and fiddledwith it about two minutes. He decided to read story books. It took him five minutes to read thewhole shelf of books. Then he at two suckers, and walked in and out of the house twice, and waswas all through playing with us. Ermal took him home, because our house was too quiet.

January 31.Our Stake Relief Society has introduced 'A Better Me in '83'program into each ward. It seems to be in our stake only. Marilyn does not have it, neighter does Lolene.It is a goal setting program, with new goals for every month in the year. All of the ideas are good, andsome of them, like saying your prayers, and reading the scriptures, quite necessary. The program is hailedwith joy by most of the sisters, and is doing much good.

But I am one of the sisters who must be a trial to my maker. When I read in those goals, the suggestedscriptures that I go in depth in each month, that I'm even supposed to write about in my journal,I almost lose my hear from nervous tension. I simply cannot stand anyone else settinggoals for me. I feel like I'm tied down, with my mouth pried open, and someone is cramming the whole thing down me.It takes the spontaneous joy out of the gospel.

We're having so much fun reading the Ensign as it appears in our post office box each month,and in reading the scriptures that go along with our New Testament class in Sunday School. Welove the free and openness of our discussions.

We are goal setters. In thoughtful medidation at the beginning of the year I wrote downthe things that matter most to me, and wrote down the things I want to overcome, and the thingsI wanted to accomplish, and I knew that would fill the coming year.

When Carol White gave her darling lesson on homemaking last Tuesday, shetouched on our goal setting program. She's so pretty, I like to watch herface all the while she talks. And she makes everyone laugh with her cute wit.

740In her lesson, she discussed January's No. 2 goal, 'I will select one Long Range Goal thatwill help me be a better Homemaker, and I will write it down. Next, I will list the Short RangeGoals that I need to achieve in order to reach that Long Range Goal. Then I will take eachShort Range Goal, one at a time, and write down the steps I will take to reach that goal. Byachieving my Long Range Goal.'

At the dinner table, I discussed our Relief Society class with Ermal. I always make him partof Relief Society. He almost burst with ridiculous goal setting ideas. The spirit of the clownrested heavily upon him, and I scribbled down his thoughts.

'Ok, hon, I want you to give Carol a good report at her next class,' he said.

February 4.Lolene and Darwin are in Las Vegas tonight, where she ispresenting her original music to the entertainer, Lovelace. And while she was away, Barbara Rasmussen'smusic was introduced on Prime Time Access on KSL TV. Shelly Osterloh introduced Barbara as the lady whohopes to make Nashville. Lolene and Debby Walker were the two who presented Barbara's music. Theirsinging was very pretty.

February 5.It's a wet, wet world. The hills are white. We went toZion today to see the snow on the ledges and down in the canyon. On our way home we stopped to seeFern and Dew Hirschi. Fern gave us a sack of Jonathan apples.

We saw a blue crane standing in the edge of a pond in Rockville, quite aloof from the ducks and geese.We walked through the willows and brush along the river's edge, and each time the going became rought,Ermal reached out his big firm hand taking hold of mine. I like that.

February 6.Hilda is all a twitter. The doctor says she is going to havea baby. Hilda told us she would have a blue-eyed, black-haired girl on September 16. It might even be twins.

Ermal and I, and Dave and Doris Libby were set apart today by Bishop Kerry Gubler to the ward missionaries.Since I get all up tight about these things, Bishop Gubler blessed me that I would relax, and as I relaxed,my mind would unfold, and I would have great joy in this calling.

February 7.Today has been a people day. Joy Gubler and Pam Lind came asmy visiting teachers. THen Shirley and Susanna came. Shirley is enthused about a tole painting class she istaking. She brought a little board decorated with flowers. Susanna lined all of the dolls up on the couchand ate crackers.

After they left, Venice and Cumon came and we talked of far away places and all sorts of things. A fire dancedin the fireplace, which usually is a springboard for discussion. Ermal has this disease that flares upevery time someone says the fireplace is pretty. Ermal has this disease that flaresup every time someone says fireplace is pretty. He has this strange malady of planning to plug the fireplacewith an insert. It would burn less wood. Then he begins to rationalize. The insert would cost so manyhundred dollars. Besides that, he'd rather haul wood than to burn it. He guesses he'll not get the insert now.It's easier to turn up the thermostat than to worry about a fire. He likes hauling wood most of all, but he's nothepped up about splitting it, and carrying it in, and cleaning out the ashes. He just wants to cheer up thehouse with a fire when it rains or the wind blows.741So the insert-disease is under control for the moment. Cumon yawns and guesses they ought to go visit Ruby and Rolly.

J. L. and Fern Crawford came next. They're cousins of mine. They asked me to prepare a skit for Ermal's 50 year classreunion in August. Ideas are brewing in my head.

