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# 24 - Suicide Hill

On the North side of Cogburn's Knob, facing away from Town is a rather steep hillside that has been cleared of brush and rocks. It was well worn by a few Jeeps and dozens of motorcycles. Four Wheelers hadn't been invented yet. My gang had none of that, but we loved Suicide Hill anyway. In the summer we'd roll flaming tires from the top and watch them boil as they rolled into the large canal at the bottom.

In the winter we'd tube. We'd build a big bonfire, then haul our tubes to the top and ride them down for half the night. We rarely made it anywhere near the depths of the empty canal, some distance across the flat, but we tried. As each night wore on, the run would get slicker and faster and scarier. Few ever thought of going shy of the summit. We were immortal and the faster the better!

One winter it had been bitter cold for several weeks and we stayed off the hill. When the weather finally broke though, we planned a big party up on Suicide. We invited everyone who dared. About an hour after we got started Ronnie Mayhew showed up. We'd been too busy to wonder where he was. He'd been to OK Tire looking for a used tube he could afford, but we'd already cleaned them out. Out in his barn yard he'd found a huge tractor tire and decided to use that. He spent most of the evening dragging the monster to the summit. As we passed by we kept telling him it wouldn't slide, but Ronnie was determined. Finally, we all pitched in and helped him up the steep last stretch.

When we finally reached the top, Ronnie laid the tire down, stepped back several feet, ran for all he was worth (to get momentum) and leapt on top of his tire.
It didn't move an inch! He tried and tried, but the beast was not going to slide. We teased him. We offered him rides on our tubes. We tried to help him get it started. All to no avail. Ronniejust sat there on his tire with his chin in his hands while we made several more runs. We couldn't get him or the tire to budge.

On our last run of the evening we all climbed to the top planning a giant chain to go down all together. As we were getting ready, Ronnie was cooking up plans of his own. He called our attention and requested we hold the tire up while he climbed inside so we could roll him down the hill.

Now we were not physicists, or physicians, but any dern fool knew such a ride would be suicide. Suicide Hill is not small and it begins with a very steep slope for 100 yards before it even begins to level out. We all chimed some version of, "No Way!" "Besides," we told him, "if the ride doesn't kill you the smash into the dry canal bed at the bottom surely will!"

"Naw," said Ronnie. "Jinx and Pee Wee can launch me and the rest of you toughs can get down there and catch me before I crash."

We were scared, but also excited! If he survived it'd be the greatest stunt ever pulled!

The guys all slid down to the bottom and got ready. They stood in two parellel lines on either side of the run. They braced themselves and hollered, "Ready!"

It took all three of us to get the thing standing in an upright position. Pee Wee and I couldn't believe Ronnie had actually got the oversided pile of rubber up there. Ronnie crawled in and got tucked nicely down in the belly of the behemouth. After several are you sure you wanna do this's, we shoved him over the edge.

Pee Wee and I had intended to follow Ronnie down on our tubes, but he took off so fast! We just stood there amazed and in shock. Meanwhile, 16 or so tough guys were standing there waiting to catch him. They each had their arms stretched eagerly in our direction. It was two rows of hands and faces gazing intently at 400 pounds of hurtling flesh and rubber. As the tire ran that braced guntlet nothing moved but their heads as their astonished eyes followed it's path. 16 pea-brains were at least smart enough to conclude that it wasn't wise to step in front of a locomotive.

The Leviathan completely cleared the canal! Then, it rolled 100 yards up the opposite slope and headed back! The crew, at least, tumbled pell mell through the canal bed and up the other side before Ronnie could crash back into it. When I got there, I had to muscle my way through the circle. There, in the snow, lay Ronnie, half in and half out of the tire. Vomit was everywhere. 360 degrees of corn, carrots, peas and other less distinguishable stuff. We carried him to a car and drove our sick pal home. We didn't see hide nor hair of him for a week.

All Ronnie got for his efforts was bragging rights and standing ovation in the school cafeteria a week later. Oh, and perhaps a little smarter.

# 23 - The Pink Panther

Himni had a little theater called the Cozy. It had an aisle down each side and about fifteen rows of eight seats. There was a hole in the screen where Butch had pierced it with a pop bottle while trying to join in an on screen saloon fight. The movies were never current, for those you had to drive over to Roosevelt or up to Vernal. There was always a cartoon before the movie. I never think of that theater and cartoons without remembering Rob Hanke.

Rob was a Jekyll/Hyde sort of individual. He could be found hanging with us, drinking pop and eating popcorn, but he was just as likely to be seen having a beer with Butch. There was room in his heart for all of us. It was one of his most endearing qualities. I don't recall either side trying to reform him. It's not like we didn't care, we just somehow knew he was alright.

Rob worked at Dal's Sporting Goods Store and took much of his wages in ammo. He loved shooting things. One year during the deer hunt, he and Butch Farley went hunting down in the Book Cliffs. They took 30.06 shells and beer, a case of each! They got ploughed and started taking shots at the trunk of a large Ponderosa Pine. After a while Butch knocked a pretty large chunk out of the side of the tree. It then became a contest to see who could shoot off the biggest piece. Before the night was over the beer was gone, the bullets were gone and they'd felled the tree!

Anyway, one night a bunch of us went down to the Cozy to see Cat Ballou, we were in love with Jane Fonda. Rob showed up a but tipsy. Not as bad a Lee Marvin, but almost! There was a Pink Panther cartoon showing before the feature. Rob climbed onto the small stage in front of the screen and attempted to keep his shaddow in front of the Pink Panther all through the cartoon. It was hilarious and even Mr. Hornby the owner of the theater got a kick out of Hanke's performance.

