Introduction

I have too much time on my hands. This effort is making feel a little awkward. Oh well, what's new. I write these words to share some of the experiences and events in my life that are important to me.

What's your earliest memory?

It's pretty hazy! I have certain memories of my childhood in Sugar City, Idaho...most of which are traumatic in some measure. One of my early memories is that of being "wide awake" in my bed and I looked up on the ceiling and wall closest to my bed...there were hundreds, maybe thousands of white squirming snakes above me. I must have vocalized my terror because almost immediately my father came in to save me. I remember him comforting me and assuring me that the snakes were gone and they wouldn't return. They never did.


I remember swinging on the tall metal swing set that was in our backyard in Sugar City. Somebody younger than me just had to swing also. That younger someone was Sandra; she was pretty small and quite young. Jerry and I helped her onto the swing and pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her. She swung back and forth getting higher and higher until she lost her grip and flew like Superman through the sky and landed rather hard on the ground. Screams were raised and so was the ire of a very protective mother that came running out of the house.

I don't know how old I was on either of these occasions but I know that they are bright in my otherwise fading memory.

What were some of your greatest adventures when you were small?

Living in rural Idaho was nothing but adventure. I have very fond memories of my years in Sugar City. With a built-in companion-in-crime (my brother, Jerry) I was able to see and do things that the explorers of the New World couldn't fathom.

Adventure the First: One of our early adventures led us to the towering smokestack. A remnant of past times, now the abode for pigeons and a place for creatures that longed to know what mysteries are hidden inside the forbidding structure. No, I said that wrong. It was not forbidding, it was forbidden. The Mother told us not to go there. So, one afternoon when the Mother was not paying close attention, the creatures traversed the brick-laden way to the forbidden smokestack. I remember the joy of the adventure, and the expectation of seeing something wonderful and awe inspiring. As we approached the entrance to our journey's end I remember looking up at the stack that rose up to the clouds and thinking, "This is as good as it gets!" We stooped and entered. The forbidding smokestack was immense. The pigeons fluttered about because of the intrusion on their privacy. Well, that's about it...nothing spectacular. A few lousy pigeons, a tall smokestack, and that's about it. It was a grand adventure though. A memory to last a lifetime.

Adventure the Second: Imagine Huck and Tom rafting down the Mississippi. No big deal. We (Jerry and I) went rafting in the Coal Pit. Just to the north of our house in Sugar City was an abandoned coal pit. A place where coal was kept to store large amounts of coal for one reason or another (I really don't know). The coal pit was filled with water. It had to be hundreds of feet deep, that's the impression I got from my mother. Yes, you're right...it was another forbidden place for young creatures. And how do boys interpret the forbidding of an adventure? Well of course, he has to go there. I know we sneaked over there a few times. The first time was an exploratory mission. We checked out the best way to traverse the dangerous journey. We approached the vast watery expanse with trepidation and with great anticipation. Our expectations were not shattered. We saw it...the Coal Pit. Concrete walls to keep in the waters. And things were floating in it. A railroad tie, other pieces of wood, and there it was...a raft. Not an ordinary raft, a raft of quality, a raft of unique design. A raft that used to be a set of stairs. You know what? I'm not sure if we ever did get on that raft; in my memory we sailed like pirates of old. It was a great adventure...and mother didn't catch us. Sometimes mothers sleep easier not knowing what stupid things their children do.

What d'ya do?

What do you do with an old oil drum?  Well, the best thing to do is make a Spanish galleon or maybe a British clipper ship.  If you grow up in Sugar City...that's exactly what can happen.  I don't know where the oil drum came from.  I do know that some clever adult took that drum and worked magic on it.  It was splendiferously split in half.  Not into stubby little pots, but in two long, bouyant, slivers of steel.

Some people think that the barrel halves would make perfect water troughs...but the boys knew better.  The 'boys' saw adventure waiting to happen.  Not far from its temporary location in the cow pasture was a mighty tributary.  Dad and Mom warned about the dangers of that ditch, but what do parents know.  The elements were merging into the prospect of a supreme adventure.  A sailing vessel, a rivulet of ill-repute.  So, what d'ya do?  You have to do it.

Dragging the ship across the pasture, amidst the apathetic glances of the calves, was real toil and trouble...it was heavy.  But, it would be worth it.  Supreme adventures are always worth the trials that one has to pass through.  So we dragged that mighty bark closer and closer to its watery destination.  Our mission was periodically interrupted with reconnaissance to make sure that the Mother was not going to catch us having fun.  So far, so good.   We are almost there, time to make ready to set sail (so to speak).

Everything's on the ready.  Maybe one last check on the Mother. It will be a launch remembered by mankind and the calves who were still nonchalant but observing.  Without thought of failure or doom the ship was urged into the mighty waters.  It floats!  Now, for the explorers anxious to board the vessel.  One by one, the 'boys' cautiously stepped aboard.  So far...the voyage was a success...now all we need to do is to leave our moorings and set off on the journey of our lives.

