# 17 - The Biggest Buck on Anthro Mountain

The year we moved to Himni, Curt Roush was our Scout Master. Curt was a Forest Ranger and had a handle on all things outdoors. My dad was his Assistant Scout Master. Dad had mastered a lot of stuff in his life, but camping wasn't one of them. He'd taken us a couple of times. Both times we got home about four in the morning with a trunk full of wet sleeping bags. For Dad, camping and disaster were synonyms.

Dad and Curt hit it off and Curt invited Dad, Todd and myself to join he and his son Pete on a hunting trip that Fall. "We need the meat," he whined to my Mom, as he feebly tried to justify the used 30-30 he bought from the paun shop in Roosevelt. "We could have bought a half a beef for what you paid for that gun!" she complained.

The Forest Service had a wall tent pitched on a platform up on Anthro Mountain above Duchesne. We drove up after school on Friday night. It was dark by the time we made it to the campsite. The tent had a sheep herder stove in it and was warm and cozy. This was camping! Todd and I had were having the time of our lives!

Antro Mountain is a large flat top. It is a remnant of the ancient Colorado Plateau before it was carved up by massive erosion. The top is mostly sage brush. Cutting from the rim of the mountian, in every direction, are draws of various sizes. These are filled with Quaking Aspen and a sprinkling of pine and spruce. It's hard to realize that the mountain is over 9000' in elevation, until you look off the South Rim into Nine Mile Canyon. What an awe inspiring sight that is. The best draws to hunt are on the North because the South is too precipitous.

Early, before sunup, Curt had us up and fed. Steak and eggs and hot cocoa! Dad would have made oatmeal at best. We rumbled down a two track for a couple of miles and Curt got us kids out. "I want you three boys to head off here into this deep draw. It's pretty steep so, be careful. When you get to the bottom spread out a bit and head up the canyon toward the sun. Me and Winston here, we'll go back a ways and get situated so we can pick off the deer when you scare 'em out on top."

We were up for the call of duty.

"Oh, and make lots of noise!" Curt called as the crammed the green Dodge pickup into gear. "We'll see ya in an hour or so."

We made it to the bottom alright and headed up the draw. Shouting and knocking sticks on the quakie trunks, we made quite a racket. We didn't see any deer though, and were pretty sure we were wasting our time, when we heard a couple of shots up ahead, then another. We hurried toward the sound of the last shot and breathlessly coming out on top, found Curt gutting out a nice little three point. We looked around for Dad and couldn't see him. Curt pointed him out to us. He was another quarter mile up toward the head of the draw. When Todd and I reached him, we found he was cleaning a dandy four point with a nice spread. We weren't old enough for our necks to be swelling with testosterone, but we did get a pretty good adrenoline high.

We got the deer both loaded up and headed back to camp to clean up and grab our gear. As we came around the bend we saw the biggest buck of the day. He was standing not 30 yards from the tent! Curt just smiled and said, "Maybe next year boys."

Next year came before you know it. Curt had been pretty quiet, but Dad had made a huge deal of last year's success. He'd invited Coach Morton to join us. Principal Steckler got wind of it too, and begged and pleaded until they invited him as well. Bringing him along kind of threw a wet blanket on our prospects for any fun. He was such an annoying man. When we got to camp and had our sleeping bags rolled out on the cots, we couldn't get him to shut up and go to sleep. He was like a kid on Christmas Eve. When he did settle down, he snored like a jack hammer. I was never so happy to hear bacon frying in my whole life. It meant I could get up from a near sleepless night. From the looks of the rest of the guys, I handn't been the only miserable camper. Mr. Steckler, on the other hand, was wound up like a fiddle string and back to his wide eyed chatter.

Curt Roush had seen Old Gnarly (that's what we called the big buck) a couple of days earlier a two draws to the west, over by Sowers Canyon. We headed over there with the same plan that had worked so well last year. Pete, Todd and I were pushing the draw in short order. It seemed like we'd hardly got started when we heard four, five...six shots. We scrambled up to the rim where we found Dad and Curt. They were hustling toward where they last saw Old Gnarly go out of sight. As we approached the spot we could see Mr. Steckler's head over the top of a large sagebrush. He was kind of looking strange. When we rounded the bush we found him with his coveralls down around his ankles, whiping himself off with one of his socks. It seems that just about the time Old Gnarly had emerged Mr. Steckler had had to make a call of nature. Dodging bullets, the buck had jumped over the very sage brush he was hiding behind and knocked Mr. Steckler down in his own pile. It took both socks and a half a roll of toilet paper Curt got from the truck, to get him cleaned up. Mr. Steckler never spoke another word the whole trip.