We laughed about Rob and the Pink Panther for weeks. Everywhere he appeared it seemed someone was singing the the Pink Panther theme music. Da Dum, Da Dum, Da Dum Da Dum Da Dum Da Dum, Da Dum, Da Da Da Dum. Rob didn't make much of it himself, he wasn't the show off type, but the rest of us carried the ball for him.

In the Spring it came time for the Senior Assembly at school. I hadn't been invited to participate. That was understandable, it was, after all, a talent show. Mr. March was Senior Class Advisor and was ramrodding the event. He was so good at such things. He'd followed our class though all three years at HHS and thus, we had the best decorations at Prom and won the Homecoming Float Contest all three years. We loved Mr. March.

One day Mr. March cornered me after Algebra and asked if I would please attend the Assembly Dress Rehearsal after school. He wouldn't tell me why, but he made it sound urgent. I went and sat next to him in the audience. They had decided to build the program around a Hogan's Hero's theme. You remember Hogan's Heros, the comedy about a bunch of American prisoners in a German Prison Camp during WWII. They had cast it pretty well. Lew Hopkins was Sargeant Schultz. Douglas Winger was Hogan. Gavin Richardson was Colonel Klink. The talent was great but the dialog between the Hogan's Heros cast was pretty dull. It was due to show in the morning and Mr. March was desperate! "How can we give this some life?" he pleaded.

I pondered for a moment and the light came on. "Leave it to me," I shouted as I headed for the door.
"But what do we do?" He lamented.
"Nothing, leave it just the way it is. I'll take care of the rest!" I still can't believe he trusted me.
"Oh," I shouted, "and tell the cast that no matter what happens the show must go on exactly as planned!"
I couldn't hang around to explain, I was going to be busy 'til show time. Besides the success of my plan depended on complete surprise.

The next morning the student body assembled in the auditorium, not exactly excited but glad to be out of class. I seated myself next to Mr. March. He was as nervous as an expectant father outside the delivery room. I urged him to relax, but he seemed to take little comfort from my confidence.

The curtains rose to display a pretty reasonable representation of the prison camp barracks. Hogan and Schultz were having a bit of a tiff which was artfully leading up to the first talent presentation, a solo by Marjorie Green, who has since performed with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. As she was finishing, the back door of the Auditorium opened and in stepped the Pink Panther. Rob's mom had been up all night building him an amazingly accurate costume. He carried a brush and a pail of pink paint.

Marjorie stepped off the stage and the Pink Panter stepped on. Many in the crowd were singing, "Da Dum, Da Dum.... Colonel Klink began dressing down Sargeant Schultz about some incompetence and the Pink Panther began painting Klink's costume. The cast did a marvelous job of not noticing while Rob painted everything pink including the barracks and most of the soldiers.

The audience ate it up! When the curtains came down the crowd roared, Rob Hanke took a bow and Mr. March gave me a bear hug. When he thanked me, I put on my best German accent and replied, "I know not'ink!"

# 22 - The Pep Rally

We got a new drama teacher our Senior year. Her name was Miss Lana Crosby. She’d grown up in Duchesne but had gone off to college before the two years I lived there. She had married young and then divorced, finished her degree and come to Himni High School for her first job. She was young, attractive, flamboyant and eager to inaugurate a dynamic speech and drama program.

I was interested in politics so I took her forensic speech class. I was excited to participate in debate tournaments. She had other ideas. Politics was definitely not her thing. She was artsy artsy artsy. She encouraged me to attend the first ever Thespian Club Meeting and I was elected President. I wound up with the lead in the School Play and most of my extracurricular efforts that year were wound around the drama department. Lest you think I had a crush on Miss Crosby, not a chance, that would be reserved for someone else. I promise to share that story with you one of these days.

During basketball season the cheerleaders organized a pep rally. We needed one. The basketball team was an embarrassment and attendance was dropping off fast. Miss Crosby had been a cheerleader at DHS and suggested they do a spoof of Duchesne’s cheerleaders at the rally. They thought it to be a great idea.

The plan was to get some hairy legged boys to pose as DHS cheerleaders and stir up the crowd with some antics. Duchesne had a great ball team that year and I guess the idea was to demystify them a bit. Miss Crosby took charge of the project, which is how I got involved.

She instructed me to find three friends and recruit them to join me in the skit. I was reluctant until she promised makeup sufficient to completely disguise our identities. I recruited Mitch Warner, Douglas Winger and Pee Wee Lundquist. We should have practiced, but never found the time. When it came down to it, we barely found the time to get made up and dressed in our cheerleader outfits. In makeup we sort of talked our way through a couple of ideas. We decided to stuff the bodice of our uniforms with a couple of balloons each. Those were procured and filled things out quite acceptably. We wondered who’d worn these things before Miss Crosby scrounged them up.

Douglas and I were made up as blondes with little heart shaped red lips. We each had shoulder length wigs with bangs, pale makeup base with rosy pink cheeks. We looked like a couple of Scandinavian lasses. Mitch and Pee Wee were done up as brunettes with long brown hair, fully painted lips and long black false eyelashes. I was embarrassed for them, they looked forever like a couple of whores.

It was fun rummaging through Miss Crosby’s huge makeup case for resources. It was like the largest tackle box I ever saw and was crammed with everything imaginable. There were warts, noses, beards, scars, eyelashes, wigs, falls, and pigtails. There were teeth, mustaches, and nose jewe…wait a minute. Those pigtails caught my attention.

