PERSONAL HISTORIES
PERSONAL HISTORIES
OF
DARVIL BURNS MCBRIDE
AND
JOSEPHINE “PHILLIPS” MCBRIDE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Sections Approximate Page
|COVER PAGE |1 |
|1. DARVIL MCBRIDE—PREFACE |3 |
|2. JOSEPHINE PHILLIPS MCBRIDE—PREFACE |2 |
|3. (DARVIL) MEMORIES OF MY MOTHER |4 |
|4. (DARVIL) MY DAD—A PERSON, HUSBAND, FATHER AND LAWMAN |9 |
|5. (JOSEPHINE) MEMORIES OF MY MOTHER |15 |
|6 (JOSEPHINE) MY DAD—DAVID “DAVE” PHILLIPS, HUSBAND, AND FRIEND |18 |
|7. (DARVIL) SCHOOL DAYS |23 |
|8. (JOSEPHINE) SCHOOL DAYS |25 |
|9. (DARVIL) FUN, HOBBIES AND PASTIMES |28 |
|10. (JOSEPHINE) FUN, HOBBIES AND PASTIMES |60 |
|11. (DARVIL) CHORES AND JOBS DURING MY YOUTH |68 |
|12. (JOSEPHINE) CHORES AND JOBS DURING MY YOUTH |86 |
|13. SOME OF MY PETS BESIDES JO |87 |
|14. SOME OF MY PETS BESIDES DARVIL |89 |
|15. MY WIFE TO BE |90 |
|16. MY HUSBAND TO BE |91 |
|17. OUR WEDDING AND HONEYMOON |93 |
|18. OUR THREE CHILDREN |96 |
|19. (DARVIL) TOGETHER IN FLAGSTAFF |100 |
|20. (JOSEPHINE) TOGETHER IN FLAGSTAFF |100 |
|21. PLACES WE LIVED, COLLEGE GRADUATION, TEACHING AND CHILDREN |102 |
|22. NEW IN CALIFORNIA -- EMPLOYMENT BUSINESSES AND HOMES |104 |
|23. (JOSEPHINE) EMPLOYMENT AFTER MARRIAGE |108 |
|24. BACK IN ARIZONA |109 |
|25. OUR TEENAGERS -- IN THATCHER |116 |
|26. EIGHT YEARS IN THE ARIZONA STATE SENATE |117 |
|27. MEETING THE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES AND ME |134 |
|28. THE SECOND SOJOURN IN CALIFORNIA |136 |
|29. (DARVIL) ILLNESS AND NEAR DISASTERS |140 |
|30. (JOSEPHINE) ILLNESSES AND NEAR DISASTERS |143 |
|31. (DARVIL) EMBARRASSMENTS – SAD AND FUNNY |146 |
|32. (JOSEPHINE) EMBARRASSMENTS – SAD AND FUNNY |148 |
|33. MEMORABLE VACATIONS AND TRAVEL |148 |
| Ireland with Jon and DeNell |156 |
|34. (DARVIL) SERVICE IN THE CHURCH |158 |
|35. (JOSEPHINE) SERVICE IN THE CHURCH |161 |
|36. (DARVIL) SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCES |162 |
|37. OUR TESTIMONIES OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF L.D.S. |165 |
|38. TRIBUTES TO JOSEPHINE AND DARVIL—by Sally, Jon, Mac, Bruce, David Phllips |166 |
|(nephew), Frankie Farr, Josephine’s comments, poem of Darvil and Jo at the family reunion | |
|by Linda McBride | |
|39. OUR PATRIARCHIAL BLESSINGS |183 |
| | |
DARVIL BURNS MCBRIDE—PREFACE
Everything and Anything Anyone Would Ever
Want to Know about Me
---------------------------
KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY
I'm aware that the title I've chosen for this spate of history may cause some moments of curiosity among friends and relatives, especially to later generations. Keeping your powder dry is an expression that harks back to the very beginning of our country's history. I fell in love with it as a youngster because a great westerner said it, and at the time I was fast falling in love with the West. Only ten years old when I first heard the admonition, I remember thinking, "What a neat saying." And surprisingly, even at that tender age, I knew exactly what it meant. Today the expression would mean little to a ten-year-old. He probably would have no idea of the kind of powder we meant or the importance of keeping it dry. Kit Carson's warning exemplifies the growth of our country and its expansion west. Gunpowder that would fire only when dry, was absolutely necessary for the protection and livelihood of the hardy earlier Americans. Although Kit Carson did not originate the saying, he used it because he believed in it. Originally said by an Irish army officer to his troops circa 1878—“Continue your trust in God and keep your powder dry”, it is echoed by the timeless Boy Scout Motto, "Be Prepared." Now, at 93—keeping in mind my love for western lore—I take satisfaction in the fact that I have pretty well learned how "to keep my powder dry."
************************
I first saw the light of day in the year 1908 on the 28th day of December from my mother’s bedroom window. Our home, in the small community of Glenbar, Arizona, some fifty miles west of the New Mexico Border, lies in the wonderfully fertile valley of the Gila River. About seventy miles of the river meanders its way through the Gila Valley. Glenbar is about three miles east of Pima on the north side of the railroad tracks and previously was known as Fairview, Mathewsville, and jokingly, as Hog Town.
Much to my chagrin, at the supposed age of eighty, I discovered my birth year was 1908, not 1909. I’d been led to believe this because of a numerical error in the family history record. When nine or ten, Mother and I had discovered the entry, questioning its accuracy. Since I preferred, at the time, to be younger, I chose the latter date. However, my oldest sister, Gladys, of excellent memory, harbored doubts and periodically questioned it. She stayed firm, believing the correct year to be 1908.
The truth finally came to light. At the time of my arrival into this world my father happened to be on a construction job in Globe, Arizona. Naturally, Mother wrote informing him of the blessed event. He immediately responded with a post card addressed to ME. Recently I discovered that very card among some old neglected odds-and-ends I had collected many years ago from Mother’s home after her passing. There, plain as the nose on my face, appeared the bold, black, postmark date. Though somewhat perturbed to discover the truth, I was, in fact, eighty-one—instead of a much younger eighty.
JOSEPHINE PHILLIPS MCBRIDE—PREfACE
My life began on the eighth day of June 1912, in Thatcher Arizona. Such a happy childhood, such happy growing-up years, we children were "born of goodly parents." Our parents loved us and always provided the good things of life. We were given everything needed to foster a healthy and happy, physical, mental and spiritual foundation.
It seems we lived about one block from everyone and everything: the Church, all of my best friends, both sets of grandparents, the grammar school, the high school, the junior college. (All my brothers and sisters and I graduated from the schools in Thatcher.)
I was born in the house my dad, with Mexican help, had built: a sturdy little, sixteen-inch adobe-wall home with a bedroom, kitchen, dining and living room. Dad and Mama moved into it—brand new—after they were married. Our home sat next to the bank of the picturesque tree-lined Union Canal. Just the other side of the canal stood the old, beautiful Saint Joseph Stake Center, its corner stone laid in 1904. I lived below the banks of that serene flow of water until the age of seventeen.
Thatcher, in Graham County, is nestled in the Gila Valley: a stretch of seventy-five miles through which flows its namesake, the Gila River. About fifty miles west of the New Mexico border, it snuggles peacefully against the foothills of majestic Mount Graham. During my childhood the small Mormon town boasted a population of eighteen hundred.. The Prophet, Brigham Young, sent my great-grandfather, Christopher Layton, south from Utah to organize the wards among the Mormon settlers, presiding as the first stake president. Eventually he purchased 360 acres three miles west of Safford where he founded the community he named Thatcher. It immediately experienced rapid growth from families from nearby communities and new Mormon settlers arriving from Utah. (Refer to the book, “CHRISTOPHER LAYTON,” by the Christopher Layton Family Organization, 1966.)
At a later date, my maternal grandmother, Josephine Cluff—affectionately known as Nonnie by her grandchildren and Josie by her family and friends—moved to the valley from Heber City, Utah. Her marriage to my grandfather, John William Jones, was unhappy and unsuccessful, and after the divorce, she dropped Jones from her name. There in the valley, close to loving aunts and uncles, who preceded her, she would begin a new life raising her young children: my mother, Eliza Arnette, and a son two years younger, William Wallace.
They first lived in Pima seven miles west of Thatcher. Grandmother Josephine, brought up in a progressive and educated family was a multitalented and, a well educated woman for her time. Her brother, Benjamin Cluff, became the first president of Brigham Young University while it was still known as the L.D.S. Academy.
While the family lived in Pima, Grandmother Nonnie (Josephine) taught in the elementary school in Central, a smaller community three miles to the east between Pima and Thatcher. She later built a home in Central, and moved her family there. Eventually The Church Academy in Thatcher employed her as the "Matron" (dean of women). In addition to those directorship responsibilities, she taught several courses. To be closer to her new work she built another home in Thatcher and moved her family again.
Grandmother Nonnie, after her children were grown and independent, answered the call of the Prophet of the Church to fill a mission in Saint Louis. One of her companions was, Jeanetta, a sister of David O. McKay. We know that Jeanetta's health deteriorated, and her parents went to Saint Louis specifically to bring home their ailing daughter; she needed their care to make the trip. Grandmother enjoyed a singular experience as a missionary there. She was assigned the responsibility of helping to oversee and host the "Church Exhibit" sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, at the World Fair of 1904 and 1905.
Soon after completing her mission she returned to our Valley, resumed teaching and married Andrew C. Kimball of Thatcher, eight months after the untimely death of his wife, Olive Woolley. With that union she assumed the ominous task of raising Andrew's six children. Spencer W., one of the children, later became the twelfth President of the Church. My mother, through her mother's second marriage became Spencer's older, beloved sister (Albeit, stepsister). She often said, "He was the most perfect boy and young man I have ever known."
My step-grandfather, Andrew C. Kimball, was serving as the second stake president of the Saint Joseph Stake. He succeeded President Christopher Layton, my great-grandfather, who had been released because of terminal illness. As a girl, I only knew Spencer, as Uncle Spencer, and his father as Grandpa. Of course, they were really step-uncle and step-grandfather, but only as the years passed did I become aware of that mere technicality. To me they would forever be just my Uncle Spencer and my Grandpa. Several times as we raised our three teenage children in Thatcher, Uncle Spencer, then an apostle was a guest in our home. (See a more detailed synoptic history of Josie and Andrew in the section on grandparents.)
(DARVIL) MEMORIES OF MY MORTHER—CLARA SIMS MCBRIDE
Born March 22, 1880, in Brigham City, Arizona, Mother, imbued with the pioneer spirit, lived to the age of eighty-two. (Brigham City now is non-existent. It had struggled for survival near Joe City, close to Show Low, Arizona, on the banks of the Little Colorado River.) Mother was so much a part of my life as an infant, toddler and child that memories of my childhood hardly picture anyone else. As good a mother as ever raised a family, she was noble and special. She gave birth to nine of us, and whether or not we were planned or just happened, I never knew, for she never proffered an explanation. But, I do know we’ve all been grateful for life itself—for the life she struggled so successfully to provide us—and grateful especially for her love. She carried on with most of the task of bringing us up without the help of a husband, for she was only 38 when Dad was killed.
Overall, she did not have an easy life, even though in the beginning she grew to young womanhood as a daughter in a family with extra means. Her Father, my Granddad Sims, successful in various enterprises, in time, would own his own furniture store in Pima. Skilled as a carpenter and cabinetmaker he made much of the furniture himself. He continued in other ventures too, especially as a builder of homes and commercial buildings in Globe and Miami as well as in the Valley. He did finished carpentry as well as rough, and owned one of the biggest and finest homes in Pima. Active politically, the mayor of the town for several years, and a devout active member of the Church, he provided his family with much more than just the necessities of life.
The family boasted seven daughters and four sons, and like today, clothes were very important, especially in the lives of those girls. Grandmother Sims provided her girls with dresses, dresses sewn with many more yards of material than those of today. She often employed a seamstress to make them for her daughters. No doubt, she sewed marvelously well herself.
Often asked by his friends which one of the Sims girls he married, Dad always replied the same, “Why the prettiest one, of course.” Thinking back as a youngster and having studied all the old photographs, I believe him absolutely correct: she was the most beautiful; though all the girls were endowed with much more than just beauty. The sisters were all petite, and my mother, not over five-feet one-inch in height, was indeed an exceptionally beautiful woman.
Though a non-abrasive personality, she definitely possessed a mind of her own, and seldom expressed opinions unless they were complimentary. Shy, reserved and quiet, she preferred to be the listener—much to the convenience of her talkative friends. She was an artful listener too, always graciously responding in a way to encourage a person to continue about themselves. Although quiet, she had a fine sense of humor and a sparkly personality. Well liked in her circle of acquaintances, Mother proved that her quiet reserve detracted not one iota from her popularity.
Jo attests to this as she remembers the wonderful times spent around our family dinner table before our marriage: “How fun it was to be with them on those occasions, telling stories, jokes, funning and laughing, while Clara showed her cute ways in the midst of it all.”
I remember Mother held the position of organist in the Relief Society, in Pima and in Thatcher, for several years in each place. I often heard her complimented for her excellence in playing and her extraordinary faithfulness in her calling.
The position of organist may have been the only job she ever held in the Relief Society organization. One of the few who played the piano in those days, she was always in demand to use her talent.
When about five years old I remember hearing her talk with Dad about how much she wished for a piano. I didn’t know Dad had promised her one. But one day a sturdy rack (wagon) drawn by a team of horses pulled up in front of the house. A piano had been delivered to the Pima Depot by train, picked up and hauled 3 miles to our home in Glenbar. I remember thinking, “How monstrous it is!” And, I noticed the heavy thick ropes holding it securely in place.
Four men began the strenuous effort of engineering the unloading using just one very big plank. As they slid it down the plank, I watched in horror as the middle of it sagged into a dangerous bend, and the piano began to sway precariously. The two men on the leaning side fought desperately to keep it from toppling. Mother stood watching in utter horror knowing full well it would be ruined, and worse, probably injure the men. Then, the unbelievable! With a desperate, superhuman effort, they miraculously righted it and slid it on down to safety. It seemed to me that I had beheld a real miracle.
Dad had a fine voice and mother a nice one, but she was very shy about using it. They would sit on the bench together while mother played and Dad sang. I well remember several of the songs we kids wanted to hear over and over. Especially, “Timothy Kelley,” even to the word.
Timothy Kelly who owned a big store
Wanted his name painted over the door.
One day Pat Clancy the painter man came,
Tried to be fancy, and misspelled the name.
Instead of Kelley with double L Y
He painted Kelley but one L was shy.
Pat said it looked right but wanted no pay.
He had figured it out in his own little way.
Knock an L from Kallarny,
Still Kallarny it always would be,
Sure a single L Y or double L Y
Would look just the same to an Irishman’s eye.
But if I knocked the L out of Kelley,
He’ll be sure to knock the L out of me.
How we kids loved and laughed at that song, and they would accommodate us, singing it and our other favorites such as: “Turkey in the straw,” “Beautiful Katie,” “His Buttons were Marked U.S,” and “That Spells U.S. I Guess” (about a father who had to go to war) and “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine. Time and time again they sang them. (Maybe that was the beginning of my infatuation with a Josephine.)
Growing up in Glenbar during Christmas we usually had a Christmas tree in one corner. I also remember a special decoration that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the living room at Christmas time. I don’t remember ever seeing anything like it, and I believed it something Dad had built himself. It consisted of four hoops tied to each other, the top hoop being the smallest—about one foot in diameter. The next hoop, about two feet across was suspended from it, as were the third and fourth hoops respectively, with each hoop about a foot larger than the one above it, the lower hoop suspended about six feet from the floor.
When decorated with homemade paper chains, crepe paper, popcorn strings, tinsel strips and whatnots, it did, after a fashion, resemble a Christmas tree. The customary Christmas stockings were hung on the lower hoop while small gifts were hung where space allowed. This was the kind of tree that could be taken down and stored away for another year, maybe the world’s first artificial Christmas tree.
One incident sticks in my mind concerning that tree. I can still see Dad’s sock with an unusual gift protruding from the top, hanging far below my own sock. Christmas Eve I had heard my parents arguing about a certain custom common among farm families in our area. If a child had been unruly too close to Santa’s arrival, the old Elf might leave a switch in his stocking instead of the usual nuts, fruit and candy. Mother thought it a stupid practice and asked Dad to please not put a switch in Leonard’s sock. Well, he did anyway though he did fill the sock with plenty of goodies. Miffed about it, Mother left the switch alone and waited until Dad fell asleep; she then took a stick from the wood-box and slipped it into Dad’s sock. Come morning she exulted in her boldness and the hilarious laughter from the family. The older kids each took a turn asking their chagrined father what he had done—to earn the spanking each insisted on giving him.
Mother was a taffy maker extraordinaire. Except for one granddaughter, Leva Gene Stewart Kempton, as hard as they tried, daughters, daughters in law and grand-daughters, all with the same precise recipe, even with her at their side, the same results proved impossible. It wasn't the color, taste or aroma that eluded them, but the lightness because of the extent of its porosity. The taffy after the pulling (the most important process) was made into elongated strips three-quarters inch wide each with hundreds of bubbles, maybe thousands, stretched into tiny tubules, leaving it feather-light, porous and brittle after it sets. moreover, the sensation of eating it carries a delightful surprise. Justice to it defies description. The taffy simply melts away in your mouth, not as fast as cotton candy, but there is a similarity. Only one word can describe the sensation—celestial.
Mother dressed immaculately—fastidious and tidy in all facets of her life. Even after the children were gone, alone at home, she carried on the same: she continued to set her table with the same care as though expecting Sunday dinner company. She ate balanced nutritious meals, much from her own garden, cooked it in nice cooking ware and served it in lovely dishes. She continued dressing and tending to the house as though she expected company's arrival at any moment. Over the years, Jo gave Mother many permanents. Though her hair had lost its fullness, Jo was successful in always pleasing her, and she never failed to express appreciation.
Mother was 38 years old when she lost Dad at 43. She was carrying unborn Frankie; two more months passed before her precious darling was born. Now, nurturing and supporting eight children became an ominous, relentless task. Many years ebbed slowly by before the sudden burden so abruptly thrust upon her began to ease.
Despite a small settlement of five thousand dollars awarded her by the State, life's vicissitudes were many and difficult. With three thousand dollars of the settlement, the state's stipulations allowed her to contract her father and brothers, licensed builders, to build three rental houses in Safford. The principle of the remaining two thousand or any profit derived from the sale of the rentals was disallowed her until Frankie reached twenty one. So, with the income from the three rentals, some interest earned on the $2,000, the meager earnings of us kids, and taking advantage of harvest bargains, her frugal, provident management enabled us to more than eke out an existence. Floyd and Gladys, sixteen and eighteen, managed to provide good help until they married. Gladys worked as a bookkeeper and Floyd moved to Miami to work in the mines.
I remember well, going at least a full school year without shoes—and I mean barefooted. How can I forget those freezing mornings taking special care where I stepped, watching for the sharp rocks, and for the thin sharp pieces of ice at the edge of frozen puddles. But my feet toughened, and feeling humiliated or thinking of myself as suffering failed to enter my mind. Callused and impervious to it all, I carried on with what I thought was a normal life.
An unusual person, Mother accomplished things during our lives while we lived at home that few remotely dreamed possible. With wave after wave of challenges and tests, she managed finances and home, and at the same time raised us to be honorable citizens and to be active in our wonderful religion, and to be courteous toward mankind and lenders of service to the less fortunate.
I misbehaved once in a while, and I expected and got the business end of a switch or paddle. Usually the punishment amounted to no more than being ushered into the kitchen, directed to sit on the wood-box in the corner where she gave stern counsel that always seemed clear, fair and reasonable. So with feelings of guilt and relief I escaped as soon as possible resolving to do better—or at least not to get caught again.
Mother loved movies. After I married, we often invited her to go with us. When Jo and I found one we wanted to see, we called Mother to tell her the time to be ready. We chuckle now at the answer she always gave if she thought it late notice. She'd say, "Well Darvil, sure I want to go, but you know I can't get ready in a whiff. But each time, regardless of how short the notice, she would be ready.
Bruce, the youngest of her five boys, was enthralled with movies almost to the point of addiction; he hardly missed a change of menu at the movie house. Besides, he worked for the theater part of his young life. Endowed with fine memory and verbal skills, he would return from a movie anxiously looking for anyone with ears that he could share it with. Mother was always ready to listen as he recounted with unerring accuracy the whole story: complete with plot, explanations of circumstances, and settings. She enjoyed it and listen to all from start to finish. Her never-ending work went on while Bruce followed her around like a friendly puppy, never skipping a thing, giving her the movie’s every choice detail.
Years after we were married and had returned to live in Thatcher, we purchased Jo's mother's home, which was next door to my Mother's home. When Mother came over to visit—we knew it was only the beginning of her departure. At best, she stayed a few minutes each time. We chuckled inwardly as she began with the explanation she invariably used to excuse herself. She would say, "Well, I've got to get back; I left the lights on over there." Try as I might I never convinced her that that excuse didn't hold water. But each time, just for fun, I asked her, "Do you plan on turning them off when you get home?" She always said, "Well, no." So I would reason with her, explaining that it really didn't matter if they were on, since she would only leave them on when she got there: always a fruitless attempt to convince her to stay longer. I always sensed though, that she determined my logic to be pure nonsense. She would always leave to take care of her lights—they stayed on.
Mother loved her garden. Each spring she planted the vegetables she enjoyed, including plenty of Swiss chard. Chard and chard in excess, she shared it happily with her many friends. Each occasion she came over to eat dinner with us, she never failed to bring a generous gift of it, washed and ready to cook.
Her pleasant thoughtfulness came out in many acts of kindness. Once while on one of her short, as usual, visits, she asked Jo if there were socks to be darned. (A now extinct task, but not in those days, for cash was scarce and socks were of poorer quality.) Jo said, "Oh heavens yes, lots of them!" So Mother tucked them all into a grocery sack, carried them home, and sooner than expected, much to Jo's delight, returned them all mended ready to wear.
A quilter all her life, Mother loved it, for it was for the purpose of giving them as presents to friends for their special occasions. Jo and I received gifts of a dozen or more, and each of our children received one as wedding gifts. The many grandchildren—did they receive one too? No doubt. How many quilts she helped with; we'll never know. Perhaps a thousand or more. How many did she make on her own? Perhaps three hundred or more.
When she passed away we found at least twenty, brand new ones, carefully folded and tucked away in the upper cupboards throughout her home. Some were used for company; the other's destinations she surely had planned as gifts to friends and to progeny’s special occasions to come.
I remember a few times of her pointing out the difference in her quilting compared to certain others. Even to the untrained eye of a mere boy, the difference was obvious between the nicely done and the very finest—such beautiful even stitches. Even now, I picture her in my mind's eye sitting in the second bedroom—long since dedicated as her quilting parlor—in her later years leaning over the quilting frame, busy creating another masterpiece. She often worked alone content and warm in her private thoughts and memories. In her day, one could not go to the store and buy a patterned quilt top. Patterns were created with blocks that required much more stitching.
A pleasant custom of the Relief Society throughout the Church in those years brought pride and happiness to many good souls. This included some, who for years might have felt neglected and unappreciated. The women's organization would honor individuals for noteworthy achievements. Jo and I helped the Relief Society with one of those exceptional meetings by preparing the refreshments.
On the surface, the women's meeting on that day appeared routine for those "not in-the-know." Jo present for regular preliminaries, watched as the leaders announced the surprise of that out of the ordinary meeting. The refreshments and other niceties complete with an appropriate gift of appreciation were suddenly displayed. To Mother's astonishment the meeting had been prepared to honor her. Jo remembers, how “dear, sweet and thrilled” she was while being honored on her eightieth birthday for all the compassionate service and kindnesses she'd rendered throughout the decades to hundreds of others.” On dozens of occasions just like her special one, she had been in-the-know, preparing to surprise others before her.
She lived life wisely, with order. Quick to recognize and use every opportunity, helped us to more than just survive. All kinds of fruit and vegetables, each in their season from early spring to late fall, ripened in turn for harvest. She depended on her children to do their part too. She reminded us to be alert for every kind of produce from the tree, the vine or the field that might be available to us. We searched out the abandoned or neglected trees and fields looking for any small benefit. Often, nice friends shared their surplus with us: perfect or culls, we could use them all. And with all her other chores, Mother kept busy as much as humanly possible, preserving what we gathered—minus what was eaten fresh.
A huge apricot tree graced a part of our property with fruit laden branches. Two enormous fig trees stood in front of the house. The apricots, large and tasty, and the figs petite and sweet, grew in an abundance that boggled imagination, and nothing went to waste. So, with a garden, fruit trees, others' surplus, and all that we scouted out—though it meant more work for us kids—our lives were worthwhile and fulfilled. That freshly picked fruit, the jams, jellies, preserves and all those cobblers and pies, how they ruined our appetites as we stuffed ourselves meal after wonderful meal!
Peaches, apricots, plums, apples, berries, tomatoes, and an array of others, she steadily laid up on pantry shelves. Soon, the shelf boards would sag under the increasing weight. We all helped pick, gather, wash, peal, pit, and slice, each of us according to our age and ability until harvest and preserving time came to a close.
Yes, we were successful, and cash so needed for other things was saved through industry. I suspect the rest of the kids, just like me, who had labored too, would open the pantry door to gaze at the portrait on which appeared all our signatures. For the splendor of the many colors of our bottled fruit were as lovely for us to behold as the majesty of a brief, summer storm rainbow.
Feeling the effects of increasing age, Mother placed herself under the care of a doctor. Taking the prescribed medications for a heart beginning to wear out, she kept regular appointments for the next two years. Some days she felt worse than on others, but Jo and I right next door, watched her and responded to the few phone calls she made.
In the afternoon of November 29, 1961, I stepped over to visit with her as she tended a flowerbed at the side of her house. She told me she hadn't been feeling well for most of the day. I told her she should stop the puttering among the flowers and go in the house, I would be over later to stay the night with her. She objected strenuously, insisting that it just wasn't necessary. Honoring her decisiveness, I deferred to objection.
Sometime after midnight she phoned the house. Experiencing terrible chest pains, she asked me to call her doctor and take her to the hospital. In minutes, Jo and I were on our way to Safford, three miles distant. We had found her completely helpless at home and, during the ride to Safford. I carried her in my arms into the hospital through the emergency entrance into the room of the waiting doctor. Just minutes after I laid her on the emergency table, she stiffened as her heart went into arrest. The doctor promptly administered emergency chest thrusts and renewed partial heart function. She regained consciousness again, and the doctor said, "I'm going to give her a direct injection of epinephrine into the heart." Afterwards, Jo at one side of the table and I on the other, held her hands. She said she was feeling a little better, but as she spoke, she began to feel increasing, excessive distress. I spoke, reassuring her that all would be all right.
Then fright and pain registered on her face as she tensed. She turned her head to me. "Darvil, I'm dying," she said, as she searched my eyes. I laid my hands upon her head and petitioned of God a blessing for her welfare. I turned to the doctor and said, "Come on Doctor, you're going to lose your patient." Very nervous, he looked at me helplessly and did nothing; in truth, there was nothing left to do but pray.
The pain and fright faded from her face as her body relaxed. A look of serenity drifted slowly into a slight, pleasant smile of up-turned corners of her mouth. It appeared to us as though she may have recognized the approach of a loved-one. She gently closed her eyes.
The day was Friday, November 30, 1961. She had celebrated her 81st birthday on the previous March 22. Services were held on Tuesday, December 4, in the Thatcher Ward building, and our valiant little mother was laid to rest at the Pima cemetery in the McBride plot next to Dad and little Stanley. We were privileged with her precious company for 81 years 7 months. She had been without Dad for 43 years.
(DARVIL) MY DAD—A PERSON, HUSBAND, FATHER, AND LAWMAN
My father, Robert Franklin McBride, his children called him Papa, was born in the town of Eden, Weber County, Utah, on January 4, 1875. Though there were limitations on his time, like all good dads who strive vigorously to provide for a large family, he spent quality time with us when he could. His life cut short, of course, deprived us of that kind of attention. Though only a month and a-half past nine years old when he was killed, I have many fond memories of him. I relish them and others that my family, friends and his best friends have shared with me.
A brief description with mention of some of his fine attributes is in keeping with this history: Among the area’s swains of his day, he enjoyed great popularity. A very handsome, likable man—as attested to by the beauty and charm of the girl he married—he managed to compete with the swashbucklers. A little taller than the average man, wiry and sinewy-muscular of build, he had the appearance of being easy on his feet. To paraphrase Harvey Foster, a long-time friend of his: “He was quick and cat-like in his movements. He commanded considerable respect in his youth as well as during young adulthood and mature manhood. He had acquired the reputation early on of being, ‘pretty darn handy with his fists.’ Most would-be challengers wisely left him alone with respect to fisticuffs. Few looked for physical trouble with Frank (Frankie) McBride. Though never the aggressor, when left without recourse, he had put many down on their backsides. His natural quickness of mind and reflexes, no doubt, were the primary advantages that made him so difficult to beat. Those who knew of him preferred to enjoy his unassuming, humorous, pleasant company rather than mix it up with fists.” Harvey added that if there was one thing Dad detested and refused to tolerate, it was disparaging or off-color remarks among men about women.
Reese Boyle, an elderly friend of mine and another of Dad’s longtime friends, and part of the problem group of men Dad had to deal with witnessed the following: “Over in the western part of the valley near Fort Thomas, a dispute was brewing. The trouble was primarily between the McEuens and the Hintons over water rights for their ranches and cattle. Some lesser members and farmers were also involved. The situation had become so threatening that someone with good sense had called the authorities. A deputy at that time, your dad was sent to investigate the ruckus.”
Dad had arrived on the scene in his 1916 Model T Ford and found a large gathering of men, some on horseback and others on foot, and edgy nervousness emanated from the bunch. They were well armed with saddle rifles, some still in their saddle scabbards, others across their laps, while other men milled about on foot with rifles in hand and side arms belted on. He left his car and walked over into the very middle of the hot-tempered gathering. As he entered the middle of the drama, he searched out the eyes of those he recognized as the men of sway. Virtually every man there knew him personally—and, knew of him. He said, ‘Tell me boys, what’s happened here? I need to know what’s going on because we’re going to straighten this out and settle things here and now.’”
Reese said that because of Dad’s surprise appearance, seemingly without fear, striding with confidence into the middle of the festering dilemma, it quickly changed the complexion of the problem. Because of Dad’s self-confidence and courage, the main characters in the dispute were caught completely off balance, and Dad gained control and became the arbitrator. The situation that could have erupted into a melee of shooting and needless death was resolved. Reese concluded the account by saying: “I wouldn’t any more have ever walked into the middle of that bunch like your dad did than I would have tried to fly a two-ton kite.”
Though a man of western outdoors sort, Dad possessed a warm, cultural side. He loved music and enjoyed singing. He especially liked musical and drama presentations, not only attending them, but also obtaining roles in them. He had a fine voice that inhibitions failed to curtail.
As to religion, a former fulltime missionary in Texas, he had a deep testimony of the restored gospel and throughout his short life remained active in church affairs. As a youngster, I remember him as he would teach the family in detail about principles of proper conduct in public and in private. A man of integrity—honest and open in his dealings with mankind—he taught his family to be the same through discourse and example.
He taught us affection too. Called to be away from home for several days at a time, when he returned we all watched him gather Mother into his arms and kiss her. He probably showed as much affection toward his wife as any man. Though I don’t ever remember of seeing mother on a horse, she told me that earlier in their marriage, before they had such a big family, they often went riding during the cool desert evenings.
By way of synopsis, let me share some interesting history of Dad as a young man from the writings of my sister Gladys, the first born of the family, seven and one-half years my senior. I'm in debt to Leva Gene, my niece, Gladys’s oldest daughter, for helping her mother with this record.
"Granddad Peter’s 160-acre farm was insufficient to support the entire family, so, most of the farm care devolved to Dad and his younger brother Howard, while their father, Peter, employed himself in other supplementary work. Peter freighted lumber by team and wagon down from the sawmill in the Graham Mountains and gave musical-instrument and singing lessons.
"Dad helped in the freighting when he matured, but he still continued working on the farm. The two younger brothers, Perle and Enoch, were soon able to carry some of the load with the farm and later would help their father with freighting too. Meanwhile, Dad took interest in other work that he preferred over farming.
"Prompted by a love of the outdoors and horses, Dad worked for local ranches as a cowhand. His love of riding the range, working cattle and completing the roundup were all a part of his work as a cowboy. A natural born horseman, he became especially expert in breaking the untamed ones brought in off the range. Dad developed great skill as a bronc-buster and cowboy. Bronc-busting and cowboying would be work that he would fall back on several times during his life to supplement his income—even after marriage. [(Darvil): In this work Dad always carried a holstered revolver, and often a saddle rifle. Like many of his day he became quite expert in their use. I don't recall any of his buddies remarking on the speed of his draw, but he being one who generally excelled at whatever he did, I think it could have been pretty fast.]
"He made many friends and gained respect among the local ranch owners and their help. Though many of them were given to spending their time in the nearest saloon: gambling, drinking and shooting pool, Dad refrained from such wastes of time, and involved himself instead in constructive activities he enjoyed—centered in the Church and the community. He brought his outside earnings home to be responsibly divided by his father for the benefit of the family.
"Dad enjoyed popularity among his peers. One of the popular activities in those days revolved around choir practices and singing. Perle was keeping company with a young beauty by the name of Clara Sims. One evening, Perle couldn't go to one of the practices, so it was Dad's lot to be in the company of beautiful Clara. Well, little brother faded from the game, and Dad would court "my mother-to-be" for many years. Clara at the time, five years younger, was too young to marry; besides, Dad planned on filling a mission for the Church.
"While waiting for the mission call, a cattle company employed him. Near the community of Eden, work finished for the day and camp set up for the night, the rest of the cowhands laid back. Dad, still with energy to spare, took a 22-rifle in hand to scout out the mesquite thickets for quail and cottontail. He waded the Gila River, just a trickle that time of year, and chanced upon the Wiley Holliday Ranch.
"As he neared the high, stockade-like, post fence, he heard men's voices on the other side. Vaulting to the top of the fence, he announced his presence with a hardy "Hello!" Over close to the house, two men with bandana-masked faces, caught by surprise, turned on him with angry oaths. One yelled for him to put his hands up, but instantly and without warning, both of them cut loose with a volley of shots at him, yelling out more profanity. He dropped down out of sight to safety and returned quickly to camp to tell his friends.
"They dispatched a man to bring the authorities, while the rest went with caution to the Holliday place. Dad had recognized one masked man by his appearance and voice, but had seen no sign of Holliday. He told the authorities what he knew and together they returned to the ranch and discovered that the old gentleman had been shot to death during an obvious robbery. Thanks to Dad, the two men were soon apprehended, arrested and jailed to await trial.
"Time slipped on by. Dad left early one morning from Pima to report for work at a ranch in the Stockton Pass area at the southeast end of the Grahams. He carried newly purchased shoelaces in his pocket and he rode on to rendezvous with other men who also had been hired by the ranch. A poor and frugal young cowpuncher, Dad wore a very old pair of shoes; he just couldn't afford boots. As he neared the foot of the mountain, he came upon a deserted cabin. There he rested and ate a breakfast of canned sausages with bread.
"While he rested, he replaced his much knotted, multi-colored, old laces and tossed them to the ground. Looking at them, "Old shoestrings," he thought to himself, "I would know you anywhere." Rested and refreshed, he rode away from the cabin. At the top of the mesa he paused to look back down his trail and saw three riders fast approaching the cabin. Unnoticed, he continued to watch, and wondered why they would be at such a far-off deserted place. Surprised, he recognized two of the men as residents of Pima.
"When he arrived at the camp where the other hands had gathered, no one had seen three riders, much less knew why they would be out in the area mentioned. After a number of days, the work finished, the men disbanded and Dad rode back to Pima. Word had reached the authorities there of what he had seen and about what he had questioned others. They questioned him and showed him some sacks. The sacks, which had been confiscated from the captured men were tied closed with some old shoelaces. Dad recognized the laces as those he had discarded at the cabin. He told the authorities, ‘Those are my old shoestrings’.
"The three riders he had seen, they explained, were thieves, and had ridden from the scene of their crime with loot in hand. Each had departed in a different direction to confuse pursuers, later they rendezvoused at the old cabin where they divided the take.
"So, again the law required Dad to divulge information on acquaintances turned criminal. Rounded up and confronted with Dad's testimony, they confessed. They had robbed a store of its money, canned goods, tobacco and other articles. Dad’s shoelaces and questioning mind had brought down the heavy hand of justice again.
"Time continued its relentless march, and Dad's mission call finally came—only to be shelved. Though his bags were packed and ticket purchased, the trial with him as a material witness took precedence. The process would be long and drawn out so the call was canceled for the time being. With no word forthcoming from the Prophet, his beautiful sweetheart Clara, nineteen years of age, and he, twenty-four years old, married on August 14, 1899." (Note: After the birth of their first child, dad filled a two-year mission in Texas, during which time his second child was born.)
Home after a rigorous day's work, Dad first wanted to lounge back and rid himself of his boots. I would watch my older brothers and sister straddle his leg with their back to him and push the boot off as he wiggled his foot inside while pushing against their backs with the other foot. How I wanted to do the favor for him myself. Well, the day arrived, and almost big enough, imitating my brothers, I took the proper position to begin the struggle with the first boot. Amused but patient, he suffered me to huff, puff and grunt until proudly, I managed to push the stubborn thing off. On the second try he put his soft, stocking-clad foot against my lower back, pushing to help me, and the second one eased off with less struggle. From that first successful experience, I always tried to be the one on the spot for the job.
Besides farming, being a pretty good carpenter and a part-time cowboy, Dad served as County Cattle Inspector for several years. Later he became a Graham County Deputy Sheriff, entrusted with keeping the peace and bringing to justice fugitives of the law in the sparsely populated, western end of the county where we lived.
I happened to be close by one day when Dad received word that a fifteen-year-old boy had escaped from Fort Grant, a detention center for wayward youth the other side of the Graham Mountains. To reach our valley from the detention center required a drive of eighty miles by way of dirt roads—only half the distance as the crow flies.
The boy had stealthily made his way, either over or around the mountains, into the western part of the county. Someone reported seeing a boy that matched his description close to Pima about three miles from our home. The news had been out for several days and the communities were aware of the escape. Dad told me to hurry and get ready to go, overjoyed to be included I scrambled in preparation. We jumped in the car together, and along the way he picked up another man to help. We drove to where the boy was last seen. The men soon discovered tracks leading to an old bridge that spanned the canal. They left me secure in the car. It turned out that he parked the car where the drama was about to begin, where I would see everything.
Suspecting the boy could be hiding under the bridge, the other man sneaked around to the opposite side. Dad positioned himself strategically, slightly to the side out of sight, where he could handily confront him if he came out. It happened exactly as expected, the boy saw the other man and bolted out from under the bridge, where he found himself abruptly confronted by an armed man wearing the telltale badge of the law. Dad, able to see the boy first, stepped forward with his hand held palm-out signaling, as he ordered him to stop. He blocked what might have been an easy escape. Recognizing the futility of resistance, the young rascal stopped as ordered, and crestfallen he surrendered without chase or struggle.
Sometimes in the early evening, after Dad arrived home and we finished our chores, he would take us for a ride in our new car. We would putt along together on short rides of not more than six or eight miles. With the night approaching, we didn’t dare get too far away from home for fear of breakdowns or flats. The pneumatic tires, including the other parts of the automobile, had not reached much perfection yet; the tires under the weight of the car plus its passengers were too undependable back then. Among ourselves, we boys would try to outguess one another as to the number of flats we’d have from the time we left home till we returned. Back then, we had to set out well prepared. We needed an extra tire, inner-tube and jack, (we always carried a hand pump), patches and tire irons to remove the tire from the wheel rim to extract the inner-tube in order to patch it, and then to force the tire bead back over the wheel rim. Cars had not begun to carry spares.
Unless one had lived in those days to see what we called a road, one could not picture the real problem in his mind, much less understand. Those so-called roads were the cause of most of the flats. If we hit one of those numberless, sharp-edged, chuckholes, we could usually expect a flat. Other things like cactus, wood, nails and rocks were also real threats. We boys helped out by memorizing the locations of the bad holes along the way so we could help Dad avoid them as we returned after dark. Why at times, we could be clipping along at the breakneck, dangerous speed of 35 miles per hour.
Our 1916 Model “T” Ford (the “Tin Lizzy”), had an ooga horn, that said just that, when you squeezed the right thing. It could let out a loud, startling blast that could make bulls bellow and horses buck when squeezed hard with intention. Dad, who had a reputation for practical jokes, loved to use the horn—just for fun of course.”
The laid-back Mexicans generally rode a poor horse, and it usually took plenty to wake the rider up. Dad, claiming that the rider should thank him for it, would coast the car quietly up behind the mounted man and blow the horn. There was no telling what the startled horse might do or what the rider would say, generally in unprintable Spanish, but it was always so laughable that the deputy sheriff never missed the opportunity for such entertainment. If accosted later by an irate rider he would always say, “Well, you didn’t want to get yourself run over did you?”
At least twice, my three older brothers and I trekked with Dad into the mountains to cut Christmas trees. A couple of weeks before the holiday, Dad would visit our few neighbors to take their orders. On the appointed day the five of us were up at the crack of dawn harnessing the team and hitching them to the old Studebaker wagon. (A common wagon of the day with side boards usually two feet in height.) Then we would be off, plodding up the rocks-trewn, bumpy road into the mountains, high above the 3,000-foot elevation of the valley.
I either sat close to Dad on the high spring seat, or with my brothers, dangling legs over the wagon's open end. With an eye for adventurous or daring, we jumped off to run up ahead or along side, just for fun, or to gather a pocket of rocks for target practice or to pester the cactus and critters along the way. On one of these trips, I remember seeing thousands of two inch long black millipedes. They were crawling out of the brush onto the road every where. They were fine targets for flippers (slingshots) and throwing rocks.
Up, up, up, we gradually gained elevation, we were fascinated looking back down on the valley far below as the people, animals and buildings became miniatures. We slowly wended our way up through the foothills, then over the steeper but pleasant grades that led us deeper and higher into the mountain.
We reached our destination with plenty of morning-time to spare. We camped on an expansive and nearly level, broad ridge. At this elevation, over 6,000 feet, in a meadow-like setting, grew the young firs and pines we sought. During the first of these adventures, I played in large patches of snow; the first deep snow I'd ever seen. After jumping, rolling and romping, throwing snow balls, sliding and having more fun than I could ever remember, the cold wetness finally drove me out.
Once, while all of us, except Leonard (four years older), sat leaning back resting for a spell against the fragrant pile of trees on the wagon, we noticed he was nowhere to be seen. Always the explorer, he had disappeared from sight. Suddenly we heard a thrashing over in the trees as though a herd of animals were on the rampage. We heard him holler, "Dad! Dad! Dad!" Suddenly he burst into view running as though the devil himself were on his tail—and indeed the devil was on his tail—embodied in the form of an old, cranky, range cow hot in pursuit. With Leonard on the run, and the she-devil on the chase, she steadily closed the gap between them.
Leonard had spooked a newborn calf and its mad mother. A wild range cow with a threatened baby, as she supposed, is a fearfully dangerous beast capable of seriously maiming or even killing a man. Dad, sitting on the wagon, stood up. Through narrowed eyes he calculated the difficulty of Leonard's predicament. Then with a cat-like leap, he sailed to the ground as he drew his gun. There he stood as the enraged mother charged on, closing ground fast on the horrified boy. With lowered head a-wagging, amply endowed with a set of vicious, curved, sharp horns, hoofs flailing the damp turf leaving a rooster tail of sod behind, she raced toward him as he desperately sought safety.
Leonard leaped. He landed sliding neatly between Dad's legs and on under the wagon. Dad fired the revolver three times in the air. The wild-eyed bovine pulled up to an abrupt halt. Balefully, she stared at the thunderstick in his hand. After what seemed a decade to us, she turned away to search out her youngster.
We spectators, frozen awe-struck, stood in silence pondering the near disaster. Leonard, out from under the wagon, stood and brushed himself off. It wasn't till later that we all began to laugh. Leonard, at age 10 or 11 had been in trouble then, and he would usually be in some kind of trouble like that for the rest of his growing-up years.
While kids growing up, bananas were a luxury and, of course, that meant expensive, not one of the staples often found in Mother’s kitchen. In those days when a storekeeper managed to get in a banana bunch, he hung it on a hook just behind the counter. Fruit was picked only when ordered by a customer. Dad had a habit of keeping his eye on the bunches and when the supply became low on the stock, with some turning brown, he’d bargain with the storekeeper for what was left, pointing out that in another day or two they would be too ripe to sell. As a result he generally came home with stock and all, what he considered to be a bargain. He’d hang it in the kitchen or on the porch depending on the weather, to be prudently plucked and meted out for drooling mouths. To come into the house and find the stock hanging in the kitchen was a time for celebration. I don’t remember tasting a green or even half-green banana before I was fifteen years old. When I finally did it was a moment of disappointment, for it couldn’t compare to those sweet quarter-moons fresh off the stock.
I've kept the original painting of Dad sitting in the saddle of his favorite horse: a big gray called Big Boy. Joseph Osborne Phelps, while serving a sentence in the county jail for forgery, painted it using the photo of one of Dad's campaign posters. The painting has become a family treasure—an heirloom.
Into the past again, Dad and I in his car stopped at the home of the photographer. With his equipment, he too piled into the car. We headed toward a site in the desert hills, chosen especially for the photograph. When we arrived, to my surprise, there stood Old Big Boy, a friend had ridden him there.
The desert foliage was beautiful. And there interrupting a background of chaparral, grassy tufts and rocks, splayed the imposing, thorny, green limbs of an ocotillo, each limb had a tassel-flag of scarlet blossoms that dazzled the hummingbirds. To the side hunched a prickly pear cactus decked with ripe, red fruit. Framing it all, in the distance loomed silent, majestic Mount Graham, towering upward in all her 11,000-foot glory. I watched as Dad with reins in hand and a foot in the stirrup took hold of the saddle horn. Pulling himself up, he swung astride old Big Boy for the picture that would become more important to the family than ever suspected.
After he took office, Dad had played a major role in apprehending and convicting the erring artist. Constantly rubbing shoulders, so to speak, with Dad, he gradually became acquainted with the true character of my good father. Quietly, he observed the friendly integrity with which the Sheriff's affairs were conducted. In time, he grew to greatly respect and admire him.
The prisoner chanced to obtain the photograph and he admired it so much that he envisioned it in oil upon a canvas. A deputy, Dave Skaggs, secretly in cahoots with Phelps, smuggled the canvas, paints and brushes into Phelps's cell.
Joseph Phelps and Deputy Skaggs had cooperated to pay tribute to Dad for the respect they had for him. Astounded and profoundly touched when they presented the masterpiece, the sheriff, it was said, brushed away a tear.
(JOSEPHINE) MEMORIES OF MY MOTHER
Eliza Arnette “Jones” Phillips, was born in Heber City, Utah, October 2, 1882. A precious, special woman, she enlightened and gave joy to my life. Neither of my parents ever demeaned themselves by being mean, ornery, cross or cranky with me. Mother deemed it necessary to slap my mouth more than just once because of sassiness with her, but Dad never ever laid a hand to any of his girls.
Once, when the Harry S. Payne family lived across the street, Eleanor and Virgil went over to play; Mama sent me to tell them to come home. Well, I got side tracked and none of us returned as supposed to. But when we finally did get back, Mama had a slender, willowy switch waiting for me. I mean to tell you, I never forgot how that switch tingle-stung the back of my bare legs. That one switching, plus an occasional slapping of my sassy mouth summed up the only physical punishments she ever dished out.
Eleanor, with her straight, brown, well-kept hair never allowed Mama to curl it. But she would let her shampoo it, and Mama knew how to do it right. She always rinsed it with lemon water; and she even collected runoff rainwater especially for rinsing. She often heated the rinse because it left our hair even softer. One day, Eleanor complained to Mama, "Well Jo has curls." Mama, always tender in handling delicate feelings looked at her lovingly and said, "But you have brown eyes and dimples," which of course was true. Indeed she had been endowed with beautiful brown eyes and dimples: beautiful Eleanor always a sweet big sister to me. And whenever we got into a ruckus, I'm ashamed to say—I always struck first.
Mama, so kind, treated her own mother with such consideration. When Grandmother Nonnie died, I had just turned ten. She’d lived just a block away up the street kitty-corner across from the church grounds where Uncle Spencer W. Kimball, with his brothers and sisters grew up under her wise direction. (The home, now dedicated as an historical landmark, has a conservative mortared-rock monument inlaid with a bronze plaque. It stands at the front edge of the home’s lawn, and has been purchased by Brent
Cluff, a best friend of Mac’s; His wife is a sister to Brose Hanchet, my longtime friend since youth, mentioned several times in this history.)
Mama told me that her mother let her be traded around a lot among four aunts and her grandmother Jones. Her aunts and her grandmother loved her, always pleading with her mother to let her visit them. The three full sisters (Mama's aunts) lived in Ogden, and Logan and the other lived in Idaho, and a half-sister lived close by in Safford—her grandmother Jones lived in Heber. The aunts’ children were mostly boys and the women constantly begged Mama's mother to let them borrow her. It was especially a pleasure for the several boy cousins close to her age to showoff their gorgeous, charming cousin. Mother liked the bouncing around and looked forward to the fun of taking turns in the several households and, never resented in the least being shared among her loving family.
Her mother, (my grandmother Nonnie), taught school fulltime. Gifted and experienced in drama, she was solicited for roles in many plays: a major source of involvement and entertainment in those days. She was an outstanding dramatist and actress, and because of her slight, almost pixie stature, she could play the role of a youngster or even a child. She held many church positions: She served as the Stake Relief Society President for nearly two decades when the stake stretched from Miami, Arizona to El Paso, Texas. Because of multiple responsibilities, Mama gave relief to her mother by visiting the relatives who continued pleading for her company—much to Mama's satisfaction.
Mama related the following story about when she and her mother visited Aunt Maggy's: Money for Aunt Maggy's family was scarce, and they were running short of butter at the time. Before the children were ushered off to bed they were given milk and bread with molasses—but without butter. Well, somehow the children could look through a window from where they were and saw the grownups eating their bread and molasses—with butter. The kids loved butter too and weren't at all happy with what they happened to see.
Overall, her visits were happy ones, but she remembered with irritation another episode with an aunt. Her cousin and she had washed all the dishes and put them away in the cupboards. The aunt arrived on the seen just as they finished. She asked if they had scalded the dishes. They said they hadn't; so the aunt made them take every dish back out to re-wash and scald before putting them away the second time.
Years later, visiting Grandmother Jones in Heber she told of the nostalgia that welled up within her as she saw the little highchair, cradle and table and chairs that were hers before she moved to Thatcher.
Mama and Uncle Wallace, Mama's brother, two years younger, spent a lot of time with their dad. They loved their dad, and he adored them. Their father, a specialist in mining, worked throughout Utah and Arizona. At times he was called on by the old Dominion Mine in Globe, sixty miles west of Thatcher, for his services. Since the owners of the elegant and beautiful Dominion Hotel were personal friends, he roomed there. On occasions, she and Wallace were invited to stay a few days with him. Each time it was an exciting adventure for both to make the trip, but of more importance, to be with their dad.
Sometimes her dad visited them in the Valley, and each time he would bring gifts. On one visit he brought a bicycle and on another, for Mama, a quart-sized crock of jelly. It's the cutest, glazed-clay container I've ever seen and Mama cherished it throughout her life. Darvil and I happened to find one at a yard sale: exactly like it, except it lacked the wire bail handle, but Darvil duplicated one like the original. I have it right here in the kitchen, and it is so precious to me. I believe Sally Jo has the one with a lid that belonged to Mama.
At their house in Central, the family kept a flock of chickens. Free-running without a pen, the hens would steal away and find a secluded hideaway to use over and over as their laying site. Her brother, Wallace, and she, found one of those nests, but they kept it secret from their mother. They gathered the eggs and went to the little country store to sell them. After a season they saved enough money to buy, as they supposed, a special treasure for their mother's Christmas present. With the hidden earnings they finally purchased four beautiful, small, hand-painted, china plates. She opened the present on Christmas Day—indeed, they were treasured by her. Before she died she gave them to my mother, who in turn gave them to me. I gave two of them to grandchildren I knew would appreciate them. I have the other two here next to her "hot chocolate service set".
Mother cared for all the many, lovely things she treasured, and when she would entertain —it was not like these days—she would do it as no other could; with a conservative flare, in her own style she’d entertain. The times I have in mind, she set the table with that beautiful set of twelve cups and saucers and the delicate lovely pitcher filled with hot chocolate. She used the set to serve her women friends. The set is in my glass cabinet. It is beautiful, and each time I see it, it fills me with nostalgia.
Mama told a story about a dance that she attended before she married. A large crowd attended because those memorable occasions were few. It seemed everyone came, because the night’s entertainment included dinner. Mama wore a white, wool dress that night. She sat across the dinner table from a girl that didn’t like her much. She attributed it to jealousy for some reason she didn’t know. On the table a bowl of pickled beets in juice, in the process of being passed around reached the girl, she dumped the whole bowl of staining liquid in Mama’s lap. She apologized profusely for the accident, but most present, believed it other than accidental. Mama’s dress was ruined, along with a big part of her evening.
Mama had a much greater education compared to others of that time. She had teaching credentials and taught kindergarten and loved the children. Her educated mother had provided her early on with advantages to stimulate learning. She had memorized numerous nursery rhymes and in turn taught them to each of us when we were young. She repeated them over and over while we practiced them until put to memory. She loved to read and had a commendable variety of books. Her small library shelves were chocked full, especially of children’s books she had made good use of during her teaching years. I wish I had them today. A book I especially remember and learned to love recounted a great number of stories of the ancient Greek and Roman mythical characters. If I could find a copy of it I would buy it no matter the cost, I read it many times. I don’t remember of Mama reading to us as little kids—Dad returned home from work late, he had to close down the business of the store and lock up. Consequently he was served a late dinner, it left little time for Mama to spend bedtimes entertaining us. She had bought two songbooks and a couple of the songs I remember were Angels in Heaven and Daddy Did a Wonderful Thing.
Too often, I acted like a big baby with my Mother. My parents probably thought they would never wean me away from her. When she and Dad, on rare occasions, would go off together, I hated it. One day, they were just ready to leave with another couple to go to Hot Springs. (One-hundred-twenty-degree water gushed up constantly refreshing the large concrete swimming pool. Earlier, dirt banks simply confined the warm pond. After the improvement of lined concrete, and with other nice additions, for that desert area in those days, it became a comfortable, popular, western hotel with nice amenities, which included a health facility.
This place was the most for me, and I stubbornly determined not to be left. I stood bawling at her bedroom door on that hot summer day like a silly calf. (I remember the doorway was a full foot thick because of the width of the adobes, and it had a screen door on the outside and a solid door on the inside.) I was a big old kid, and I knew better, but I wanted to go. In spite of my spoiled antics, off Mama went with Dad without me—I was terrible, a big booby.
My parents would entertain their friends on some evenings inviting as many as five other couples. Three card tables were set up to play Gin Rummy or Pitch. The parties lasted till late, so one time, Mama encouraged me to invite one of my best friends, Alberta, to stay all night. Eleanor never minded being alone, for she was older, but Mama knew I could be a nuisance unless I had a friend. We stayed back in the kitchen until bedtime. Mama was always thoughtful and kind, never cranky or cross—so good to us—she accommodate her children in every reasonable way. She loved her girls and her boys; nevertheless it was a love not deficient in appropriate discipline.
She was very slender during my growing-up years. The doctor gave her medicines hoping to improve her appetite. Before Eleanor was born, while Dad was on his mission in South Africa, Dr. Platt stopped by every week to check on her health. She stayed slim all her life and enjoyed good health for most of it.
Nearly five-feet-six inches tall, Mama appeared taller because of her slender build. She had fine facial features, dark brown hair and the complexion of a porcelain doll. Always very stylish and willowy, her proportions and shapeliness were beautiful. She aged with calm grace and dignity and retained her beauty exceptionally well until the end of her life.
While Dad worked for the Big Six store, for Krupps, and later for himself in his own store, he traveled to Los Angles on buying trips. Mama loved beautiful clothes, and each trip he brought back something elegant for her. When the Egyptian tomb of Tutankhaman (King Tut) was discovered; much-to-do was made of it. The newspapers and magazines filled their pages with the wondrous information, the style of women's apparel shifted toward a trend of ancient Egyptian, and the latest fabrics, many and varied, reflected the same.
Just home from the Coast on a buying trip, Dad had brought a presented for Mama: a beautiful, dark green dress of Egyptian print. She made it look the greatest. Naturally endowed with a conservative good taste, she dressed with modesty, style and refinement, and her selection of shoes accented her likings. I have a beautiful pair of her high-healed, high-laced shoes in my closet. I proudly wore them a few years ago as part of a costume to show the style of that day for a special Relief Society program in our ward. (Corona Del Mar Ward, Newport Beach Stake.) As we children went through the different grades of school and church and had parts in numerous programs—she never failed to be there and always gave of herself in assisting and helping.
Whenever Dad went to California on his buying trips for the store, and she couldn’t go, she’d keep the store going with some help from the two oldest boys, and at the same time tended to the needs of the family. Eleanor, I and Rodney still needed her supervision and Virgil and Dee helped. Each trip, it was evident that she worried about Dad’s safe return, though she said little. I think too, she was a little jealous of what her husband was enjoying in wonderful Southern California. And I know that Dad missed her too, partly because of her intuition on what haberdasheries (men’s clothing and accessories) would sell best in little Thatcher—which was appreciated and respected by him—for she had a eye for what would attract buyers.
Together on those trips, they loved going to “Boose Brothers” to eat in that beautiful and famous cafeteria. Whenever they took us along, we always ate there too. Eleanor, Rodney and I were along with them the time Mama lost her ring at the cafeteria. It was set with the large, red ruby that Dad had brought to her from South Africa, he’d had it set in a tiffany for her. She had taken her ring off and put it in her jacket pocket while washing her hands in the rest room. For a brief moment, she draped her jacket over the door. We were less than a block away from the restaurant when she remembered the ring, searching her pocket she discovered it missing. We rushed back but were too late. A thief had robbed her of the treasure; search as we might, with help from the management, the ring was lost to us for ever.
Mama held many responsible positions in the Church. She studied the scriptures regularly and was a prayerful woman. She prepared well for her duties in her callings. Mama exemplified careful preparation of lessons, training and talks. With the scriptures and other works, she studied, made notes and outlined her thoughts; she would work for hours during several days; she gave herself too little credit for her conscientiousness and preparedness—but she always was prepared.
As a small child, I took part in everything. I had been chosen for the role of Snow White in a school play at a time when Mama had been assigned to go to Salt Lake City for the Semi-annual April Conference. As a counselor in the Stake Relief Society, she had to leave and lacked time to make my costume. Nevertheless, before she left she bought the material, delivered it to Irene Woods—a superb seamstress—and Irene made it to fit me perfectly. (Irene and Dad were first cousins, grandchildren of my great-grandfather, Christopher Layton.)
Mama had one real fear. While visiting Jenny Brooks in Long Beach, California, a moderate earthquake struck. Boy! She was on that bus and out of that city, and I think home in Thatcher prior to the earthquake news reaching us.
Mama loved the Pacific Coast—except for earthquakes. On the trip when we brought her to stay with us for awhile, after Dad had died, driving, we were getting closer and closer to San Diego, she kept her eye on the sky. Still many miles from the ocean she suddenly said, “I can see the ocean mist.” And it could have been, for there was a low, long bank of clouds in the distance. She insisted it had to be; for she said she could smell the salt-laced fragrance of the ocean. Dad had been just as crazy about the ocean and the wonders of Southern California as she.
When we lived down Newport Beach area in the late 1940’s, she would come to stay with us, she cherished every moment of it. She also loved having Jean with her and loved being with our kids, Mac, Jon, and Sally Jo. She loved walking on the beach—usually alone, in her private thoughts. She did more walking after we moved from 31st street in Newport down to 7th street on the peninsula in Balboa. In the early evenings she walk the entire distance to the Newport Pier and back. She never returned to the house with a dry skirt; she would take off her shoes and tread as close to the lap of the waves as she dared. As her thoughts wandered, now and again, the wash of the waves surprised her—a little quicker than she, and she was never a slow one at anything.
(JOSEPHINE) MY DAD—DAVID (DAVE) DEE PHILLIPS
HUSBAND, FATHER AND FRIEND
Born in Kaysville, Utah, January 5, 1881, Dad, always kind and understanding, was a wonderful father to his children. At times he probably used some mild physical punishments on his boys, but as has been mentioned he never punished his daughters in any way. Any punishment of his girls devolved solely to mother. He was a very handsome man: well-proportioned, trim of build (except for a moderately protruding stomach in later life), and always immaculately dressed. He stood about five-feet-ten inches in height. Dark complexioned with wavy black hair, many men envied his handsomeness and many young women had sought his company before he chose Mama. Exceptionally well spoken, he enjoyed a legion of friendships. He was respected as an intelligent and accomplished man in the areas of his expertise and interests—which were many. The community held him in high esteem.
From Kaysville, Utah, my father’s parents with their children—most of them boys, Dad the youngest—drove their horse-drawn wagons to the Gila Valley soon after the colonizer, Christopher Layton, arrived. Dad’s mother was Christopher's daughter, and while in Utah she had served for years as her father’s scribe. Later, Christopher enticed the family to follow him and also settle in Thatcher. Once in Thatcher, she continued as his scribe. (Refer to the section on Grandparents.)
Dad spent his boyhood in Thatcher. He graduated from its schools and after high school and two years attending the Salt Lake City Business College graduating in 1902 at age 21.
Mama and a dear friend, Jenny LeBaron Brooks, while attending the Academy in Thatcher, roomed together at the home of her future husband's parents. (My grandfather, Edward Charles Phillips and grandmother, Selina “Layton” Phillips.) The college, her home and his parent's home were all close together in Thatcher a little more than a block from each other. I've always supposed Mama roomed there to be with Jenny and to enjoy a degree of independence from her mother. Maybe, her mother simply exercised gentle persuasion to help cut the apron strings.
When her husband-to-be (I wonder if it entered her mind then) was around, the two girls thought him an arrogant sort with airs of conceit and an attitude of “better-than-thou.” I know that once while he was annoying the girls as they washed dishes at the kitchen sink, Mama, to his surprise and disgust, (or maybe he liked it) brought him down a notch by swashing the soiled, soapy dishrag across his (as she imagined) self assuming face.
My parents were married in Mama’s mother and stepfather's home (Grandmother Nonnie and Grandpa Kimball) and a short time later were sealed for time and eternity in the Salt Lake Temple. After their marriage he worked for three different stores taking advantage of his education and bookkeeping skills. He steadily increased in knowledge and gained substantial understanding in merchandising.
While working in one store, he answered the call of the Prophet of the Church to serve a mission in South Africa. Married at the time, they had two very young boys, the oldest one, four and the other, only two. (A third boy, Elmo, the second baby, had died after living only six weeks.) Mama, expecting her fourth child, bid Dad farewell April 5, 1909. Eleanor, two years and seven months older than I, arrived in November, five months after his departure.
Unlike the majority called during those earlier days, through wise planning and providence, Dad left sufficient funds for the support of his family. Though sufficient for the family to enjoy independence, it amounted to less than extensive. But Mama, through wise, frugal judgment survived unfettered by poverty's chains during his long absence. I have a few photographs of him as a missionary and a copy of his missionary journal. It's filled with interesting, exemplary and inspiring experiences.
In addition to proselyting, he served as mission secretary for many months under two different presidents: President Steed and President Hendrickson. Two years of college and his earlier experience in accounting, record keeping and business management, coupled with a keen mind and a gift for detail, no doubt qualified him for the important assignment of working closely with both presidents. After two years, he returned in May of 1911 from that far away land.
Dad was very sharing with the family telling us of the country of South Africa and his missionary experiences. Because of his close association with the two mission presidents, and because the mission included the entire country, he traveled often and extensively. If not on foot, the means of travel was stagecoach or bus. He often spoke of the abundance and beauty of gorgeous plants, flowers, trees and blossoms. I remember him recounting one occasion while traveling, of watching great flocks of flamingos that blanketed the overhead sky.
After he returned, he resumed his work in the business of merchandising and in 1915, eventually built his own very successful general merchandise and grocery store in Thatcher. Known as “Phillips Mercantile,” it stood across the street from the “Big Six”—his father was one of the 6 partners—which was established in Thatcher many years before and renowned in local history.
After becoming his own boss, he instituted a special yearly tradition. As a kind man of conscience and deep feelings toward all, the unobtrusive ritual took place quietly, with street deserted at the store each Christmas morning. There he would meet his Mexican friends and less fortunate customers and their large families of small children and distribute candies and presents to them.
One favorite pastime Dad enjoyed was befriending "drummers" (traveling salesmen that passed through visiting his store) with the purpose of gleaning information from them. He delved into the routine with intense interest. Time and again he would invite them to our home for refreshments to spend an evening visiting. To him, they were not only valuable sources of information but interesting men as well. Method in his madness, he plied them with questions for knowledge to better his own business. Most were from the West Coast, but some were from the great cities east of the Mississippi.
Dad detested washday and did not want Mama to be the washerwoman even though she loved it. I loved it too. I loved anything to do with playing in water. Moreover, Dad also appreciated the house kept and in order when he arrived home from work for relaxation for Mama and him. He hired women to relieve Mama of what he perceived to be too much of a burden for her. As a little girl I loved every one of those hired women because they treated me with such kindness and sweetness. Not just permitting, they even encouraged me to be there with them and play in the sudsy water. During the intense heat of the summer, Mama pinned my curls on top of my head to keep them from dangling in the water, and to keep me cool. There with those nice women I dabbled and splashed in the sudsy water to my hearts content.
In those days we used the old-fashioned scrub board to do washing. Dad or the boys, every week on washday, kindled a fire in the back yard over which a large, copper-bottomed, oval tub sat heating water. The women dipped from it to provide what they needed to keep the water in the other tubs the right temperature. During hot weather, the washtub and the rinse tub sat on a table in the shade under a big tree in the back yard.
While I was still a teenager, Dad bought our first electric washing machine for Mama. He was most insistent to be the first to use it. And he—not Mama—did the first washing with it. Like all boys, little and big, he also loved new toys. At first, much to the frustration of the boys, he could also be somewhat on the stingy side with their toys.
When I was little, Dad required a late dinner because he locked up the store and didn’t get home till late. Mother had to prepare his meal and had little time at night to tell us stories or read to us, and though Dad didn’t read or tell us stories, he didn’t neglect us. We all looked forward to our share when he would come home late with a big steak purchased from Uncle Winnie’s butcher shop. We had a small wood-burning heater in the front room. Dad would open its door and lay the steak out over the coals. He was expert in that art of cooking; it always turned out delicious.
Once in a while we knew he attended the local horse racing competitions, which were great sport among the valleyites of Thatcher and neighboring towns, farms and ranches. It has been suggested that he might have placed a bet or two. If he did, knowing him, he would not come home with empty pockets, for he stayed well informed on who was who and which was which among competitors and horses. He had a real sixth sense about horseflesh.
Hunting, a favorite relaxation from the store for him gave him a source of good exercise. He especially would search out the coveys of quail, and bag the unlucky cottontail too. He used his pet 1894 Winchester pump-action, 12-gage shotgun. Later, Rodney, Darvil and then our two boys used it. I know they loved it and felt a partnership with the old shotgun and still lament its disappearance. It’s still around somewhere, and I wish it could be returned to my family if the present possessor reads this history. (It's recognizable by a slight bulge three or four inches from the muzzle’s end.) Every season found Dad with rifle in hand out in the local hills and mountains in pursuit of the wily whitetail deer and the bigger, more coveted, blacktail mule deer. The family, especially Mama, loved the taste of the wild game he brought in. It never lasted long in our family—such delicious meals.
Mama and Dad were good friends with Jessie Birdno, Mama’s first half-cousin, a daughter of Aunt Ella Birdno. She married Frank Dowdle, a rancher in Klondike. At least once a year my parents would take Eleanor, Rodney and me with them for an overnight visit at their ranch. I remember of at least four times that I went. Out the back door of the ranch house, about 100 feet away, ran a small, clear, picturesque creek. Next to it grew a medium-size mesquite tree with branches shading the creek. Naturally, with my infatuation with water, I spent much time there by the tree wading and playing in it.
During those years, there was a great abundance of quail on the ranch. Each early morning they lined up en mass along the creek edge their day’s first drink. Dad would arise early and leave with shot gun in hand. Back in the brush across the stream he flushed them from their hiding places bringing down sufficient to furnish all with plenty of birds, to more than satisfy us with a breakfast special. (Would that Darvil and I could have a few plump quail for breakfast now.) I remember that Jessie and Frank kept several gunny (burlap) sacks chock-full to the brim of venison jerky. Each visit they opened a sack and let us kids have as much of the yummy strips as we could eat. We kept pockets stuffed and pulled out a piece whenever we wanted, chewing away to our hearts content. Sometimes, Frank, Jessie or Mama pounded it with a hammer reducing it to a course powder. Aunt Jessie mixed it with flower and milk to make delicious gravy. With it we covered our bread or potatoes, but usually we had hot, baking powder biscuits to cover—delicious stuff.
Dad loved to sing to the accompaniment of the piano. The men in our home: Dad, Dee—and especially Virgil, who really used his voice—and Rodney all had voices of quality. They sang at our piano frequently, often bringing in their friends to enjoy short, evening songfests. According to Mama, Virgil had inherited his grandfather Phillips’ exceptional voice and sang more than his brothers, more so during his high school and junior college days. We loved to hear him sing, especially his favorite, “On the Road to Mandalay.” When he grew older and became so ill, he lost the strength to sing. When first notified that he had passed away, after having suffered so long, immediately to my mind came the thought, “How nice. Now he can sing again, and, to Eleanor’s marvelous accompaniment.”
When I was 13 or 14 years of age, the Valley National Bank in Thatcher went broke. Dad brought the safety deposit box from the bank into the store and put it in his desk. In the box were the rubies that he had brought back for Nonnie from South Africa, at the same time he had brought the big ruby for Mama’s ring. Nonnie had her two rubies set in earrings. After Nonnie passed away, they were stored in the bank box with three other loose rubies. I just loved the earrings and often begged Mama to let me wear them. Of course, she told me a definite “no!,” but that when I got older and more responsible I could. Maybe within no more than a couple of months after my last request, the store was robbed of everything of value from the safety deposit box in Dad’s desk
Dad’s desk in the store was old but very beautiful roll-top desk—kind of special in his life. He had a sturdy chair by it where he could sit comfortably at every little opportunity—a must with his ailing leg. We were envious and proud of that old desk—an heirloom of sorts, Dad had bought it around 1919; I never knew from whom. When the store was closed some twenty years later, and Dad rented the building to a dry-cleaner. he also loaned the desk to him. Shortly after Dad died the cleaner moved to an out-of-town location, and without even a goodbye, the thief took the desk with him. Mama tried to have it brought back but was never able to determine where it was. She could have taken the sheriff along and legally claim it.
Regarding Dad’s ailing leg, I was still a very little girl when it got bad. Mama kept the seriousness of it from us kids, but dad had an attack of arthritis or sciatica that put him in bed for nearly a year; evidently he suffered pain beyond our understanding; I often heard him moaning with pain, even though a hall and a closed, bedroom door blocked sound. How my mother was able to survive that year I don’t know. I know her pain must have been as great as Dad’s, for I have seen her cry when even a family pet (a cat or a dog) had suffered less.
Dad’s bout with that terrible problem left him forever with a lame left leg. I was so young when it happened, that I don’t remember of Dad ever walking without a limp. At the time, he couldn’t work, so their income was meager. Mama told us how she patched everything, even using shirttail ends as patching material, and I don’t know what all else, but she said they just scrimped along and managed to live through it. Dad—thank heaven—finally got much better, but that leg always bothered him and did handicap him. Darvil told me that he could always recognize Dad a long way off by the peculiar little swing he adopted to favor the leg.
Dad worked two blocks from home. From a very young age I knew the time he would come home for lunches, and early evenings at his day’s end. I would run down to the corner to meet him about a block from our home—barefooted in the summertime, I would run from shady-spots to frog’s foot (a carpet-like green weed patch) to grassy-patches with feet scorching between those cool patches while frightened butterflies flitted all about. He would grab me up and carry me on home. Those little rendezvous turned out to be one of my more joyful daily experiences; I looked forward to them during my younger life.
Then one day he nearly broke my heart when he kindly said, “Jody, you’ve grown so big I just can’t carry you any more.” Grief-stricken and since he saw I was almost in tears, he explained to me about his poor leg. When Mama was consoling me that evening, assuring me that Dad loved me just the same as always, I finally accepted it and could be happy. Through the rest of his life, his bad leg was something he had to put up with in many ways. It was hard for him to sit down and then get up. Our house was built of twelve-inch plastered adobe brick inside and red brick outside. This gave the window a wide ledge inside the kitchen. There at the high ledge he could stand half-sitting and eat breakfast in relative comfort.
Dad’s store was a wonderful business until the Great Depression surprised the year 1929 smothering the nation. With the onslaught of that nation-wide disaster his business, as with untold numbers of others began to dwindle until in 1933 he simply walked away from it to exert energy in more profitable endeavors. His building continued to be a source of income. He partitioned it and rented one section to a Mr. Blan for a dry cleaning business, and the other he leased to the U.S. Postal Department for Thatcher’s post office. (Later, he became the postmaster.)
A talented man of many interests, he loved music and sang in a beautiful baritone voice in the privacy of our home, accompanied by Mama or one of his daughters, all of whom were exceptionally accomplished at the piano. He periodically agreed to sing solos and sing in small groups. We heard him sing often, he called it—playing "at" the piano—but it was done for our pleasure, in privacy at home.
Endowed with social graciousness from diplomatic, tactful parents, extensive business experience, and constant interaction with a broad cross-section of people, my father made others feel comfortable in his presence. Although at times Mama experienced difficulty enticing him out of the house to socialize; once out mingling with others, he enjoyed himself to no end and could be the life of the party.