Curt and Pete moved away that next year. We were too proud of Old Gnarly to ever want him dead, so we went hunting somewhere else. We were too embarrassed for Mr. Steckler to ever tell anyone. As far as I know he never went hunting again. And, Winston Parker, my dad, somehow didn't seem like such a lousy outdoors man after all.

# 16 - Church Bugs

Before we built the Omner Valley Stake Center, we used to drive over to Vernal and use the Uintah Stake Tabernacle for Stake Conference. Us kids really enjoyed sitting in the balcony and looking down on the garden of lady's hats. When conference was in the Fall, the first year I was a Deacon, our Ward got the Church Bug assignment.

There were a lot of Box Elder trees on the Tabernacle grounds and that meant Box Elder bugs. We called them Church Bugs because every fall they flock into homes and other buildings, including churches, to find shelter. The Tabernacle was crawling with them. In the end we hauled off five 40 gallon garbage cans full of them. It was no easy task, sweeping up living moving creatures. We went through the whole place five or six times.

Still, come Sunday, there were dozens of them crawling about during the meetings. Of all the bugs, Church Bugs are my favorite. They aren't much trouble and don't do any harm. They're tidy nice looking little creatures, all dressed up in their dark suit and red tie and vest. I always thought it was sort of nice to have them around. I remember once my brother Todd did a Science Project on Box Elder bugs. The teacher suggested he make observations about their behavior. After a couple of weeks, all Todd had observed was, "...their persistent habit of lying on their backs with their feet up and doing nothing at all."

While we were waiting for the meeting to start, Dad told us a story on Grandpa. "Way back, when Grandpa was young, he was sitting in Stake Conference in Star Valley. They were on the front row of the balcony, just like we are here today. Grandpa was sitting beside his nephew Evan. Evan had a sinus problem. The meeting was long and the room got hot and stuffy. Evan fell asleep. His head rolled back and his mouth lolled open. He couldn't breathe much through his nose. Grandpa, had a bit of the Dickens in him. He took to tearing up a piece of paper into tiny little bits. He had a whole pile of them. Then, he up and dumped them in Evan's open mouth. Evan choked and blew a blizzard of paper confetti out over the audience below. It created quite a stir and embarrassed Evan near to death."

I'm eating this story up!

"Evan swore he'd get even, and get even he did. Later in the Summer, during a long hot Sacrament Meeting, there was a break for a rest song at about half way. Grandpa was asleep and never even noticed the singing. During the last verse of Abide With Me, Evan nudged Grandpa, from the row behind and whispered, "Fred! They just called on you to say the closing prayer." Grandpa hopped up and arrived at the pulpit just as the chorister was sitting down. He bowed his head and dismissed the meeting. The Bishop didn't know what to do, so he called on someone to reopen the meeting so they could hear the final speaker. They say that was the last time Grandpa slept in church!"

I felt a strong kinship with Grandpa that day.

Years later, when they turned the Uintah Stake Tabernacle into the Vernal Temple, I went for an Endowment Session. After the session I was sitting in the beautiful Celestial Room, contemplating what had become of that grand old building. And there on a window sill crawled a Church Bug! I felt like Grandpa was near and I smiled as warm memories flooded my soul.

# 15 - UFO Summer

The summer of 1967 was pretty exciting around Himni. There were frequent UFO sightings and everyone wanted in on the action.

The reports came in on a frequent basis. They were hard to dismiss. Miss Landon the English/Spanish Teacher at the High School and her friend Miss Francis an Elementary School teacher, saw one hover along side their car while driving through Gusher. Later, after a skating party at the roller rink in Vernal, they were driving a couple of carloads of Indian kids home to Randlett. Those in Miss Francis' car observed a UFO hovering over those in Miss Landon's car. These were not drunks cat fishing on the river, these were respectable, church going, educated, young women.

Vida Martin and his kids saw one hovering over their cottonwoods while they were choring one night. I spoke to one of those kids just last week and after 38 years, he still stands by his story. "It didn't make a sound, just shined this bluish spotlight on us, then flew away real fast!" he told me.