Every skit needs a bomb and I had found mine.

We hit the stage with a bang. All made up cute and girl like, except for oversized Converse All-stars, to make us look goofy. Actually, I don’t think the All-stars made that much difference. We cheered and bounced and giggled. Mitch in a damatic effort to look like a spaz, was, and falling, gave himself a nasty floor burn. Blood ran down his hairy leg the remainder of the performance.

After leading the crowd in a rousing cheer we jumped up and down with glee and hugged one another with balloon popping enthusiasm. One of Pee Wee’s didn’t pop though, it just bulged out in an embarrassing manner. That nearly brought down the house.

No one knew why Douglas and I kept our elbows to our sides through all our antics. Some, said they supposed we were just trying to look silly. But, when, during the grand finale, we did raise our arms to expose our braided armpits, the house went wild!

We had glued the pigtails, with Spirit Gum, to our underarm hair. They looked remarkably real. We thought we’d kept it a secret from Mitch and Pee Wee, but they made us. When we stepped forward to expose our Norwegian grooming, they stepped behind us and in one coordinated grab, pulled our braids out by the roots! Whereupon, two blonde cheerleaders, screamed every bit like girls.

The next evening during the big game the crowd had invented a new cheer:

Rip those pits,
Rip those pits,
Forget at about the basketball,
Rip those pits.

Douglas and I were still too sore to put much enthusiasm into it, but oblivious to it’s meaning, Duchesne seemed quite discombobulated by the yell and in an 84 to 81 upset we beat them.

# 21 - Rooney Bloom

I had to quit my job at the IGA in order to attend Boy’s State. I still find it hard to believe they wouldn’t work with me. Maybe they were just looking for an excuse to get rid of me, who knows?

When I got back from Boy’s State I took a job hauling mud in the oil patch for an outfit called Baroid. I didn’t stay there long because it was hard backbreaking work. Throwing a whole semi-trailer load of 100 pound stacks of drilling mud was no picnic. It paid well so I stayed longer than I would have liked. Now-a-days the mud comes either in a bulk tanker or loaded on pallets to be unloaded with a forklift. In those days labor was cheaper than equipment.

The fellow who drove the truck and also threw sacks of mud was named Rooney Bloom. He was a salty old character, who’d lived a pretty tough life, by the looks of him. He was probably in his mid-forties, but back then I had him pegged for mid-sixties. He drank and smoked and to my knowledge never darkened the door of a church. He no longer had a wife and didn’t have much to do with his kids either. Rooney’s whole life was work. He loved it. He did little else. Day in and day out he showed up, put in long hours, didn’t complain and hummed a quiet little non-descript tune all the while.

I can’t say we became buddies or anything. He never said much. I’d try to start a conversation on the long drive out to some remote well location, but I always failed. He didn’t seem much interested in hearing me rattle on about nothing, so I took to napping on the road. I was always tired so it all worked out.

One Monday morning I showed up and found Rooney hadn’t come. Somebody else drove the truck. He told me Rooney had to go to the hospital for some surgery. You didn’t ask what kind of surgery in those days. I still have no idea what was wrong.

After a couple of weeks Rooney was back. He looked a little peeked, but seemed ready and eager to get back on the job. We drove out to Natural Buttes and rumbled through clouds of dust to a location overlooking the White River. After we unloaded the mud, Rooney pulled the rig into the shade of some cottonwoods down by the river so we could cool off over lunch. I asked him, “Did they treat you good?”

“Who”

“The folks at the hospital.”

“Yea!”

“What was it like?

“Pretty good actually!”

“Pretty good? What do you mean?”

“Them pretty nurses gave me a sponge bath every day!”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yup, they’d bring in soap and water and lotion. Then they’d uncover me down as far as possible and wash me all up. It felt so good.”

“I’ll bet,” I replied.

“Then , they’d pull the blankets back up, nice and snug and go down by my feet and uncover me up as far as possible and wash my feet and legs. Oooh, that felt good...
Then, I’ll be derned if they didn’t wash Old Possible TOO!”

# 20 - "We Want A Mat Dance!"

My Sophomore year was a challenge. After being big fish in a little pond at the Jr. High, now we were little fish in a big pond. Actually, I never was a big fish at the Jr. High, so I felt especially small at the High School. Playing football in the fall had helped some. I had toughened up, but what good is tough when you still only weigh 105 pounds! Mostly, I laid low and kept out of the way.

One day in the Spring, though, I discovered there is great power in numbers. It was a lesson I would never forget.

I don’t know who started it. As things like this happen, it really doesn’t matter. After lunch, as I was wandering back to class, I discovered a bunch of kids sitting against the wall on the floor of the hallway outside the Principal’s office. They were chanting, “We want a Mat Dance!”

A Mat Dance or Matinee Dance was an occasional occurrence at Himni High. Classes would be shortened to free up an hour, maybe even two in the afternoon for a dance in the gym. We all loved them. Not necessarily because we loved to dance, but any excuse to get out of the classroom was great. Often Mat Dances were a carrot to motivate us in some way. They usually worked.

I wanted a Mat Dance so I joined the chanting crowd. “We want a Mat Dance.” “We want a Mat Dance…..”