My Brother-in-law, Bruce McBride, records the following memory of Dad which he titles Good Neighbor: “An individual who showed great interest in my welfare, and whom I came to think a great deal of—was Dave Phillips. I first remember Dave as the Superintendent of the Thatcher Ward Sunday School. Later, his son Rodney and I became close friends, and Dave usually asked me to come along with them on such occasions as the Father and Son’s Outings or fishing trips. He was one of the most generous and kindhearted men I have ever known; a real friend to everyone in need. Dave and his wife, Nettie, were always good for a generous handout. No one in need was ever turned away from their door.”
Dad served as a member of the Presidency of the Thatcher Ward Young Mens Mutual Improvement Association, and later on the stake board. Also, he served as the Sunday School Superintendent of the ward for a year.
Always active in local and state politics, Dad also took interest in world affairs. He read extensively and discussed politics, which kept him well informed about all levels of candidates and issues of the time. He would have been very proud of my “state senator” husband.
The Thatcher townspeople elected him clerk. On March 5, 1906 they elected him a member of the city council. From 1904 to 1909 he served as school trustee of Thatcher’s school district. On November 8, 1911, he was elected Graham County Assessor and served for three years. About 1915 he became a board member of the county democratic party organization eventually serving as the chairman for years.
After winning the election, he served four years as Thatcher’s Justice of the Peace. Later, appointed as the postmaster of the Thatcher office in 1939, with Mama employed as his assistant, he attended to that responsibility until a heart attack took his life on December 2, 1941, five days before the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor. The attack precipitated the United States into World War II. Mama said later that she was glad he had gone before it happened, because that prolonged, terrible, global conflict would have caused him grave worry. He died far too early in life at 61, a month and three days short of his 62nd birthday.
His funeral service held in the Thatcher Ward building was attended by many friends. He was buried in his plot in the Thatcher cemetery just south of town. There, his earthly tabernacle rested next to his deceased, infant son, Elmo, who died in 1906, after two days less than a month of life. Mama was interred next to Dad 23 years, eight months later. At the burial site we arranged for the beautiful, black, granite tombstone displaying his and Mother’s names.
(DARVIL) SCHOOL DAYS
My life began in the rural community of Glenbar, Arizona (earlier called Fairview), where I lived until eight years of age. I started my first year of school as a first-grader, in a small one-room schoolhouse. The single room served for Sunday School and other evening church functions during the week; whether built originally as a school or a church or something else, I never knew. Seth Larson taught all of us, about 25 scruffy farm and ranch kids, all in the same room, grades one through six.
As mentioned elsewhere, some people outside our community of Glenbar called it by another name
Hogtown. I’ve never known for sure why they poked fun at it. However, there were quite a few hogs
in town compared to the number of people. And I guess we kids were pretty much hogs ourselves.
I don’t recall the names of all my classmates. However, there were two, the Lockhart twins, girls my age, whose manners had favorably impressed me. They lived just up the lane from us about a quarter-mile. We were real good friends and I played with them often. [Bruce, his brother adds: “Not at all surprising that Dobbs was popular with the girls, even at this early age.]
Built just across the fence north of the railroad tracks, the school building sat alone with nary-a-tree to add beauty or shade. Unexpectedly one day, the school received a gift of trees, the number of them at least equal to the number of its pupils. The teacher gave one to each of us to plant and to give a name. I remember the day we all busied ourselves out around the school digging holes to plant them. As the months became a year and then more, I visited the school often to check on "Darvil", the name I had given my tree, checking on how it was doing. (We had decided to name the trees after ourselves.) Many of the small trees lived and thrived, but after about two years, to my dismay, I discovered that Darvil had died.
I got in big trouble once that first year. Between the schoolyard and the train tracks stretched a wire fence—forbidden to us to ever cross. Adults seemed to know that the temptation for boys to play on the tracks would be too overwhelming to resist if ever we went over the fence. However, a couple of friends and I took it upon ourselves to breach the never-ever-never barrier during one recess. Sure enough, the fascination, too overpowering for six-year-olds, beckoned us to the stretch of twin ribbons of steel to examine and play.
Soon we found a railroad spike: a giant square nail in appearance to us. They are used to nail the rails to the redwood ties. While I examined the hefty thing, my imagination went into overdrive and curiosity overcame me. I no sooner laid the spike on the track, when we heard the train’s whistle. It sounded so close that we knew it would soon be upon us. We scurried back and slipped through the fence into the schoolyard where we waited with baited breath for the train to pass. Boy, when the train hit that spike—it sounded like a rocket blasting off. To our fright, the train braked to a rapid stop. Then I knew—troubles were really on my tail.
The locomotive engineer and the fireman left the train and crossed the fence, and while we stood in terror, they gave the whole bunch of us a lecture. They explained the dangers of laying things on the tracks and the many reasons it should never be done. Then it came—they asked for the culprit to “fess up,”—and in trembling fear I raised my hand and confessed. After the two men left, my good teacher, in all kindliness, gave me a lecture too. After that experience I never put another thing on the tracks again. Anyway—on "those" tracks.
My older brothers together with our oldest sister, Gladys, attended school in the neighboring town of Pima, three miles from Glenbar. I believe Gladys had completed school there, making room for me to ride with my three brothers in the buggy: for this reason I began school in Pima as a second-grader, instead of continuing in the Glenbar school. We had a little hack of a buggy with a small extension of its body—the “boot” we called it, extending rearward, much like a miniature pickup bed. We carried a part of a bail of hay with us each day for the horse. We left the horse and buggy behind the school in an area especially designated for hitching the horses. I remember seeing Floyd, Leonard or Orlando going over in the middle of the school day to toss the horse a flake of hay.
Making the daily trips to school, Orlando and I, the two youngest, stood up in the back behind the seat in the little bed while our big brothers sat in the bench seat. To steady ourselves, we gripped the hack's rods on each side in front of us. (Though a hack is a kind of buggy, the buggy canopy itself was called the hack too.)
The trips in the buggy to and from school I remember well, especially during the cold winter months. Orlando and I had to dress extra warm with heavy coats and snuggle down up against the back seat. I wore a wool-knit cap pulled down over my ears and half of my face, and I wrapped the heavy muffler (scarf) around my neck.
In clement weather, the trips were fun for a little boy of seven. Since my school day ended two hours earlier than the older boys, my parents gave me permission to walk home by myself, when I wanted to; which I opted to do on many occasions. I knew the way along the road, but I also learned the shortcut. I simply followed the railroad tracks which went straight towards home unlike the winding road. Of course, I'd always ask permission of mother that morning, and if the weather seemed acceptable she always said yes. Walking would get me home an hour earlier than the others.
During these walks is when I began to really practice with my bean flipper (flipper or sling-shot). I always took it to school, and as I walked the tracks, I would shoot at birds and other critters, as well as imaginary prey. My aim lacked real accuracy at first, but any sparrow I happened to drop with a lucky shot I stuffed in my pocket to feed the cat at home. Gradually I developed accuracy and though doves rarely frequent the railroad right-of-way—they were real “big game”—and I continually looked for opportunities to nail one. Envious of my brother Orlando, who had killed his first dove a year earlier, I promised myself that I would kill me a dove—pretty darn soon.
With steadfast determination, I hunted and hunted and shot and shot, but without success. The ruffling of a few feathers from time to time served to sustain the excitement of the hunt for big game. One day, down the middle of Granddad’s barnyard, I spotted some doves feeding where the horses and the cows had been stabled. I sneaked along the fence and around its corner to a good spot where I could suddenly lean around the gate and get off a good shot. The plan proved perfect, and the missile sailed through the air true to its mark. As I had seen Leonard and Floyd do, I pulled off its head to end suffering and let it bleed. In so doing, considerable blood spilled over my hands.
The sun had already set, and darkness would soon close in. I ran happily for home with the kill stuffed safely in my pocket. I was so proud I could hardly contain myself. As I burst into the house, the first thing I did was show everyone the blood on my hands as I blurted out the details of the kill, displaying the first trophy of the mighty dove hunter. That kill didn't go for cat's fare; I plucked and cleaned it for Mother to cook. In my entire life I had never tasted anything so delicious.
I don't remember much about the second year in school or even the name of my teacher. I do recall the name of the principal because of her peculiar name—Mrs. Ledwitch. My brothers forewarned me of how mean she could be, and I should take special care to avoid crossing her path. So, playing it carefully the whole year, I never once suffered under her infamous disposition.
I'll mention one noteworthy incident of the year: A boy found a can of lye, and he took it into the outside, boy’s restroom where he and some others began to horse around with it. One of them ended up pouring some down the back of the neck of the other. After a while the lye began to take effect, and the boy could feel the flesh of his back begin to burn.
I suppose that's when I heard the beginning of a lot of hollering. As I turned my attention to the sounds coming from the restroom, out bounded the boy. He ran past me like a scared deer; I stood dumbfounded as I watched him tear on by. The true extent of his desperation soon manifest itself, for he raced straight for the canal, where he threw himself in, clothes and all. Once in the soothing water, he washed the flesh-eating stuff off as best and as fast as he possibly could. That episode caused quite a stir around the school and throughout town. A terrible experience for sure, for the poor victim. At least one other boy in that incident found himself in another kind of deep trouble.
Dad had been elected county sheriff. The courthouse had been in Solomonville, but a new one was recently built in Safford, and it accommodated the sheriff's office. Had we stayed in Glenbar, the going and coming on that long, potholed, curving road would have been so slow and arduous that we would have been separated from Dad for long periods of time. No one wanted that, so Dad rented a house for the family in Safford where we could be together. Therefore, I attended the third grade in Safford.
The school was on Main Street just across from the courthouse. I have few memories of that year, but during the first part of it I didn't do well in my studies. Uprooted from the only home and town I’d ever known, the change of schools, plus all the other new beginnings in my life caused me to fall behind in the class; I had a heck-of-a-time trying to catch up. They finally discovered the problem to be a deficiency in reading. Once discovered, steps to correct it were taken, and with newfound help, my situation soon improved. I finished the school year in fair shape.
Though I've forgotten her name, one pleasant memory of the third grade involves a kind and exceptional teacher. Her features hinted of Latin extraction: dark complexioned and dark, long hair with eyes and lashes to match, I thought her the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I loved her so much that whatever she told me—I took as gospel.
All that she asked me to do, I did. In addition to helping me correct my reading deficiency; she also perceived the deeper problems of being a newcomer among strangers. She discretely arranged situations to help me adjust and make new friends. I finally found the circle of comfort much needed by a sensitive eight-year-old boy abruptly tossed into too many new and seemingly threatening situations.
As best I remember, we lost Dad while I attended the fourth grade in Safford. One moment, all was smooth as silk; the next moment everything in our lives turned topsy-turvy. The disaster obliged us to give up the expensive Safford rental. In Thatcher three miles to the west, Mother's brother, my Uncle Oscar, had built a rental home. His renters had recently vacated, and he immediately made it available to our family for as long as we needed.
We lived there straightening out our affairs while adjusting to Dad's death, trying to get back on our feet. After about six months, Mother purchased the big house on Main Street (Christopher Layton's old home). Mother had given birth to my little sister Frankie just before the move, and there in Thatcher I finished the fourth grade, and two of my sisters and three brothers finished their school year too. We continued living in that comfortable rural town through the rest of our growing-up years. I went through all the school years, including high school and two years of junior college there. During the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades of grammar school, is when I made the real life-long, lasting friendships of my life. Though born in Glenbar and for a short time lived in Safford, Thatcher became the place that I would always look back to—as my home town.
As I grew up in Thatcher, I had many friends from neighboring communities that counted me their good friend too. However, I considered the following Thatcher boys as my best friends: Gordon Stowell, Fenton Taylor, Ivan Huntsinger, Brose Hanschett, Heber James, Clark Owens, Ralph Smith, Lyman Foster and Winston and Ernest Larson. About everything I ever did, I did with one, several or all of them.
The teachers I remember were all fine people. With few exceptions they were L.D.S. I especially remember Jess and Ruby Brimhall: Ruby, taught me in one of the elementary school grades. Many years later, she would teach under me after I assumed the Thatcher Elementary School Principalship. A marvelous teacher, she exerted grand and lasting influence upon hundreds of youth. She cared about all her pupils and spent the extra hours necessary to help any in need.
Jess Brimhall taught me in the sixth grade. Though a just man, he was pretty tough, especially with the boys if we didn't tow the line. Different with the girls though, he treated them with special gentleness. Jess also taught us in our mechanics and wood shop classes, and later in junior high he became my basketball coach.
(JOSEPHINE) SCHOOL DAYS
When I started school, kindergarten for five-year-olds didn't exist. I began my first year at six in the first grade of the Thatcher Elementary School. My first teacher was Darvil's aunt, Bessie McBride, his father’s youngest sister. We all adored her, and I felt that she thought me to be extra special. As a young child though, I had the tendency to think that of nearly everyone. In retrospect as I matured in thinking I began to believe that people liked me less and less with each passing year. I presume that must be true, because I became smarter with age.
The red-brick elementary school is still in use. (Now it accommodates the middle school.) The first grade through the eighth were included as part of the elementary school when I began. As I entered the seventh grade, the new junior high for the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth grades had been completed immediately west of the former school. This left the elementary school with the first through the sixth grades. Later, the junior high building would also include the eleventh and twelfth grades of high school. Eventually our three children graduated from that same high school housed by the same building.
As a youngster in the first years of school, it seemed that the teachers always chose me for the lead roles in the skits, plays and operettas, and I enjoyed wearing the pretty costumes. Nevertheless, I recall one occasion when the measles made its rounds through the community, and I came down with them at the time the characters were being chosen for a play, and my best friend, Alberta Craig, got the main role that I imagined would otherwise have been mine. I loved singing parts, and when requiring fervent voice, even as a small child, one could depend on me to sing good and loud.
Our extra special fourth grade teacher was married to the President of the Gila Academy. She and her husband lived in an apartment, especially prepared for them, that was part of my Grandma Nonnie and Grandpa Andrew Kimball's house. Mama and Dad loved Ruth Creer, a beautiful woman, and loved her husband too, Leland H.; so for me it came natural to love them also. However, she may not have been the person she should have been, because I remember when her husband had to be out of town on school business; she went to the dances without him and had a good time at it. Nevertheless, she was a special lady, and she was a great talent in music and liberally imparted it to us children.
Let me make mention that we lived in the day of school segregation. The Mexican and Black children attended their separate class for all ages of children, the first grade through the eighth grade, taught by their own teacher in a single large room.
Though each of the eight class in our school had its own teacher, the school employed an additional art teacher who divided her time among all the classes. This woman—well, I won’t go into that. Fortunately, she liked me, but unfortunately she didn't like one of my cousins who was an exceptionally gifted artist. In spite of her niceness to me, her obnoxious treatment of my cousin tainted my feelings toward her. I found it difficult to like her.
In the fifth grade, Miss Thomas taught us. She's the one who explained to us that if our clothing ever caught fire, we should immediately lie down and roll over and over to extinguish the flames. Later, that instruction would be invaluable to me; for it save me from what could have caused horrible disfigurement or even loss of life.
In junior high, another exceptional teacher taught algebra and Spanish. His style of teaching made it fun for us to learn. His wife, whom he married later and brought to Thatcher was beautiful, but he was very homely; so ugly that he actually looked as if he were always at death's door, but he lived until 1993. However, his wife was an exceptional teacher too, and she and he both liked me, and would you believe it, they named their first daughter Josephine. I don't know if I had a role in that inspiration. Perhaps I did; I like to think so.
Both were caught up in one major fault: They demonstrated clear antagonism toward the L.D.S. Church and were quite venomous towards certain church members. They eventually left Thatcher, but later returned when the Junior College School Board hired him as its new President. He would be a primary factor in Darvil's decision against signing the contract with the college for a second year. Though Paul Guitteau and his wife, Elizabeth, were intelligent people, because of religious bigotry they would always be lacking in justice, equity and kindness in their dealings with many fine people, and in time he would bring additional anti-Mormon sentiments and elements into the community.
Surprisingly, one man, a member of the hiring board, was a prime instigator in hiring the new President, and though raised by wonderful religious parents, he seemed to pay little attention to quite a number of important principals of the Church. John Mickelson, the former Board member, and Darvil, later served for eight years together as State Senators, though seldom, if ever, cooperating in anything.
All of us in junior high school loved and appreciated one special teacher, Hyrum Mortensen. He later married one of the other teachers. Some of the girls older than I really had a case on him, when he was an older, single, handsome, young man. His brother, Martin Mortensen, served as the superintendent of the Thatcher Schools during my high school years. His wife, Berle Nagle, had been Eleanor's first grade teacher. Finer people than he and his wife never existed.
Another darling teacher, Winnie Haynie, had come from Douglas, Arizona to teach in our high school. I never considered myself one of her favorites, but she had had some training in ballet. She organized a ballet class for those who would afford the nominal fee. Still haunting my memory is the time we set the date to take our group’s photograph. One of my best friends, Alberta, had forgotten to bring her ballet shoes, and even though everyone else came prepared—for Alberta's sake the teacher postponed the photography until the next day, and that was okay, except, the morrow came and can you believe it, I'd forgotten my shoes. But, no special concession for me; she didn’t suggest postponing it for my sake. So, I'm the only one in the whole row of girls in that cute photograph without ballet shoes—though I had rather it be me than Alberta. That aggravated me then and it aggravates me now, The photo is included in this history.
I remember another wonderful teacher, Ella C. Hancock, a faithful member of the Church and a marvelous teacher, she lived alone with her three children for many years after she moved to our town. She taught us literature and helped us learn the technique of memorizing important facts. She cared about us in a personal way taking interest in each of our lives. For a while I had a beau that I thought I couldn't be without. She privately went to Mama and told her to not let me go with him, saying he wasn't the right boy for me. Of course I resented it, but in time I discovered she was right.
Our music teacher, Joe Smith, a member of the Church had come from Utah with his wife. He taught us well as our band director. I played the drums for one year, and also the clarinet and flute—didn't like the flute. Not really adept in any one instrument—though I loved the clarinet and wish I'd continued with it—those enjoyable times still entertain fond memories.
The sister of the music teacher's wife and her husband moved to Thatcher later on. Mr. Reed taught at the College. She was gifted in teaching kindergarten-age children, and she taught me many key techniques while I served under her as her assistant in her church calling of Stake Advisor to the teachers of the younger children.
Through high school and junior college, my name always appeared on the school ballots for something. But the involvements I loved most included operettas, dances, and plays. A word more about the delightful operettas: I still managed to come up with the lead role in most of those, and that kept me very happy. I remember we visited the schools in Pima, Eden, Duncan and others, where we performed also. Our parents cooperated in providing the transportation, and the spirit of it all, with gorgeous costumes, and just being a part of the group was so fun for me.
Since farming was the real economic base of the area, many transients came and went according to the harvest seasons. Among them, many boys had never learned to dance. I enjoyed being friendly to those boys and often coaxed them out onto the dance floor to help them get started dancing and socializing.
Graduation exercises were held after completion of tenth grade, and after that summer vacation we attended school at Gila Junior College. At the time, the eleventh and twelfth grades of high school were accommodated in the same building as the college. What fun! Principally, LDS youth from the other Mormon enclaves came from many parts of Arizona, New Mexico, the El Paso, Texas area and even from the Mormon Colonies of Mexico. An exciting time in our lives: I say "our lives," because about then, Darvil became a part of my thoughts and activities, for we'd moved next door to his family. I was 17 years old.
Four miles west of Pima, to the south of the highway about one-half mile, a beautiful formation of clay cliffs rises from the desert floor. Because of their striking orange color in contrast to the drab, gray, flatland around them, they were called “Red Knolls Cliffs." Over 200 feet high, they were riddled with caves, crevices and tunnels. On its rather flat top were dozens of deep, dark, seemingly bottomless pits. No one that I knew had ever explored them.
Giving face to the north, up the gentle slope of a clay alluvial fan, opened a natural amphitheater carved by the wind and water back into the cliff. This amphitheater had little coves and recesses on either side and to the back:, natural places for the changing of costumes and for waiting performers.
Dances, plays, operettas and operas were all interesting pastimes in a young woman's life. However, we considered the preparation for and presentation of the "Red Knolls Pageant" the most exciting cultural event of the year. For those of us with interests in music and theatrics, we invariably looked forward to it with high expectations. I always took part in it as a member of the orchestra or the choral group, but occasionally I'd end up with a small speaking part. Selected for major rolls, Darvil acted in three yearly pageants in a row. Annually for many years, pageants were presented to large gatherings there in the open air of the desert.
"The Las Amigas Club,” the college girls organization, elected me president during my last year in junior college. With a lot of talented help, we orchestrated the decorating of the gymnasium for the Girls Dance that year. We chose "Fairy Land” as the theme of the event. I remember Carl Green’s younger sister, a talented and artistic person, worked arduously planning and arranging the delightful decor. We even had a tree of golden apples.
That same year, the members of the Boys Club were responsible for the decorations of the Spring Formal Prom. It consisted primarily of desert flora: Every imaginable type, kind, and variety of age, size and color of desert plant and cactus accented by a diverse spectrum of subdued, colored lights transformed the drab gymnasium to ethereal beauty. It turned out—many expressed—to be as beautifully decorated as any prom in the history of the school. (During that period of time, nothing was endangered, and there were no laws prohibiting the gathering of plant life, and few people borrowed plant life from our vast desert surroundings.)
Growing up in the arid desert country, I took for granted the desert's unexcelled beauty. I believe for the first time in my life, during the preparation for that prom, that I first caught a glimpse of the real magnificence of the great, dry, desert with its myriad of strange and beautiful plants. Our valley had so little rainfall that the farmers and the business people dependent on crop success constantly petitioned God for moisture—in public, church, and private prayers.
We had lots of different fun things to do for dates. We went to special lecturers, musical and drama presentations by talented musicians invited to the college. We often made ice cream at someone's home and sat visiting and laughing—sometimes the boys would spend hours cracking black walnuts for the ice cream. The thick hard-shelled nuts from the wild trees were bears to extract the meat from—or we would take the ice cream out into the desert hills in the early evening, after a bonfire and wiener roast or hamburger fry, or just a marshmallow roast. We’d slurp down the ice cream to top off the main course. In general, we grouped together with Darvil’s friends and their girl friends. Gordon Stowell and Bernice Phillips (my first cousin), Fenton Taylor and a girl friend, and others.
After graduation from Gila Junior College, Darvil left me and the valley for summer school in Flagstaff. That didn't slow me down or hamper me in having a great summer. I played tennis, went to Hot Springs to swim and on dates to the many events sponsored by the church and community. I did have a special beau then too, and we kept company on many nice occasions. Morris Felshaw was a very nice person—I suspect he thought I might marry him. I dated my long-time friend, Reid Morris, also. He's the one I so love to dance with—and I never attended a dance at which we didn't dance together.
After Darvil returned from summer school that year, we were married August 18, 1933.
(DARVIL) FUN, HOBBIES AND PASTIMES
From the beginning of my memory we had dogs around, and they were my pals. One pleasant pastime my brothers and I enjoyed together, was to walk into the uncultivated country of mesquite trees, cactus and brush that grew close to our farm in Glenbar, or into the willows and tamaracks of the sandy river bottom. A great variety of birds, animals and critters flourished there. With our nosy dog, we had no trouble brushing out cottontail, jackrabbits, big ground squirrels, little chipmunk-size ground squirrels—the diminutive antelope squirrel—skunks, raccoons, coyotes, foxes, bobcats, badgers, quail, snakes, lizards and insects. Occasionally, we even saw tracks of deer, mountain lions and bears that were crossing the valley from one mountain range to the other. The surrounding outdoors teemed with what a back-country boy would dream of. Besides the dogs, which were always our favorite pets, we also had a bunch of cats. Unlike the dogs, these stealthy animals hunted independently—no such thing as taking a cat on a hunting foray, but we took great interest in seeing the variety of rodents and birds they captured, first to toy with and then devour.
In and around the varied terrain and vegetation of the river bottom, we played make-believe games. Sometimes we stripped off much of our clothes to play Indians. We built wikiups—Apache Indian style—hunted, fished, explored and even challenged the huge muddy waves of the torrent when the river was in flood stage—sport that had taken a few lives. The river bottom afforded a source of unending enjoyment, there seemed no end to all that we could do there, only fettered imagination limited us. Peculiar experiences occurred as we combed the wilds of that great playground of nature close and within easy walking distance of home. Throughout this history, interspersed here and there, you will read of our river bottom sagas and of the Gila River itself.
Between the age of five and seven, with my three older brothers, we often stripped off clothes and played in the shallow river current—never a second thought about swimsuits. In the latter part of summer about a third of the years the river completely dried up on the surface, It left small and large, long, narrow pools. As the muddy pools evaporated and grew smaller, the trapped fish concentrated. We had great fun catching them with our hands. The river teemed with fish back in those days, and the stories are many about the locals with pitchforks and riggings reaping harvests of large carp. With our hands we caught catfish, some very big carp, the razorback bonytail and thousands of minnows. Such a wonderful playground for a young boy in the company of good older brothers. As river and canals dried up, predators entered their hay day. Coyotes, foxes, raccoons, skunks, weasels, hawks and buzzards, as well as several species of night birds printed the muddy edges, hintings of the night’s gorging orgy. We strung the catfish through gills onto a slender, willow branch to carry home to cook—a welcome change of fare; the family appreciated the fresh delicacies. I remember thinking we were only doing the same things as Dad and his brothers had done as boys. Then my boys and their friends experienced the same country and many of the same adventures.
When crossing sand, gravel or rocks, we kept an eye peeled for the elusive smoky topaz, a grayish, semi-precious stone with pitted surface. Held in the hand, it appeared opaque black, but held toward the sun, the stone surprises one with its clear translucency. We prized them because they were rare, especially large ones—a boy with a pouch of them was the envy of friends. Gem specimens were sought by jewelers who used them for ring settings. I always had in mind selling my topaz collection, hoping for a good price, and though I never managed it, I enjoyed the times I spent going through them holding each up to the light checking its clearness and hoping against unwanted blemishes and hair-line cracks that a few had. Lapidarists today seek them for the same purpose as the jewelers did, a hobby I never heard mentioned in my young days.
Living in that hot parched country, we welcomed water to play in. In Thatcher, we played in the Pima Canal, its origin, the Gila River just east of Thatcher. It irrigated a good part of towns farmland and passed through Central, then on through Pima and Glenbar doing the same. To actually swim instead of wading and splashing, we prized the canal more than the river. When the big head-gates were down, a long deep pool formed behind them providing an excellent swimming hole. However, after the river subsided following a sudden summer flood we could find some great newly-created holes. They were usually good until the next squall flooded the river reshaping its sandy course.
In those early years of youth (circa 1913 and forward) living in Thatcher and Glenbar, we’d never heard of a home with a swimming pool. If choosing to swim close to home, we headed for the Union Canal, a block south of main street that ran by the house in which Jo grew up and on past the Church pecan grove. The largest canal in the valley, we played in it most anywhere we wanted. It irrigated the Thatcher farmland, the lawns and gardens, and small orchards of the town residences. The canal averaged two and one-half feet in depth. One place known as Johnson’s Hole, just across the street from the Johnson house, had a big head-gate that backed the water up to an exceptional depth: deep enough to dive into. Mother used to quip that she raised her five boys at Johnson’s Hole.
The only swimming pool (30 miles away’ north of Pima) we reached with our old automobiles over the winding, washboard, trail-of-a-road was way the other side of the river. Known as Indian Hot Springs, we looked forward to the bumpity trip about twice a year, which usually afforded the added experience of a flat tire or two. Supplied by a natural underground hot water source, we could swim there in the winter too. By the time we reached high school age, a pool at the Water Works in Safford was built, and a small but nice pool eventually built at Thatcher High. (Jon lounged away a summer lifeguard job there, about 1954.)
Around the same time in my checkered life, I got acquainted with what the local tricksters called the Badger Fight. Like most little towns, Thatcher had a bunch of young locals spending their spare time thinking up tricks and practical jokes to play on each other, and especially on newcomers—the easy suckers.
For the badger fight trick, they had built a small wooden cage just large enough to hold an animal of that size. For days they would talk about the coming event until the whole male population of town knew the fellows had found another victim for their seamy joke. They conscripted a big hound to fight the badger, and at the hour of the appointed day, all would gather behind the Big Six Mercantile to witness the bloody conflict.
During the time of preparation, anticipation ran high, and the honored new fellow in town got the privilege of jerking the badger out of its cage to do battle with the quivering hound straining at the leash, crouched and ready. Final moment at hand, close to the excited dog, the wide-eyed guest was handed the end of the long chain that disappeared through the door into the cage unmistakably attached to the badger. One boy would stealthily sidle up to the cage from behind, and at the instant he pulled the latch-bolt, he yelled, “Pull him out!” The excited newcomer gave the chain a mighty heave to jerk the badger into battle. Dismayed and embarrassed, he laid eyes on a huge thunder mug that bolted from the dark recess of the box, rolling toward him coming to a wobbly stop. Well, the straining hound pounced, then, stopped in consternation—sniffing the pot he wrinkled his nose and backed away. The poor chain-jerker, nerves all ajitter, in total surprise stood motionless while the crowd launched itself into uproarious laughter—much to his chagrin. The pranksters slapped their sides, some actually rolled on the ground to vent their mirth. (A thunder mug is a large, crock-like, porcelain pot kept under the bed for a potty. The outhouse stood out back in darkness, too far away to be convenient at night.) Witness it once as a youngster, I could never figure out why pulling a pot out of a cage was so funny.
Arizona’s desert and plateau country, with its meteorological phenomena, is pelted with short but violent thunderstorms frequently turning into fierce hailstorms. The thick cover of hailstones would mound up against fences, trees, walls and other structures. We deemed the mounds a boon, for we could quickly gather it by the buckets-full for good purpose.
For many years ice was only available in 25 to 50 pound, or heavier blocks, delivered by the iceman a couple of times a week. If we wanted ice at other times, we had to make a special trip to the ice plant, too far and inconvenient to be worthwhile. (All too often, the result of a downpour with its melting hail lead to flash floods, and water would stand two feet deep, or more, in Thatcher’s streets.)
We cheered over hailstorms. If we needed bits of ice for cold drinks, we normally chipped pieces off the block in the icebox with the ice pick. No bags of crushed ice could be found when I was growing up. If we wanted a bag of crushed ice, we put a block in a tied burlap sack and beat it with a baseball bat or a 4x4. Ice cream was a fairly expensive treat for many of us. So when Mother Nature treated us with free buckets of hail, we immediately conjured thoughts of homemade ice cream without the bother of buying it or beating up on ice in a sack. We had free, fresh milk and condensed milk, and a mix for homemade ice cream was available at the little markets. With the hail packed into the ice cream freezer around the canister, we took turns cranking away knowing that shortly, delicious desert would soon bejeweled our bowls.
While living in Flagstaff (mentioned later in this history) we would break off ice cycles, hanging down as long as three feet from the eves of the roof. We crushed these to make freezer ice cream with one belongone to Edna and Dillon Lewis, close friends and neighbors. We also had access to free cream from the college dairy to make it creamier and smoother.
Our hometown basked in the sun at 2900-feet elevation, so we didn’t get much snow. We would experience two or three snow flurries during a three or four year period, but never enough to call a real snowstorm. What little came we loved to play in it, and it gave us a special treat: we would make “snow ice cream.” Clean snow mixed with cream or condensed (canned) milk and sugar, and a dash of vanilla extract gave us a delicious desert—and, as much as we wanted to eat. I much preferred it mixed with canned milk. It seemed to give it more of a true store-bought ice cream flavor.
We youngsters not only found our own fun; but we had to make most of our own playthings and toys. We spent many happy hours making and playing with bottle horses. We preferred the regular-size beer bottles because they had more of a shoulder that kept the harness from slipping off—a real frustration to bottle horse trainers. With pieces of felt, heavy cloth or light leather, we cut strips that we fashioned together for harnesses and the tugs that extended back from the harnessed bottles to hook to a little cart. Sometimes we only had a block of wood or a short cross section of a stout stick to hook up to and drag. We attached a leash to the bottle and pulled it along with its trailing load. We hooked up a brace (team of two), and trailed the hooked-up combinations through the sand, dirt and grass, over hills and around bushes. In our fertile imaginations we were real-life wagoneers, pioneering through the challenges of rough country. We were team and wagon owners busy with the task, on foot, leading the horses or driving them from the cart with reins in hand. Jo says that she and her younger brother, Rodney, played with bottle-horses in their big sandbox behind their house. You can’t imagine how much a brown, beer bottle looks like a bay horse—if it’s harnessed up right.
We caught mice, taming them to the point we could handle them. The young ones were more tractable and tamed down quickly. I had never seen a white mouse or rat, much less a guinea pig, hamster or gerbil. Many years would pass before I saw my first albino rodents. We tried our hand at nurturing young jackrabbits and cottontail, but most soon died. I guess they couldn’t adjust to the food and quarters we provided, they were fragile little animals. Chipmunks and squirrels were different; they stayed in good shape with the food and quarters we gave them.
At about five years of age, with the help of my big brothers, I made my first flipper (sling shot). I cut a forked limb from a mesquite tree, and whittled it down to the correct size and shape. With scissors I cut two half-inch-wide bands of rubber from an old, red or black inner tube. (Several decades would pass before the advent of tubeless tires.) From the tongue of an old boot or shoe I cut the leather pad that held the rock. With string or thin strips of rubber cut from the inner tube, I attached the bands of rubber to the top of the forked ends; I attached the pad (or pouch), cut from foot ware, to the other ends of the bands. Cry Wolf! I had constructed a deadly weapon that should put fear of death into any and all the birds and rodents that dared get too close.
I had tagged along with brothers many times watching their success as they brought down quarry with flippers. I tried from time to time to use theirs, but couldn’t coordinate the instrument. I dreamed for years of being a successful hunter like them. I had been out with my dogs and helped them hunt and chase, but until I made my own first flipper, I didn’t really count myself a real hunter. I hunted and hunted and shot and shot a thousand times at birds and small animals without success. Nevertheless, early on, I took a fearsome toll on the likes of grasshoppers, stinkbugs and lizards. At that young age, doves were the real “big game.” In time, I killed a few sparrows, but it took a couple of years before I brought down my first dove. From that point on, my skill with the flipper increased rapidly.
The flipper actually became a long-lived hobby with me; I hunted steadily with it even through my first years of marriage. It occasionally provided us some fine dove dinners. Mac, my oldest boy, had the same inclinations, and I occasionally used his flipper amazing him with my prowess. In Westminster, California, we had an orchard of many fruit trees loaded with fruit, and we also kept a hundred chickens, which meant spilled grain and mash scattered about. The sparrows, finches and doves flocked to our property where Mac, Jon and their friends had plenty of opportunity with their flippers.
Years later, Mac made fine flippers of metal and surgical tubing for himself and his boys. I went on evening rides with them several times, hunting the rabbit infested orange groves of Corona. Mac had killed several cottontail and one jackrabbit with his flipper. During a visit to Mac’s place in Corona, Jon knocked a flying pigeon out of the air. We also had fun taking pot shots at coots and ducks on nearby ponds. Would you believe that hanging here on the wall by my desk is a memento of happy, by-gone years—a flipper I made about 20 years ago?
As a kid in Thatcher, I had a standing agreement with my Uncle Oscar and Aunt Roxy Sims who managed the little theater in town (before the day of the talkies). For every fourth dove plucked, cleaned and delivered, I’d get a free ticket to the movie. I guess that would qualify me as a professional hunter: one of my first, real profit taking jobs. I never let myself be in the situation of having to buy a ticket, because I made darned sure that I harvested enough doves to keep me at the movies.
The best flipper ammunition I found was the nub-ends of horseshoes. Whenever I passed the blacksmith shop, a couple of blocks west of our house, I stopped to search the ground around the front and even went inside the shop to pick them up. The blacksmith shoed a lot of horses, and in the process of fitting shoes to the hooves, he sheared off the overextending ends. Smaller hooves required removal of a long piece, too cumbersome to use. Many pieces were quite cubical, the perfect size to fit into the leather pad—deadly stuff for small game.
I enjoyed watching the blacksmith hard at work shoeing a horse. After checking for the correct width of shoe by superimposing it over the hoof, he marked the place to cut. Heated in the forge of glowing, red coals by puffing billows, with tongs he laid the shoe atop the anvil. The well-honed end of a stout cold-chisel placed on the marked spot, after a deft blow with the single-jack the super-heated, glowing cube tumbled to the ground. Highly prized because of the shape and lethal, sharp corners and edges, its weight gave it momentum unlike the best of rocks. I much preferred them for hunting.
There were three species of doves in the Gila Valley: the common mourning dove, the small Inca ground dove that we called turtle doves and the most sought-after trophy of the three, the white wing, which was more abundant during certain times of the year. This fine-feathered delicacy weighed in at one quarter to one third again heavier than the ever-present mourning dove.
Example of the effectiveness of a leftover horseshoe end: On one hunting expedition, I managed to sneak under one of the skittish white wings armed with that best of projectiles. I pulled back on the flipper’s bands, aimed, and let’er fly. The horseshoe nub connected dead center on the breast breaking bone and severing flesh. It passed through three inches of bird, exiting its back.
Boxing was another sport I enjoyed during my first year of Junior College. We didn’t compete with other schools, it was just a physical education class offered to the interested. Coach Romney, who coached all other sports in the small school, matched us up, and we took turns sparring with each other. Analyzing each bout of three or four rounds, individually, he took us aside afterwards to praise our strong points and help us improve the weak ones.
After watching me, aside, he told me my reach exceeded the rest of my classmates, and I should use it to better advantage. I should use the jab often to set up combinations, and to especially time my punches so that fist met flesh more at the end of extension to deliver staggering impact. I asked him, “Well, how do I do that”. His simple explanation was that the optimum point fell just short of full extension, and that I would have to “think it” into my routine until it settled in as natural habit.
At a whopping five-feet-ten-inches weighing 135 pounds, I took his coaching seriously, and using mind over matter improved right along. There were about 22 of us in the class, and because of slow but sure self-schooling, using superior reach along with quickness, I was soon a formidable opponent. In pairing us off, Lyman Foster was designated my opponent. Hearing his plight, he moaned, “Oh no! Not old Darvil!” After talking to the coach, he was let off the hook. However, there were two in the class who really worried me. One was four inches taller, quick and had equal reach. The other, though shorter, was stoutly built with heavily muscled arms and driving power that quaked my 135-pound frame inside and out, stem to stern and head to toe. Considering my limitations I faired well against them all—but I never looked forward to the dreadful battering dished out by those two.
I easily recall fearsome experiences, with mixed emotions that took place between the stove and the wood box. A number-3 washtub fit nicely into the 1 ½-foot space between mother’s cook stove and the old wood-box in the corner. That’s where it was found during the colder months, and that’s where, during many days of my childhood, I took my turn in that washtub. (The same galvanized necessity to which my mother clamped her hand-turned wringer and worked over the old scrub board leaning inside.) In an effort to keep us kids and a husband looking spiffy enough for Church, every Saturday it was brought into the house for its weekend double duty. It proved to be one of those happenings for which no kid ever clamored to be first.
At about four years old I remember the aged tub sprang another leak, and Dad decided it wouldn’t survive another solder job. The next day he came home with a brand new, shiny one with blue handles, hinged so they would hang down along the side, not sticking out always in the way as on the old one. Intrigued, I begged to be the first to use it. When told, “Since you are the first to ask, you can count on it,” the days crept along as slow as cold tar until Saturday.
Until seven years of age we weren’t trusted to bathe without some help. Our methods were too slipshod for the eagle eyes of our mother, even though warned that a poor job meant we would have to do it again, in the middle of the week. If we failed to pass inspection, zounds! That would be dreadful punishment. I preferred Dad to be the washer, not too particular about my neck and sensitive ears as Mom; he still did a good job.
Why a simple bath was always abhorrent to us kids, I don’t know. I remember bawling and resisting vigorously when called in from evening play on those distasteful days. Really the only chore for us kids was the water that had to be carried into the house, part of which went cold into the tub, and part into two huge pots on the stove. By the time the pots were hot, so also was the snug little space between the box and the stove: a warm and cozy corner.
Except in time of emergency, the water-hauling chore was repeated after each three had been aquatically chastened. I never did know for sure, but because there didn’t seem to be any routine as to who went first, I believe Mother and Dad purposely picked the cleanest ones, leaving the more soiled ones to further foul the precious warm water. Maybe that’s why I was always last.
I guess for the sake of olfactory comfort, it was a good thing we lived close to the Gila River and a large irrigation canal with their alluring, cool swimming holes. In them, we, in a sense, kept ourselves—well sorta—unsmelly during the hot, summer months—even though the water was not warm, and we didn’t know what a bar of soap looked like, and the same under wear went back on after each swim. And even for all this cleanliness, still the old number-3 tub, during summer out in the warm, screened porch, expected us when Saturday came ‘round.
The old number-3 tub is one of the more solid memories of my childhood. I even have the hint of memories of splashing in it in the back yard on hot summer days when not much bigger than a toddler. To this day, I can still see its interior decorated with all colors of splotches from fruit mother had been putting-up in jars for the winter. I even played at helping to wash the fruit in preparation for peeling before they plopped into the cookpot—big, red and yellow apples and peaches, plums and apricots.
The last time I remember seeing the familiar old vessel is where it hung in an outbuilding with other family heirlooms, long after we had left the farm. Edison’s electricity and modern inventions had usurped its utility. There it hung against the wall, old and dejected, mourning its lonely plight, the blue long gone from its handles, and though it exuded no more charm than a wet blanket hung on the line to dry, it tormented me with nostalgia.
Of electricity and appliances: I don’t remember the occasion of seeing my first light bulb or an electric light. We didn’t have electricity in our town until I was thirteen or fourteen. Just three or four miles away, in Safford, the County Seat, electric lights burned away, but I don’t know how long they had them there before the electricians strung lines three miles on down to Thatcher, finally delivering electricity to us.
Mother had been waiting anxiously for this to happen. She couldn’t think of anything nicer than to have a light in every room, flicked on with the pull of a string. Our rather large house had four bedrooms besides the parlor (a room always added in those days to larger homes) reserved as a room for conversation or reception of guests; kids were ordered to keep clear of it. Wiring a house of that size long after it had been built was quite a job. Fortunate for Mother, my older brother, Floyd, was employed at the time as an electrician with the Miami Copper Company in Miami. He took a week off work, came home and did the job. As much as a kid my size could, I helped him with the job. Since most of the work was in tight quarters in the attic, I came in real handy for him, being the skinny kid that I was. I could help him string wires to corners where no one else could crawl, and otherwise, I kept him supplied with requested materials and tools and skipped off on short errands. All-in-all it was a great experience, and I learn a few of the basics of wiring a house which came in handy later.
There were no wall switches or plug-in receptacles. Each socket and bulb hung on the end of a cord from the ceiling, just low enough so the average adult could reach it handily. Later on when electric appliances came into use I remember Orlando and I cut into the line on the ceiling in the living room and kitchen, ran lines over to the wall and down to where we fastened a receptacle.
Many of the houses: like those with flat roofs or very little working space in the attic had to be wired entirely on the inside. A pair of wires passed through white porcelain brackets that kept them apart and straight were tacked to the ceilings. Light cords were then attached and dropped from the ceiling wherever needed. We had plenty of attic space sparing us that mess.
I think the first appliance mother bought was a fan, a twelve-inch oscillating three-speed. Later on I installed a swamp cooler that proved to be great comfort for the living room and kitchen, but didn’t do much for the bedrooms. I don’t remember that an electric refrigerator or a telephone was ever installed in that grand, old house, and only a few years before we tore it down did mother have the comfort of a gas range. When the old wood burner finally came out I remember Orlando complaining about a warm snug place to sit, since the old wood-box went with the stove. And if we needed a telephone we ran down to the corner service station where we were welcome.
I harbor happy memories of trailing along with Grandpa Peter McBride. He kept many laying hens he’d raised from chicks. I remember him seeing me cower back as I tried gathering eggs from under an old, mean, pecking hen sitting on her clutch of eggs. Of course, she was a “setter” and had determined to hatch a brood. He told me to just grab her and throw her out of the nest and get the eggs, because he didn’t want any setters hatching chicks. (More to come of experiences with Grandpa McBride.)
At about seven years of age, I could set the smaller number-1 and number-2 sized steel-jaw, varmint traps. Yes, and I learned by trial and error to keep my fingers out of the way. I looked for the natural game trails left by the small animals passing from one dense bunch of cover to another. I set the traps with great care, just under the dirt and checked them daily—usually more often—ever hoping to find I’d been successful. I caught a few ground squirrels and cottontail rabbits, and I guess I was lucky not to catch a skunk. Of all the predators and varmints in the area, the skunks gave us the most problems. The poor dogs got the “worst end” of the deal too often, and because of it we suffered the pungent, lingering odor each time it happened. The worst depredation caused by skunks took place in the chicken coop. Any hen that chose to roost on the ground instead of up on the high roosting slats out of danger, we were apt to find dead the next morning. The tracks clearly disclosed the culprit. Curiously, I remember that each hen had its throat cut; no flesh had been eaten. This led us to believe that they killed them for the sole purpose of drinking the blood. Who knows?
As a little guy, I watched my big brother Floyd, six and a-half years my senior, put together a large, box-like, quail trap made entirely of slender, freshly-cut, trimmed, willow branches. He fashioned the trap by tying willow sticks together with twine and bailing wire. He designed it with funnels on all four sides that led into the box. Made of hundreds of green willow sticks, the trap weighed too much to carry. He had to attach a stout length of rope to its base so he could drag it out into the mesquites where he knew by numerous sightings and tracks, there were quail galore. I helped him drag it out and place it back in the shade under a big mesquite tree where he baited it with grain—not far from where I had been setting my steel traps. He caught a lot of quail in it, and I loved going with him to bring home the supper.
Let me tell you about the choo-choo, the young train, the honk-honk and the airship:
The Choo-choo: Though I was born near the tracks in Glenbar—north of them that is—strange as it may seem, as a lad, I had never had the experience of riding a train. The train was part of my early childhood, but don’t remember thinking that some day I might ride on one. The only persons I knew that had were my Uncle Perle McBride and his wife Aunt Lavona. A couple of times a year they would ride over from Globe to visit our family. I looked upon Uncle Perle as a great and important man, because he was Dad’s brother and because he was a train engineer, a highly romantic position in my child’s mind.
Later on in Thatcher, we lived only a few long blocks from the depot where trains stopped most of the time, and I often frequented the station in hoping for a chance to wave to uncle Perle. As I had before, two or three times, I got to ride with him in the engine cab while he switched freight cars to send them on their correct route. For a nine-year-old, being with him, seeing and watching all, became a bright star in a young life.
At about 14, Ivan Huntsinger and I, just for something to do, because it happened to be great fun and bold adventure, would ride the freight train the three miles from Thatcher to Safford. If we thought we had been spotted by a brakie (brakeman), we would slip off when the train slowed enough as it approached the Safford station to not get caught, then we’d hide in the bushes until we decided all looked clear. All clear, we’d walk down to the highway and hitch a ride back to Thatcher. Perhaps, the biggest kick we got out of these adventures was the opportunity provided us to wave at the farmers and the working hands in the fields who, much to our satisfaction would always stop to stare and wave back as we sailed by. A good number of them we knew and they knew us.
We chose to hitchhike home even though a freight train was on the siding headed back to Thatcher. Once, we had learned the folly of it, for freight trains didn’t always stop in our little town. One took us sailing nine miles farther before managing to abandon ship. The ride proved to be a little long and the hitchhike back a bit more difficult. Even during that ride we were in luck, because the freight trains often didn’t stop at Pima either, and we could have ended up in Globe—75 miles down the line.
Now to the purpose of the choo choo story: One Day I boarded by snagging an oil car just as the train started to roll, intending to belly-up onto the board walkway that sided along the car’s long black tank. The train’s sudden start had me clawing for a better handhold. The walkway I clung to consisted of two 2 x 12 planks paralleling each other. My fingers just fit into the crack between them, and I heaved myself up at the very moment the space closed on eight fingers.
The forward strain of the moving car skewed the car and planks enough to cause the crack to close a fraction and every finger was trapped. I could feel the pressure that held me prisoner increase as the train gained speed, and I realized it was now or never—if I was going to get free. I wriggled myself around to where my back was against the greasy tank. This maneuver naturally caused my arms to cross so that my left hand was by my right knee and the right by my left. Knowing I had no time to lose I took a big breath, braced myself and jerked with all my might. Relief swept over me for both hands came free. I slumped against the tank and said, “Thank you,” a dozen times. I knew exactly who I was saying it to, for I knew I had had some help. Though my fingers were not badly mashed, all eight left their share of skin and blood in that crack.
My mom didn’t know I was a freight train bum and that I had been risking life and limb in the dubious sport. You can imagine the kind of story I had to make up to explain eight scabby fingers. Whatever it was, it got me by, though I don’t remember the tail now. At that age I thought mothers better off not knowing everything. I’ve changed my mind about that a dozen times since. Anyway, knowing how to hop a freight came in handy during my college years, even assisting in my obtaining an education in more sophisticated subjects in a day when few students owned cars or could afford a train ticket.
A hectic and harrowing week was spent with my school buddy and long-time best friend, Gordon Stowell: During the summer after our graduation from the Jr. College in Thatcher, we were in Flagstaff, Arizona. We went there to apply for entrance and find part-time work for the fall semester at the Teacher’s College. Getting there had been no problem. Gordon’s sister and her husband had dropped us off on their way to visit Utah folks. So, purpose accomplished, there we were with no ready way home. It was in the middle of The Early Thirties during the Great Depression, and auto travel was sparse, yet the roadsides had a plethora of hitchhikers, but we decided to try the freight train. Hoboing would be a new experience and murderers and molesters were few and far between back then. Besides, we were agile, muscular, athletic boys.
What an experience to remember! (Really, one I’ve tried to forget.) We had the idea that if we could get on with no trouble in Flagstaff, we could secrete ourselves into a boxcar and stay put clear into Phoenix. What a rude awakening we had coming. We made the catch after the second try and entered a car with eight or ten others, most of whom we soon discovered were old-timers at the game and had ridden this route several times. I wouldn’t call them hobos, just victims of that terrible financial depression, who hoped the grass would be greener by way of a job on the other side of the hill. They coached us to just stay put at Williams, but when we pulled in at Ash Fork, it was a must to abandon the train before it stopped, and we should scramble into the brush and trees at the track’s edge. They warned us that Ash Fork had a “yard bull” that carried a club and a sidearm. (The word had spread, that a year ago he had shot a man who refused to stop when ordered.) Also, two deputies checked every car that didn’t have a locked door, while the bull strode atop the cars like the avenging angel, shouting epithets and brandishing his scepter as each train pulled away. If they catch you, we were cautioned, “you’ll spend the night in jail.” Our new-found friends’ assessment of jumping off in Ash Fork proved true to the smallest particular. Worse came to worse, we didn’t make it off at our first chance, and that old bull would have whacked me on the head if I hadn’t leaped off the ladder.
Since the scuttlebutt had it that another freight was not due until late the next morning. The elevation of 5200 feet made for more than just coolish nights. We scouted the little town for a place to lay our heads, and as luck would have it, while taking a shortcut across the high school yard, we noticed a school gymnasium’s back door stood ajar. The floor, as cold as it was hard, almost made me wish we had surrendered to the yard bull, which would have surely granted us a cot in a warmer room. But the gym did provide shelter from the cutting, brisk, icy breeze sweeping down from the nearby 8000-foot Picacho Buttes. With this scanty comfort we managed some sleep. Nevertheless, Gordon and I spent a miserable, cold and hungry night in Ash Fork.
Come morning I made a good catch. I stayed on the ladder out of sight until the train gained the speed that I thought the watchful bull would, of necessity, have dropped off by then. Still aboard though, when he saw my head pop up he immediately started my direction. I had a quick decision to make: I could still drop off with dubious safety, or I could play cat-n-mouse with him. I knew he couldn’t remain aboard much longer as the train gained speed quickly. He tried to home in on me from six cars behind, and I had about twenty ahead of me. I didn’t dare attempt to move too fast on those swaying cars, I figured he would have to get himself off before I ran out of cars and he could corner me. My calculations proved correct. He quit the game with some ten cars still ahead of me. I couldn’t tell if he carried a gun that morning, but he did nothing foolish.
While still on the ladder, I had seen Gordon jump off. A feeling of loneliness swept over me; I realized the remainder of my journey would be without a good and trusted friend.
The next stop: Kingman. There I saw that none of my nameless friends jumped from cars to run and hide, I surmised that another over-zealous yard cop would not harass us. Here I had time to find an open boxcar and joined my traveling friends again. Now, we sweltered in dismal, desert heat in the old, smelly car, so at Prescott, with a couple of others, I climbed to the top of the car for the night ride into Phoenix. The cheap cotton trousers I wore were not designed the rough travel required to endure rough freight train hospitality. Everywhere I sat, especially on the rough walking-planks atop the cars, took their toll on the seat of those poor pants. By the time I reached Phoenix, the seat was gone out of those blues, and white was showing through. It dawned on me that a college acquaintance I’d known in Thatcher, a couple of years older than I, worked at the J.C. Penny Store on Jefferson Street. At 7 a.m, with a new pair of dungarees in mind, I made my way to the place without being observed by too many gawkers. I still had a dollar and a half in my pocket, and, if such was needed, I suspected I could talk my friend into trusting me for the rest. Arriving at the store early, I waited with my back against the wall until opening time. Would you believe it? Old Lyle Hilton, my friend from Gila College days came around the corner jingling a noisy ring of keys. Friday was his day to open up.
I had Lyle’s sympathy right off, and before the doors were opened for business, or another clerk came in, he had me decked out in a new pair of denim jeans. I had enough money left for breakfast, for the jeans cost me only 89 cents—no sales tax either.
My thumb got me home that same day via U.S. 70. I learned Gordon had used the same method of travel all the way from Ash Fork and had arrived the day before. My! What guys had to do in the Olden Days for an education.
Seeing the first “travel buses”: In Thatcher, our home was located on the main Highway (I-60). Unpaved, it passed through the centers of all the little Mormon towns in the Gila Valley. As boys are want to do, we kept close tabs on the makes and models of automobiles passing through. Around 13, 1921 or 22, I began to pay extra attention to the passing traffic. We soon caught our first glimpse of a travel bus, and we marveled at its extreme length and many windows.
One day, a close friend, Winston Larson and I were visiting as we stood on the corner when one of these monsters snaked along the highway—his first sight of such an extended coach. Open-mouthed, he stared at it awhile, then said, “Well, for my gosh, look at that! A young train!
Of course, I told the story to our friends, and Winston’s description of the curiosity was bantered about by hundreds who mentioned the analogy thousands of times for the next few years.
Within our one-horse town, Winston’s words soon proved prophetic, for the passenger service of the railroad reluctantly shared passengers with the travel bus—“Greyhound” being the most common usurper.
Having wandered into the realm of transportation, temptation overcomes me, so I’ll delve into the antiquity of the automobile, which will expose a certain human antique having the nerve to talk about it. Yep, I was born before most auto wonders were even thought of. I had reached the age of five or six and still lived in Glenbar before I saw my first automobile. Though living on the farm, our house was only fifty yards from the highway—we called it “the road”—which continued on west through Globe and on to Phoenix. We were able to clearly see any vehicle that passed, and, I’m telling you, that small road was not built for automobiles. Unimproved and never graded, it had been brushed and scraped as smooth as a team and log-leveler could get it—I mean it was primitive.
Loose soil was left just plain loose until the next rain came along to do the job. Until then, and during long spells between rains, it became a dust-bowl-of-a-trail. Maintenance was mostly unheard of. It took an act of congress to get a chuckhole filled up with anything that would stay longer than overnight.
I remember when I first began hearing the word, automobile, car, and now and then, horseless-carriage: some kind of outfit that would go without anything pulling it. Of course, at five years of age I had no concept of gasoline, an engine driven by it, or the development of power—let alone, a steering wheel, a windshield or pneumatic tires. But such had been the topic of conversation around our house for some time, and like the rest of the family, I ached to see one of “them thar contraptions.”
The word came that the owner of an automobile in Globe was driving it to Safford, the town several miles east along the road from Glenbar. Excitement ran high in our country town, and in our home, and when dad confirmed questioning by older sons that, “Yes, he’ll have to pass through here to get to Safford.” Knowing the day, the calculating began as to just when that would be. Dad put an end to the wild guesses by reminding them that since Safford was one and a half hours from our place by team and buggy, it would pass through Glenbar the same day it would arrived in Safford, but maybe 45 minutes earlier than by buggy. Well, that didn’t help much because who knew what time it was expected to arrive in Safford. So Dad told us, “All we can do is watch for it next Saturday.”
That’s exactly what we did, but it turned out to be a more difficult job than anyone had imagined. We kids traipsed the fifty yards back and forth between the house and the road so many times, determined not to miss the sight of a speeding car, that our legs ached and our tongues hung out. About four o’clock, Dad joined us again at the roadside. He could see I was suffering from the heat and of a lowering sun shining smack-dab in my face and miserable thirst from dehydration. He insisted I go to the pump next to the house and get me a good drink of water, and splash some on my flushed face, then I could come right back.
He promised me I would be back in plenty of time to not miss the excitement-on-its-way. Protesting tearfully I did as told. While splashing on the water, I heard yells and screams coming from the road. The vehicle had been spotted—I was going to miss it! With face and shirt front dripping, I dashed around the house and down the lane, chased by old Tiny barking at my heels, he was excited by the yelling from the road and my lightning departure from the pump. When halfway there the speeding vehicle passed. I kid you not—it must have been doing a good 25 to 30 miles an hour. I burst into tears, wails and sobbing as I reached the comfort of Dad’s trouser leg, joining in as well as able with my brothers in their moment of excitement.
Although I nursed a child’s disappointment for a while, I did get a good look at the car and driver and was highly impressed. The thing looked like what we high school kids later called a “stripped down jalopy” for what I saw in that one glance was a radiator, running boards, a couple of seats, and a big bedroll-like bundle tied on a narrow platform behind the seats. The driver impressed me most, for he wore some kind of a hood on his head and a huge pair of tight-fitting goggles over his eyes and half his face: whatever else it had, I failed to notice. The driver’s getup must have frightened me; it haunted me for several days. I clearly saw its owlish, monkey-like appearance when I’d close my eyes falling asleep.
From then on we’d see an auto pass every now and then, but nearly two years went by before I had the coveted dream of riding in one. That happened because my Uncle George Sims, mother’s brother, who lived in Globe at the time, bought a car that he referred to as a “Brush.” I think that was a suitable nickname because the thing was pretty handy at dodging the brush in the open desert. When Uncle George visited us that day, he gave each of us a ride with him to the store and back. About two years later, Dad bought a 1916 Model T Ford, and we joined the privileged few.
The first car I ever owned I bought in 1934 the year I started teaching in Solomonville. The Nash 400, as commonly called, a four cylinder four door sedan of approximately 1929 vintage and a pretty good old car, getting good gas mileage, even though it sipped too much oil. After several years we traded it for a new 1940, four door Plymouth sedan from the Robinson Curtis dealership. I paid $1,005 minus the $150 Nash trade value. In 1947, I traded that one for another new Plymouth, light blue four-door. In 1949, I bought a new, black, four-door Studebaker Land Cruiser sedan with the first overdrive I’d experienced. Just letting up on the accelerator for a moment would let it shift into overdrive in any gear. We bought the car after selling the laundry business in Wilmington, California, before we drove to Grand Junction, Colorado where my family and I spent the summer while I recruited students for Woodbury College of Los Angeles. Summer over, I didn’t continue with the College, and we returned to Arizona to again make our home in Thatcher.
In 1951, we sold the Studebaker to Glen West, the art instructor at the Jr. College, and purchased a more economical dark blue, 1946 Chevrolet from Red Malloy. That model sported the outside, adjustable visor. It provided us with faithful service until we bought a new, 1953 Ford, four-door sedan from the agency in Safford. It had great pep. Mac claims that few there were that could out drag him the length of the Safford, Gila River Bridge. Sporty red below, with a white top from the bottom of the windows on up, it was a fine car. In about 1950, I had already bought a short-bed step-side, 1947 Ford pickup for utility use. We used only it for the last nine months of Mac’s mission, (which ended May of 57) for we had let the 53 Ford go to him to use in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where he was called as district leader. We sold it in 1964 when we sold the grocery store. We kept the 53 Ford until mid 1959 and traded it in on a used 1957 or 58 Plymouth coup, the long, heavy, wide model with the finned rear fenders. Tan in color, it was the first air-conditioned car we’d owned. We kept it until sometime during the first year of my Senate tenure. That year, (1961) taking advantage of a legitimate favor curried me because of my position in State government, I was able to buy a new, loaded, American Motors Ambassador at a great price. We loved that luxurious sedan.
Looking back for a moment: in 1952, I helped Mac and Jon fix up Nettie’s (Jo’s mother), 1937 Chevrolet Coup. Earlier, she backed out of her driveway onto the highway, and a speeding car collided with her, damaging a fender and the front axle. After that frightening experience, she never drove again. The car sat unrepaired in the lot at the side of the garage for six years. The classic model had the rumble seat for two that folded out from the back. Mac and Jon became popular with the girls for a second reason. The girls loved going on dates with them when they drove it. We still had it in excellent running condition in late 57 when Mac returned from his mission and took up the rumble seat habit where he left off two and a-half years before. The girls still loved it—I think it, more than him.
Since the above, we have purchased a new 1968 Plymouth sedan, a green 1977 Pontiac Bonneville, a 1983 white Ford Thunderbird coup and a 1988 white Chrysler New Yorker sedan which we have today (2000).
My first experience with a telephone came when I was about seven years old. Still living in Glenbar where I was born. Under Sheriff Tom Alger, Dad had just become the deputy sheriff for our area—the western end of the county. To keep in touch with the office and a few others of our neighbors who were able to afford the luxury of a telephone, he had one installed. The old, hardwood box-type hung there on the wall with its two bells mounted at the top, a crank on the right side and a little sloping shelf near the front bottom that provided a place to lean ones elbows while using it. Whenever Mother or Dad would allow me, I never missed the chance to turn the crank. I became an expert in sounding the long and short rings with it, nearly as true and plain as my parents and the two or three bigger kids who were allowed to use it now and then. If close neighbors were being called we could get them by cranking their numbers direct: using the number of long and short rings that had been assigned them. Otherwise one turn of the crank would connect to “Central” where a pleasant voice would say, “Number please.”
Everybody loved to use the telephone except Dad. It seemed that every time he got on the line with an important call a big red headed woodpecker would light on the pole a few yards out front and start his pecking routine. For some reason the noise or vibrations of the hammering beak entered the line delivering the rat-a-tat-tat into Dad’s ear. The pesky pecker would have to be frightened away before he could finish his conversation. One of the bigger boys would be called to throw rocks at the plucky critter. Jo and I got our first telephone in 1934, the first year I taught school in Solomonville.
It wasn’t until 1937, when we built the new house in Solomonville that Jo had anything to cook on but a wood-burning stove. There we installed a built-in electric range. A couple of years before that, when we were living in the old commercial building above the drugstore, we afford an electric refrigerator.
Only six years after seeing my first automobile, an airplane came to the Gila Valley. Dad had been murdered two years earlier, and we lived in Thatcher then, on Main Street, in the old Christopher Layton home mother had purchased in 1918. The valley had been alerted that the plane was coming from Phoenix to Safford that morning, so I was camped on the front lawn shortly after sunup that historic day, determined that nothing would drag me away until the plane flew over, not even a raging thirst or the need to wash my face. Only one thing worried me at the time—would the pilot fly it directly over our town? Maybe he’d follow the river a mile or so to the north or perhaps the railroad tracks south of us where my chances to spot him were nil. I had heard that pilots often used familiar landmarks instead of a compass—I almost panicked at the thought.
Right on the money, he flew in low, straight over Main Street; I jumped on the 2 x 4 railing of the fence, waving frantically, hoping to be seen. I was sure my tactics had worked. The pilot leaned out the open cockpit and waved back. Whether it was to me or to just anybody, I never knew, but I took satisfaction in the fact that I could see no one else out waving, up or down the street. Old Cub, sensing my excitement and seeing and hearing the new oddity passing through the sky, began to bark frantically. I said, “Go get’im Cub.” He jumped the fence and chased his huge bird until it disappeared.
With just a fleeting glance I hardly recall what the plane looked like. I do remember it as mostly red and I thought beautiful. It had two spans of wings like the flying Jenny of World War I. I remember noticing the plainly visible landing gear, and I could see the blur of the propeller.
A year passed by before I approached near enough to an airplane to examine it closely. Except for color, the second one looked pretty much the same size and construction as the one a year ago. If I had ever heard what kind it was, it didn’t register. A “Barnstormer” had come to Thatcher where he had dickered with some of the farmers there who grew fields of alfalfa. Some of these fields, after a cutting, left short stubble: ideal landing spots for a small plane, and the field would not be injured if left to itself to revive and sprout again. Willis Daley had two or three fields that the pilot used most of the time. Whenever that plane circled the town a couple of times, people soon learned where to go if they wanted a ride. If free and close enough to walk, I would be there watching, envious of every well-off person that climbed into the plane, especially of any kids around my age. The fee was a whole silver dollar; I had never owned one in my entire life. I swore to myself that if this guy kept coming back, I’d have that dollar, and though it would be pennies and nickels hard come by, and a small fortune to me, I’d gladly spend it without compunction.
In three or four weeks with the help of my mother, a penny begged here and there and a few woefully solicited odd jobs, I had my money. Now I had only one worry, will the guy be back? Two weeks had passed since his last appearance, and I was beginning to chomp at the bit, and my pocket burned. One day I saw farmer Willis Daley in the post office and approached him on the subject. He didn’t know when, but was sure the plane would be back again. Then, sure enough, in a few days the plane made its telltale circles overhead.
I jogged at half-trot down Reay Lane. I felt a wave of embarrassment about handing the pilot my pocket full of nickels, as he always seemed in such a hurry to get passengers aboard. He’d probably resent having to take time to count the farthing hoard. But much to my relief he took the pile, hardly glanced at it, and shoved it into his pocket. As he strapped me in, he said, “You’ll have to sit on your hat,” he saw my puzzled look and grinned and added, “unless you want to chase it.”
Well, that was my first ride in an airplane, without a doubt the greatest thrill of my short, young life, and one of the greatest of my long, old life. Although I enjoy air travel and have used it to reach many exotic places across oceans and continents in this old world, a jumbo jet has yet to be built that imparted the thrill that that grasshopper-of-an-airplane gave me in ten minutes that summer day over the open fields of the Gila Valley in southeastern Arizona—a trip that really took me nowhere.
Shortly after Dad had been elected sheriff and we moved to Safford, two of my big brothers bought a beebee-gun. Eight years old now and with permission from brothers and Mother and Dad, I could use it if I bought my own beebees. The big, old, red rooster that strutted around guarding his plumed harem of free-running hens tempted me beyond the endurance of a kid. When I popped him in the tail, he would leap with a squawk five feet into the air. I became an addict; I couldn’t resist it from then on when he came strutting into range. But Dad caught me at it and left me hang-headed after a good scolding and thorough explanation of the why-nots of such plinking. Also, he warned me that I would lose the privilege of the gun next time.
For a while I just watched and pondered the old, cocky crower, but alas, I couldn’t help it: I succumbed again to temptation. On one occasion, unknown to me, Dad had just stepped out onto the back step at the very moment that the bird was in mid-air-squawk. “Darvil, what did I tell you I’d do the next time you shot that rooster?” he said. I knew the beebee-gun was a goner for sure, and I stood there petrified as he walked toward me with purpose in his stride. He walked right by me and stopped at a small tree; he took out his pocket knife and opened a blade; he cut off a slender, limber branch; then with measured leisure, he trimmed off the twigs and leaves; he swished it, testing it through the air four times; the sound of the course whistle stung me to the bone; terrified, I froze and contemplated the impending consequence. He looked my direction and walked straight toward me.
About to burst, I began to cry, and bless her heart, Mother, watching from the window, stepped out of the door and called, “Frank! I think he’s learned his lesson well enough by now.” Wordlessly, Dad walked on toward me but stretched out a hand and said, “Give me the gun,” and growled, “you’ve lost it for now, and the next time you shoot that rooster, you’ll get a good whipping for sure.” Two weeks or more passed before I regained use of the coveted gun, and I made darn sure Dad wasn’t home and no one, and I mean no one, was watching the next times. Though I suffered some qualms of guilt, I did get even with that darned old chicken.
Sunday, June 23, 1996, in the Corona Del Mar Ward in Newport Beach, California, the teacher of our high priest group asked the class if anyone present was old enough to remember anything about World War I, the terrible four years that finally ended in 1918. The war when Kaiser Bill, predecessor of Adolph Hitler, thought his war machine so infallible that he could whip the world. Along with Brother Daken Broadhead, I raised my hand. Naturally, my elderly friend, then pushing ninety two, had many more memories of those awful four years that cost so many lives, including, though he never enlisted, the life of my father. Shot down by two of the war’s draft evaders: he had served less than one term as sheriff of Graham County in Arizona.
Only six years old when the war started, I do not remember much of its early years. I do have memories of the much talk of it, little of which I understood, and of the starving people in Europe where the war had devastated countries. I remember food drives and the women sewing clothes for the needy of those countries, especially for the little Country of Belgium. Dad, being sheriff knew when the troops would be coming through the county. He would take us to the Safford Depot to see them arrive in the freight trains, which often made a short stop or slowly crept through the town on their way for departure to war. I still see their young—and it seemed to Mother—hungry faces, as they crowded near and peered from the open doors of boxcars. Others, in good weather, would ride on open flatcars, as many as could, sitting along the edge with legs draped over the side. The rest sat and lounged among the stacks of equipment and gear scattered helter-skelter over the cars’ rough beds.
Mother didn’t like to go to the depot; she said it made her sad. In those days these newly conscripted soldiers were referred to as Doughboys, instead of GIs. (A doughboy is a boiled dumpling, perhaps a common part of their diet.) By the time the war ended, I was ten years old. It had been nine months since my father had been taken from us, and we were then living in Thatcher. How vividly I remember that momentous day of November 11, 1918. School had let out for lunch hour. Eight or ten of us kids were walking west from the school, which would put me at my house in another three minutes. We had just overtaken one of the lady schoolteachers, Daisy Curtis, my fourth grade teacher. At that moment, I spied W. W. Pace, a stalwart of the town, and at that time possibly the chairman of the school board. As we approached him he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, held up both arms for us to stop and excitedly said something to the effect: “I have an important message for you. I was in hopes I could get to the school before you were let out for lunch. School is canceled for the rest of the day—the war has ended! We received the news just a few minutes ago. Germany has surrendered” The town went crazy.
A shout went up from our little group. I saw Miss Curtis dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes and bowed her head in silence. Since we were on Main Street, the town center, less than a couple of blocks away, I became conscious of noise and a babble of voices as others received the news. They came out of their houses and hugged neighbors. Grabbing hold of the excitement, I forgot my friends and raced for home where I blurted out the news to my mother who held little Frankie in her arms. Wondering about the racket outside, she’d just stepped out onto the porch. In another ten minutes the street had filled with shouting, dancing, laughing and crying people. Vehicles of all description appeared: Cars, Buggies, bicycles, tricycles, men on horseback: the din unbelievable. Anything men and women could find with which to make noise came out of storage that day. Dishpans and washtubs all took a beating, and in the middle of the banging, tooting and hollering, the school and church bells began to ring, and like a famous American poet has said: “While high overhead with wild increase, the great bell swung as never before, seemed as if ‘twould never cease. And every word its ardor flung, from off its jubilant iron tongue, was War! War! War!” But our bells were saying, “It’s over! Peace! Peace! Peace!”
I ran down to the corner where the largest crowd had gathered. There, Don Pace had just arrived with two large cowbells, and with one in each hand he succeeded in doubling the bedlam. For the rest of the day, and for many, far into the night—happy, exuberant, unrestrained people went crazy.
The Armistice had been signed that day during the 11th minute past 11 o’clock, the 11th day the 11th month of the year.
(A huge stone, faced with a bronze plaque rests in front of the County Courthouse in Safford. It displays a great number of names of young men who sacrificed their lives in battle preserving our freedom. Few were the families of the Gila Valley that were not affected by the loss of a family member or a loved one.)
Up the desert hills from the Pima cemetery, at the foot of the mesa, a fellow by the name of Miller lived with two sons, and I believe a daughter was there part of the time. Because of the nearby spring, the area became known as Miller Springs. Miller had built a cabin there. I don’t remember of any crops or of a Mrs. Miller, so he may have been a prospector. The family had lived there for several years, and by the time the nation was well into World War I, the boys had matured and had gone to the east for a time. While there, they gained experience in aeronautics and construction of planes to the extent that when they returned to their spring, they took it upon themselves to build a plane.
They had in mind a craft that could make vertical takeoffs and landings, yet have power to propel itself forward. Any airplane in that era of time, even the simplest kind, was a curiosity, few people had seen one, and one had never yet flown to, or over the Valley. So you can imagine the excitement that grew as the news of such a project was rumored about the valley.
When word came out what the boys were up to, the Millers were bothered by a steady stream of curiosity seekers. Dad, either the sheriff of the county or a deputy at the time, reasoned that the rumors should be investigated. One day he put a couple of his boys in his Model T and drove out there to examine the contraption or put an end to the rumors. The curious thing was there all right. I remember that in addition to using industrial parts, they had scavenged common things, whatever they could find that would meet a particular need. For instance, they used buggy shaaves as the leading and trailing edges of the wings. (Shaaves attached directly to the front axle of a buggy. They curved up and extended along the side of a horse, and there, attach to its harness.) We saw the plane before the fuselage had been enclosed, so I could see a Ford Model T engine mounted forward of the cockpit area and two, additional, identical engines mounted under each wing with a vertical drive shaft that ran up through a hole in the wing to operate wooden, horizontal, vertical-lift propellers which would turn just above the wing.
As I recall, it took three to four years to complete. Dad had been killed in 1918 and the curious thing made its test flight sometime after. It did fly, but came to ground about 200 yards away from takeoff. Abandoned, it remained for people to pick apart for parts or souvenirs. One day, Floyd, Leonard and I walked up to the plane with tools that Floyd used removed a propeller because he wanted the nice ball bearings he was sure he would find inside. He was well rewarded and we remounted the propeller before we left. Several years later, I visited Uncle Clyde, Dad’s youngest brother. Attached to the wall of a storage shed he had mounted a propeller. I recognized it by its construction as being from the Miller plane, because, the outward feathered end of the prop had been split, and tin had been riveted in, to give it a leading edge of metal.