Slowly, surely, we pushed off.  Silently drifting on our watery way...we found our vessel was a bit tipsy and a little bit more turvy.  Our wonderful ship, we discovered, had a few design flaws, not the least, that it wanted to spill it's contents into Davey Jones' locker.  Our salvation was the nearness of river's banks and the abundance of grassy blades and weedy clumps that allowed us to steady ourselves and continue our joyous adventure.

It was pure delight, skittering across the waves, seeing the land-lubbin' calves, passing by the scenes of our daily existence...we were sailors, we were on an adventure...nothing better in the world.  Our voyage took us sailing past the red and yellow roses on the "far-side" fence...we were never so close to such foreign and exotic things.  Our journey has taken us to new and wonderful places...and all so close to the home and family that we love and cherish.

CARZ!

Cars have always been important to me. I fell in love with a 1947 Plymouth Sedan...my parent's first car. This is the first car I have a memory of. It was wonderful! It had a custom pullman-like sleeping area ( the shelf under the back window)...just the right size to curl up and rest while looking at the sky drift by. It had lots of room on the floor in front of the back bench seat...a good place to get away from crowding brothers. I'm not really sure why I was so attached to this dream of a vehicle...I just know that I cried when we left it at Cottle Garage to drive away in our family's next vehicle... a 1953 Plymouth.














The 1953 Plymouth was a poor substitution for my beloved 1947. Just look at it...it has no class, no style, no back window ledge. I remember taking our new car for a ride toward Idaho Falls. As we approached an overpass near Rigby a big truck drove by and flipped a rock into our brand new windshield. A big old rock chip and the 1953 Plymouth deserved it...I want my old friend back. We owned this car for only a brief period of time.

It seems like Dad really liked the Plymouth line of vehicles because the next car was a 1955 Plymouth Belvedere. To be honest I don't remember too much about this car even though we had it for quite some time. I know it is the car that we drove to Salt Lake in to visit Grandma and Grandpa Jenkins. We also had it when we moved to Salt Lake in 1958. It was a good car...but definitely not an old friend like my 1947.

Dad bought a car for us to learn to drive and to use to get to school and work. As impatient teenagers it didn't matter that this car was a massive hulk of a 1955 Dodge. This car was the one that I drove in to take my driver's license road test. It was a miracle that I passed. The Dodge had a manual transmission with the usual H-shifter on the column. I had very little practice but was able to pass the road test and get my license. I think I was fifteen and a half when I got my license. It was the law (back then) that a person was allowed to get their license at that age if they had taken driver's training. This is the vehicle that had a thrown rod right through the engine block...ask Jerry about the details.

My favorite car to drive was the family car that eventually got handed down to Jerry and ultimately to me was the 1962 Ford Fairlaine. This sleek little beauty was metallic rust in color. Featured a slant-six 225hp engine with the shifter on the column. Leatherette (vinyl) seats, bench seats, front and back. I loved this little car almost as much as the 1947 Plymouth.

I got to drive this car during my late high school years and beyond. I used to drive this beauty up and down Emigration Canyon in my own Grand Prix de Monte Carlo...I always won. It was also a joy driving up to the Uintas to go fishing around Mirror Lake. It was especially fun driving down the mountain as fast as possible.

A Place to Tell Lies

Building a hut is a typical practice for any normal creature growing up in Sugar City. A boy needs to have a private place, a place to tell lies, a place to hide when the Mother is upset, a place to imagine wonders still awaiting. Well, Jerry and I had a hut. It wasn't a shoddy, splintery, wooden hut. It wasn't constructed of cardboard or flimsy material that was the usual hut-making stuff. Our hut was made of bricks. Remember that smokestack story. Well, it really existed. The smoke stack was no longer used, and some felt it was a danger (dangerous only if your mother catches you there). The stack's lot was cast, and a well-placed charge diminished the size and altered the shape of said smokestack. No more stack...but loads and loads of bricks. It just didn't seem right to have those precious bricks lie about unloved. So, two boys with more time than sense decided to build a hut, a hut made of bricks. This was no mean effort.
The height and spaciousness had to be right. Aesthetics were essential. The plan was made and massive project was begun. First of all, the hut was placed conveniently by the pile of bricks and within earshot of the Mother's beckoning...but far enough from the Mother's constant attention. Like toiling Israelites we transported the bricks to the building site. With care and attention we set a firm foundation for our structure. Layer by layer, the interlaced bricks rose skyward. With one large room and a very handy entrance hall the hut was nearly habitable. A roof was needed. Without a roof our villainous intentions would be visible to light of day. Proper scrounging supplied plywood scraps that when fitted with some imagination; the roof was complete. It was great! Our very own fortress against the real world.

The year I was born

It's all a blur. But if you click here you might get some ideas.