Rebecca and I went for a walk above the canal, and discussed different art projects for school,then I came home and made cookies. DeMar and the children came for family night. Helen had a badcold and didn't come.

February 8.Ann's birthday. When I went to see her, she had gone to Kelty's in St. Goerge for a job interview.

Our home teacher, DeVar Gubler, had a heart attack and is in a hospital in Price.

February 10.As I was walking up the hill, Leon stopped in their little blue pickup and offered me a ride. Riding is no way to be walking, but I couldn't resist my grandson, so I went with him to feed his horses. The baby colt is really growing.

From the field where the horses were, I continued my walk up the hill to Norman's. The rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum geeted me. Vaughn was in the yard giving the drum a workout. From inside came the blare of the slide trombone. Scott was diligently practicing. He did a couple of songs especially for me.

Laura had just returned from taking Preston for a walk. It was the other way around. Preston was so eager that he took her for a walk. I read and enjoyed letters from our two missionaries, Kathy and Gordon.

On my way home I stopped to say 'hi' to LaFell and Cleone Iverson. They made me feel like I was the breath of spring.

February 11.LaPriel wanted to show us a pretty place along the river, so we picked up Clinton and the four of us rode past the Hurricane Industrial park down a rocky road to the river. The river drifts around a big bend past jagged red pinnacles. There are indian ruins on the flat.

Marily arrived just in time to go to the Sweetheart's dinner with us. She looked beautiful with her hair in shiny loose curls and her prtty blue dress. She was a sweetheart for sure. Horatio and Genevieve were chosen as the sweethearts of the year.

After the dinner we went into the chapel where Edna led in community singing, while the tables were clearedd away for the dance. She called Marilyn up front to help motivate the singing. Katie Burdett was at the piano. Edna kept alling more key people up front to sing, until we had a lineup of enthusiastic folks in front of us. We couldn't help but sing.

The popular Gifford family furnished the dance music, Gerald, Aleath, Dean, and Jerri.

Ermal cuddled both Marilyn and me on his lap for our sweetheart's picture.

Februar 12.A letter came from the Friend today saying the staff was highly pleased with the last story I sent them. I'm highly pleased when they are.

My three daughters, and Lori, Rick's wife, were here for dinner.742Of course Shauna, Janna, and Kendall were here with Lolene. The children preferred eating hot buttered biscuits outside in the sunshine, to being at the table with us.

Shirley brought her tole painting for Marilyn to see. She has laquered and pianted flowers on teh old coffee pot that she found some time ago, in the sawdust at the sawmill on Kolob.

Lolene is scheduled to do a Joker-Joker birthday act for some movie actor in St. George, so she entertained us with a rehearsal. Her originality is mighty fetching.

Katie won first place in the Hurricane intermediate school, with her entry in the national P.T.A. cultural arts contest. Janna won first place in the junior division in Hurricane in writing.

With our hearts in our throats, we watched DeMar swinging in the pecan tree tops knocking down nuts. Every year I've prayed him through this task.

February 13.We went to the rest home in Hurricane to Sunday School this morning. Jim Cornelius called to tell us Lolene and the children were furnishing the program. Kendall stood wide-eyed and silent beside his three sisters as they sang, 'Let Us All Press On.' Then they sang, 'I Am a Child of God.' Lolene sang, 'How Great Thou Art,' and 'Red Hills of Utah,' (by special request), and the children sang, 'As I Have Loved You.' Lolene talked in between numbers.

February 14.Maxine had the family to her house at 7:30 a.m. for a Valentine breakfast, served on her red glass plates and in her red drinking glasses. She gave each of us a delicate little blown glass valentine.

I made Ermal a lemon pie for a Valentine. I put it under the browner in the microwave oven and burned the middle. I skinned out the dark circle of meringue and cut out daisy petals out of marshmallows to cover the spot and lightly toasted them. Ermal thought it was just beautiful.

Venus is in her brightest phase in the western sky above a crescent moon tonight. Beautiful.

February 15.A neat thing happened. The United Parcel Service left a shiny new, stainless stell 24 quart stock pot at our door. Our children gave us one for Christmas three or four years ago, then a couple of years ago, when we were doing tomato juice, we filled it too full. When we brought the big coil on the stove up on high, a little dribble of the center core of our Vollrath pot melted and ran out. Naturally I felt badly about it. But it took me two years to get around to telling the company, and without a question, they sent me a new pot. This one is supposed to be improved so we won't have the same trouble again.

February 18.While Kate and I were in St. George today a wild south wind hit the town. Twisters sent trash in the sky like white birds flying. I tried to drive home, but the wind threatened to below the Rambler off the road. Shingles were being peeled off roof tops, and neon signs were shattered.

Splats of rain plastered red mud on my windshield so I could not see. I pulled off at Washington to clean it off and wait for the storm to pass. The wind blew down a radio tower and all of the towns in SOuthern Utah were out of power for four hours.