A point of interest: Marie Adams had been employed by Jo’s parents to help in the Phillips family home. Beloved of the family, after she was along in years, she married elderly Mr. Miller, a marriage that failed, and Miller moved away. Marie later married a man by the name of Bailey, moved to Idaho and there raised a fine family.
I love sugarcane. I don’t remember knowing a kid who didn’t. Sugarcane, that’s really a misnomer for the kind of cane grown around Thatcher. In my day they grew sorghum cane. Flavorful and almost as sweet as sugar cane, it wasn’t as hard as a broomstick like the sugar cane they grow in Hawaii, which took great dental prowess to masticate. Sorghum cane grew tall and slender with long sections between joints that were easy to peel with the teeth, requiring only a little extra pressure to chew. The tassel, when wide and full signaled that the juices were at their peak with sugar, and we kids knew the sign. Most farmers didn’t seem to mind kids helping themselves to a few stalks as long as they respected the field and didn’t tramp down plants. I don’t remember of ever being chased from a field. However, a spot a few yards inside it was the best place to hide.
Sorghum cane had two purposes on the farm (well, maybe three if you counted us kids). Some of it they ran through a set of steel rollers that squeezed out the juice. Cooked slightly, this juice thickened and became sorghum. Especially in the Southern States it became the staple syrup for such foods as cornpones and hot cakes, and I’m sure for many others. Sorghum is used by few households these days. I don’t think you would find it in many stores: too many fine syrups, jams and jellies have replaced it.
Cooked longer until it thickened to heavy brown syrup almost too thick to pour, it was then called molasses. It was used mostly for cooking. Mother used to make a molasses cake that we all thought super. I remember being sent with a glazed jug up the lane to Mortensens for a gallon of molasses. Brother Mort kept it stored in a small, cold cellar. The syrup was so thick and cold that it took nearly a half-hour to fill my jug from a spigot on a 20-gallon drum. One cold evening he struck several matches and held the flame near where the spigot screwed into the drum. The heat increased the flow slightly.
In our valley most of the cane ended up as silage. With a kind of combination chopper-blower machine, the farmer chopped it into small pieces and stored it in a silo, where it ferment for use as a rich, moist, cattle feed. When fall came and grasses went into hibernation, it served the purpose of getting the beafers and dairy stock through a hard winter. Cattle relished it, and its ready vitamin content helped increase milk production. Any other grass-like plant handy at the time, such as corn and maize, would be mixed with it. In those days, any good-sized farm was not considered complete without a silo in the barnyard. Those huge, round, concrete, monolithic structures rising to a height of forty feet or more, once dotted the landscape. Very few of them remain. I know of two. Those are twin towers on the old Hunt Banana Farm; they can be seen from the highway about where Church Street joins the highway as you leave Thatcher headed for Safford. Silage is still stored and used as a staple feed by the farmers and ranchers, so there must be a good reason why the concrete silo has disappeared. In recent years, with the availability of the right machinery, storage has gone below ground instead of high above. Diggers and bulldozers scrape out long, shallow pits wide enough for a wagon or truck to back into. Such pits are so much less expensive to build that the concrete silo became obsolete—they’re so much handier and easier for the farmer to use.
Kids were welcome at silo-filling time. The silage needed packed tightly in the space afforded it, so three or four kids having great fun with the cascading silage being spewed from the blower served good purpose. A few barefoot 60-ponders saved the farmer from having to hire another hand. I considered it great sport; I think kids had more fun in those days. Now back to the sport of chewing cane. I use the word “sport” because often we would have contests to determine who could chew the most cane while we sat for two or three hours on the ground in the cane patch. You don’t eat cane; you chew it until the juice is gone, then spit out the dry wad. Contests were judged, not by the number of joints one consumed, but by the size of the pile of chewings we could build. Not wanting to take time to deposit the leftovers in a neat pile we’d just let it drop onto our legs and feet where we sat cross-legged. In three hours, with a trained jaw, one could cover himself to the waist: that was part of the fun—to see who could make that final protruding knee disappear first.
Competing one day with my cousin, Raymond McBride, down at Glenbar in the Will Carter cane fields, and near the end of our agreed time, things came to a sudden and startling halt. No, Carter didn’t find us there. That wasn’t it at all. We had shooed away or killed a few big red ants that had come nosing around, but I guess one managed to get by us. Suddenly Raymond let out a whoop that waggled the tassels of the stalks. Chewings flew in every direction—increasing the size of my pile—as the punctured boy leaped skyward. Frantically, he clawed at the under-muscle of his upper leg, then quickly thrust his pants groundward exposing the big, red welt left by the savage ant. The game was over; I won that one fair and square by default. Raymond shelled out the three big pecans he had wagered and went home to nurse the injection—and his pride.
Cane served another very good purpose. In the spring when the first ripened and school hadn’t yet let out for the summer, we would load our pockets with juicy sections to give to the girls at school—the ones we liked the best. (Jo says the only way she got cane to chew, was making eyes at the boys.) Don’t remember that it ever got me anything but smiles and blushes, but it was fun and caused me to live with the hope that maybe one would tell another girl, who would then tell my favored one who might tell me that I was her bow.
The day the steam shovel came to Thatcher was exciting news, especially to the kids who had long heard about it but had never seen the prodigious work one of these monsters could do. A steam shovel coming to little old Thatcher? What fun it would be to watch such a famed, stupendous contraption work.
To the farmers of our little valley it forecast much more than that. Fortunes hung in the balance until it was proved whether the project these intrepid landowners had in mind would work. The powerful digging machine they had contracted for, at great expense, would scoop out a ditch some six-feet deep and four-feet wide down through the center of the town’s farming acreage, coming to an end at the river. Several smaller trenches would web the land, each draining into the larger, center trench. All trenches would then be laid with long sections of perforated, terra-cotta pipe, the whole becoming a huge drainage system for a tortured land.
I say tortured because a great deal of the level land in the Thatcher, Central and Pima, potential farming acreage, were white with alkali, a mixture of salts in the upper soil. Alkali-fouled ground is found in vast dry regions of the west where rainfall is insufficient to properly leach the land of growth-stunting salts that contaminate the soil to the point that it failed to support sufficient plant life including all crops.
At last the big day arrived. Most of the town gathered at the depot to see the mammoth machine unloaded from the flat car. What excitement! We kids, and a few men followed the lumbering monster as it made its way through town and down Reay Lane where about a mile north of town it would begin its monumental task. That afternoon it took its first bite of Thatcher soil; I didn’t intend to miss a thing. It had taken most of the day to get its engine started and ready to go to work. And there is when my first disappointment came. To my disgust I watched them fill that “steam engine”—with gasoline—and reluctantly it dawned on me that it wasn’t the famous steam shovel that we had so excitedly anticipated, but powered with an ordinary gasoline engine and not steam. After the trauma of that first disappointment, our spirit of adventure returned, and we kids spent many hours watching with fascination, the prowess of our steam shovel.
We followed it through its triumphs and its failures: Welders and mechanics with torches and huge wrenches were forced to spend hours at repairs. We also shared in the rejoicing of farmers when all ran smoothly with fast progress. I don’t recall how long it took to complete the project, but I think more than a year. Neither am I able to name many of the farmers who frequented the work area, but I recall that W. W. Pace was there the first day and seemed to have some authority. Uncle Rud Phillips and Jo’s dad, David Phillips, were there, and I believe Roy Layton and James Porter.
Thatcher land no longer had a tortured look. The project proved a complete success. After a couple of good rains and a flooding irrigation, the white surface disappeared, leached, as it were, into the terra-cotta pipes that shunted it to the river. Gasoline shovel, vaseline shovel, call it what you may, it’ll always be a “steam shovel” to me.
As teenagers, my friends and I spent substantial time exploring the great outdoors. The river bottom country, the surrounding foothills and mesas, and the comely Graham Mountains beckoned us. On one occasion, Gordon Stowell, Brose Hanchett and I planned a week-long outing in the mountains. We packed a burro, and what it couldn’t carry we shouldered ourselves. From our homes in Thatcher we made our way through the next-door desert, up into the farther foothills, then on across the high mesas. Reaching the steeper trail, we followed it up to the site of the old, long-abandoned Jacobson Sawmill. Knowing that Clarson’s Sawmill was in operation another two miles up the trail, and cabins there would be occupied, we set up primitive housekeeping in an old cabin at the Jacobson place, known at the time as the Assy house. From there, we made forays out on trails to explore the ridges and canyons of the forest. We enjoyed a great outing together, and in addition to hiking the trails, we visited the Clarson Mill operation. We also found time to drop down into Frye Creek, a half-mile away, where we caught a few trout with our hands. They enhanced our otherwise austere meals.
Now is as good a time as any to tell about my first date: When still a kid I loved my first cousin, Pricilla Cluff. Her mother, Aunt Susie, a full sister to my mother, also lived in Thatcher. I had just turned twelve and had been ordained a Deacon, I think on my birthday. Soon after that, the new deacon’s advisor proposed a party to help get things organized and consolidated. Concerned about two boys whose parents had only recently discovered that they had not been attending Sunday morning priesthood meetings, he thought the party would help. Although, for another reason we boys agreed the party was a great idea.
In the planning session that Sunday, most deacons voted for having girls along. Each of us was to bring a girl partner, whether or not we called it a date didn’t matter. Well, I’d made eyes at several of the girls whose looks, in some special way or another had caught my attention, but of none could I really say, “She’s my girl.” I agonized about my situation until almost too late. My friends by this time were all boasting about whom they were going to bring. One even bragged that when Sabina heard about the coming event, she got bold and asked him to take her. Upon hearing this news I thought, “How lucky can you get.”
When I mentioned my cousin Pricilla to Mother, she sparkled up and said, “That’s just what I was thinking. I think that would be nice.”
Priscilla, very cooperative, understood my dilemma and didn’t seem to feel that she was the life-saving choice. She proved to be the ideal partner for a shy kid. We knew each other well enough, and each understood the temporary situation, that this couldn’t possibly be the beginning of a romance—yes, kids at twelve do think about those things. No shyness existed between us, and as a result we turned out to be the life of the party. In the kissing game I didn’t even turn red in the face as did most of my friends. After that we were really special friends. It has been many years since I last saw Pricilla. If she happens to read this little blurb, let me say, “Hello sweet Cousin.”
Passing into my teenage years, I began to use a .22 rifle and a .410-guage shotgun. The expense of the cartridges, especially during the Great Depression years, prohibited most of us from plinking or target practicing much; for we had to make every shot count and bring home meat for the table to justify the cost. We hunted quail and cottontail for the dinner table and jackrabbits for a bounty of five cents paid by the county for each pair of ears we turned in at the courthouse
When about sixteen, Joe McClellan (Tillie Mortenson’s husband) gave me a World War I Springfield 30-40 Craig: a five-shot, bolt action Long Tom rifle. Two of them had been issued him on muster. Someone cut off eight to ten inches off the barrel and reset the front sight. Mac killed three deer with it during his late teenage years, and Jon has it now. It was my first big game rifle, I began using it soon after Joe’s generosity to a young and eager boy that couldn’t afford anything that expensive. I guess I still wouldn’t have done much deer and pig hunting if he hadn’t also given me a couple of hundred cartridges to go with the rifle.
The javelena (wild pig of the Southwest) is fun to hunt, a thrill to take one, but I have hunted much bigger game. One day I was hunting deer with Grant Hastings, the agriculture teacher who worked under me at the school. While hunting the Stocton Pass hills and ridges we separated, Grant working the side of the hill and up a sandy wash. I paralleled him on a somewhat brushless ridge directly across from him. About a hundred yards ahead of me, I spotted what I thought was a calf walking slowly down the ridge toward me. Then reality hit, “That can’t be a calf! It’s too small to be away from its mother.” I took a better look and it dawned on me that I was looking at a yearling black bear of brown color. At that moment, Grant, having just spotted the interloper, feared for my safety and yelled across to me, “Bear! Bear! Bear! Watch it Darvil, there’s a bear!”
I dared not answer him, for the bear, as yet, failed to detect me. It was open season for bear, and I wanted to get him. I had my dog, Darby, with me and because of high brush he hadn’t spotted the bear yet. I didn’t want him to see him, so I beckoned him over where we climbed a huge boulder. Close to the top I made Darby lie at my feet. I wanted the best shot I could get, and sure enough, as I peeked over the top I could clearly see the bear sort of ambling along toward me. I laid my sights on him and waited until he came within 50 feet. I squeezed the trigger, and the head-shot, squarely between the eyes, dropped him in his tracks without as much as a twitch of a muscle.
At the crack of the shot, old Darby leaped to his feet and ran down and around the boulder in the direction he’d seen me aiming. When he reached the bear, he stopped dead in his tracks. Keeping his distance he didn’t try to approach near enough for his usual sniff of the kill until he made two cautious, closing circles.
Grant saw it all and soon stood at my side. We proceeded to relieve the unfortunate animal of everything he had inside him, lightening him considerably, yet still to heavy for one man to carry. We scouted around, found a stout yucca pole to which we tied his four paws and hauled him down to the car.
He sported a beautiful pelt in excellent condition. Grant thought it would be good experience for his agriculture class to undertake the tanning of the hide. However, the project took a bad turn, a couple of boys too anxious to get the job done, cut several holes in the hide during the tedious job of scraping it down.
With family, friends, neighbors and teachers, all anxious to try the taste of bear meat, the unusual meat didn’t last that long. Though some turned up their noses, I quite enjoyed the pork-like flavor but different from any other wild game I had eaten.
I drove out in the hills some fifteen miles from home to pick up Jo’s Uncle Wallace, a mining man and prospector. He had wanted to explore some old diggings of abandoned claims near the foot of Graham Mountain. I had driven him there the week before, so this trip was to pick him up and bring him home. Not actually planning to hunt, I did take my .22 semiautomatic Savage rifle along. I hadn’t seen anything to try for during the trip out, but we barely started back when a javelina boar (the wild Arizona peccary) suddenly jumped from the brush some fifty yards away running broadside to us. Although a little far for my small caliber rifle he presented a good target. My first shot hit him in the front leg, for I saw him begin favoring it as he ran on. I triggered three or four more quick shots before he disappeared into heavier brush. Knowing that I had hit him at least once, I gave chase. Well, he wasn’t in the brush, and there were so many other pig tracks around that he was impossible to track. After ten minutes or so with no encouraging results, I assumed he was still on the run and I shouldn’t spend any more time trying to find him. In my searching I had seen a couple of prospecting shafts, and suddenly I questioned if the wounded animal had taken refuge in one.
The large one had a horizontal trench leading to the entrance before the tunnel entered the slope of the hill. Rifle at my waist with a chambered shell, I jumped into the trench fifteen or twenty feet from the shaft entrance. (Later I found the shaft length to be about ten feet.) The second I hit the ground, a loud snort came from within, and though I could not see him, I could hear the animal charging toward me. As he exploded from the dark entrance into full light rushing me at full speed, I could almost feel those three-inch-long tusks slashing my legs. With the rifle still at waist-level, instinctive reflex pulled the trigger. The lucky shot caught him squarely between the eyes. He fell dead nearly at my feet. (A healthy javelina would never attack a man out in the open, but when wounded and cornered it’s a different game.)
It posed no easy task to drag that full-grown boar from the trench up onto level ground. In the open where I began to work, I examined him closely. He had four holes in him. If correct about the number of times I fired, I’d hit him with every shot. The first words I heard from Uncle Wallace when he finally found me were, “Hope you’ve got a knife, ‘cause the meat won’t be any good if you don’t cut the musk bag out right now.” The musk gland, located mid-spine slightly behind his shoulders, if left too long after death, permeates the flesh giving it a musky half-spoiled taste. Of course, I quickly took Wallace’s advice, then skinned out the hindquarters and wrapped them in an old blanket from the trunk. Evidently I hadn’t removed the gland quite in time or else it’s typical for the meat of an old hog to have a faint taste of musk to it. Regardless, it tasted pretty good to me.
While I taught at Solomonville, I used my father-in-law’s old, 12-gauge, 1897 Remington, pump-action to hunt quail. Once, on a cold winter morning up in the hills during a light fall of sleet, I spotted a covey of them. When they saw me they bunched up together under a mesquite’s low hanging branches. I pulled up and shot; and from that one shot I gathered up 10 quail. Though I had killed five, six and seven birds with one shot, I never duplicated the 10-bird-kill again.
On one deer hunt during the depression years, I sat high on a ridge located down-creek from Shannon Flats watching a clearing below. As dawn gradually shared its light with the shadowy canyon, I spotted three deer; but it was still too dark to see if they sported antlers. Anxiously, I waited as it steadily grew lighter. Finally, I made out a set of forked antlers on one, and with one shot I dropped him. As I made my way down the slope to bleed and gut him, out bounded a big buck. I quickly took care of the forked-horn and took off looking for him.
Unknown to me, another hunter had been watching the same three deer and saw me make the kill. When he saw me leave it there, he presumed I had killed a doe and left it there hidden. I saw no more of the big buck, so I returned and carried the forked-horn back to camp where I hung him, skinned him out, and left him to cool while I waited for my companions. About two hours later, up drove the game warden and a deputy sheriff with the hunter who had watched me make the kill. They had come to investigate the alleged illegal doe-kill. I showed them the hanging deer with its legal rack still attached. I knew both the warden and the deputy sheriff; and when they discovered that I was Frank McBride’s son, I enjoyed a warm visit with the two. They had known my Dad and the circumstances of his death and wanted to chat—much to the discomfort of the hang-headed tattler.
Back in Thatcher after seven and a half years in California, my hunting opportunities increased considerably. Glenn Dowdle, husband of Jo’s sister, Jean, owns a nice ranch spread over State and Federal land in the famous Arivaipa Canyon. He and his brothers had inherited it form their mother. Glenn’s grandfather Dowdle had left it to Glenn’s mother. My boys and I had a standing invitation with him, his four-wheel-drive Jeep, a saddle horse and several square miles of the best deer and pig hunting in the State of Arizona. With Glenn’s savvy of the lay of the land, his huge, powerful binoculars and the sharpest eyes I ever knew, we enjoyed fine success during those wonderful times. Mac killed his first deer there, a heavy, nicely-antlered four-point blacktail mule deer (Western count). You must read Mac’s account of the kill, a college English class composition. In it you’ll learn the part I played in the drama. On Glenn’s ranch, we also hunted quail, small game and javelina—but never for javelina successfully. During their season they were wise enough to make themselves scarce, but we generally saw plenty while hunting deer. Shooting them during deer season is illegal, but at that time, every cattleman in the country would quickly encourage you to do it anyway, because of the damage they caused the range. Though I killed only one javelin while purposely hunting them, I can’t say I was not a successful pig hunter, for I had killed four of them before my boys were old enough to hunt with me.
All of the higher hills and flat, hilly, desert or mountains around the valley provided us good deer hunting too. Mac and I left one afternoon for Stockton Pass, 35 miles south of Thatcher. Into the hunt hardly a half-hour, Mac heard me shoot twice. He changed his course of direction and made his way, carefully, around the big hill from where he believed my shots had come, thinking he might intercept a slippery, scared buck I’d missed. When he found me, I had just finished gutting a buck. I told him to wait and see what I had up the hill a ways. I had shot twice and killed two beautiful little bucks. They were cous whitetail deer (A Spanish name often pronounced by gringos as cooze, but properly as “cows.”), a diminutive whitetail race peculiar to southeast Arizona and a small part of Mexico. They were much farther north than they usually ranged, and luck put them in my sights. One had four points in addition to brow tines and the other was a three-point. They sported the cutest miniature sets of antlers. Field dressed, the largest weighed no more than 45 pounds and the smaller, 35. Mac carried the small one down to the pickup under his arm, while I carried the other, with ease, draped across my shoulders.
During the same period, with the boys in high school, together we hunted cottontail rabbits as often as circumstances permitted. I still used the same old shot gun, but by then I had become considerably accurate with it. On one hunt, within a period of no more than 40 seconds, I scored on three rabbits. They just kept jumping out, and I just kept knocking them off.
On another trip with the boys, we were searching for a legendary, giant, petrified turtle rumored to be in the desert several miles east of Solomonville. We’d also taken our shotguns along to do some hunting. We never found the petrified turtle, but in our exploring we came upon an abandoned ranch site. There were a few small, old shacks, an old windmill and tank and a lot of debris laying around an otherwise clear open area. A larger wood frame building had been dozed down, and its remains were stacked in one big loose pile of ruined lumber about 40 feet in diameter and 10 feet high. I asked Mac, who wasn’t carrying his gun at the time, to climb up on top of the pile with me. Once there, we began to bounce up and down on the springy pile. We caused a lot of movement that made considerable noise. Soon, out flushed a cottontail, that could stand it no longer, running straight away. Boom. He was in the bag. In a few seconds, out burst a second one, racing away at a different angle. Boom. Another one in the bag. We kept on bouncing, and after another several seconds, a third chanced his escape, and I got him too.
During the fall and winter of that year, 1952, I had quite a run on cottontail without missing a shot. I recall 19 in a row, but Mac insists it was 23. He does have an excellent memory.
All my life I’ve loved to hunt birds, small game and deer. After surgery, that for ever after caused one leg to swell, unhappily, it forced me to abandon the sport.
When still a kid in Thatcher, we boys played some competitive games to entertain ourselves, many that are now part of the past. One fun time-consumer we loved, was “hoop rolling.” We used a small light wheel or the rim of a tricycle, baby carriage or the metal hoop that held together the staves of the old wooden nail keg. We nailed or wired a short cross-piece to the end of a 1 x 2 or similar board. It looked much like a fragile hockey stick. With it, we guided the rolling rim, maneuvering it left or right, while we kept it going by deft pushes, while running along at the side. We became real experts in making it turn in any direction. The object of the game: out race our competition along a pre-determined course. Commonly, the course consisted of racing around a house or a few short blocks to downtown and back.
Any real boy in our day carried a pocketknife. We played a game with these indispensable blades called “Mumble Peg.” The object of the competition was to go through a series of distinct methods of tossing or throwing the knife so as to cause the blade to firmly stick in the ground. Soft moist soil was ideal.
Starting with the easiest method first, we worked on through a series of increasingly difficult ways: First off, on our knees we held the handle of the knife and simply threw the blade into the ground, as predetermined, perhaps five times. Usually, no one missed that round unless real unlucky. Second, standing, we held the blade and threw it one revolution sticking it into the ground, again, five times. Some failures weren’t uncommon. Third, again on knees, with closed fist up, we laid the knife across the junction between knuckles and palm with the blade facing out. We made a sweeping turn-of-the-wrist, throwing the blade into the soil, more difficult with a few more failures occurring. Fourth, standing again, with the blade held between thumb and finger, the knife was tossed up slightly turning opposite the normal way on its way to the ground to hopefully stick—much more difficult, and we expected several misses before finally completing a successful three. (Meanwhile, a competitor or competitors, might have fallen behind while another kept advancing on through the more difficult steps, much like playing jacks, in which one could be well advanced ahead of the others.) Fifth and last of the basic throws, standing with blade in hand, the hand held against the lip and under the nose, by the quick forward motion of your head, you sent the knife turning toward the ground. We could be stuck on this one for some time. There were many other varied and more difficult steps we added as wanted.
The grand finale of the game consisted of the winner, while holding the blade, driving a two-inch-long peg, the diameter of a pencil, into the ground with the handle of the knife. The number of hits was also pre-decided before the game, based upon the hardness of the ground. Sometimes the winner could drive it to where it leveled with the surface of the ground. Then, the losers, on hands and knees, had to pull it out with their teeth. At times, the looser had to root it out, getting his face all dirty and filling his teeth with muddy grit. What a kick, when you managed to be the winner.
Each school year marble season erupted into real serious business. Most of us had no interest in playing for funzies—we played for keeps. I remember having a ten-pound lard bucket full of marbles at home. At first, I saved enough money to buy about a dozen marbles. As I improved in the game, I tossed my ever increasing winnings into the bucket. I’d leave for school with some thirty marbles and always return with more; for I gradually developed a fine-honed skill in the game. One could call me a ringer, because I did play better than all the others my age.
We scribed a circle in the dirt to begin playing the most common marble game. The greater the age, or the more contestants in the game, the bigger the circle. It might be two feet in diameter or five. Each gambler threw an equal number of marbles into the circle. We decided the number per person after saying in marble lingo, “How many up?” To determine who would go first, second, and third etc., we lagged (tossed) our taw (the slightly larger shooting marble) to a line drawn on the ground ten or twelve feet away. The closest lag to the line won the first shot at the marbles in the circle. With the taw in hand, in front of the cocked thump behind the middle finger, the marble rested on the curled index finger. We rested the knuckles of the hand outside the edge of the circle to shoot. Each time your taw knocked a marble out of the circle, and the taw stayed in the circle, the marble not only became yours to keep, but you earned the right for another shot. Whenever your taw ricocheted outside the circle, your turn was lost, and the next boy took his. Sometimes, a real good player could clean out every marble in the circle without giving the following boys a chance to ever shoot.
Of course, it was to my advantage to win the lag for the first shot, for I often could clean the ring. I so hate to brag, but some things are just true and need telling, and it’s not my fault, and I can’t help it. Within my age group, I stood out as one of the best, and when I grew older, very few wanted to play me. (Maybe flipper and marbles went hand in hand.) For me to be allowed to enter a game with others that knew they had a much lesser chance of winning, I was forced to accept a handicap. I often had to put many more marbles in the ring than the others. So after a short haggle we would come to terms as to how many extra I had to throw in the circle to allow me play.
We played the game of “Chasers” with marbles too, a contest between two persons. The first would throw his marble out onto the ground several feet ahead, the next would shoot at the other’s marble. Each had to be sure to shoot hard enough so that if he missed hitting the competitor’s marble, it would role far enough past, not giving the opponent too much advantage. Sometimes, the distance between shots was too far for a conventional shot, so the rules allowed a throw. Once one hit the other’s marble, it was pocketed and the looser had to come up with a second marble. If the chaser taw was a favorite, larger or prettier, the looser did not need to give it up, he could substitute any marble for it—usually the ugliest one of his collection.
In grammar school, according to the season, we played the usual athletic sports. In basketball I was good enough during those years to earn a place on the school team. We visited other schools competing against them. We had inter-school track meets, and I usually earned a place as one of the three from our school to enter certain events. The 60 yard and 100 yard dashes, broad jump (long jump) and high jumping were my forte. In the meets, I usually placed at least third, though often second, but on occasions first. I wasn’t quite speedy enough to capture the blue ribbon too often. Of all the events I entered, I excelled most in the high jump. Usually I placed second, but captured a blue ribbon first place, more often in it than in the dashes and broad jump.
When a twelve-year-old, soccer was introduced to us in the valley. We didn’t play the other schools in soccer, we only played among ourselves. That was during recess and lunch breaks usually as members of a choose-up team. If not the captain doing the choosing, I was generally one of the first choices. Though I did enjoy it—hardly a slouch at the game—I never esteemed myself an excellent soccer player.
Softball was just another recess game, I usually played first base. Quite often, I ended up as a fielder, for I had an eye for catching the high, long flies well, and I had a good arm to quickly return the ball accurately to the infield. My classmates looked upon me as being as good as most, and the captains selected me early-on during choosing. In basketball we frequently competed with two conveniently close grammar schools, Central and Pima. At that age, I played the game with great success. My grammar school years proved to be good experience and training that prepared me for successful years in high school and college. At that time, we played the game man-to-man only, and once we took possession of the ball anyone could bring it down the court. I played forward most of the time, but sometimes center. As a dribbler, few of my cohorts eclipsed me. That ability helped fashion me into a versatile player. A slender build, coupled with exceptional agility enhanced my ability to score a high percentage of shots from any place on the floor. I could deliver the ball through the hoop from closely-guarded, unorthodox, peculiar, off-balance positions. Rising self esteem and confidence improved my playing even more.
At twelve years, the Boy Scouts became the big thing for us. We spent a lot of time at it. I became the patrol leader of the most famous scout patrol in Thatcher history. And I know seven others that would swear to that, but they’re dying off fast. (I just turned 91.) After a bit of deliberation, we unanimously decided to call ourselves the Jackass Patrol. As I record this, Jo remembers its fame too, for she piped up saying, “That’s right.” We rose to such heights of fame that the locals would come up to one or the other of us and ask, “Which Jackass are you?” Here, Jo adds another comment laced with perturbance, for it didn’t end with me as a youth. I continued on and became a scoutmaster and held other positions in scouting directorship as a young married man. She would always be jealous of anything that took me away from her. She still is. I guess she always will be. She just can’t help it, she’s sick in love with me. (Read additional details about scouting in section ? )
Bruce Lane McBride, my youngest brother, writes: “Let me tell you of two incidences about Darvil. I refer to them as ‘Root for Profit’ and ‘Flight of Angels.’ My activities in scouting afforded many interesting experiences. One time, Darvil was put in charge of the scout troop’s concession at a Pioneer Day celebration in Thatcher. We had been assigned the concession of selling ice cream and soda pop. Darvil decided to provide an extra attraction in the way of some homemade root beer. About two weeks ahead of time, we bottled 20 gallons, sealing it into grape juice bottles. By the 24th of July, it had built up terrific pressure due to yeast carbonation. At first it sold for 15 cents a quart-size bottle; but when the crowd discovered that it went wild after removing the cap, the demand shot up—so did the price, 20 cents a bottle. Although the treat was quite tasty, very little was consumed. Both young and old, rushed to purchase the stuff. The sport of the day was to remove the cap, shake the bottle a little and squirt it at each other. This went on until the crowd exhausted the supply, and Darvil had realized a handsome profit for the scouts with his venture.
“Darvil was usually the main spring in some unusual activity and I, with gusto and pride, was very likely assisting him. On the same day as the root beer episode, we had rigged up a trolley ride. It consisted of a steel cable sloping down to ground level about 200 feet distant running from high up in a cottonwood tree. Billed as ‘The Angel’s Flight,’ the customer climbed a ladder to a platform in the tree, seated himself in the suspended seat hanging from a pulley on the cable and shoved off for a sizzling flight down. At the bottom, a special braking device affected a safe landing. Turned over to the scouts to operate, Darvil and I, by charging five cents a ride added another tidy sum to the treasury.”
FLUME, By Bruce Lane McBride, my youngest brother: At one time my brother, Orlando, was the scoutmaster. He took our troop on a three-night outing up to Oak Flat, at 8,000 feet elevation, in the west end of Mount Graham.
This section of the mountain was traversed by an old flume, a steep waterway, which many years earlier was used to float logs from the lumber mill at the top of the mountain to the mill pond below. This V-shaped flat-bottomed structure, made entirely of wood, originally passed over ridges and steep canyons for four or five miles. In places the flat-bottomed trough was on trestles only two or three feet high, while in other places, it was 20 or more feet above the ground. The flume had long since been abandoned and over the years had weakened. In fact, in many places it had fallen down. Nevertheless, in the upper canyons, where we were hiking, rather extensive sections of it remained in tact.
The second day in camp a group of scouts including, Grant Farley, Jimmy Jamison, Voris Foster and I, hiked two or three miles alongside the flume toward the top of the mountain to a point where it made an extremely steep decent into a canyon. Grant decided to try and slide a short distance down the flume. Before he knew it, he was picking up speed, headed toward a part that dropped almost straight down, a half-mile ahead. Frightened, he began grabbing at the sides to slow himself, and in desperation he finally threw himself out. His hands and legs were lacerated and filled with splinters, and much of his clothing was torn off. The ground where he landed was jaggedly rocky and covered with brush. When we got to him, he was bleeding in several places and pretty well bruised. We decided the other scouts would stay with him, while I went down the mountain to our camp for help. It seemed doubtful that Grant would be able to walk by himself.
So, down that steep slope I went, then up the other side of the canyon and down the next. The going was rough, but my only thought was to get to camp as soon as possible. So, up and down I continued on, crashing through brush, bounding over huge boulders, tumbling at times, but seldom slowing down. Truly an experience I’ll remember.
When I began to approach the bottom of the canyon, the slope was not quite as steep and I decided the going would be smoother inside the flat-bottomed flume. I climbed in and began running. All went well for a short distance, until the flume leveled off across the creek. At this point, I was about twelve feet above the ground, and suddenly the flume gave way and I plunged headlong into the creek bed. Lumber splintered and fell all around me, and when I looked back up the incline I had just traversed—about two hundred yards of the flume came crashing down toward me. Luckily, I was at a safe distance as it tumbled to the ground.
I ran down the creek a little distance and then got into the flume again, but soon, another section collapsed and this time, I fell into the water. I picked my dripping self up and clambered to the top of the ridge, then, down its slope under about the same conditions as before. I finally stumbled into camp in complete exhaustion. So tired, wet, and breathless that I couldn’t talk, I passed out—crumpling to the ground.
Orlando and the boys after a few minutes brought me around and I was able to tell them what had happened. Orlando immediately grabbed up a first aid kit and started up the mountain accompanied by Carl Jones, Grover Pease and some other scouts.
After a short time I was surprised to see the whole gang, including the injured Grant, trudging back into camp, and Grant was walking. Though at the time of the accident, it seemed a matter of life and death, he had not been injured nearly as much as we had at first supposed. My flight down the mountain, though courageous and filled with jeopardy, had been quite unnecessary. Later, everyone had a good laugh over the entire affair.
My brother, Darvil, was also on this outing, and I well remember him and some of the older scouts his age improvising shelter in a downpour of rain and trying to cook and serve meals from under it.
One day, on this same outing, while we were playing some games in one of the meadows, one of the boys hiding behind a fallen log suddenly discovered he was lying almost on top of a rattlesnake. When he let out a yell it broke up the game, and his narrow escape together with all the other dramas hastened the decision to start for safer pastures—like home. When we broke camp and started back toward the automobiles, the whole group decided to chance a section of the flume for an easier decent. But, the old flume wasn’t through with us yet, for the structure collapsed and dumped a dozen boys ingloriously into the creek below. The timbers splintered and came raining down like jack straws. Severely shaken, the disheveled troop felt fortunate indeed that no one was seriously injured. At this juncture, Gene Mangum suggested to our leader that we should have a prayer before going any further. Orlando offered it. Needles to say, after that last episode, we took the hint and abandoned the treacherous, old flume. We were positively happy to arrive home without further mishap.
MY (Darvil) MEMORIES OF THE ACCOUNT: As Bruce mentioned, I was along on the trip too. I was one of the senior scouts assisting our brother Orlando, two years my senior. Oak flat was the place where Grandpa Peter McBride took his family on their annual trip high into the mountain to grow his potatoes and pumpkins during the summer.
Parents of the boys had driven us up to “the blackberry patch” from where we started the hike—from the very place that Grandpa hauled the wagon—where it awaited the returning family those many years ago. From there he and his family, with packed horses, started on foot up the five-mile trail.
Regarding the final mishap on the flume, I remember it well: The old flume that began its decent from the sawmill at Columbine had stretches still pretty much intact, though showing definite signs of deterioration. In some places it was very steep and in others it leveled out to run along ridges. It crossed from ridge to ridge on high trestles over canyons and arroyos, some running with water and others dry. The trail from the flat crisscrossed the flume, and it was obvious that it would just be easier, at times, to get into the flume to head down straightway instead of taking the circuitous trail route. That we did, and were somewhat separated walking along, but, perhaps in too much cadence, for the structure under our weight, and no doubt heavier from being soaked with considerable rain, began to collapse forward to the ground from about four feet high. Because of the degree of incline, when the span with a couple of us on it met the ground, the forward motion propelled it like a sled, and it slid on down another 15 feet. Startled, we crouched grabbing the sides and road it out as though in a giant sled. (As I recall, it had already happened once before.) But, just behind me, was a stretch spanning an arroyo about 25 or 30 feet in depth. After the sled ride, we looked back up the flume to see the long span with a dozen boys on it begin to sway. It collapsed down into the creek below. I saw the splintering trusses and cross-braces of the trestle flying about and bouncing in every direction, finally coming to rest in the bottom. A few boys were up above the collapsing part. They had quickly backed away from the gaping edge of danger and were all right. They would make their way down off the flume and over to us, later.
We ran back up to look down at the wreckage to check on the other boys. Soon we had accounted for every one except Douglas Jamison. I remembered he had been wearing a red cap. With sinking heart I spotted the cap half hidden in the dirt under a huge truss. Other lumber debris lay in a pile over it. In horror, I thought to my self, “Oh no, he’s under all that lumber and his head is crushed beneath that huge truss.” I scrambled down to look closer. Too my great relief, I found only his cap under it—no head therein. Soon, someone yelled that he was up somewhere, and safe. Doug had taken quite a beating in his bout with the collapsing wreckage, the worst injury being a cracked rib. We continued on down, now avoiding the previously enticing flume, to the blackberry patch to meet the waiting parents.
THE FLUME MIRACLE: I heard Leonard tell of this incident several times, and of course, because of the drama and the trauma of it, anytime a certain four-year-old’s name was mentioned, the story was told again and again in our little valley. Only a few days ago, at this writing, Leonard, then 91, (1996) still with an excellent memory told me again how he fitted into the drama. He suggested that I write it for inclusion in this history.
Leonard, about seven years of age was at Oak Flat with Aunt Bessie, Dad’s youngest sister. He had been left with his young aunt, probably helping our aunt tend the younger kids in the camp while the adults were out hiking. I’m sure I was there also. Since Leonard was seven I would have been three. Granddad Peter and my Dad had built cabins there. They packed in, up to them, each summer to raise potatoes and pumpkins and escape the summer heat of the valley. The flat was about two miles below the logging operation higher up the mountain at Columbine. There, creak water diverted into the flume floated the rough-cut lumber and debarked logs down seven miles to the flume camp where the flume ended just above Pima.
The flume coursed across Oak Flat no more than 30 yards from Dad’s cabin. Leonard and Aunt Bessie were at the cabin when the phone rang. The call was a desperate plea from the operation at Columbine for help. Neil Gardner, a four-year-old had tumbled into the running water and was on his way down, moving along at a rapid clip. Aunt Bessie tore out of the cabin with Leonard on her heels. She got to the flume just in time to spot the boy coming. The flume entered the flat at such a steep incline that it forced the water and its load along at a fierce speed. Bessie grabbed hold of the boy’s clothing and it appeared she had saved him, but a large length of lumber from above caught up and rammed him, tearing him from her grasp, and on down the flume in the racing water went the frightened child.
The flume camp below had been alerted, and men were a waiting at the flume’s edge. They successfully snatched him out a few feet before her would have spilled onto dangerous ground where a following log could have easily crushed him. Though somewhat skinned, bruised and frightened, he wasn’t much worse for wear. About the incident, many times, we heard the remark, “It’s a good thing it wasn’t a man; he’d have never made it alive.”
My older brothers knew Neil Gardner well—palled around with him some. I got to know him when we both enrolled at Gila College after his return from a mission. Tom Gardner, his father, was from Solomonville, from an area known as San Jose. Later I taught Neil’s brother in the Solomonville Elementary School, and knew the other two brothers and his sister. At the time of the incident, Tom and his family were staying at Columbine where he worked for the lumber company.
Part of our love for scouting sprang from a great and good man who loved the program with all his heart, and loved us, and we knew it—he knew what he was doing. Harvey Mangum catered to us, spending great amounts of time. He was ready and willing to spend personal helping-time with us individually, and to take us, it seems, on any outing our hearts might desire. One overnighter I remember we were never allowed to cook with pots or pans. We cooked on a hot rock, in the dirt under the coals or over the open flame—or went hungry. No packing along useless utensils.
Jo reminds me of her opinion of why he compelled us to be that kind of campers. She says: “They didn’t have any dishes in their own house. They had both worked hard to put his wife through school to become a teacher, and then he became a teacher too. They had sacrificed for what they had and were darling, generous, selfless, wonderful people; giving of their time in service to their own family and to many others. In their home, it seemed to me, that they never cleared their table, and that they used tin cans for cups and bowls. I don’t know what they used for spoons.” I know though, they compensated with good, long fingers.
Several years after the old flume was abandoned and no longer used to float rough lumber down to the valley from high up on Mount Graham at Columbine, a timber company became interested in opening up another operation in the Columbine area. The principals contracted with the State, the Forest Service and the private land owners to build a tramway to provide the same service, but with more efficiency than the old flume.
The operation consisted of a cable system with swing-like carriers that were suspended from the arms of a series of huge metal towers. The towers strategically located, held the cables that passed over ridges, canyons, creeks and arroyos from the head of Ash Creek Canyon at Columbine to the valley. Though we thought it quite a success, it lasted only a few years. The logs were “slabbed” (the bark with part of the wood was sawed off the four sides, leaving nearly square or rectangular lengths of lumber of varied sizes depending on the size of the tree). These were slung between two swings hanging from the cable. The system did not need power, for the weight of the loaded lumber headed down powered the returning cable with its empty swings back up hill. A massive braking system at the top of the tram kept runaway from occurring.
The empty carrier-swings returning to the top posed attractive temptation to many local boys and so began more high adventure for me. We gave in to the temptation, and hitched rides from the bottom. Of course, we risked being caught and reprimanded. Some canyons we passed over were huge and their depths went hundreds of feet below us. The one real problem we might encounter was to find ourselves stranded when mechanical trouble arose and the tramway stopped. One could find himself stranded high in midair for an hour or more or for even overnight, while problems were resolved. I rode it up part way and back on four occasions—sometimes as far as four miles up before switching to a downward bound load of lumber. Though I knew of others being stranded, including my brother Bruce, who had the experience of riding a major portion of its length, good luck was always with me and my in-cahoots friends.
When a senior scout about 16 years of age, Harvey Mangum, still our scout master, made arrangements at the mill to load our packs, equipment and supplies on the tram’s carriers. We arrived at the flats above Pima at the tram’s end, near where the old flume had also ended (We referred to the place as “the old flume camp).” With help from mill employees, we loaded everything on the tram’s swings, thus carrying only bare essentials while hiking up the trail unburdened with heavy packs. We hiked up the trail for about 6 hours on the eight-mile trail to Columbine, found our stuff in a big pile; took it on our shoulders and hiked another mile to where we made camp. Naturally, we all would have liked to have grabbed onto a swing ourselves and enjoyed the seven-mile ride, which would have been a great adventure. After 10 days there in camp, again we loaded the gear onto the tram, and once more enjoy an easier hike down that rugged trail.
The tram had its inherent dangers, and though I only remember of three injury-mishaps, one worker, Leo Bond, was killed. The same age as my brother Orlando, they were very good friends. I knew him well too, and Virgil, Jo’s older brother was a good friend also. I remember that he called Orlando Tarzan because of certain ape-like maneuvers Lando had perfected in tree climbing, especially in our huge apricot tree where he swung from everything but a tail. Leo worked on the lower platform station located on the mesa where an abrupt turn made it necessary to transfer the heavy timbers to another section of line; there were two of these stations along its length, where two men worked to make the switch. At each station was a huge, horizontal pulley-wheel where the cable made its up and back trips. Sometimes the cable would slip within the deep groove of the wheel. Men kept a supply of old rags and bunting and such, to feed between the cable and the pulley groove to increase friction thus controlling slippage.
Leo Bond wore gloves with protective forearm extensions common to heavy work gloves. Tragically, while feeding rags under the cable, the glove’s extension suddenly became his death sentence. The back of the glove caught under the cable, and Leo, to the horror of his fellow worker was pulled into a space of less than a foot wide between the structural timbers and the pulley’s edge. It broke his neck killing him almost instantly and surely tore and mangled him. It was impossible to stop the turning of the wheel in time.
The day Leo was killed I was standing on the sidewalk across the street from the drug store in Thatcher. A fellow I recognized as being a tramway worker pulled up by me in a little truck, parking at the curb. I couldn’t help but see a bundle in the truck bed wrapped in blankets. It looked like a body too me, so I asked him, “What’s that?” He simply said, “That’s Leo Bond, he was killed this morning, and after we extracted his broken body from the machinery, they sent me down to deliver his body.” He questioned me about the store across the street, and I told him it was the drug store. He left me and crossed the street. In deep sorrow, I took a closer look at the wrapped body in the truck. I had been the first person of the general population to know of the accident and hear the story first hand.
Poetry, poetry: It’s just my luck to be devoted to an art that most of the time seems thankless—almost as bad as chairman of a town hall committee or a member of a rural school board. I have never written a poem for which I expected payment for effort (particularly money). Twenty dollars is the largest amount I ever received; and the ones, fives and tens added to that couldn’t add up to more than 60 lousy bucks. But when something does come back, regardless of the amount, it’s like the gift of the Magi. I still have in my possession the first check—five dollars—ever received from a publisher.
I speak not only of monetary value, but of the sense of fulfillment, a satisfaction of accomplishment through expression. I know no better way than poetry to obtain this kind of fulfillment. The only selfishness I see in the poet is the attention and accolades he may welcome and questionably merit.
As in my case, to recognize some as poets is paradox. Here I am, kinda big and country-looking and move around in a social gathering like a pig in a daisy patch, with a tone-deaf ear and no sense of time, yet, I can, if I try hard, turn out an acceptable verse. It takes guts to turn out lofty stuff that folks don’t believe could come out of you. But, to the heck with them, I do it for myself ‘cause I have to! It fills some kind of empty space inside, and if I ignore a good inspirational thought, the space gets larger.
I love to read good poetry. I guess I owe a big part of this to my grade-school teachers; that’s where I fell in love with Longfellow. That’s where I learned and can still recite verbatim poems like: The Village Blacksmith, Hiawatha, The Children’s Hour, Columbus, The Uprising of 1776 and many others. Then later the stirring sagas of Robert W. Service: The Cremation of Sam McGee, etc., and, good old Shakespeare. I still have the cherished copy my mother gave me on my 15th birthday—his complete works. Between my wife and I, and at least one of our kids, Jon, we do not have fingers and toes enough to record the number of times we have recited Service’s poems in public. Six of them I still know by heart.
Though I did read incessantly and started writing crazy verse in the eighth grade, I knew nothing of metaphor and image, but somehow it turned out right. I think the following are some of the first lines I wrote:
Today our teacher wore a rose,
Stuck on with a pin.
But she had to be real careful,
‘Cause it might stick in her skin.
Valentine Curtis would kiss you.
Brose didn’t care for that,
‘Cause Valentine would squeeze so hard,
She was so big and fat.
In College, when the time came around to fill a requirement of original poetry for literature or English class, I was in demand. I helped many an uninspired spirit garner an “A” on his paper. One day Professor Clark handed me an eight-line verse and asked if I wrote it, and I had to answer yes. Then he said, “I thought you’d like to know that Jess Chandler got an “A” on it.
(If the right situation exists, poetry can be put to practical use. See the senate experience)
The new poetry scoffs at rhyme and even rhythm. In fact it seems to go to great lengths to avoid both. I guess I’m of the old school. To me they are both basic, and when Poe says of “The Bells,” “keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, ....,” in a way that you want to tap your foot to the words, is indeed beauty in verse.
Poetry doesn’t need to be inspirational or intellectual though both are desirable. That it entertains is sufficient for most of it. Whether it is good or poor, it should tickle the fancy.
What of inspiration? Shelly has said that when composition begins, inspiration is already on the wane, and that even the finest poetry is a feeble shadow of the original conception of the poet. I have noticed that by the time I put it down, the only inspiration was within myself, and I discover that I have failed miserably to reach the reader.
Despite this meticulous endeavor, if the final product inspires some—fine! If not, let us hope that it entertains, and whether it follows the modern vogue for free verse, or is of the old fashioned “sing-song” stripe, it really makes no difference.
LITERATURE—MY MOTHER’S INFLUENCE: My mother lived with firm determination that her children would be raised with the best education her humble means could afford, and she continually encouraged us in that direction. As a child I didn’t realize this, but I’m sure that even then she did things that she hoped would instill in us fervent desires to formally, as well as informally educate ourselves. As I look back I can’t see where the time, patience and energy to pursue all that she did came from. One of these treasured childhood memories is the evenings spent listening to literature she insisted we hear. I don’t remember Mother reading us bedtime stories. Usually, in the evening before bedtime she took time to read quality. Always, she looked for proper materials to suit our ages and she borrowed many books from kind neighbors and friends. I remember running errands to return books to neighbors. Often, she read to us from the Bible and the Book of Mormon.
I especially remember one book, quite a large volume that she read from each night over a period of time, a few pages each evening. For one story, she had no trouble gathering us around. “The Little Knight of the X bar-B,” held us entranced. It told the story of a little boy who lived on a large ranch a far distance from town or well traveled road. Being about my age, I easily identified with him. He had no friends his age; he was the only young person on the huge cattle ranch where he had only men with whom to associate. The rough cowboys who soon championed his cause made him the camp pet. In recent years I have tried to find the book but to no avail. The several libraries I have checked have never heard of it. I don’t remember the details of the story but the adventures of this young lad in a hard and harsh environment proved a fascinating tale to a boy of my nature and age.
Reading to us as she did, influenced me to read books on my own. I read everything I could get hold of. I read all of Mark Twain’s works, every western Zane Grey or Harold Bell Wright authored. In that day “The Western Short Story Magazine” was published monthly. We had no subscription, but I always managed to get hold of each copy one way or another. I generally read every story in it, especially those of Max Brand, a western author of the day.
Mother soon learned that giving me a book for Christmas or birthday was the best and easiest way to go. When about fifteen she gave me a volume of the “Complete Works of Shakespeare,” and I read every play. How long it took me, I don’t recall, perhaps a couple of years, but I read them all. The treasured volume with mother’s little note in it is still on my study bookshelf. Our English teacher in school had just introduced the classics: not for an intensive study, but only to help us become familiar with their contents. I’m sure that when I began coming home recounting stories of Shakespeare, it impressed Mother that I should have my own book.
As many do today, the male population in the Gila Valley wore Levis when appropriate. Not until after I was nearly grown do I remember other kinds of denims being available. Levis were introduced into the valley by the Mexican population, and for several years the Caucasians would not wear them; I suppose because of the stigma attached since they were so popular with the Mexican boys, because only they wore them then. We called them “chilies,” a local name that had been given the Mexicans because of their traditional diet of chile and beans. After a few years, however, the whites couldn’t resist those attractive lookin’ Levis. We never called them trousers, pants or Levis: it was always, “Bought me a new pair of chilies today.” as they were always called when we were growing up.
Most of the Mexican boys in our town were pretty good fellows. Many of them were my friends, and despite my having a little more than they did, I think they liked me. I often gave them little gifts of things I had that I knew they didn’t have. I used to go flipper hunting with them and often furnished good inner tube rubber for their flippers (slingshots). I didn’t hesitate to play marbles with them. They never tried to cheat like some white jerks I knew.
Most of them spoke fair English, though hardly as well as they do today. I had a little trouble with one boy my age named Alfredo. He had a mean streak I didn’t like, for he would often mistreat some of the younger boys. After one of these fracases the injured boy told me about it so I cornered Alfredo with the facts. I said to him that day, “Alfredo, if you don’t quit being mean to these younger boys, damn it! I’m gonna whip you good.” With that, Alfredo bristled, doubled up his fists and said, “What? You call (called) me a damit?
(JOSEPHINE) FUN, HOBBIES AND PASTIMES
As a small child and through my growing-up years, I just plain loved people. In fact I think I kind of still do.
As a three-year-old, a theatrical couple arrived in our town of Thatcher. They had trunks of beautiful costumes for the youth of the town they chose for all the roles in their productions. They, like many of their persuasion in that time of history traveled throughout small-town America presenting their production for the profit, profit generated by admission charges.
In preparation for the play, "Tom Thumb’s Bride," they chose me to be the bride to play opposite Tom Thumb. He was a cute little boy I liked, a year older than me. I've forgotten his first name, but his last is Tenney. My brother, Virgil, four years older, took part too, in the role of a member of the tuxedo-dressed wedding party.
Back then, all special events of any size in Thatcher were presented in the large high-windowed, basement cultural hall below the old and beautiful church house. During the play, I remember looking from the stage, out over the hall through awed, little-girl eyes at so many people; the hall had filled to more than capacity. As a part of the play, after the wedding ceremony, the wedding party sat at a long table spanning the front of the stage, taking refreshments—homemade ice cream.
I remember well how yummy it tasted to a little girl. But, in that warm desert country, a good part of it had melted before I'd finished. No matter, (it was still good melted), so with no intention of wasting a bit, the bride—the center of attraction—lifted the bowl to her lips and drank it down to the last drop. The crowd burst into deafening laughter. Puzzled, I looked around at them all trying to understand what struck them so funny.
After the performance, Mama wanted a photograph of Virgil and me in our costumes. In the picture, which is included as part of this history; in the background, Dee, my oldest brother peeked out from behind a bush as Mama clicked the camera. Probably feeling neglected and needing attention, he had leaned his impish face out to at least be included in something. No one had known of his presence until after the picture's development. The family has laughed about that photo ever since. And who knows how many generations will continue to laugh with us as time passes on into eternity.
As little girls our early interests swept us along playing hopscotch, jacks, jump-rope, and playing with the dolls we loved so much. Across the street at Dubie Michelson’s house, her dad kept a cow out back in the pasture beyond their orchard. In the pasture grew gorgeous bunches of high-stemmed sunflowers. Around an old stump just the right height, we bent the flower stems to fashion a bright, yellow and green bowery (bower) over it, transforming it as far as we were concerned, into a real throne. There with the stump framed with the lovely greenery and flowers, we played make-believe king, queen and princess. After tiring of that we went to the big grape arbor built by her dad; it covered the entire back of their house. There in the shaded enclosure, we imagined as our stage, we played movie star. We even broke off dried lengths of grapevine and smoked them like cigarettes, mimicking the antics of the actresses of the day. After tiring of the fun at Dubie’s, we crossed the street to my home and played some of the same make-believe games over against and on the green bank of the big canal just a hop-skip-and-a-jump from our house.
I always received a doll for Christmas, including the Christmas when I was thirteen years old. I don’t remember a single time that I didn’t get a doll from Santa. I liked baby dolls better than little girl or boy dolls, so they’re the ones I remember best. There were two special, doll-Christmases in my life, for they were beautiful, warm, sun-shiny days—shirt sleeve days. Coatless and comfortable, I remember the experience of radiant joy, pushing the buggy up and down the sidewalk and around the yard—one of those little childhood memories that never wane.
Speaking of dolls: In our town there was a fun place called the Confectionery Store. Its main attraction for me was the big, glass, candy case that sat low near the floor where a tot my size could get a good look at its many wonderful fascination. There was also a counter to sit at and be served, and round ice cream tables with the twisted wire legs and dainty, matching chairs known as bistro sets. Once in a while Dad or Mama would take Eleanor and me there for a treat. I loved sitting at the child-size tables with matching chairs for kids, exact replicas of the large ones. Sitting there made the ice cream and candy taste even better. George Echoles owned the store, and he loved kids. (He was married to the oldest daughter of the old Woods family, an early pioneer family of our town.)
(The Woods family owned the first movie house in Thatcher where silent films were shown once a week, and were always “to be continued” the next week. Their youngest son, Grant, was the same age as Virgil. They were good friends even after they married and raised families. Grant’s wife, Genney, had a beautiful trained voice, and they had a lovely popular daughter Mac’s age that attracted the interest of nearly every boy. Grant’s father served as County Superintendent of Schools for many years.)
But, back to George Echoles and the Confectionery Store. He and his wife, Ann, had only one child about my age. He had been born spastic, and he needed constant care, which the parents admirably provided. George always talked about wanting another little boy, and later, he was blessed two fold, for his desire was granted when Ann gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl.
In the Confectionery Store one day, being the cute curly-haired doll that many said I was, George said to me, “Josephine, some day I’m going to put you in this candy case.” After that I made sure Dad or Mama was very close when I went into George’s store. Though I greatly admired that candy case, I certainly didn’t want to be caged in it.
EARLY TRIPS TO CALIFORNIA: Wherever my Dad went he always had a good time. He didn’t call his trips to California vacations, for when he did go they were buying trips for his own store, regardless, he had a good time. Virgil was the trustworthy one of the two older boys, so he stayed behind to attend to the affairs of the store when Mama went with Dad.
Sometimes he’d take a kid or two along. I especially remember a trip to California when they took Eleanor, Rodney and me; I was 13 years old. Mama had prepared ahead of time for herself and us. I’ve forgotten what was bought for Rodney, but she had ordered look-alike, dark suits for Eleanor and me, kind of a grey tweed with knickers, blouses and a jacket or weskit. Mama wanted pictures of us and of her in all of our brand new splendor, for she had also bought new clothes for herself. For the photos, we stopped at a picturesque spot on the Superior Highway.
Mama would fix a nice basket lunch to take along on these trips; the basket would fried chicken, a great number of boiled eggs, plain bread and butter and maybe potato salad. We didn’t take too much, but enough for snack stuff along the way. Along the way, we usually picked up food and fruits, plus ice cream, soda pops and things like that. She liked to leave something for my big brothers staying behind. This time she had fixed a huge grocery sack, mostly of chicken, some of which she left at home for Dee and Virgil. The first time we stopped along the way for a snack she discovered she had left the whole sack. We had no fried chicken that day, and I’m sure the boys at home found it and no doubt chuckled at our hard luck as they grinned over their good luck.
I reflect upon the trip with a smile, for at 13 I still loved dolls. I brought a big china doll whose arms and legs moved. I also brought its entire wardrobe, even hats. Some might think I should be ashamed of playing with the doll clear across the desert at 13, but after all these years of remembering, I’m still not embarrassed
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I marveled at the Superior Highway on which we’d stopped for the photographs. Even today, it’s well traveled, even though much improved and shortened. Travelers from out of state as well as from foreign countries look upon it as a spectacular, unusual and beautiful stretch. Back then it was full of steep curves and turns, each one enchanting us with new vistas. In those days, the miles of sand dunes west of Yuma towards San Diego had proven to have worrisome obstacles. For decades, hardy teams and wide-wheeled wagons had been the only means of using that shortcut to the ocean. To help tame the shifting sand and to open a route to the coast fit for automobiles, the State of California constructed a “wooden” road across the unpredictable stretch (now I-80). Though it was wide enough for but one car—about as wide as an ordinary, single traffic lane of today’s freeways—it served its purpose for many years. To allow cars to pass each other, short turnouts about two car-lengths long were built about every mile along the dipping, turning board-way. If two cars met in between—which often happened—the one nearest a turnout backed up to it, allowing the other to pass.
The strange road was of simple construction. It was like a wide, heavy-duty boardwalk. Three or four stringers of stout rectangular timber paralleling each other had heavy, wide, oak planks about three inches thick and 12 inches wide bolted to them. The seemingly endless, wooden ribbon followed every contour: the ups, the downs and the arounds of each singular and sometimes spectacular dune after dune. Though harrowing to the faint of heart, the click-clacking under the weight of the passing vehicle, proved exciting to the first-timer. See and read about it at:
Now, there is no hotter place in the middle of the summer than in the middle of a dune filled desert, especially as the elevation approaches sea level when we traveled the I-10 route through Blythe, then through Indio where it dips down to 14 feet, or more, below. To keep the inside temperature of the car bearable, Mama kept buckets of cold water in which she routinely dipped dishtowels and hung them wet around the interior. We dipped our hands into the water to pat it on our bare skin and clothes, taking advantage of the cooling effect of evaporation.
The worst stop endured on our way to California was outside Indio after nightfall. We were able to find a motel (cabins): the windows were screened, and had loose canvas coverings we rolled them up to catch any whisper of breeze. I managed to sleep pretty well. However, when we awoke, we had a problem. Where we had draped our clothes during the night, they touched the floor. When Eleanor and I put them on, there were consequences, for they were filled with ants. Why they chose our clothes, I don’t know, but they certainly didn’t crawl in to keep warm.
On this trip we visited Balboa Gardens and Zoo in San Diego, experiences so fun and beautiful. A big pipe organ sat at one end of a huge building; luckily we had arrived at the right time to hear its music. The family enjoyed every minute of it, but I didn’t see much, for the kidney infection I had been nursing off and on for a few years suddenly flared up; I spent most of the day lying in the shade. However, the beauty of the grounds contented me, and from where I sat I could see roundabout for a good distance. The manicured, colorful beds of flowers and the cascades took my breath away.
Dad was a good traveler. He loved to go first class, and when we went with him we too went first class. We stayed at the motels and hotels that he knew. He knew all the drummers (salesmen) who came out of the big cities to hit the local stores with products. These men kept him well informed of places to stay and to eat; in the larger towns we always ate at the best restaurants. He and Mama had great fondness for the ocean and enjoyed it whenever they found convenient times. Once, as we approached San Diego, but were still miles from the coast Mama excitedly said, “I can smell the ocean! I can smell the ocean!” We knew that certain atmospheric conditions could waft whiffs of the ocean’s fragrance many miles inland, and it was not uncommon to enjoy the phenomenon.
At age 17, we made another trip to San Francisco for Dad’s buying for his store. Eleanor had a light coat along and I had a heavy long one. In the evenings in Southern California she wore her light coat and I wore my heavy one. More to the north in San Francisco it was really cold, and I thought, “I’m glad I have a heavy coat,” but it didn’t work out that way. Eleanor took the heavy coat and I was left with the light one. It was okay. I didn’t freeze. After all, I was only the little sister, and I could make-do with whatever else was handy for cover.
In San Francisco we ate at a restaurant we considered quite nice. It was small and I don’t remember much about the food, but I do remember the rolls. They were so delicious that I lack words to describe them. I always hoped that some day we would go back there, just for the rolls. Eleanor loved bananas, and that’s what she remembered most. But those rolls: Dad arranged for a sack-full, which we relish later. Even though the restaurant wasn’t as classy as most places Dad took us, I’ll always remember the occasion as an elegant evening.
When in Los angles, we always arranged to make one trip to Boos Brothers Cafeteria. Dad and Mama loved the place. Besides the good food, a live orchestra provided music we loved. It was all delightful; we three kids thought we were in heaven. A degree of intrigue enveloped me to walk through the small corridors and choose as much as I thought I could eat of my favorite foods. We sat at fancy set tables with their heavy silver, lovely crystal and linen, all the time soaking in the music, a treat unlike a dream a wide-eyed country girl ever hoped for.
We experienced sadness there: Mama, Eleanor and I visited the rest room. Mama was wearing a ruby ring of tiffany setting that Dad had brought her when he returned from his mission in South Africa. At the wash basin she took it off and put it in the pocket of her light-weight jacket. Then after removing the coat, she draped it over the low door, the only place she could see to hang it. As we walked from the restaurant toward the car, she reach into the pocket to find the ring—it wasn’t there. We rushed back to search for it, and though the management cooperated in every respect, it was to no avail.
The name of one hotel we stayed in near the middle of the city slips my mind, but it was wonderful. Liveried doormen opened and closed the elevator doors, seeing to our comfort and safety. Someone was always at your beck-and-call. I well remember the Clark Hotel in Los Angeles and another one close by, a beautiful one that I especially loved—such fun. Later, much later, I had insisted that Darvil and I and the kids revisit the Clark for pure nostalgia’s sake.
I wore a cute, green nylon dress that I especially loved for its coolness, for the day was warm. Out on the street for a bit of sight seeing, I glanced at my image in a window as I stood in a sunny spot and simultaneously heard a whistle from across the street. To my horror, I discovered I had forgotten my slip. I broke away from Darvil, ran back into the hotel where a dozen people watched as I pushed through the back-lighted door. I ran past them, knock-kneed, up to the room where I corrected the embarrassment.
We didn’t always stay at hotels, because Aunt Ella Birdno lived in Santa Monica. A half-sister to Nonnie, she was like a second mother to Mama, always welcoming us with open arms. Forced to move from the valley because of asthma, she found relief in the coastal city. Uncle George had passed away and she lived there with a grown son and daughter. She had established her own business, selling her home-made chicken pies at the Santa Monica Pier where the beach-goers, sight seers and tourists swarmed. We would treat ourselves to a piece of the delicious stuff any time we wished.
Because of Dad’s independent spirit and fear of being an imposition on a relative’s hospitality, we didn’t stay with Aunt Ella as often as we kids and Mama wanted. Nevertheless, Mama always finagled some precious days, for they dearly loved each other, and Mama loved Aunt Ella’s daughter, and son, George, and his delightful wife.
One fun place we stayed was a subsurface apartment with a kitchenette. Mama fixed breakfast and maybe sandwiches for lunch, but we always went out for dinner. There, Eleanor got her glorious fill of bananas, for they were only ten cents a pound in the nearby grocery store. Dad and Mama were kindly tolerant about letting us bring fruit to our room. Though strawberries and raspberries were quite expensive we often bought them also; and we took advantage of ordering them with our cereal in the restaurants. This downstairs apartment had little windows at sidewalk-level. Probably the dampness in the air caused it, but I could always smell the faint, unpleasant odor of what reminded me of the outside privies back home. We never began a return trip home from California but what Mama cried, and I believed Dad was on the verge too.
We had an old chicken coop in our back yard. It was a struggle, but my girlfriends and I moved it over next to the canal bank where we spent hours cleaning it out and fixing it up. Complete with makeshift furniture, walkways, a fence, and other niceties we had scrounged around to find, we arranged it appropriately for our own private clubhouse. Caught up in our imaginations, there, we played away many pleasant hours.
A huge cottonwood tree on the edge of the front yard extended its long branches over the entire yard, even over our front porch. During the seventeen years of my life in that home, we had some kind of swing hanging from a big branch high up in it. In the back yard a colorful hammock stretched between two smaller trees. A favorite leisure on summer days found me comfortably stretched out on it reading a book, and often, slowly savoring spoonfuls of peanut butter, as the shaded hammock gently swung in the breeze.
The canal coursed along the south side of our lot. We loved that two-foot deep, or more, 20-foot wide, flowing stream with its tree-lined, shady, grassy banks. The bigger kids played in it at any time they wanted, and even though down the canal a ways they had a deeper swimming hole, they often played in it there by our house. The younger ones could too—under supervision. As a four-year-old, I was playing in it with my big brothers when suddenly I lost my footing and under I went head and all. I vividly remember struggling to find the bottom with my feet as the current carried me along, but try as I might I couldn’t find it. Standing there on the bank, Mama saw me go under, and watched my long curls floating along downstream. She yelled to the boys to grab me; they reacted at once and snatched me out okay. Through the years though, too many little ones lost their lives drowning in the big canals.
Wild plum trees grew close by, and with them Mama made delicious jelly. We spent a lot of fun times on the bank of the canal, sometimes having a picnic, relaxed in the grass, eating the jellyroll cakes she made with the plum jam. During early summer, as a youngster, Darvil, who lived a block away, scouted the canal banks picking wild, fresh asparagus sprouts. He bundled them to sell, and I remember watching him on the banks by our home. Mama never failed to buy a bunch (sometimes more) from him, paying ten cents a bunch. The freshly picked sprouts were delicious— it seemed much more so than the store-bought bunches.
Though I never considered myself much of an athlete, in junior high school, I loved to play softball during the physical education period and noon break. I mostly insisted on playing first base, and nearly always did, because I usually got my way. In those days of no television, and because of our rural life, we knew little about kinds of hockey. The day came when the school acquired a lawn-hockey set. I absolutely loved the game and spent much happy school-time with my girl friends playing it. It became my all-time favorite sport.
My love for water comes up in other places in this history. The time came when we could no longer safely play in the big canal. At its headwaters where it was diverted from the Gila River, horses, cattle and garbage had fouled it, and the authorities warned us of infectious diseases. Though many ignored it, like my big brothers and Darvil and his brothers and friends, who continued playing in it. The most desirable place to swim was thirty miles away at Hot Springs. Hot Springs boasted a big, beautiful, white hotel. The extensive pool of warm water fed by the natural hot spring had, at places, a squishy mud edge we had to walk through to get to the deeper water. We liked it despite the mud, but later the pool was bordered and lined with concrete, and a row of dressing rooms were built along one side. A nice diving board and a double-platform tower were at the deep end. I would dive from the edge of the pool and the diving board, but try as I might I couldn’t boost my will sufficiently to dive head first from the tower. However, I willed myself to jump feet-first from it, and that showed daring enough. Many visitors throughout the United States, with varied ailments, frequented the hot, soothing waters hoping for curative results.
The very warm water rapidly sapped ones strength, but as a little girl I stayed in the water the whole time. I stayed so long that it made my fingers, palms, toes and feet wrinkle with creases deeper than a prune. I raised a ruckus like a big baby when Mama and Dad finally forced me to come out. Never in a hundred years would I have left the water on my own accord. We enjoyed Hot Springs as a family, and as a teenagers and older, we continued to enjoy it. The junior high school, high school, junior college and church groups often chose the place for their outings. We swam, picnicked and finally after the boiling sun settled below the horizon, we danced on a spacious cement slab, on into the cool of the evening.
For a while we had a nice place to swim three miles away in Safford, while a new electric plant was being built. There was a big concrete-lined pool filled with water for swimming, giving us much quicker access than way out thirty miles at Hot Springs. Solomonville, ten miles from Thatcher, had a pool for a short time too. I celebrated one of my birthdays with my friends with a trip to Solomonville to swim. Later, while in junior high school, the high school built a small but fun swimming pool. Though quite small, years later our own children enjoyed it through the years. The day came when a permanent, expansive, public pool with dressing rooms was built three miles east in Safford.
When we were small children, the church often chose to organize outings to a place called the Flume Camp at Cluff’s Ranch above Pima. The flume shot lumber down its long slender stretch from up high in the mountain where the timber was cut. Rough debarked logs floated for miles down the water-filled chute to a place where the lengths were then hauled down to the mill pond, waiting their turn to be converted to finished lumber. At the bottom of the flume, the V-shaped mossy sides and bottom gave little kids a full forty-foot ride. Our parents lifted us up over the edge and released us. The fast flow of water about two or three inches deep carried us slipping and sliding to its end where waiting adults scooped us up and out.
The schools and church sponsored hayrides on big, flatbed, horse-drawn wagons that carried a few bales of hay for comfortable sitting and leaning. We played, joked, shifted around, dangled legs over the side and jumped on and off the wagon at will, as the horse slowly plodded along through the desert over narrow dirt roads, in the cooler late afternoon and early evening. Our destination was the middle of a broad, dry, sandy wash among big, black-limb mesquite trees, with a smattering of other growth and rocks and the ever-present cactus. There, we built a big bonfire, and after the flames reduced the logs to glowing coals, we roasted marshmallows or weeners to eat with the other tasties. Homemade ice cream usually topped off the picnic. The fun wasn’t over though, for we enjoyed the return trip in more comfortable cooler air. The horses wended their way down the silent, dark road, under moon and star-filled skies—having just as much fun returning as going. The memories of the fragrance of the desert, the newly baled hay, the smoke and roasting food, still whets my senses. What lovely outings—a bygone day, for most.
Sometimes we planned picnic outings of the same nature as the hayrides, but on horseback. Dad took care of finding the right horse for me; he would go to a friend to borrow the proper steed so I would ride out and return safely. I loved horses, and I loved those outings. I could have been a real horsy person if I’d had half a chance.
As teenagers we loved the dances only slightly less than we loved the boys, and what would the dances have been without the boys? We looked forward with eagerness for each Friday evening. I chuckle even now as I see in my mind so clearly a comical incident that happened at one dance. The critical part of the election year enveloped the community. The orchestra members were stretching between numbers and W.T. Webb, running for an important office stepped up to the podium to take advantage of the free exposure. Launching into one of his electric campaign speeches, his false teeth suddenly popped out. They fell against the podium with a clack and a bounce, and quick as lightning, in one continuous motion, he snatched them from mid-air and smoothly slapped them back into place. He hardly missed a syllable as he continued seemingly unabashed—a stroke of good luck—for if they had hit the floor they would have surely broken.
Yes, the dances lifted our spirits during those wonderful times. Ball room dancing in vogue, we whirled, dipped and turned in fox trots and waltzes through the warm evenings. One of my beaus, Reid Morris, how he could dance; I loved to dance with him; he was a darling young man. Reid is still alive. He liked me—like a whole lot and would have married me. How fun and exhilarating those times were; how sweet the memories.
[Darvil: As her husband, the one who finally won the prize, I’ll tell a bit about Jo: "Not just Reid alone, there were a lot of young men who wanted to marry her; she really enjoyed the envied position of being the belle of the town. So darned cute, pretty and considerate of all, the young people of the valley greatly admired Jo, and many young bucks wanted to date her. She never lacked for dates. At the dances, constantly in demand, the boys kept her always on the floor. I decided not to even try for her because of her extreme popularity, but, things kind of worked out." At this point, let me extract a couple of paragraphs from a beautiful tribute paid to us by Frankie, my youngest sister and the last of the children in the family: She writes: “I knew Josephine Phillips from the time she lived in the home by the canal in Thatcher—and I remember her as the prettiest girl in town. When the Phillips family moved next door to us into Grandmother and Grandpa Sim’s house, and Darvil started seeking Josephine’s attentions, I was as happy and elated over that as maybe Darvil was—though really not quite, I’m sure.” (The complete tribute is found later in the history.)]
Three years in a row I attended the College Prom with the student body president. First, Homer Elledge who had come from Globe, Arizona invited me: tall, very thin and still lacking some physical filling-out, but nice looking, and very popular, though not a match for Darvil. His lovely mother would have loved for him to marry me, but he didn't really care that much about me. The second time, Darvil invited me. For the third prom, the invitation came from Gene Mangum: a nice, dear person and so affectionate and still is so with Darvil and me. He organized my sixtieth, junior college graduating class reunion, the class of 33. We attended it May 1993 in Thatcher.
I felt special, privileged and thrilled when we lead the promenade each time. I liked the atmosphere of the spirit-lifting occasions. We dressed in beautiful formals, were in the company of handsome young men and in the midst of colorful, tasteful decorations. Such fun times for a young woman of my interests and inclinations. I loved the dances and the overall splendor of the occasions.
After marriage, my active interest in fun, naturally, became different. My mother and Grandmother Nonnie did many kinds of handwork, especially when they rode in the car during trips. Never really enthralled with the idea, I forced myself to learn to crochet. When the kids were small I began an afghan of wool yarn, and finally, I finished it. Quite large, it turned out to be a beautiful piece of art, I thought: an accomplishment worthy to be proud of.. Unfortunately, I failed to take proper care of it, and I felt terrible when I found moths had ruined it.