Pretty soon it seemed the whole school, minus Marcy Merriweather was chanting in the halls. We lined almost the entire length of the main hall. I guess most of the kids knew what was going on but I didn’t really have a clue. Mr. Steckler came out of his office after a few minutes of this and instructed us to get to class. Those closest to him acted as if he hadn’t said a word. They stared him down and he retreated to his office. I’d have cowered at his command and skedaddled to class in a heart beat, had I been alone. Instead, as the crowd stayed, so did I. I looked around for some of my pals, but none were in sight. Even though I was isolated from my friends, I felt sort of empowered by this rebellion and was getting pretty excited.

The first bell rang, we chanted on. When the second bell rang Mr. Steckler returned to the hall. His face was red with frustration. He wasn’t a powerful man by any stretch of the word. He had a situation he needed to handle, it was going badly and he was not prepared to deal with it. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “If you are not all back in class by the time I count to three, so help me, I’ll flunk every last Jack one of you!” I still don’t know what Jack had to do with it.

“One!”

“Two!” No one flinched except Mr. Steckler. Beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead began to trickle.

As “Three” escaped his lips a loud and simultaneous shout of “April Fools!” drowned it out. In an instant, we vanished to our respective classrooms, chuckling at our clever prank. I too was chuckling and somewhat exhilarated, but there was this nagging dismay. I hadn’t even known what was going on. “April Fools” was as big a surprise to me as it was to Mr. Steckler. As I ducked into Mr. Olson’s class I glanced back to see the Principal still standing there, in shock.

That afternoon went along as usual until the end of fifth period. As there was no intercom, a girl was sent around to read a message to each class. We were to meet in the Old Gym at the beginning of sixth hour. The general consensus was that we’d achieved our goal of a Mat Dance!

When the bell rang we wasted no time getting down there and seated.

The Old Gym was built along with the “new” Himni High School. The School Board had not anticipated the impact the oil industry would have on our community and so in just a few years the facility underwent a major expansion. Added were: several classrooms, and new cafeteria, the library was moved to the old lunch room, an auditorium and, of course, a new spacious gymnasium. For events like dances we still favored the Old Gym. It was a bit cozier and the coaches had less angst about it’s hardwood floor. The Old Gym was quite small. It had two rows of benches on each side of the playing floor and a large set of fold out bleachers on the stage. We all situated our selves on the stage bleachers and on the west side benches nearest the stage. I was actually sitting on the front edge of the stage at the west end. The faculty and administration seated them selves on the east side benches near the entrance to the gym, near the east end of the stage. A microphone on a stand had been set up in front of the teachers.

Mr. Steckler stepped to the mike, cleared his voice and explained that Mr. Parker, the Vice Principal, who also, of course, was my Dad had an important announcement to make.

Dad took his place with an unusually, somber look on his face. He too, uncharacteristically, cleared his voice. “It may come as a surprise to you that this is and EDUCATIONAL institution.!” He sounded angry. “The incident in the hall this afternoon has reminded us that the student body has largely lost track of this fact. We have determined, therefore, to make some changes to ensure the educational integrity of Himni High School. We have met, therefore, to inform you that as of this moment, the Student Council has been abolished! In addition all classes involving sports, music, dance, drama and art have been discontinued as well as all future extracurricular activities! It is our intent….”

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” came an angry voice from the bleachers. “THAT’S COMMUNISM!”

I looked to see who it was. Rick Majors was racing from the stands. His fists were clenched and his face was red with rage. Rick was our Student Body President/Quarterback/Heartthrob/Straight A Student.

“THE HECK WE CAN’T!” shouted Mr. Parker. “WE’VE ALREADY DONE IT!”

Rick crossed the hardwood in a flash and with one right cross, decked my Dad. Who went down like a ton of bricks. Mom was kneeling at his side almost instantly.

I, on the other hand, was paralyzed with fear. Rick’s bravado had spurred the student body and they were hot on Rick’s heels in a seething pursuit of justice. This furious, raging mob was going to massacre the faculty, including my beloved Mom and Dad! In my memory it seems like slow motion, kind of a bleary streak of greasy hair, white T-shirts, pegged blue jeans exposing five inches of white socks and black oxford shoes all storming pell-mell toward disaster.

The horde made it about half way across the gym floor when Mr. Steckler flung the contents of a large pasteboard box at them. It was a colorful cascade of Salt Water Taffy accompanied by a victorious shout of APRIL FOOLS!

The mob skidded to a confused, chaotic halt. Know one knew what to do next.

Mom had looked up from patting Dad’s cheek to see what had happened. When she looked back she saw this huge cheesy grin on his face. She slapped him so hard she knocked his false teeth across the floor. In awkward silence the students began picking up the candy, more like they were cleaning up a mess than racing for goodies. Mom stormed out of the gym in a fury, Dad in desperate pursuit. Rick was sitting on the east side bench with his face in his hands.

The music began and Mr. Steckler, like he didn’t even know what had just happened, announced, “ENJOY YOUR MAT DANCE!”

We didn’t - we couldn’t.

# 19 - Sci-Mo

In Seventh and Eighth Grade I had a friend named Marv Benson.
Most of the kids never knew his real name, we all called him Sci-Mo. Sci-Mo fancied himself a Scientist and loved his nickname. While the rest of us were playing outside, Sci-Mo was cloistered in his room with his Chemistry Set or some book, or experiment. He had a broad forehead and horn rimmed glasses and he really looked the part of the proverbial egghead. For Christmas his Mom actually made him a lab coat. He often wore it, even to school. He took a lot of ribbing from the guys, but he was so lost in concentrated thought, he never seemed to notice.