Garn Mooney was in the Omner Valley Stake Presidency at the time. He reported seeing them on numerous occasions. He held the theory that it was the Lost Ten Tribes scouting things out in anticipation of their imminent return from the center of the Hollow Earth. He had books backing up his theory and, though shy of preaching his theory from the pulpit, he spoke of it often from behind the counter in his hardware store.

I was about to turn seventeen. I was awkward around girls. I was self conscious because of my acne. My view of life and living was distorted as a fun house mirror. In short, my adolescent hormones had kicked in - finally. It wasn't pleasant. I spent lots of night time hours laying out on the back lawn looking for UFOs and praying one would come abduct me and save me from all this.

To this day I find myself weighing the events of that summer in the balance of my mind. On the one hand, I feel compelled to give credence to the respectable folks who claimed to have seen one. Most of them saw it on repeated occasions. On the other hand, I had spent countless hours out watching for UFOs and never saw anything even suspicious.

I had about concluded that they all saw something, but that it wasn't likely to have been anything from outer space or the center of the earth. Then one day not ten years ago I was driving down west of Randlett. I intended to take an old back road over to Independence when I encountered a 12 foot chainlink fence, topped with coils of razor wire. It was posted with Federal no trespassing signs and enclosed about 400 acres. No one seems to know what's in there. Nobody ever sees people going in or out. No agency, that I can find, claims jurisdiction over it. It's like we have our own Area 51 right here in the Uintah Basin.

One night I was out on the back lawn watching for unusual phenomena. It was a cool, quiet evening in late June of 1967. Mom turned on the porch light and called me to come to the phone. It was Rob Hanke. "Get down here quick!" was all he said. I jumped in my 1956 Chevy Belair and headed for his house. I found him out back by the barn. It was pitch dark and Rob was using just a feeble flash light. He had an air of conspiracy about him. This was not unusual. Leaning up against the barn was a long orchard ladder. He handed me a wad of thin plastic and said, "Here, take this end up to the roof and hold it!" I grabbed whatever it was and headed right up. Obviously, there was no time to waste.

When I got positioned, I heard the sound of a fan or something. As Rob reached for the flashlight I could see that I was holding some sort of plastic bag, about fifteen feet long and three feet in diameter. Rob was inflating the bag. Once that was done, I was nearly blinded by the sudden flash of a road flare.

"Don't let it snag on the shingles!" he whispered, as the bag started to tighten and lift.

"Let her lift off, but keep her away from the barn."

As Rob's homemade hotair balloon ascended past me, I got a better look. Suspended from the bag, was an aluminum snow saucer, concave side down. Fitted on top of the saucer was a nice little rack to hold a burning flare, fixed in a vertical position. Suspended from three wires, below the saucer, was a second flare, which Rob lit as he released his creation. I couldn't believe how quickly it rose into the air.

There wasn't much breeze, but the balloon was slowly drifting off to the West. We jumped into the Chevy and set out to follow it. Rob figured the flares would burn for about 45 minutes. It looked really cool up there. Two tiny red lights, one reflecting eerily off the bottom of the saucer. There was a ghostly glow from the bag too. Staying back, we followed it across the valley for about a half hour. It was headed for Cogburn's Knob up by the cemetery. That was a favorite parking place and had been pretty busy that summer with the added interest of possibly sighting flying saucers.

As we approached the cemetery we fell in with a long line of cars who were apparently "doing the same thing we were." We looked like a late night funeral cortege. Rob and I looked less guilty than some of the kids who'd arrived before the excitement began. The balloon crashed near the top of the knob. There was a crowd of about 50 folks gathered near the Cemetery gate. We were kind of milling around, wondering what to do next. Then, with a crunch of gravel, President Garn Mooney arrived. He jumped out of his Cadilac and took charge.

"I've had experience with these things," he declared.
He instructed us all to, "Wait here while I hike up and make contact!"

It was an awkward night all the way around the crowd. Parking and spectators don't mix. Neither do the gospel and speculation. President Mooney never really said much about UFOs after that.

# 14 - EMS

There were three Baritonists in the Himni High School Band. LeGrand Morris (Grandy), Michael Simper and myself. In the band room we sat on the back row, but in front of Rob Hanke, who played the Sousaphone and needed a bit of elbo room in the back corner opposite the drummers. Mitch Warner played the tenor sax and sat right in front of us.