When my friends were having babies, I decided to learn to knit booties for presents. I made a few of them, and they turned out beautifully, and my friends appreciated them for their new infants. At first, I needed close supervision, but as I continued doing them practice paid off, for each pair was nicer than the one before. I did learn how to knit well. Handwork, too tedious to be a pleasure unnerved me, even though I kept at it for some time. I did some embroidering too, but still, I never really enjoy it.
Eleanor sewed and became an unusual seamstress. She made many beautiful clothes for her daughters as they grew up. As a little girl, I played at the sewing machine for hours on end, and as a sophomore in the high school home economics class, I made a beautiful dress. Beautiful on the hanger that is, but hardly beautiful on me: very unbecoming, horrible—terrible! I let it hang there forever in the closet.
Eleanor and I were ten and twelve years old when a little recipe book arrived in the mail. I remember us together in the kitchen making a batch of fudge from one of the recipes. Really, Eleanor did most of it, while I busied myself being no more than a pest under foot, but she patiently let me help. Always right there crowding her in every thing, she would kindly put up with her pesky little sister. Of Eleanor, I told myself that she loved me, but that she didn't like me. There in our kitchen we cooked on an old, black coal and wood-burning stove. That was the first fudge I had tasted, and I think the best: it tasted so good. We made fudge during the winter, because we couldn’t do it in the summer. That old stove sure could heat the place up.
As a high school girl, I learned to bake cookies and simple deserts. Mama, happy for me to try everything, encouraged me, and I loved it. I clearly remember my first loaf of bread. My best girlfriends and I were in the class together. Rhoada Foster, our teacher, assigned us to mix and bake just a plain, white, ordinary loaf of bread. I guess I got my yeast too warm because everybody else's loaf rose up so beautifully and light, but mine stayed flat It looked and tasted awful. However, I simply excused the fiasco by saying, "Mine stooped to rise, but it forgot to get up.”
Now I have a recipe book that lets me make elegant hot rolls that I'm proud of. I can bake lots of things in my microwave oven, the small toaster oven and in my wonderful range oven. I've lived to experience a wonderful day and age and appreciate the inconceivable advancements and my good fortune to enjoy them.
In Solomonville there were six of us, all recently married and most with new little ones. We all loved music and we each had a good ear and could carry parts. We sang as a double trio at many functions in the community and by special invitation throughout the Valley. The diversion from the rigors of the daily routine were pleasant breaks. We loved the practices, the traveling together and singing as special guests.
I loved being a part of ward choirs and singing in other large groups. I sang with the Singing Mothers of the Solomonville, Thatcher and Layton (Safford) wards and took advantage of all opportunities. During Christmas time, the college in Thatcher presented the Messiah and invited members of the community to take part. I had been a part of many of them before marriage and continued afterward. Back then, as a married woman living away from Thatcher, the narrow winding road to Solomonville and back seemed like quite a jaunt for me—a whole ten miles away. Practices, though a ways distant from home were not only fun, but a welcome escape for tattered nerves, especially after number three arrived in but two-and-a-half years. Eleanor, my sister two years older, accompanied the choir as organist for many years. Jean, my baby sister, would also become the accompanist for many of the presentations. Both were recognized and in great demand for their advanced acumen as pianists and organists. Both, unlike me—I wasn’t the dedicated piano student that they were—played at everything everywhere.
Though I had a love for the piano and had been given every opportunity in time, expense and wonderful teachers, the same as Eleanor, I neglected practicing. Actually, it seems that the only time I really put my all to it was for the fifteen minutes just before I arrived for the next lesson. Piano came easy to me, for I learned to play quite decently for having been such a lazy student.
In Flagstaff for Darvil’s schooling and then in Solomonville for over two years, I recall how much I missed the piano. The year Sally Jo was born, Darvil bought me a brand new Gulbransen piano from Richardsons in Safford. I felt like the luckiest, richest person in the world. Since then, through the many years, I’ve always had the pleasure of beautiful pianos in my homes. I’ve so loved and appreciated them.
As my three little children grew older, I often gathered them to the piano to sing. During that time, the Church published a new, beautiful and sweet primary hymnal with a selection of delightful pieces for children. I bought one for each child and put their names in them. I don’t know what has become of Mac’s and Sally’s, but I still have Jon’s. I’ve promised it to him when I die—but, not until. Many of them were compositions by Mildred Petit, an unfamiliar name to me then. Years later after moving into the East Pasadena Ward, I met her and we became good friends.
After we moved to Pasadena, I missed singing in a choir and especially in three-part groups—my first love. After a while, I became acquainted with two nice women who invited me sing with a group of ward women. Informed of the once-a-week practiced, the first time I went, I looked up to see the director and in surprise, I said to myself, “I know her.” Her married name was Millard, and at the first break, I spoke to her asking if her maiden name was Knutson. She said yes and asked me how I knew. In response, I told her that her first name was LaVerne and that I remembered when she used to visit Thatcher and stay with her grandmother. I added that I remembered she eventually attended the junior college there: she confirmed what I’d said. She had a marvelous voice, an out-going personality and was an exceptional music director. Our group had outstanding accompanists too. Also, we were a service group. How I loved the music and taking part with them. Sadly, when LaVerne died, the group dissolved, and I sorely missed those friendships.
(DARVIL) CHORES AND JOBS DURING MY YOUTH
From the time I was a tag-along kid in the little community of Glenbar, one chore I never minded was to take the big, blue dishpan that had sprung a few leaky holes out to the wood pile, where Dad and my older brothers chopped wood to supply the kitchen stove and fireplace. There I gathered up the chips making sure the dishpan always stayed full and sat handily by the stove. We used the chips for ready fuel to quickly increase the heat of the fire in the stove.
Soon, big enough to work the handle up and down on the water pump outside—a short distance from the house—I became a little more useful. Lacking running water inside, Mother kept two buckets of water at the sink-like counter where she accomplished most of her kitchen work. Not only I, but others were responsible for the task too, we all were supposed to watch and help keep the buckets sufficiently full. I’m ashamed to say though, Mother was sometimes neglected, and she had to fetch the heavy water.
Our old hook-horned cow even learned to work the pump. When the watering trough went dry, she simply visited the pump, hooked her horn over the pump handle and pulled it down. The handle would raise back up primed with its own power, and then she'd hook it again and pulled it down a couple or three times more until the water ran freely from the spout. She'd slurp and lap at the cool stream, continuing the procedure until she slaked her thirst.
At five and six years of age, Grandfather Peter McBride and I became great pals. He took advantage of this and my hang-around ways to put me to work. He kept several hundred laying hens, and took me along to help gather eggs. He always paid me in kind, usually an egg a day. Granddad was real Scotch—without the soda. Headed home, I would put the egg in my pocket and the fragile shell usually broke to become just another job for poor Mother, but oh how I loved to help Grandpa! My fascination really peaked when an order of a couple of hundred chicks arrived. Until big enough to tolerate the outdoor weather, he kept them in a large room in the house. What a pleasure for a little guy to believe his grandfather needed him to help care for that fuzzy, peeping flock. I'm proud to say that when he let me fill the water jars and feed vats, I never stepped on—well, not too many—of those little, fuzzy, yellow balls.
Chickens and eggs were a business for Grandpa. Probably the first in the area to pack eggs in cardboard cartons for shipping to their several destinations in the State, he took great pride in his product. Each egg, with a red ink stamp on it, proudly disclosed its origin, "Peter McBride, Pima, Arizona," as though he personally had laid each egg himself. His largest markets were in the neighboring mining towns of Globe, Miami, Clifton and Morenci.
My first moneymaking experience occurred while still a lad after moving to Thatcher. I regularly patrolled the ditch-banks picking the young asparagus sprouts that would sprout again in three or four days after each picking. When the ditches were running and the banks moist, especially during late spring and summer, I walked the ditch banks all through town, reaping a bounteous harvest. I bundled the sprouts, tied each with a string, and went door to door selling them for a dime to the women, or for just a nickel if the bundle seemed a bit scrawny. The good women of the town, happy for the bargain, always bought, and they acknowledged that the price was good. And Nettie Phillips, the mother of the girl I had announced that I was going to marry, always bought one or several bundles from her future son-in-law—little knowing. It often became a major dish for my own family too, at which time I exulted in silent pride.
In those days, a penny bought considerably more than ten cents today. A dime in those days carried a lot of respect. (A penny then was equal to 17 cents today. A dime, $1.70.) Ten cents got me into a movie, bought a loaf of bread, two candy bars (much bigger than today's) two five-stick packs of gum or two eight-ounce soda pops in cute little bottles.
Occasionally, I picked up a few coins by keeping the neighbors chickens and livestock in feed and water, while they were away from home a few days.
Later, big enough to make my weight count, I earned money working in the hayfields as a loader. The loader, up on the rack (a low, flat, horse-drawn wagon without sideboards, that had a two-and-a-half-foot wide ladder six feet high at its front, which kept the hay from falling foreword against the horses, thus allowing a higher stack) I tromped the hay down by foot, as the pitcher with his pitchfork tossed the hay from the hay rows up onto the rack. Tromping compacted the hay, and that exercise packed the load to the maximum before it was haul to the barn, to the haystack or to the baler. A full load was piled six feet high, about as high as a person on the ground with a long-handled pitchfork could boost up a fork-full of hay. The farmers paid me at least one, and up to two dollars per day, and a day usually lasted eight to ten hours—more often, ten.
It was a hot, sticky and itchy job, and often a snake would come on board with a fork-full of hay. That quickly helped to brighten the drudgery of the day with high comedy. I guess a rattlesnake had at times been forked up too—for the roundabouts of our valley being desert—we were always on guard against the danger. And though the bordering flats and hills were infamous as rattlesnake country, I personally never experienced a rattler coming on board. It was always a gopher snake, a king snake or other harmless kind. After our own version of a snake dance (before we discovered it to be harmless) we would pick it up with the pitchfork and throw it back at the pitchers. I worked as a loader until 17.
At 17, stronger and tall enough to pitch a fork of hay, I graduated from the rack to the ground, a more demanding but more satisfying work. Now it became my turn to pitch the snakes up under foot of the loader and watch him do his own customized snake dance. Some farmers paid a pitcher, three dollars a day.
The next levels up in hayfield seniority were the jobs of “wire poker” and “wire tier (binder)” on the baling machine. The person tying put the wire through the header block from the right side of the baler. The poker received it on the opposite side and returned it through the block at the other end of the bale, where the tier grabbed it and tied the two ends. It demanded real expertise to manipulate three wires through and back, then tie the ends while the baler machine tried its darndest to shove the bail out the end and down the chute before we wanted it to escape. Dirty as it was dusty, it paid three-fifty to four dollars a day—and that wasn't hay in them days.
I detested picking cotton and always opted for the hayfield work when available. In picking, the payment was calculated by the pound, so a good professional picker could earn much more by picking than working in the hayfields. A father, especially one with a large family (for wife and kids worked with him) profited well during the picking season. Though I hated it, if the horizon was void of other options, appreciatively, I jumped to the task, for it meant ready, needed cash that Mother couldn’t supply.
Before starting my sophomore year of high school, Orlando decided to go to the East in pursuit of a master's degree at Columbia University. We agreed that I should forego that year of school to help finance his education. He agreed to repay me later, which he did.
That year, Henry Tanner, a co-owner of the Big Six store, employed me to tear down an old two-story, brick building. Though I received help from a few others tearing it down, the biggest and most tedious part involved the cleaning and stacking of the bricks. From the first brick to the very last, I alone, cleaned and stacked them all. The work from start to finish lasted six months, and during four of the months I worked by myself, lonesomely along. Seated on an old box, with trowel or hatchet in hand, I chipped away at the mortar on brick after brick. Finally, and without ceremony, I stood on a low stool, and, after kissing it, placed the last brick on top of its multitudinous brothers. (The old building owned by the Tanners had originally been the first L.D.S. Church Academy in Thatcher. Before that, the small town of Central, nearby, briefly accommodated the Academy.)
Blessed with good fortune, I became the janitor of the Thatcher Elementary School the rest of the year. The regular janitor had fallen from the roof, seriously injuring his back. When the school principal approached me and asked if I thought I could handle the job, ecstatic with the prospect I answered, "I sure can!" So from just before Christmas until the end of the school year, I worked as the school's sole janitor.
Again ready to attend high school after a full year of hard labor, someone, on my behalf (I always believed it was the school principal) put in a good word. The local Church leaders hired me as janitor of the St. Joseph Stake Center in Thatcher where our own ward met. Thereafter, that job paid my way through the rest of high school and through two years of junior college.
WORK IN CALIFORNIA—MY FIRST TRIP THERE: In my growing-up years the things I heard and read about California fascinated me. Increasing in population so fast, the job opportunities there beckoned young opportunists like I thought of myself as being. I vowed that if ever the opportunity came, like the Prodigal Son, I would try my luck among the flesh pots of the fabulous state to determine if I could come out with more than corn husks as a main diet.
Dates slip my mind, but when halfway through my junior year of high school, Uncle George Sims (my mother’s older brother), and Aunt Dora, moved their family to Los Angeles for the same reason that had been bugging me. Uncle George, a builder and finish carpenter should be able to find plenty of work in the purported building boom. I immediately looked upon my Uncle’s move as the opportunity I had been thinking about. On good terms with him and my Aunt and their kids, especially Dorothy and Opal, who were still at home, I felt sure they wouldn’t mind me coming out for the summer. Mother wrote Aunt Dora a note, and I was off-and-running.
My big problem now in making my dream come true was getting there. In that day, California was a long way away. I didn’t let that worry me too much for I had already made up my mind, that as a last resort, I would hitchhike. I immediately began plans to do just that when good fortune smiled on me again. Richard and ------- Chandler, both older than myself and close friends of Leonard, were planning a trip to Los Angles in an attempt to find a market for an ironing board he had invented. I think it was one of the first that would fold into the wall. I had seen it demonstrated and thought it a slick item, something that would lighten the work of the American housewife. For three dollars—a sum near the total of my present fortune—to help pay for the gas, I could ride with them. School was out for the summer on Friday. The following Monday I was off for adventures unknown.
Upon reaching L.A. my first adventure became a frustrating one. The Chandlers dumped me off on Washington Blvd. and Los Angeles Street where I could easily catch a streetcar out to Grand Avenue near where Uncle George lived, at that time well, out in the country. Richard said, “Tell the conductor you want to get off at Grand, he’ll call it out for you.”
Things wouldn’t have been so bad if I had known which way Grand Avenue was from Washington Blvd. The oddball at the cigar stand said to just watch for the car that said “Grand Avenue.” and “End of Route.” I got it in my head I had to catch a northbound car. As a result I let two south-bounds go by before the cigar man put me straight, which cost me an hour’s time. But I finally managed to board the next Grand Avenue car. I more than enjoyed the long ride through the outskirts of the city and out into the country. I say “long,” for the conductor forgot to call out Grand Avenue for me and I ended up two miles past it and at the end of his line.
Well, that was no great disaster for the pilot announced that the car would return to downtown L.A. immediately. When I remained on the car he asked me if I was returning to downtown. I told him that he was supposed to let me off at Grand. He said, “Oh, sorry. I’ll do it on the way back. From here we start a new run, so you’ll have to drop another dime.”
Like I said, missing Grand was no disaster, but digging down for another dime was. I told the conductor that it was his fault that I was here and I didn’t think I should have to pay for the ride back to my intended destination. He smiled at me and said, “Sorry kid. You’ll pay or get off.” I recognized the finality in his voice so reluctantly forked over the two nickels I had treasured all the way from Thatcher. The racket they made as they rattled into the metal counter was like a thunderclap in my head. Even so, I thanked my maker for the one quarter and two one dollar bills I still had that I hoped would assist my needs until I could find a job. Uncle George and Aunt Dora welcomed me with open arms. They treated me like a son that summer. Opal and Dorothy became my friends again and LeRoy and Leona showed up often enough that I had several good visits with them. Donald had gone to another city on some student project, so I didn’t see him.
It didn’t take me long to discover that the streets of Los Angeles were not paved with gold. My goddess of liberty held no torch or wore no crown. For two solid weeks I beat the streets and walks, back alleys and tin shops of every industrial sector of that sprawling metropolis, but no one wanted to hire a green kid from Arizona that had no idea how to go about applying for a job. Finally one day, sore feet, sunburn and abject discouragement kept me home. Aunt Dora tried to encourage me to keep at it, but I just said, “I’ll just take a day off.” Then good fortune came to my rescue the third time. This time it sounded much larger than a grin. Uncle George came home from work that evening with news that a position was open where he worked, and if I would ride to Hollywood with him in the morning he might be able to help me get the job.
The thing sounded glorious to me for Uncle George worked for Universal Studios in Hollywood as a finish carpenter in the construction of movie props where fine finish work was needed. He told me that at first I wouldn’t be working with him, but in the rough construction of buildings for movie scenes and sets; mostly the kind of false fronts that were hurriedly thrown up and torn down so the movie business would move on along. He would eventually try to get me moved to easier work if I proved myself a dependable hand.
Well, I got the job; they started me that morning at 50 cents an hour, a surprising figure; I had expected no more than 35 or 40. Hard work it proved to be, but I enjoyed it immeasurably for I had had some experience in construction and knew how to handle hammer and saw. Besides I was smarter than the seeming riffraff I worked with.
One day after four or five weeks of rough construction Uncle George said to me, “If someone comes around to see you about transferring, don’t let him know you are a relative of mine.”
That was the beginning of my job as carpenter helper to Uncle George and a couple of other men he worked with. Though they kept me too busy keeping them supplied with materials, tools and pulling nails from used lumber to find opportunity to do much sawing or hammering, the job was a joy. Besides that, I now received a whopping 60 cents per hour. But when I remember the number of hours I put in on sanding the finished work, things like stair banisters, window frames and every do-dad it took to decorate a Hollywood movie set, I’m sure I earned the extra dime.
Since we had been issued passes that admitted us to the Universal lot, I found that the magic card also gave me access to many parts of the movie complex. Anxious to spot at least one movie star while there, I spent most of my noon hour exploring the scenery and small working studios where such might be seen. My diligence finally paid off, though low key. I did see one genuine movie star, Laura La Plante, who was popular at that time. Someone told me she was filming in studio 8, so I haunted the grounds and side walks around the place until rewarded with my thirty-second glance at celebrity and glamour.
All too soon the summer passed and school beckoned in Thatcher. I cheated a little by missing the first week for I knew President Taylor wouldn’t turn away a blossoming senior like me, especially when it meant another $24 in his shallow pocket. Also that’s when my ride would be leaving Los Angeles, for again good fortune had smiled pleasantly upon me. While attending Relief Society, Mother had heard Tillie Mortensen McClellen say that her brother, Jess, would be driving home from California on a certain date. When Mother approached her about me looking for a ride home, she graciously volunteered to contact Jess who was teaching athletics at Riverside Junior. College. (He would eventually become the track coach at UCLA.) It would work out fine if I’d be there at noon on the day he was leaving. That, of course, became a problem, but with some doing and bus fare I hated to part with—I had been salting away every penny I could—I arrived on time. Jess and his other passenger, Helen Payne, delivered me to my door the evening of the following day.
I was proud that I had been to California where I had managed to accomplish my purpose—money for another school year. By being extra stingy I had managed to get home with a whopping 250 dollars, a small fortune for a high school senior in the thirties during the Great Depression. I immediately took it, all cash (for that’s how we’d all been paid) to Safford, where I opened a checking account. I wasn’t about to keep that much cash kicking around the house, and having a bank account did fascinate me. I only had to write a check or two while other students were looking on to become known as a moneyed man with a bank account. I remember old Paul Alder, son of a well-to-do farmer, after he had questioned me at some length, saying: “Gee! Wouldn’t that be great to have a bank account you could write a check on whenever you needed something. I’m gonna ask my Dad to help me get one.”
I think the $250 brought me more respect from my student friends than something really worthwhile, or for anything else I had ever done. I’m sure it became the one good reason that I was elected senior class president that year—and it carried through to play a big part in my election to president of the college student body the next year—proving that although the money didn’t last anywhere near that long, the memory of the check-writing moneyed man lingered.
I enjoyed that kind of attention, but to my dismay, and oftentimes grief, I found myself the target of those friends who never seemed able to come up with a whole dollar during the week that would admit them to the old Armory Saturday night dances. Some of them after enjoying the loan could never understand why I wanted my money back—since I had plenty in the bank. I remember Banty Lines telling me I was crazy for loaning Ray Ferrin a whole dollar. He warned that Ray would never be able to get that much together at one time—even should he want to square up with me.
Besides popularity my adventures in the great metropolis of Los Angeles managed to also bring me some ridicule. I tried very hard to not boast about my accomplishment and adventure, but I could hardly mention in conversation anything about my exciting experience without someone piping up with a sarcastic, “Oh, have you been to California?” which generally brought some kind of disconcerting guffaw from whoever was around. Well, it’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow somebody good, so I guess it’s a good wind that doesn’t blow somebody bad. Any way, that’s the only time in my life that I was ever considered a moneyed man—a mere $250. Today it would take $250,000 or more.
Though in the California experience, the trip there and back had been long and hard; I hadn’t minded the dirt road with its many miles of washboard ripples that often jolted you out of your seat; or the dips and curves that took you in and out of every draw and canyon (they built few bridges in those days). Service stations were few and far between, and some cars had to carry extra cans of gasoline. We didn’t mind the time it took for the station attendant to hand pump the gallons into our car, or fix a flat that had to be pried off the rim with hand tools then beat back on with a rubber mallet and often inflated with a hand-pump; it was all an expected part of the game. Nor did we particularly mind the absence of something no one had ever heard of yet—air conditioning.
The Cattle Drive Experience: Martin Stewart, the husband of my oldest sister, Gladys, eight and one-half years my senior, visited in our home in Thatcher one day, and as he prepared to leave he asked me if I knew how to ride a horse. When I said yes, he told me his family needed an extra hand to help drive a small bunch of cattle south from their Heber ranches to the railroad for shipping.
Excited at the prospect of the adventure and needing the work, I grabbed my hat, clothes and gear I would need, and we were off on our way to a very small community called Calva. Located about 30 miles distant just west of Geronimo, Calva was close to the Apache Indian town and Agency of San Carlos on the San Carlos Indian Reservation. The stock corrals were there at the side of the railroad. The ranchers of the greater area used them for holding-pens for their cattle while waiting to load them for shipment to market.
At the Calva corrals, we turned north onto the dirt road. As we followed it up into the higher desert, it changed into a two-track trail that dwindled into not much more than a path, and that was the end for the car; we left it and continued a steady hike northward. We trudged along without water or food, for Mart figured we would soon meet the drive that had started a few days before from their ranches. We moved right along at a good pace for more than an hour and finally reached the spot where he expected the herd to be by then.
Brigham Stewart was somewhere up ahead in wild country riding with the driver-cook in the chuck wagon. Lee, one of his six sons, a friend of mine just a few years older than me, rode herd with only one hired hand. They had been hoping to see Mart and whatever help he would bring. The journey southward had not been a simple one for only three riders.
The sun settled ever closer to the horizon, I began to sense some anxiety in Mart. Then, up ahead in the distance we barely heard the bawl of a Bull. We stopped while Mart waited to hear more sounds. The bull bawled a couple of times more, and Mart, with relief, knew that that was them. He named the very bull we could hear, saying, “That’s old Bucksnort,” for he indeed knew his bellar.
When we reached the herd, we found they had all ready made camp, and Brig was helping the cook prepare the supper while the other two watched the cattle. They had two extra bedrolls for us, and after we ate and visited a while, we bedded down for the night. In the morning, we ate breakfast, saddled our horses and were on our way.
As we rode along flanking the herd, we had to watch carefully while in the taller, thick brush, guarding against breakaway escapees. We crossed a couple of stretches of terrain that were talcum-powder-fine and just as dry. The dust raised by those 600 hoofs became a blinding cloud, and for us downwind we would have suffocated had we not pulled our kerchiefs up over our noses. The job wasn’t hard for the five of us; we kept them properly bunched and headed off an occasional stray and took watch-turns through the night. I spent two more nights on the trail and most of three days driving the herd to Calva.
In the evenings after supper we enjoyed our visits, and among other captivating stories, Brig told me how well he had known my Dad. He had campaigned against him for the office of County Sheriff and had come off the looser. He knew others of my family too, and said nice things about them all, and all-in-all, he made me feel quite comfortable and appreciated. After the killings of my Father and his deputies under the hands of the Power family, the County Supervisors had appointed Brig to fill out the term as acting sheriff until the next election. He told me that he and a deputy had been the ones to drive to Fort Hachita, New Mexico, where the captured fugitives had been brought out of Mexico by a detachment of U.S. Army Cavalry. They drove them back in chains to the Graham County jail to face charges.
When the train arrived, we herded them one by one up the loading ramp into the waiting cars. The rule of the railroad company stated that after loading, if the cow was still standing, the responsibility for them became theirs until delivered. If a cow went down in the rail car before the train pulled out, it was the ranch’s loss, unless the cowboys could get it up immediately and it appeared satisfactorily sound. The arduous desert drive left a few of them in pretty poor shape, and a few of them were down in the corral as we loaded the rest. Those Stewart boys knew their cowboy business—the tricks of getting a reluctant, weak animal up. A couple of them would get on each side and heft, while a man at the rear twisted the tail. Once on its feet, in full sight of the judge, we all together, as needed, drug, pushed, pulled and lifted the animal up the ramp into the car. They called it “Tailing’em-up.” Only one cow failed the okay of the railroad official.
The son, Lee, with whom I’d developed a friendship in times past was young, lithe and sinewy; one of the finest horsemen and cowpunchers I’d ever seen in action. He along with Mart, were a pleasure to work with and to watch perform in their art. I knew all of the Stewart boys, and maybe it was a mellowing with age, but it seemed to me that the younger the brother in the family, the tougher, quicker and harder he was. As I recall, Cliff and Dave had been out of the cow business for several years.
Summers at the Power mine: In 1918 shortly after my ninth birthday, my father and two of his deputies were killed in the line of duty deep in the wilds of the Galiuro Mountains. Consequently, negotiating with the County and the State, their mining claims were awarded to the three families of the murdered men. For several years thereafter we were required to do assessment work on the claims to keep them current.
In the summer of 1926, at the age of seventeen, much against my mothers wishes, I persuaded her to let me go with my brother Leonard, four years older; Albert Phillips, a cousin two years older; Gene Kempton, and a younger fellow with Gene, about my age, whose name I’ve forgotten. The latter two represented the Kempton family. Also, there was an old fellow named Tom—an expert in dynamite and black powder blasting. It would take two weeks to renew our claim for another year.
At this point, the kid my age merits brief mention. My memory triggers the belief that he probably was a transient farm worker the Kemptons had hired to help satisfy their fair share of the assessment work. He was a bit hard to take, because he seemed to be without initiative, useless in most situations, undependable and lacking in sociability—besides, he was a slop around camp and downright dirty. In all fairness, though, and probably no fault of his, he lacked the cultural upbringing and integrity that the rest of us had as beneficiaries of fine forefathers and family environment—free gifts to us, but absent from his background. Basically a good person, he did serve the group sufficiently in certain responsibilities, and we treated him with kind inclusion during our stay.
We had arranged a ride with a friend for the first 45 miles to Klondike where the road toward the Galiuros branches off. From there we bumped along for another 25 miles in a hired truck with our supplies until we reached the top of the Power dug-way. We had arranged for a pack mule to use when we arrived. After packing the mule with our supplies we dropped down the steep dug-way into Rattlesnake Canyon with the laden mule while carrying our own packs. We hiked seven miles up the canyon contending with fallen trees along the creek all the way, then another hard mile up and over the hill and down into Keilberg Canyon to the mine. (Unable to carry in all the supplies the first trip, Leonard returned the next day with the mule and brought in the rest.) It was quite an experience for me. Of an age hungry for adventure, I enjoyed every bit of it. The remote, rough, dry, mountain terrain with many remnants of bygone days of mining and ranching proved a wild, giant-step into the past. Some of it would forever conceal answers to questions of my roots.
There, I had my first look at the scene of the historic shoot-out. The old cabin from which the infamous gunfire cut down my Father was there and still in good shape. With morbid and emotional interest, I looked over the rest of the place where four men were killed and two were wounded. I examined the old mine tunnel entrance, with its shoring, that disappeared back into the darkness of the hole. The shoring was in good shape and required no repairs. At 6,000 feet elevation, though not real cool, the weather was not baking hot like the lower altitudes. The creek had ceased to run, but the spring ran sufficient water, and then some, to supply our needs.
Before long I had walked down the trail to the Murdock camp where I met the man who first viewed the sickening death scene at the Power cabin. Jay Murdock lived a mile from the Power mine down the canyon and a few hundred yards, up what was called Trail Canyon. He played an important part in the documented history I have written about the terrible killings. (Refer to THE EVADERS or Wilderness Shoot-out, 1984, by Darvil B. McBride.) He had been first at the scene after hearing the shots and had talked to the three living murderers he met along the way as they began their flight from their fouled domain. When he discovered we were at the mine, he expressed a willingness to show and explain all the sordid details of the ugly scene he’d discovered and share his personal opinions.
He showed us the exact places where he found the bodies of my Dad and his deputies, Martin Kempton and Kane Wooton, plus the place the Power brother’s father had been shot, including where he’d been carried to, inside the mine and left to die. He pointed out the bullet damage and holes on the outside logs, door and window frames of the cabin, and inside where the bullets had lodged in permanent rest. He pointed to the spaces of missing chinking between the logs at the back of the cabin. There, through that space, their friend, Tom Sisson, had leveled his rifle and shot Dad through both knees. Then, after Dad fell, he shot him in the stomach. Later, after the shooting, with all three officers down, on closer examination of Dad’s plight, they thought him still possibly alive. So, they shot him in the temple with John’s 45-automatic pistol. All very interesting, but it resurrected my old nightmares of the announcement of the tragedy, bringing the bodies in, the funeral and mourning, the man-hunt and capture, the hearings and trials and consequent suffering for three young, spouseless wives and 19 fatherless children.
We brought an 8 by 10-foot, gable-end, canvas tent with us. They put me and my sloppy friend in the tent, while the others slept on the floor of the cabin. An old stove and fireplace were still usable in the cabin with which we cooked our meals and used when needed for warmth. Also we cooked with a Dutch oven outside over an open fire. Our eating fare was limited to the normal stuff such a remote camp allowed. We ate canned goods and bread, but when we ran out of bread, Tom, a fine Dutch oven, biscuit maker, kept us supplied and happy. We soon ran out of butter, but we resorted to pan cakes—we had plenty of syrup. We wished for some meat when our bacon ran out, and though we saw plenty of out-of-season deer, the forest rangers, though seldom seen, were too much of a threat. Our camp became quite comfortable as we, in time, fashioned the little extras. Not only did we endure, we enjoyed the freedom of our rough existence, and most of the time, each others company. The weather stayed clear, rain from a leaky roof never had a chance to discomfort us.
With the assessment work in full swing, and blasting nearly every day, we had plenty of pick and shovel work and ore hauling-out to do. Early in the labor I had an experience that put the fear of death into me. But thank heavens, with the help of old Tom, I kept my head, or who knows, we might have lost our explosives expert, old Tom himself—and me—myself.
Working down in a 30-foot-deep shaft, in a blasted-out room of about 25 feet square, we had some twelve holes already drilled, ready to tamp the dynamite sticks into. Anyone could drill the holes, but for the safety of all, Tom tamped the sticks into place and set the fused caps to ready everything before lighting the fuses. Tom, the other young kid and I, were to light the fuses as simultaneously as possible. Then, we two were to quickly climb the long ladder up the shaft ahead of Tom because we were younger, more agile and faster; and remember, Tom had a gimpy leg and didn’t want to delay our escape.
To light multiple fuse ends quickly, one uses a length of fuse referred to as a spit: a red-hot, fire-spiting, length of fuse so hot that it lights fuse ends easily and immediately. Using matches would take up too much time. Well, Tom lit the three spits, handed one to each of us, and we three began to light our designated fuses. With six or so of them lit, the combined hisses grew louder as the smoke and smell hit our nostrils, and might be imagined some were burning much too fast. The kid lost control and suddenly panicked, he threw down his sizzling spit and yelled out a filthy oath, for he had but one thing on in mind—abandon the hole of the doomed ship. He hit the ladder a-running, his first step hit the fifth wrung; he scampered up its length like a tail-a-fire monkey. Tom hollered to me firmly, “Don’t panic Mac,” and we both stayed and lit the rest of the fuses. At the ladder, he gave me a boosting start, and he, with that gimpy leg, climbed out after me. Because of the deserter we were delayed significantly, causing me some second thoughts too. Despite being abandoned, we reached safety with plenty of time to spare, and needless to say, the kid wasn’t used in that phase of the operation—ever again.
(The summer of 1927, I worked for the Indian Service, but to keep continuity in the Power mine experiences, my next visit is described now.)
During the summer of 1928, the nation was falling off the edge, into the Great Depression. My oldest brother, Floyd, five and one-half years my senior, and Leonard, nearly four years my senior, were both married and out of work pondering what to do. Floyd had worked as an electrician in the mines of Globe and Miami and Leonard had been employed in several different jobs. Both had worked at the mine in the Galiuro Mountains, where Dad had been killed. The mining company, operating there at the time, held the lease, and was owned by a fine man, Mr. Page, who knew us. While at the mine, Floyd and Leonard had tried their hand at panning gold and believed they could make good wages at it now. At nineteen years of age, in between school years, I decided to throw in with them, since I too needed work for the summer.
We made arrangements with Page to allow us to pan the tailings (waste discarded by the regular mining operation) from the dump. Furthermore, we made arrangements to get there via the next truck headed to the mine. Mart Stewart, Gladys' husband, took us to the turnoff road at Klondike where we loaded our gear on the mine truck which carried us to the ridge over which we would cross to reach the mine in Kielberg canyon in the Galiuro Mountains.
To get there required traveling over a rough, 25-mile dirt road. At the roads end, we came to the steep dug-way road, dozed out and repaired since our last visit. It dropped down the dug-way slope into Rattle Snake Canyon. Because of excessive steepness, a bulldozer with a tow cable waited to let the trucks down and then tow them up when they returned loaded with ore. In this way, we were lowered down into the canyon, avoiding the steep hike down its mile-long length. (The original dug-way was built by the Powers. They began mining after its construction.)
This summer, with the old cabin unavailable to us, we camped in Rattle Snake Canyon in what was called “the old saloon.” From there, just over the ridge into Keilberg Canyon, lay the Power Mine. The saloon had been part of a little town called Gold Mountain that had flourished until the ore played out. The town had been named after a mountain with a huge overhanging cliff under which a great tunnel had been carved deep into it. Work there had come to a halt in 1910, eighteen years before.
Because of the rough ridge between Rattlesnake and Keilberg, the truck could not make it over to the mine. Burros packed the ore from the Power Mine over the ridge and unloaded the sacks at the old saloon. There, the truck loaded the sacks to haul the ore to Globe for processing. However, some of the ore was processed at the mine, where the gold was extracted from the excess, and the molten gold was cast into ingots.
The mine allowed us to take some of the loose stuff from the bags and pan it for gold as well as pan from the dump at the mine site. Lucky for us too, the year had been a wet one and the creeks in Keilberg Canyon and Rattlesnake Canyon ran strong. We had plenty of water for panning and for campsite needs, for Rattlesnake Creek nearly licked at our doorstep.
We were camped at an elevation of 6,000 feet. Though not cool by any means during the daytime, we again were grateful to be avoiding the baking heat of the valley. And, nights generally required an extra blanket.
After the camping quarters were put in order, which included beds hanging from the rafters of the ramshackle building to avoid chance meetings with rattlesnakes in the dark of night, I decided a mud oven for baking would be handy and add to the comfort of our rough existence—I would build one. Because of weight limitations imposed upon us by the mining company, we couldn’t bring Dutch ovens, which would have been easier than building a mud oven. As it was, the truck we had begged a ride on, loaded to the gills and pulling at its limit, barely made it.
I’d never built a mud oven before, but I had seen them and understood the basic design requirements and I built it to accommodate the pan we’d brought. It stood about two feet high and 18” wide with a lower compartment for the fire and the upper oven chamber with the pan as its floor. The primary heat under the oven circulated up the back and over the top of the baking area and out a flu or chimney exiting from the top front. I used pieces of scrap tin and boilerplate I found laying around for the interior and the door, and clay laden mud from the bank of the creek. It worked smooth as a top. With appreciation of all, we really enhanced our meals. Before our adventure ended, I had even ventured into baking pies.
We usually had meat. Not long after arriving I poached a deer out of season. We hung it up some distance from camp to avoid detection by the occasional ranger and enjoyed fresh meat for many days. From what we couldn’t finish fresh, we made jerky, and the jerky lasted us the entire stay. We powdered the jerky with a hammer on a slab of boilerplate and mixed it with some grease and flower to make delicious gravy to go on our bread and biscuits, steaming fresh from the mud oven. Leonard got a shot at another buck later, but more fresh venison escaped us. Rabbits abounded and we killed a few of those, but the cost of a 30/30 rifle cartridge didn’t merit the amount of meat we harvested; the cash for a cartridge was hard to come by then.
About 150 yards up the canyon from our camp at the old saloon stood a log cabin referred to as the “Ola cabin.” Ola Power had lived there while the men of her family lived in the saloon, before the family bought the mine over the ridge and moved to the cabin there. Killed under mysterious circumstance at the age of 19, her death became one of the enigmas of the Power affair. (See the account in THE EVADERS—A Wilderness Shoot-out.) Those few who knew her agreed that she was an attractive shy young woman and popular with the young swains of Klondike. She would sometimes accompany her brother, Tom, to the dances.
At the time, Ola’s cabin was occupied by a fellow whose name I have forgotten. It doesn’t matter because Leonard nicknamed him Saber-Tooth. He had lost his four, upper front teeth leaving the two canines (eye-teeth) on each side. They had over-erupted and appeared somewhat like those of a saber tooth tiger. Hence, we never called the cabin after Ola, but instead, we called it the saber-tooth cabin—unless Saber-Tooth was within earshot.
This man, about 45 years old, knew considerable about mining. He spent most of his time scouting the neighboring canyons and hills prospecting for gold. We accompanied him on some hikes as he pointed out the “hanging walls,” the strata within which one might find gold ore deposits that could have collected through the millennia. Generally, tunnels probed through the skree to the hanging wall in search of the gold-bearing ore. A very interesting man indeed, as he shared much of his knowledge about mining and prospecting.
Two weeks slipped by and Leonard received word from his wife, Olive, that work was available for him. He left Floyd and I there, and we spent most of our time panning the dumped tailings.
I don’t know if we panned enough gold to make it financially worth while, but at the end of a couple of months, I was satisfied with just the adventure and good time I had had with my two older brothers. Floyd, with a wife and young son to support was strapped financially, so in the end Leonard and I decided to just let Floyd have all that we’d panned. I never knew the value of it, but Floyd took it to globe for amalgamation to be cast into the proper size ingots to be bought by the government. I believe the amount we all contributed was well worth the time Floyd had spent.
During those days, we had been seeing some large, green, colorful black beaked parrots with yellow and red about the neck, head and wings with a few red feathers. They mostly congregated around the saber-tooth cabin; a couple of big trees grew there that for some reason they liked. There, only off and on, we usually saw them in bunches of six or eight up to a couple of dozen at a time. I believed that they were away foraging in the forest for food during most of the day. We took great interest in watching them, hearing their raucous squawking and wished we could trap one for a pet.
Later I found that they were called the “Thick Billed Parrot” and that they migrated up through Mexico following the maturation of pine cones which occurred gradually later in the season the further north the conifer forests grew. The Galiuros range was probably their furthest northern reach, and when logging destroyed the continuos path of their former migration route, they ceased to migrate as far north as Arizona. However, they still flourished in Mexico, and within the last few years, the State Department of Game and Fish has thwarted smuggling of birds across the Arizona border. With the confiscated birds, the State Department has re-established self-propagating flocks that reside year-round in the Chiracauhua Mountains of Southeastern Arizona.
Working for the Indian Service: Joe Reidhead, his pretty sister and their pretty cousin (brothers had married sisters, so she was a double cousin) came to Thatcher from Show Low for school. Joe attended the high school as a sophomore. I was a high school senior, and the third and fourth high school classes went to school in the same building with the junior college students. So, I went to school in the same building with Joe’s sister, a freshman in college, and with their cousin, also a college freshman. The three had made arrangements to rent living quarters in our home for the school year. With school and house in common, we soon became good friends. (My wife insists that we were too friendly. She thought the cousin would have been all too happy to steal me away from her.)
Joe had been raised on a large cattle ranch and he loved horses with a passion. After he had settled in to stay, he showed us photographs of his family and his horses. Mother and I sat visiting with him for some time while he explained each photo. Later, Mother said to me, "You know Darvil, while we visited with Joe, I learned every horse's name, but I didn't hear a single name of any of his family."
I soon discovered that for the upcoming summer (of 1927) Joe had employment with the Department of the Interior—Bureau of Indian Affairs. So I too applied for a job and requested that we be assigned as partners in the work. I received notice of acceptance to work at the remote Maverick Lake lookout tower as a fireguard (more commonly referred to as a smoke-chaser) located in the middle of the Fort Apache Indian Reservation in the White Mountains of Northern Arizona. It boasted the highest fire lookout tower in the White Mountains. The request to be partners had been honored, and at the semester’s end, Joe and I headed north to begin one of the great adventures of our lives.
On June 14, we were dispatched on horseback up the trail to our destination, by way of the old trail off the dirt road about 50 miles northeast of the White River Indian Agency at White River. (The closest town of any size is McNary, a well known lumber community. Though on the reservation, the lumber mills were managed by non-Indian private concerns.) Smack-dab in the middle of a great remote wilderness, we set up housekeeping in a small, one-room cabin at the foot of the steel tower that became our home for most of the summer. From the tower’s tiny glass enclosure, 94 feet higher than the crest of the peak, we reveled in the perfect panoramic view of the pine-clad forested canyons, valleys and ridges stretching uninterrupted for miles and miles in all directions.
During the summer employment, we dressed in Levi pants, flannel lined Levi denim jackets, western style cowboy boots and felt hats.
Since only one of us had to be on lookout on the tower, we took turns. The one on the ground could do the work at hand to make living more comfortable: maintaining the equipment, tending the horses, and hunting. Moreover, we could scout around and be doing fun things of personal interest until a smoke was sighted. Once the man in the tower spotted a fire, one of us stayed in the tower while the other caught up the horses, saddled one and loaded the pack animal (which generally belonged to the Indian Bureau) with equipment and supplies. He then headed out for the smoke to try to control it alone, while the spotter remained to keep track of the progress and call for additional help as necessary.
My good friend Joe, one of the finest horsemen and cowboys I'd ever known, willingly shared indispensable knowledge with me that helped me accomplish the tasks of our job. Though I had knowledge in the arts of camping, hunting, fishing, and survival, Joe began to impart to me important knowledge he’d grown up with on a ranch. He broadened horizons of essentials that would stand me in good stead throughout life. Born and raised on a ranch, he really knew his business. Hardly a drugstore cowboy, Joe had expertise in everything pertaining to horses and mules and all aspects of ranch life. He could ride, break a horse, shoe and manage them, and he understood the handling of cattle just as well. My experience with riding horses had been only with the farm’s barnyard pony. Joe taught me skills regarding a cowpony that I had no idea were necessary to survive the kind of job we had embarked upon.
Our cabin sat right next to the drift fence that separated two ranches: the Double-Circle and the 4-V-Bar. We continually saw cattle from both ranches on each side of us. So along with learning the many ins-and-outs of wildfire control, I learned to ride well, and rope calves, which naturally led into roping an occasional wild cow with calf—only to borrow a little milk for the table—of course. As soon as we had neck-roped one, the partner would catch one leg with his loop. We would stretch her out slowly until she lost balance and went down. Then we milked her. We couldn’t keep her in the little corral next to the cabin for too long, for the feed was too sparse, and the calf would suffer short rations if we purloined an excess portion of its livelihood. No big problem though, we just let her go and went out and roped another one to use for a week. We usually had plenty of fresh milk and cream, and the cold night air cooled the milk and kept it nicely. It would last up to three days. If it clabbered I made it into cottage cheese like I had watched Mother do for years, nothing went to waste.
With the cow in the corral, we didn’t have to throw her to milk her. With head or horns roped, we snubbed her tight up against a sturdy post; then noosed the outside, hind leg and stretched her along the fence by tying it to another post. In that position, snubbed tightly against the fence, standing on one hind leg, the poor animal could neither kick nor gore; we milk her without risking our lives.
Since we were in the middle of the Indian Nation, the Indian Authorities allowed us to hunt to keep ourselves in fresh meat. We ate a fair amount of venison, for Joe and I each killed a deer while we were there; and an Indian sent up to help us for two weeks of cleanup around the grounds of the cabin, also killed one. On another hunt, I killed a big, old, gobbler turkey. Scuffling around we finally found something big enough to roast him in. But, I guess I wasn’t steeped quite well enough in wild turkey culinary art. That was the toughest stuff I’d ever tried to sink teeth into. However, since it was real meat, smelled right and tasted good, we ate it down to its last chewy chunk. After eating that bird, had I been an Indian, I might have appropriately been named Chief Strong Jaw. On another hunt, I shot two young turkey friars out of the top of a tall pine tree. I’ll never forget the force with which they fell through the branches and thudded the ground. From the sound, I actually feared the awful impact had ruined much good meat, but it didn’t. It probably had a tenderizing effect; they were delicious, and unlike the old gobbler, they were juicy and tender.
The place literally abounded with wildlife: not only with deer and turkey, but with such as porcupine, badgers, a few quail, bandtail pigeons, sage hens and fool hens. I bagged one of the fool hens. They and sage hens are species of grouse. Grouse is a meat that is hard to top! About the size of a small chicken, I remember it being a better flavor than the turkeys; A more quail-flavored, lighter meat. They are called fool hens because they fool you. They look much like a barnyard hen.
One day I killed a large rattler, the blackest snake I had ever seen. Sunning itself on a high boulder it rattled at me as I rode by. As I dispatched it with the 30-30 I humorously thought, “that should be a lesson to all noisy creatures that startle me out of my skin.” We saw plenty of bear and mountain lion tracks and sign, but they proved wary and too elusive unlikely to be caught by the human eye. However, one day I came face to face with a huge bobcat that put shivers down my spine—and a heaving scare into the stubborn mule I was riding. Making my way down a narrow, brushy draw to check on a wisp of distant smoke Joe had spied, the cat aggressively jumped to his feet and spit a hiss at the mule, whose head had just come within 10 feet of where it was sleeping on a protruding ledge. If an animal ever turned wrong side out to reverse forward progress—that mule did it. How I managed to stay with him, I don’t know, but in seconds he had me a hundred yards back up that thorny draw, giving no heed to the brush and limbs tearing at my legs and arms. Pull on the reins as I might, that mule refused stop until he darn well wanted to. I had lost my hat, so the top of my head, my face and other parts were a bloody mess. And do you think that stubborn hybrid would go back down that draw—not on your life—I had to search out another route to get to the lightning-strike smoke.
Keeping meat fresh in camp is always a problem, but our peak was cool and dry. The meat cooled quickly when placed in the shade, and given a night, fresh venison or meat of any kind keeps for a surprising length of time. Wrap wet burlap around it in the shade, cool it quicker and it lasts even longer. It had its limits though, but under no circumstances did we ever waste an ounce. We knew how much we would be able to put away before spoiling set in. We cut what remained into small strips, salted and peppered it and hung it out to dry to make jerky. Jerky came in extra handy when one had to be away on a fire. Light to carry, it tasted good and was handy and gave us protein to round out our rations. We also used it to good advantage in meals at the cabin. We often pounded the hard, lean strips into a course powder and mixed it with grease, flour and milk, or water, to make a savory gravy.
Along with insects, especially grasshoppers, beetles, ants and a few lizards, we saw gray squirrels and numerous chipmunks. Chipmunks are the smallest of the rodents classified as ground squirrels. They are the cutest and the prettiest of them all. With their black and orange back-stripes; bushy tails that seem to float as they wave back and forth in a figure “S”; their delicate, long-whiskered, miniature, fox-like faces seem to be asking questions. They were so tame, approaching so close I could easily kill them with my flipper, which now and then I did for fun—for a bloodthirsty kid to keep in practice. If I tossed bits of food out and stayed real still, they would move in even closer.
I began to make a habit of sitting on the cabin doorstep where I would toss out a few crumbs. Here they would come a-running; ignoring the danger I might pose, in their eagerness for the tidbits. I then would hold a piece of food between fingertips enticing them to take it from me. Soon, certain ones would jump on my lower legs and travel up over my knee and sit on my lap to feed from my hand. One became so tame that I decided to catch him. I sat with my gloved hand strategically positioned, and when he reached the key spot on my knee, with a short, quick swipe—I had him.
Since he only bit my glove a couple of times and soon calmed down, I decided I’d keep him for a pet. I built a nice cage complete with a small scamper-wheel that he learned to use right away. I’ll tell you, he could put that wheel through a real performance as he exercised. We kept him up in the tower for company and entertainment. We enjoyed watching him and feeding him up there for several weeks. But one day, he escaped from the cage. A tower windows was open, and of a sudden, he took full advantage of it, scampering through it onto a narrow metal ledge. I knew that I must catch him, for a fall from that height, it seemed, would surely kill him. Ever so slowly, I reached out the opening carefully closing the gap between him and my hand. An instant before the grab he jumped out into mid-air.
My heart in my throat, I leaned out the window and watched him fall. He spread his four legs wide like a leaping frog. The loose skin between the front and back legs along his sides spread wide catching air like a two slender parachutes. Down he floated at a good clip. With a thud he hit flat in a dusty spot; dust flew, momentarily veiling him from sight. When it cleared, the poor, stunned, little guy ran around in circles, but to my relief he promptly came to his senses and raced for cover into a pile of loose limbs. Around and around the pile I searched for him. Already I was in mourning for the loss of company. A pet that could fall 94 feet and survive was certainly worth keeping. Though I saw chipmunks in and around the debris where he had taken refuge, for the next several days, they all looked so much alike, that I never knew for sure which one was him. For certain though, I knew he was all right and probably didn’t miss our company a fraction as much as we missed his.
We had been on the job a couple of weeks before I began to wonder about the possibility of some kind of fishing hole or stream near enough to warrant saddling up and riding for my supper. I had brought with me, to the peak, the barest essentials of tackle (if you could call it that): a braided fishing-line wrapped around a short pencil that I kept in my jacket pocket, and a couple of trout hooks that I had secured to the crown of my old felt hat. Really, nothing else was needed, except, a flexible length of willow cut from the ready supply that always flourished along a mountain stream or spring. The day we had first packed in to our Maverick home we had crossed a healthy looking creek some four or five miles before we topped out at the peak. The map at the tower showed it to be Paddy Creek. I decided to give it a try at the first opportunity. In the same canyon, but a couple of miles on down the trail from the spring where we were forced to go for our water supply, Paddy Creek ran deep and clear where it tumbled down the steep decent from pool to pool.
Delight. I began to lick my lips as I rode expectantly along the creek. I found trout in all the pools, and to my further delight they were Arizona’s native speckled trout, found only in some Arizona waters. I was soon off Old Coon looking for bait, but search as I might I could not find bugs or worms with which to bait the hook, not even a spotted grasshopper. However, I did have my flipper (sling shot) and without much trouble I managed to kill a small bird. I used its entrails for bait, and I’m sure the fish thought they were nightcrawlers, for with gusto they swallowed them whole. Soon, and without even getting my feet wet, I had pulled out several nice fish for our evening meal.
I soon learned, to my satisfaction, that in this isolated Indian reservation land, the roaming angler seldom showed his face in such inaccessible places as the distant and nearly roadless vastness of the great White Mountain wilderness. Every place we cast our line, fishing always proved the greatest.
A cow pony not ridden for some time instinctively reverts to the wild. The longer he's left un-ridden in open terrain or even in closed pasture, the more unmanageable he becomes. Most imagine horses to be naturally tame. Not so, for deep within all domesticated animals, when left to themselves, stirs innate genetics. These genetics exert constant powerful influence to change stock back to the wild beast that always lingers within them. Horses are controlled only through sufficient discipline, conditioning and taming.
Rotating mounts, as each in turn began to show signs of loosing flesh because of poor pasture and hard, high-altitude work, we learned to be wary each time we threw a leg over the saddle of a fresh mount. Invariably, their first reaction is to try to dislodge the interloper. The minute you're in the saddle, the trick is, never let the horse lower his head. Once lowered, the back arches up giving him an advantageous position to launch into a violent, twisting sidestep, a quick charge, a turning halt or his first buck. On alert, we kept a tight rein to always keep their head up. After a few minutes of dominating a horse with light spurring and positive reining, keeping his head up, he soon begins to recognize you as his master and settles down.
One morning I swung a-straddle old Paddy—fresh from the pasture. He immediately fought the reins trying his best to lower his head. I kept them tight. Unable to pull any of his regular tricks except maybe rear up, up he went as straight as an animal on two hind legs could. Over he came falling straight back. I knew that if I failed to escape the saddle instantly; the saddle horn would follow me down and nail me through the chest to the ground. I shoved with all my might against the saddle swells propelling myself back through the air. I hit the ground hard. I barely succeeded in avoiding his head as it too thudded hard against the ground at my feet.
I had landed square on my coopers (tail) bone. A terrible bolt of pain shot through my every fiber. As I rose to an elbow in agony, Joe, the consummate cowboy, leaped to the grounded horse putting his boot and weight solidly down on the saddle horn. The horse now on its side unable to rise, flailed his legs helplessly. Horse-wise Joe leaned over, unlooped the leather thong holding my lariat to the saddle, and with the coils he whipped the horse lightly, but frighteningly, across the withers, flanks and once on the head. Because of the bruising landing excruciating pain racked my every normal move as I mounted and rode the horses; I endured dismal pain for more than two weeks after. I gradually healed and after paying my dues, rode again without the awful discomfort. But old Paddy, lesson learned, would not act up again until the memory of his scary discipline faded—or his beastly nature returned during his next period of freedom.
The overall experience with the Indian Service oftentimes became a lonesome job. Joe, off on one smoke-chase, stayed with the large fire for a full week. A big crew of Indians had been sent to help, and it fell his task to direct them in the work. There alone on the tower by day and in the cabin by night, I fretted for human company. Though lonesome at times, I truly loved the work. Except for the Indian that stayed for the two weeks of labor cleaning up around the place, we never had extended company. An occasional cowhand riding the range would drop by and visit a while, but their real wish was the experience of climbing the tower and enjoying the awesome vista.
We did have, or I should say, I had quite a surprise with visitors one day. Joe had gone out on a fire that took a change for the worse and quickly became an escalating inferno. The Agency had to send help to him to bring it under control. He’d been gone two days, and as evening closed in I looked up in surprise to see eight young Indians on horseback headed toward the cabin. Most were older teenagers, but some would have been 21 or 22 years old. They were on their way to help Joe fight the fire, but they and their mounts needed to be fed. Fortunately, the Agency had foreseen such an emergency. Stored in the corner of the cabin were some edibles especially for the emergency. With our little stove and all the pots and pans I could round up, I managed to feed them. I thought they actually liked it too.
Each Indian carried a compact bedroll lashed behind the cantle. They unrolled them on the ground and slept the night. Early next morning, I prepared a decent breakfast for them. We then saddled up and I led them to the fire, I knew by sight and map from the tower the location of the burn and was familiar with the trails. Also, I knew if the Indian crew got lost the fire could just as well become doubly severe. It took a few days, but we finally brought the blaze under control.
You know, most Indians don’t shave. In the first place they have little facial hair compared to the white man. And what whiskers do begin to show up, they pluck them out at first sight. I had always wondered about the phenomenon, and until this bunch of young bucks came under my supervision, I’d never known the real tricks they used those days to keep smooth-faced. These boys used rifle cartridges split down the open end, then narrowed with a file to the right size points and flattened, thus coming up with a fairly efficient pair of tweezers. I got a big kick out of watching three of them siting on a log performing their teenage tonsorial operation. One by one, they plucked at each resisting whisker. If the whisker was stubborn they yelped and winced from the excruciating failure or success. When they saw my increasing amusement over their antics, their demonstration of self-torture increased proportionately with desire to please their audience. They all laughed at my laughter.
Rains came from time to time, and if sufficient fell to wet down the tinder dryness lessening the danger of fire, we could leave the tower. Other work to tend to always awaited us during the short respite after the rain had soaked the forest and the threat of lightning fires temporarily ceased.
Riding the telephone lines occupied our time also. We checked for fallen trees or even broken branches that often crushed the lines to the ground and sometimes severed them. The lines, not attached to individual poles, were strung from tree trunk to tree trunk, and an occasional anchor tree would fall victim to a storm taking the line down with it, so we carried essentials necessary to cut and remove timber and splice and re-string line.
Another lookout tower manned by two smoke-chasers stood on a peak ten miles distant from ours. Some difficult repairs required more than just two men. After one good wetting-down of the forest, we met up with Port and Dutch who would help us tackle some heavier tasks. As we rode the line, we entered a high-grass cienaga (boggy) meadow where the grass reached high enough to tickle the bellies of the horses. Port always rode with a long-handled quirt in his right hand. As we leisurely plodded through the meadow, without warning, a small flock of wild turkeys burst from their grassy hiding place like an exploding covey of giant quail. One big, old tom drummed up right close to the side of the quirt-armed rider. With an instinctive flick-of-the-wrist, Port dispatched the bird with the quirt. It thrashed in the grass with a broken neck. Since I'd shot a deer a few days before and had a supply of fresh venison back at the cabin, we were happy for Port and the Dutchman to have a good thirteen pounds of fresh meat for themselves—I sure hated plucking turkeys.
Our peak-top place lacked a close source of water, but we did have a rain-catch system of drain gutters around the cabin’s slanted roof. It channeled rain and even condensed dew down into a large container next to the door. If it rained, we were ready to jump to filling up all other containers we could find. However, extended periods without rain always forced us to go down hill to the nearest water.
A nice spring of good sweet water lay three miles straight down the steep mountain trail. To get the water back up the mountain required a long arduous trip and the help of a pack-saddled government mule. The packsaddle was so fitted that two fifteen-gallon, wooden barrels were slung on each side. Dipping up the water from the spring, we filled the barrels for the return trip. Since we disliked the drudgery of making the trip, we were mighty careful how we used our water.
Though no one was around to smell us, except ourselves, we did a pretty good job of keeping clean. To bathe, we used a dinky number-2 galvanized tub. A number-2 tub is two feet in diameter. We couldn't sit down in it, as in a number-3 (the kind I used to bathe in as a kid), so with some ingenuity we edged it against a rock or the step by the door, sitting with our feet in the tub while we lathered and scrubbed. To rinse, we stood in a half crouch, dousing the wash rag in the water then ringing it over our heads and torsos. Stingy with the water, we rationed our bath portions to only a couple of inches in the tub.
I remember all to well the first "good bath" we eagerly awaited; for we could see it coming. After meagering along with our precious water during the first weeks at the tower, off in the distance dark billowing thunderheads merged into what we began to predict as a good storm. Getting ourselves ready, we waited with wash cloths and soap for the pure ecstasy of a real drenching shower bath. The sudden deluge pummeled the pine needled ground with fury. Stripped to the raw, with glee like jubilant frogs we leaped out into the downpour.
Yeee-wow-eee! Despite all our outdoor savvy, we had no idea how icy cold a mountain, summer rain could be. With teeth clenched and stomachs sucked in we gasped for breath, but we stuck it out managing a quick lathering and a freezing rinse. Then, back into the cabin we dashed, thrice as fast as we'd exited. Never again! It wouldn't take two lessons like that one for me to learn. My next bath would be straight from the stove whether it meant an extra trip for water or not. (An old Jewish maxim: Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me.)
We gained the safety of the cabin just in time, for a maelstrom of marble-size hail pelted the ground to whiteness, thickly hedging up in piles against tree trunks and the side of the cabin. Once the storm quit, we went out and scooped up the ice. We packed it in cans, buckets, sacks and every thing we could find, for it would keep our food—especially meat—fresh longer. We used the water from the melting ice too; we weren't about to let any go to waste. It postponed, a little longer, the ever dreaded trip to the spring—way down there at the bottom of the hill.
We stayed in excellent health during the entire experience. Despite the exposure to the elements of wind, rain, hail, wet and cold nights under rugged conditions, at times out under the stars where sleep came hard with not too much to eat or drink, we survived free of constitutional ailments or infections. With the exception of the hurt tailbone from being thrown from the horse we were injury free. Naturally, we had our share of a few cuts, scratches and bruises that one expects with wilderness living and labor.
Once in the middle of the night we awakened to sloshing and splashing sounds coming from the big
rain-collecting container outside next to the door step. Neither of us were quite willing to open the door to face whatever beast was fouling our water. We crouched in silence wondering—what on earth can it be? After a while the sounds petered out till all was silent, gathering courage we inched open the door. Nothing. We opened it more. Still nothing. Joe brought the lantern, held it high and there in the container floated the dead body of a huge pack rat. A much smaller animal than the lion-sized racket we'd conjured up in our imaginations.
During another night the sounds of rustling and scratching outside the double-hinged windows awakened us. The day before over in the horse pasture we had spotted fresh tracks of a big bear. Now, without a doubt, we knew darned well what was out there in the dark—hunting us. In a single silent motion, we simultaneously slithered from our improvised bed located directly under the window. As I moved back, I grabbed the 30-30 lever-action leaning in the corner. Soundlessly we hunched in chairs against the opposite wall. The table between us afforded a good rest for elbows; I aimed the rifle at the window that had been left open for ventilation. Silence. More scratching, sniffing and milling around, the huge animal was obviously directly under the window. Both of us waited in heart-pounding suspense knowing full well that in a single bound the bear could be through the window, into the room upon us.
Then it happened as we feared. The huge black outline of a head rose up to peer in at us. No time to waste. I squeezed the trigger. The rifle's deafening roar shattered the awful stillness of the night, and the head seemed to be flung back and out of sight. We waited, listening. The beast thrashed around for a time—then silence. We crouched there inside the cabin hardly daring to breath for fear it was only wounded. More agonizing silence. We could wait no longer. With real suspicion that the animal was not dead, we got up and carefully opened the door. With grave caution, each hoping the other would take the lead, we slipped outside with the lantern holding it high above our heads to avoid glare in our eyes, we cautiously peeked around the corner of the building. There in the dim light lay a big, old, grizzly porcupine—dead as the rat in the rain barrel. When the porky had mounted the windowsill, we had seen his whole body which clearly could not be mistaken for anything but the ominous head of the prowling bear.
Our improvised bed: We’d made it of four one-foot diameter logs laid on the floor, two long ones for the sides
and two shorter ones for the ends. Inside the log enclosure we laid
out a thickness of fresh, young, pine bows, and over the top of them we spread a cushioning layer of soft, fern
fronds. Over this mattress, we spread our bedrolls. It proved to be a creation of divine comfort.
I guess now is the time to tell you about the only horse I ever owned. Mr. Cole, a friend of my companion Joe and his dad owned a ranch twenty miles from our tower over on the Blue River. At times the two ranches worked together cooperatively. Cole had borrowed a horse from the Reidhead Ranch some time before, and Joe's dad asked that if the opportunity came—would we ride over and get "old Dardenella" for him. We'd had a good rain and we could leave the tower, so with permission from the head ranger, we were off on another adventure.
Ten miles into the ride we passed Beaver Creek. There we saw eight head of nice looking saddle horses pastured in a field. Young Joe looked them over with fine-tuned eyes for horse flesh and said, "Boy, there's a horse over there I'd sure like to ride while we're still with the Indian Service" He suggested that if we came back this way, after dark, we might pick us out a couple. I asked him, "Do you mean steal them?" He said, "Well, no. We'll just sort of borrow them for a while, and when we're through with them we'll turn them loose; they'll find their way home." I questioned the distance they'd have to return, but he assured me that they would indeed return.
We stayed the night at the Cole Ranch and during the next day we purposely waited to start back so as to reach the horses after dark. Sure enough, when we arrived at Beaver Creek they were still there. We opened the gate, went in, and Joe picked out that "very one" he'd wanted. He lassoed him and then helped me decide on the "next-best." Along with Dardenella we trailed both back to our place at the lookout tower.
We worried some about being caught because if the owner found them gone and the fence not down, he would reason out the truth—they'd been stolen. To add to the worries of our criminal minds, the route back to our place passed over easy-to-read ground that even a city-slicker dude could track. But our fears were ungrounded, for it soon rained and washed away the tracks. So, with time, our feelings of being desperados faded away, leaving us just short of feeling criminally unconscionable. Of course we would have had to fabricate a story, should we ever get caught. We decided we would matter-of-factly say, "We noticed a couple of horses outside our pasture fence; they looked hungry, so we just let'um in." I named mine "China" meaning China or Chinese because he was a yellowish buckskin. We kept those two horses through the next several weeks until our jobs ended, then turned them loose. And though I'd ridden a lot of horses through the years and learned the solid basics of handling and working them, and even became a fair hand with the lasso, that was the only horse I—well, sort of, ever owned.
Our job in the mountain required that we furnish ourselves with every thing, including our horses. Along with a bare-essentials cabin, the Service only furnished our tools, a mule with pack saddle and our badges. The grazing that year was scarce, so we had to have at least six head of horses between us. Because of the lack of good grass, they wore out fast, so we changed mounts often. Fortunately for me, Joe furnished them all from his dad's ranch stock in Show Low. It turned out that Joe's six head weren't enough; they didn't get time to rest and feed up enough to recuperate before their next turn. So the two purloined steeds and old Dardenella definitely came in handy.
While we're on the subject of horse experiences, this is a good time to tell of one that occurred the year after
working for the Indian Service. Bragging some, but nevertheless a seasoned horseman, of sorts, after excellent
schooling under my old friend Joe, a real ranch-raised cowboy. With many painful and harrowing experiences
under my belt.
I went riding with my cousins, Ray and Marion Ferrin. One of their horses kept giving them fits. He had taken
the upper hand and wouldn't mind his manners. Among several other bad habits, he'd get the bit in his teeth,
turn, and race for home. Ray and Marion both, were afraid of him, and the horse, of course, sensed it and took
advantage with various capers. I became disgusted with their horse and its rider, and said, "Why don't you
whip that old horse and make him behave like he should?" Ray said that he was afraid to because the horse
was naturally ornery and mean. So I asked him if I could ride him awhile. I didn't have a quirt, but the reins
were good and long and I wore spurs. So I got on Old Dandy, and the first time he acted up contrary to what I
wanted, I spurred him hard on the under-sides, and whipped him four snapping times across the withers with
the reins. Then, I spurred him another good one reining him
in the direction “I” wanted to go, and boy, did he take off exactly where—I determined, right on up the road.
For the next fifteen minutes that I rode him, he deferred angelically to everything I wanted him to do. I had
never experienced a horse more instantly willing to obey his master.
While I rode the cooperative beast, Ray still felt wary of him and said to me that if he got on him, the horse
would revert to his old obnoxious self. I said, "Well you just try him." Reluctantly, Ray mounted up, but from
the start the animal behaved as perfectly with him as he had "promptly" learned to behave with me. Later, the
oldest brother, Melvin, who had done some real cowboying himself and understood the handling of horses,
met me in town. He told me he'd been riding the horse, and that his brothers told him what I'd done to Old
Dandy had really made a good horse out of him.
The awaited rainy season finally set in, and the need for us at the tower ended. We were directed to move down to the Rock Creek Station where Rock Creek enters the White River. There we occupied a much more comfortable cabin, it even had beds. Unlike work requirements at the tower, Saturday and Sunday were our days off, and, if we wanted, our superiors provided us with extra jobs to earn extra money acting as game wardens. Our badges, sufficient to be recognized as authority by the fishermen caused them to submit to a check of license and numbers of fish in possession. For men still youths, this authority over others and their willingness to cooperate served as an interesting experience. In the capacity of game wardens, we visited with many people, but the occasion never arose to issue a single citation.
Our workday ended every evening at five o'clock. The summer evenings, long and comfortable afforded plenty of time for us to take advantage of the beautiful stream flowing by our cabin door. I hardly missed an evening at the river’s edge casting the baited hook into every likely swirl hoping to catch the wily trout. The fish averaged about a foot in length. We caught many more than we could eat, but since three other cabins there were occupied by employees like ourselves, who weren't fishermen, they were real happy to share the bounty.
Much of our workday now occupied us in riding the telephone lines to repair and otherwise keep them trouble-free. Once, as we rode along we came upon an Indian camp consisting of separate, large, family-size wickiups (dome shaped structures of bent limbs covered with a loose thatching of brush and tree bows with canvas and skins tied over them. Here were three separate families living in their summer encampment. It was midday, and we stopped briefly to watch two women sitting by the campfire shaping the “maza” (damp corn flour) into flat, thin tortillas to be placed on a makeshift grill for toasting. They sat with their skirts pulled up exposing one bare thigh upon which they slapped, patted and shaped the tortilla to dimension before placing it on the grill. They seemed totally unconcerned as two white men on horseback tarried a while to watch. As we watched, they visited with us and invited us to dismount and sample a tortilla. We could see men a little distance from us, but they seemed unconcerned. Their grill, I noticed, seemed to be an old fender from a Model T Ford.
We left the cabin one morning to get on with riding the telephone lines. Joe, on horseback, leading the packed mule, left fifteen minutes earlier. When I rode out I led the four spare horses consecutively tied tails-to-lead-ropes in tandem. I held the lead rope of the front horse. Heavy, black clouds that had dropped their load lingered as peels of thunder echoed roundabout us. We meandered along up the damp trail. After three miles, we reached a very steep slope. Along its side, a slender dug-way trail with a dangerous slope, edged steeply downward. I continued carefully on down the narrow trail.
Without warning, the big pine on the trail just ahead exploded with a blinding flash and a mind-stunning blast. Though dazed, I was aware of bark and small limbs falling all about me. Shocked into a few instants of timelessness I finally came to my senses. I found that I was still on my horse with the lead rope in hand and the four other horses still trailing behind, seemingly unbothered by the phenomenon. But, we were now going uphill away from the lightning strike; we were headed back in the direction we'd come. How we got turned around on that narrow, steep trail—I don't know. Why the horses never spooked—I can't explain. Somehow, some way, a fragment of drama in my life had been erased from memory.
Up the trail a ways, I turned us around and road back down to the great, stricken tree. The acrid smell of smoke from burned, green, pine pitch hung in the air, and blocking the trail lay a large section of the felled giant. The horses waited unable to continue over or around it while I worked cutting it to clear the way.
(Trailing horses—Joe taught me the trick: The tapered end of the tail hair is folded back forming a "bunch" at its end. Half-hitch knots are then looped around the enlarged bunch using the lead rope of the horse behind. When trailing only two behind the rider’s horse, the lead rope of the second horse can be tied to the tail of the ridden one. When trailing three or more tied in tandem, it is best for the rider to keep the lead rope of the first trailing horse in hand.)
The many bizarre stories about the disgusting government mule I assure you are mostly true. A mule is a touchy, sensitive animal. He especially hates his ears touched, and if you are successful at putting the bridle or hackamore on him without touching them, he'll love you. If you bungle the job—watch out—he's liable to bang you with his head or go for a bite out of you.
The shoeing of a touchy mule back in the mountain under primitive circumstances is a trying task: With two men on horses, one throws a noose over the head, and the other tosses a noose down catching one of the hind legs. Then the horses move in opposite directions to slowly stretch him out, and at the same time maneuvering, as they continue to stretch him, so he'll fall with the roped hoof up. After he's down the horses have to hold their place, ropes taut, while both riders dismount for the next trick. The front hoof is tied to the hind, forming a cross, leaving the leg with the hoof you want to shoe sticking out far enough to work on. After the two hoofs on one side are shoed, he is rolled over so the second pair of legs can be tied and shoed.
It sounds fairly simple, but before he can be shoed the two cross-tied legs must be raised up into a position to allow the shoeing. For this, a long stout sapling is cut and trimmed. One end of the pole is passed over the middle of the body from the back, and slipped under the top, two, tied legs. One man sits his weight on the opposite end, teeter-totter-like, leveraging up that pair of legs, while his partner does the shoeing. With the mule shoes, curved shoeing nails, hammer and pinchers (to trim the hoof) he finishes the job on one side. Then they both roll the animal over again to finish up on the other side. That's the only way we could do it without getting our lights kicked out.
So ended a beautiful summer filled with many new experiences indelibly catalogued in our memories. Although it occupied only a few fleeting weeks of my life, it became a significant "whole era" for me to reflect back upon with fondness through these many years. I've kept track of Joe over the years, and to close out this part of the history let me tell you one last story about this great character.
Much later in life (1983) while Josephine and I traveled through Utah with my second son, Jon, and his wife, DeNell, we stopped to visit with Joe and his wife who were living in Roosevelt. As crazy as ever over horses, he showed them to us and told us he was leaving on the morrow with a friend to compete in the "team roping" event in a rodeo not far away.
An evening later as we watched television in our motel room, the newscaster announced there had been an accident outside of Vernal. We learned that Joe and his wife survived, but it broke his wife's wrist, hospitalizing her. We made the trip to the hospital. As we walked down the hall searching for the room, there up the hall ahead of us stood Joe and another man visiting. I felt relieved to at least see him on his feet. l gave him a hardy handshake, but worried about his wife, I expressed my concern. I said, "Joe, how is she?" In response, he shook his head indicating something extraordinary to explain, "Darvil, it's unbelievable, our pickup is a mess, and the horse trailer is demolished, but it didn't hurt my horse a bit." That’s my cowboy friend, Joe Reidhead.
(JOSEPHINE) CHORES AND JOBS DURING MY YOUTH
There were no real chores for me as a little girl. In fact, Eleanor always said of me, "If there are dishes to do, Jo always has to go to the privy." (It was out the back door and down the path.) She said that all the time in jest, for there was no truth to it. Neither of us had to do many dishes. Mama said that it wasn't worth bothering us girls, that she really didn't mind doing them. And true, she didn't. Doing dishes has never been a big chore for me either. I believe it’s the influence Mother’s attitude had on me. Bragging some though, I always felt that when I swept the floors they looked much cleaner than when anyone else did it.