743February 19.The giant whirlwind that ripped through on its destructive way north yesterday seems to be bent on returning. We've had a steady, cold north wind the whole day through.

'This is just what we needed so I could see how good the black taffeta shirt is that you made me,' Ermal said. 'Not even a whisper of wind gets through it.'

He vacuumed the house and cut up the last of the Jonathan apples from Ferns for apple cobbler for supper, then took me out on a date. All his idea.

Riding west into the twilight was peaceful. I relaxed with a contented 'Ho hum,' looking out at the sunset through one little clear spot on the windshield. I couldn't see out the side windows. They were too wind and rain splattered. I tried not to notice that.

Ermal took me to a funny movie, 'The Sting II.'

February 20.Our Relief Society presidency, LaReta Gates, Joy Gubler, and Elaine Gubler, were released today. Gail Earl, Sheryl Reeves, and Patricia Gubler were sustained.

February 22.Carol White gave the homemaking lesson in Relief Society today, and as Ermal requested, I gave my report on my homemaking goals. Ermal said, 'It makes me sound kind of silly, but I want you to give it anyway.' He is an insprirational bit of nonsense. Here's how it goes:

A BETTER ME IN '83

After Carol's last homemaking lesson, I decided I had better set a goal. When LaVell Turner called this goal setting program the PAT program, meaning Pain, Agony, and Torture program, I thought she hit the nail on the head.

I've been setting homemaking goals for over 50 years, and at times it's been real pain, agony, and torture. But, after listening to Carol, I sat down and thought and thought.

Finally, I came up with a goal, and I wrote it down. At dinner I said, 'ermal, will you listen to the homemaking goal that I've set for a better me in '83?'

'Fire away,' he said.

'My long range goal is to have a cheerful attitude. My short range goal to help achieve this is to stop feeling guilty because I can't do things like I used to, like getting the bed made before sunup. Anyway, there's something to be said about letting the bed air all day. And, besides that, an unmade bed is more inviting if a person has a notion to snooze.'

'Hon,' Ermal says, 'that's real good, but an idea just popped into my head that I think is even better.'

'Oh?' I raised an eyebrow?

'Your long range goal should be to see that your husband is comfortable in every way,' he began, 'that he is well cared for, and that all of his needs are supplied, and do it with a cheerful countenance so there will be no contention. This could be a lifetime goal. Your short range goal to744help you achieve this could be: No. 1. Pat him on the head when he needs to be comforted. No. 2. Build up his ego. Tell him he is beautiful--an exceptionally nice man--the most choice among all men. No. 3. Never, never nag him about anything.'

'Good enough,' I said. 'I will write that down.'

That was a month ago, so now I shall evaluate my progress. This is kind of how it was (almost). I began by patting him on the head and said, 'You're a great big, beautiful doll,' and he grinned and flexed his muscles. 'Ah,' I gasped, 'you look as strong as an army tank. I just love to see big machinery in action.'

'You do?' he asked. 'If the wind wasn't blowing, I'd take you to watch a gravel crusher.'

'But the wind is blowing,' I said sadly. Then brightening, I said, 'I'll tell you what. Let's pretend the vacuum cleaner is a big bulldozer. Would you like to operate a big bulldozer?'

'Pretending is fun,' he said galloping to the closet after the vacuum.

'I'll watch while you run it,' I said. 'You're so handsome and strong.'

He grinned, spit on his hands, and rubbed them together, then flexed his muscles some more, and turned on the vacuum. He went oer the rugs with such vigor that every little fiber stood straight up. 'That was fun.'

He sat down and panted while I wiped the sweat from his forehead, and patted him on the top of the head again. 'Honey, you're lots more fun to watch than any big equipment,' I said, popping a marshmallow in his mouth.

'Honest?' he grinned.

'Honest. I wish every woman in town could see you in action. They'd all envy me.'

'Honest?' he said again. 'If the windows were clean, maybe they could look in and see me.'

'They sure could. And they could see you while you were washing them,' I said.

'No fooling!' he exclaimed.

Dust from our potholed, dug-up, sewer roads, layer everything so deep in dirt, that occasionally we have to run outside and rub a spot on the glass for a peek hole so we can see who is going by. But now he grabbed a bucket, the window washer and towels, and you never saw such a polishing as every window in the house got.

He had been so impressed with all of the head patting and ego building that he has been a whirlwind around the house and yards, and with all of that exercise, he is feeling great. He is happy, and when he's happy, I am happy. And I have gained my original goal of having a cheerful attitude.

And sisters, the most effective part of it all is Ermal's No. 3 short range goal to never, never nag. I've learned that bragging sure beats nagging.