Mr. Hess, our band teacher, had listed the student's names in alphabetical order. He then assigned each a consecutive number, in that order. When it was time for roll call, he just called on us to count off in the appropriate sequence. As luck would have it, Morris, Parker, Simper and Warner stacked up right in a row. Our numbers were 27, 28, 29 and 30. We soon took to calling out our numbers in four part harmony. Grandy would sing his number and hold the note, then in succession, the others would add their number and harmonious note. Rob, not wanting to be left out, often added a deep bass sousaphone drone as foundation for our performance.

We were a "harmonious" group in more ways than one. We saw eye to eye on most things and were pretty much inseparable even when not in the band room. The previous summer, all of us except Michael had gone to Boy's State together. Michael's big brother Ronald had gone with us. Michael was a year younger. We talked often of Boy's State, of the fun we'd had. Mitch and I were still corresponding with Rhonda and Wanda, twin girls we'd met while up there in Logan. Michael was desperate to have the same experience. It's hard to say this about Michael, we liked him a lot, but he was a bit odd. I know what you're thinking, but I mean even odder than the rest of us. He was even awkward around us, his best buddies. He always treated us with a kind of awe and respect, like he couldn't believe we liked him and that our friendship was somehow tenuous.

Michael invented the "blip boid." I think he intended it to be sort of a combination sign somewhere between "the bird" and a salute. To correctly execute the blip boid you had to hold your right arm out in front of yourself with the forearm in a vertical position. The hand was held in a relaxed posture with the index finger and thumb extended, but also somewhat relaxed. Once in this position you slowly elevated the hand while twisting it back and forth in a jerky, syncopated motion until you got it about half as high as you could reach, where you stopped until all responding blip boids had been completed. Michael insisted this be our club high sign. Trouble is, we didn't have a club.

Maybe Michael thought going to Boy's State was the final initiation that would make his membership in our club complete. It must not have occurred to him that we'd all be gone next year. Or, maybe he thought that he'd fall in with other Boy's State alumni in our absence. Anyway, he mused about it a lot and was constantly seeking the mysterious key that would insure his invitation. One day, off the cuff, I mentioned that never in the history of Himni High had the newly elected Student Body President failed to be invited to Boy's State. His insecurity prevailing, Michael asked, "So I run for Student Body President, but what if I lose?"

That was no problem, because never in the history of Himni High had the loser of the election for Student Body President not been elected Senior Class President...and never in history had the Senior Class President failed to be invited to Boy's State either. It was a sure thing! Michael was elated!

"Would you guys be my Campaign Committee?"

Now Mitch and I, in particular, were into politics. We'd gone to Boy's State after all, plus we'd gone to Model United Nations twice and were steeped in Mr. Parker's (my dad) American Problems class. We were the quintessential campaign committee! We didn't tell him that neither one of us got elected to anything more important than Dog Catcher at Boy's State.

The next few weeks were spent developing strategy, painting posters and overcoming Michael's Pip Squeak image. The latter was a challenge. We decided the jocks were out. Michael's challenger was Ricky Hanley, a jock - who had money. Our attention turned to the shops. If we could turn out the vote in the Auto, Wood and Ag shops we could kick Ricky's butt. There was a reasonable population in that end of the school. That group was typically disinterested in such things as school elections. The academics were already pretty much in the bag on account of the persistent rivalry between academics and sports. Yup, the shops were the key.

In those days there was a common phrase used by the greasers down in the shops. As an insult cum challenge they would often offer a surly "Eat My Shorts!" Quite often that, or more commonly, "EMS" was scrawled on the restroom walls. We appropriated "EMS" for ourselves - Elect Michael Simper!

It was a good strategy and it might have worked. We'll never know, though, because Mitch and I panicked and stuffed the ballot box - and got caught.

Ricky Hanley was declared the winner and Mitch and I were hauled in on the carpet. The Disciplinary Council consisted of the Principal, Mr. Steckler, Coach Harker and Mrs. Celestia Hopewell. We were doomed. Mr. Steckler informed us of the charges and explained that if found guilty, we’d be suspended for a week and our diplomas would be held until we’d completed 100 hours of community service. The biggest implication, I thought, was that it took Mitch out of the running for Valedictorian. He and Emily Allen were in hot contention for the honor and I couldn’t bear to have him lose it this way.