Sci-Mo was expected, by all of us, to grow up to become the absentminded professor. There is no question that Marv was smart, but he didn't think things through very well. Like the time he wanted to make a Geronimo Line from the great Cottonwood Tree in his back yard to the garage behind his house. He secretly bored a hole in one of the roofing members of the garage. (Secretly, so his folks wouldn't find out.) He tied a length of rope through the hole and ran it high into the tree about 30 yards away. He even used a Come-Along to tighten it up. Sci-Mo had threaded a pulley onto the rope and had things all set up for the ride of his life.

I wish I could have witnessed what happened next, but Marv was a loner when it came to his Science. Probably, it was good that I was nowhere near the place. At least I got no blame for what happened next. Marv climbed the tree and got into position to ride the line to the ground. He had a short piece of rope attached to the pulley for a handle. At this dizziing height he must have wondered if he could hold on to the rope for the whole distance. As a "safety" precaution, he tied a loop in the handle rope and placed the loop around his neck, in the event his grip gave out. The only reason I knew anything about it was because my grandmother was his next-door-neighbor and Marv's mom and she were close. Mrs. Benson cried on Grandmother's shoulder over Marv on more than one occasion. Grandma frequently counselled Mom and Dad to keep me away from that disturbed boy.

Anyway, Sci-Mo was all set for his ride. I'm not sure what he expected. I can't imagine he anticipated what he got. His experiment completely and utterly confirmed Newton's Laws of Motion, with a strong emphasis on the effects of Gravity. He fairly flew down that rope and at full velocity, bashed his body into the side of the garage. This knocked him unconscious and so his hands let go of the rope. This left him dangling by the neck from the pulley. Fortunately, his feet were on the ground and the loop didn't cinch up. His poor Mom heard the bang and looked out the window over the kitchen sink, where she spotted Marv committing, what she thought to be, suicide. It was clearly self inflicted, but hardly intentional. Sci-Mo limped to school for the next few days.

Another time, and this incident may have precipitated the Benson's departure from Himni, Sci-Mo made a bomb. Can't tell you how. It must have been a pretty good one though, it took a backhoe to fix the damage. Apparently, after constructing his explosive device Marv was hard pressed to find a place to detonate it. He didn't really want to destroy anything and he'd been restricted to the yard, for his own protection. There was a mysterious four inch pipe sticking out of the ground out back and he figured that was perfect. Down in the ground, what damage could it do?
Hopefully, that pipe would muffle the sound, while doubling as a cannon barrel. Sci-Mo cut off a six inch piece of lodge pole to serve as a projectile and was hoping to shoot it into orbit. He lit the fuse on the bomb and dropped it into the pipe. Quickly, he followed it with the chunk of wood, and stepped back a few feet.

What we know is; Mrs. Benson was standing at the sink doing the dishes. How she failed to see Marv drop something into the septic tank vent, remains a mystery. It is clear, though, that the projectile stuck in the pipe and the septic tank backflushed into the house with considerable force. It emerged in the toilet and every drain in the house, including the kitchen sink!

The Benson's moved away that Summer. Sci-Mo went on to college and graduated with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. He took a job with Boeing and contributed to the design of the Space Shuttle.

# 18 - Pride Cometh Before the Fall

Mr. Hess was a favorite in a long line of Band Teachers at Himni High School. We never kept one longer than a year. We always said it was because the School Board wouldn't pay them what they were worth, but looking back, I wonder if there weren't other reasons. Mr. Hess arrived in time to begin a Summer Band program. I signed up. It was probably the best band experience I had in all my years in Himni. Mr. Hess was amazing. He was competent, if not masterful at every instrument in the band. He could out play every one of us, on our own instruments. He was magnificent on the trumpet and we even thought he looked a lot like Al Hirt, a rotund trumpet player we often saw and heard on TV. Al Hirt was big, Mr. Hess was huge! I would guess him to be close to 400 pounds. He was completely unencumbered by his weight. In fact he prided himself in being able to do anything a thin man could do.

One day during Summer Band, we rented the local pool for a party. Mr. Hess spent most of the afternoon on the diving boards. He could empty the pool with his cannonball! He even did a swan dive off the 3 meter board. He stood back by the rails, took a deep breath and, quite gracefully, hopped to the end of the board where he took a remarkable preparatory leap. When he landed on the end of the board it sank so low I couldn't imagine it could withstand the strain. The tip of the board seemed more vertical than horizontal. As it reached the bottom of its valiant bend, the board seemed to just quiver there for the longest time before it finally sprang, launching that giant man into the most wonderful arching swan dive I think I've ever seen! He entered the water, completely vertical. His back was arched, near as we could tell. His legs were straight, knees together, toes pointed. It was a beautiful thing to behold! But when the water colapsed back into the crater he'd created the concussion nearly broke every eardrum in the place. He surfaced to a standing ovation.

We all loved Mr. Hess and occasionally, we thought he loved us too. Mostly, though, he was all business. He really hoped he could make something of our band. He was a strict disciplinarian and everyone knew he meant business, especially after the Rob Hanke incident. Rob, you'll recall, played the Sousaphone and sat on the back row. You'll also recall, that Rob often needed to catch up on lost sleep. This was the case on a warm Spring day in Mr. Hess' class. Rob was half hidden by the bell on the Sousaphone and half hidden by his music stand. Mr. Hess noticed that he wasn't making any music and suspected he was napping. All he could see between the instrument and the stand was Rob's forehead. No one noticed him slip over to the chalkboard and pick up one of those footlong, half foam, half leather erasers. He placed it on his music stand and began to conduct a march by John Philip Sousa. Rob had a pretty strong part in Stars and Stripes Forever and when he missed his cue Mr. Hess let the eraser fly. It went end over end and slipped through that three inch window as slick as you please where it nailed Rob right in the center of his forehead. He and the Sousaphone went over backwards with a crash. When we started to snicker, one glance from the man who could squash us like bugs, straigtened our faces and silenced our titters. Rob seldom missed another cue.