We kept chickens and a pig and often pastured a cow. What I liked most about the cow was the cream from the milk. But I never took care of the animals either because of my two big brothers. Besides, Dad always said that he didn't get his pretty girls to be farmers. Dad—though always good to his boys—we knew he was a real softy with us. Well, I never helped take care of the milk either. After it arrived in the bucket onto the kitchen sink, Mama took care of that too. Not that we weren’t cooperative and willing girls, it seems Mama always did everything.
When the milk came in, she first strained it through a cloth, then poured it into containers and placed them in the icebox. If it lacked room, she placed it in a cool room. (The electric household refrigerator hadn't been perfected yet.) Mother left the milk to cool, and as it cooled the cream rose and thickened at the top, and the longer it stood undisturbed the thicker it became. We kids skimmed it off the top and mixed it with cocoa and sugar; we just ate it by itself, firm and thick: the thicker the better, we could spoon it up doing away with it just like pudding. And if we had none at our house, my very best friend, Dubie Mickelson, across the street, always had some in the creamery room attached to her house. The iceboxes of the time were of limited capacity, and I remember that if the milk stayed unused too long it clabbered. If it clabbered, Mama either made it into cottage cheese or fed it to the chickens or pig.
In high school and college, no specific chores were assigned to me, nor did I work outside the home. I think I was always kind of a "good-for-nothing." (chuckle chuckle.) Dad worked in Thatcher for years in the Big Six general store for W. W. Pace and then for Krups Department Store in Safford. Eventually he built his own store in Thatcher and I worked there on a few occasions and enjoyed it and was willing to do a lot more, but again, he used his two big boys. I would have loved to wait on tables in a restaurant or be hired as a baby sitter, but Dad said, “No, I can make the living for my family.” Mother enjoyed the store, and she needed the break, out and away from the rigors of the household. She did love the respite, especially since she worked side by side with Dad.
SOME OF MY PETS BESIDES JO
From whom or where he came, I've forgotten, but someone gave me a special dog. About half grown, old Cub, my furred friend was a Collie mix. No doubt mixed with whatever other dogs were running the dirt streets of the town at the time. Long haired, he grew a little bigger than medium size—just a good ordinary sized dog—and smart. I knew he loved me because he stayed right at my side all the time, keeping his eyes on me constantly, waiting for a kind word, a call or to be ready to go along wherever I headed. You could see it in his eyes as he hoped for some bit of recognition, a signal to act, a call or a word of command or praise. I would only have to make a motion with my hand to get a reaction. He waited constantly to respond and cooperate to do whatever I might want.
Desiring for him to jump over a fence, I motioned toward it or patted the top. If too high to jump, no problem, he'd just climb it and jump down to the other side, there waiting for me to be on our way. Often, I coaxed him to climb the six and seven-foot high, page-wire fences, usually strung at the top with barbed wire. Still no problem for him, he acted like the happiest dog in the world to do the exercise. He climbed trees too, and with my coaxing he cooperated willingly as best he could, which was pretty darn good, given the right tree. If he had his eye on an animal he had treed himself, he anxiously performed even better. Sometimes he'd get up in the flimsy limbs and if he thought he couldn't get any farther or make his way down the way he’d gone up, he simply leaped to the ground from there.
We were seldom apart, and if not resting, we were busy romping and running. We loved to hunt together. Though not as good at clinching the capture as old Teddy had been, he would catch a rabbit now and then. Out in the uncleared, brushy mesquite country, he routed through brush and piles of it slipping through other thick growth spooking the hiding animals so I could get a running shot at them with my flipper, and later when older, with the 22-rifle.
I taught him a cute trick that the family was real proud of. He learned to stand dead still while I placed a piece of tidbit he liked square on the top-side of his nose—bread, meat, cheese and the likes. He learned to stay completely motionless while I placed it, waiting expectantly for the signal, then he'd toss the morsel up with a slight flip of his muzzle and catch it through the side of his mouth. It happened so fast sometimes, it appeared as just one single motion. After training him with food, I taught him to do the same with a small rubber ball, after painstakingly positioning it on top of his nose.
Uncle Oscar Sims, my mother's brother, and his wife, Aunt Roxy, watched us with interest during a visit to our home, as Cub went through the routines. They belonged to a small drama group comprised of friends with the mutual interest. They practiced together and presented their plays weekends. They asked me to be a part of one of their productions to show off our cute trick. Proud to be the star of a bit part (given my, inclination), Cub and I practiced and then performed the tricks with style and aplomb for the delighted audience.
I think the only really disconcerting hunt Cub and I ever had was when his nose drug him up to an unhappy surprise living in the hollow of a partly rotted tree trunk that had been cut off about four feet from the ground. Not knowing what Cub was throwing such a fit about, with all his barking and jumping around, thinking that, for sure, a rabbit was in the old stump that I might be able to capture alive, I leaned over the opening to peek into the shadows. My curiosity was rewarded with a vitriolic spray, the physical effects of which one cannot possibly describe, especially since one drop of it entered my left eye. The rest of the skunks devastating stream caught me under the chin and across my shoulders.
My first concern, my eye, bandanna in hand, I sprinted to the canal, some fifty yards away. Though the water was cool, and I bathed my eye for a full half-hour, the pain would not subside. So, with the wet kerchief held to my eye, fouling the atmosphere around all that I passed, I paced off the distance home, in better than good time, and tried to wobble into the house.
Did I reach a home where sympathy dwelled? Not by a long-shot! Mother must have smelled my approach, for sympathy met me at the back door and ordered me to the garage. (It was not attached to the house.) Under her somewhat stern though distant direction I ran water into a number-3 washtub dragging it into the garage after me. She brought me soap and towel, a change of clothes, and left me on my own.
Even with three applications of soap around my head and torso, the family relegated me to the open-air screen porch for the next three days, where at least my bed happened to be, where I was forced to reside only there eating my meals in lonesomeness.
Uncle Oscar Sims, who lived next door at that time, smelled my predicament and offered to help. He told me —and he knew from experience—that the only way to get the stench out of my clothes was to wash them first, then bury them in damp soil for at least a week. He helped me dig a hole in the back lot where I dumped pants, shirt, socks and underwear. My straw hat I hung high in the apricot tree hoping it would air out. After a month I burned it.
I also had a beautiful, iridescent-feathered bantam rooster for a pet. He became completely tame and trusting of me. I would walk over to him whenever I wanted and pick him up. He loved to be stroked while I carried him about nestled on my arm. His head, decorated with a large red comb bent a little to one side and hanging wattles, distracted one's attention from the long sharp spurs that armed the inside of each lower leg. The feisty little rascal, always ready to fight, protected his territory from any other wandering roosters unlucky enough to get past his I-dare-you-line; for he jealously protected his own small harem of three hens. He also starred with Cub and me in Uncle Oscars play. Once placed on Cub's back, Cub would run around the stage, as the cowboy banty rode his steed in total enjoyment balancing with perfect ease.
Our first dog after we moved to Thatcher, we named Teddy. I can't begin to tell you what kind of a dog he was. Pure mongrel, he probably boasted some of every blood line in town and from outlying communities. A cute, good old dog, though not as big as Cub, he sure knew how to hunt. He loved being with us when we explored the wilds, such as down in the river bottom country where he nosed around for anything he could rout out to chase. I think he thought he could catch anything and everything with four legs.
One day, Leonard and I were down at the river bottom with our flippers scouting around for whatever we could find. Suddenly, Teddy brushed out a fox. The chase began and they headed almost straight for us until the vixen saw us and swerved away as we continued watching the drama play out. He brought the fox to bay under a big bush of thick over-hanging limbs. Frightened and probably fearing the barking dog could out-run him if he chanced a break, he cowed back into the thicket.
We ran to the dog, and with his help, Leonard and I kept the little, gray fox cooped back in the recess. Leonard pulled out a short length of rope, from somewhere. He began a careful, measured craw toward the confused animal, bound, bent and determined to maneuver a noose around his neck. I warned him that the fox would bite him if he put his hand too close. Leonard just said maybe he won't, as he slunk toward it ever so slowly and carefully. Leonard, an animal’s man, gifted with a sixth sense about them, calmed the creature down, and I'll be darned if he didn't maneuver that noose over his head and snare him.
Back at the house, Leonard promptly built it a cage. Examining the animal closely, we decided the beautiful Gray Fox might not be full grown. He fashioned a collar with a leash and ring on it and worked at taming it until he could lead the pet around on the leash. The fox grew to trust Leonard. But, if anyone else approached too close, frightened, it would back up snuggling against Leonard's legs, The pretty creature continued to tame as my brother spent time with it.
The cage it lived in only had a simple latch on the door. It wouldn't have been long before it would be tame enough to really enjoy. However, some thief came along during the night and stole the fox from its cage. Whether it was actually stolen or just freed by some well-meaning do-gooder we couldn't be sure, but we never knew who did it nor did we ever see the little pet again.
When about 14 years old, I found a petite, half-grown screech owl. Soft gray in color, half feathers and half fuzzy down, it couldn’t fly yet. I kept it in the back, screened porch, where it roosted up on a 2 x 4 ledge just under the ceiling. I visited the local butcher shop to scrounge lean pieces of meat from the bones and other remains from their throw-away container to bring home to feed the bird.
After opening the paper sack containing the meat scraps about three times, the young owl associated the paper’s crinkling sound with food and would fly down to me. With it sitting on my arm or hand, I fed the meat scraps to him by hand. It became full fledged and could fly well, so I would often take it outside and let it loose to sit alone up in the umbrella (china berry) tree at the back corner of the house. I never left it there for long: maybe an hour or so, or while I made the round trip to the butcher shop and back. Though he might change places, he always stayed in the tree. Whether inside or outdoors, as soon as he heard the sound of the paper he would fly right down for his meal. I killed an occasional sparrow or caught a mouse, and he especially liked those fresh wild desserts. He became a special attraction for all my relatives, friends and neighbors.
After keeping him for more than two months I returned from the store one time with his food, I found him lying dead under his tree. Crushed, with aching heart, seeing his lifeless little body there on the ground, my sorrow soon turned bitterness, for it struck me, clear as day, who the murderer had been. Beside myself, hurting inside beyond explanation, I marched two houses down the street, stepped up on the porch and whacked on the Boyles family door. The mother answered and asked how she could help me. I said, “Is Kenneth here?” Before she could answer and without another word from me, back in the house out of sight, 10-year-old Kenneth hollered out, “Darvil, I didn’t kill your damn owl!” With that spontaneous denial, he had admitted his guilt not only to me but to his saddened mother. Moreover, it sealed his fate with me.
Kenneth was at that age of having his first flipper and was desperate to make that first big kill. He had probably watched me leave the little pet in the tree, then with weapon in hand, went over just to look at it again and was simply overcome by the easy opportunity. His mother asked me to tell her exactly what had happened. After I told her the tragic story, I added that I would get even with Kenneth somehow. But, somehow I never did. What could one do with a 10-year-old? Beat him up? Besides, shortly, the poor kid’s name was worse than mud as the entire town heard of the horrible homicide.
On the subject of flippers (sling-shots). I became so expert over the years, that after we married, the doves were so plentiful down in the river-bottom trees that I could have kept my family in meat with nothing but a flipper and rocks. On one occasion, Jo and I entertained company, and for the main course of the dinner, we dined on dove breasts roasted in chicken stuffing, Now and then, I bagged a quail or cottontail with the weapon made with rubber powered strips of inner tubes. If latex tubing existed at that time, I had never seen it and I was unaware of it.
SOME OF MY PETS BESIDES DARVIL
Brownie is the first pet I remember: a little brown Pomeranian with a few white spots. He arrived in our lives by way of my Dad's suite pocket. When he came home from work that day, he pulled him out and handed him to my little brother Rodney. He became a spoiled, fluffy, curl-tailed, and at times, a fiery feisty pooch. He grew up with all of us and lived for seventeen years. Spoiled rotten, he knew how to talk back to us in his own ways, he let us know things like, raw meat wouldn't do; it had to be cooked, and he wanted his carrots cooked too.
When he grew to be an "old man," he would go with Dad down to our store. Once there, he would jump up into the display window, curl up and watch every person that walked by. Each time Mr. Chandler passed, Brownie would jump down out of the window and tear out of the door after him. He would run yipping and yapping all the while nipping at the man's heals, pestering him as best he could. When the man walked by the home, somehow, Brownie always knew it and started growling and barking long before Chandler came into view. If he managed somehow to get out, after him he'd go. Mr. Chandler, once took a stick to Brownie, and we knew Brownie deserved it. We never blamed the man for it, but Brownie treated him as his worst enemy for the rest of his days.
At about nine years of age, I went to visit the Bruce McKellers who lived out at Cactus Flats, south of Safford where there are many artesian springs and pools. It's now known as the community of Artesia. These good people had little money, but were wonderful friends.
I especially remember the team of horses being hooked up to their flat-bed wagon and loaded with one big barrel and many milk cans to go get their household water from an artesian well about a half-mile away. The mother, Millicent, spread out a big denim carpet over a mat of loose hay on the back part of the wagon to make it a more comfortable trip for us. It was such fun for their three children and me. Pulled along by the horse in the cool of the early evening; we played, chatted and sang on the way over and all the way back.
On the day before my parents came to take me home, we went to the neighboring house of the Ed Richardson family. (He later became one of my school teachers.) I had such fun at the Richardson place. Around a pond, close to the front of their house, we would see, it seemed to me, nearly every kind of animal and bird imaginable. Anyway, to finally get to the real story, they had a mother cat with a large litter of kittens. They were at that point in their young lives of the beginning of their real playful stage. They were the cutest things. They said I could choose one for my very own. The father had said he would have to drown them because they had too many cats around already. I chose the little kitten I wanted. She had short hair and was splotched calico in color. She was the ugliest little thing, yet the cutest; with mixed emotions I felt sorry for her. When she grew up, she was still ugly, but we all loved her.
I knew if I waited to ask my parent's permission to have the kitten they would say no. So, I picked it up and held it to me, petting and playing with it as we returned to the McKeller's home. When Mama and Dad arrived and discovered my intentions, they nearly had a fit, but they relented, and I took "Pattypaw" home. She had to be the dearest thing that ever lived. Later, during a time of reflection, Mama would say, "I hope in the next life we can have Brownie and Pattypaw with us." Through the years we kept her, she mothered many batches of kittens. At one time I had seventeen cats; some were inside cats and some were the outside cats.
After we married, Mac was just a toddler, Darvil decided Mac needed to have a dog. He brought home a nice puppy; too big and rambunctious though, time after time he’d bump our little one knocking him down. We gave him away fearing he might injure Mac.
Virgil, my elder brother and his wife, Toots, were moving their family to California. They had a medium sized black and white dog named Darby. Sally Jo was still less than a year old, Jon approaching three, and Mac nearly four at the time. When Darvil found that Virgil couldn't take Darby with them, he told them that we wanted him. As our kids grew older, they so loved that gentle dog. He would come up to Sally Jo, sniff and lick her in the face, and she would love him, and he followed the two boys around as they peddled the big tricycle and the little red fire-truck. Wherever they went running, he stayed right along side. I think Darby thought himself just one of the boys.
Darvil finished building our house in Solomonville. He needed to haul in a few loads of sand for the low driveway that flooded when it rained. The first load was left piled there where it was dumped while he went for another. The sand pile was new, and of course, unknown to Darby. As usual, he greeted the return of the car by running along close in front of it, all the time looking back at us as we drove on in. Paying attention only to us, he hit the pile of sand and all four legs went out from under him. Before he could recover, the car rolled over him mushing him into the soft stuff. I had yelled at Darvil to watch out, but he just kept on going thinking the dog would move. Well Darby yelped a couple of times, and I thought he’d been killed, but he came out of the ordeal with the usual smile on his face. I was so mad at Darvil I could have beaten him. About two years later, we moved our family to California and had to give good, old Darby to a friend.
After our kids were married and gone, I would have loved some pets and would have had more, but it always tore at my heart so, to see them injured, killed, die or have to be given away.
MY WIFE TO BE
Only days after the tragic death of my Dad and his two deputies by murderous outlaws, we moved from Safford three miles east to Thatcher. During that first week in the new town, I first saw 5-year-old Josephine Phillips. Walking along the sidewalk in town with her mother, she proved to be a sight almost too much for a nine-year-old romantic. I remember thinking to myself, "How beautiful she is!" Fascinated by the full, long, silken curls that fell across her shoulders reaching well down her back, and how prettily her mother had her dressed, I stared in rapt disbelief.
During those few, spellbound, enchanting minutes, a history-making decision indelibly impressed itself in my mind. Arriving home, my mind in a dither, I immediately told Mother that I'd seen the girl I was going to marry. Of course, she laughed. Rebuffed by mother’s response, in silence I carried my secret with me for the next 16 years.
As the years slipped by, I didn't especially dwell on the declaration I'd made; it simply became relegated to the youthful back burners of my mind. It was singular though, that at the tender age of nine, I thought that I'd seen the girl, though four years younger than I, that I would marry. In time, it seemed that destiny prepared a "primrose path.” Unbelievably, she moved right next door to our home. Yes, she lived only fifteen feet from the fence that separated our lots. A beautiful seventeen-year-old by then; she looked like opportunity come home.
Though I had known Josephine for many years and had attended the same grammar school, high school; gone to the same church meetings and participated in many of the same social events that occur in a small town like Thatcher, because of our age difference we had never developed a special friendship. But that indelible record, back in the depth of memory, had occasionally slipped forward into my consciousness.
"Tongue in cheek," while Jo sat listening as he recorded, Darvil purposely spawned the following "fabrication," specifically to perturb her: "After she moved next door, I came to know Jo and her sister, Eleanor, pretty well. In fact I got to know them a lot better than they really knew, because their bedroom window, with curtains often open a little too wide, was right there over the fence." Jo came unglued, "Oh no you didn't! Our bedroom was on the other side of the house." Only half thwarted he continued -- still funning. "Well anyway, when they came into the kitchen in their skivvies (underclothing) with the kitchen window so near to the fence, I did get better acquainted with them than they ever realized. But, how could I avoid it, when I naturally had chores around our place after dark?" Jo then called him a big “jass-onkey liar,” one of many pet names she has for her beloved Darvil. (Heard and recorded by their oldest son, Mac McBride.)
MY HUSBAND TO BE
I don't ever remember of being suddenly struck by Darvil's existence. It seems like I'd always known him. He'd always been a part of my awareness, perhaps because of the smallness of the town.
Though only passively conscious of his exceptional prowess as an athlete in grammar school and junior high school. I became much more aware of his talents as he attended high school, and junior college; for, our family bought the beautiful brick house next door to their home: separated only by a dilapidated fence some fifteen feet from our own house. Darvil also participated in drama, speech and other extracurricular activities as well. He held elected offices in his school classes, and later he became the Student Body President of the high school and then of the junior college.
I felt comfortable and happy in my circumstances; because I too enjoyed a substantial degree of popularity. I had many close friends, and many of them were first, second and third cousins. As I continued through high school and junior college, I also enjoyed a variety of noteworthy parts in special activities and held class officer positions.
[Darvil: “Jo always avoids telling the real truth about herself for fear of being thought a braggart. As her
husband, I provide the following on the sly: "Actually the bell of the town in her youth, her peers esteemed her
more than just pretty. She was one of those rare good-lookers that when you saw her, you perceived a
complete picture—one that piqued interest causing you to look again. You noticed her beautiful proportions,
and if you spent any time at all with her, you soon discovered her charm, that she was especially well spoken,
kind-hearted, complimentary, unassuming and always diplomatic. Actually her middle name had to be—
Popular. At a college formal dance, her program, always the first to be filled, compelled me to soon learn to
take her myself if I ever expected to dance with her."
We girls of course enjoyed being present wherever the boys were. Whether church, school, civic, or private
affairs, spontaneous or organized—we liked it there with the boys.
The early days of our romance were fun-filled indeed. It began after I moved to the new home on Main Street next to Darvil's. Between the two houses spread the limbs of three courtly china berry trees (We called them umbrella trees.) In the Spring, beautiful, blue clusters of blossoms appeared much like the blossoms of the Jacaranda. These eventually became green berries, the size of a marble. In time, they dried forming a hard, wrinkled, yellow berry that fell, littering the ground. Darvil would pick them up, and toss them against the windows of the kitchen, dining, or living room. When I heard them hit the windows, I would run out and easily catch the rascal. (of course I already knew exactly who it was.) From then on, that would be the signal I listened for and soon began to hope and wait for.
As a teenager, I hardly knew Darvil’s eldest sister and brother, Gladys and Floyd. Already married and living elsewhere, I only took notice of their periodic visits. I hardly knew Leonard either: a wanderer, usually off to some distant place, he seldom stayed at home. Though I knew Orlando better, he was away in the east pursuing his education, then, he filled a mission. I knew him as a handsome, very, fine, young man of untarnished reputation, and a fine athlete. In time he would accomplish wonderful things. Some believed Orlando to be the cream of the crop. However, in the final analysis I got the "real pick of the McBride litter.” Ruthie, three years younger than Darvil, was more than just a sister to him: they were best friends.
Before I began keeping company with Darvil, I recall thinking that Ruthie (two years older than me) and two of her best friends, acted very caustic toward me. In my mind, I blamed it on the negative influence of the girl friends rather than her. Uncomfortable around the threesome, I would virtually walk a mile to avoid crossing paths. Later, Ruthie and I became the best of friends, and I discovered she exemplified the loveliest of lovelies.
I knew Bruce and Frankie better because they were younger. I had gone all through school with Bruce. Beautiful, little Frankie (five years younger than me) was sweet, special and so loved, oblivious to herself, everyone was conscious of her presence.
So, regarding the relationship I had with Darvil’s brothers and sisters, it is better visualize this exlanation: Every Sunday, Darvil's Mother, Clara Sims McBride, set the most elegant table with wonderful food. There were pies, some type of Jello salad and always carrot salad, I remember clearly, in small pretty dishes. An ample selection of other delicious foods filled the table, many home preserved or fresh from her garden. I don't remember all of the main dishes, but I do relish the memory of roast beef, brown gravy and mashed potatoes.
At age seventeen, eighteen and older, Darvil often invited me to eat with them. I loved being there, because all during and after dinner the family would sit and tell an endless string of funny stories and jokes, while all the time funning among themselves. They and I, would laugh and laugh helplessly until our sides ached—as they frolicked with words. Those Sunday dinners were ever so entertaining. I just loved them.
Finagling his way slowly into my heart, Darvil and I passed increasing amounts of time together in many pleasant ways. Enjoying, and then, even craving his company, I often went with him to the church house, when he would do his janitorial work. We visited as we walked together to the church house which was a block up and a block over from our homes. While he worked, I stayed as near to him as I could without hindering. Never, did I touch a broom, but I did help him some with dusting the pews.
[Darvil: Here, in cahoots with the typist again, I'll sneak in another comment: Yes, Jo would even follow me
back and forth across the cultural hall floor, as I pushed the broom. One time, unconsciously, I’m sure she
almost followed me into the men’s restroom.]
These precious times together continued until after the summer he graduated from Gila Junior College (formerly, the L.D.S. Church Academy). Having reached the age of twenty and after the wonderful summer ended, he went to Northern Arizona to attend Northern Arizona University (formerly, Arizona State Teachers College at Flagstaff).
There he supposedly fell for another girl and also supposedly tried to keep it secret that he was going with her. Of course, I eventually knew through the grapevine. Mildred (Millie) Foster, a cousin to a long time friend, Mid Johnson, was a delicate, slender redhead. She was cute! In time I discovered that he didn’t actually fall in love with her. He thought her cute, fun to visit with, to dance with and in general to keep company with.
But his ulterior motive to make me jealous, worked. And jealous I was! The ploy to focus my attention on him even more, in hopes of creating in me a greater desire toward him, succeeded. He also concocted various, other schemes to keep my attention: like dropping little hints in his letters etc. But, no need, I already knew (at least I thought I knew) that he had eyes for another. [Darvil: In my eyes, Millie never measured up to Jo.]
Millie lived up the valley in Duncan, another small Mormon town. A few times she and he came home in the same car and dropped Darvil off in Thatcher as they passed through. Darvil often laughed about a statement she had made. She told the others in the car she would buy the treats if they would stop at a certain roadside shop, if the boys would go in the store for them. After stopping they invited her to come along with them. But, wearing unlaced knickers (Pants with lacing down the lower part of the leg and cuff she had unlaced for comfort.) She said, "Oh no! I cant go with you; my pants are down!" Not only exceptionally cute, Millie had a fine reputation of being a model of decency.
One of our first dates happened while Darvil's mother visited a daughter in Phoenix. Ruthie and he, and friends, invited dates to come to their home for a potluck party. He asked me to be his date. Well, nobody had any money in those days, so Darvil and some of the other boys went down to the river bottom among the tamarack and willow trees with their flippers (sling shots). They killed a huge number of doves for the meat dish. Also, each couple received an assignment of a specific dish, and we were to make baking powder biscuits. So with all the many, delicious dishes of food along with a bunch of dove breasts as our main course, we had a wonderful feast, and a wonderful time with wonderful company.
Prior to the first several dates, I had never felt any special interest toward Darvil. I just kind of liked him and all of the boys, but I did begin to notice a special something about him. Always kind, quiet and reserved, he never placed himself in the limelight, yet he stood out among the others with an unexplainable aura.
OUR WEDDING AND HONEYMOON
My third year of college I attended Northern Arizona University at Flagstaff (formerly, Arizona State Teachers College). Following the completion of the regular school year, I stayed there another five weeks to complete the summer session. Shortly after returning to Thatcher for the remainder of the summer; on August 18, 1933, Josephine and I were married.
Our wedding by general standards of these days, wasn’t much of an affair as far as social clout or impact upon the town was concerned. The write up in the local paper did take up a couple of columns, but other than that we were just another cute, college couple daring to venture forth against the challenges of life that mating brings. There might have been a broken heart or two left in our wake, for which we have no regrets, for all know the old saying, all is fair in love and war….”
We planned on John F. Nash performing the ceremony. He had not only been our teacher in high school but had also been a member of the stake presidency. A bishop and a family friend. As youngsters we loved and honored the man. Unable to do us the favor because of his special calling with the Arizona Temple, we then asked the presiding Stake President, Harry L. Payne to do the honors.
The short affair took place on the Phillips front lawn with foot and highway traffic only yards away; not much of a disturbance, for by eight o’clock in Thatcher sidewalks began to fold up and traffic became a trickle. The guests there on that beautiful summer evening were invited personally—family and personal friends. Wesley and Zella Taylor, long and close friends of Dave and Nettie were there along with their son Fenton, an old school buddy of ours. Gordon Stowell, another old friend, and acting as Best man, was there all gussied up and ready and willing to do his duty toward me and my beautiful bride. And would you believe it, he showed up with a box of cigars that he passed out after the ceremony. Most of them went to the noisy bunch of friends and enemies that crowded the front sidewalk just beyond the circle of lights where guests were seated. I don’t think any of the guests ever smoked a cigar in their lives, nor had the uninvited on the side walk. Why nonsmoking Mormons still felt obligated to follow the old established tradition of cigars at a wedding and arrival of the first born, I don’t know.
My mother, my youngest brother Bruce and Frankie, my youngest sister—all, from just across the fence next door were there. The others were all in far-off places, except for Orlando who I’ll mention. The same was true with Jo’s family. All were married and lived away from the area except Rodney and Jean, her youngest brother and sister. A sister Blazzard, an old family friend of the Phillips’, then quite elderly, was there as a special guest. She had been Nettle’s nurse and helped deliver Jo when she was born.
Jo was so beautiful in her new wedding dress, many memories of which hold special meaning. Here, she explains how we were decked out on that special occasion:
“My wedding dress was of white satin that my cousin, Phillis Pace, made for me. It had tiny hand-covered buttons she’d done, that because of the time and patience they took, I knew was a special token of her love. , Dad had made a special effort to find the satin yardage while in Phoenix on a recent business trip. Sally has the dress now. I haven’t see it for so long that I am unable to describe it in any detail.
“A few scraps of the dress material were left. Jean, only four years old at the time, thought she should have a wedding dress like her big sister. So, in the family there are two prized heirlooms from our wedding day.
“Darvil looked so dapper. He had on white flannel trousers with black stripes of different widths that Jay Green had recommended for the nuptial occasion. His coat was a light green with a faint pinstripe that he kept nice for many years and wore on special occasions.
“Darvil says he recalls a huge tray being brought from the house with or’duerves, punch and cookies. What it all was I do not remember, but I’m sure cold punch and cookies were there because it was a warm evening.”
About the front lawn setting: I especially remember the big oleander bushes in full bloom, one on each side of the lawn. They lent an ethereal air to the balmy, August evening, sort of a backdrop of best wishes and good will. Honeysuckle in bloom grew up around one, adding its perfume, a blessing to the occasion
Jo continues her comments: In those days receptions were not the big thing as much as they are now. But there were always showers for the bride, often more than one, such as kitchen showers, lingerie showers and other kinds. In this respect we were honored with everything friends could do for us. We received so many beautifully embroidered pillow cases that are still usable. Some of them I look at and remember from whom they came. The one special shower I treasure in my memories is the one held at Darvil’s mother’s place. She still lived in the big house next door (her sons later tore it down) so a large number, probably the whole ward, were invited, The shower was prepared by two or three of our friends whose names are long forgotten. Darvil’s mother was at the door graciously greeting and welcoming each guest”
After the ceremony, with congratulations, hugs and kisses over, my biggest problem at this time was the rowdy bunch of so-called friends on the sidewalk. The cigars hadn’t done much to dampen their desires to grab me for and evening’s “Shivaree”, they called it in those days. However, they had misjudged the resourcefulness and ingenuity of some loyal cohorts. Between Bruce, Gordon Stowell and Bernice, a parked and loaded car awaited us on the next street, easily reached through the back lots. Jo quickly changed from satin to jodhpurs and boots, and I (Darvil) to Levis and buckskin jacket. With Bruce flashlighting the way, we were soon in the car heading toward our rendezvous with nature in the pines of old Mount Graham.
Bruce recounts his part in the getaway: “Darvil had employed me to help him and his new bride, after their wedding and reception to escape any shenanigan harassment by misdirected, fun-loving friends. Having made a quick change into their grubbies, the newlyweds slipped out the back door. There we met and I helped them make their way to the back fence, helped them slip through it and then on through the back neighbor’s pasture to the automobile with their waiting friends. They promptly disappeared into the night toward their planned mountain haven. I have always enjoyed a degree of warm satisfaction in being a part of a well-devised scheme which assured them of a clean getaway. As far as anyone was aware, they were simply “lost” in the wilds, as well as “lost” in the arms of cupid.”
Not until we reached the straight-a-way and started the long gradual climb up to the mesa did we feel we had successfully ditched the schivareers, but to our consternation, a car approaching at a very high speed was soon on our tail. Convinced it could be none other than our schivaree bunch I held our vehicle to the center of the road not allowing them to pass, knowing good and well what would happen if they ever managed to get around us. They honked, yelled, and even pressed their front bumper against our rear bumper. Soon, the presses became big shoves that began to be dangerous. After several long minutes of this kind of buffeting, Gordon called from the back seat to say he didn’t think it was our would-be tormenters, that he didn’t recognize the car as one belonging to any of the crowd that had assembled during the wedding. I immediately made the decision to pull over and take our chances. The cargo I carried was too precious to risk wrecking the car, which they seemed more and more bent on doing. You can imagine our relief, when given the opening, the car sped by with shouts of anger coming from open windows, epithets I wouldn’t dare to print.
Jo and I honeymooned in a six by ten canvas tent at eight thousand feet elevation in the Graham Mountains of southeastern Arizona, about fifty miles from our homes in Thatcher. A secluded and romantic spot, it was not a regular campsite: but a spot a big quarter-mile hike from the nearest road. I spotted the place a couple of years before while hiking that high, lonesome area with a group of boy scouts. I went up there the day before the wedding. I packed everything in, pitched the tent and readied the campsite with Dutch ovens and skillet around the new fire pit to make things comfortable and easy for us both.
It was well past midnight the next night when we—husband and wife of four hours or so—bid friends, Gordon and Bernice Stowell good night—thanking them for the transportation favor. We warned them not to leave us stranded from the comforts of the civilized world (such as they were in those days), for more than ten days, and to bring any frivolous goodies to eat that might come to mind when they returned. What a marvelous place! And the frustrated shivareers without the least idea, knew how a "coachless" couple so completely disappeared after the open air wedding.
Well, I wish I had time and space to tell you about the wonderful ten days spent in forest and canyons of that beautiful and quiet area, but that's not the point of my story. How would you like to have your own special place on the National Forest Service maps named in honor of "your" honey moon? It took many years to finally happen but that's one honeymoon caper Jo and I can boast about.
Casting about one day for some means of leaving our mark upon the isolated haven, I took ax in hand and strode to a huge slab of ponderosa trunk lying prone only a few feet from our quarters. A powerful bolt of lightning had recently split the giant trunk leaving a three-foot wide white surface smooth and fresh lying there on the ground, tilted at a forty-five degree angle to the horizon. In an hour, with my sharp blade, I Veed-out thirteen huge letters on its virgin white surface spelling out the words, "HONEYMOON CAMP." Then invigorated from the exertion and radiant because of pleased remarks from my new bride, I gathered bits of charcoal from the fire pit. With them I blackened the grooves until the rough-hewn letters stood out like vigilant sentinels against a dawn lightened sky. The next day I put final touches on the job by cutting in our names and the year—1933. The last time we visited the camp, about thirty years ago, a road passed within a hundred yards of our trysting place, where a narrow trail led into the trees. To our astonishment we discovered that the United States Forest Service had accepted the handiwork of my double-bitted ax as authentic. For there beside the trail stood a sign—HONEYMOON CAMP - 100 YARDS—and a black arrow pointed up the trail in "our" direction.
How many others complimented our hide-away for the same purpose we will never know, probably not too many. Kids afford luxury hotels now-a-days. Do we feel cheated by not enjoying the same, or do we envy them? Not at all, for how many hotels would have ever remembered us enough to name a honeymoon suite after us, even though our names would have been clearly on the register?
After the experience, Jo said: "I had never been much of an outdoors girl, but I do remember the beautiful pristine setting of our place. We enjoyed some wonderful hikes, and in silence we stood in awe of so many magnificent vistas. The only hard part wasn't the hike down, but the trudging back up the hill to the road. It was a long way, but worth it, and we both would have extended it, if it were possible."
One of Jo's best friends from early childhood, Alberta Craig, and her husband, Earl Hunt, drove up that long winding dirt road to retrieve us after our glorious experience; an experience, now many years passed, but rich with precious memories we still enjoy together.
(It happened that my brother Orlando had gone up into the mountain to camp alone, as he was prone to do, and he knew of my plan to be there the day before the honeymoon and the approximate time I would be there. He was there waiting for me on the road, and he helped me pack in the equipment supplies and tent. I much appreciated his help getting it all down the fairly steep quarter-mile hike. Once there, we worked together pitching the tent and setting up the camp site: readying every thing, the campfire place and gathering the wood so Jo and I would have a minimum of chores to do. He was camped just a couple of canyons away, and even though we invited him over for one evening to visit and share our dinner, he said that he wouldn’t, for he had things to do. We never saw hide nor hair of him during our stay, nor did we expect to. Orlando loved to be alone with his thoughts and understood the privacy of a honeymoon.)
OUR THREE CHILDREN
We expected the arrival of our first child in January. Two weeks before the day, though, if I had already had the experience of delivery, I would have sworn then that the time of arrival had come. But, only a false alarm. Lucky me; I could continue a bit longer in discomfort. On January 7, I had driven from Solomonville to Thatcher, where a group of us, young married women, were enjoying each other's company. We may have been playing cards.
The get-together lasted later into the night than expected. The weather had changed for the worst and sleety rain falling in the dark night worried me regarding the ten-mile drive home. I phoned Darvil at Aunt Nell’s and Uncle Less's, where we’d lived during that school year of teaching in Solomonville. I asked him permission to stay the night at Mama's. He agreed that under the circumstances it would be best, for which I felt a relieved appreciation toward him.
In the middle of the night my water broke; I knew the time had finally arrived. Mama called Dr. Platt and a woman in Pima we had arranged with to be the nurse. The good doctor soon arrived, but several more hours passed before the event. The next day, January 8, 1935, our first arrived a little after 11:00 o'clock in the morning. We named him, Darvil David, after his Dad and my Dad. My husband insisted we call him by his name, and I insisted we call him by my dad's name. Disturbed with each other for refusing to budge an inch— we just called him Mac.
He weighed well over nine pounds. We thrilled over him, a beautiful baby in perfect form and health, He was born in the front bedroom; the same room where my baby sister Jean, who we've all loved so much had been born five years before, when I was eighteen (I well remember that special day too.) Jean and Mac's births happened in the same room too, that Eleanor and I shared as teen-agers growing up and as young women. These precious times in history took place in the room of our red brick house, the house built by Darvil's Grandfather Sims and his son Uncle Oscar; the house that Mama always wanted so desperately, that Dad bought for her.
In those years, new mothers, according to doctor’s orders, had to stay in bed for at least a week before being up and around. I stayed the week at my mothers, where the baby was born. Darvil, after each school day drove to Thatcher to be with me and the baby during the afternoons and on into the late evenings before having to return.
Mac started life as a beautiful and good baby, and he grew to be a good child and a beautiful child. An easy child to have around and exceptionally loved, he was the first grandson born to my mother and father's family. And next door, his Grandma McBride and Frankie, Darvil's youngest sister, they too thought him very special and helped to care for and tend him. Our first hardly had a chance to be a baby before the second came along thirteen and one-half months later.
The third year Darvil taught in Solomonville, we lived in one of the apartments above the Drug Store (formerly the Solomon Commercial Building, which the first Valley National Bank occupied. See explanation in Darvil's history). We waited expectantly for our second baby to arrive sometime in February. The time for the new one came closer day by day. Taking precautions, we'd planned a way for me to relay the news to Darvil at his work, just a long block away at the elementary school. We had no phone, but the Drug Store below did. With the drug store people cooperating, we decide that when the time came, I would pound on the apartment floor as the signal which they would hear below, and they would phone Darvil.
My friend through childhood, Alberta, came to visit me on the day the pains started. They soon grew so intense, we knew, and we began pounding on the floor. We pounded and waited and Ew pounded and pounded and waited and pounded, pounded, pounded and waited. We decided for Alberta to rushed down below and use the phone herself. She called the school asking for Darvil, but he was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, we phoned Dr. Platt and the nurse with whom we'd previously arranged to help me. Dr. Platt arrived—but still no husband. Finally, to my great relief, Darvil walked in the door only minutes before the doctor delivered our second boy.
Jon Robert was born February 26, 1936. Another good and beautiful baby in perfect form and health blessed our lives. We felt so fortunate, so proud, so thankful and grateful for him.
When Jon grew old enough to walk well, I would see one boy alone and think, "Isn't he the cutest thing in all
the world." Then, when I'd see the other one I'd then think he must be the cutest one in all the world. But, when
one would run to the other, seeing them together, I thought, "They both are ten-times cuter together, than I had
believed when I saw them separately." The feelings that welled up within me for those two, beautiful, sweet,
little boys continually warmed me as I watched them month after month continue to grow. Later, people often
asked me, "Are they twins?"
Seventeen months after Jon was born, the time had come for our third and last baby to arrive. I remember thinking that I would just turn over and die if the third one wasn't a boy too. I could only picture three little boys in my mind's eye.
Mama and Dad had gone to the mountains not knowing the time to be so near. This would be the first time they had been away during the birth of my babies. We lived in a Mexican-built house in the part of the little town where many of the teachers in the school lived. We had arranged for Mrs. Conder, not only our neighbor, but the wife of the school custodian to be my nurse.
After Dr. Platt drove in, about one o'clock in the afternoon of August 22, 1937, our baby girl, Sally Jo, arrived. A bit bald, she weighed nine pounds. When we saw how she looked, even though she was a her, all ideas in my mind of three boys melted away ceasing to exist. She was such a beautiful thing!
But, she worried us; I couldn't nurse her and she didn't gain weight; she developed very slowly. As I remember, three months later she had gained only one additional pound. We were very careful with her though and finally got her straightened out. By the time she reached the age of one, she'd grown lovely curls on that little bald head. Born beautiful, she grew up always beautiful and has stayed that way all her life.
Now, two small toddlers and a new baby complicated our lives. We really had our noses to the grindstone. To relieve the burden, we hired a darling twelve-year-old, little, Mexican girl, Rosara, who's sweet, lovely mother sent us tortillas, tacos or enchiladas with her daughter each day she came. She came to our home every Monday morning to help during the week-days. On Friday afternoons as soon as Darvil got home from work, the mother picked her up to take home for the week-end. She helped us this way for eight weeks. But I think it became too much for a girl of her tender age to spend so much time away from her mother and family. She had been a life-saver though, while she stayed with us.
A non-Mormon family, the Fredricksons, with many children, moved into our town from Alabama. They needed extra income because of tight finances. The oldest daughter of the family, a fifteen-year-old, baby-sat for us when we went out evenings. Soon though, she stopped helping us, but we hired Jackie, her younger, 13-year-old sister. Jackie could do anything and everything for the children and the house that I could. The most darling girl, she fixed meals, put groceries away—in their proper places—and took care of the dishes, clothes, and all, doing everything on her own initiative. She was perfect; and the kids so loved her.
We stayed in contact with Jackie during her growing-up years, and as an adult. Though she married a member of the Church, the marriage failed. She then married Jim Gale, a good man, also a member of the Church. Finding happiness and fulfillment in the second marriage, she began to study the Church doctrine and became a member herself. She always said she had joined because of her experience with our family as a teenager. She named the first of their two daughters, Josephine, after me. We had known the parents of her husband Jim, before they married. They had raised their family forty miles to the east, in Duncan. Jim's first marriage had failed too, but he and Jackie found fulfilling happiness together. Jackie and her family eventually moved to Morenci.
After joining the church, Jackie always remained active. About seven years ago while serving in her ward as the Relief Society President she lost her husband to a fatal illness. Jackie’s opportunity came to fulfill one of her great desires, to serve as a missionary for the Church. Accepting the call when it came, she served in the Salt Lake City area as a proslyting missionary, and she loved every minute of it. We haven't seen Jackie for many years, but each Christmas we receive a lovely news-filled letter from her.
Soon after we moved into the new Solomonville house, we hired another girl to live with us to help with the children. She was the niece of Shorty, the owner of the very well-known and popular Mexican food restaurant to which people of the Valley came from far and wide. Lucile, our new help, had come from Miami where her mother lived. She came to stay with her aunt and Uncle Shorty in Solomonville. About fourteen years old: a beautiful, darling and dainty Mexican girl, she lived with us for a year. I remember how her mother kept her dressed so prettily in pinks and blues. The last time we saw her; she, with her husband and their oldest boy came to our fiftieth wedding anniversary at our Villa Street home in Pasadena. Still beautiful, her husband acted so sweet and appreciative toward her, and their son showed such admiration for his parents
Several cute memories remain with me about our children, as little ones, while we lived in Solomonville. I'll share a few: The Christmas we lived in the house where Sally was born, Santa Clause brought Mac and John a foot-peddle, red fire engine and a tricycle. How they loved to play with them. They would ride them for hours on end, taking turns trading vehicles riding them on the rocky dirt road in front of the house. They stayed in good condition, and we had them after we moved into the new house. They rode them in the yard and street there until we had to leave them when we moved to California.
Both boys loved bugs; it even rubbed off onto Sally too. At about three and four years of age, I dressed them in light blue and white, pin-striped, cotton overalls. They looked just like the kids of the transient cotton pickers that swarmed to the valley during the picking season. Almost every day, each with a spoon, went out the back door to dig in the damp dirt along the shady edge of the garage in search of bugs. Their trophies were usually sowbugs, earwigs or a worm.
The good woman, who acted as my nurse while convalescing after Sally Jo's birth, lived across and up the street from our new house. A very large and heavy woman, she died about a year after we became her across-the-street neighbor. Sometime after the funeral, Mac, a four-year-old of vivid imagination full of questions, talked to his dad about death, and where Mrs. Conder had gone. He sat on the floor in front of the couch where Darvil rested, as I listened to the conversation. Darvil explained that she had gone to heaven, and because she had always been a good person she had become an angel. Mac, absorbing it all and picturing her in his mind as he had always known her, big and fat, pondered it all for a moment and then said, half under his breath, "Big Old Angel!"
Mac and Jon loved to play Superman and Captain Marvel, comic book superhero-favorites of theirs. I safety-pinned the corners of towels around their necks for makeshift capes, and they would tear around the house, leaping, chasing and jumping off and over furniture. Outside, they jumped off the back porch, boxes and whatever else they could find, flying through the air as best they could.
The day before, we’d had a simple discussion with Mac about faith. On this occasion, with the new concept fresh in mind, he climbed onto the couch, then up a bit higher onto the arm. There he stood, poised and ready for the takeoff. With near-perfect faith he assumed the proper Superman, flying position, arms outstretched, hands together, he launched out in a prone position. He sailed out over the floor, still maintaining the proper attitude, albeit a very short way, with near but not quite prefect faith, for he crashed in a flat belly-flop banging his little nose and face soundly against the floor. He sat up teary-eyed in pain, but cried more from disappointment than hurt, because he couldn't really fly.
A wiggle worm: an apt description of Jon, for he lived up to it well. Whoever he chose to climb into bed with, bless their hearts, including ours, couldn't stand his wiggling for long. One time in Thatcher, he climbed in bed with his Grandmother Nettie, my Mama, squirming and wiggling as usual, Mama finally said, "Jon, for heaven sakes quit that wiggling!" "But Gwandmudda," he said in his little boy's brogue, "I can't get cumftable."
Regarding Jon's mode of speaking: For the longest time he couldn't pronounce his Rs. He would say mudda for mother, boe-ud for bird or board, and pupul for purple. He talked so cute; he enchanted people. As they listened, they would watch with smiling faces as they hung to his every word.
The movie theater in Safford sponsored amateur talent contests for children of all ages who dared appear before the lights. We entered Jon in the competition. When his turn came, he stood right up to the microphone in front of the full house. The master of ceremonies called him by name asking his age. "I disabout twee." He answered. When asked if he had a poem to recite—in a big, little-boy's voice—into the microphone he began:
"Hi didoe didoe, da cat an da fiddoe,
da cow dumped obu da moon.
da widdoe dog wafft to see suts spoe-ut,
an da dish wan away wid da spoon.
He was a perfect darling. He won that night and got a prize too, but I don't remember if it was first, second or tenth place.
While Darvil served as the Principal at the Elementary School, Miss Esber, a darling young woman, taught the kindergarten class. At age four, Mac was eligible to attend. The teacher said to me, "Well you can let Jon come to kindergarten too." So, Jon went along to school with Mac each day. Before they finished kindergarten, Mac would attend for two years and Jon for an unprecedented three. Jon always liked school, but after Mac’s first day of it, he lived through every school year with an eye only for the arrival of summer vacation, detesting every school day of his life.
Sally Jo was a sweet, beautiful, little girl, and so pretty to look at. Each year the school celebrated Armistice Day with a children's parade. It wended its way along several of the town's dirt roads. A four-year-old at the time, Sally Jo had been chosen to be queen of the parade. We have movie film of it, showing her riding along on her miniature float. I can see her clearly now, how cute she looked dressed as a little queen waving her scepter. The two boys marched along in the parade too, dressed in their cowboy, western shirts I'd made.
Sally Jo, besides being cute and pretty was petite. I thought for sure she would eventually be like her Great- grandmother, my Mother's mother, Nonnie: a delicate woman, not more than five-foot-one; and she wore such tiny shoes. But not to be, for she grew to be closer to my height, about five-five.
In May of 1942, we moved to California. The school year started in September. While living in Newport Beach, Sally Jo, Jon and Mac: ages five, six and seven, started school at the Newport Beach Elementary School in the first, second and third grades.
Early each morning, Darvil left for Long Beach where he worked his short-lived delivery route as a milkman. Once in a while, he would catch a ride with a friend. When that happened during the summer while the kids were out of school, the three of them and I often drove up the Coast Highway to Long Beach to spend the day and picnic at the city park. It was pleasant in the grassy park in the shade under the sprawling limbs of big trees. Such an enjoyable change of pace.
We fed the pigeons and the boys spent most of their time trying to coax them to eat from their hands. (If it should ever happen, either one would have made a quick grab.) But that didn't work, so they would wait for pigeons, sparrows or blackbirds to light on a big birdbath set on a high pedestal. While the bird began to drink or bathe, they would sneak up under it from the opposite side and quickly reach up to try to catch it. Though they caught lots of butterflies from the plants and flowers, they never succeeded in catching a bird. When Darvil finished his day, he came to the park to enjoy it a while with us, then, we'd drive home to Newport Beach together. Newport Beach for me at that time was heaven—and it still is.
Before the kids started school the next year, we had moved down the peninsula into Balboa to a corner house on Seventh Street and Balboa Boulevard. Sally Jo, a six-year-old in first grade, rode the buss to school. At the end of the first school-day she didn't get home as scheduled. Petrified, in terror, I took immediate steps to find her. After what seemed an eternity, a police car stopped at the house and Sally got out. She had found the right buss and boarded it, but she missed getting off at her stop. The buss driver, naturally, continued on
unaware of any abnormality through his entire route. However, when he finished, he still had a little girl on board. She hadn't been at all afraid and arrived home as happy as ever. But, I had been nearly out of my mind with worry.
I remember Sally Jo at about eight years old after we’d moved to Wilmington. I made a paper costume for her for a school class presentation part. She looked just adorable in it, with her long curls hanging down over her shoulders. We have photographs of her in it.
While in the seventh grade living in Wilmington, Mac joined a basket ball club. He knew his dad had been a wonderful ball player and he had an interest in athletics too. He became friends with a boy who played, and the club invited him join. He looked so cute and nice in his players garb.
(DARVIL) IN FLAGSTAFF TOGETHER
After our honeymoon, though still honeymooning, we spent the next four weeks living back and forth between our two Thatcher homes until my forth year of college at Flagstaff began in September.
We lived in what the college called the "summer cabins, down in ‘the flats’." The flats were so filled with snow that they often suffered flooding during warming periods of the winter. But, the college allowed the married couples, who dared, that were willing to suffer the capricious environment's whims, to occupy a cabin. We took the dare.
The tiny one-room rectangular building consisted of board siding nailed to the outside of the studs while the inside displayed only exposed 2x4 studs: bare of any insulation, boards or paneling. The stove sat not more than two feet from the bed: for we were restricted to such limited inside space. During the nights, the temperature dropped so low that the wood in the stove had to be replenished between intervals of sleep, several times each night.
During that final year I worked in the college library. I developed a great love for that job. I garnered invaluable information about books and literature and of course, I gained a thorough understanding of the, Dewey Decimal System, of cataloguing the books.
The compensation for the library work paid everything except books: It paid the year's housing, tuition, and the cafeteria meal ticket. Since they punched the ticket for each meal, Jo and I ate a meal together in the cafeteria almost every day. Actually, the ticket provided me with three meals per day for the entire year. That equaled one and a-half meals per day for each of us. I think we only spent $20 of our own money during the full school year. We didn’t come even close to starving, but we did go without many things.
I continued college in Flagstaff through the summer session and graduated in August of 1934 with a degree in Education and certification to teach. Back in Thatcher for a few weeks before I started my first year of teaching in Solomonville, we lived with Jo’s parents.
(JOSEPHINE) TOGETHER IN FLAGSTAFF
After Darvil finished that first year in Flagstaff, (his third year of college) I got him; I won the contest; I emerged the victor; I took the prize. We married in August of the summer of 1933. Dad brought the white, satin material for my wedding dress from Phoenix. Phyllis Pace, the only girl cousin my age, made it for me.
As we prepared to return together in September to Flagstaff for Darvil's fourth year of college, I didn't have any money, and Dad didn't have any either. Though Darvil came up with our only twenty dollars, dear Dad slipped over to his store and filled a big box, full to the top, with groceries to send to help us begin our new lives together.
We occupied a tiny, summer cottage reserved by the college for married students. A small wood-burning stove served as our only means of heat. At seven thousand five-hundred feet, after the long, snowy winter set in, we used it continuously. Darvil forced himself out from under the covers two and sometimes three times each night to replenish the wood. Thank goodness for its place there so close to the bed. All through the surrounding pine forest laid a plentiful amount of wood available at no cost whenever we needed it. Thank goodness too for the abundance of wood, for it saved our precious, few dollars for buying necessities.
Darvil found employment at the college library. He worked in exchange for a full-year, meal ticket that we both could use in the school cafeteria. Though not a lot, it afforded him some credit at the book store too, saving additional cash. Together, we went to the cafeteria for every other meal, enjoying meals that someone else had prepared. It became a constant treat for me to be eating meals with him so often. Fortunately, we lived close to the college dairy, and by helping some friends working there, Darvil, our neighbors next door and others had permission to get the milk and cream we needed. The men usually waited to get the milk after the cream had begun to rise so we could bring home the creamier part. Believe-you-me, I gained weight, and it wasn't a very happy situation. Because of the indulgence I needed larger sizes of clothes, but, no such luxury as a new wardrobe for me then.
I'd always been spoiled by my parents. I had always had everything I wanted, which brings to mind an occasion I’ll share. Back in Thatcher Mama and I went to Safford to shop. Better said, she went to shop and I went along only as her company, for I lacked funds. I didn't have a single nickel to my name, and I remember passing a grocery store and seeing boxes of big, delicious oranges and apples. How my mouth watered for one, but pride kept me from saying anything, for I had learned to do without, as Darvil had had to do all his life. Later when I related the experience to Mama, she moaned, "Oh Jo, that just makes me sick." She'd have bought me any or all of them in a minute.
Edna and Dillon Lewis with their young baby, Monford, lived in the cottage next to us. We soon became friends, a lasting friendship through the years. Dillon and Edna had been raised in Taylor, Arizona, and Dillon's parents lived their on their farm. Their home town, not too far away, beckoned them back quite often, and they always returned to Flagstaff with an over-abundance of vegetables and fruit to share with us. We appreciated their thoughtfulness more than words express because of our limited resources.
Ice cycles formed long, clear and heavy during the freezing winter nights. Dillon and Edna owned an ice cream freezer, so after school in the afternoons, Darvil and Dillon harvested the hanging ice cycles from our cottage’s eves. They crushed the ice cycles to make ice cream, using the creamy milk from the college dairy. Those were pleasant interludes. We made many-a-fine-batch to fatten-up on. Edna and Dillon were dear, dear friends, we had many, fun, frugal times together that year.
Though we couldn’t afford the tuition for me, and therefore, I would not receive credits, the school allowed me to audit some wonderful courses. I remember one outstanding literature class that I enjoyed, but most of all I appreciated two advanced classes in music. In the classes I enjoyed being a part of the groups. I sang with one choral group under the direction of a Professor Ardrey. The advanced theory, understanding and training I gained served me well in years to come.
I made sure I went with Darvil to the extraordinary weekly, student assemblies. The programs were nothing short of marvelous. The talent of guest performers and programs presented by the students never ceased to thrill me.
The great Broadway musical, Showboat, showered its influenced upon the world of music, and Professor Ardrey had trained his students in the rendition of many of its magnificent selections. Even though I couldn't be a part of those presentations, the talented students were impressive. The experience of being in the midst of it, listening to and seeing such heart-moving renditions, shall forever bring pleasant memories.
There during one of Flagstaff’s warmest winters, I took advantage of the comfortably, outdoor conditions to prove my athletic skills in skiing. Though my own technique differed somewhat from the orthodox, I did quite well down hill: sliding with my knees up and skis splayed out in front, as my seat provided plenty of wide stability.
During the second summer of our marriage, we had a plentiful lack of money, and we spread it thin to make do. Darvil had always managed the money, but I got tired of not having what I thought was enough. I'd been raised with always a shekel or more in my pocket, Mama and Dad providing it when wanted. Darvil would give me money when I needed and wanted it, but I tired of him doing all the managing and raised such a ruckus to do it myself, that he finally gave in.
He handed over all the money that we had to make last for the whole summer. He simply told me to—just go ahead and be the manager. Well, it was gone in six weeks, if not in four, which embarrassingly forced us to scrape and scrounge around for enough more to see us through the summer session. Lesson learned, forever after I left the money managing to him.
PLACES WE LIVED,
COLLEGE GRADUATION, TEACHING AND CHILDREN
After my third year of college at Flagstaff in 1933, which also included the summer session, we were married on August the eighteenth. The wedding ceremony took place on the front lawn of the Phillips home on Main Street next door to our home. After our ten-day honeymoon in a borrowed tent in the Graham Mountains, we spent the next four weeks living back and forth in our parents homes, until the new school year commenced (my forth year of college, 1933\34) in September, in Flagstaff.
We lived in what the school called the "summer cabins," down in the flats. The flats, so piled up with snow that they often suffered flooding in the winter. But, the school allowed the married couples who dared, and were willing to suffer through the capricious weather to occupy a cabin at no charge. We took the dare.
The tiny, one-room, rectangular building consisted of board siding nailed to the outside of the studs while the inside displayed only exposed 2x4 studs: bare of any inside insulation, boards or paneling. The stove sat not more than two feet from the bed: because, we were restricted to such limited inside space. During the nights, the temperature dropped so low that the wood in the stove had to be replenished, between intervals of sleep, several times each night.
Again that final year, I worked in the college library. I developed a great love for that job. I garnered invaluable information about books and literature and of course, I gained thorough understanding of the Dewey Decimal System of library book arrangement. The compensation for the library work paid everything except books. It paid the year's housing, tuition, and the cafeteria meal ticket. Since they punched the ticket for each meal, Jo and I ate a meal together in the cafeteria almost every day. Actually, the ticket provided, me, with three meals per day for the entire year: that equaled one and one-half meals per day for each of us. I think we only spent twenty dollars of our own money during the full school year. Thinking back, we really got by exceptionally well.
I graduated in May 1934 with a major in Social Studies and minors in Psychology and English with a degree in Education—certified to teach. We returned to Thatcher for the summer and lived with Jo's parents until my first teaching contract with the Solomonville Elementary School would start in September. The salary during the first year of teaching paid eighty dollars a month over twelve months—$960 per year.
We lived with Jo's Aunt Nell and Uncle Less Layton outside town in their ranch house about a mile and a-half from the school. We rented one room from them with bathroom privileges, access to a big refrigerator just outside the door and laundry facilities. Also they provided us with all the milk and cream we needed and vegetables from their ample garden. We usually cooked on a hot plate in our room. We rented there for the full school year. They were wonderful in every way with us. During that school year, (Mac) Darvil David, was born January 8, 1935, though not in the Layton house, for Jo had been at her Mother's home, when the time arrived.
When school finished for the summer, we moved the ten miles back to Thatcher, where we lived in two back rooms of my mother's house: more like a separate apartment for us. Remember too, the McBrides and Jo's parents (the Phillips) houses were next door to each other.
Ready to begin my second year of teaching (1935/36) we moved back to Solomonville in September. We rented one of the two second-story apartments above the drug store from a fine couple: They were very nice to us; we held them in high regard. On February 26, 1936, our second boy arrived, Jon Robert, Thirteen and one-half months after Mac. After the second year of teaching, we returned again to live in the two-room back apartment in my mother's house in Thatcher.
The drug store building was originally built by, I.E. Solomon, after whom the town received its name, and known as the Solomon Commercial building. There he established a thriving general merchandise business when the town was the county seat. Perhaps the second largest business of its kind in the valley, it provided the farmers, ranchers and residents a source of not only groceries and dry goods, but of all kinds of farm and ranch machinery, equipment and vehicles, including harness and saddle tack. Eventually, Solomon extended an addition from the south side of the building which housed building supplies and lumber. Then, he dedicated a room in one corner of the main building for a bank that he personally managed. It became the first branch of the Valley National Bank in Arizona—destined to evolve to be one of the states ranking banks.)
Just before commencing my third year of teaching (1936\37), in the Solomonville School, we moved to a small house next to the big canal that passes through the middle of the town. Capus Motes owned it, and he invited us to occupy it early, at no charge, to add some improvements before school started in September. I spent several weeks installing an inside kitchen sink. The running water supply to the sink came from a big elevated tank I rigged just outside the kitchen. We kept it full from a well just outside the back door that had a hand-powered pitcher-type pump. The place had deteriorated to a dilapidated shack, but, after the sink addition and lots of scraping, scrubbing, sanding, painting, patching and new wallpaper, it shaped up—at least to the point that the wind didn't whistle unimpeded through the cracks.
Half-way into the 1936/37 school year, Harold Clark, the principal, accepted a job in Washington D.C. The School Board asked me to be the acting Principal for the remainder of the year: On January 1, I began my first administrative work experience. I guess the best explanation of the situation is to explain that I was a part-time principal; because I continued to teach classes too, as had Harold Clark before me. I truly loved the administrative part of the job, and I got along fine with no problems with the pupils or their parents. Moreover, the School Board evidently thought me capable and competent, for they hired me to the position permanently.
As a young teacher, evidently I looked younger than I really was, though I didn't think so. In attendance at many school board meetings, occasional problems beset the puzzled board members, all quite a bit older than me. Some had known me all my life, and often would say, with a wry smile and twinkle in their eye, "Well, let's ask the boy …." Actually, the board first appointed me to the position, right after I turned twenty-nine. So, after I turned thirty, the next time they pulled "the boy" quip, in feigned annoyance. I politely but firmly corrected them. I would remind them that I had reached thirty, and was plenty old enough now to not be called "the boy".
During the school year of 1937/38 we lived in the Wilson duplex house on the old Main Street in Solomonville. There, Sally Jo was born August 22, 1938, eighteen months after Jon. Good old Dr. Platt attended to that delivery as he had with the boys.
During the spring and summer of 1938, I took on a really tough job; during that time of our lives we busied ourselves to the utmost. In addition to tending to the needs of a spouse and the three children which were born within a period of less than three years, I started building our own home. I did everything, virtually by myself, except for the help from a couple of Mexican locals who made the adobes—and I helped make those too.
Made of stuccoed adobe, this cute abode, with forced air heating, had a living room, kitchen, dinette section, bathroom, two bedrooms, hardwood floors and a basement. Later I added a ducted evaporative cooling system. Soon I built a picket fence around the grass lawn yard and furnished the kids with a slide, teeter-totter and swing. We built the house on a corner lot we'd bought from Mr. Tidwell who lived two houses up the street next to the Church. Though everything had not been finished, such as half-painted stuff, rugs not down and all furniture not in, we moved into it before the start of the school year of 1938/39.
That experience, invaluable for later years, laid the foundation for me to successfully complete other major building and addition projects and repairs. I had also built a chicken coop and run out back. We figured we could not only benefit from the eggs, but also from the culled hens, for dinner.
Jo will never forget one experience with the chickens. Up the street at the Church, a group of members, including me, kept busy in the middle of a big clean-up day. Home alone with the kids, she heard the chickens out back erupt in a big ruckus, making all kinds of excited and distressed squaks. Stepping outside to investigate she spied the would-be thief. Perched on the corner post of the chicken pen sat a chicken hawk (a large female Coopers Hawk), leering at the frazzled flock. Back quickly into the house, she grabbed my twenty-two pistol that I had helped her practice with, and rushed back out to protect her beloved flock. Without hesitation, she pulled up, aimed and shot. The wounded hawk fell inside the pen with a broken wing. Afraid of the fierce red-eyed pillager and not wanting anymore to do with the fearsome thing, she waited for me to dispatch it when I returned.
We occupied our beautiful little home from August of 1938 until we moved to Southern California in May of 1942.
The following needs mention here to keep chronological order: In 1918, shortly after Dad was killed, we had moved to Thatcher. After living in an empty rental belonging to Uncle Oscar for about a year, we moved from it when we bought the big house on Main Street. As a matter of interest, I remember seeing the date of the house’s construction on the gable end—1892. Christopher Layton had built the house for his tenth wife, Elizabeth, and her children.
In 1939\40, we brothers tore down the old house to build Mother a new, comfortable home. As we razed the building, we pulled the nails from the lumber, and stacked it in a manner to keep it dry to avoid warping until we would use it. We discovered it had been built with the old fashioned square nails—not a single round one in it. We cleaned the mortar from each brick and stacked them in readiness. We saved the window frames and some of the old tile too and all else we thought might be of use. We didn’t level the entire house all at once; we left the rear section consisting of the kitchen, bathroom and one bedroom where mother continued to live comfortably, this part was about one third of the original house. We built the new house on the front of the deep, double lot on the east side of the old house and much closer to the street, leaving enough space for an adequate, front lawn. It had all the modern conveniences of the day, and she enjoyed it for the rest of her years. After Mother moved into the new home, we tore the remaining old structure down, and Orlando used the material to help build his own house in Safford.
We discovered the old house had been built on a footing of wide-cut sand stone blocks, about 14 inches deep. The remnants of the footing remained in place while we lived in California. After we moved back to Thatcher, and our boys were in high school, in 1952, we removed the old blocks of sandstone, crawling with scorpions, to make way for the wide driveway into the trailer park we were in the process of building.
NEW IN CALIFORNIA
EMPLOYMEN, BUSINESSES AND HOMES
In May of 1942, with the United States already well entrenched in World War II, we packed most of our belongings and drove from our origins in the Gila Valley, Arizona, to Santa Ana, California. There, we stayed for about six weeks with Jo's brother Virgil Phillips and his wife Toots and family. I soon found a temporary job with Golden State Creamery as a milkman. I drove a daily delivery route in Long Beach.
Our original plan dictated finding employment in the war defense industry. California enjoyed a much publicized boom. For those that dared pull up stakes and leave our rural valley, its economy seemed to offer greater opportunity for financial success. We determined it worthwhile to leave teaching to search the promising new horizon. Even as the Principal of the Solomonville Elementary School, though considered a well paying job for the time and place, it only paid $2,400 a year.
After staying the hospitable six weeks with Virgil and Toots and their three children, we moved to a cottage\apartment in the city of Newport Beach on 31st street between Newport Boulevard and the beach boardwalk. After working the milk route for three months, Douglas Aircraft Corporation hired me as an inspector; a position of envy aspired to by many jealous employees. An excellent position, I answered directly to the Army Air Corps Authority. The mechanics in turn answered to the inspectors. Friction frequently arose between inspectors and mechanics because of the exactness required of the inspectors by the military.
At first, esteemed as an underling novice by the mechanics, disputes often erupted between us. But, the military inspectors, checking the quality of my judgments left me no room for concession or error. Therefore, the biggest challenge for the inspector: getting along with installer-mechanics, became the primary problem. The mechanics naturally believed they knew more about mechanics than I did. As mechanics, without question, they stood superior. But, I knew the Army's expectations regarding the fine-tuned precision required for the installations. The disputes decreased with time as the workers gained confidence and respect for my decisions. They witnessed the meticulousness of the military people under whom I had to operate. They soon looked to me more as a protector than an antagonist. The job became more pleasant.
Principally, I inspected the aircraft armaments: the gun placement installations in virtually every B-17 bomber. Not only did I do the inspection, but the job at times required that I test-fire the 50-caliber machine guns. After towing the craft to the test-firing area, I fired live ammunition against a heavy barrier wall—real fire power, I assure you.
On just one occasion I flew in the B-17. I'd stepped up a notch in seniority; it fell my responsibility to test-fire the guns of every tenth plane while in flight. My first flight happened to be the last time the Army required in-flight, firing tests. So, I held the distinction of being the last civilian to ever do in-flight, machinegun testing in the B-17 bomber built by Douglas Aircraft of Long Beach. In the beginning, the job with Douglas didn't pay what we'd hoped for. But as I continued with Douglas, I began to make considerable more money. Much more than I could ever have earned in the school systems of the Gila Valley.
Douglas administered an Army Air Corps School on its premises for crew training in the specifics of the aircraft it produced. Because of the knowledge of airplanes I'd gained through many months of inspecting, plus experience, qualifications and credentials in teaching, the training school hired me as an instructor; a coveted high-priority and high profile position. The step-up paid considerably more than the factory inspector work. I taught the prospective crews and the ground mechanics the operations of the physical aspects of the airplanes. I loved the job for a good while, but it finally began to wear thin on me. The tedious constant repetition became tiresome. I taught the same lessons day after day, but the good money kept me going.
In late November or early December, we moved from our crowded cottage quarters in Newport Beach. We rented a cute picturesque, roomy, two-story house on the Balboa Peninsula right on the southwest corner of Balboa Boulevard and 7th Street. It's still there (1999) with all its windows and second-story, many-windowed, solarium room. It's just as beautiful as ever. Living there, we had the board-walk next to the ocean beach, just the length of the short block from us, and the bay beach in the opposite direction just two blocks away. In those days, the traffic or the converging weekend beach-goers, holidays and summers, didn't threaten the coastal cities with the hordes it has to accommodate now. We lived a peaceful fulfilling life there for over a year.
With the good money we had been making we had accumulated a sizable savings and were anxious to own our own home. In the summer of 1943, we bought a home on a corner, one-acre lot in Westminster. It had two mature trees of practically every kind of popular fruit imaginable, plus a raspberry patch, grape arbor and plenty of room for our yearly spring garden. We had a drake mallard duck with his three hens that wandered the fenced property doing there part munching snails, slugs and other numerous “crawliphants.” Out the back door in the middle of a green lawn nestled a small, oval-shaped pond full of multi-colored carp. The tresses of a picturesque half-grown weeping willow shaded it most of the day. We had an ample chicken coop and long fenced run with a hundred white leghorn laying hens and one aggressive pugnacious rooster. (The old raskal attacked us all, but with the exception of little Sally, we could always give it a husky boot to discourage it.) We candled, sorted and cartoned the eggs, put up a big sign on the corner and sold them to the neighbors and passing public. I sold them at work also, and when a full case accumulated, I'd go to Huntington Beach, where I received the going price for them from the stores.
We also bought a hundred, Rhode Island Red chicks, which we raised to fryer size. With Mac and Jon helping, we slaughtered, scalded, plucked, dressed and packaged them attractively. Then we put them on ice to take to work the next day. While we raised them, I'd been advertising and taking orders. The buyers, my coworkers, picked up their orders in the parking lot after work. This little side-venture proved highly profitable because of the wartime meat rationing. One could seldom find a chicken in the meat markets, even if he had ration stamps.
At Douglas, I had access to small scraps of Plexiglas. I learned to cut, fashion and polish trinkets from it, making different kinds of jewelry for necklace medallions, broaches and bracelets etc. Sometimes I bonded colorful items between two layers of it to make the article more salable. My prize one was a heart with a real scorpion inside that I kept for myself. The string tie I fashioned with it still hangs on my tie rack, kept for special occasions. I sold these at work, to friends and to neighbors. Though not a fortune maker, I had fun, and it kept my pocket a bit heavier with change.
Douglas also had employed Jo as a small parts inspector for about six months, when, Nettie and Jean, Jo's mother and youngest sister, came from Thatcher to live with us. They supervised the kids and kept house for us while we worked.
In 1946, the terrible war ended. Douglas Aircraft had already started terminating employees. Looking to the future, we had seen the writing on the wall and had saved another nest-egg. We began to search for a business of our own. Both of us, because of our family backgrounds were endowed imbued with entrepreneurial inclinations. With youth still on our side, we continued to search for that special treasure in which to be self-employed.
The circumstances under which we found our diamond eludes our memories now, but we found a business on Avalon Boulevard in Wilmington. The business had been given the appropriate descriptive name: "HELP YOUR SELF LAUNDRY." After we questioned the owner, made inquiries and evaluated, we arrived at an agreement with him. We purchased the business with our nest-egg we'd stashed away for just such an opportunity. We became the proud proprietors of our first business, for which we paid a little over $5,000.
The building, built long and narrow, had twelve Maytag washing machines of the old, square-tub, wringer-type arranged back to back down a center shelf divider. Two, deep, square rinse-tubs served each machine: one for rinsing and one for bluing, if needed. (Bluing white laundry was the custom of the time. A water soluble dye was poured into the rinse water affecting a whiter appearance of the whites.) Two large commercial dryers and an ample number of folding tables lined the outer windowed walls of the building. In the beginning we charged customers seventy-five cents per hour. Later we raised it to eighty-five cents and then to one dollar per hour.
Some customers preferred to drop off their laundry for us to wash dry and fold. We all took our turn at this chore, even the three kids became experts. Though Jo had a washing machine at home, she usually brought our laundry to the business to take care of between customers. Though sometimes I had the boys help me, I did all the general maintenance and improvements of the building. And, of necessity, I repaired and renovated the machines. They were hard to replace, and mechanics were greedy.
After several weeks of driving from Westminster to the business in Wilmington, we could see the definite advantage of living closer to it. In 1944, we moved to Wilmington into a newly-built house on a corner lot on Enola Street.
In 1945, after living in the Enola Street house for about two years, we sold it. A family tempted us with such an exceptional offer, we couldn't turn it down. For the time being, we moved into a rental on Lagune Street, closer to the center of town and much nearer the business. We lived there for a few months while we searched for another property to buy.
Near the turn of the year 1947/48, we bought a beautiful home on Marine Avenue, not far from the Lagune Street house, one block west of Avalon Boulevard and a block from Banning High School. We loved it. Of all the homes we would live in, in California, Jo loved it far and above the others. Located in a nice part of the city, we not only enjoyed the loveliness of the home and its yards, but also the royalties of an oil well and the rental income from a beautiful two-bedroom apartment on the property.
In 1947 while we were still in the middle of the laundry business, Bruce and Velda, my youngest brother and his wife, with their three children (Their forth would arrive in the future.), arrived from Ajo, Arizona, where he had been employed by the copper mine. He and I bought the Bicycle & Fix-it Shop directly across from Banning High School with frontage on Avalon Boulevard and just across the alley from the back yard of our Marine Street property.
Bruce managed it for nearly two years. He did fairly well selling and repairing bicycles, sharpening and repairing lawn mowers and repairing washing machines. I took a percentage of the profits during this time which recuperated part of my investment. After we moved to Colorado, he found excellent employment with the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. He then sold the little business and settled the remaining debt with me. They moved to Van Nuys in the San Fernando Valley, where they greatly prospered.
The laundry business boomed for us. During the immediate post-war period, the household washing machine had yet to reappear the stores for families to buy. Most families did their laundry in places like ours. The business prospered such that we doubled our original investment in a year. For the three years we owned the laundry, we averaged over $9,000 per year. Far and away above the average income.
Near the first of 1949, with the two boys helping me, we finished construction of a small apartment directly behind the laundry business. Again compelled to sell our home, for an excellent offer, we sold the Marine Avenue property and moved into the new apartment. Jo was grateful for the profits and saving but was despondent as she adjusted to loosing her beautiful home.