The witness, Marci Merriwether was called and before she was even halfway through her deposition, Coach Harker declared, “I move we convict ‘em. It’s clear they done it!”

“Did,” Mrs. Hopewell sharply replied.

“Did what?” Coach Harker queried.

“The correct English is “did it”, sir, not “done it.”

There was ice between them.

Mitch offered a subtle blip boid in my direction. I responded.

Coach Harker raged on at the vile act we’d committed. He always hated Mitch. Mitch could have been an All State Quarterback. He was smart enough, athletic enough, tall enough, and charismatic enough to have done the whole thing. He just had no interest in sports and that killed Coach Harker. His bitterness was showing like a girl's slip.

Mr. Steckler finally got him settled down and turned the attention back to Marci. Meanwhile, I observed Mrs. Hopewell scratch a quick note which she passed to Coach Harker. When he held it up to read it, the light was such that, I could see the name Ted Traynor was scrawled on it. Ted was next year’s hope for a successful football season. I still can’t believe what came next. The coach mouthed the words, “You wouldn’t!” She responded with a most resolute glare.

The exchange was interrupted by Mr. Steckler, who dismissed Marci. She gave us a nasty little sniff, letting us know she was getting her revenge for the Golden Emerods incident. The Principal called for a vote. “By a show of hands, who finds the defendants guilty?” All three hands went up. He was about to declare our sentence when Mrs. Hopewell interrupted, “Due to extenuating circumstances, I propose that we ease up on these boys a bit. They’ve been assets to our school. This is the first time they’ve appeared before this council. May I respectfully suggest that we limit their punishment to community service and leave this little affair off their academic records?"

Mr. Steckler smugly suggested her proposal be put to a vote. "All in favor of the lightened sentence, suggested by Mrs. Hopewell, please signify by raising your hand." Mrs. Hopewell’s hand went right up and not so swiftly, so did Coach Harker’s!

Mr. Steckler's jaw hit his chest. Mitch and I were pretty shocked too. We came away shaking our heads. After all, who’d have thought that the greatest lesson in politics of our high school career would have been taught by an English teacher!

You might be interested to know that, though Ricky Hanley was the new Student Body President, he didn't get invited to Boy's State. Neither did Wes Whickham, the Senior Class President. Michael Simper, however, was invited and was elected Senator, his campaign slogan - EMS!

# 13 - Szhungaelzee

Mitch Warner and I and few others were cleaning up the stage after the School Play our senior year. We just about had things tidied up when somebody (Hall of Famers won't like the lack of a specific name.) kicked a roll of masking tape across the floor. Somebody else kicked it back and the game of Szhungaelzee was born. In seconds, four chairs were set up, as goals, at opposite ends of the bare stage and a full blown scrimmage was underway. Not entirely original, Szhungaelzee was played with the feet, like soccer, with a puck (the masking tape) like hockey, preferably on a hardwood floor. We had a ball that afternoon playing, developing rules, strategy, technique and terminology.

We were on a mission! Before we went to bed that night the game had been named, the puck had been renamed the Raquephrat, the rules had been committed to memory and two teams had been formed. It was commonly agreed that most sports had been buried so deep in rules that they had become stodgy and mechanical. Szhungaelzee's rules were bare bones at best. We considered Sunday shoes as required equipment. A slightly rebelious way to thumb our noses at the school coaches, who were constantly whining about the gym floor during dances. We threw it out though, knowing we'd never find a place to play if we did. The number one rule was: All comers are welcome! We didn't ever want Szhungaelzee to become elitist and political like High School sports had become.

Can you sense a tone of bitterness here? You should. There were a lot of us who were bitter about showing up every Friday night to worship the chosen few. In fact that's how Szhungaelzee got it's name. We used to sit in the stands at the ball games and make up our own cheers. Stuff like, "Lean to the Left, Lean to the Left, Lean to the Left again, rah (or was it raw?)!" At which point the one farthest on the left made like he'd been shoved off the end of the bleachers. Good fun. One day Mitch showed up with a new one. He'd heard it in a movie or read it in a book somewhere. It was a cheer from some college named Shelgamy. It went, ""S" Stands for Shelgamy, "H" stants for Hit. Shelgamy, Shelgamy, (clap) (clap) (clap)." Anyway, Mitch couldn't, for the life of him, remember Shelgamy so in order to render it for us he came up with an invented college named "Szhungaelzee!" It was irreverent I know. That was the point. There were no intramural sports. There was no E in PE. Only the elite got a real shot at playing ball of any kind. We were synical about the whole athlete thing and this was our subtle statement about it all. Anyway, when we played Szhungaelzee, the cheer was implied and the whole thing represented a sneer at the establishment. This was the late sixties after all.