One day in late May the power went out. There were plenty of windows so we carried on without interruption in the band room. When the lights came back on, someone in the office came on the intercom and asked us to reset the clock. The band room was terraced, making the wall behind the conductor's stand at least 12 feet tall. The clock was situated high on that wall. He could have asked any one of us to climb on a stool and set the clock, but his pride got the best of him and he determined to do it himself. He placed a tall stool beneath the clock. Next to the stool he placed a chair. Stepping onto the chair and then the stool, he agilely got into position. The intercom announced the current time. Mr. Hess reached up to set the clock. Even on the stool it was quite a stretch. Stretching has a tendancy to redistribute the body. The folds that normally, applied pressure to his belt, somehow vanished and his belt, pants and all, dropped abruptly to the floor. Tapered pants were in vogue in the mid-sixties, making cuffs barely big enough to slip a pointed foot through. With his shoes on there was no way he was just going to step out of them. And so there he stood facing the wall, on top of a three foot stool over which his voluminous pants were inverted. There he stood trapped, in front of a classroom of 45 gaping mouths. There he stood with three yards of white cotton fabric printed with little red hearts fashioned into one gigantic pair of boxer shorts. (My first exposure to boxer shorts - and was I ever exposed!)

There was dead silence in the room, no one dared breathe. Finally, after about forever, Mr. Hess hissed, "Warner! Hand me my pants!" Mitch hurried to his aid. The band teacher pulled up his britches, sprang from the stool to the chair and from the chair to the door and disappeared.

There were three days left in the school year. We never saw Mr. Hess again.

# 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.

# 11 - You'll Get Yours

Henry Steinmetz was our Sunday School teacher for a while. His kids, Hank, Ernest and Riley were our age. Henry looked old enough to be their grandfather. Brother Steinmetz was a kindly old man, a little rough around the edges, with more hair growing out his ears than on his head. Henry was a pray-er. It seemed like every time Sacrament Meeting went long, the Bishop called on Henry to offer the Benediction. ("Another Sunday night without watching Maverick," I'd complain to myself.) Often there were audible groans. Henry never prayed shorter than 20 minutes in his life. He prayed about everything! Sometimes it was even embarrasing, like the time he prayed my acne would clear up - right in Sacrament Meeting! Or the time he prayed that Brother Warner's cow would stay in the pasture and out of Sister Banks' corn patch. He was Ward Teacher to both of them, which was awkward; as though that prayer wasn't.

Sunday School class was like that too. Nobody applied the gospel to our particular lives like Henry did. Some days it seemed like he knew exactly what shenanigans we'd been up to during the past week.

We loved to go to his class. It started with Henry at the door to welcome us individually to Sunday School. He only had three fingers on his right hand and yet his were the most comfortable, warm handshakes I ever felt. Ironically, a handshake from Hank (Henry Jr.)was a different story all together. Hank's grip was like a vise. In fact for fun, he'd often pretend he was cranking on a vise as he drove you to your knees begging for mercy. My dad had a monster grip, but Hank could even bring him to his prayer bones in agony. Mercy was not in Hank's vocabulary. We tried not to ever shake hands with Hank. Even if you were agressive and charged in for a good grip it was hopeless.

Anyway, back to Sunday School class. There were about a dozen of us who regularly attended Henry's class. Of all the teachers we harrassed during our youth Henry was the most memorable, or at least his class was. We were pretty unruly but somehow he got through to us.

Frannie Hermann and Aaron Black were among us. They were dating at the time. Frannie never took her eyes off Aaron for the whole 45 minutes. She'd tickle and touch his face and whisper stuff to him. He on the other hand was always concientionsly trying to pay attention. This little distraction always amused us. Like the time, out of nowhere, Frannie grabbed Aaron's lower lip (Aaron had predominant lips) and stretched it half way across the room. Henry just said, "Put that back!" and carried on with the lesson. Aaron gave Frannie a fatherly smile, half impatience, half adoration, smacked his lips in his characteristic manner and turned his attention back to Henry's lesson. I couldn't take my eyes off Aaron's lower lip! I still can't believe it could stretch that far.

The classroom had coarsely textured plaster walls, smoothed by several heavy layers of cream colored paint. I never could ignore the bucktoothed mermaid that seemed deliberately sculpted in the texture of the West wall. The paint was rubbed off her breast so apparently I wasn't the only one who'd noticed her over the years. Once, I sat with my back to her and rocking back in my chair, bumped my head hard on that same worn protrusion. I don't know how many pounds per square inch the impact produced, but it hurt like the Dickens.

Rob Hanke was also in that class. He usually slept. Rob spent all his energies on misadventure and used church to catch up on lost sleep. The night before one particular class, had been spent shooting frogs he'd inflated with a straw, then floated on the pond behind his house. Instead of a scope on his pellet gun he'd duct taped a flash light. The poor frogs couldn't sink, being blown full of air. That is, until he popped them. Which is why Rob bolted out of his chair from a dead sleep when in Henry's lesson, he told us that it was his opinion that God would punish us in kind. Or in other words, that we'd get precisely what we gave, as punishment for cruelties we had committed in this life.