The industries previously caught up in the war-defense effort, were converting rapidly to the peace-time economy. The manufacturing of once hard-to-find items began to be stocked again in the stores. Thousands of items and appliances for private consumption had virtually disappeared for a half-decade. But, now, industries began again to manufacture them on a grand scale. Washing machines gradually made their debut again in some appliance store windows. We foresaw that prices would begin to reach levels making appliances readily available to the average family. The writing had appeared on the wall again. Correctly interpreting the signs of the recuperating, national economy, we sold the laundry business in time to fetch a price of a little more than we had paid for it.
We moved into a large rental house in a predominantly Mexican-American area of Wilmington, about February of 1949, where our neighbors were nice people. Not knowing exactly what life had in store for us next, I took interim work with a local department store in town. I tried my hand in the sale of television sets, for as yet, few families had afforded the new luxury. For the next three months I sold them along with a few other appliances, while I scanned the classified advertisements and followed leads for employment or another business to buy.
I found what I thought I was looking for. Woodbury Business College, in Los Angles, hired me to represent the College to graduating high school seniors living in an area of Colorado. The College paid me full salary as a trainee during the month of May, 1949.
In early June, as Mac neared the finish of the eighth grade, accommodated at Banning High School, Jon, the seventh grade at Freise Junior High and Sally Jo, the sixth grade at her elementary school, we made arrangements for them to leave their schools a week early. We moved our family to Grand Junction, Colorado where I worked for nine weeks.
Grand Junction was nestled in a beautiful valley surrounded by farms and orchards, with fringe foothills that sloped up to the base of high, magnificent mountains. They were intriguing. In some ways, the summer seemed a vacation, though a working vacation for me. We visited the places of interest in the sage brush hills, enjoyed picnics at the camp grounds on the higher mesas, visited Grand Mesa (a 10,000-foot flat-top mountain with more than three-hundred lakes) to explore and trout fish, we loved pleasant evening drives through the country and poached the local cottontail and quail with the boy's pellet gun. In Fruita and Montrose during the next three weeks, we reveled in the same kind of spectacular vistas and relaxed summer living.
But, the work didn't suite me. I'd discovered from selling appliances and now from recruiting, that selling just wasn't my piece of cake. We had gone back to Thatcher in July for Jean and Glenn's wedding. Since that visit something seemed missing in our lives. Our origins: yes, our roots back in Arizona seemed to whisper to us to return. While in Arizona for those few days of the wedding, I visited with our old friend, Lafe Nelson, Superintendent of the Safford Schools. He had tempted me with an elementary school teaching offer.
When we returned to Colorado, after the wedding, our discussions frequently entertained the option of returning to make our home again in Thatcher. The ever recurring thoughts worked their magic on our minds until we knew it to be inspiration to do. I resigned the position with Woodbury College to return to our desert country to resume teaching again. Seven years nine months had elapsed since we left Arizona to begin a different life in California. Now we would begin another new and exciting saga of our lives, with our children as teen-agers, back in the wonderful Gila Valley where it all began.
(JOSEPHINE) EMPLOYMENT AFTER MARRIAGE
After we married, I spent little time outside the home working. Darvil always provided wonderfully for us. Between the house, the kids, music and the Church, I found little opportunity to be idle, but on occasions, I found employment that I enjoyed for specific reasons.
We returned home, from Flagstaff, for Christmas vacation in 1934. Darvil had talked to Lafe Nelson, the Safford schools superintendent, a wonderful life-long friend to us. Explaining our financial circumstances, Darvil asked him if he had available some kind of employment for me in Safford. Back in Flagstaff after Christmas but a few days, Lafe called informing us of a state-funded library position just made available to the Safford schools. I accepted the position. Lafe, coincidentally in Flagstaff on business a few days later, provided me the ride back to Thatcher.
I left Darvil to continue his school. He faired for himself with his part-time jobs, while I stayed with my parents, far away in Thatcher, while working in the library, three miles east in Safford. Though it was worth it for the extra money and other nice considerations from pampering parents the job paid little. I recall an amount of $14 per week. The State provided funds, ran their course by Easter, so, unemployed, I returned to Flagstaff to be with Darvil through the rest of the school year.
I didn't work again until 1940, when the three children reached three, four, and five years of age. During three Pre-Christmas shopping seasons I worked for Belman’s Department Store in Safford. In addition to being a nice respite from the continual home drudgery of raising little-ones, it added some Christmas money to my purse.
After we had established ourselves in Southern California during the war, in late 1942 or early 43 Mama and Jean came to live with us after we moved into the two-story house in Balboa on Seventh Street and Balboa Boulevard. While they lived with us on the peninsula and tended the house and kids, I found employment with Douglas Aircraft too, where Darvil worked. I worked as a small parts inspector for about six months.
As the war continued, we bought the Help-Yourself-Laundry business in Wilmington, and I admit that I really loved it. The playing-in-the-water aspect kept me as happy as an adult, as it had done for me as a child. There were twenty, ringer-type, square-tub, Maytag washing machines with double rinse-tubs provided for each. I enjoyed doing my own washing, and of course, some of our customers left theirs for us to do. I loved that too; it was fun to use the big, commercial dryers and to fold the warm fresh-smelling clothes. Many nice, interesting people came in that I could visit with while working. I loved that money that came in too, for the business turned out to be a remarkably profitable investment.
We moved back to Thatcher at the beginning of summer of 1951, for Darvil was hired as Dean of Men at Eastern Arizona Junior College, But before his first year with the college started, Darvil knew he needed to continue pursuing his Doctorate. He lacked only a few credits to accomplish it. So, we took Sally Jo with us and rented an apartment in Palo Alto, California, where he attended Stanford University. The boys were left in Thatcher under Mama's care. (After these credits, Darvil lacked only his thesis to obtain his doctorate)
While he went to Stanford, Sally Jo became our housekeeper and chief cook and participated in the local community recreation programs, playing tennis and other sports. I worked in Ballans, a baby clothes store with beautiful merchandise. With nice owners and coworkers and pleasant customers, the work was a delightful experience, and I looked forward to being there each day. While there, the ward we attended, we enjoyed. The choir had a marvelous professional leader, and, I especially loved being a part of it under his talented direction.
We leased the Turkey Flat Lodge in the Graham mountains during the summer of 1953. The lodge served as a bare-essentials grocery store, gas station, and light recreation area. We rented out its five cabins and I cooked and served fast foods. And, by appointment, I cooked and served evening dinners. We looked at it as a paid-working vacation, for we were at seven-thousand feet elevation in the cool mountain air while the valley sizzled below.
In 1954, wanting another break from the formidable, Arizona, summer heat, Darvil and I decided to return to the more clement weather of Southern California for a beach-side working vacation. Since Karl and Elverda Allred were to be away on a trip from their Westminster home, we arranged to stay there for three weeks.
I immediatly went to work for a restaurant owned by Disney Studios in Burbank. I worked as the Assistant Maitre d' The Studio, busy then filming "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea," afforded opportunity to see some of the Hollywood style and people. Two actors come to mind -- Peter Lori, who acted as odd off stage as on, and, Kirk Douglas, a charming man off stage.
Soon, Darvil started work for Douglas Aircraft in Long Beach. When the Allreds neared their return, we moved to an upstairs apartment in the Torrey Pines Apartment complex on East Ocean Boulevard in Long Beach. Our front windows looked out over the street, cliff-side park, the beach and the ocean. Mac, age nineteen, arrived after finishing his first year of college at Eastern Arizona Junior College (now Eastern Arizona College) via hitch-hiking to find work too, but he managed to just pass the summer as a pampered guest. The apartment's ideal location gave us access to the beautiful beach across the boulevard and down the steps. Rainbow Pier and the Pike were a few blocks up within easy walking distance.
We met an L.D.S. couple from Mesa there for the summer too, Jack and Maude “Mackie” Cummard, and their two beautiful daughters, Tamara, age seventeen and Cidny, age thirteen. Mac soon became infatuated with Tamara, and we developed a friendship with the parents. Mac thought the world of Tamara, and they wrote each other nearly every week for the duration of his two and one-half year mission. However, a good friend of his, in his mission, who was from Mesa, returned home three months ahead of Mac and enticed Tamara away from him. But after Mac found his wife to be in Linda and married her, Tamara met Mac’s best friend, Terrell Richard (Terry) Hoops. They fell in love and married after Terry, two years ahead of Mac in dental school, graduated. Tam and Terry and Linda and Mac have remained close life-long friends.
When we moved to the apartment, I gave up the job with Disney Studios, for Darvil needed the car. I found pleasant employment in a Gift Shop in Long Beach, a convenient bus ride to reach.
In the summer of 1955, we leased the Mountain Lodge again. Jon and Sally Jo came with us then. Early in the mornings, Darvil and Jon collected millions of ladybugs, by the gallon, at the higher elevations. They sold them to a distributor who sold them to the citrus growers for aphid control. If I recall correctly, a gallon and a-half of bugs sold for $10.00. Darvil and Jon had fun doing it and three to eight gallons at that price, back then, equaled a tidy additional sum. My other work remained the same as during the summary of 1953.
In the summer of 1957, Darvil had concluded five years as Principal of the Thatcher Elementary School. Mac would continue in Uruguay on his mission until November. Jon, still in school at Tempe worked long hours cooking at Harmons Ranch Restaurant. And Sally Jo, married, lived with her family in Safford. Darvil was employed in LaFaun Mortensen's insecticide\defoliant business, when we bought the grocery store.
We worked side by side together, when he could be away from the other job. I definitely loved working in the store. I felt a close kinship with store-keeping. Maybe I inherited it from my Dad, who, for so many years, managed others and then his own general merchandise store in Thatcher too. At least, I felt somewhat influenced or indoctrinated with the spirit of it. We owned the store for five years; we sold it a few months after Darvil's election to the State Senate. My work experiences outside the home came to an end after the sale of the store.
BACK IN ARIZONA
After Jean married, this left Nettie, Jo's mother, alone in the red brick home in Thatcher. The home that at seventeen years of age, Jo had moved to, next door to our family. Nettie, always afraid of being alone in the house, welcomed our return to live with her during the year. My mother still lived next door. While living there, I taught the sixth grade in the Safford Elementary School during the school year of 1949\50.
That year, Mac started his freshman year in high school, Jon started the eighth grade, and Sally Jo started the seventh grade. They all attended school in the same building that Jo and I had attended at their ages. At the time, the seventh and eighth grades held their classes in the same building with the four high school grades. In all, 160 students attended the six grades in the school.
During the 1949/50 school year, Nettie felt it would be nice for her to have a cottage of her own, to afford more privacy and room for her and us. She and we agreed to build the cinder block cottage about 40 feet directly behind the house. She would provide the money if we would do the construction. Jon and Mac helped me after school and on Saturdays, when I could finagle their help, which often wasn't that easy.
I poured a concrete footing upon which I laid cinder blocks to a height of 18 inches. With great effort, we wheelbarrowed broken concrete, bricks, tile, rocks and the likes from a trash pile over behind Mother’s place. (The 1940 waste leftovers from the demolition of the old home in preparation to build her new, used brick home from the usable remains of the old one.) The waste filled the 18 inch high block enclosure to within four inches from the top which in turn was leveled with finer fill over which we poured the concrete floor slab. The additional elevation prevented interior flooding during times when Thatcher would be under water from flash flooding pouring out of the hilly slopes above it. All of the homes in town were built elevated for the perennial inevitable.
The small well-windowed cottage of simple interior design sported a shower-bathroom and a kitchen that was continuos with the dining, living room/bedroom area, all blending as one. Because of still needing close company, Nettie never did occupy it However, it never wanted for renters. The boys and I virtually built it in its entirety.
Prior to the next teaching year, the Safford School Board, out of touch with reality, ruled that all teachers employed in the Safford Schools must reside in the city. Compelled to move, we rented a house a block and
a-half from the high school. All three schools, the elementary, the junior high and the high school were side by side along the same street.
Just great! Now, rather than commuting that grueling three miles, via a fast, rural highway, we could live right next door. The kids attended school for a year in Safford, while I again taught the sixth grade during the 1950\51 year.
The School Board, after a whole year, broadened their great enlightened minds. They made their dramatic about-face regarding the decree for teachers to live in Safford, and we returned to the red brick house in Thatcher with Nettie. The three children would finish their high school years there.
At the recommendation of President William (Bill) Harless, President of Eastern Arizona Junior College in Thatcher, the College School Board hired me. Hired several months before the commencement of the next school year as the Dean of Men and Student Counselor, I would also teach Freshman Orientation and Elementary Psychology.
Now, with real feelings of permanency we bought the home from Jo's mother: the red brick home on Main Street, where we had been living with her. My grandfather Sims had built this house next door to the McBride home. We three younger McBride kids thought we helped him build it. A good granddad, we did clean-up work he assigned us as we hung around the project. He rewarded us with token payments of candy bars or dimes, which we felt an ample compensation, for we'd have done it for nothing just for the privilege allowed us to stay in the middle of the show. But, during certain phases of construction requiring additional hands, Grandfather hired my two older brothers at fair wages.
Before the present school year finished, and the year of 1951/52 began, President Bill Harless gave notice to resign. He would move to El Camino, California to become the President of El Camino College. This turn of events caught me by surprise.
The School Board had hired Paul Guitteau as the new President. This man and his wife, both fair educators, had years before, taught at Thatcher High School. For the first time in the College's history, an L.D.S. School Board hired a non-Mormon president. Out of touch with reason, the Board, all members of the church, had hired a man well known as an anti-Mormon bigot. Basically they'd hired a man with a strong proclivity to oppose not just the Church and its doctrine, but, arbitrarily and subtly he and his wife persecuted certain members. He began his tenure in the 1951/52 year. He presided over a school with roots founded in Mormondom, composed historically of L.D.S. students, in a predominantly L.D.S. community.
I'd always enjoyed a decent relationship with Paul. But, his aggravation about me occupying a position he'd planned to fill with one of his old cronies -- before he discovered Harless had hired me to the vacant position -- soon became apparent. His obvious asinine demeanor toward me as the year progressed, created an impossible, intolerable situation to live with. There were too many other happy avenues for me to pursue. We had our discussions, and he knew well that I understood the roots of his antagonistic ploys. In the long run, his antics were not beneficial to his selfish interests; every teacher at the college knew the facts and reasons behind his treatment of me. Had I decided to make an issue of it, I believe the faculty, without exceptions, would have sided with me.
Though the Board, if placed under duress by Guitteau to dismiss me, which would have been contrary to their personal wishes, they might have considered asking me to resign. It's doubtful that they would ever have tried to compel me to do so. If I'd chosen to resist, a furor of monstrous proportions would have erupted within the community, as well as from the school faculty. Hardly bereft of other avenues, obvious to me at the time, I decided to bow out of the position for my own immediate, future success. Too, in the end, in the hands of Providence, disassociating myself from Guitteau proved to bring about superior benefits to me in the near and distant future.
Close to this time, my experience with the chicken ranching began. I’m quite sure that it was during the school year of 1951/52, though this may be in conflict with other enterprise. Regardless of any conflict, it happened.
The Chicken Ranch: Don’t have any idea where the notion came from, and certainly I had no particular love for our feathered domestics, but Orlando Merrill and I seemed to get the brain storm at the same time: the time was ripe to make a fortune in the egg business. We neophytes claimed no expertise about chickens except that most families in those days—and ours were no exception—kept a small flock of mostly Rhode Island reds running free around the barnyard or house-lawns that managed to keep themselves alive on table scraps and an occasional handful of barley. I remember mother jawing at us kids that if we’d take better care of the birds: feed, water and shelter, we’d get more eggs from the poor things.
I recall two things as primary factors that pushed Orlando and I into the egg project. I remembered my childhood when I would help grandfather McBride with his business down in Glenbar. He was very successful and sold cartoned eggs throughout the area from Clifton and Morenci, east to Globe and Miami. So surely I had inherited enough “chicken sense” from grandfather to assure me some success in the enterprise.
Now, these by-gone events in my life and that Orlando in his habit of nosing through magazines had run across a drawing of how to build individual chicken pens from ordinary hardware cloth, a new idea in the chicken-egg business. Each hen would have its own separate pen just large enough to move around in and squat when necessary. A constant supply of water and feed, always tempted them, for a food trough and water pipe (with bell-like ball-valves for each separate hen) ran the full length of each row. The incarcerated bird had to but lay its egg on a slanted floor, which immediately rolled out front to the edge of the cage passed the narrow trough out of reach of a bird that might accidentally, or on purpose, break and feed on it. The rows of pens ran the entire length of the building down each side and a back-to-back double row ran down the center. A door opened in the middle of one side, interrupting the continuity of the pens on that side and the center, double row. Here, the bags of feed were stored and access was given to the other side. Equipped with a 5 x 7 inch galvanized rectangular plaques, painted with blackboard paint, attached to the front of each cage, a mark recorded each egg laid by the hen, giving her credit, and providing information of which hens were earning their keep—and their life. For the slacker hens, soon dressed out for the roasting pan or stew pot, were sold to the local markets.
Relegating books, classes and kids to the back corners of our minds, we two old school buddies with visions of wealth and travel before our eyes, picked up our tools (mostly wire cutters) and began the project. Being the proverbial schoolteachers, as we were, we had money enough to launch the project, but just half enough to complete the dream. With a 300 dollar down payment, Roach Builders in Safford contracted with us to allow lumber and wire to build the 85-foot building to house the egg factories, and the rows of individual hen cages, and also a separate nursery that would accommodate 1,000 chicks at a time. We also built a partitioned cooling/storage room for product. We could then begin to reduce our debt with our first profits, which we managed to do after some six months.
Mac and Jon (about 17 and 16) wee fine help, especially with building the cages. Sturdy pairs of wire cutters and special clipping tools filled requirements for that job—the boys soon became experts. I was very pleased with the way Orlando and I got along on the job. He was a great worker, enthused about everything and more than cooperative. His wife, A school nurse, did all the vaccinating of the chicks, especially when chicken pox hit the layers; both were great workers.
We had drawn our own plans for the buildings, each aspect to meet its own purpose. The large building for the producers opened on the ends as well as along the sides, fitted with removable Plexiglas panes for the wintertime. On the slightly gabled roof we installed a spraying system for hot weather. To encourage the hens, we installed lights with automatic switching, so the plumed factories could eat until 10:00 p.m. . We believed what we had heard in the chicken circles—“stuff your hens. It will pay off in eggs.” Since we would be holding down teaching jobs we included every innovation possible to cut down the amount of obligatory labor, but even so, we soon discovered its demands for attention and care proved to be much more than anticipated.
Immediately after getting the first set of ten cages hung from the ceiling joists of our new building we each brought the few laying hens we had at home running our grounds as a trial test for the new cages. The thousand chicks we had purchased several weeks ago were not quite big nor feathered enough to occupy them. At about this time we saw an interesting ad in the local paper. A man from Pima had twenty white leghorn hens for sale. We immediately bought them at a very good price which boon put us in business. Those leghorns seemed to know what was expected of them. Soon, we purchased a used candling and sizing machine, allowing us to sell our first legal eggs. Guess to whom? To our local Thatcher friends, the housewives! Because we sold the cracked eggs at half price these customers asked for them first. Until we got into full production we fell short of meeting the cracked egg demand. Fine with us! They soon had to buy the good eggs at normal price.
Happy to have our eggs, the valley stores caused us to wish we had a greater factory herd; never able to keep up with the increasing demand—which caused a few problems with store owners—they loved our eggs because of assured freshness. Never a single store returned a carton of bad eggs.
Our pullet eggs were smaller for about three weeks as the hens matured. We soon found we had no need to worry. Orville Allen saved the day. An old timer valley resident who had a small store in east Thatcher, catered to itinerant crop harvesters; mainly cotton pickers. For some reason, he wanted only the small eggs. We struck a deal to take them all to him whenever we had a few dozen. A good arrangement for both parties. Our double-yolk eggs stood in high demand too. We divided up the cracked ones and enjoyed them ourselves.
In such large numbers, the baby chicks—were almost a disastrous experience. All had recently been vaccinated when the unforeseen occurred. The watering hose left on, had burst under the pressure during the night, flooding the entire brood room, heated hovel included. By morning the three-week-olds wading in breast high water, were wet and shivering, and four had all ready died.
We knew what we must do. Promptly dry them and find them a new warm home. The home problem we easily solved: the new cooling/storage room, still unused stood ready and proved sufficient. But the drying! Every chick, soaked to the bone, we dried off with the many towels Phyllis scarred up. One-by-one we hand-dried those chirping, uncooperative babies. We kept busy drying while Phyllis ran dampened towels back and forth between her dryer and us. We lost no more than four more chicks by morning. The consolation of the fiasco—we had surely proved that our brood of more than a thousand—indeed, came from sturdy stock.
That sturdy stock soon put us in the egg business. We loved them—except they woke up too early; why, we never knew. At the first show of dawn, all without exception started cackling at once—and could they make a racket! There were few neighbors, but the closest did complain. Thank heaven our brood, not only noisy, was smart. To stop their cacophony of discordance, Orlando simply tossed a rock atop the tin roof. The noise would abruptly stop and the happy hens were satisfied to just reminisce softly about the rock’s bang and rattle the rest of the morning.
One big problem: The droppings from the well-fed birds piled up under each pen some three feet high. We’d anticipated the chore, building wide isles to accommodate a large wheelbarrow. Instead of breaking our own backs, we smartened up and advertised: “Free Fertilizer - Chicken Droppings - The Best.” With that trick, the farmers soon vied for its nutritive powers. Our lowly manure claimed demand equal to the eggs.
Business ran pretty smooth, for a couple of years, though we had yet to make money, for we still worked to pay off the debts. Orlando and I anxiously struggled to meet our obligations to those who had been so generous.
Without warning the bad news jumped us—the feed store announced a walloping price jump—eventually throwing Orlando and I out of the egg project. I sold out my equity in the business to Orlando, and after Orlando had run the business solo for a few years, he sold hens and movable equipment, to become a School principal in Northern Arizona.
We began and completed construction of a framework addition to our house during that school-year of 1951/52. On the east side of it, flush with the back, again with the help of the boys, I built the addition 17 feet wide by 21 feet long. The length extended eastward from the existing kitchen and dining room, over the drive way, blocking access to the old garage that would never be used for anything but storage anyway. Its foundation had to be elevated over two feet, making it level to the existing house. I installed air conditioning in it, which the rest of the house lacked. It became our family room and seconded as bedroom for Jo and I during the heat of the summer. It also contained a shower-bathroom five feet wide and a long closet of the same depth. The floor, laid with linoleum tile and endowed generously with windows, it was a light-filled, airy room.
During the summer of 1952, I worked as a contract plumber under the licensure of Clyde Sparks. With my two sons helping, I plumbed three new houses then under construction. This complete plumbing experience proved to be invaluable in the future, for I built other domiciles, and additions, remodeled, and made numerous repairs.
In a last-minute move, the Thatcher School Board hired me as the Principal of the Thatcher Elementary School for the 1952/53 year. Jack Daley, the Superintendent of Schools, had petitioned them to seek me. They had hired a man for the position before knowing of my resignation from the College. Meantime, the man they'd hired found another position more to his liking prior to the school year commencement and backed out of his contract with Thatcher Schools. I started two weeks later, in September of 1952, as the new Principal. I opted to retain the position for five years.
Mean while, during the 1952/53 year, well before Christmas, I obtained a permit from the Forest Service to cut Christmas trees on the mountain. We cut and hauled about fifty trees, in two pickup loads, to our sale lot between Mother's place and ours. We cut and nailed stands to the bases and lined up, prettily, the five varieties. Within hours, the wind came up and blew them all over.) To keep a few standing all the time, I resorted to digging holes, planting a few solidly in the ground.
I promised the kids a commission on any sales they brought in, but Mac and Jon were short on cooperation. Nevertheless, Sally Jo got on the phone and brought in quite a few sales; she had urgent need of Christmas money and had seen the potential. We had a few trees left over to haul away, and the project was of a howling success. An interesting venture and good experience for the kids, we did break into the black.
After Christmas, again with the help of the boys, we set out to clear away all the obstacles in the vacant lot between the two homes all the way to the back border of the lot. After many years, we disappeared a couple of trash piles from the 1940 demolition of the old house. Also we removed the sandstone block footing of our old home, two stacks of unused adobes and the shed we'd used in the past to store the cow's hay. We dug trenches and a septic tank for waste water, measured off the spaces and laid concrete slabs, for a trailer park. We ran water, gas and electricity to each cite, planted trees and hauled gravel in for the center roadway which ran between the two rows of trailer spaces. This project considerably enhanced the value of the property that we would eventually sell. During the time we managed the trailer park, it added appreciated income.
After my first year as Principal, to generate an income during the wageless summer break, we leased the Turkey Flat Lodge from Babs Hamilton. The Lodge, at 7000-feet elevation on Graham Mountain consisted of a store and five rental cabins. The store served the residents of the summer homes in the cool, mountain community of Turkey Flat and other visitors driving into the mountain country. We sold grocery essentials, gasoline and served fast-foods. Jo and Sally Jo served evening steak and chicken dinners (by appointment). We had ping-pong, badminton and horse shoes available for the enjoyment of visitors and customers.
Mac, having just graduated from high school, slept in one of the cabins, or in the lodge, if all of them had been rented for the night. The Forest service had hired him as the, Fire Guard, at Turkey Flat. When not deep in the forest fighting a fire, he daily patrolled the road to spot early fires; fires usually started by a careless smoker tossing the smoldering butt from his car window. During the rest of the workday, he serviced the several camp grounds: picking up, cleaning, painting and repairing. Off and on, broken pipelines from springs needed repair too. To earn his keep, he helped us some with the lodge too. During every spare minute, he found much enjoyment hobnobbing with the occupants of two girl’s camps sponsored by two stakes of the church, which during the summer were continually filled with pretty young teenagers.
In May of 1954, after the second year as principal of the elementary school, Jo and I, still with a yen for some kind of adventure in our middle-age, rented an apartment at Torrey Pines Apartments on East Ocean Boulevard in Long Beach. We both obtained work close by to enjoy a working, summer vacation. Mac's first year at Eastern Arizona Junior College finished three weeks later. He hitch-hiked to Long Beach, stayed with us and enjoyed a leisurely summer at the beach. Our second-floor, apartment window looked out over the boulevard to a beautiful view of the road-side park and down the cliff from it, the beach and the ocean.
During the 1955 summer, Jo and I returned to the Turkey Flat Lodge. Jon helped me with the outside work, and Sally Jo helped with the inside chores. During that stay, Jon and I cleared an area down from the lodge for a fishing pond. (Refer to the detailed section: "Summers at the Turkey Flat Lodge in the Graham Mountains")
We had driven to Pecos, Texas to deliver our only car to Mac so he could serve the last six months as a district president. We managed along with the old Ford pickup until he finished his two-and-a-half-year Church mission in, November of 1957.
May of 1957 concluded my tenure as principal of the elementary school. I'll share the peculiar circumstances leading to my escape from the position: For five years, the faculty and I received raises each year, albeit, never in keeping with the teachers in the rest of the state. When the School Board made known the raises for the next year, to my utter disbelief, no raise had been given to me. Of course, I made prompt contact to ask why.
The strange answer lay in the fact that the superintendent of the Thatcher Schools, Jack Daley, a wealthy man in his own right, had not been taking raises. He frankly loved the job but had little interest in the money. He merely pocket it, it seemed, as if it were change. So, if the Board had given me the appropriate raise, my salary would have eclipsed the superintendent's salary. Through his disinterest in salary increases, the Board had been trapped in a dilemma. Unable to resolve it fairly, they chose to stick their head in the sand.
I visited with each Board Member to point out the obvious injustice of their reasoning, though completely unnecessary, for they already were squirming. I suggested they at least raise my salary to just under that of the superintendent. Their tail-between-hind-legs answer to the suggestion was, "well, you can't be earning almost as much as the Superintendent." Disgusted with their yellow-belliedness, I put my grievances and suggestions in writing. But, before an answer returned, I had already come to a decision. Taking the initiative, I threw my resignation in their faces. There were always too many other trails I could take to comfortable security, I left them to wallow in the stench of their own idiocy, under the eyes of their peers and the community. The probability is that my suggestions would have been acceptable. With Providence still on my side, many new and wonderful advantages constantly continued to loom on the horizon.
Beginning the summer of 1957, I went to work in Safford for La Faun Mortensen, to sell and provide his services to the farmers in the insecticide, defoliant and fertilizer division of his business. During this time we were searching about for a business of our own. We wanted to invest the lump-sum of State Teachers Retirement compensation I received, after resigning as principal. We bought a small grocery store (Rex's) in Thatcher from Rex and Erdine Layton and renamed it “Mac's Market Spot.” While Jo became the main-stay at the grocery store, though I helped her right along, I continued working for Mortensen for a year and a-half. When I'd started, he felt discouraged about that part of his business; he had thought to sell, if he could, or just discontinue it.
The results of the first season with La Faun, gratified him. Though only a novice at the time, I dedicated myself to learning the business. The results of the second season astonished him, for I'd developed an expertise in identifying early-stage, insect infestations of the valley’s crops, and, a gift to explain the blights as well as sell the curative service. Moreover, I already had the administrative expertise to put the books in order, work with the help and generally oversee business.
LaFaun knew we'd bought our own business, and in December of 1958, I told him of my decision to leave his employ. To my surprise, he said: "Darvil, why don't you just take this business off my hands. I'd rather not be bothered with it. You've done such wonders with it, you should take it and keep on running it along with your grocery store."
It had been a busy time for Jo and I. Not only had we made the transition from teaching to self employment, I had greatly expanded another man's business, and in May of 1958 I'd begun to campaign for a seat in the State Senate. (Though I lost the election, it was short-lived, for the months flew by, and the time to try again quickly drew near.)
Having separated from Mortensen with the new business I’d nurtured, I soon built a cinder-block addition to the back of the market for storage of the insecticide, defoliant and fertilizer sacks and containers. With plenty of room in the agriculturally expanding valley, the new business developed and prospered. It fit in well with our grocery store routine.
In 1958, I had campaigned for a seat in The Arizona State Senate for the 1959/60 term loosing by a 16-vote margin. In 1960, I campaigned again for the 1961/62 term; successful in the bid, my first term began January 1, 1961. I would successfully campaign and win the next three elections and serve the voters of Graham County for eight years until 1967.
Mac and his wife, Linda Ann, and family, had been living in Pasadena California. After completing the prerequisites, he applied to The University of Southern California Dental School. He gained acceptance, and as he attended his first year, he started a business of manufacturing fireplace gas logs. Two years before his 1966 graduation, the business had expanded with such success, that he called on me to rescue him. For the next two years, between the Senate and the grocery/insecticide/defoliant/fertilizer business, I made frequent trips to Pasadena to help him in his burgeoning business.
I had completed my last term in the Senate and sold my business in Thatcher in 1968. When Mac graduated, Jo and I again moved to California, where I took over the business until I sold it to Mac's oldest boy, Da'l. After operating it for nearly 18 years, looking back, reflecting upon my past history of work, I find it quite remarkable to have hung on to the same work for so long.
In 1986, after selling the log business, we moved to Newport Beach to a private, permanent-mobile-home community. We retired there, next to the bay, looking out over the water. With our retirement investments, we've been exceptionally fortunate. I stayed busy, during those years with multiple, very successful investment ventures. However, eventually, we would pull up stakes again and move back to Arizona.
OUR TEENAGER—IN THATCHER
In 1949, after moving back to Thatcher, we were really busy going to our children's involvements in school. One or more participated in one or more events each week, it seemed, during the entire school year. When we moved back, Sally Jo started the seventh grade, Jon, the eighth and Mac, his first year of high school.
Sally kept busy in music playing the piano, singing in musical groups and in special music presentations and programs. The boys had beautiful voices too, but Mac refused to be active in music, preferring athletics. Except, to just give it a fling once, he tried out for the lead part in the senior class play, and got it. His performance was excellent. John, also a fine actor had leading rolls in his class plays. Sally Jo had real interest in plays and operas. Gifted as well, she had deep fondness for those activities and for the piano.
Mac played all four sports—football, basketball, baseball and track. Though he says he didn't really excel, I know that to be exaggerated to the negative. He was the first person in the school for seven years to letter in all four sports. He lived for athletics, and since Thatcher was a small school, he said the coaches were just grateful for another warm body to spell the better players. But, that isn't so either, he possessed a versatility that made him valuable to the teams in many ways.
During his one (sophomore) year in Safford, the track coach had taught him the fundamentals of pole vaulting. So, as a senior at Thatcher during his baseball practice, he discovered Thatcher High had an old vaulting pole, standards and crossbar. When he expressed interest in it, the coach straightway ordered a load of sawdust hauled into the long, unused, high-jump pit and laid in the ground the catch-box for the pole. Mac practiced at it a good many late afternoons after baseball practice.
During the nine-school conference track meet, never having vaulted in a track meet before, he entered and won first place in the conference. He also entered the high-jump, and the 440-yard dash in which he performed well. He would have been Thatcher High's entire track team, except, he convinced three of his fastest friends to enter the 880-yard relay, and they placed forth. To be truthful he says, there were only four teams competing. So, be it known that he alone garnered the only legitimate five points awarded Thatcher’s track team.
His win made him eligible for the State competition. Kendall Haynie, his math and chemistry teacher, took him to Tucson, where he borrowed a pole and tied for fifth place with six others. Through the influence of his former coach, then the principal of the high school, Eastern Arizona Junior College offered him a token scholarship to play football, and Arizona State University at Flagstaff offered him a—tuition, books and on-campus-work scholarship, if he would play football and track. (A note of interest, his father, yes, I, had won first place in the high school conference pole vault and gone to the State track meet, placing third, about 26 years before.
That year, the football team placed first in the "B" class schools of the State. Mac played with many really great players that went on to play ball in the military and college. One of the up-and-coming greats in the high school was our Jon. During his senior year, it seemed that hardly a week passed that his name didn't appear in the local or one of the state newspapers with comments on "Jon McBride, Thatcher High School's outstanding light tackle…."
During the same year that Jon did so well in football, the students elected Sally Jo, as one of (only) three cheer leaders. Jon was elected as the student body president, the office I had occupied many years before in the same high school. He also had the lead part in the special yearly musical and he sang the baritone solo at his graduation exercises to Sally Jo's piano accompaniment. Also, the faculty honored Jon by selecting him as one of two from the school to attend Boys State in Flagstaff—a wonderful experience for him.
Two of our children always had company in the house. Sally Jo and Mac's friends were always there, wherever we lived. On the other hand, kind of a loner, Jon, wherever we lived, it seemed we had to have a party for him to get acquainted before we saw any of his friends come to the house. Nevertheless, he commanded great respect and always enjoyed extreme popularity among his fellow students and his teachers.
EIGHT YEARS IN THE ARIZONA STATE SENATE
In 1958, against my better judgment, over strenuous protests from my wife, and at the insistence of a very fine friend and his son, along with a few other sturdy Thatcher citizens, I allowed myself to be persuaded to run for the State Senate. Jim and Omer Smith aren’t people you can say no to and walk away from. While shaking hands with me Jim said, “I believe I am shaking hands with Graham County’s next Senator.” Before they finished with me that day in our Thatcher store, they almost had me convinced that I could win the election. They never did quite do that, but I ran anyway, for I had the feeling that it might take two tries to make it happen. Of course, that was after my wife had been brought in on our conversation.
At the first break in their words of explanation, Jo slapped her hand down on the counter and said, “My answer is no!” I don’t think he should run!” They asked why, and she explained that it would cost too much, and that I’d have to neglect the business.
Well, we three failed to convince Jo that I should gamble the attempt. She left us saying, “It’s going to be up to you, but I’m against it.” During the next few days while I pondered it all and discussed aspects of it with Jo, she still stuck to her guns. When I did make up my mind to run, she agreed to support my dubious choice.
We called our three children together in family council to discuss it with them. Though Sally Jo was already married we included her with the two boys. We didn’t look to them for consent to run, but only to alert them to what negative things might happen to us and to them in the midst of a heated campaign. I explained that anything in the nature of “unclean skirts” could be thrown at us in attempt to discredit. They needed to understand and be prepared for anything: truth or lies, in the sometimes dirty game of politics. They approved and wished me the best. My hat was in the ring!
The Democratic Primary became a four-way dog fight between incumbents Jim Smith and Warner Mattice, and two newcomers, John Mickelson and myself. Suffice it to say that I believe I lost it for only one reason: Convinced I couldn’t win on my first try, I believe I unknowingly convinced my friends of the same thing. Thus they failed to work in my behalf, which caused me to lose the election by a measly 16 votes. Mattice trailed a couple of hundred behind me, and Smith outdid Mickelson by some 400. So, though it wasn’t me, Graham County did have a new Senator in John Michelson.
The loss of that race taught me a wonderful lesson. I capitalized on the results, for I decided then and there that no one, not even my closest friends, should ever know again if I had any doubts about winning anything.
Scrutiny of the various circumstances of the election only bolstered my determination to run next time. At the beginning I made it clear to Jim, that for me to make the attempt, it would have to be a two-time effort, win or lose. Moreover, a man always of his word, Jim had promised me his family’s continued support in any future race. The campaign would begin in earnest again in less than a year and a-half. This time I would run with confidence, for I figured a 16 vote loss a strong endorsement by the people of Graham County: a stamp of approval, especially since I had been able to eliminate Warner Matice, an old campaigner, well established in Arizona politics.
In the second attempt, Jim and I advertised that we were running as a team. We had handout cards printed with him on one side and me on the other. The caption read, “ANY WAY YOU TURN IT, IT’S A GOOD TEAM.”
That 1960 race was an easy win, but a sad one. I ran well ahead of my two opponents, but Mickelson managed to squeeze out Smith. I say sad because Smith at an early date in the campaign decided that I was running pretty safe, for which he was very happy. However, unable to correctly evaluate his own position, he left some fences unmended. He was looking forward to him and me teaming up to get important things done in the Senate the coming session; Jim had proved a real friend. I knew I owed my election to him and his ability to sway what he called the solid Smith bloc to my camp. In the next three elections I could plainly see that my future in politics was indebted to that sturdy foundation he had established. It soon became apparent that the 1960 election had another sad side to it. Because Smith and I had worked together to defeat Mickelson, a bitterness developed between John Mickelson and me during the campaign that prohibited us working and planning together for the benefit of the county during the 25th legislature session. Hard feelings persisted, and try as I might we couldn’t come around to a mutual trust of each other. This condition wasn’t improved either when it came time for committee assignments. Since John had inherited the choice assignments that Mattice’s defeat had thrown open in 1958, and since Smith had been a minority member and therefore had no decent committees to turn over, nothing much was left for me to pick up. My only chance for something worthwhile, was for Mickelson to relinquish some of his. President Carpenter was anxious that I come into his camp, so after several hours of arguing and bickering among the three of us, membership on the “Education Committee” was relinquished to me. My only good assignment for the year.
The year for me turned out to be one of trial-by-fire. I had not been included enough by the majority bloc to be considered a member of it, and I refused to join the militant minority whose sole purpose and action was to harass and embarrass the majority. Accompanying this precarious position, coupled with the fact the word had preceded me that I was Jim Smith’s “boy” and should be expected to act like him, (He was a republican and I a democrat.) didn’t get me off to a very good start in that first session. You see, Jim was a militant minority member and had been very outspoken in his criticism of the majority leadership, especially regarding their dealings with the big special interests of the state. So, I dangled in limbo.
Also many at home predicted that although Smith had lost the election, he’d still pull half the strings for Graham County in the Senate. “He’ll be there every week to tell Darvil what to do,” was the word that made the rounds. More than once I did wish that he had been handy for that purpose, but the truth is, I only heard from and saw him once during the fifteen weeks we met in session that year.
I don’t remember for sure, but I think I only introduced three bills that year and was probably asked to cosign another dozen. Fortunately, one of my bills did pass which gave me an excellent percentage rate of success. The bill established local museums in the counties for the housing and preservation of items of historical value and interest.
Sensing that before I could ever become an influence for my county and its people I had been chosen to represent, I decided I would of necessity have to improve my standing. I realized that I was in no position to be belligerent or demanding in any way: I was still small fry. I watched Evan Mecham and Sam Stieger become obstructionists, yell their heads off at Senator Giss and raise hell in general without getting anything out of it but frustration and ulcers. Although in committee, and occasionally on the floor, I expressed myself in definite terms, I knew there had to be another way. By talking but little and listening a great deal, I soon discovered that every senator there had his critics, if not enemies. One criticism of many that kept constantly reoccurring in passing conversation was, “He can’t be trusted, or “he’ll cut your throat.” Impressed with this observation I firmly decided that I was one Senator who would never be known as a cut-throat or be questioned as to his trustworthiness. So I deliberately set out, and even purposely manipulated the occasions to prove to my colleagues that I could be trusted; that I was a good guy and worthy of their respect and friendship.
This kind of open action paid off an hundred fold. I eventually became known as the quiet fellow who never betrayed a confidence or ever spoke disparagingly of another. Tactics such as these (and I’m not saying they were always absolutely genuine) I knew wouldn’t get me anything for Graham County this year, but I was sure it would pay off in the long term, and should be accomplishment enough for the first year. Near the end of that first year an article appeared in the Arizona Republic (For some reason it didn’t find place in my collection.) about the quiet and unassuming senator who sat on the back row and spoke only when spoken to.Thank heaven it was all complimentary.
With the commencement of that first term, I soon discovered that my bit of talent and experience with poetry might become a great advantage. Always behind the scenes, one man or another maneuvers to gain advantage over others or to attain a certain success. By and large, if success through improper contrivances leaks out to the media, it can heap considerable embarrassment upon a legislator, discrediting his success as well as his character.
Rather than using a direct, abrasive, frontal attack, I chose to lampoon underhanded dealings of characterless men, with wit of simple verse. The media loved to get hold of such things, especially if they had an original flare. I found that through allegory and satire I could indirectly, so to speak, gain and maintain an edge of advantage and respect with virtually anyone. With a truly guilty adversary: that is to say guilty of quasi-criminal or worse activity, I could stand as a terrible leviathan of threat, yet, armed only with candid arrows and darts of rhythm and rhyme.
Though a freshman in the legislature, even the powerful and experienced soon began to eye me with increased respect and sometimes fear. Gradually, many, out of fear of the pen, began to treat me with kid gloves. Thus, I enjoyed a position early-on unlike many. I avoided being subjected to common toughness perpetrated routinely against the lesser experienced. How really true it can be, I discovered, "The pen is mightier than the sword." I would use this weapon of circuitous attack with surprising results during my entire tenure in the Senate. The byword became, “You better not; he’ll write a poem about you.”
Many cohorts asked me to compose poems for occasions to honor others or for special events, a compliment to me, I was happy to oblige. I enjoyed too, the unsolicited writing of poems to add comedy and fun to other senatorial activity. Soon the State Legislature and its entourage elevated me to the position of their unofficial "Poet Laureate,” recorded in the minutes of the day, an official resolution entered in the books of history.
During this quiet spell in my political career the name of Ray Gilbert first surfaced. Always mentioned in hushed tones it naturally aroused my curiosity. I dared a few inquiries, but no one seemed to know him personally or just who he was. Finally one day in April a Senator from a northern county said to me, “Would you like to have lunch with me and meet a man who is interested in you?
The question itself dumbfounded me, but when he mentioned Ray Gilbert I was bowled over. Of course, I knew immediately I must accept the invitation. I had to know more about the guy whose name remained a hushed “byword” in legislative circles.
Well, I couldn’t learn much about Ray Gilbert. In fact my Senator friend couldn’t even tell me who he represented (or I should say, wouldn’t tell me). But I found out later that Gilbert had learned plenty about me, for a week or so later the northern Senator accosted me again. “You didn’t know what was happening the other day but you passed the test. Gilbert was impressed with you.” Probably wasn’t so, but I must have fit into his schemes somewhere.
For a moment my temper flared and I said, “Look, damn you, don’t you go getting me involved in something I don’t know anything about. Who the heck is Ray Gilbert anyway?!” Then he told me Gilbert was the liaison man for the most powerful public utility in the State, the Arizona Public Service Company. This was my first inkling of the power struggle going on among industrial giants in Arizona and how they operated behind the scenes to control legislation and bring about decisions favorable to themselves. The mines, the utilities, the railroads, the lumbering interests: these are the boys who pull the strings. Within, I soundly resolved that I would be a puppet for no one—let any jerk the strings as they may.
Ray Gilbert and the dubious test I had passed did not surface again that year, leaving me to believe I had won a round. But, oh how naive I was. I learned that the Senate lobby abounded with such types, though perhaps a little less secretive about their purposes, as Ray Gilbert.
In the world of "special interest groups,” the men they hire as persuaders (lobbyists), act as high-pressure salesmen to exert influence to convert one to their group's desires. They try to persuade you to sponsor, vote for, or campaign for any bills that would, if made law, be advantageous to their employer. They are a problem that exists in the midst of what could otherwise be a more just system. Lobbyists are those who make the payoffs with bribe money. They search out all legislators willing to sell out for a price, to the needs of the lobbyist’s employer, i.e., the special interest group the persuader represents.
Many carry large sums of pocket-cash to lay before the greedy for their vote. I truly believed much more of it went on than I knew, because the first few times they tested me, I turned them down. Through the grape vine, they soon knew that—I wasn't on the take or for sale—and they ceased to bother me. The lobbyists of my time could get away with offering bribe-money. They simply labeled it a legitimate donation from “their concern" to an individual's campaign fund. Many men began early to collect the so-called campaign donations, supposedly, to cover the next election's expenses. Actually, neither the lobbyists nor their owners, gave a hoot whether or not you were ever re-elected. They only wanted your favorable attention for their moments, for as long as you lasted and were for sale. Whether their donations were legal or not, in taking it you became a Marked Man.
I'll relate a specific incident: The lobbyist took me into an empty room and laid out five $100 bills. Straight to the point, he said, "Here Senator—you know what this is for—and you know what we expect." I told him, that he knew that I hadn't formed any particular feelings against the bill he referred to; but, I hadn't given it full thought yet either. I said I was sorry, but I would not accept the money. He asked, "Well why not? You know it's only for your campaign fund." I replied: "I wont take it because you know as well as I that it wouldn't be long before “everyone” knew I took it. Regardless of it labeled a campaign donation, everyone would know that I took it from a group specifically lobbying for the passage of a bill that would be to their definite advantage, and I'm not going to take it. He then said, "No one will ever know: not one person." I said, "Not one person?" He promised, "Not one person will ever know, except me and the person who gave me the money to give to you." "Well, maybe that's true and maybe it isn't; I don't know." And I added, "I don't know how you can keep those things from getting out." "Well, believe me, there wouldn't be anyone else who'd know," he reassured me. I did not take the money.
That very afternoon, Senate President, Carpenter, sent word he wanted to see me in his office. When I entered he said: "Sit down there Darvil, I want to talk to you. You shouldn't be afraid to take a little money now and then, as long as it's not some huge amount that would appear a campaign fund contribution out of the ordinary. I looked at him soberly and said, "I'm not afraid to." "Well, why wouldn't you take it from the man this morning." He asked. I said, "How did you know some one offered me some money?" "He hummed-n-hawed out a, "Well, I just know some things." I said: "Listen, that's exactly why I didn't take it because I was told “nobody” not even another senator would ever know I had taken money, and now you know of the offer, and heaven only knows how many others know of it too." Lacking any adequate explanation, he said, "Well, I can't quite explain that." I had clearly made my point, and I left him to ponder his own character. Jim Smith, a true friend, together with much other excellent advice, had warned me that no matter how broke I might be, "Never take any of their money!"
Another common ploy used often by the lobbyists to influence us, consisted of gifts in various forms. For instance, if one "happened" to see you at a restaurant, he might sit a while with you, or without ever taking a seat, abruptly inform the passing waiter that he would pay the bill.
Gifts from the liquor lobbyists usually were contained in bottles. Few of them ever knew my feelings about liquor. So thinking to influence me, bottles of the hard stuff commonly found their way into my car. (We parked in an exclusive lot for legislators, in a personally designated space. A guard protected the lot, so we hardly ever locked our cars.) Quite often I'd find a bottle or two or even a half-case. I never warned away any of the lobbyists from that act because most of my senator friends sought after me for what they knew I had no use for. Right or wrong, it came in handy to curry legitimate favors from them.
The session closed on a sour note. The State Liquor Control Law was in bad shape. Everybody agreed that a complete revision was necessary. The Senate sent the House a pretty good bill but they couldn’t agree on its terms. The House sent us a narcotics bill that we turned down. The Governor threatened a special session if we didn’t do something, so we adjourned and let him call us back. With my habit of lampooning associates with doggerel (that is sometimes referred to as poetry) I prepared this for the opening of the special session.
(Read the liquor poem “In Just for Fun” on page 160.)
We did come up with some pretty good legislation to properly control narcotics and liquor. I had only one main protest about the liquor bill: it was too loose. It threw the doors wide open to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Every hotel, motel and restaurant could obtain a license by not much more than applying for and paying a fee. It was based on the completely new philosophy that liquor was a legitimate business and should be subject to the same hazards of competition as groceries or haberdashery. There would be no limit to the number of licenses issued. In my objections to this I predicted that the day would come when the liquor people themselves would ask for curbs on the kind of traffic such freedom would produce. Probably the greatest thing the new legislation accomplished was to put an end to the traffic in the sale and rental of the license itself. Our law had required that the yearly increase in the number of licensees could not exceed a certain percent. This placed a premium on existing licenses. Some were known to have sold for as high as $50,000 while most were leased out at incredible figures. Under the new code a license could not be transferred except in connection with the legitimate sale of a business, and if it was not used by the owner it automatically expired. He could not sell it.
The second regular session of the 25th Legislature began with very little improvement in my position, as far as committee assignments were concerned. The President did condescend to give me the chairmanship of Constitutional Amendments and Referendums. The importance of any committee is measured by the number of bills referred to it during the session. If recollection is right, my committee handled seven bills that year. Those were taken care of in three meetings.
But, “the wheels of destiny” were turning. The mining interests of the State had for many years kept the upper hand in State politics, but were about to let the advantage slip from their grasp. The giant was writhing in fear of advancing change. Two Phelps Dodge men in the House had recently been relegated to minority positions after enjoying leadership for years. Gale, of Greenlee County in the Senate held no influential assignments with their colleagues; with Sims, only slightly better off. Mickelson had been a Phelps Dodge man since his election in 1958, and he was ambitious. Rumor had it that he had had his eye on the Chair for some time. From this quarter, egged on by the members of the minority bloc, there began to be heard rumblings of discontent with the leadership of the Senate. As the days of my second session lengthened into weeks, the rumblings became audible threats and boasts to the effect that enough strength had been mustered to unseat Carpenter. This, of course, according to the rules, could be done any time with 15 votes.
It became apparent that these rumblings and boasts were no more nor less than part of the agonizings of the giant. The alarmed mining interests had said to their Senators, “Improve your positions or lose our support in next year’s elections.” So the decision was made to attempt reorganization.
“Don’t count on me,” I told them when offered a choice chairmanship. “A promise made is a debt unpaid. I’ll have to stick with Carp for the remainder of the session.”
“We have 16 without you,” they said. “You’re a good guy, and we wanted to include you if you were interested.”
Well, I supposed they believed they had 16. I only knew of the four republicans: Stieger, Mecham, Anderson and Tenny; three democratic minorities: Kitchel, Knoll and Huso; and the four majority discontents: Sims, Gale, Thompson and Mickelson, who were the leaders of the pack. Whoever the others were they proved to be limber-legged when the chips were down.
The “coup detat” never came off. Anticipating the maneuver, Carpenter and his cohorts moved quickly to protect an exposed flank. They surprised us all by announcing completely new assignments. I sat amazed and stunned as the lists were read, for in a matter of minutes I found myself elevated from a position of mediocrity to one of prominence, as far as committee assignments were concerned. This crackdown was Carpenter’s way of saying, “Et tu brute” to the malcontents he had befriended and trusted.
With this more than drastic move, three majority members: Thompson, Mickelson and Simms lost every decent assignment they had, with most of Mickelson’s being handed to me. Republicans: Stieger and Mecham also slipped a few notches down the political totem pole. Dave Palmer and I apparently gained the most as the following news item indicates.
Use article # 4 on “crackdown”
Here is how I came out committee-wise: I list them in what I consider to be their order of importance. Appropriations: a must for consideration priority money control. Judiciary: This put me in the company of judges, counselors and the Governor’s office. Finance and Revenue: A good follow-up on Appropriations. It let me help distribute appropriated moneys. State Institutions: of Higher learning, Hospitals, Prisons, etc.. Rules: This gave me membership in the majority bloc where all bills were finalized and the decision made on each as to whether it would be permitted to reach the floor for final vote of the whole membership or if it should be shelved. Here a senator had the opportunity to make a final plea for his favorite bills. The President of the Senate sat as chairman, and here, about anything was allowed in argument. A good session of threats and name calling proved no exception to the rule.
Although the chastisement engendered much bitterness, the five demoted Senators took it in stride. Thompson, Mickelson and Simms were able to joke about it to the extent that they dubbed themselves Faith, Hope and Charity. They designed a miniature coffin and attached a marker to it with the epitaph, “HERE LIES FAITH HOPE AND CHARITY—GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.” I entered into the fun and wrote the following verse for the occasion.
Read the poem, “Jerked the Rug”, on page 146.)
Although I had never been one to receive much satisfaction from the discomfort of others, even though their losses were my gain, the “rug jerking” did catapult me into an envious position, especially for a freshman Senator. In a quick conversation with Mickelson that same morning I told him that I was depressed over the whole affair and would gladly refuse some of my new assignments if he felt I should in order to help his plight. His answer was to this affect, “Hell no! You’re crazy if you don’t take everything they offer you. They wouldn’t give it to me anyway.”
I am certain he was correct on that point. The conditions were reversed, and from here on out, as long as Carpenter was able to keep the chair I would be playing the trump cards from and for Graham County. This would include all communications from the President’s office, the Floor Leader’s office, the Governor’s office, most state agencies and institutions and federal communications pertaining to our county. All this would be channeled through me. Of course this became an incessant aggravation to John. Nothing angered him more than to submit to receiving messages or favors through me. The inability to accept the absolute terms of the demotion and relegation to a minority status, where his every effort to advance was thwarted, proved the one impassable blockade between him and me to cooperate for the good of our county.
With the increase of assignments came an increased workload and responsibility. This I welcomed, for my legislative activity before had been too slow for my inspired metabolism. Time had hung heavy on my hands. And too, to become a part of the inner circle where the energy is generated from the heartbeat of a great State (For I soon learned that Arizona is just that.) gave me a feeling of purpose and direction, an attitude that is necessary before one gains a feeling of complete satisfaction with a job. As a member of the Rules committee, for instance, where the rules are made and policy is set, and the Appropriations Committee that controls the purse strings, I was able to feel the pulse and have a hand in the regulation of the “deep heartbeat.” That is real satisfaction.
In one of these rules sessions I dearly learned that veteran Senator Giss of Yuma was too much for me. Being the Majority Whip, his influence was widespread, his power, legend. For two years I had worked on a bill referred to as ADM, meaning Average Daily Membership. For years the public schools had been receiving State, county and local appropriations based on “Average” Daily Attendance.
Read news article on ADM, [# 7], 3 pages, and the letter. Also read [# 8], 3 pages and [# 9])
My purpose for introducing the bill was based on the premise that a child missing a day or two of school made no difference whatsoever on the district’s operating cost. The same number of administrators, teachers and other employees would still be drawing salaries. The temperature control cost would remain the same. Every school administrator in the state hoped for the bill’s success.
I never really knew why Giss opposed the bill. Perhaps because I had not asked him to be a cosigner, which would advertise “his stamp” of approval. He did express a lame reason: Principals and teachers would not insist on regular attendance if they knew it made no financial difference in what the district would receive. I allowed to him that I wouldn’t want the school people of the State to know that was the kind of trust I had in them to properly handle the education of our kids.
After the end of my presentation in the Rules Caucus where I finally conceded defeat, I asked President Carpenter if I could have the floor before we adjourned to prove Senator Giss a liar. Carp hesitated for a second, then said, “The purpose is questionable, but the floor is yours:” I then addressed Senator Fred Udine of Coconino County, “Senator Udine, do you remember some two weeks ago when Senator Giss stood at attention with his right arm at the square and said these words that you and I both plainly heard, ‘Senator McBride, I swear that if you and I can agree on this bill (one of his favorites) I will help you get ADM out of Rules.’” Udine didn’t hesitate. He told the committee he was there and had heard the promise. I thanked him and then the chairman. He gaveled the desk and the committee adjourned. In the hall as we walked back to chambers, several old timers slapped me on the back commenting that it had been a long time since someone had bearded the Yuma County Lion.
My stand and challenge to Giss in the rules caucus (I like to believe) must have had some effect, for the following year the majority leader was nice as pie about the idea and supported the bill from the start. It cleared all committees including Rules with no hitches, and on March 15, the Senate passed it with a vote of 18 to 10. The House version was voted down a few days later by the Education Committee with the excuse that it carried no means of financial support, which otherwise may cause a minuscule increase in State tax burden. Reports received indicated that it would be brought up again if the tobacco tax increase won approval. The tobacco bill didn’t carry so the support of a dirty habit sounded the death knell for ADM for a while. However, I did receive some satisfaction regarding the hard work I had done on it, for it did pass in 1969. A wrong had finally been righted.
Aside from the increased work load, that year remained uneventful, and before we knew it the session ended. I leaned back to relax, for I believed my first term finished. But I soon discovered that such was not so, for the people at home gave me little time to relax. Unlike the previous year, upon returning home from the capitol city, I found that since my escalation in the Senate, I now became the target for all kinds of gripes, problems and requests. Everyone who needed a job reasoned that I was the man to see. County and city problems became mine to help solve. Requests for public appearances increased considerably, plus several meetings of importance pertaining to State affairs that should be attended.
There are many ways as a Senator that I could personally help members of my county constituency such as: help obtain plumbing, electrical and other licenses issued by the State, or secure jobs within the State or County administered by the State. I was able to obtain a State position for one individual that he kept for thirty years. Also, through Morris Udall, (Mo) I was able to put a worthy friend in the local post office as postmaster, which appointment he retained until retirement age. One situation, however, I avoided if at all possible. It dealt with helping obtain liquor licensees for the County businessmen. To each who came petitioning I explained: Yes, I could help, but suggested that they contact my colleague who would help them. It seemed to me though, who’s to really know, that he had no compunctions about it as I did, so it worked out well for both of us.
Although a legislator receives pay for only those days the legislature is in session, I welcomed these duties, for which I did receive travel and lodging allowance. It’s a strange thing in that work, even though the time spent may only be listening to an unfounded gripe it is always a boost to a man’s ego to have even the humblest of citizens feel you may be a help with their problem; and if by chance you can lend assistance the gestures of appreciation, though sometimes feeble, they are generally payment enough indeed.
To attempt to tell of all my experiences in the Senate would take volumes, and of course, much of it would be redundant. I was not known as one of those several legislators dubbed “hopper hounds” because of the many bills each session they dropped into the “hopper,” the name given to the big basket that became the starting point for the bill; here it began the process of being put into the required form before being assigned to a committee for consideration. Bill assignment to committees was done according to subject matter, each bill being assigned to at least three and occasionally as many as five. The so called hopper hounds seemed to give no thought about the State’s cost to process a bill. The price to get one into committee ran into hundreds and sometime thousands of dollars back then. One can only imagine the escalated price tag a bill carries these days. Telling of my experience with Senator Giss I got a bit ahead of myself. The first bill I introduced, of which I’m very proud, was a bill that would allow counties to establish local museums through a small yearly appropriation from the State.
While principal of the Thatcher Elementary School, I became very interested in numerous artifacts that Ruby Brimhall’s sixth grade students brought to class in support of a “Save the Past” project. She told me that many of the artifacts brought for display were disappearing at an alarming rate; many valuable things pertaining to our heritage were being lost through neglect because we had no special place to store and display them. It came to me that something must be done to preserve such important items of the past. To do just that became my first intention upon entering the Legislature.
The passing of this bill demonstrates the power of the Appropriations Committee and the importance of being a member of it. The hard fact is a bill may pass, but appropriations, in their budget trimming, may not allow the money to be distributed. For a short time this was the case with the museum bill. Being present where I could fight for it I was able to settle for a beginning amount of $1,500 for the first year. The following year we were able to double that amount. That it is considerably more now I have no doubt. From an unconfirmed source I have learned that museums have been established in nearly every county in the State.
Though I didn’t introduce many bills myself I soon was in demand as a co-sponsor. Being new and fresh to that political body, I had not yet had time to make the political enemies one is sure to gather in politics. I strove mightily to retain my friendships so that even to the end, my name appeared on my share of the bills passed each year.
In 1962, September came early. Long before ready for it, election time was upon us again. The ordeal of campaigning is the real bugaboo of most politicians. It isn’t that you must face the people and lay open your record of past performance, for I have never been ashamed of mine, but more that you find yourself in a position of asking for a favor. Also, there is the August campaigning that must be done, and in Arizona that month isn’t conducive to door to door work. However, this time I forewent this task. The reason of course: I did not feel it necessary in order to win re-election. There were two reasons why I felt this way. First, I had picked myself a number-one campaign manager who did yeoman work: Matt Gibson, a high school teacher in Safford. Second, I knew the opponent challenging Mickelson and me did not have the necessary confidence of the voters. Consequently I spent most of my time writing to key people, that is, keeping my fences mended and tending to State business. In one respect I paid for this tack in that I out-did Mickelson by only 72 votes, but this I expected. He and I both beat Johnny Johnson by nearly 600. Again we had no general election opposition.
Now to a matter that bothered me for a long time. I think I have finally figured out why Senator Giss changed his attitude toward me and ADM. Since the beginning, the powerful Floor Leader and I had had several difficulties pertaining to legislation of some importance. Most of these disagreements stemmed from legislation that related directly or indirectly to the large special interests of the State. For instance, he always opposed anything in the way of school legislation because it meant more taxes for the giant corporations, so I was off their list. I remained valuable to them for only one reason, and that was numbers. For one to retain the Chair, it’s necessary to have the confidence and support of a majority of the Senate members.
Not necessarily to justify my membership in the majority bloc, for I have no apologies for continuing there, but rather to demonstrate industry’s opposition to school tax relief, I add remarks about the ADM bill that I introduced again in January of 1963. The opposition was instantaneous and interesting. Senators from every mining area of the State opposed it. With help from the office of the State Superintendent of Public Instruction, I prepared figures showing what the change from ADA to ADM would mean to the different school districts of Yuma County. These I forwarded to every business man in Giss’ county. I later made a trip to Yuma County where I contacted a few key people and received promises that they would speak to their illustrious Senator in an insistent manner.
The school people raised such a clamor for Average Daily Membership that Giss himself went directly to the utilities for their support of it. When they gave it, and I knew through my northern friend that they had, it seemed a certainty that the battle was won in the Senate. A few days after I had received this encouraging word, the Yuma Senator came to me to assure me that he had decided to support the controversial measure. Thereafter the bill was “greased” so that it slipped through all here-to-fore hostile committees without a hitch, and before I realized it the measure went to the House. The bill cleared three committees in the House but failed in one. Sonny Biles, a Tucson man of Greenlee County and a close friend of Senator Mickelson, was Chairman of the Education Committee, and he harbored grudges over our differences about Fort Grant. So ADM met its demise for personal, political reasons. Even so this turned out to be a signal of victory for me. To many, I had accomplished the near impossible just getting it out of the Senate. Thereafter I became the anchor man on school legislation in the Senate.
The 1964 campaign had begun, and my colleague and I, for the first time, had to face a republican opponent. Seth Mattice and his whole family had been democrats for years, his father, Warner, had been elected several times by the democrats. To have them all switch to republicans before the fall election, made for an interesting contest indeed. Without exposing the many interesting aspects of this election I will make only one observation concerning the “switchers.” The John Birchers really gave us a time. This time I out-stripped Mickelson by a good sound margin, Mickelson capped Mattice by some 800 votes, and I tripled the republican’s score. It was interesting to note how our opponent and their party rationalized their defeat. “Of course,” they said, “You just can’t beat that fanatical, straight, democratic vote.” The truth of the matter is that just the opposite was true. The final canvas showed that only 25% of the democrats voted a straight ticket, while 51% of the republicans marked the “one big cross.” In the Bylas precinct, where Mattice claimed to have lost the election because of the straight vote, the straight, democratic vote was 80%, compared to 125% republican straights. This figure was possible only because all republicans registered in the precinct and some democrats voted straight republican tickets.
Mickelson and I had a couple of strikes against us in that election. It came about because of the opposition’s cunning to capitalize upon the unfavorable publicity we had received because of the impeachment trial of the summer of 1964, of which I will speak later. Though the public had been made to believe the defendants were guilty, the trial proved they were not, and we both had to vote with integrity. We received much criticism for voting for acquittal, but preserved conscience.
I could bother the reader with details of other elections but since they were all about the same, I see no purpose. However, the 1966 election might be of some interest. Since John and I had no opposition in the primary, Glenn Hoopes, as a feeler, I’m sure, started the rumor that he would run as a write-in candidate in the general election. Of course, this put a little scare into me and some of my friends. But Jim Smith just laughed and said: “Don’t worry about it; I don’t think he’d have a chance. He might possibly beat Mickelson, but he can’t beat you. Besides, from the talk I hear going around he won’t even try.”
Jim was right. I guess Hoopes’ “feeler” wasn’t strong enough for him to dare the attempt. Even so, I was some what relieved when he told friends he was too busy with his business.
Following a hunch that seemed to have come out of nowhere, I began research to determine which insurance companies carried the policies on the State-owned buildings and other properties. I hardly expected that it would usher me into immediate conflict with a wily, powerful, old sage of the Senate. But, happen it did, and with interesting affects.
Lo and behold, I uncovered documents showing that a man elected to an office of public trust, an insurance man by profession; yes, a member of the Senate, held policies through his agency on an amazingly excessive number of the State-owned properties. Simple sniffing detected the foul stench of a gross "conflict of interest" by one who occupied a very elevated and influential position. No one, not even the terrible giant Goliath would give me second thoughts about what my next step should be.
I submitted the key information and instructions to the Drafting Department to draft a bill to correct the present wrongs and prohibit such future abuse of trust. Now, you can imagine that the long-time, experienced and clever Senators would have their informers in a key department like that. They would be keeping track knowing of everything of consequence, especially if it threatened them.
Even before the bill could be half prepared, much less presented, a message reached me summoning me to visit with the ominous solon: "Now Darvil, you didn't need to go about things in this way. All you needed to do was come to me, and we could have talked it all out, and we'd be able to work out something." I responded: "I figured by starting the process of drafting the bill would be the best way to get your attention. Then we could begin to work it out." "No," he said: "That's not the kind of relationship you and I should have. You come to me first about such things."
Although a Senator should normally try to maintain a proper degree of independence, what he said was true in some ways, for there are those you are dependent upon to accomplish your work. Sadly but true, a statesman has to play politics as though he were a live piece in a giant, complicated, give-and-take, strategic game of chess—or war.
As I listened, the man willingly volunteered to give up some of his questionable business interests and said: If you think it correct to do so, and if you will not advertise the problem as it presently exists, all will be straightened out. He let me know though, that he, though unable to prohibit the bill's introduction, could prevent it from ever passing. But he quickly added, that it would definitely cause a lot of unnecessary trouble and headaches for many people, and that didn't need to happen, because, it could be worked out other ways.
I agreed to work it out with him without introducing a bill as he suggested, and true to his word, he divested himself of a great number of policies he had been profiteering from. And though he probably didn't divest himself of quite enough of them at that time, I had forced the Giant—the Senate President—into a re-distribution of his considerable cornered business, more equitably among the eligible insurance companies of the State. Could I believe that he may have trembled at the thought of the poet's threatening rhyme and rhythm? The affect upon the President from the spunk and fearlessness of a junior Senator surprised me. Not weakened, but to the contrary, our relationship strengthened considerably. Thereafter, he considered me in a new light: definitely, more than before, worthy of consideration and special attention. He and I would always continue to have an excellent working relationship through the rest of the Senate experience.
In my fourth year I introduced Senate Bill 93, legislation that would make Cluff’s Ranch, 187 acres of federal land, just south of Pima, a State park. Those aquatinted with its perfectly suited park situation,
immediately offered support. Pima folks were especially enthused. It had been their picnic, camping, recreation and fishing area for years. It had the water, the grass, the trees, the hills, about anything one would desire for an Eden oasis in the desert. No state organizations, institutions or even the Cattleman’s Association had any objections about that section of land being used for such a benign yet altruistic purpose. I had been working closely with the Pima Mayor, and Bulan Weech, President of the new Pima Museum, and when we thought we had it pretty well wrapped up, a bombshell of information came out of Washington: The Federal Government held certain peculiar rights to the land. That squashed the project. I sincerely hope that over the years something has been done to preserve the beauty of that choice real estate.
Remembering my promise to work for school improvements, I dropped in the “hopper,” Resolution # 48. It spelled trouble from the start. Trouble because it lightly stepped on the toes of the powerful Cattleman’s Association. I had talked to Ted Lee, President of the bunch. About all he said was, will you come and explain it to us sometime when we are meeting somewhere here in the Phoenix area? I told him I would be glad to, just give me a few days notice.
The bill would increase the number of sections of state land that would share their USE income with public schools. Actuarially I could not see where the bill would effect the cattlemen in any way. Sure, they paid for its use, but for that revenue to start going to another source should make no difference to ranchers. I soon found out however that Lee was against being disturbed from the present comfortable routine of affairs with the State. One day, in the middle of my busy time, he called to announce that a meeting would start in two hours. Could I come and defend my bill? I was caught completely unprepared, and I think such was Ted’s strategy—get me there when I would do my worst. But I went and did with the cattlemen about what he had hoped for. How plain “no support” appeared on their faces long before I finished. A week or so later, President Carpenter called me to his office to tell me that he and Senator Giss had received several phone calls about the resolution, that at least one caller said there would be a state-wide effort against it by the cattlemen if it ever survived committee. Carp assured me that it made no difference to him if the bill came out, but wanted me to know what I was up against. Well, I didn’t withdraw the bill, but the Land Management Committee, of which I once was a member, shelved it. A lot of cooperation and compromise is required in legislation, but you never do away with politics.
The introduction of one little, simple bill caused me to have words with Governor Goddard. Several years before, a bill passed that allowed the state to pay a bounty of $75 on mountain lions. For some reason or other appropriations for it were stopped, and nine successful hunters had not yet been paid. One of Moroni Larson’s sons was in this disappointed group.
Though the cost to process a new bill to force the State to meet its obligation to the citizens would cost more than money owed to the hunters, I introduced the bill anyway. In my mind it seemed important that the State meet its obligation, whatever the cost. We do not want to be known as “welchers.” It passed with ease. But imagine my surprise to see it listed with a dozen or so, of what the Governor called “petty bills,” that he had just vetoed.
I wasted no time getting to the Governor’s office in hopes the veto could be stopped, because I knew it would be introduced again at the same cost to the State, certainly a waste of tax payers money. Well, it was too late, but it gave me the opportunity to point out to the Governor how stupid he had been. He admitted the mistake, claiming he had received the wrong information, and he apologized profusely. He asked me to not introduce another bill until I heard from him, that he might be able to find another source of money to pay off the hunters. He kept his promise.
My next run-in with the Governor came about a year later. For two years I had worked on a bill to make the State more responsible for school costs. Until then their share of the Average Daily Attendance requirement was about all the state contributed. As a result, the rich counties that sported considerable industry such as mines, lumber, long railroads, etc. had no problem raising money for their schools, while for counties such as my own, it became a sore burden. Equalization became the cry for many of us. Senate Bill # 1 became a must. The fly in the ointment that exposed the opposition was the plain fact that such legislation would require wealthy counties to help poor counties with school costs. This is why it took two years to get #1 passed. I felt quite sure of my bill’s passage this time, for it was introduced with the blessing of the Education Committee, of which I was Vice-Chairman. All the remaining members of the committee signed it as cosponsors, the kind of sponsorship that gives a worthy bill strength and wallop. I spent many, many, many, grueling hours, helping to put it in shape and bring it in line with the thinking of house members, the hardest job and most time spent in my Senate experience. The hours spent in conference meetings with House Members were killers. They lasted nearly three weeks.
The day the pleased Governor was ready to sign the bill we all met in his office, gathered around his desk to watch the signing while the press took our pictures, then quickly interviewed some of us. The Governor used ten pens to sign the bill, one of which I still have in a special corner of my desk.
The signing made headlines in the Arizona Republic. But ZOUNDS!! The wrong picture was there! The paper had chosen to print another one they had also taken that same day, but it showed the Governor signing the bill while only two men looked on. These were two men from the State Education Association who had been assigned to be available to the committee as we worked on the bill to help us in case of legal questions that might arise. They were conveniently stationed just outside the conference room door and took no part in discussions or final decisions; they appeared before us only to answer questions.
Flabbergasted and highly incensed I went immediately to a private room and dictated a letter to the Governor. My secretary typed it up in a hurry, and I sent a page scurrying to his office with the stinging message. I knew I was playing with fire and maybe political disaster. The letter not only expressed my feelings but also warned His Excellency that it would be made public in that day’s Senate proceedings as soon as I could arrange for “personal privilege remarks” from the floor. Well, the fire part of it worked. In fifteen minutes a note came from the Governor saying something like this: “Please forgive. I can explain. Do not publicize the letter. Things will be immediately rectified.” The next morning the right picture appeared with an explanation that sounded phony to me. Never sure of who to blame, the Governor or the press, he tried to make amends in several ways, for we had been good friends. Two days after the unfortunate affair I received word from his office to come at my convenience that day, and, would I bring the pen he had given me after signing the bill. Upon arrival a photographer was quickly rounded up. A nice picture was taken of the two of us, he handing me the signature pen. I think I was the only one of the committee that this happened to, but am not sure. None of the others ever said anything about it happening to them, and I never told anyone. About a week later, an eight-by-ten, high-gloss photo arrived in the mail.