The next day the stage was locked, the gym was occupied and we were dying for a quick game during the lunch hour. The new Himni High had a hall just for the Arts department. It dead ended at the band room. It wasn't all that wide, but it had little traffic, so it worked. Douglas Winger sneaked one past Pee Wee Lundquist, our goalie, and the Raquephrat slid out into the main hall. Douglas, who was Himni's pre-eminent scholar and kept a pretty low profile at school, was in hot pursuit. He was already developing his famous sliding swoop and attempted to use it to bring the masking tape back into play. He slid on his side out into the main hall intending to hook the Raquephrat with is right foot and swoop it back the other direction. Just as he made the hook though, Mrs. Celestia Hopewell's right foot stepped right on the tape. Douglas was already looking back in our direction. I guess there wasn't time for him to see the horror in our faces. In what seemed like slow motion (which hadn't been invented yet), Douglas swooped. Celestia went one way and the puck went the other. After we gathered Mrs. Hopewell up from the floor, she marched us all the to office. She was kind enough to acknowledge it was an accident, but we were forever banned from playing Szhungaelzee in the hall.

Pee Wee attended the Grant Ward and his Dad had a key to the building. We got permission to use the gym at the church and scheduled our first game for the following Thursday. The Raquephrat Kickers defeated the Anti-Jocks by a score of 12 to 7! Each team consisted of six players. Pee Wee was our goalie. The spread of his two size 12 feet left exactly the width of a roll of masking tape between the pop bottles we used as goal posts. It was hard to get one past him. The most exciting part was the turn out! There were probably 80 spectators. Three more teams were organized by night's end. Another signed up the following afternoon. We had a league!

Lew Hopkins was Student Body President that year. I don't think he ever joined a team, but he showed up every Thursday to cheer us on. On Friday mornings, when he did the announcements over the intercom at school, Lew would read the Szhungaelzee scores. This drew more excitement and before long we had huge crowds showing up Thursday evenings at the Grant Ward Chapel.

Then problems began, especially at my house. (Mom and Dad were both on the faculty.) The establishment was not pleased. It began with the coaches and my dad. I guess they felt threatened. I guess they thought we were encroaching on their turf. Maybe they feared economic repercussions. Like Communism this cancer had to be erradicated. Initially, they tried to "talk sense" into us. It was quickly obvious that wasn't going to work. Threats followed. Still we played on. Then one night we showed up at the church to find the key no longer worked and a note on the door indicating the "brethren" had determined that they could no longer permit our activity. Liability and law suits were not a concern. Those were the days when the troop rode to camp in the back of the Scoutmaster's pickup truck. We checked the other meeting houses with the same results. We had been black balled!

When I got home that night my father and mother we not speaking to one another. Dad, who'd seemed pretty puffed up for about a week, looked pretty humble. I'd heard a heated rumble in their bedroom the night before. All I could make out was Mom saying, "...it's good clean fun!" and something about "...a bunch of self agrandizing bullies!" Nothing was ever said to me, but I'm sure Mom didn't approve of his strong arming us kids into submission. It helped to know Mom stuck up for us.

And so, Szhungaelzee died. Perhaps it's just as well. I might have gone pro and ruined my whole life with fame and lavish excess. Since then, while the jocks waste countless hours couched in front of ball games on TV, I enjoy days and days hiking on the mountain. While they hobble around the golf course on aching knees, I backpack in the Grand Canyon. While they relive their youth by yelling at their kids on the little leage field, I fly kites with mine. They got what they wanted and, in the end, so did I.