Rob had what we called "Coke Bottle Bottom" glasses. The thick kind that magnify the wearer's eyes. He was turning a tinge of green and his eyes looked so big and froggy that some of us thought the punishment had already commenced.

Lily Tomlin once lamented, "I always wanted to be somebody…I should have been more specific." Thank you, Henry Steinmetz, for teaching me to be specific.

# 10 - Half a pack of Philip Morris and a half a pack of Newports

Hank Simmons was a regular at Hanley's Department Store. He came in every day. Pushing his walker ahead of him he'd come up to the meat counter and mutter that he wanted, "some a that there meat there." We'd give him something different every day and he never seemed to even notice. Bobby, Bill and I thought Hank needed a little variety in his life. One day it was bologna, another, pimento loaf; always just enough for today. He'd be back tomorrow.

Hank was an institution in Himni. An old worn-out sheep herder, Hank now spent his days hobbling from his little house on Cranston Street to the Limerick Bar, from the bar to Hanley's and back home again. His hair was snow white and short cropped. So was his beard. We always wondered how his beard always managed to have a week's growth; never longer, never shorter.

When I first moved over from IGA to Hanley's I was strictly in the meat department. Gradually, though, my assignment expanded to occasional checker. On my first day checking, Hank came through my check stand. He placed his lunch meat on the counter along with a jar of Postum. Postum is a non-cafeinated coffee substitute. I thought it was funny that Hank had just come from the Limerick, but drank Postum instead of coffee. And then, he asked for a half a pack of Philip Morris and half a pack of Newports! I didn't know what to do. I got Phil Hanley's attention, who came over and explained to me that I was to open a pack of each and move half of each to the other. Customer service was paramount at Hanley’s. Hanley’s was also an institution in Himni. Besides Phil and his brother Frank and taken care of Hank like this since before I was born. It was then that I realized that I could sell the other split pack to Hank tomorrow. He paid in cash and hobbled out the door, meat, Postum and cigarettes in hand.

There were two Drug Stores in Himni. One had all the trappings of the time, soda fountain and hamburger grill, magazine rack, small appliance department, isles of first aid and medical items and, of course, the pharmacy. It was privately owned by Robert Mueller, who was a franchisee of the Rexall brand. The other, was strictly oriented to medicine and was owned by Alvin McWherter. Some thought Alvin must be more serious about medicine. Apparently, that was Hank Simmons' opinion.

Hank hobbled in to McWherter Pharmacy one day and made his way right to Alvin.

“Watcha got for constipation?” Hank snapped abruptly.

“Have you tried a good laxative?”

“Exlax, castor oil, nothin’ seems ta work!” said Hank, a mix of desperation and aggravation in his gravelly old voice.

“Well then, let me give you a couple of suppositories, that ought to do the trick,” counseled Alvin.

“What do I do with these?” Hank queried.

“You place them in your rectum.” Alvin answered with a professionally matter of fact tone.

Hank hobbled out the door and around the block to Cranston Street.

Three days later Hank was back in front of Alvin McWherter. He looked angry, frustrated and not a little distraught.

“They never worked!” he scolded.

“What didn’t work?”

“Them suppo, suppose, aw hell what ever you called ‘em.”

“Suppositories.”

“Yea, them, well they never worked!”

“What do you mean, “They never worked!"?"

“I’m still constipated, that's what I mean, "They never worked!” Hank growled through clenched teeth.

“With professional calm and assurance Alvin questioned, “What did you do with them?”

“Well, I didn’t have no Rectum so I put ‘em in ma Postum. Hell, for all the good they done me, I might as well a shoved ‘em up ma ass!”

It makes me wonder, looking back on my life, how many times was I like Hank? How many times would I have settled for familiarity, only to have God spice things up with a little unsought variety. How many times have I made rediculous requests of He and His servants, who happily complied anyhow? How many times did I have spiritual constipation? How many times did I misunderstand God's remedy for me? I sure hope He laughed as heartily at my botched efforts as I have at Hank's. I rather think He did.



Note: I don't like to use language like that and neither did Alvin McWherter, but the story was just too precious to spoil or ignore.

# 9 - School Lunch

School Lunch was popular in the sixties. Oh, there were a few who sneaked off campus for a bottle of pop and a bag of potato chips (corn chips weren't invented yet), but most of us stood in the lunch line and ate whatever the lunch ladies put on our trays.

A favorite place to socialize was in the lunch line and the lunch room. The food was pretty ordinary, but I thought it tasted great.

I remember standing in lunch line one day a few kids behind Marjorie Green and her girl friends. They were the popular girls of the Senior Class and always wore the most stylish fashions. Marjorie had on a green and orange dress that day. It was sort of a sack dress all pea soup green with a garish orange panel down the front. Separating the green from the orange panel were two large zippers, one down each side. The zipper pulls were two three inch brass rings. They were pretty predominant ornaments at her neckline. We hadn't been standing there long when Billy Morton and Brock Hoopes walked by. Brock turned aside, walked up to Marjorie, inserted an index finger in each of those rings and pulled them clear down to her hemline where they completely disconnected. The whole orange panel fell to the floor. Bob Jensen, Marjorie’s football hero boyfriend, felled Brock with one punch.

When the pandemonium cleared up the Principal gave Marjorie the worst of it for wearing such a ridiculous outfit to school. "Seems to me," he said, "She was begging for it."