One interesting sidelight about the School Equalization Bill: For several years Graham County legislators had been asking the State for a building to replace that old “eye sore” of a shack being used in San Jose for the Agricultural Inspection Station. During a former session my bill for that purpose was shelved by Agriculture. I had promised William R. Ridgway and W. T. Mendenhall, the State Entomologist, that I would make every effort to secure an appropriation to build a modern facility. When the Equalization Bill came along (which I knew would pass that year) as a member of the sponsoring committee, I saw my opportunity. I managed to attach to it the request for a $50.000 appropriation to build the “BUG” Station. If the education bill passed, so would the appropriation. This marked the first and only time I had to resort to such sly tactics to obtain what should be.
Several times, those of us who cared had to go to bat for Steve Vukcevich to help him maintain the Boys Industrial School at Fort Grant. About the time I entered the Legislature, Pima County began a determined effort to have the institution moved to new facilities to be located, in their county, near Tucson. By 1967, the competition for the school’s location reached fever pitch. Over the years I had taken every opportunity to defend keeping Graham County’s only State Institution and felt that taking it away was next to robbery, which loss, the County didn’t deserve, especially since from the beginning of the Vukcevich administration great improvements had been made, and it became a school instead of a prison. Until that session we three Graham County men had been able to beat down anything the numerous Pima County Legislators had proposed for their heavily populated county. Of late, they had managed to get the backing of the Tucson news papers and things began coming to a head. The Evening American, a Phoenix paper published by Evan Mecham, with whom I had served my first term, came out with a blistering five-article series, claiming it wanted to tell the people the truth about Fort Grant, moreover, condemning my efforts to keep the school in Graham County.
Incensed and disgusted with their unfair criticism, after waiting until the completion of the series, I sat down and wrote a reply that I hoped would put an end to the lies that had been circulating for some time. I asked for “personal privilege” to read it from the Senate floor during regular session.
Well accepted by the public and the legislature, the speech did seem to quiet the storm. Anyway, the members got the message, for Pima County’s legislation failed again that year. A few days later I received a letter from Superintendent Steve Vukcevich.
Use [12A] letter on page?
Statements made in one of the five articles about housing and the need for a hospital, prompted me to introduce an additional outlay bill for the Industrial School totaling $463,432 for new construction, which included funds for a 25-bed health center and another $180,000 for additional staff housing. It happened to become the last bill considered before adjournment of the 28th Legislature. It had passed the Senate more than a week prior. It now floundered in the House where the chairman refused to bring it up for consideration. Obvious to all, the barricade against the bill proved to be nothing more than that the Chairman of the committee hailed from Pima County. I was able to secure the Senate President’s promise that the Senate would not agree to adjourn (Both chambers, in agreement, had to decide the day of adjournment.) until the House Committee brought up my bill for a vote. I held my breath. If it cleared it would be brought immediately to the floor of each body, and adjournment could follow whether passed or not. Being a stubborn cuss, believing I was truly in the right, I determined to hold out to the end. The stubborn streak caused adjournment to be delayed three days while anxious but loyal members served without pay and the President and the Majority Bloc stayed with me, while the Minority and the House chaffed under the three “nothing-to-do” days. I learned later from my colleague in the house, Gordon Hoopes, that committee members were harassed by phone calls from all over the State by those wanting to influence a member’s vote, either for or against. I appreciated those encouraging and complementing me from Graham County until “the telegram” arrived. It came from LaVar Reed in Safford, Chairman of the State Board of Juveniles. After a word of thanks it read: “Give it up for now. We’ll work on it for the next year. Promise to give you more help.” But for that telegram, that committee might still be in session yet.
At the end of the 1964 session I was privileged to experience a very rare occurrence in politics, an impeachment trial. As required by law the house brought malfeasance charges against two officers of the State Corporation Commission, E T. Williams Jr. and A. P. Buzard, only the second such case in Arizona history. Impeachment proceedings are instituted by the House but heard by the Senate, the members sitting as judges under the jurisdiction and guidance of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, which at the time was Jesse A. Udall, a fine member of the church and long-time friend.
The Resolution for Impeachment came from investigations made by certain boards concerning the actions of the office holders. It charged that the two men allegedly had engaged in criminal activity, had misused authority, and that the Commission’s service to the State would be highly improved by their removal. Of course, the House had its attorneys and the Commissioners had theirs.
To stage a proceeding of such magnitude, that had had very little precedent to use as guidance and still stay within the requirements of the law—proved to be a big headache procedure, a real problem. As a member of the Judiciary Committee, I was appointed to head a three-man subcommittee to search the old record of the 1933 impeachment hearing. I remember that we did discover one thing that halted the heated argument about when the trial should start. We found it very clearly stated that the proceedings must start within ten days after closing of the legislative session. Also, other subcommittees were appointed to explore for additional information. Several opinions rendered by the Attorney General helped solve some questions of procedure.
We had no idea how long the trial might last, but money had to be appropriated. Funds had to be available to pay the Senators while they sat as the impeachment jury, and necessary employees, and to meet the attorney’s fees. Senator Giss suggested that the Senators draw $50 a day which got general approval. Since such would need the approval of both chambers through a special bill, the House put the nix on it, and we were forced to settle for our regular pay of $30. I’m sure if the House members had been meeting as jurors with us, a larger, and a more appropriate amount would have been allowed. Anyway, we finally agreed that it would be expedient to set aside $500,000 with the stipulation that any remaining funds would revert to the General Fund of the State. The House went along with it.
I make this brief statement of Arizona’s impeachment trial because of it’s a rarity, to get it on the record, and to boast about the fact that I one time took part in such an affair. Not many have had such an unusual experience. The details can easily be found in the records, (you can borrow mine) but suffice it to say: the commissioners were acquitted. The House attorneys were unable to come up with any documented evidence of misdemeanor and fraud. Having been leaning the other way because of gossip and public accusations I had heard, I was happy that I could vote for acquittal. To sit as judges and jury on two men whose careers hung in the balance of justice is no small responsibility. I felt strongly that a correct decision must be made. Justice Udall kept reminding us that we were not only a jury but also judges with privileges beyond a regular jury on a criminal case. We were encouraged to participate in the trial by asking questions, even of the defendants, and to clear up questions about anything that we didn’t fully understand that would help us make the right decision. He referred to himself, not as a judge but as Chairman of the Court. Later, I talked with the Chief Justice about what he thought of the proceedings. He said the court voted the same way he would have done if he had been the judge of decision.
One thing the impeachment trial did was to bring into focus writings of several members of the press, mostly from the staff of the Arizona Republic. They had led the vendetta against the harassed commissioners. One, Don Bolles, was notorious for his dirt-peddling for that paper, (which tactics later cost him his life) he remembered to write everything, plus things beyond memory, but could remember nothing at the impeachment trial. To make his stories sensational he often stretched the truth. As a defense witness he said, “I don’t remember” so many times he began to sound like a parrot who was proud of the one phrase he had learned. Because of his flagrant avoidance of the truth I couldn’t resist the following. For very obvious reasons it didn’t make the papers, but it was well circulated in both chambers of the Legislature.
At one time I was Chairman of Military Affairs, which put me in close touch with the Office of Civil Defense. Since the wars were over, most senators saw no reason for the State to still give support to that federal department, rumor having it, to soon be disbanded. Their budget was constantly being turned down by the Appropriations Committee. As a result, I was the only lawmaker who visited their facilities and listened to their needs, or tried to help them in their appeals to the legislature for financial support.
Abandonment finally came in 1964 or 65. The facility had been well supplied and equipped. I guess their officers, with whom I had become personally acquainted appreciated my sympathetic attitude toward them and their problems. Tons of equipment and supplies had to be dispersed. Thousands of pounds of food and water had been stored for years in the basements of banks, State and Federal buildings and many large business basements around the State. I was the first to know that many of the sealed cans of food and water, including the sophisticated radio and communications equipment would be given away. I immediately contacted Verl Lines, Chairman of the Board of Supervisors in Graham, and also Harold Gietz. Their response to my question was a resounding , “Yes!” The county could use some of the things going on the block. (Free block, that is.) The next day Gietz called me to ask if they dared ask for something as large and expensive as a jeep. I told them , “Heavens yes.” I was able to get them two jeeps and a transport wagon, several pieces of short wave radio communications equipment that the sheriffs’ office had been needing for a couple of years but hadn't yet been able to buy, a couple of tons of GI hard tack biscuits and hard candy all sealed up in five-gallon cans, a few portable chemical toilets, emergency cooking equipment and several other things now forgotten. Willy
Hinton, a member of the board at the time was ecstatic. He slapped me on the back and said, “You can rest assured that you won’t have any problem getting votes out of Fort Thomas and the reservation next election.”
Things like this gave me the most satisfaction, in the position, and helped me to learn that the opportunities the job provided, to lend a helping hand and extend a worthy favor could be as awarding as what I might accomplish from a big, easy chair behind a large desk with my name on it.
I had been in the senate only a few weeks when President Carpenter asked me if I would be chairman of an unofficial position that meant some extra work but would in no way increase my pay one iota—Chairman of State Programs. My job would be to prepare and emcee all programs of entertainment that the leadership might wish to put on to honor and celebrate official (and unofficial) events.
My secretary, Kris Kristofferson, Rene Richardson’s youngest sister, happened to be an accomplished artist and decorator. She always came up with catchy and proper decorations for each occasion. On Statehood Day, February 14 in 1962, (my first term), and since it was Valentine’s Day also, she had huge handmade valentines all across the chamber on the picket work in front of the rostrum. Through the help of one lady employee in the president’s office who was connected with the Miss Arizona Project, we were able to have Miss Arizona, Susan Berstrom, and Delores Castro, Miss Indian Arizona as our guests.
The Arizona State University Concert Choir came in mass to entertain us with patriotic songs, including “Arizona” the state song. Senator Ahee spoke briefly on early Arizona. Then we heard briefly from the two beauty queens.
Because of a suggestion made a few weeks earlier by President Carpenter, I had just finished writing my Arizona poem, “From the Top of Arizona.” He thought it would be fitting for this particular Statehood Day. I had a few qualms about reading it because I was emceeing the program. But the gallery would be full of guests, many of the State, county and city officials, there for this special occasion, the fiftieth anniversary of the State, so I decided it would be OK. This poem turned out to be one of my big surprises. Supply made fifty copies, 28 for the Senators if they wanted one. The next week Martha told me she had done 50 more because many members of the House wanted copies and letters, and phone calls had come in asking for copies. Senator Udine grinned and remarked, “The newspapers missed a bet when they didn’t print that one.” I couldn’t believe it. Even President Paul Guitteau (my old nemesis from the college) wrote me a personal letter requesting an autographed copy. I know that Martha did at least two more printings. The poem is really low quality. I knew that before I read it that day, and I knew it still needed much work, but I hoped to be able to camouflage it by slurring in the right places.
Again in 1964 on Admissions Day, the decorations were hauled out and a program prepared for the visit of none other than Miss America herself, Vonda Kay Vandyke, an Arizona product, and her dummy, Kurley. With her talent as a ventriloquist, she and Kurley entertained us in high and hilarious style. To help her get off some good lampoon jokes and quips about the senators, I had prepared some lines, mostly questions about the Senate and the idiosyncrasies of members that Kurley, being the dummy that he was, answered in good and proper response that brought down the house several times.
We always had a St. Patrick’s Day program. On these, all I had to do was introduce Senator Bill Sullivan from Globe, being the Irishman that he was, and he’d do the rest. He had a friend from Phoenix with a great Irish voice who would come and sing for us. I particularly remember one year when Sully himself performed, with the help of the lady pages, who wore green hats, sang songs and did the Irish jig.
I remember being thankful that the Legislature always recessed a day or two for Thanksgiving and Christmas, which meant of course, I didn’t have to prepare a program. I think I gained more notice from being the program chairman than from all the committees I held or the bills I ever produced: But, it was a job!
I have been searching my files and notes to determine the year I went to Window Rock to attend the inauguration of the Navajo Chief, Raymond Nokai (knock eye.) if ever I attended an unusual event that was it. At that time I was vice-chairman of the Advisory Committee on Indian Affairs. The Governor and my committee chairman were invited. Though the Governor was unable to attend, and the committee chairman didn’t want any more to do with Indians than he had to, they were anxious that the State be represented there. President Carpenter agreed, so I didn’t have to volunteer for the job.
I had already met some of the members of the Tribal Council, and held at least two meeting over the months, so they did know who I was.
Never saw so many Indians in my life. Custer wouldn’t have a chance with just the women and kids that were there. The town’s large, plaza-like area was filled to the brim with happy, healthy looking, well dressed Indians. Small food and drink and jewelry stands were set up around the park. A band played and marched a few times. Everyone drank bottled soda pop. A bunch of eight or ten boys in Levis and big hats were having a free-for-all squirt fight with soda pop fizz as a weapon. I had arrived early, so I walked around the park mingling with the crowd. I looked different from anyone else there, but no one paid any attention to me. I thought sure I would draw a few stares.
Finally, I found out where the meeting would be held and arrived there a few minutes before ten, the time my invitation said it would start. A couple of hundred chairs were rowed up outside, alongside a small building. A large canvas fly tethered to the building stretched to four or five long poles secured to the ground. It wouldn’t be much use in a rain, but it would help with the sun. People were running around and over each other like chickens trying to avoid stones in a hail storm. It was plain to see that this highly important, official meeting would never start on time. Then I remembered what one of the councilmen had told me the last time I had met with some of them in Phoenix. “Indians go by two times,” he had said. “Whiteman’s time and Indian time. Mostly Indian time.”
Well, it was Indian time that day, for the little hand on the clock leaned slightly to the right of the figure 12 before all the arguments were over and the details worked out. I had registered at the table and told them who I was and why I was there. Both men just grunted and told me to sit on the fourth row from the back. I Had been sitting where I was told to sit for about an hour, and the place was filling up fast, when a big Buck with boots, a stripped shirt and a bolo around his neck leaned down close and asked, “Who you?” After I told him he said, “You go up front. You tell Johnny Chuck I said you sit in front row.” I stood up and said: “Well thank you sir, but I understand there are several federal men here. Shouldn’t they use those front seats?” I would have been glad for a more conspicuous seat but didn’t think I had priority. Indian reservation and Indian government do operate under federal control.
My objections didn’t faze the man. He looked at me with a scowl as he said, “Ta hell with the Feds! You State! You friend!” and he pulled me into the isle, motioning me to follow. By now the front seats were full, but two or three still remained empty in about the fourth row. I indicated to him that these were fine. He stuck his right thumb in the air and nodded. I felt well taken care of.
Finally the “Indian time” meeting got started. After the preliminaries it came time to introduce the special
guests. Didn’t know if that included me or not, but figured all I had to do was stand and wave a hello. But
those names called before me all took the opportunity to give a little prepared speech, or at least a remark of
some kind. It put me in a flurry of thought as to what to say, but the panic passed in time for me to come up
with something. I remember the exact words of my first sentence, “It is good to see the Red Man in the saddle
again.” and then short greetings from the Governor—that he sent his best wishes, plus a couple of words of
thanks and a wish of good luck to Chief Nokai.
Though the meeting lasted almost two hours I must admit I enjoyed most of the talks that were given by both Indian and Washington officials. Nokai’s acceptance speech was exceptionally good, proving him a well educated man with an understanding of organization and economics. One Indian woman spoke, all trigged out in every embellishment that Indian costuming could afford, she was an intriguing sight.
I really didn’t see why I was there, for I was unable to make any kind of contribution. It did, however, give me a better understanding of the problems and controversies going on between the Navajos and the U.S. Department of the Interior, due to recent demands being made by the leaders of the tribe.
In 1968 we hung Peter Klahr. Peter was the 23-year-old University of Arizona law graduate who filed the suit in Federal court that would reshape the Arizona Legislature. It declared that the practice of two Senators for each county, no matter their population, was unconstitutional because it “flew in the face” of the ‘one-man-one -vote’ Federal edict. To help express all our feelings about Peter Klahr I dressed up a dummy, and with the help of the Sergeant at Arms sneaked him into the foyer of the Senate chambers at an early hour and got him hung without anyone else knowing. Though my fears proved to be unfounded, I was a little leery of legal retaliations by Klahr or someone of his profession. I had chosen that day to “do the deed” because it had been declared a day of mourning for the Legislature.
It created quite a stir around the State. I was very amused that Senator Mickelson declared himself the official protector of the effigy and hung around it most of the day volunteering information to passers-by and visitors about why the upstart, freshman lawyer had been hung. Since no one knew the perpetrator of the deed, maybe they would think he did it. But I think I foiled that idea by revising the old poem, “The Cowboy’s Lament,” which I read in the Senate the next day. I think that most had their suspicions as to who the hangman might be was resolved.
During the years that I served in the Legislature only one sadness befell the members of the Senate. Senator Bill Rhodes died in office. So often these are times when you feel absolutely helpless. If there was only some way you could help. I had thought of writing a verse or two of condolence, but decided I might hurt more than help. But after sleeping on it, I decided to go ahead, write it, and see how it sounds, then decide if I should use it.
In 1963 my chairmanship of the Military and Veterans Affairs Committee allowed me a couple of very enjoyable trips and adventures. Invited to an area-wide briefing on what the U.S. Air Force was accomplishing in the Ballistic Missile Program. We were in the middle of the cold war with Russia with every effort being made to counteract what the Government believed was an array of like missiles aimed directly at the heart of America.
As the accompanying letter from Governor Fannin indicates, I would be transported to Norton Air Force Base in California. Upon arriving there I was somewhat surprised at the small number of people that made up the briefing party—only about 15 of us. I don’t recall now just where they were from or what positions they held. only three or four were military. I believe there were more missile mockups around the room than people; there to view them. They all had names that I don’t recall. The largest model stood about ten feet high. Some were for attack—or counterattack, if we were fired upon. Some were for interception of enemy missiles, while others were for use from submarines and carriers. The whole proved to be a very intriguing hour. After a scrumptious lunch at the officers quarters, I went home with my head reeling from reams of important, classified information and a feeling of importance. What I was going to do with it all, I didn’t know for sure. However, it did help me with a bill or two that later came before my committee.
I had hardly settled in at home (The Legislature was not in session at this time.) when the second letter came form the Governor. The Tucson visit had been arranged and I was invited if I could be at the Governor’s office at the appointed time. This time the Governor would go along. Though he and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on several issues (he, a republican and I, a democrat) it was an honor to fly with the Governor and his entourage.
This briefing at the David Monthan Ar Force Base included the inspection of only one missile, the huge Titan II. The Titan II is a stationary installation hidden in a deep silo and covered with camouflaged doors designed to hide the installation from enemy spy planes. The spot looked like a splotch of rock and gravel. When the doors were opened we could look down at the hissing machine. The best way to describe what we saw was, “A Hellish Monster.” This breathing, pulsing thing was capable of carrying an atomic warhead to Russia and dropping it precisely on the Kremlin.
The silo was so constructed that we were able to view it from six different levels as we descended into the depths of the frightful monster’s home. At one level the officer pointed out to us the many pieces of electronics that made up the complicated guidance system that during launch would automatically monitor things like air temperature and moisture, wind direction, speed, altitude and dozens of other conditions that might effect the flight. One of our party asked the guide at what target was this particular missile aimed. “Moscow!” he replied. “A good hit could put half the city out of commission.”
Considerably warmer at the bottom level caused one to ask about the reason. “It’s the warming system that keeps the engines at a precise temperature so they are sure to ignite when triggered,” he said. Then he told us that the machine was kept primed at all times and could be fired at a second’s notice. We were allowed to look into, but not enter, an underground apartment situated at the end of a thirty or forty foot tunnel, where three Air Force personnel were on duty at all times, one of which always sat with a red telephone at his elbow.
I never did learn just how many of such installations were in Arizona; only that there were many with most of them around or near Tucson.
Later in a briefing room at the Air Base we were introduced to all the intricacies of the ponderous apparatus, plus a thousand figures of its many capabilities. The experience was awesome. It worried me for weeks. Sorry —no picture taking allowed and no news article of the briefing—not even for the Governor.
When President Kennedy and the Congress finally got the Civil Rights Bill out of Washington, it had to be ratified by at least thirty-eight states for it to become law. As I remember, Arizona was kind of a hold-out State, making it number thirty-seven to approve the Federal legislation. The bill for Arizona’s ratification of it was still in the Education Committee where I felt somewhat responsible for it. One afternoon while working at my desk, I mused on the fact that yesterday President Kennedy had called two other Senators about the pending legislation. I didn’t catch on when a page brought the message that the President was on the phone. I said, “On the phone? Why don’t I just walk into his office, as President Carpenter had always had me do when he needed to speak to me?” A little perturbed, she shook me by the shoulder as if I needed waking up and said, “President – Kennedy – from — Washington!” I walked to the phone not at all convinced that this wasn’t a big joke, but I recognized that voice immediately.
I guess I did a little stuttering in my answers to his pertinent questions as I assured him I was for the bill and would do everything possible to see that it was on the calendar for our next meeting, for I was certain Chairman Spikes was favorable.
My steps and thoughts were rather billowy for the rest of the day. I decided that procrastination could, at times, have its rewards.
Of course, after Congress had laid out the rules and Civil Rights were ratified, the states were then obligated to come up with legislation that would comply with the new laws. There were several options, however, so it was understandable that the black population of the State would demand the highest benefits that the law would allow, regardless of costs and some other extenuating circumstances. Hearings were held and Blacks were invited several times to have their say in special and regular committee meetings. Talk and rumor seemed to verify that most Legislators were willing to give the minorities their just dues. Then, for some reasons we were not able to figure out, and before any decisions had been made, the Blacks decided to picket the Capital Building, concentrating on the Senate Chambers. After a couple of days chanting and marching they blocked doors of the Senate building by lying in a stack of bodies in the entrance way. To get out, all we could do was walk over them. I know that many ended up with mashed parts because I could feel the crunch of it under my feet. Two or three different evenings the police had to break up the unjustified sit-ins and lie-downs.
For most of one day their pickets closed traffic on Washington Blvd, and two side-approach streets in front of the Capital. In the Judiciary Committee room one vociferous demonstrator sat himself on Senator Giss’ desk vowing to not move until the committee promised that one of his demands be met. It didn’t take long for a couple of highway patrolmen, on duty there, to take care of that.
This kind of action from the black community of Phoenix was certainly unnecessary strategy, a pathetic mistake. We intended from the start to produce a fair bill and were working to get it out that session. Many of us, in sympathy with their rights felt that such conduct should not be tolerated, and the affair ended that year with adjournment, all in agreement that we would take up the matter next year when nerves and tempers were a little more calm.
As I stated a few paragraphs back, to attempt to tell all my experiences in the State Senate would take volumes, and I do not chose now to risk boring anyone kind enough to read these lines, with further details. I am content to let time and history consume the remains. But remembering Jo’s resounding No! when confronted with the possibility of her husband entering politics, I must comment about her faithful and loving support of the whole experiment, even “to the advice” she was able to give on important matters of State. She proved to be the perfect political wife, and after we sold the grocery store that she loved, but had kept her tied too closely to home, she enjoyed the freedom of every moment, often referring to herself as “Madam Butterfly.” She loved the politics and State Legislature. The Senators’ companions were allowed to attend, especially the jubilant entertainment and food. She was able to go with five of us to Hawaii where we represented the Legislature at the Biannual National Conference. She went with me to Kansas City, Boulder, Colorado, “Town Hall” held at the Grand Canyon. To Flagstaff, Prescott and to Chicago for a National Education Meeting. All this plus all the evening events held in the Phoenix area, different agencies, organizations, and industry often held to inform, or more often, entertain the Legislators. She was always popular at any gathering of the law makers because she knew, so well, how to greet and to please, in conversation.
It takes such small things to please Jo. She says when she hears Kansas City mentioned she immediately thinks of her Kansas City Pumps (gold and high-heeled) bought there. And when she sees those shoes in her closet, now old and worn out but can’t throw away, she can’t help but see Kansas City again. The Mule Bach Hotel, and even the big plate glass window where she spotted those shoes with the peeked toes. I think her sadness of it being over, was a little bigger than mine. She was there that day saying goodbye to the friends she had made, seeming to take no offense to the Senate Pages who insisted on kissing their favorite Senator goodbye.
THE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES AND ME
In December of 1964 I received a large, beautifully embossed invitation (which I still have tucked away among my souvenirs) to the Johnson Inaugural, as did each democrat legislator. Of course we all wanted to go, and much talk ensued among us about chartering a plane or finding an affordable way to get there and back. Our enthusiasm for the venture soon reached the ears of the public, who immediately set up a hue and cry, soundly condemning the idea, for our intentions had been grossly misunderstood. How such rumor got started we never knew, (we did suspect a few republican members) but the word was out that a bill was being prepared for introduction that if passed would appropriate funds to finance the trip at the taxpayer’s expense.
Of course this was ridiculous. There were too many wise heads in the Senate to ever let such a thing happen; and besides, funds from more appropriate sources were actually available for legislative travel; but to use them to send just democrats to an inaugural was out of the question. Such would have been not only a glaring misuse of public funds, but also a very unfair move.
Though I did not get to use the invitation I have always treasured it as a special memento of my Senate years. But I do feel almost repaid because of a lucky incident that occurred that same year during the Johnson campaign. One Sunday afternoon Jo and I were driving from Thatcher to Phoenix where I would prepare for Monday morning meetings. As we neared the city where I knew the car radio would now pickup Phoenix broadcasts I clicked on the radio.Immediately the startling news blared out that President Johnson would make an unscheduled stop at the airport in the next thirty minutes. That he had time to briefly appear and say hello to whomever was able to get there on such short notice.
Excited, I said to Jo, “I think we can make it.” and stepped on the peddle. We arrived just in time to see a pick-up coming through a huge wire gate. A large crowd was waiting on our side of the fence. The President, with body guards seated along the sides of the pick-up bed, stood in the center of the boot, holding on to a steel roll bar. As the vehicle drove slowly through the crowd, people began to swarm toward it. Recognizing that hesitation could mean lost opportunity, I pushed forward leaving Jo to fend for herself. I knew she wouldn’t dare to struggle with the frenzied crowd. By the time I had shouldered and bumped my way to the pick-up, the President was shaking hands with anyone who could reach him. Although I got a quick grip (very quick) of his hand, it wasn’t much more than a “give me a high-five” gesture. I went back to find Jo while Johnson was carried on through the still gathering crowd. A hundred yards farther and the vehicle disappeared around a slight curve in the wide avenue.
We never knew whether or not he had stopped long enough to speak to the excited crowd. As we nudged and fought our way to the car, we could see that the whole airport area was filled with people, many of whom I am sure, never got close enough to even see the President. I could hardly believe the frenzied response to that short radio announcement that had taken place in that “Goldwater” stronghold.
Like the Inaugural invitation and the airport affair, I still treasure the memory of a few special occasions while in the Legislature. Another of these afforded me the opportunity to meet and shake hands with another President of the United States. This time you could call it a real handshake. In 19?? Governor Goddard asked me to represent the State of Arizona at a specially called Governor’s National Conference on Education, being held in Kansas City, Missouri. Jo went with me on this trip which she often refers to as her “shoe trip” where she bought her highly touted Kansas City shoes. As badly as she wanted to, she didn’t get to make the trip with me to the Presidential Library. Many of the nation’s governors were there. Goddard not being able to attend, allowed me a few privileges that I would not otherwise have been able to enjoy. One of these was to be bused, along with the governors and a few others, a few miles distant, to Independence, to visit the Truman Library and meet the retired President. I was thrilled for this privilege, for in many respects Truman was my favorite President. At the death of Roosevelt, I admired the way he took the reins of Government, and with hands on he saw us through a terrible war. I have often wondered how many others would have had the intestinal fortitude to drop the atomic bomb with all its terrible consequences.
A few minutes after our arrival at the Library, Truman, on the arm of a hardy assistant, probably a body guard, was escorted onto the stage of the small lecture room and there seated in a large chair. We were then privileged to file by and shake hands with him. Nobody rushed us. We had time to nod, experience the feel of his hand and sturdy presence; and I told him who I was and proffered a word of greeting.
Though the President had demonstrated a bit of feebleness when he entered the room, his hand was steady and his, “Thank you Senator,” was strong. Impressed, I moved on with a feeling of awe. I remember recalling his words about a “hot kitchen” and the “buck” not passing here.
Besides the great satisfaction of meeting President Truman, the thing I enjoyed most about our tour of his library, was the big cartoon-like drawings on one wall depicting the announcement of Truman’s defeat at the hands of Tom Dewey, his Republican opponent. Huge black newspaper headlines screamed out the news. Beside it Truman is holding up a large sign that says, DEWEY WINS. WITH A BIG GRIN ON HIS FACE Truman is saying, “But why am I smiling?” Under his picture the caption reads, “The real winner.” The assumption of a Dewey victory and an editor’s desire to be the first to print the news, has been called one of the greatest foux pas ever pulled in the history of the newspaper business. I am still smiling!
During the war while working as armaments inspector on the famous B17 (4-motor bomber—The Flying Fortress—of great renown) at the Douglas Aircraft, Long Beach plant, I had another brush with royalty. In 1942, during a secret tour of defense plants and military bases, President Roosevelt suddenly appeared at the Douglas plant where I worked. About 10 A.M. that particular morning, five or six men began hurriedly clearing the wide aisle that divided the huge building in half, where the B17 was being assembled. As they passed my position I heard one of them respond to a question of “what was happening”: “The President is coming,” one man said. By then the five or six hundred workers in that main building knew what was pending and all work stopped as workers left their posts and crowded to the center aisle. Quickly—for I could see that all vantage points for viewing the parade would soon be gone—climbed to the top of one of the huge jigs nearby that lined the aisle. Soon the place was full, for word had spread to the other buildings of the plant. From my perch I looked out across the building and all it’s work accouterments to see the hundreds converging on the center aisle. No way would even half of them get close enough to see the President. On an occasion such as this, no one was going to give up their precious foot of space.
Then far up the aisle, (the building was a quarter mile long) a blue, completely open-air limousine appeared. As it slowly drifted down the aisle, I was finally able to pick out the President in the back seat, sort of leaning back and waving to the crowd. In his fingers, with a cigarette protruding from the end of it, that famous and familiar, long cigarette holder poised at a forty-five degree angle toward the ceiling. As I remember he wore his usual blue coat with the large decorative buttons and the jaunty captain’s cap. Two liveried chauffeurs maneuvered the open vehicle. I don’t remember any loud shouts or whistles, but the appearance along the way was tremendous.
Later we learned that he had arrived by train in his special car. He probably never touched foot to California soil, because he boarded his limousine while it was still in the rail-car, exited by way of a special ramp, and then was driven straight to the aircraft plant.
Guess what the topic of conversation turned out to be for the next several weeks around that war effort neck-of-the-woods. What an impression a few fleeting seconds of life can sometimes make on the human mind. I can still see, after fifty-four years, every detail of that impressive occasion. (Written in 1994)
THE SECOND SOJOURN IN CALIFORNIA
After I began serving in the Senate, we kept the store in Thatcher for six months before selling it. The sessions consumed only a part of the year. While we still owned it, I returned to help Jo with the store. The truth is, we didn't sell the place until Jo became tired of running it.
Shortly after my eight-year stint in Phoenix, we sold our Thatcher home and properties in early 1969 and moved ourselves and all belongings to an apartment in Pasadena. We were there for only a few months, just until we found the house we wanted to buy, a stucco three bedroom home with a sunken living room, on Villa Street, near the corner of Villa and Altadena Drive. While living there, we put in a swimming pool and made some nice improvements on the house and the grounds.
In the neighboring city of San Marino in 1972, we found a beautiful property we wanted and figured a good investment. We rented the house on Villa and moved to the new home on the corner of San Pasqual and California. In 1976 a Realtor approached us about our house, promising we could receive double the price we'd paid for it if willing to sell. It smelled like a bargain to us; we sold it for not quite, but nearly double what we'd paid. We moved back to our house on Villa Street, where we lived until May 1985.
We had recently sold the San Pasquel house. We had retired officially and Dal had taken over the proprietorship of the Log Factory. This left us foot-loose-and-fancy-free, so to speak. The Villa House, including that headache of a swimming pool were in top shape. I basked in the comfort and satisfaction of a mortgage-free home, the closeness of the L.D.S. chapel, and the good relationship we enjoyed with the bishopric, and finally with Dick Summerhays, plus shopping conveniences and each others love and trust. For what more could one ask? I prayed that nothing would occur to disturb the tranquility of our existence, except of course, the Rose Parade and the hoards of relatives and friends it brought to our house on New Year’s Day.
In the midst of all this peace and quiet announcement came in the form of a debilitating question. It came one evening while I sat reading about the importance of keeping a comfortable home life. “Don’t you think the time has come for you to keep your promise about taking me back to Newport Beach and Balboa?” she asked. “You remember what you said when we left there forty years ago.” …just a question, yes, but charged with determination and demand. I immediately grasped it’s full meaning and realized the futility of objection or any kind of argument. Not that I had any objections to living in Newport Beach. Recollections of the two years we spent there during the war, raising our kids on sand and salt air while I held down a good job with Douglas Aircraft, and the whole experience was brand new. It had lingered with me these many years.
(Jo’s dad had passed away not too long before we came to Newport Beach on the first occasion. Jo insisted that her mother and Jean come live with us and enjoy the clement weather. To accommodate this situation we rented a large two story house down the peninsula on the corner of 7th street and Balboa Blvd.
Nettie was a great sport. She swam with us often, either in the ocean just one block south of our house, or one block north in the bay. Many times in the mornings and evenings she would walk the beach down to the Balboa pier and back. She always returned with wet skirts from challenging the unpredictable breakers to, “Catch me if you can.” Jean attended junior high school in Balboa where she made many new friends and celebrated her 14th birthday.)
Jo had seen an advertisement for the sale of mobile home properties in Newport Beach with back-bay frontage.
We went to evaluate it. Well after we looked around, we found the bayside frontage we wanted in the adult-retirement community of De Anza Bayside Village. Yes, Jo loved the place.
I did have one final objection that I felt duty bound to mention. We would be leaving a debt-free situation and begin immediately to cough up $750 a month, the Senior Park fee for the privilege of living on the waterfront. The amount was really no problem at that time, but it did take that much away from the inheritance we planned for our children. I know too, that though grandly inviting, the route to a more utopian life could be strewn with hazards and pitfalls. But at its best life is just a visit, so we bought it.
In May of 1986 we forsook stable old Pasadena and purchased place # 7 at Bayside Village Senior Park, the cutest little two-bedroom, half mobile home that almost stuck out over the water of Newport Bay. We were a few blocks from the ocean but that didn’t matter to the old duffer I had become. I’d lost my sexy figure, and Jo said that at her age she wouldn’t be caught dead in a bathing suit again, although she is still an eyeful. Anyway, she loves to be near the water and the cool breezes, sit on the deck or in the bay window and watch the activity around the marina and clubhouse. Such a paradise of a place to live, a year-around vacation life!
We only kept # 7 six or eight months. The opportunity arose to purchase number 22, a dozen or so places down the waterfront and for a price amounting to half of what we had paid for # 7. I figured it a profitable investment for I knew it had the same market value as the house we were selling. We made the move for that purpose (to sell it) for we had our eye on # 31, a larger place, with what we, and many in the park, considered the perfect locations. It had just become available. So in 1987 we were able to make the deal we had maneuvered for, and here we have stayed put.
Linda and Mac and their family, which numbered many at the time, helped us move. But, within months with their help again we moved down the bay front several houses to another nicer place. Why shouldn't we? I'd paid $40,000 for the first and sold for $55,000. Before the year of 1986 closed, we moved again. And, poor Mac, Linda and family were all there again with pickup, strong arms and backs. And should anyone ask why: We'd paid $30,000 for the second property and sold for $45,000. We paid 55,000 for the nicest frontage location of the Village further on down the bay and moved into it. We could sell it for $100,000 today (June 1994). Linda and Mac's family number but three now, only one at home, but we know they've lived in fear of every phone call for over seven years, since our last move in 1986.
At the far north end of the Village, in the direction we've been moving, are the garages. "It won't be long before the McBrides move into one of the garages, "has been the whispered joke of the community.” We were still thinking, looking and waiting, though, in spite of the undercurrent of whispers.
When we first moved to Bayside Village, our location address was space # 7. We moved to # 22 and then to # 31.This property was the only one in the Village with a front lawn (maintained by the community, but only accessible to us). Just the other side of the lawn was the gated beautifully landscaped swimming pool, which sits behind the Club House. We had immediate access to the boat slips too. Our place had two large bay-windows that gave us a panoramic view out over the marina, the bay, the island in the bay's middle, and on across, we could see the lengths of beautiful cliffs crowned with trees and greenery.
We watched the multitude of sea birds whose species change with the seasons, and we enjoyed identifying
Them through binoculars. The climate was so moderate: seldom a day too cold, too hot or too windy. The
variety of plants grown in the community seemed numberless, and their fragrance accented by the salt air, we
enjoyed constantly. I guessed that here we would remain as long as we could survive.
Although the monthly fee had more than doubled during our 10-year tenure in a park that residents said hadn’t yet been discovered, tucked away as it is from the noise and hurly-burly of the every-day world. The thrill of the waterfront with it’s many local and exotic sea birds, fishing boats, cooling breezes and the activity of the marina, no longer holds the same fascination for me, but Jo never ceased to express the anticipation of the new day and the enjoyment that it brought to her just to be part of it all. I think she would still savor every moment.
In 1986 Bruce and Velda, having sold their business in Northridge, purchased a beautiful house one street back from the waterfront. It was good to have them close by. We had truly missed the frequent get-togethers we were used to while in Pasadena. We did many fun things together, and they soon, as had we, established themselves in the wealthy Corona Del Mar ward. From the beginning, even before the Church adopted the policy, and because of the over generosity of many, we had no ward budget to pay. Bruce and Velda stayed three years. Then without much warning or fanfare, they up and moved to Tucson, Arizona, back close to their original roots, leaving us sad, holding down the fort by ourselves.
We had thought that we might live out the rest of our years on the bay front just 15 yards from our bay window. We enjoyed that unique space at that special retirement community, Bayside Village, for 12 and a-half years. We loved everything about it “except,” the ludicrous high rent—1749.97 per month, a 47% increase in one year—they slapped on us, for the space our home occupied. Along with our age and Sally’s and Hersch’s coaxing, the insult of the 47% broke the camels back. We sold out at a break-even price, though a poor one, we were anxious and moved to Mesa Arizona, August 15, 1997. Fortunately for us, it was at the time Sally and Hersch sold in Chandler moving to Mesa, a 12-minute drive from the home we purchased.
What a job! It nearly killed us both! But for the unbelievable help of friends and family at both ends, departure and arrival, we’d never have made it. We’d surely have perished at one end or the other or in between. Mac and his two oldest boys, Dal and Mike, helped us pack and load up a huge trailer. Mac’s car was loaded in too. Dale Norris—Debi’s half-brother who had lived with Mac and Linda off and on, thought of him and his wife as their own son and daughter. Dale, in the business of moving, arranged the availability of the moving van at a tremendously discounted price, a great savings to us. It was past mid-afternoon when the truck finally departed.
Mac, Jo and I left Newport Beach in our loaded car. We picked up Linda and their gear in Corona and continued on to Mesa. We arose early in the morning arriving at our new and empty home to be met by a “small army,” that most say, and we’ll have to admit, were of our doing. Six adult men, four adult women, one 8 months pregnant and a dozen kids big and smart enough to take orders and run and carry, were there waiting for the opening of the truck’s trailer, ready to jump to the task of moving. The van driver said that never in his seven years of moving people had he ever seen such a display of family cooperation. In short order the huge trailer was emptied of Mac’s car and of every other piece, big and little. He said that the savings for him of 2 whole hours (equating to substantial unexpected earnings), enabled him to be off and on his way back home in unprecedented time. He reported to his boss, Dale, the near miracle that had occurred. What a marvelous extended family we have!
Here we are three weeks later still unpacking boxes, slowly settling in. It seems we go to bed too tired to ever get up in the morning. But we love our new place; we’re happy to be back in Arizona, and can’t believe how great these families have been to help, even though each live very, busy, involved lives.
Saundra (Sally’s daughter), Doug and children came the other day, cleaned up the yards, hauled away our hundred, empty boxes and trash. Greg came back evening after evening to lend his expertise and wisdom—we haven’t had to leave the house. Sally and Hersch have done our shopping, car repairs and kept us in hardware for picture hanging and electrical work etc., etc. Besides that, they have had us over for, and taken us out for dinner constantly. Now, Sally, in her endless thoughtfulness comes by everyday.
After all the legal fuddle it took to finally get away from the cutthroat landlords in Newport Beach (a good two years), it’s to long a story to write down. We feel free again; and though we left many good friends there, both in the ward and at the retirement park, we look forward to making new friends and living among the Arizona one-third of our, now, very large family. (Still can’t believe we’re the fault for all of them!)
After the help’s departure, time has seemed to catch up to us at a fast pace, bringing to mind the poetic statement, “Time has a habit of changing the scene and the years do take their toll.” We are not anxious for the day when that “toll” will necessitate our leaving “paradise,” being close to those we love and who want us near on our final leg of a fantastic journey. Since necessity is the mother of something, we probably won’t mind that last move, which incidentally would be the 20th during our life together. This has all happened since in 1934, we settled into one bedroom with a hot-plate and a bath to share, as we waited, counting the days and hours for Mac to be born. (Note: Of the nineteen places in which we have lived we owned 11 of them.)
We’re enjoying the wildlife that so freely inhabits our backyard, scampering about. The quail are the fattest and most mouthwatering of the many birds we see—and entertain and feed. Only one roadrunner has shown up so far, but he was a beauty—the Arizona State Bird. The cottontail and jackrabbits have found many of the plants that Jo and I brought with us—Jo’s worried about their survival, for they seem infatuated with this new diet. We feed a variety of small song birds and humming birds, and there are three species of doves happy for the bird seed scattered on the ground, the ubiquitous mourning doves, the larger, seasonal white wings and the petite turtle (Inca) dove. Woodpeckers, blackbirds, starlings frequent the neighborhood, as does the largest and most beautiful specie of wren, the cactus wren. The neighbor, two houses up the block, hosted a vixen gray fox as she raised her kits. Coyotes pass through and we know that raccoons, skunks and weasels are about. (The expansive retirement community of small homes was not built with confining fences or walls for the backyards. The property lines are completely open—only demarcations of rock, low hedges and a variety of plants—leave open spaciousness for the wildlife to move about at their every whim.)
Upon first arriving here, we talked off-and-on with Leonard. At the time he was 92. When I mentioned it he said, “And I’ll have you know, I am closer to 93 than I am 92.” Now (February of 1999), Leonard is 94, and says he is going to live until the new century. (And, guess what? I turned 90 the December 28, 1998, looks like I’ll make it till the turn of the century too. Hope Leonard is not too chagrined. )
Sally’s and Hersch’s family continues to shower us with attention and invitation. We aren’t left out of anything. So many parties and family get-togethers! We love the house that Sally and Mac picked out for us, and after nearly two years we will feel greatly accomplished when we get entirely unpacked—including all of Jo’s 60 plants in place and the pictures hung.
Even though it has been a little slower (due to our advanced age, I’m sure) acceptance by our new ward has been gratifying. Along with being a home teacher, I’m the second counselor in the Sunday School—with my right index finger horizontally in position, I lightly thrust it forward pushing the buzzer, signaling the end of Sunday School class. (It seems some things that appear to be quite simple, unbeknownst to most, demand a great deal of expertise.)
August of 1998, we celebrated our 65th wedding anniversary. We hadn’t really realize how much time had sneaked on by us until we looked around Sally’s living room; all the adults of the family had gathered, and we were surprised at how old everybody looked. They insisted I recite a couple of my famous readings—don’t remember which ones. The photo with the little article in the Arizona Republic were proper and caused several phone calls from around the State, yea, mostly Jo’s friends wanting to know how she had managed to do it. Now-and-again a person does have the right to revel in their own accomplishments. We’re sure all our blessing may not be realized; but certainly we have a few extra coming through the family we have caused.
Well, life with its intricacies is still parading along and events are occurring though the future may look dim:
The sky ahead is growing dark,
The journey’s almost done.
How faint the mark I’ve left to show,
The trail I have begun.
Gray do the winds run through the glade,
Unnoticed is my course,
But birds still sing and their songs don’t fade,
As I contemplate the source.
And I’ll worry not about the trail
or just how far it runs.
For God gave me fine marks to leave:
Daughters and noble sons --
The last great extravaganza, to date (February of 1999), to occupy time and attention is the marriage of Hersch’s second boy, Steven. It was a marriage of a handsome pair both of fine parentage, with all the extras and niceties, all in good taste and planning. It seems to be a union looked down upon from on High and pre-ordained for a happy and fulfilling future. A multitude there was! Celebrating and wishing the newlyweds well, at the beautiful reception.
(DARVIL) ILLNESSES AND NEAR DISASTERS
I disobeyed mother when five years old. Contrary to her instructions, outside on a cold winter day, I waded into the irrigation ditch to play in the water with no thought of getting out soon. With shoes and socks soaked and pants wet up to the knees, I had a great time. Back in the warm house after being outside for an hour or more, I still felt chilled. But, I kept right on playing in the wet clothing just the same.
By night-time, I came down with a terrible case of croup (Inflammation of the respiratory passages, usually from bacterial or viral infection. Much mucus fills the passages causing labored breathing and a continual raspy hoarse cough). I slept what little I could in a bed prepared for me next to the warm kitchen stove. It seemed to me that Dad stayed with me most of the night working to keep me as comfortable a possible. I remember that twice he took me up in his arms holding me close, as he prayed for me. I remember mother kneeling close by during one of the prayers. I don't remember the words, but both told me later how very sick I had been, and that they indeed feared I might lose my life.
At eight years of age I came down with typhoid fever. I felt so sick that it is difficult to explain. I would be told later that the doctor feared I was going to die then also. Mother would remind me several times through life how she and Dad prayed for me. I was never aware of Dad offering the prayers, but Mother remembered and told me he pleaded with the Lord saying that He couldn't take me now, for I had a purpose in life that yet must be fulfilled. Mother explained that after he offered up the pleas, his demeanor showed the certainty of the faith he had of my survival.
Completely bed ridden, I lingered in and out of fitful sleep fraught with fever, chills and nausea. I could hear the neighbor children, my friends, outside whooping, calling and running, having so much fun. After what seemed an eternity to a young boy, I began to regain strength.
A year later, diphtheria strangled me in its grip. It affected me like croup. Many nights I was so congested that I could scarcely breathe, even though the family constantly provided special precautions to spare me its severest complications. I felt as deathly ill as I had with typhoid not knowing at times whether I would survive or die. Tenuously, then tenaciously, I held on, and again I survived.
Before, between and after these awful life threatening diseases, I was attacked by all the other childhood diseases: chicken pox, measles, mumps, and whooping cough, along with reoccurring bouts of the common cold and flu. Just being in the grip of so many illnesses, each too prolonged, was enough. The time consuming convalescent periods became unbearable, persistent thieves robbing me of what should have been extended times of childhood fun.
Sad but appropriate, and much to my embarrassment, I was referred to by the family and others as the sickly one of the bunch. I had always loved to jump, run, and play games and all kinds of ball, but for so long, only short intervals of it were allotted me. And, my life would soon be threatened again.
In the year of 1918, the infamous, pandemic, influenza virus spread throughout the entire world affecting virtually every family on earth. Its decimating affects would hold all peoples at bay for many months. Numerous were the feeble as well as the strong and healthy of our friends and relatives that lost their lives. Yes, it too caught me up in its gaping maw, during that former day of little medical knowledge. Scores of millions perished, for its cause and treatment had not yet been found. All of our family eventually was infected with it, starting with one until all were down except my mother. Why she didn't fall victim to it we'll never know, but she didn't. How we'd have all survived it I don't know either, the Lord surely provided us "our" Angel.
Again I would survive. However, as I lay there for such a long time, slowly recuperating and consumed in deep thought, while my young friends outside played on, I made the childish but sincere vow of a tormented boy. I vowed that if I could ever be well again, I would exercise, run, train, practice and participate in all the sports, games and athletics I possibly could. I would strive to become stronger and healthier even to the point, of attaining superior physical excellence.
Although other milder disasters would befall me, I would realize that lad's desires. Even though I could not be the very best in everything, with the exception perhaps of basketball; I would enjoy some excellence as an athlete in all of the sports I would stay in fine health and condition throughout the rest of my youth, my young manhood, my prime and even into the Saturday evening of my life.
On the road home from spending a second summer in Flagstaff to renew my teaching certificate, we decided to enjoy an alternate though longer rout for some sight-seeing and a change. We headed toward the Coronado Trail, a more easterly route which would take us through beautiful pine tree and lake country eventually dropping down the tortuous but scenic trail into Clifton. Well into the trip, we arrived at Hannagan Meadows late afternoon in time to find a real convenient camping place, and prepare a country supper before dark.
After a pleasant night, morning found us refreshed and ready to travel. We were nearly packed ready to leave. I had seen a few cottontail and a lot of sign. As Jo finished odds and ends I suggested that I take my 22 pistol, scout around a bit and see if I could bag a couple of those hop-a-longs. We could take them to Jo’s sister’s place in Clifton and enjoy a cottontail meal together, and maybe even spend the night. Eleanor and Scott were living there at the time, Scott being employed by the Mining company as a surveyor.
Though Jo thought we should get started promptly, reluctantly she told me to go ahead. As I strolled through the pine forest, I saw up ahead a huge pile of randomly stacked logs sort of piled helter-skelter across each other. Approaching close, two rabbits scurried for safety into the pile. From experience, I knew that if I bounced on top of the whole, it might spook the bunnies into daring an escape which would give me a prime shot at them. Well, one soon broke out dashing away. I shot and missed. Further bouncing failed to dislodge another, so I decided to look further a field. About half way down a log suddenly rolled under foot causing me to twist around which action sent me straight back toward the ground. I instinctively put my right hand around behind me to break the fall. I hit the ground hard. My hand beneath me bore the entire brunt of the impact.
The instant pain I experienced soon subsided to a numbness. Carefully getting to my feet, thinking that maybe I had done no serious damage, I hopefully took a look. The three bones of the hand leading to the first second and third fingers looked as if their fractured ends were trying to poke their way through the skin of the back of my hand. The sight dizzied me; nausea swept my stomach. Immediately I staggered to the nearest tree where I sat against its sturdy trunk taking several deep breaths. As the nausea began to pass, I figured I should try to set the bones while the hand was still numb.
I wasn’t completely without experience, for I had helped my scout master set a compound fracture in a boys arm while a senior scout. And, I had watched the procedure a couple of other times. I reviewed in my mind the how-I’d-have-to-do-it. Satisfied I was up to the task, and since the pain was minimal, I firmly took hold of the index finger; pulled straight out while my index finger guided the jagged bone down into place. I proceeded the same with the other two, each time feeling raw bone grinding against raw bone as I adjusted the three into what I thought to be pretty good alignment. After another breather to let some of the shock pass, I groggily got myself up and made my way back to camp to face Jo. She was “put out” to say the least. Nevertheless, she became immediately cooperative, and I appreciated her feminine sympathy. However she was a bit more aggravated than I realized at the time, for, even to this day, she hasn’t let me forget that I should have given more heed to her protests when I suggested a rabbit hunt when the serious business of getting home lay ahead of us. For a splint, she helped me break a board out of a discarded box, then helped me wrap the injured member to it the best we could with what we had at hand.
And with all things finally ready, much to her dismay, Jo suddenly realized that she would have to drive to Clifton. Such would have been her last wish, but here, on this dangerous mountain road, that had taken its share of lives; with a determination far beyond desire, and a prayer on her lips, she slipped behind the wheel. Jo had never driven mountain roads, and her dismay at the task hadn’t subsided when we found that our brakes were in poor shape. In the auto of that day, the emergency brake lever jutted from the car floor, up between the driver and passenger. With my left hand, and with what little brakes Jo had left, keeping it in first and second gear (first was too slow and second too fast,) I managed to control our downward path with the emergency lever, which had no connection to the hydraulic system, but was only mechanically operated. Nervously, steadily and prayerfully, we managed the decent down that six miles of treacherous road to Clifton.
Cottontailless, but eventually arriving at Eleanor and Scott’s place, Scott insisted that we stay the night and visit the mining company doctor first thing the next morning. And that’s what we did.
First thing in the morning found us at the company hospital. X-ray taken and developed, the doctor soon came into the room where I waited. In his hand he carried the film. He held it under my nose and said, “Here’s what your hand looks like.” Then he asked, “Who set the bones and applied the splint?” I admitted I had done it myself. I had been sweating out this moment, for doctors always insist that one protect the injury and get to a doctor as quickly as possible. I feared that my unprofessional handling of the break might make the setting more difficult for the doctor. He asked me to describe my hand before I set the bones. He listened as I told of the sight of the displaced sharp edges appearing as if they wanted to cut on through the skin: “Well,” this doctor said, “You did a good job. We’re not going to try for anything better. We’ll just put it in a cast and send you on your way.”
Surprisingly it healed well, and without close examination one doesn’t notice the slight raise on the back of my hand. It has never been a problem. Unless I draw attention to it no one knows the difference.
While the cast was in place, I continued to hunt with the pistol which was a recent purchase that I had just begun to enjoy. I became so accurate with my left hand, that I was slow to change to the right after removal of the cast.
Continuing with some of my other discomforts, I guess kidney stones have been the biggest medical problem of my adult life. Beginning around the age of 30 to 35 years, I have been plagued with one about every 10 years. After much excruciating agony I had been able to pass them, all but two. One torturous culprit lodged in the middle of the urinary tube and refused to budge another inch. However, it had exposed itself to the doctor’s probing instrument, and it finally gave up without much protest. I watched the whole process on the very monitor guiding the doctor, which told him just when to operate the little pincer on the end of the probe.
The one that gave me the big problem showed up in 1975 while we lived on San Pasqual in Pasadena. Built like an anchor on a modern cruise ship, that jagged intruder hooked one of its many claws over the edge of the urinary tube to become a permanent resident, cutting off 75% function. With it still in the kidney probing was out; surgery the only option. I begged for time to try dislodging it. The urologist gave me ten days; he said to wait any longer could damage the kidney from pressure buildup. Before the week had passed, having tried every maneuver and endured excruciating pain, I conceded defeat and went to the hospital where I stayed for ten days, recovering from successful surgery.
One day as the doctor changed the bandage I noticed a paper clip lying flat on my stomach about two inches from the surgery wound. When asked what such an unlikely thing as a paper clip was doing there under the bandage, the doctor pointed out the thin length of wire that came from inside me fastened to the paper clip. He explained that catheters have a tendency to slip, that in my case it was urgently necessary that it remain exactly in place, that wire and paper clip were his own invention for keeping it in place. Then thank heaven for his parting remark, “I’m the only one that knows how to properly remove it.”
About one o’clock A.M. a couple of nights later, two nurses came into my room and announced that they had been instructed to remove the catheter. When they said instructed I supposed they meant they had received special instructions form my doctor on how to go about it. After a few minutes, with some preparations made, one of them began to pull. Immediately I stopped her and said, “What about the paper clip under the bandage?” Both looked at me in a dumbfounded manner, and in unison said, “Paper clip!” I said, “Yes! the paper clip and wire that’s holding this damn thing in place!” Seeing the astonishment and disbelief registered on their faces I told them to remove the bandage and have a look. One said they had no instructions about replacing the bandage tonight. They quickly gathered up their gear and left.
More than upset when that afternoon I told Doctor Blake about the unnerving episode, he quickly examined me. I could see his relief to find things still normal. He assured me he would be looking into the reason for the error, and added, “Those numskulls must have gotten into the wrong room.” (Please accept my apology, this is the first time I ever talked about my operations.)
(JOSEPHINE) ILLNESSES AND NEAR DISASTERS
Once a year our schools scheduled a special clean-up day on a holiday called Arbor Day. (a day set aside in many states for planting trees) The students came to school in their grubby clothes, because the work entailed raking, gathering and hauling trash; most of which we simply burned on the spot. Some were also busy scrubbing, painting, organizing storage areas and other such things.
Outside the boys workshop shed, an old car chassis lay rusting. It still had some parts attached—including the gas tank. My five best friends and I were paying little attention to the chores at hand as we played on the old car’s framework. Most of us had matches in our pockets to light trash piles; Dubie Mickelson held one up in her hand. She shouted that she was going to blow us all up. As though in a melodrama, I acted the part of the fragile but courageous starlet trying to rescue us from sure disaster. Dubie acted out her part too, dramatically striking a match, which she swung over the tank opening.
With tremendous violence the ear-splitting explosion disintegrated the tank before our very eyes. High-velocity fragments flew at bullet speed in every direction littering the school grounds and landing in peculiar far-off places. Hiram (Highly) Mortensen later said that he saw a razor-sharp piece fly out away from me, he greatly feared it had cut my leg as it sliced by. He watched it arc up sailing over head, lodging in a distant tree.
Though unscathed by flying shrapnel, the fiery blast instantly scorched away my eye brows and lashes, burning my face badly and setting my lower clothing on fire. Instinctively I ran, escaping Mr. Mortensen as he tried to grab me. Instantly flashing through my mind came the warning of a former teacher; I threw myself to the ground and started rolling over and over. Meanwhile, the good teacher scrambling after me knelt beside me and beat the flames out with his bare hands. Had it not been for Highly Mortensen’s courage, burning himself to save me, one can only imagine how much more terrible the injuries could have been. I've been forever grateful to him.
Dubie's eye brows and lashes were well singed and dozens of tiny specks of rusty metal imbedded into the skin of her face. As the only one in dire straits, my helpers rushed me three blocks to the drug store. Just across the street from the drug store, my parents, tending their own store, came rushing to my side. There, we waited for Dr. Platt. My face and one thigh were burned severely, and to this day I hide facial scars with make-up. I still carry visible scars on my thigh, and for years scars were apparent on one calf. Though I missed several days of school, two months passed before the discomfort of the burns completely left me.
At seventeen years of age, abdominal pains began piercing my right side. The doctor arrived and warned me of foods to avoid. The pain persisted becoming intolerable over the next two days. Fortunately, a marvelous surgeon compelled to move to the dry Arizona climate for his health had recently established a practice in Safford. Dr. Squib had acquired vast experience: in diagnosing, and performing surgery during his years at the Rochester, New York, Mayo Clinic. Rushed to the hospital, he quickly isolated the problem as gangrenous, ruptured appendix rapidly pushing me towards death’s door. The surgeon operated immediately. I was so ill I could have cared less whether I lived or died. Had the surgeon not been so experienced and knowledgeable, it would have ended my life.
Weakened by deteriorating health, the fatigue from the extended surgery overwhelmed the doctor forcing him to abandon me in the middle of suturing. His wife, the attending nurse, had no alternative but to finish for him. Mama always felt that the wife's lesser understanding of internal suturing eventually caused me complications that years later brought on the need for corrective surgery.
The attack happened in February. Drainage tubes were in place, and I remained hospitalized for three weeks. The awful stench caused by the puss laden exudate collecting in a container pervaded the room such that others could hardly bring themselves to enter. Poor Mama, pregnant with Jean, reeled under the merciless assault on her already queasy stomach. Finally home from the hospital, out of curiosity I peeked under the loose bandage discovering to my dismay a tube sticking out of my side. I had been too ill; not entirely conscious of all that had happened. Frightened by the sight, I forced myself to ask about it. It remained there hanging from my side for another week.
More than three weeks of convalescence at home followed before I returned to school. Though I felt dreadfully weak at first, I gradually regained strength during the next three months. I played catch-up with studies for a while and successfully completed the school year.
The stress had been so great from the life-threatening infection and high fever that my hair began to fall out. It continued for a year, to the point that it was so thin, no matter what I tried, the scalp was clearly visible through the remaining strands. Mama bought some mange medication commonly used on dogs and weekly rubbed it into my scalp. To hide my baldness, she also bought me a classy, small, darkish-gray hat, with a narrowed brim that had a navy blue band. Since the colors were neutral, I could wear it with anything. During the next two years my hair grew in completely. Not of the former texture and make-up, its quality was wonderful. Of a tight, wavy fullness, I could get up in the morning, or at any time when it was disheveled, and shape it by hand with hardly the use of brush and comb, and it would shape to perfect form.
In 1940, while living in the cute little house Darvil had built in Solomonville, I had a peculiar experience worth sharing: Darvil was working up the street helping with a major clean-up at the church house, while I was home alone with the kids. I heard frenzied, squawking out back in the chicken run. The hens carried on with so much noise, flapping and crashing around, that I ran out to investigate. Hurriedly looking about, I saw the chickens grouped at one end of the enclosure. At the opposite end on top of a high fence post perched a chicken hawk (a large female coopers hawk) leering down at my frazzled flock. On the double, back in the house I grabbed Darvil's 22-revolver and returned to deal with the threatening killer.
Without hesitation, though trembling terribly with buck fever, I raised the pistol, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out and the wounded pillager fell to the ground inside the fence with the chickens. I entered the pen and cornered the predator. I shot at it several times trying to kill it, but to no avail. (At point-blank range, how could my aim be so much poorer?) Growing afraid because of its fearsome, red-eyed stare, I retreated, called Darvil and waited for him to finish the job.
After we moved our family to Southern California, while living in Westminster, another terrible pain pierced my side. Of course, I imagined appendicitis again; but how could that be? The doctors diagnosed it as a hernia. After the appendix episode, a gradual swelling had begun to develop in my side at the site of the former suturing. If Mama was right, faulty internal stitching could have been the problem that let the stitches give way causing the hernia. Regardless, the seemingly successful surgical repair took place at the Memorial Hospital in Long Beach without apparent complications. However, a few years later living in Wilmington, as luck would have it, that repair failed too. Under surgery again, the internal sutures were done with wire; it would eventually fail too, and I would undergo surgery again.
One Sunday evening I went alone to sacrament meeting at the Wilmington Ward leaving Darvil at home tending our sick kids. Returning home, I had to drive through a financially depressed section of town, a large part of it predominantly Blacks. The car had been acting up and decided it would go no further at the very time I reached the center of that large neighborhood. I was terrified. (I had never before lived close to or associated with any black people.)
Knowing how to solve the mechanical failure, for I had done it before, I quickly got out and lifted the hood. I knew if I taped on the battery cable connections, it would then start and be all right—at least for a while. With hammer in hand to begin the task, a black man came over to the car and politely asked, "Can I help you mam?" I wanted to do it myself, but he insisted on helping me and took the hammer. As I explained what to do he began tapping. I watched with fright as another black man approached, then, with growing terror I could see another and another and still others coming over until I found myself in the middle of seven, big, frightening fellows. Petrified, I waited for the outcome. They were nice and treating me with respect as gentlemen should, I began to feel somewhat relieved. Nevertheless, I was trembling inside and nearly hysterical. When they finished, I thanked them, got in the car, started it and drove away. Never had I been so relieved and happy to finally return to the warmth and safety of my home.
We lived in Grand Junction Colorado for several weeks during Darvil's employment with Woodbury Business College. We drove from there to Thatcher for Jean's wedding in July of 1949. Returning to Grand Junction we drove on, into the middle of the night. I took a turn driving to give Darvil a rest. We were towing a small, low-profile trailer.
Somewhere in the middle of the sprawling Navajo Reservation of Northern Arizona, the car in front of us slammed to a sudden “screaching” halt. I hit the brakes hard sending my car skidding. The three children were asleep in the back: one up under the back window, another on the seat and the third on the floor. The abrupt braking tumbled the upper two sleepers down onto the third. Meanwhile, the tormented tires howled in distress, skidding onward ever closer, on a collision course toward the car ahead. Our car continued in what seemed an endless slide, but finally, it skidded off to the side onto the gravel shoulder stopping just a few feet short of the other car.
Our car and the trailer, though sideways, miraculously were undamaged. The kids, and Darvil and I, got out to find that the driver of the car ahead had collided with a horse. The real problem we soon discovered—an Indian had been in the saddle.
Steam hissed into the cool night air, and water drizzled to the pavement from a ruptured radiator. With its lights on bright the crippled car revealed a scene of a terrified horse with a wobbly, drunk Lamanite doing his best to quiet it. With reins in one hand and the other on the bridle, the drama played on, in the middle of the road. He managed to steady his wild-eyed stead, and after calming the horse somewhat, still staggering, he swung aboard the poor beast. He spurred him a good one and road off swaying in the saddle as he faded into the darkness of night.
We stood there together with the owner of the wreck, gazing after the two in disbelief. Feeling deserted, we turned to survey the midnight damage sustained by the horseless carriage.
In 1953, our oldest boy, Mac, a senior in high school and an adventurous soul to say the least, heard of the whereabouts of nearly a full case of dynamite. He and two friends, one risking his pickup, made the run up Swift Trail, the winding road into the Graham Mountains. Stashed away for years in a dilapidated, leaning outhouse on the property of my second cousin's dairy, lay the sticks in their decaying wooden case. Along with two five-pound packs of TNT they sneaked the dynamite up through the pines to the waiting pickup on the road. Headed down the winding road, a car came up behind them as though to give chase. Falsely thinking someone was trying to catch them, they accelerated, careening down the road at break-neck speed at the risk of life.
The next day at noon Mac came home from school for lunch. Finished eating, he lounged back on the couch in the living room. To his utter horror, he saw the father of one of his compadres-in-crime come up the walk, up the steps onto the porch and to the screen door where he knocked. With his heart in his mouth, Mac answered the door. The man asked to speak with his dad.
Mac's friend, of broken oath, had told his younger brother of the adventure the day before. After divulging the whole secret, the two brothers got into a fight. For revenge the younger brother tattled the story to his father.
Darvil listened to the story, then, confirmed the awful truth with Mac. He phoned my cousin to find out how to make things right. He asked him if he wanted it back and he answered, “Hell no! I've been trying to get someone to haul that dam stuff away from here for years."
Unknown to me, plans had been made to detonate it out in a field belonging to the other boy's father. After school, Darvil and the two other dads with the three boys took the explosives to the field. Mac says that the dads made the boys carry the stuff—way out ahead of them—while they trailed safely behind. It was placed down in a deep irrigation ditch. One father had a dynamite cap and some fuse, after seeing all prepared, he left the scene leaving Mac with the match. At the signal, Mac lit the fuse and ran to safety.
The explosion, though well out of town and deep in a ditch, rocked the entire community. Residents of the neighboring town three miles away heard it and felt it too. For days after, it was the talk of the town. (Mac still carries the nick-name “Dynamite" remembered by some of his old, long-memoried friends).
But, when I heard the blast, felt its reverberations shake the earth and rattle the windows of every house in town, in hysterics, I imagined the worst: Disaster had killed them all. My fears were such, because I thought the men intended to deliver the explosives somewhere—not to detonate them.
Unbelievably, they returned and had the gall to walk right in the house still alive, then, I was mad. Nearly out of my mind and still half hysterical, I didn't waste any time venting pent-up fear fast turning to rage. But thank heavens they were OK. Never in all my life had I experienced such relief.
Darvil insists he remembers my every word I said, which Mac confirms. Both maintain that I said: “Dam you
Darvil! I’ve been worried out of my mind. All I could think of when I heard the explosion was that it was
Friday, and you had your pay check in your pocket, and all of you, along with the pay check were blown to
bits.”
(DARVIL) EMBARRASSMENTS – SAD AND FUNNY
After Dad became the County Sheriff in 1916, we lived in Safford for almost two years. I don’t recall any exceptional fun happenings while we were there. However, one peculiar event is worth a few words. A neighbor, eight-year-old Grace Wilson, my age, caught me in a most embarrassing situation. In the bathroom, just out of the tub I had dried myself off and hung up the towel. I turned, and as I faced the door, it burst open and in strode Grace. Frozen in my tracks, I blurted out, “Grace, you get out of here!” She didn’t make a move as she stared me in the eye and asked, “Where’s Ruth?” Desperately, I answered, “I don’t know, but you get out of here!” Angry now, as she kept on standing there looking at me as though I weren’t even naked, I finally was forced to move forward, grab her, turn her around and push her out the door that I furiously slammed behind her. (This rental house had the marvelous luxury of a porcelain bathtub with running cold water. Mother heated a large tea kettle to boiling and added it to warm the bath water. This was luxury compared to the number-3 washtub in Glenbar.)
I always had the suspicion that my mother favored my brother Orlando, two years older than I. It seemed she gave him extra attention and privileges that I didn't get. Also, it seemed that in her eyes he could do no wrong.
My friend, Ensley Durphey, owned a beautiful pocket knife that I really admired; and Ensley knew it. A knock came on the door one day, and I opened it to find Ensley standing there. He told me he wanted to talk to my mother. I let him in, and mother lead him into the kitchen to talk. He told her that while he visited with Orlando and me, playing in the back yard he'd laid his pocket knife down, and it had mysteriously disappeared. He believed one of us had stolen it.
Mother questioned me first and asked if I had taken it. I told her I hadn't, but that Orlando had been out back with us too. Ensley went home without his pocket knife, and I became the prime suspect of the theft and, now, of a lie to boot. I could feel that mother just plain believed that "her Orlando" would never do such a thing. A couple of hours later I walked into the kitchen. Orlando sat over on the wood box, while Mother at the table kept busy with her chores. As I passed by Orlando, the pocket knife suddenly clattered to the floor. Without a moment's hesitation, Orlando said, "There's Ensley's pocket knife Mother, it just dropped out of Darvil's pocket." I defended myself against his blatant lie, while he just sat there and said nothing. I'm not sure if Mother ever did believe me. But, Ensley did get his knife back, though I was the only one who knew the thief.
One of our several excursions included a tour of the Holy Land. (See Hubba-Hubba Holiday, 1979 a 65 page story of the fabulous trip.) Jon and DeNell, their girls, Kim and Sherrie, plus DeNell’s parents were also part of the 48 in our group. We stayed a night in a hotel at the edge of the Dead Sea in Israel where swimming at least once in that highly saline solution was a must.
The water level had never subsided so low in its history. Quantities of water were being used to extract important minerals, and as the level dropped it exposed previously unknown pillars of salt. They extended from the sea's bottom, and some were up above the water line just a couple of feet to several feet. One of them, not far from the shore, lured me to it for a photograph. The photographer, camera in hand, waited as I swam to it. The water so saturated with salts was heavier than any I'd ever experienced; buoying me up, it made the swimming easy.
I reached the column of salt, and with a mighty heave I hoisted myself up and out of the water onto the column. The heavy water dragged the bathing suit off and down almost to my knees. I'd forgotten the looseness of the suit’s elastic. With the pale glimmer of my tanless behind, I "mooned" all who watched from the shore.
Sometime before the beginning of the first or second year of my tenure as the Principal of the Solmonville Elementary School, I listened to the appeal of an old Thatcher boyhood pal of mine. At the time, he taught in Franklin just north of Duncan, in a two room schoolhouse. The community had tired of him, and he had tired of the community and its people. He wanted out of there so bad that he could taste it in his teeth. Through influence with the School Board, I hired him to teach in our school.
The move allowed him to escape an uncomfortable situation. It also gave him a great increase in salary. It placed him in position for progress, and it brought him back to the Gila Valley: his home country among old friends where he'd been raised. He taught under me for about six years. A better than average teacher, I had no complaints.
More than a year prior to the time we moved from Solomonville; out of jealousy, he slowly grew more critical of all that I did, and his anger was fueled when he, mistakenly imagined, I had treated some of the other teachers with partiality. With the help of his wife, he began to execute an undermining program to discredit me. They cleverly influenced some on the School Board, certain teachers and a few influential people of the community. They distorted, as much as they could, things I would say and do to appear unwise and frivolous. In reality, he coveted the principalship for himself, and believed that if he could rid the school of me he would be hired as the principal. The school bus driver, several teachers and others had warned me about his and his wife's cunning strategy.
Jo and I, after The Second World War had commenced, had discussed moving to California for obvious financial advantages. Tired too, of the job in Solomonville, and ready for something new, we made the decision to move. I gave my notice of resignation. Of course, this was what my friend-turned-enemy hoped somehow he could bring about through his and his wife's divisiveness. But, all of their evil ploys had been in vain, because natural circumstances coupled with our own dreams would whisk us away to a better and happier life anyway.
As time passed, both of us had retired. Then, after he'd suffered two heart attacks; his long-tortured conscience finally drove him to try, mightily, to mend the fence and narrow the rift between us that he and his wife had caused many years ago. He took the initial step, and I readily let him know that I had long since put to rest all ill feelings toward him. I told him that the move from the little community had opened much opportunity that brought our family many great blessings. I let him know that if anything, I would be feeling gratitude towards him, if, he and his wife's tactics had in fact forced the move, which wasn't the case. I informed him that our decision to move to California opened the way for us to experience much increased success in employment and successful, businesses ownership. I let him know that without the move, among other things, I would never have had the great experience of eventually being elected to the Arizona State Senate.
During every Christmas Season and a couple of times in between, I took the initiative and made it a practice to call him. Our visits over the telephone, I'm sure, helped to relieve a conscience and restore our friendship. We continued these visits until his death.
(JOSEPHINE) EMBARRASSMENTS – SAD AND FUNNY
As a little girl, I went often with Mama to her Relief Society leadership meetings. On one occasion, a woman was present who during a camping trip had lost her first child as a result of a rattlesnake bite. She had her second child with her who was just a toddler. I always adored younger children, toddlers and babies. Attracted to the little one and wanting to help in caring for him, I stayed close as he played on the church steps.
Well, he suddenly lost his balance, fell and bumped his head. The over-protective mother scurried to his side. As she passed by, she gave me a mean scowl of disgust and attacked me with heart-piercing words which let me know she blamed me for the accident. Tender of heart, as only a child can be, and in front of all the other women, I could have died of embarrassment. For, I feared the others too, placed blame on me. I had not been the cause of the accident nor could I have prevented it, and the depressing, horrible feelings that crushed my heart should never have been inflected upon a child so sensitive and helpless to defend herself.
I wore a nice, comfortable and cool summer dress. Straight and beltless with pleats around the bottom, it looked good on me, and I felt good in it. It had been a favorite of mine for a long time.
As I walked along looking in the store windows in downtown Safford, I felt as if the dress had slipped and was hanging too low, so I would reach back over my shoulders trying to pull it up. But, I still felt that something about the dress was out of sorts, because it felt different against the back of my legs. Later, I happened to glance at my reflection in a store window and found, to my horror, the dress had torn horizontally, wide open, completely exposing my entire behind. I just knew that every body in town, including the bums loitering at the curbs had seen the back of me wide open. Thank heavens for a slip.