# 12 - Miss Cornelia Green and Ronnie Hulet

The Omner Valley Jr. High, had been the High School before the new one was built. Before it was the High School it had been the Omner Valley Stake Acadamy. It was built in about 1915 and showed it's age. It was a three story brick structure. Holes had been drilled through the walls and long pipes installed with large plates on the outside of the brick. These were intended to bolt the whole place together. A large tube had been retrofitted to the northside third floor as a fire escape. The upper entrance was always locked to keep us from horsing around in it, so we'd climb up from the bottom and slide down anyway. We always wondered if the person with the key would be there if a fire ever occurred.

OVJH had a combination auditorium/gymnasium. The gym floor doubled as a stage. The auditorum seating, including a large balcony, accomodated the entire student body and half the town. If you sat too far to the left though, the curtains hid the basketball bankboard on that end. Same thing on the right. Butch Farley's gang loved sitting in the balcony with pea shooters during basketball games.

It was in that auditorium that I saw the second most amazing athletic feat of my life. My pal Ronnie Hulet was probably the greatest, natural born athlete I ever met. He never went out for sports, to the dismay of all the coaches, but the things he could do were legendary. In Omner Valley Jr. High, he was fastest up the rope, impossible to hit with a dodge ball and could do triple the pull ups of anyone in the eighth grade. One day I walked into the auditorium just in time to see him standing on the rim of the basketball hoop. He dived, and I mean head first, on to the bare hardwood floor. I thought I was watching a suicide attempt! When he reached the floor though, he completed the slickest roll you ever saw and came up standing on his feet, a broad grin spread clear across his face. The coaches forbade Ronnie from ever doing it again; but secretly they bragged about him every chance they got. The funny thing is, he never played sports because his Mom didn't want him to get hurt.

The school got a new English teacher that year. Her name was Miss Cornelia Green. She was reported to have been an accomplished journalist with the Chicago Tribune. No one could ever explain though, why an accomplished journalist would leave her career in Chicago to teach brats at Omner Valley Jr. High. She was a big boned, manly woman. She dyed her hair blonde. The dark roots of her coarse tangle of shoulder length mane were always showing. She had little cosmetic talent and her make up looked like it amounted to weeks of layers. It was often caked on so thick it cracked, as did her bright red lip stick. She had a black mole right on the tip of her nose which always managed to shine through by noon. Quite frankly, looking back, I honestly wonder if she wasn't really George C. Scott hiding out in the Witness Protection Program.

Miss Green managed no degree of classroom discipline. This was not for lack of effort. One time she went to smite me on the back of the hand with a ruler. I managed to catch the ruler and we shook it between us for a few moments before she let her end go and retreated to her desk. She would storm from commotion to commotion feigning fury but wasn't a good enough actress to pull it off. Her storming was amusing to watch though. You could see the frustration building up, then she'd rock way back on her heels as if winding up and would launch her enormous body forward in a thundering charge. More than once the teachers on the floor below had sent up delegations to plead for less commotion from our room. Their, biggest complaint? "It sounded like a herd of cattle stampeding across the floor." We soon learned that there wasn't a mean bone in her body and instead of loving her for it we took horrible advantage.

Finally, about half way through the year, she gave up on trying to teach us anything and resorted to reading stories and books to us. She hoped at least to pique our interest in literature. Mostly, she selected wonderful stuff and I for one, sat in wrapt attention as Sherlock Holmes or Robinson Crusoe or Jean Valjean's adventures paraded across the stage of my imagination.

Ronnie Hulet, on the other hand, had a very hard time sitting still in any situation. To do nothing but listen to Cornelia Green read for an hour was torture for him. He'd have gladly taken P.E. seven periods a day, where he'd surely have received straight A's. Sometimes he'd cope by drifting off to sleep. Along about the end of April though, when the weather was warming up nicely, the compulsion to be outside running overtook Ronnie. Right in the middle of Red Badge of Courage, he stood up and screamed, "I've had it, I can't take this anymore!" Whereupon, he dashed across the room and dived out the second story window!

Miss Green staggered, her eyes rolled back and down she went. It was not a pretty sight. For one thing women and girls wore dresses to school in those days. When she came to, it was Ronnie who was fanning her face with a file folder. She thought she'd halucinated the whole thing. And I realized that this was the premier athletic accomplishment I'd ever witnessed.

Ronnie Hulet moved away the next Summer and I never heard of him again. Cornelia Green never returned to Himni after that year either. They say she went back to Chicago and journalism. I keep hoping someday she'll write her version of the story. I'd like to close my eyes and listen to her read it.