Lunch was pretty predictable. There were ten basic meals with few variations. These were cycled through with regularity. Then one day the cooks decided to get creative. They went Mexican. I had never eaten Mexican food. There was no Taco Bell in Himni; infact, I don't think Utah had one anywhere. I didn't know a burrito from a canoli. I got exposed to tacos the following summer when my aunt and uncle took me to San Diego for a couple of weeks. At this point in my life, though, this was as exotic as it gets!
As Mitch, Lew and I worked our way past the cooks at the lunch counter, Lew watched Nettie, our favorite cook, slap a large brown gooey looking glob next to the Spanish Rice on Mitch's tray. He asked, "What is that!?"

"Refried Beans."

Lew looked up at Nettie, then down at the glob. Then looking back at Nettie asked,"How many times?"

As Lew's own glob now slowly slid down the front of his shirt, we walked cautiously over to our seats.

By the time we were Seniors, School Lunch was going out of vogue. My gang still ate there regularly, but fewer and fewer joined us. Along about April came National School Lunch Week. We decided in honor of our fair cooks and in order to promote School Lunch, we'd better do something special. We put our heads together and came up with a pretty good gag.

Between us we managed to gather up a complete collection of linen, china, crystal, silver and candelabra. After paying the clerk we ducked out of line and grabbed a table where we set out the whole table setting, lit candles and all. To our amazement, as we turned to go get our food, Nettie appeared at our table with all our food on a huge tray she’d conjured up somewhere. She served us with finesse befitting a king and then to our utter amazement, accepted our invitation to sit and dine with us. She was fine company, but kept picking at our poor table manners.

We had a newcomer in the gang that year. Bob Elkington was an exchange student from New Zealand and had fit right in. We loved trying to mimic his accent. Bob picked up his fork in his left hand, placed the tines, pointed down, on his plate and began stacking potatoes and peas on the back of the fork with his knife. “Mind your manners, Bob,” Nettie scolded, “One day you may eat with the Queen!” Bob replied, without even looking up, “Pahdon me mum, but this is ‘ow the Queen eats.”

Nettie stared resolutely at Bob for about a minute, then quietly switched her fork to the left hand and picked up her knife.

# 8 - Brer Rabbit, Brer Bear and Brer Fox

I was always pretty scrawny. Consequently, I got picked on quite a bit through Elementary School and Junior High. It was pretty unpleasant but I learned to keep clear of the bullies for the most part and managed alright.

When I got to ninth grade though, I really met my nemesis. Gavin Richardson was his name. Gavin was one of Butch Farley's minions. Gavin was small and smart enough to befriend Butch because Butch could easily have whooped him. But, he was big and dumb enough to pick on me. Those intermediate bullies were the worst.

Butch for example never picked on the little kids. He had nothing to prove. Picking on us puny ones was the realm of bullies who didn't dare pick on anybody their own size. There was one exception. One day Butch got crossways with my seventh grade brother, Todd. I really don't know what made him mad but he slammed Todd up against the back wall of the auditorium so hard that Todd's head ricocheted off the wall and head-butted Butch right in the nose. Blood splattered everywhere. Todd came out of it unscathed and Butch cut him some slack after that.

Gavin, however, wouldn’t cut me any slack. Going to school became a nightmare. I hardly slept at night for the dread. One day I happened to see the great Disney movie Song of the South. In it, Uncle Remus told the story of Brer Rabbit and how he out witted Brer Fox and Brer Bear. About the time the fox and bear tossed Brer Rabbit into the briar patch it occurred to me that I, like Brer Rabbit shouldn’t have all that much trouble out smarting Gavin, or Butch for that matter.

A couple of days later, I got my first chance to test my theory. We were showering after gym class. My locker was uncomfortably situated right between Butch and Gavin. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Gavin winding up a towel with which to pop my bare backside. The Brer Rabbit in me began to emerge. I kept my cool and made like I hadn’t noticed. Just as Gavin let the towel fly, I moved and that towel snapped like a firecracker on Butch’s exposed rear end. All I had to do then, was quietly, discreetly, get dressed while Butch cleaned Gavin’s clock.

Things quieted down for a few weeks.

The next semester though, I took Mr. Hocker’s typing class. Gavin took it too. My assigned seat was near the door at the side of the room. Gavin passed my desk every day and with an extended knuckle whopped me on the shoulder blade as he entered the room. It wasn’t three days before that became intolerable. There was no such thing as “Safe Schools” back then. I was pretty much on my own to solve this one. Gavin was clearly meaner and tougher than me, but I had already concluded that I was smarter.

The next day I kept a wary eye out for his approach. When he arrived and went to thump me, I exploded out of my chair, shoved him over a desk, typewriter and all, and came down on top of him swinging for all I was worth. The element of surprise gave me the initial advantage and I calculated that Mr. Hocker would be there to break thinks up before Gavin recovered enough to kill me. It worked! We got sent to the office where neither of us confessed the reason for the altercation. After a warning, we went back to class, Gavin subdued and Jinx quietly triumphant. Gavin never bothered me again.

In today's schools the aggressor is automatically considered guilty and I’d most likely have been threatened with expulsion. That would prevent me from daring to defend myself against such subtle bullying. And that would tacitly give Gavin license to pick on me for the rest of my life. The old ways are sometimes better.

Other bullies have prevented Disney from distributing Song of the South anymore. The Sista Rabbit in my wife, however, found it for sale in Europe over the internet and bought us a copy on DVD.

Zippity Doo Dah!