745February 24.As we watched the news on TV this evening, a baby crawled into the room from the kitchen. We couldn't figure out who the little stranger was. I jumped up, and there, hiding by the refrigerator, was Mace and Sheryl. Baby Chance was full of smiles and wiggles and is taking his first steps alone. He's an outgoing, loving little fellow.

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.. MORE TO COME ..

.. MORE TO COME ..

And now comes the final little chick in Winferd's and Alice's brood ofseven, Lolene. Lolene has been president of the Young Women in her ward forsix months, and has learned to really love and appreciate young people.She is composing music, and is taking piano lessons from Abraham Neighbor.She has been pounding the piano keys ever since she was a little girl, andwe think she's very good, but Mr. Neighbor has started her clear back in thesecond grade. At first he was so strict she didn't even like him. Now sheis so excited about the new techniques she is learning that she loves him. Heis the 'man of the our.'

Lolene enjoyed being skinny for all of last year, and now she's enjoyinggetting it all back. She says she's on a perpetual diet. She adores herfamily, as will be seen by the following summary which she has given of them.

There's Darwin Gifford, her handsome, jovial husband. He is the productionmanager for Kelty. They make 'top-of-the-line' backpacks and hikinggear. Darwin is in the Stake High Council, and is over the Varsity Scoutingprogram. He plays the drums in the Gifford Orchestra for the senior citizendances, and brings Lolene stale, foil-wrapped sandwiches home from the dances.(Lolene loves stale sandwiches. She says the flavors are blended and mellow.)

Their first child Aaron is Mr. Computer. He loves computers. He says,'I know the makes and models of computers like some kids know cars.' He hateshis paper route, but he loves the money it brings in. He has been able tosave enough to buy an Atari 400 computer, and is buying the accessories tobeef it up. He plays trombone in the school band. He likes math, science,and speech classes, and loves to read science fiction.

Andy is in the seventh grade in the middle school and is on the highhonor roll. He's a conscientious student and gets good grades. He loveshis sisters, and is good to them. He takes them with hi when he collectsfor the papers on his route, and stops and buys them ice cream cones. He iskind to all little children, and is a good story teller. He baby sits forthe neighbors. He has acquired his Grandpa Gifford's trumpet and plays in the school band. Grandpa's trumpet is a very gifted trumpet. Andy is doinggreat on it. Both Aaron and Andy pass the sacrament in church.

783At the age of ten, Katie has discovered boys and makeup. She enjoys clothes and lots of friends, and wishes she had a horse. She likes to read, and won't let her mom cut her hair for her. The current fad is to wear it long and kinky. Katie can do her own hair, and she goes to school looking cute. She likes sports, especially football and kickball. She wants to be a cheerleader someday, and already knows all the gestures.

Katie is very thoughtful of other people. She and Janna Lynn baked cupcakes in their own little dishes and took them to Dr. Last (their bishop) who is at home with broken ribs. Dr. Last hugged them both. Katie always cleans her room without being reminded. She takes singing and dancing lessons from Polly Stirland.

Janna Lynn is the precocious one. Although she's only eight, she doesn't settle for children's books. She prefers grownup books. She's quiet and reads a lot. School comes too easy for her. While Katie is very vocal about her wants and wishes, like wishing she had a horse, Janna Lynn rarely expresses her wishes. She does want to be an artist. She can make an excellent chocolate cake from scratch—one that is moist and tender. She takes singing lessons from Polly Stirland. The dancing lessons Will come later. Janna Lynn is loving and likes to be cuddled.

Shauna is the hearty one, with a quick and rollicking laugh. She is a very positive person, and excited about the first grade because she is learning to read. She likes pink. She learned to ride a two-wheel bike when she was only four. Every single night she calls, 'Mom, will you come and tuck me in?' After she has been tucked in, she might want to get up and get a drink or go to the bathroom, but that's all right, because she has already been tucked. She takes singing lessons from Polly also, and piano lessons from Abraham Neighbor.

Mr. Neighbor said he had a dream about Shauna, that she was a concert pianist. When Lolene took her to him, and he watched those little fingers go over the keys, he said, 'She definitely has got it.' At first he didn't want to take a child who was only six.

Kendall Paul is the only brown-eyed one in the family. He's a peaceful little chap at three, going on four. He plays quietly by himself for hours every day. Because everyone else is in to music, he has set up his own little program. He sits up to the piano and practices every day—not the ordinary pounding of a child, but he takes finger exercises. He has a very persuasive way of getting what he wants.

His cousin Susanna, whom we called the little cyclone, can lead Kendall around as if she had a ring in his nose. To her, he is like a gentle breeze. They're a real compliment to each other.

Winferd and Alice's seven dearly beloved children have added to our household their eternal companions and thirty-six grandchildren, counting Helen and DeMar's dark eyed senorita, and seven great-grandchildren. And before this account is published, there will be more.

How dear to my heart are these precious children. How happy I am for the bright hope of the eternities.

.. MORE TO COME ..

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