In junior college, always with a deep love for music, the music department attracted me to its classes and its many presentations. A wonderful musician, the wife of a doctor, would be a guest performer in our music assembly. Together with other selections, she planned to render one of the school music director's compositions. The director asked me to prepare a short introductory discourse relative to the music of the event. Well prepared, I delivered the talk in a manner that pleased me. I felt a glow of pride.
As the guest performer proceeded with a brief introduction of her selections, much to my embarrassment, she used the word "aria". I had used the same word in my presentation several times mispronouncing it "oria". To make matters worse, I'd placed the inflection on the "i" instead of the first "a". I could have died.
Married and living in Solomonville, six of us, all young mothers, as invited guests at various events, would sing as a double trio. I loved it, and it should be mentioned as one of my hobbies. Unfortunately, within a group of women there is always a "cat" or two. Eventually, out of jealousy, one raised her divisive head. She had a clever fluent way of twisting words that she had said or just invented, making it appear to others as though another had said it.
At the time, Darvil served as the principal of the elementary school. As a favor, he had hired her husband, a friend since boyhood, to teach in the school. She alienated herself and two other women of the six-some, along with a few others of the town against me through her ugly sophistry. Though most everyone in time would come to know her for what she really was, for a while, she caused me much embarrassment and distress. In this case she had influenced several to believe that I had put myself forward, supposedly in my own words, as: "...the First Lady of Solomonville, because my husband is the school principal, and because I have a fur coat,” of which she was very jealous.
To the credit of a lovely young woman in the community, Pearl Payne Kempton, who never demeaned anyone; she always countered mean words spoken of others with great diplomacy and kind words to defend them. Protective of me she came to my rescue much to my relief and eternal gratitude. (She was one of the many children of the wonderful Payne family that lived across the street from us in Thatcher for so many years.)
MEMORABLE VACATIONS AND TRAVEL
By Josephine: During the summer of 1937, we returned to Flagstaff with our two little boys. Darvil attended Arizona State Teachers College to renew his teaching certificate and obtain administrative certification. I was expecting Sally Jo. She would be born in late August. For me, the mom, I considered those summer weeks a reprieve from the blistering heat of the Gila Valley. We were two hundred fifty miles further north and at 7,000-feet elevation. With lovely grassy places nearby and nice laundry facilities, we lived in one of the summer cottages on campus, neighbors to many other young couples. Just the change of common routine proved a blessing in disguise. We had our two beautiful little boys with us. One-and-one-half and two-and-one-half years old, they looked much like twins. We were often asked if they were.
I became ill in the higher altitude, and the doctor told Darvil to get me immediately to a lower elevation. That Summer, Mama, Dad and Jean were living in Miami where Dad was working for the Inspiration Mining Company Store. On our way to Thatcher, we stopped to visit them. The weather was scorching and we all needed a bath. How grateful I felt to see my accommodating family, and to find them in comfortable circumstances. The next day, we arrived in Thatcher. After turning on the gas, water and electricity, Darvil left the boys and me at Mama’s house next door to his mother and little sister, Frankie. I felt secure enough for Doctor Platt was close by too. They would all keep an eye on us while I recuperated. Darvil drove back to Flagstaff to tough-it-out alone and finish his summer classes.
Darvil: During the Summer of 1938, with Brose and Irene Hanchett, we traveled to San Diego for a seven- day vacation. Brose hauled his dad’s little house trailer behind his car. The trailer could only sleep two; so, Jo and I threw in a tent for our own accommodations. It took two days for us to get there, but when we did, of course, the first thing we wanted to do was spend time in the breakers at the beach. We collected shells, walked the beach, people watching, explored under the pier inspecting the shell life on the pilings and doing all the fun things one does who seldom has the chance to visit the ocean. We ate most of our meals from the little snack shacks there servicing the beach-goers, existing pretty much on hot-dogs.
The most significant memory of the trip began with constant warnings to Brose that he must protect himself from exposure to the sun. That back of his had not seen any sun for years. Together with his complexion, it would surely cause him misery. To no avail though, for that first evening after arrival, he was so parched and burned to such a brilliant lobster red that he couldn’t lie on his back, or hardly even move he was in such misery. I went to a drug store where the druggist recommended treating the burn with vinegar. So, I hurried to the grocery store and bought a bottle. I left the vinegar with Irene after I told them the druggist had explained it would sting at first. Nevertheless, he assured me, it would relieve the overall suffering sooner.
I left their trailer and entered our tent close by. (We had located in a camping area a short walking distance from the beach.) Within about three minutes we heard an unbelievable, heart-rending, blood-curdling, Comanche scream rip through the calm of the camp—the vinegar had taken its toll. Needless to say, Brose managed to survive, though he continued in misery for most of the rest of the stay. After being back home for a while, and the awful suffering from the burn had devolved to a mere laughing matter, Brose declared that trip to be the best vacation he’d ever had in his life.
After six years of marriage, in the summer of 1939, we left the three kids with Jo’s mother in Thatcher. With Jo’s brother, Rodney, and his wife, Janice, we drove into California and on up to San Francisco to the World Fair, on Treasure Island. We enjoyed seven days escape from the rigors of home, the little ones, the awful heat and our normal routine. It took two days to get there and two days to return—giving us three, full, fun-filled days. We stuffed in all the seeing we could in those three days. Many of the exhibits were under cover of tents, and especially at night, the cold wind whistled through them—cold! Even in August. We don’t remember many of the particulars, but we do remember our amazement over the prototypes of new inventions in areas of science. We were wide-eyed over the many marvels of that modern day—55 years ago (written in 1995). We gazed in captivated awe at the new “Bay Bridge.” We traveled its length several times while there—the Golden Gate bridge too. Those wonderful feats of modern, magnificent engineering fascinated us. They were quite the sight for plain old country folks. We had fun traveling and staying in the motels too, coming and going, and while we were there.
Headed home, looking forward to staying the night in Long Beach, our mouths watered at the thought of a delicious bowl of clam chowder. At first mention, Janice wanted to know, “What in the world is that?” Even though she had been in California on many occasions, for her dad lived in La Puente, she had never heard of it. We debated how best to explain it—we hit upon “fish soup.” “Ugh,” she said, “I don’t want any of that.” Despite the picture imagined in her mind, she bravely decided to order some, and ended up enjoying it. As we continued our trip, Rodney pointed out groves of trees that he said were avocados. We stopped at a roadside stand and bought some. Those were the first Jo and I had ever eaten, and we loved them then, and have loved them ever since.
Poor Janice became sort of an irritation on the way home. She had left her only baby, Kay, and she was so homesick for her. She got the bit in her mouth, so to speak, and could hardly be reined in. She tried every ploy in the book to bring an earlier end to our trip. We stretched it out the whole seven days, though she kept up a persistent nagging.
We brought our three kids with us the summer of 1940 to Pacific Beach in San Diego. Twelve rental cottages occupied a long pier, and we rented the very end one. One time we let the kids go down alone into the shallow water below us. We kept watch from the pier rail while they played in the breakers. Suddenly, we noticed Jon had lost his footing. Out too deep in the water, the wave’s back-wash pulled his feet from under him, and over and over he tumbled as it carried him even farther into the surf. Alarmed, I left Jo watching and sprinted the long distance to the pier’s end. I managed to get to him in time before too much damage was done. He sputtered and coughed as I carried him back to the beach. We don’t know for sure, he may have eventually found his own footing and saved himself, but we always believed ourselves fortunate to have been watching. I’d hate to have to carry him anywhere now. Also, it would take a big wave to roll him over.
We visited the Balboa Park Zoo on that trip—a wonderful experience—especially for the children. Sally Jo had her long hair beautifully curled and the two boys were dressed in cute suits looking the part of little gentlemen. We had a 16-millimeter movie camera with us and recorded beach and zoo episodes, which have been converted to video cassette tapes. The tapes include several other precious bits of family history captured on camera too.
Originally, we rented the cottage for seven days. We were having such fun though that we wanted to stay a couple of days longer. I haggled with the manager asking for half-price. Finally, he agreed we could stay two additional days for the bargain price. That was the longest vacation we had ever experienced with our children; a great nine days. Several years later we read that the pier—cottages and all—had been washed away by raging waves under the onslaught of a terrible storm. But we still have those delightful memories.
We left Arizona and moved to California in 1942. After a few years away from Arizona, we felt the need to return for a visit with my mother. My eldest brother, Floyd, his wife, Elizabeth, and their daughter, Sara Beth, were there visiting too, from their home in Northern California. When the time came to start back, they wanted to go north, the long way around, to visit the matchless, natural wonders of Northern Arizona. We and the kids and Nettie decided to go along with them. We drove through beautiful, timbered country and then into the arid area riddled with bluffs and canyons. We visited the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest and the Grand Canyon and many other exceptional places.
During the summer of 1946, the war continued during the time we still owned the laundry business. We had long wanted a family vacation through California, Oregon, Washington and into Canada. We made many stops to see the vistas, places of interest and curio shops as we camped each night along the way. We enjoyed our first visit to Sequoia National Park. We saw the famous aged, monstrous giants and drove through the giant trees of the redwood forests further to the north. With tongue in cheek and protest from Jo, we drove our car through the hewn-out center of one still living tree and marveled at its great girth and height.
As we continued on through Oregon, we decided to drop in for a surprise visit with old friends, the Wilds, who were living in Bend. We had been members of the Huntington Beach Branch together before we moved to Wilmington and purchased the laundry. As expected, they welcomed us with open arms, and that evening for dinner we feasted on fried rabbit and home-grown vegetables and fruit of every imaginable kind. The entire meal consisted only of what they had raised and harvested themselves. Their rural, lush country had numerous ditches, creeks and streamlets. They took us on a hike to their swimming hole. I asked them if there were any trout to be caught. They said yes, but they had never been able to catch them. Despite the less than encouraging comment, the fisherman in me was forced to take a pole anyway. Along the way we had caught a good supply of grasshoppers.
After reaching the picturesque pool and the kids were swimming, I tossed in a line with a grasshopper-baited hook in the hole just above their swimming place. The first cast hooked into a nice fish, and for the next hour, to the family’s amazement, I continued to pull out trout at will, some even from the hole they were swimming in. A few, we joked, were no bigger than the grasshoppers.
Hiking back we crossed a narrow stream not much more than two feet in width which I thought too small to harbor fish. In spite of its size, I swung a tempting hopper into the deepest place, though shallow at best. The water erupted as a big steelhead trout grabbed it in a flash. I had him hooked well, as he began to fight. Sadly, the line was only two-pound test, and I didn’t dare try to land him, for he weighed way too much. We sent one of the boys running ahead to their barn for a burlap sack to use as a make-shift net in hopes of getting him. Disappointed to see him return empty-handed, I decided on the next best thing—try to slip him out on the dry bank before he sensed what was going on. I thought I had a good chance, for he seemed to be tiring from fighting against the constant resistance of the slender pole. I tried snaking him up on the flat bank. With a flop and a lunge he broke the delicate line, and I sickened as I saw him slide away, back into the stream.
On that same outing, I had packed along a 22-revolver in a holster strapped to my belt. As we continued toward home we walked a ridge-line trail that meandered through sparse, but high, brush. Without warning, a covey of quail flushed from under foot. I couldn’t resist; I pulled up the revolver and ventured a quick shot at the trailing bird. We thought we saw a dislodged feather float away in the breeze, but, he gained speed moving away. As we watch him, suddenly his wings folded and he limply dropped into the brush. Carefully concentrating on the spot we hoped him, we soon were scouring the area. Sure enough, our luck held out. Close inspection disclosed that the bullet had neatly slit his throat, and when the last pump of his wings emptied him of life, he’d fallen where we’d found him. We cooked him up with the rest of the dinner, and I don’t recall of sharing him.
In Oregon and Washington, the massive spreads of black berry vines were in full fruit along many stretches of the roads. For a couple of days, we took the time now and again to stop and pick berries. To our hearts content, we ate as many as we wanted, on the spot, and gathered extra to eat along the way. When we depleted the store, we stopped again and again to eat our fill and replenish the supply. Wild flowers bloomed profusely along the road and in the open places. We passed through mile after mile of lush, green conifer forests and continued to stop to visit whatever caught our interest.
We finally crossed the border into Canada and visited the beautiful, flowered city of Vancouver. Surprise! We found a huge department store, even greater in size than those of California. At home, the scarcity of wind-up, metal, mechanical toys were still in short supply because of the war. But there they had a splendid selection. We gave the enthralled kids enough money for each to buy a toy. For years after, Mac kept his miniature, wind-up replica of a blue MG. In fact, we still had it when we moved to Pasadena in 1961. Our visiting grandchildren often played with it. If I know Mac, he still has it tucked away in a safe place.
On the road back home, in and around Seattle, we saw the many advertisements for smoked, canned and fresh salmon for sale. We stopped at one of the small markets and bought a huge King Salmon. They packed the freshly caught fish in ice and shipped it home to meet us on arrival. We invited Jo’s brother and his wife, Virgil and Toots, over to help us cook and eat the delicious pink meat. It was so big we could hardly fit it in the oven. I wanted to tell everyone that I’d caught it, but nobody would let me.
After Woodbury Business College of Los Angeles hired me to recruit new high school graduates, they assigned me to work the Grand Junction, Colorado Area. We arrived there beginning the Summer of 1949. Though I spent the time equal to a full-time job—which it was supposed to be—I did have some evenings and week ends free. For Jo and the kids, it became a very special summer vacation.
Mac and Jon often wandered down town to visit the stores and dream. Home after one such excursion, they told me they had seen a 177-caliber Benjamin Pump, model 317, pellet-rifle in the sporting-goods store. They insisted on owning it somehow, some way. Well, I made them a proposition, mostly because I also wanted that rifle. Since the area was in the midst of the cherry picking season, I told them if they would go to work and earn half, I would match their money. We had been exploring the rural farm and ranch roads for nice family outings. But now that we had the rifle, we kept our eyes pealed for quail, doves and cottontail. Of course, the season wasn’t open during the summer for bird hunting, but occasionally a stray pellet accidentally hit one—and we weren’t people that wasted good meat.
The evening of the first day that the boys brought the rifle home, we drove into the country. Soon, we spotted a plump, cock quail calling from the top of a bush’s dead limbs. Jon had out-maneuvered us for the first shot at game. It was a good long shot. He rested the rifle across the open window edge, took careful aim, squeezed the trigger and sent the pellet flying. We heard a solid thud as the pellet connected with the quarry, and the quail dropped over backwards, straight down, without so much as a twitch. Elated, we ran to the place and there, sure enough, lay the plump morsel. We spotted much other game and we all took turns trying to bag something. Alas, all of our shots were futile. We returned home with the single kill, only enough for my supper.
On the way home, Mac had examined the gun’s sighting adjustment. First thing the next morning, he began test firing it to determine what adjustments it might need. The first shot, from a very short distance—he was shocked to find—missed the whole, big box he was using for a target, to say nothing of the center where he’d drawn the target spot. In time, the gun was fine-tuned to lethal performance. To make a longer story short, we determined that if Jon had placed the sights dead on for that nice 40-yard quail kill—he would have missed the bird by 30 feet. From then on, Mac and I made plenty of fine connections, bringing much fresh game to the table, but Jon’s luck had run out. His skill improved little at first, and I think he was mad at Mac for having sighted in the rifle. Jokes aside though, I’ll tell the truth that before mid-summer, we were all quite expert with it.
Another hunting experience deserves mention. The Grand Junction ward held an evening picnic outing up on a cool, sagebrush mesa not far from town. The boys put the rifle in the car just in case. There but a short time, we discovered the ground thickly strewn with the telltale signs of a huge rabbit population. As it turned out, I’d never seen so many rabbits concentrated in one spot in all my life. We slipped away from the crowd with rifle in hand and soon confirmed “the why” of so much rabbit sign. We three stayed together and, within a few minutes, I killed four or five cottontail. To not be stingy, I had to give up the rifle to Mac and Jon, and jealous, but with eased conscience, I returned to the church group. The boys continued at it for some time. Soon they had so many rabbits I had to bring the escapade to a halt, for we would not have refrigerator space for all the meat they could have brought home.
Though I’d hunted cottontail hundreds of times in scores of areas, the rabbits of that mesa had a peculiar habit I’d never experienced. When first jumped, they scampered quickly off, disappearing behind the first patch of brush reached. Nearly every time though, these rabbits stopped behind that first cover which placed us out of their vision. We needed only to walk toward that bush, behind which they had disappeared, and even though it appeared as though they had kept right on going, once in easy shooting range of the bush, we simply moved cautiously to one side, with rifle ready, and invariably they would come into sight, sitting there behind the first bush. With slow, easy, stealth, we worked the system so well, that nearly every shot was a head shot—very little meat wasted. As I remember, we took home fourteen from our ward picnic hunt. We enjoyed several, tasty dinners from that single hunt—and nary a ward picnicker knew of the most fun part of the outing.
We visited impressive Grand Mesa, the 10,000-foot, flattop mountain loomed up impressively in the distance. We were anxious to explore the dirt roads and try our hand at fishing. The great mesa had nearly 300 lakes scattered across its table top. Most of them stayed frozen through nine months of the year, and the snow kept most people off of it for eight months of the year. After the thaw, well after the middle of the summer, we drove to its summit passing scores and scores of the lakes. We selected a lonesome secluded place to stop and picnic, and fish in a stream that poured out of one lake and ran down several hundred yards to the next. The trout were biting, but we encountered a situation the likes of which we’d never experienced.
Our fishing ran a quick course, for the infestation of hordes of mosquitoes drove us from the fun. The best way to succinctly describe the experience is to say that within seconds, every exposed part of us became covered with mosquitoes to the extent that the appearance was as though we were covered with fur. No bare skin could be seen. The effect of the thousands of bites caused our hands and arms to swell, to say nothing of the itching that tormented us for many hours afterward. Nevertheless, the mountain harbored a fishing paradise for the well prepared. Each week, the local sporting goods store, outside in front, displayed in a glass-covered ice box the largest trout caught off the mountain during the week. We saw one rainbow trout that measured 34 inches, and a German brown of 40 inches in length.
Also we had picnics at the juniper strewn parks on the lower mesas and other nice spots. We visited the historical sites and other places of special interest. The city was beautiful. In a valley setting at 5,000 feet, cut by streams and cottonwood-lined rivers, surrounded by lofty mountains, the greenness of late spring and early summer made it a paradise. We loved our summer there in that part of Colorado.
Josephine: From Colorado, we returned to again to make residence in the Gila Valley. With three kids in their teens, going through high school and college during the next many years and a mission for Mac, the years were much leaner financially. Consequently, vacations that included the whole family had come to an end. But, throughout that period of busy lives, we enjoyed many outings to the mountain snow, camping, picnics and day-long outings to sight-see, hunt and fish in the Grahams and surrounding hills and mountains.
After our children were grown, usually away from home, and Darvil in the senate, life became very enjoyable for me. I nearly always went with him on his senatorial trips. Though Mama was aging and her health failing steadily, she always encouraged me to stay in Phoenix and make the trips with him. She faithfully urged me to “go on with him”, never holding us apart. To help me not feel guilt, she said I should go and stay with him, because he might die and she would still be living—“You must be with him, not me,” she’d say. A lovely selfless mother.
I felt very fortunate to become good friends with a nice L. D. S. couple from Pima. Milton Lines was a member of The House of Representatives. His lovely wife, Clella, was energetic, fun and a good sport, and we palled around together enjoying everything interesting we could find. Special functions of the Legislature with their ever-present cocktail parties were common, as were functions sponsored by special interest groups. Neither she nor I took interest in the predominant drinks; but, much to our delight they usually provided a big crystal bowl filled with huge delicious shrimp, and they always had a selection of soft drinks and juices too. In the mornings, the wives of the legislators gathered for a short coffee get-together. We enjoyed being a part of the group; it was nice to socialize as we sampled, at will, the juices and the delicious, hot, sweet roles. Clella and I often went to the quality large and small stores in the Phoenix area, mostly just window shopping. Back then, I believed that I’d come to this life especially born to window shop.
Phoenix City College sponsored weekly book and musical reviews with the authors as speakers, or professional performers. I remember vividly the one given on the new musical “The Sound of Music.” The performer read excerpts of the words of its musical selections, as they were played beautifully by the pianist or organist. Intermittently, the guest paused to discuss and explain the important aspects, giving us a wealth of background about the popular production. All the reviews we attended were wonderful.
I attended musicals presented at theaters in-the-round. Darvil and I, invited as special guests, my mother’s two favorite cousins, Belva and Jesse, daughters of her mother’s half-sister, Aunt Ella Birdno, who had lived in Safford. We saw the wonderful musical “Oklahoma.” Generously, on two other occasions, Belva had been host to us, taking us to eat at nice restaurants. Jesse lived in Roosevelt, Colorado but often visited her sister in Phoenix.
In the course of Darvil’s duties as Senator, we were together at many exceptional functions throughout the greater Phoenix area. He was often obligated to travel and stay overnight for special meetings and functions. With him on these occasions, we stayed at the finest hotels that lavished generous amenities upon us. Frequently, in concert with the functions, we sat as special guests at sumptuous banquets. Among other cities in Arizona, the following come to memory that we visited: Prescott, Kingman, Flagstaff, Tucson, Douglas and Yuma.
I always went with him on the out-of-state assignments which lasted several days. The first time I ever flew, we stayed in a beautiful hotel at Waikiki Beach of Honolulu, Oahu, Hawaii. Darvil was invited to take special part at the yearly National Conference of State Legislators. Linda’s (Mac’s wife) mother and aunt, Dora and Ann, chose an exquisite, fresh orchid from Lloyd’s orchid house and fashioned a beautiful corsage for me for the flight over—a lovely work of art. I kept right on wearing it the entire trip. I treasure their precious thoughtfulness. Except for the time-period just after the takeoff and before the landing, we hardly saw the ocean because of the cloud cover. But, the billowing fluff of the intensely white cloud carpet passing below us held me fascinated for hours.
We visited Kansas City, Missouri, where Darvil represented Arizona in the National Education Conference. We stayed in the famous, aged, magnificent Hotel Mulbauch. I still have a pair of shoes with which I treated myself during the visit. I call them my golden, Kansas City shoes. We also spent time in the notorious “Windy City” of Chicago. It lived up to its name; a freezing, winter gale never ceased whipping through the tall buildings of the metropolis. We spent four days in luxury at the well known Hotel Sherman. In Boulder, Colorado, I was with him too. I basked in the accommodations of superior comfort of an elegant hotel. He visited the city as the Vice-chairman of the Senate’s Education Committee attending a special meeting.
The jet flights, the sumptuous living in luxurious hotels, the nice meals, elegant banquets with entertainment, the constant special attentions and the interesting people spoiled me during the eight years as The Senator’s Wife. I devoured all of those extraordinary experiences as though they were delicious deserts. A fairytale life—for a wife—just my kind of life.
Commemoration of the Arrival of the Mormon Battalion and Dedication of the Statue, December 12, 1996, Thursday morning, we drove to David and Linda’s (Mac) home in Corona, California. (Mac is our oldest son.) From there Mac drove us to our daughter’s home in Chandler, Arizona, where Sally Jo and Hersch Butterfield lived, from the time of their marriage in 1982 until 1996. The trip was for a two-fold purpose: to attend Sally’s and Hersch’s annual family Christmas party and to be present at the commemoration of the arrival of the Mormon Battalion at the old Tucson Presidio (Mexican fortified garrison). Our prophet, President Gordon B. Hinkley, presided over the program, surrounded by a thousand descendants of the three men honored by the statue. He dedicated the imposing, 17-foot-high bronze statue immortalizing the raising of the American Flag in the Territory of Arizona for the first time. Christopher Layton—1821-1898—the most prominent figure of the exquisite statue, held the flag in position of planting it. He is my Great-grandfather—my Dad’s grandfather. The other figures depicted Teodoro Ramirez, a merchant-rancher, scholar, teacher and peacemaker, who befriended the army. The third was Company Captain, Jefferson Hunt, the great-grandfather of Linda’s best friend, Camile Jennings. Local and State dignitaries spoke, and the Great-great-grandson of Teodoro Ramirez. His namesake, Teodoro Ramirez, sang “Presidio” accompanying himself on the guitar. The number had been composed and written by him. At the gathering, we ran into a number of old acquaintances who were cousins.
During the Christmas party, Sally’s four married children gathered with their multitude of kids (our great-grandchildren). I quieted the crowd so I could be heard regarding a special subject. I pointed out the little, wicker rocking chair that we had given to Sally a few years back. Somewhat larger than the usual child’s chair, it was a present to me from my Grandmother Nonie and Grandfather Andrew Kimball. (I was between two and three years old then, about 1914 or 15, some two decades before the birth of our first child.) That long ago Christmas morning, I saw the front door open and my big brothers, Dee and Virgil, brought it in, one of them was carrying it upside down over his head protecting himself from the raining outside.
I held the chair up so all my great-grandchildren could see it. I told them it was much more beautiful way back then than now, it being more than 82 years old. (I was 85 at this time.) I told them how I’d loved it. Not only did I rock my self in it, I rocked my doll, my cats, and even old Brownie (the family Pomeranian pet)—when he’d let me. Believe it or not, I rocked our own kids in it until it began to get narrower and finally became too small for me. My three children used it through their childhood and teenage years—Darvil probably tried to use it too. Many of the children present were pleased to hear the history of the little old rocker. A little repair work on its frayed wicker and their children too, may yet rock more of its life away: I hope so.
While I had the stage, I showed them the beautiful oak highchair bought for me as a baby. The tray, long since gone, and the length of the legs reduced by Darvil’s saw to make it more practical in the kitchen and for children growing taller, it is still a highchair. At least it’s a higher chair. The memory of it in our family is a special pleasantry for me.
I brought out the beautiful punch bowl Sally was using that very night. It belonged to Nonie and had been used some-odd-thousands of times. Used extensively for the innumerable special socials and weddings in her home and elsewhere. It had been used for the St. Joseph Stake conferences when Grampa Andrew Kimball served as president. How many Church Presidents and Apostles had been served from it during those bygone days is not recorded. (At least four, and maybe five Prophets of the Church had stayed in her home.) It was in a day when the Valley was virtually without hotels, motels and restaurants; when the stake president’s wife took full responsibility for the dignitary’s lodging and many meals. Nonnie, a wonderful cook, often held evening affairs at her home for many of the stake’s leadership to enjoy the company of the general authorities after the business of stake conference had come to an end.
Also, on Sally’s dinner table during this delightful evening sat another family heirloom, the tall cake plate with the goblet-stand rising about ten inches from the table top, much higher than they’re made today. It was a gift from President Andrew Kimball and his wife Olive, to Darvil’s mother and father on their wedding day. This happened long before Olive died and Andrew Kimball had married my Grandmother Nonnie.
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Christopher Layton, my great-grandfather was sent by Brigham young to the Gila valley as the first stake president. Dying, the First Presidency of the Church replaced him, sending Andrew Chase Kimball (father of Spencer W. Kimball) whose wife died leaving him in dire straits with 6 children at home. His wife, Olive Wooley, before she died told him that she thought he should court Josie (Nonnie) Cluff, for she sensed she could be a good mother to her children. President Andrew Kimball had sent Nonnie on a mission to Missouri and she had only been home a short time before Olive died. Eight months after Olive’s death, he married my Grandmother Nonnie. (See the complete history of Josephine Cluff (Josie to friends and Nonnie to her grandchildren).
IRELAND
by
Darvil Burns McBride
From the McBride Family Newsletter, issue #5, July 15, 1994.
(Creator and editor: Saundra ? Porter Schneff)
Hi there dear family and loved ones. We have only one thing to report worth boasting about since our last epistle, and that’s our fabulous trip to Ireland and London, where we were guests of Sherri and Ron Barrows, living in Cork, Ireland. (Sherri is the second child of Jon and De Nell McBride. Jon is our second child.) Why, they should treat us as royalty we don’t know, but they did—the best and most of everything. Their two little boys, two and three years old, must have been prompted for weeks on how to treat old and decrepit people.
Ron and Sherri have been assigned to the city of Cork by his company for the past three years, and are very knowledgeable about the country and its people, which proved to be a great help in our guided tours (great guides they were), of the island country. For five days we took advantage of this good fortune as we quartered with them enjoying their special hospitality, plus their willingness to show us things of interest. The morning after our arrival in Cork we were pleased to attend Church services with them where Ron is the first counselor to the branch president and Sherri copes with double duty between being Primary President and running the branch nursery. Though the city of Cork boasts a population of some 800,000, the one L. D. S. branch is the only one in the entire area.
The trip would not have been possible without Jon and DeNell along as our mentors and guides. They had visited Sherri and family twice before.
Ireland is strewn with medieval castles, most of which are in ruin. We visited four that had been restored and refurbished, prepared for tourists. They are really something to see, much larger and more massive than we had supposed. All have fabulous, intriguing stories. We wished space permitted that we could give more detail. But we heard the stories, climbed their never-ending stairs, shivered in their harsh, cold rooms of solid stone, kissed the Blarney Stone and banqueted in the great banquet hall of Bunratty Castle: one and a half hours of life as it was lived in the early part of the 16th century.
Here our son Jon became the hero of the party. Without warning he was accused of trifling with some of the ladies of the castle. The Earl demanded that this scoundrel be thrown into the dungeon: a small barred passage visible to all. Later Jon said to Sherri, “I wonder dear daughter, where they could have gotten my name and seating place.”
Well, the McBride name disgraced, Jon was dragged off to the dungeon screaming Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! at the top of his voice, claiming that he was just fooling around. But Jon’s triumph came when the Lord of the castle relented by lowering the sentence to singing one verse of a song of his choice. Well, Jon had sung for his life before. With tears of joy and cheers from the British crowd, our hero launched into a very loud rendition of “On The Road to Mandalay.”
As the applause died down, Jon took a step toward the Earl and said, “Oh thank you dear Lord for sparing my life. I could kiss you for that.” In response for that the Earl dived for cover under the table. And now, after our rendition of Jon’s performance, this is the statement last of all which we give of him: he really put on a show!
Ireland is a beautiful and ancient country. Water is no problem. It rains a little every day, accounting for the beautiful green fields and hills with their stone and brush hedgerows. These hedgerows are from the stone cleared from the fields centuries ago.
We visited the only Waterford Crystal factory in the world. Glass making is an ancient art, and here everything is done by hand. To watch the many blowers, handlers, and artists work their miracles, was two hours of fascination, everything done with care and precision. It is hard to believe that such exquisite pieces of utility and ornament could come from 75% percent common sand plus a little potash.
Ireland was a delight, but London, though fabulous, was a worry: so difficult to get around and see all one wanted to see. But by auto, bus, train, hook-and-crook we managed. The star of our visit there was Stonehenge.
We quote from a letter written by Jon that he prepared for his family: “It was awesome because of its age, begun in 3,000 BC. Henge means ditch. It was originally a six foot deep ditch with a six foot embankment on the inside. Stones did not appear until 1,000 years later, hauled 150 miles, probably by barge. The really big stones arrived 1,000 years later from only 36 miles away, but requiring 600 people six months to haul each one. This really massive job was done by the Beaker People. The Druids arrived another 1,000 years later, (AD 0), after Stonehenge was already a ruin.”
Much, much more could be said about this little-understood monument. Whether it represents religion, science, or a fortress of protection is still unknown. Now that it is being preserved, maybe future generations will succeed in unraveling its many riddles
After two weeks of travel in foreign lands, one consuming fact is impressed on the mind: how good it is to be back home. In fact we barely made it. We love you all, Jo and Darvil
Add a brief summary of your other nice trips after you moved back to California.
(DARVIL) SERVICE IN THE CHURCH
My grandparents on both sides converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints early in its history. Most of them were a part of one of the many groups leaving family and possessions in Europe, to cross the angry Atlantic in discomfort and privation.
Hardy, noble pioneers, once in America, driven off their property by persecutors, they crossed the great barriers—monolithic obstacles in the path of their destination. The plains and prairies, the mountains and deserts and the freezing torrential waters, seasoned them under blazing sun, in sand filled wind and through freezing rain, sleet and snow. Their destination—a place of liberty to worship—a place to worship according to true doctrines restored through a living Prophet raised up by a living God.
Each in turn fought their way westward, by oxen-pulled covered wagons or bodily-pulled, and pushed, handcarts. Usually they trudged on foot for most of the way to save space and energy, both human and animal to at last descend into the Great Salt Lake Basin. Full of hope in their quest, they suffered untold hardships in the name of truth and freedom, to reach a place to call their own, free of persecution.
A few arrived barely a decade later, swiftly, from East to West over the twin ribbons of shining rails completed in 1869. But, they too had known the treachery of the great sea and left their loved ones, property and possessions back in a far-away land. They too braved the ravages of the New Worlds elements and would answer the call of a Prophet of God to pioneer distant valleys at his request—many, on more than a single occasion.
Raised in the Gila Valley colonized by those great men and women, my forefathers, whose mingled blood comprises my grand heritage; I grew up a member of the expanding church. From infancy, through youth, through young adulthood and on, my interests and activities have been centered around the Church and among its members. Nurtured at first by a loving mother and father—then by a mother alone—I began to learn of the great principle of service through the influence of service itself.
The L.D.S. Church, peculiar to all other Christian denominations—and for that matter perhaps to all religions of the world—is administered gratis by the common members and not by a paid professional ministry. Thus, one at an early age expects to be called to serve in various positions. Now, even children are called to positions of leadership commensurate with their circumstances and age.
Many years have past, but the first level of responsibility I remember is when the ward leaders ordained me to the office of Deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood at age twelve. In the position I learned the requirements and acted upon them, as still happens today. Called eventually to be a counselor in the three-member presidency, I later became president of the deacon's quorum at age thirteen. At age fourteen and fifteen, I became a Teacher; and if I remember right I took a turn as the president of that quorum too. Then, as a Priest, the third office in the Aaronic Priesthood, I served as the Bishop's Assistant.
We attended the Mutual Improvement Association (M.I.A.), each week during a weekday evening. The activity arm of the Aaronic Priesthood in the M.I.A, the Boy Scouts of America scouting program, was for the boys, ages 12 through 17. Thatcher Ward, as nearly every ward in the Church sponsored a troop. After a time, I became the Patrol Leader of the Jackass Patrol, which rose to local fame principally through its name. I progressed through scouting to the level of Life Scout. Later in my teens, the Scouting District Leadership called me to serve as a Senior Scouter responsible to advise and help adult scouters to organize campouts, courts of honor and special mixed activities.
At age nineteen I left scouting to enter the young, unmarried, adult, men's program of the Church, the M-Men. The female counterpart was called the Gleaners. For at least one year and maybe two, I served as the M-Men President. Working with the adult advisor and ad hoc committees, we organized things like dances, picnics, overnight outings, plays, firesides and a basketball team. The M-Men of each ward organized a basketball team, and we played the five ward teams in our stake. I especially enjoyed this part of the organization.
I played the position of forward for a year while the captain of the team. We won the stake championship. Then, by defeating the Globe Ward team at the Globe High School gymn, we became the Church Champions in the State of Arizona. We traveled to Los Angeles to play a game, which if we won would make us eligible to play in the All-Church Tournament in Salt Lake City with hopes of becoming the All-Church Champions.
In California, we found ourselves in a bench-edge thriller pitted against a formidable group of athletes. As the quarters slipped by and minute followed minute, the score stayed close as each team recaptured the lead by one or two points throughout the game. At the end of the final quarter when the buzzer sounded we were clinched in a tie. We rested while we waited for the overtime play to begin.
Through the hard-fought three-minute overtime the lead continued shifting from team to team. The final seconds of the last minute narrowed any margin for error on the part of either team. The final buzzer sounded; again, in the middle of a deadlock. However, at the instant of the final buzzer, one of our team was fouled, and the referees determined it to be a technical foul. As it happened, I had scored every point for our team during the overtime period. Overall, our player-coach, a young, single high school teacher and a good friend to all of us, had scored thirteen points. I had scored twelve.
The referee signaled. As the team captain, entitled to attempt the technical, I started to the foul line with the basketball in hand. As I started to move toward the line, the coach snatched the ball from me as he strode passed saying, "The coach shoots the technicals." Younger, and out of respect for his additional years and position as a school teacher and bishop's calling as coach, and without an answer, I differed to him. The referees nor the other team ever questioned the impropriety then or after the game.
I'll never forget his impassible composure as he reached the line. The referee signaled him to proceed, and without a moment’s hesitation, with perfect confidence, he sent the ball arching on its way. Swish—it passed clean—through the hoop. We'd won the game. With that shot, the high point man became our hero. We all leaped into the air overjoyed with the win and with appreciation for our player-coach.
For reasons time has dimmed, that year the church authorities canceled the All-Church Tournament. Perhaps a church-wide problem with sportsmanship had robbed us of the chance to reach the top.
While being interviewed by Harold Clark, the principal of the Solomonville School, for a teaching position, as the bishop, he let me know that he hoped I would also accept the position of scout master in the Solomonville ward if he decided to hire me. Having been an active member of the ward, he knew of my past interest in scouting and of the need in the ward. He hired me to teach my first year and called me to serve as the scout master. Pleased with the calling as well as my new job, throughout the eight years I taught and served as the principal in Solomonville, I continued as the scout master.
During the last four years of the scout master tenure, the scout district called me as their field scouter. I served in that capacity concurrently with the scout master calling. My responsibilities included involvement in all of the district functions. I helped in the planning, organization and presentations of courts of honor, camperees, and instructional meetings. Also, I visited the many different troop meetings in the district as an analyst to answer questions and offer suggestions and give encouragement to the scout masters.
For four years in the ward I taught the Sunday school class of twelve and thirteen-year-olds. The next four years I served as the superintendent of the Sunday school (known now as the Sunday School President). Concurrent with the Sunday school calling, I taught the fourteen and fifteen-year-old boys in the M.I.A.
In May 1942, we moved to Southern California. After a stay of six weeks with Jo's brother and his wife, we lived in Newport Beach, Balboa and Westminster. We began attending the Huntington Beach Branch about eight miles away. There, I first served as president of the M.I.A. and the gospel doctrine class teacher at the same time. After serving for two years as mentioned, I became the Branch President for a year. I had replaced Elliot Woodhouse who held the calling for twenty-two years. Karl Allred, our neighbor in Westminster, the first counselor, became the next branch president after we moved to Wilmington. Later, he became the bishop and then a patriarch in Garden Grove Stake.
During part of the war years when everything worthwhile was being rationed to further the war effort, even the seats in the tabernacle at conference time in Salt Lake City were scarce, along with especially gasoline and tires. I was serving as president of an independent branch in Huntington Beach, California. At that time, bishoprics, stake presidencies and presidents of auxiliaries and a few others holding key positions were invited to conference. Since branch presidents had somewhat the same status in the Church as bishops I attended conference a couple of times.
PRESIDENT KIMBALL’S COUNSEL: One of these years, not having enough gasoline ration stamps, and unable to hitch a ride with someone who did, I took the small stipend tendered my position and bought plane fare. Jo reluctantly agreed to this arrangement if I would promise to make every effort to contact her Uncle Spencer—Spencer W. Kimball, had been an Apostle for only a couple of years. This, I readily agreed to do, for my visit, if it would materialize, would have a two-fold purpose: to not only deliver my wife’s greetings and love, but to also seek counsel about a problem that was beginning to concern me.
Recently I had received a letter from a friend in Washington DC, employed there as executive secretary to an Arizona Congressman. He believed that I would have no trouble finding very profitable employment there. Since the war seemed to be winding down and my job with Douglas Aircraft might soon be ending, I was worried about my next move. Certain Elder Kimball could give me some sound advice, I hoped for a short visit with him.
After the morning session I waited until the tabernacle had nearly emptied before I approached Spencer. As he eagerly grabbed my hand, pulled me to him for a quick hug, I said, “Do you have a couple of minutes for a man with a question.” He saw the seriousness in my eyes took me by the arm and led me upstairs into the balcony. “We won’t be bothered up her,” he said, as we seated ourselves. His next words were to congratulate me on my calling as the Branch President, that he had become aware of it only recently. Before I could give him Jo’s message, he asked about her and the family and expressed his love for her and her mother, Nettie, who became his beloved sister (albeit stepsister) with the second marriage of his father, after his mother’s death.
This rapid-fire type of exchange between us lasted only a couple of minutes for I knew him to be a busy man whose time was in demand, and I did not wish to use usurp much of it. As quickly as I could get to it I told him about the letter from my friend and asked should I consider taking my family there. He wasted no time in answering. He agreed that the war would soon be over and I was wise to be thinking about the future, but N0! Washington DC was no place to take a young, impressionable family, that the following years were bound to be years of turmoil at the National Capital. He reminded me that sin was everywhere; and even spoke about how well organized the devil now was, with many emissaries on his payroll, and how effective they could be where the Church’s influence was sparse. “Stay in the west,” he said: “among your own people where the Gospel can more readily influence your moves. Get yourself some kind of business and put down roots of permanency. Then he uttered the words that changed my life: “Darvil,” and he put his hand on my shoulder. “I’d rather have a popcorn and peanut stand on the street corner and be able to call it my own than work for the other man, no matter how good the job offered me.” Well, guess what our first move was after the war ended. We took the little nest egg we had saved for the purpose, and without any hesitation or qualms of fear of failure, purchased a business. Since that time we have attempted to follow that Prophet’s counsel and keep ourselves in self employment, nearly to the point of the popcorn stand—MAC’S MARKET SPOT—a near starvation grocery store on the street corner, where regardless of some lean years, we enjoyed the satisfaction that can only come with freedom of ownership.
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After we bought the laundry business in Wilmington in 1944, we moved to a house on Enola Street in that city. There, we attended the Wilmington Ward. To my surprise, for I was the youngest high priest in the group, I became the group instructor. The bishop later called me to be the teacher of the gospel doctrine class, keeping that position as long as we stayed in the ward.
From Wilmington we went to Grand Junction, Colorado where I represented Woodbury College recruiting high school graduates. The bishop knowing we were there only temporarily, did not call us to positions though we attended regularly.
In 1949 we returned from Colorado to live in Thatcher after a seven-and-a-half-year absence. After living there for a year, we moved to Safford for a year and attended the Layton Ward. The bishop called me to teach the gospel doctrine class. He called Guy Anderson as an assistant, and as it turned out, he taught the class about one-quarter of the time, when he could be there.
Back in Thatcher after a year, the stake president called me as the first assistant in the stake Sunday school presidency. After about two years, the Saint Joseph Stake was divided and reorganized. The stake presidency called Jo as the music specialist and me to be the speech and drama specialist on the Stake M.I.A. Board. After three years, I became the Stake M.I.A. Superintendent. This was the Mount Graham Stake, newly organized, of which Spencer W. Kimball had become its first President.
Close to the time we purchased the store, I was called to be the first counselor to Bishop Farrell Layton in the junior college, institute ward. I served in that capacity from then and on through the eight year tenure in the State Senate even though I could not be present for indefinite periods because of the time spent in the legislature and the travel back and forth.
In 1969 we returned to live in California. In the East Pasadena Ward, I served as the secretary of the M.I.A., then as an assistant to the high priest group leader, responsible for home teaching. Later, the bishop called me to be the editor of the ward news letter much to the protest of the group leader. Influenced by the objection of the good man, the bishop gave me the choice of where I wanted to serve. I chose to be the editor and remained in that calling until moving from the ward. The new bishop, just called, accused me of moving purposely to escape the editor job. I'd served in the ward under Bishops: Bruce McGregor, Kieth Hilbig, Don Mortensen, Russel Groesbeck and then the accuser, Clark Coberly.
In 1985 we moved into the Bayside Village private community in Newport Beach. New members in the Corona Del Mar Ward, Jo and I were called to serve as the church publications representatives. Little time passed before the calling fell to me alone. Jo gave up the ship and left me adrift. In addition to the first calling, I was called to work in the Orange Stake Family History Center too, as a patron services specialist. Jo had been called to do it too. Terrible! She wouldn’t do it either. In all fairness, age and circumstances was taking its toll on both of us.
Of course, during service in these varied callings, since the age of fourteen as a junior companion and then as an adult, a senior and companion, I've always served as a home teacher to three to five families in the several wards and one branch we lived in.
(JOSEPHINE) SERVICE IN THE CHURCH
I’ve enjoyed all my church callings. Though they haven’t been too varied, their have been many. Most have been with music and teaching children. Darling Edna Lee Brimhall, the Thatcher Ward Chorister had refined my older sister Eleanor into a fine organist. When Eleanor left, she arranged for me to be called to the position. She said she would help me, and she certainly did. I was only a fourteen-year-old. I still have a book of prelude music she bought for me that I still fall back on, and I treasure to this day. It is full of wonderful music, and I don’t believe I could live without it.
In the Thatcher Ward Sunday School, I was called to be the assistant teacher with Manuela Tanner for the five-year-olds. Manuela constantly treated me with sweetness and kindness through instruction and example. In turn, we both benefited immensely from Sister Joseph Reed. She had a degree in primary education and had taught kindergarten for several years. In addition, she had served on the Church General Sunday School Board in Salt Lake City.
In 1935, after marriage and Darvil’s college graduation, we moved from Flagstaff to Solomonville. During our seven year stay in that ward, I served in the primary presidency and helped with the primary music. In the mutual improvement association (the M.I.A, known now as the Young Women) I served as a teacher, a chorister and as a pianist. Also I served as pianist or chorister in sacrament meetings and Sunday school. From time to time I was called upon to give lessons to the youth on directing music.
In 1942, we moved to Southern California. While living in Balboa, Newport Beach, and Westminster, we attended the Huntington Beach Branch. I served as the primary pianist, and as an M.I.A. presidency counselor. Later, we moved to Wilmington where we attended the Wilmington Ward. There, I was called as the Pianist in the relief society and then in the primary.
We returned from California to live in Thatcher and Safford (in Safford for just a year) from 1949 until 1961. During those years, I served in the Thatcher Ward as the pianist in the relief society, then, in the M.I.A. as the bee hive teacher. In the Saint Joseph Stake, I served as the pianist and then as the lark advisor. In the stake M.I.A., I served as the music advisor. The year we lived in the Layton Ward in Safford, as well as participating with the singing mothers, I held the position of sacrament meeting pianist and in turn as the pianist in the Sunday School, Primary and the M.I.A..
In 1961, we again moved to California to live in Pasadena and for a while in San Marino. We actually lived in three different wards during that time, and I served, at one time or another, as pianist in relief society or Sunday School. Also, I served as a member of the Pasadena Stake Relief Society Board. In the Pasadena Ward, the last ward we were members of before moving from the area, I served for years and years as the primary pianist. I Loved the calling, but I was frustrated for inability to remember the words to all of the new, wonderful hymns coming out, that I really needed to learn.
In 1985, we moved to Newport Beach into the Corona Del Mar Ward, I became the relief society pianist for seven years. Also, I acted as the main substitute in primary and in wherever else the need arose. After being released as the Relief Society pianist three years ago, I’ve remained the chief substitute for all of the auxiliaries as the need arises. They called Darvil and I to be the co-representatives of church publications. It was just too much for me, so I turned my half of the job over to Darvil. He has done a marvelous work with it. He doesn’t share the fact out loud too much, but to me it seems I’ve still helped him a little bit. More recently, we both were called to serve on the staff of the Orange Stake Family History Center. But, that turned out to be just a bit too much for this old girl, so she begged out of that. Darvil has faithfully continued though, and he’s much appreciated there.
(DARVIL) SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCES
As a child, I was never inclined to do evil, but, to the contrary, to be a better person with the passing of each day. As a boy at an age to reason things out for my self, a testimony of the truthfulness of the restored Church of Jesus Christ has continued to grow ever stronger since that time. As I served in the church, I have had some inspirational and spiritual experiences, about which I have been very selective in sharing, and have shared with but few people. To “cast pearls to the swine” to be trample, I have carefully avoided. However, the three interesting experiences that follow, I desire to share with my posterity.
Brother Owens, a firm minded man and a wonderful father to his large family, always treated me like a son: due mostly that my mother had been widowed, and left at a young age with a large family to raise. Also his son and I were great pals. Often when he needed extra help with the schoolhouse and around the grounds in Thatcher where he served as custodian, he would give me first opportunity for any job. How I welcomed the chance for a little pocket money and the boyish desire to help with family expenses. At that time Clark and I were twelve or thirteen years of age, but knew well how to work.
One day we boys were helping the custodian top a large cottonwood tree that had grown too tall for its location. With saw and ax Brother Owens climbed the tree where he immediately assaulted the unwanted limbs. As each was cut they crashed to the ground, some of them were as large as twelve inches in diameter. Clark and I would trim off the small branches, and then cut the log into lengths that could be easily handled and loaded into the wagon. After we had taken care of two or three, we found it necessary to wait a few minutes for the next one to come down.
As I watched the man high in the tree at work on one of the larger limbs, I suddenly realized that his position in the tree placed him in danger of being struck by the limb if it should fall in a certain direction. His foot and knee could be crushed by the cut end of the seven or eight hundred pound giant, and would cause him to fall. From where I stood on the ground, I could see what he probably couldn’t see because of the angle of his position in relationship to the tree. The limb towered almost straight up above him.
Already the limb was beginning to sway. His foot was wedged in the crotch directly below the heavy dangerous thing. A few more good healthy strokes of the saw would start its fall. Horrified, I became certain it would go the wrong way for him. Now a young boy doesn’t tell and older man how to do his job. Brother Owens, though a kind and fair man, was a little sharp with us boys. I had always been careful not to cross him. That’s probably one reason why he would call on me to help with the odd jobs. As badly as I wanted to shout out about the danger I perceived him in, I couldn’t bring myself to say a word, though they were on the tip of my tongue and flooding my agonized thoughts.
At that moment Brother Owens stopped sawing, turned his head to look straight at me, and then pulled his foot and leg from the crotch below the teetering limb. A few more strokes with the saw and the limb shuddered, twisted slightly in the breeze and fell, the cut end landing exactly as I had previewed it in my mind, burying itself into the crotch where Brother Owen’s leg and foot had been only seconds before.
Clark went immediately to work on the fallen giant. I hadn’t moved, just stood and stared. It seemed for some reason or other I had to convince myself that what finally happened was true. As I picked up my ax to join my friend at his work, Brother Owens called from the tree, “Thanks Darvil! If you hadn’t yelled when you did I could have lost a leg.”
I was never able to tell that good man, or his son that I had not uttered a word that I could claim, and have always wrestled with a feeling of guilt, harrowed by the thought of what could have been the outcome if the Lord had not come to his rescue—and to mine.
When serving as branch president of the Huntington Beach Branch during the 1940’s, a beautiful, young, talented woman attended the branch. Marie Lockhart, about thirty years old, had not married yet. Everyone in the branch loved her and knew of her desire to marry in the temple and become a mother. It came into my mind that she would make an excellent primary president. However, discussing it with my counselors, both expressed some negativity, saying she should be serving in another capacity that would associate her with men of her own age. They did agree though that if called to the primary, she would undoubtedly be excellent. But they opposed my suggestion; I had to agree their reasoning was conscientious logic.
I went to sleep that very night, only to be awakened in the middle of my rest. I began again pondering over who we could call to the position. Suddenly, it rushed into my mind that she should be the one. Thus confirmed beyond doubt by the Spirit, a new and comforting thought came to my mind that there was additional, unrevealed reason, above the need for her service to direct our primary organization. Without further opposition from my counselors, after expressing my final decision, we called her to the position. Thrilled with the calling she said to me, “President McBride, there is one thing that I desire before being set apart; I want to receive my patriarchal blessing.” I told her that her request would be simple to arrange. Jo and I went with her to the patriarch’s home where her desire was fulfilled. In the blessing, she was promised that she would find a husband that would take her to the temple and that she would have children and raise them in Zion. As we left, with her in our company, tears filled her eyes, and she cried softly as she reviewed with us that special promise. Though I needed no additional confirmation for calling her, it was a sweet re-affirmation.
She served wonderfully well. The Church Semi-annual June Conference for the auxiliaries loomed in the near future. To my great satisfaction she decided to go. After returning home, she sought a short visit with me. She explained with delight, that while in Salt Lake City, she met a former friend with whom she had attended all her school years up through high school. He, like her had not yet found a mate. She said that they found each other very desirable and had come to the agreement that if all continued to work out through correspondence and another visit, and that they planned to be married. She was sure, though, that her patriarchal blessing of temple marriage and children would come true. Thus, I received another re-affirmation of the still small voice whispering in the middle of the night.
Marie’s courtship continued via correspondence and a visit or two over the next few months. She married her love and moved to Salt Lake City to make her home. We corresponded periodically for the next few years sharing in her happiness. The last time we heard from her was a letter announcing the thrill of the birth of her first child. She expressed thanks to all her friends left behind in the branch. It was the kind of letter that could be shared from the pulpit in sacrament meeting, which I did—to the great enjoyment of the members. From that point, with our changes of addresses, we lost track of her physically, but never in our memories.
The other unusual experience occurred later in the 40’s: We were living in Wilmington attending the Wilmington Ward where I served at the time as the gospel doctrine teacher. Asked to speak in sacrament meeting, I chose to address the subject of the prophecies and miracles of Joseph Smith the Prophet. At the conclusion of the meeting, while making my way out of the chapel, a Sister Becker stopped me and asked, “Brother McBride, is your father still living?” I replied that my father had been killed many years before when I was just a young boy. I asked her why she asked. “I think I saw your father.” I asked her what she meant. She continued,: “While you were speaking, to me, you became another person. The new personage, instead of standing at our large, wide pulpit that’s here in the chapel, stood behind a small, narrow, black pulpit. He looked much like you, but he had snow white hair and mustache and was dressed in a dark suite, much like the missionaries wear, which caused me to think that he was a missionary. I really couldn’t tell what he was saying, even though I felt like I should know. He was more mature than you, appearing to be in the perfect prime of life, a little fuller and broader than you, (I was a young man then, very thin at the time.) but since he looked so much like you, I thought he certainly could be your father.
“Then, behind him I noticed the stand, it was different. Behind the speaker, the stand was a beautiful white color with white chairs, but they were empty. I wondered what on earth was happening to me, so I looked over to the side where the choir sat. They were all attentively listening to the speaker. I again looked back at the pulpit and found the personage still there. It was apparent to me that the man was delivering a gospel sermon. I looked down and felt my mind becoming a little hazy as I tried hard to understand what was happening. Soon I looked up at the stand and found that the personage was gone. I was only seeing you as I had seen you when you started. You were there speaking behind the regular pulpit, with the members of the bishopric and others seated behind you on the stand in their normal places as before.” My brother, a year older than I, had died a few years before. Unbelieving I asked her if she thought that the personage might be of an age that he could be my brother, rather than my father? She said, “I don’t know for sure, but the man did strongly resemble you and appeared to be older than your brother would be.”
It has never been given me to know with assurance who the personage actually was, but I tend to believe it was my father. The reason for the appearance of the personage would be two-fold. It strengthened Sister Becker’s testimony, for I knew her to be a good and humble person. And it let me know how thin the veil is between the spirit world and our mortal habitation. I know that it gave me assurance that family in the hereafter was concerned and loved me. I sensed that they expected me to hold to the iron rod and remain stalwart and faithful to the end. I feel that Father’s appearance there in my stead, (if it was he) was indeed a stamp of approval for the kind of service I was giving to the church, my fellowman and my family.
OUR TESTIMONIES OF THE LIVING CHURCH
The treasure that we often refer to as testimony of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, is with out doubt the greatest legacy that we can leave to our posterity: a knowledge of the truth found in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Not that we wish to boast or impress, nor do we in any way discount the strength of the testimony of others, but to leave the whole as a legacy to loved ones who follow. And we hope our history, contained also in this volume, bears witness of what we claim, for we, with word of honor, bare solemn witness of the following:
Through modern and ancient scripture, through revelation and inspiration of prophets we know that God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ are real, separate and living celestial beings after whose image we have been created. We know also that the Holy ghost is a real and living Personage, who if He chose to show himself would appear as a man—as would the Father and the Son. We believe also that Christ is the Cornerstone of this church, that through Him prophets are still called, and that even today a living prophet leads and guides this, his people.
We believe the original Church as organized by the Savior, fell into disbelief after the death of Christ’s apostles. Thus the Priesthood, the authority given man to act in the Lords name upon the earth was taken away, ushering in the Dark Ages, making it necessary for a restoration of authority in these latter days. We know that through the faith of and instrumentality of the Prophet Joseph Smith, such has occurred. Ancient prophets, apostles and the Savior Himself amply prophesied the demise of the Church, and also its restoration. Though this truth is clearly confirmed by the scriptures, and it is daily taught by our authorities, each of us, to know, must undertake the search ourselves.
What an obligation rests upon our shoulders since we know, without a doubt, that the previous statements are absolutely true. Therefore we can not; no! we dare not deny it, and are driven to express it to others.
Likewise we stand obligated to express the following:
Although we have chosen to bear our testimonies as a team, and have been support to one another, we each, in our own time and way, have arrived at our religious conclusions on our own, and feel that we have had no dependence “on the arm of flesh,” against which the Savior has warned.
For years now we have expressed this fact to each other: that we do not recall that a certain time ever arrived in our lives when first we “started to believe” or “to have a testimony.” ‘If such a time did occur, it was at our mother’s knees. And we know that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is just something, that has always been and to which we truly belong. It gives one a feeling of being enveloped and lovingly surrounded by goodness and truth.
Through our humble way, giving no heed to sacrifice, we have striven to teach our children the truth and the importance of honoring it, and pray that such in turn will bless the lives of their children. Though hardly claiming perfection, we feel warmed by the degree of success the exemplary lives of our extended family represent. We look upon them with pride. They are testimony in themselves. What peace of mind that reality brings, reminding all that “peace of mind” is the core of true happiness and comes to one through the observance of eternal and true principles with obedience to those principles. Principles unknown to and not expounded by the preachers-at-large of so-called Christian religions.
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Sometimes our lives are harried by the question of what are the rules by which we should live? Again the answer is, “search and ye shall find, ask and it shall be given, knock and it will be opened,” all an admonition to search it out on your own. God is just—He has provided the information—make the effort! Now we end out testimony by quoting from the 76th section of The Doctrine and Covenants beginning with verse 22:
“And now, after the many testimonies which have been given of Him, this is the testimony, last of all, which we give of him that He lives! For we saw him!”
Though we have not seen Him personally, but believe Joseph Smith to be a Prophet of God, we sense we know him, and boldly bear the same testimony: That He lives!
To these things we jointly testify with love and hope for every individual of our posterity.
With deep affection,
Darvil Burns McBride
Josephine “Phillips” McBride
Your Parents and Grandparents, be we few or many generations in the past.
TRIBUTES TO JOSEPHINE AND DARVIL
MOTHER AND DADDY, by “Sally” Josephine McBride Butterfield, third born and only daughter of three children: How does one begin to pay tribute to such wonderful parents as I have been blessed with? I do believe that Heavenly Father, in his infinite wisdom and love for me, placed me with the two people that he knew could and would have the most influence on this earthly life of mine.
I am grateful for the many years I have had the privilege of calling them “Mother and Daddy.” Some of the very early memories I have of my mother are of her beauty. I loved looking at her beautiful face. I was very much aware of how beautiful she was. This awareness has been with me all my life and still is today. “Pretty is as pretty does was a reminder for me in our home: She, to me, being that example.
I can honestly say there is no other “old girl,” as she sometimes refers to herself, that can compare with my mother. I remember as a small child how I loved to watch that miraculous transformation all we females struggle through usually at the beginning of each day of our lives, of applying “the make-up.” After she had spent time putting on “her face,” as she always called it, she would be very careful not to frown. If my brothers or myself would cause her to become cross, she would remind us kindly that her cross wrinkles might stay—but they never did.
I was seldom spanked as a child and I believe it was because my mother and father loved us so much that they really didn’t want to physically punish us. They were wise in their disciplining and knew they could reason with us. We would each have our own private “reasoning together times.” I am sure it made more of an impression on us than a spanking ever could.
My early memories of my daddy were happy ones. I always had feelings of being secure and cared for. I don’t recall feelings of not having enough or not having as much in the way of material things as my friends.
My daddy was, and of course still is, a great story teller. At bed time he would create in story the exciting adventures of Tarzan with all the wonderful antics and yells. Then he would make it, to be continued for the next night.
I have always had a feeling of pride about the many years of his faithful performance of church service, and he continues still the same to this day. My mother and he have always shown great responsibility and have both been meticulous and dependable in their responsibilities to others.
How blessed we all are to be able to purely enjoy his writing talents, his many poems, books and histories. This truly is a tangible part of my father I will always hold dear even after he is gone.
My father’s sense of humor mixed with a quiet dignity will last for ever in my memories.
I thank my mother and my father for the many patient hours of suffering my practicing the piano, and my mother’s many hours of interest and love in helping me develop musical talent—one that has brought me many years of enjoyment.
My mother and father’s examples of integrity and honesty were before us every day. I was never allowed to gossip or talk unkindly about my friends. The good and positive of situations and people were always presented to us. “If you can’t say somethin nice, don’t say nothin at all,” was another reminder in our home.
I believe one of the greatest tributes I am able to pay my parents is how very much I was aware of their deep love and respect for each other. The love, devotion and dedication to their marriage and to their three children, has poured over and been a priceless influence to their many grandchildren and their mates—and their many great-grandchildren.
There are no better parents, grandparents or great-grandparents in this world than my precious mother and daddy.
I love you forever Mother and Daddy,
Your Sally Josephine
TRIBUTE TO MY PARENTS, by “Jon” Robert McBride, the second born: Let me tell you about the time I learned to appreciate the true beauty of a woman.
I was sitting at my desk, among my associates, in moderate anticipation but bored as a procession of older women—over dressed and over made up, gum chewing and parading—moved into the room. Suddenly the whole room stilled as a woman of elegance, grace and bearing appeared in the doorway. Her simple presence among those lesser lights absolutely took my breath away.
My location that day was my Balboa, California second grade classroom, and the woman in the doorway was my mother.
It was hardly the beginning of her influence on me. All I can remember of my first six years in Solomon, Arizona, is comfort and confidence in her presence. She paid attention to me in Sunday school, she cleaned the red ants out of my pants and gave me assurance when I thought my life was ending in that pain, she seemed so strong and capable and protective when the teenage boys, who were so huge and threatening, came by the house shooting out our decorative lights. Above all, I always knew I was very special to her: probably even her favorite person.
And dad was larger than life back then also: Hailstone frozen ice cream; the open trunk with the black bear he had shot stuffed into it, and we got to eat some of it; horse meat steaks and jackrabbits also, and quail and venison and dove and trout. Camping trips with hiking and hunting and fishing and Dutch oven cooking. He was, I know, the most important man there was. He was the principal of the elementary school where I finally passed kindergarten after three years trying! He had a GIANT PADDLE in his office!
These kinds of things were not just real to me when I was young. They were still happening as my horizons broadened and teenagers were no longer a threat to me, but I was one to them as a dad, scoutmaster, soccer coach, Young men president and mission counselor.
Darvil at 59 enjoying his first experiences on a motorcycle, waving at the senoritas while tearing down the dirt roads of Baja California. In his sixties with his legs going bad on him, up San Jacinto mountain backpacking with his grandkids and capturing a horse and riding it bareback there in the wilderness—everything still a little bigger in my mind than an ordinary life.
Jo who always found something nice to say about even the least likely candidates for niceness—Dee pointing out to me that neither of us can ever remember one derogatory statement about anybody…except about me, to my face, in defense of her daughter-in-law, many, many times. The woman who had been so loving and special to her children, becoming the life model for her daughter and daughters-in-law because of her love and interest and carings for them and her grandchildren, then the model for her granddaughters and granddaughters-in-law.
They put zest into the lives of us kids as they put struggle and effort and adventure into their search for fulfillment. Mom back to school when we kids were finally starting to become independent, so she could fulfill herself a little more with her music. I try hard now, and can't quite recall the scripture based music she wrote and directed for our 50+ member youth choir. The two of them—and us kids—hard at work together on their many entrepreneurial efforts, failures and successes. Especially I remember sacrifices like supporting Black Mac the Fox on his mission when mom had to take the extra job at the A & W stand. I thought I might be a little embarrassed having my mother work there, but I wasn't. She just did it very well and everybody liked her. I used to go there before she worked there because there were always cute carhops to harass, but it was more fun to harass them with my mom looking askance at me. I observed enough other sacrifices by both parents at this time, both economic and healthwise, that I determined they wouldn't have to do the same for me. I know now, that I was wrong, because it was at this point that their lives seemed to turn to complete successes and of course they have usually enjoyed overall good health, now into their nineties. I wonder how many blessings I cost them with my poor decision. As it turned out, one year later they received an offer from Jo's uncle, Spencer W. Kimball, to support me on a mission—another opportunity lost because I didn't allow them to determine what was best for them and me.
I especially remember the wonderful Colorado summer when I was 13 and Dad was recruiting for a business school. There were Mac and Sally and I assisted by mom, picking cherries to earn enough to buy a .177 caliber Benjamin Pump pellet rifle. It seemed to me to take forever but probably not much more than a week or two. Then all those early evenings and Saturdays around the farms and up the Mesas poaching quail, pheasants and rabbits. Also trips up Grand Mesa for fishing and functioning in what are the most beautiful landscapes of my boyhood memories. Also the frightening trips along the narrow, steep-sloped, caliche-slick path of the million dollar highway and Mom’s split second driving skill which averted more tragedy down in the desert when the car in front of us came to a dead stop upon hitting a horse.
Probably the crowning accomplishment of my parent’s career was Darvil the senator, the one single thing they accomplished that seems just slightly beyond their children's energies to match, but not necessarily beyond those of their grandchildren.
I am proud of myself and my own history because of the example of my parents. I can now, in my own older age, see so much of them in so many of the things I do. And, I can demonstrate how their interest in experiences for us has shaped, at least, my life. Because they were educated people, I grew up assuming a college degree was just to be part of life. Because of Darvil's naturalist tendencies, I have enjoyed and accomplished much out of doors, in jungles, oceans, deserts and mountains—I have a degree in Zoology. Among the myriad influences some of who's results I do recognize in the shaping of me, one memory does exist—maybe my earliest—which I have always thought of as a defining moment. Mom asks how I remember it, as I was only three. I remember the car with mom and Sally in it parked at the side of a dirt airstrip, with Mac and I and Dad climbing into this big box-like airplane. Then, with nose and face pressed hard against a porthole, the sound of engines in my ears and the smell of gas and oil fumes, the bumping, the lifting, the extra gravity in the turns and everything, all the people and houses and cars and trees and roads, getting smaller and smaller, clear down to toy size. Pretty soon the heavy vibrations lightened and there was this splendid sensation of floating free, and then everything started to get large again.
Do you wonder that I adore my parents, want greater health and an even longer life for them, for my sake? That even with all their little imperfections and foibles they are precious to me beyond ability to describe?
CHILDHOOD AND ADULT THOUGHTS ABOUT MY PARENTS, by Darvil David “Mac” McBride, the eldest of two sons and a daughter: Mother: My earliest memories of mother were feelings toward her as a protector and of liking any attention she directed my way. At the age of about four, I began to compare her with other mothers. It soon dawned on me how beautiful she was, and I began to see her obvious talents in singing and piano, and later in kindness and diplomacy. These exceptional attributes warmed me with pride.
I don’t remember when Jon arrived, but I do remember vaguely a time when I thought mother was sick. I’ve always believed it her last uncomfortable days before she delivered Sally Jo, though I don’t recall the newness of Sally in the family. I remember often thinking that mother had so many things to do; she was always busy, busy about the home, and no wonder, with three babies within a two-year-eight-month period. But, did I ever feel neglected or deprived? No. She never showed any favoritism: how fortunate for us to have been nurtured by such a mother. I would observe other homes not so fortunate.
I recall so many wonderful things we did together as a young family. We enjoyed special outings, camping, visiting friends and vacations. She filled my childhood with countless memorable good times. When I sit back to reminisce, the array of pleasant occurrences that pass through my mind go on and on. Feelings of comfort and safety ever enveloped me while in her presence, and, what fright gripped my heart if she disappeared from sight, especially if we were away from home. To my horror, I did lose her a couple of times as she shopped in big stores. She had deep empathetic tenderness about her, soothing my times of fright, hurt, embarrassment or disappointment.
As I grew older, though still a young boy, I was guilty of some mischief and disobedience. Those times naturally incurred mother’s tempered wrath and consequent punishment. To spank me, she used a variety of instruments, usually the hair brush, but only after giving fair and reasonable warning. Sometimes the offense merited punishment so immediate that she used her hand with a fervor that I know wounded her more than it hurt me. Regardless of the mode of discipline, it scorched my tender feelings appropriately. I will say though, that I always knew her responses to my misbehaviors were deserved and always just; the problem was always me. I seldom repented for long; hence, I was a well-paddled boy for the first ten years of life.
As an older boy and teenager, I recall how much I loved her for the way she treated my friends; friends that I very frequently brought into our home. Always, she would soon appear with a dessert for us all, and she made them each, individually, feel welcome. If it was that time of day, she frequently encouraged them to stay and eat. She never neglected to pay special attention to each friend, and all felt comfortable in our home. Kind and gracious always, many adults through the years have expressed to me the special place they have in their hearts for her. Each in turn recounted their heart-warming reasons.
As a young teenager just starting to notice the pretty girls, our family played at the beach one warm holiday. I walked in the wet sand at the water's edge and came up behind a beautiful, shapely, pretty-legged girl I judged a seventeen-year-old. Her slender figure complimented a nice, black bathing suit. I stepped up my pace to pass for a glimpse of her pretty face. As I turned to take a peek I was stunned, for next to me strolled none other than my own gorgeous mother. She turned to discover me at her side and gave a pleasant, “Hi Mac,” and we continued along together. She’s a beautiful woman to this very day. She is a person of divine attributes; she never wears them on her sleeve, for they surface naturally from deep within her soul. Even though some few may have disliked her, out of envy or jealousy, she has always returned kindness for meanness.
After nearly eight years in California, we returned to live in Arizona. At fifteen, I had become a Californian in dress, grooming and speech and not a bit acceptable to the small-town-spirit of the boys I wanted as friends. After several instances of cutting cruelty on their part, I confided my dismay to Mother, for never before had I been unable to quickly break down barriers and quickly make friends. She listened to the problem, then, explained the two paths from which I could choose. One could be revenge. She explained there would never be happiness nor an end to that ugly road, for it was a vicious circle. The other could be to return goodness, in every instance, no matter what, for malice, and let love win me the battle. She promised to help me know what to do, and of course I chose the latter path. Within a short period, with her wise prompting, I broke into that circle of valued and lasting friendships.
As an adult, and at this point well past the era of youth, she still showers me and mine with a constant outpouring of concern, attention and love. Why, she sent not only one congratulation card for dental school graduation, but a second one, and then even a third one arrived. She is so full of thoughtfulness and compliments for our entire family. Guess who is the favorite Granny? Our children and their families have enjoyed the good fortune to have lived close to her, and of course each one considers themselves her favorite. Her spirit pervades our home even when she’s not here. I have been given the extraordinary gift of knowing that she always has and always will love me. It’s a priceless gift, perhaps akin to the comfort of a soft warm blanket that never ages; a protection for me from cold and hurt, impossible to loose or be stolen away.
No child, no boy and no man could ever have had such a marvelous mother. I have always loved her, and will through all eternity.
My Father: Though I occasionally call him Darvil to get his attention or just for fun, I have always called him Daddy. I still do and always will. It may sound strange for a grown man, even an older man now, to call his father daddy, but it still sounds right to me.
My first memories of my dad are of times he played with his children in our home and outside in the yard. He played with me and my toys, tossed me around, carried me on his shoulders, swung me by arms, legs and even by one arm and a leg, airplane-style. He played hide and seek, ran races, showed me how to catch butterflies, made me a very successful sparrow trap and helped me try to ride the dog and all those dozens of little-boy kinds of fun things.
To me, he seemed the ultimate hero, a hero in every way imaginable to a four, five and six-year-old. I had to be slowly weaned, over a period of time, of thinking that he happened to stand in second place to Deity. Nevertheless, he became the personification—all rolled into one—of all the men I ultimately classified as super. To me, he was Tom Mix, Jack Randall, Ken Maynard (cowboy movie stars of my early youth) Superman, Captain Marvel, and last but not least, Tarzan. We three kids always hoped for a bedtime story from him about Tarzan and usually got it. When I reached the age of six, it took me a while to tolerate my friends who I found didn’t quite see him in my same light—much to my amazement and then disgust. Some even had the maddening audacity to suggest that their dads were, smarter, stronger, handsomer, faster, and better at high jump, marbles, basketball and multiple other hero attributes. His superiority was perfectly obvious to me. Anyway, back then he was the very best father on the face of the whole earth, and still is today.
He took us with him to have fun: swimming, camping, and hunting and on vacations to far away wonderful places. He knew a lot more about birds and animals than anyone else, and he hunted and fished and knew how to trap with home made traps. He taught me early how to make them, sling shots too. My first experiences of hunting with him for quail and cottontail were exciting. I remember looking like an Indian in a feathered skirt, for he tied the quail to my belt. The load soon became heavy, but that was all right; I could bare the burden just to be with him. However, after he added the second and third cottontails, the fun changed to hard labor and I couldn’t keep up; so, I would begin to whine.
I spent two years in the kindergarten and one in first grade in the Solomonville Elementary School. Daddy was the principal. I bragged about him being my father to my class mates and glowed with delight and pride when he’d walk into our class room. I used to see him mingle with the kids on the playground too. With as much discretion as I could muster, I told as many as possible that “He is my Dad.” I often watched him take time to play ball or get down on his knees to shoot marbles with the older boys. He was good at it; I know he played for keeps too. Also, I seem to recall him jumping rope with the girls. I felt elated when he passed me and gave me a pat of recognition, and especially when he visited with me for a minute, while, as I supposed, all the world looked on.
It wasn’t only mother who disciplined me. It only took one glance of his displeasure cast my way to stop me in my tracks. Yet some transgressions merited more instant, weighty punishment: a bop across the top of the head, a firm shaking, a solid hand across my bottom or the race ahead of him, as he loped along behind me wielding a long switch to swat my legs. In terror, I had waited and watched him cut and trim it before he turned to me sternly and said, “Now, get for home!” In record time I reached home where my parents had expected me to be long before he came hunting me. As with Mother, the punishment dispensed always stood commensurate with the sin, and he never punished me too severely or without just cause. In the back of my mind I continue to suspect that I may have been more of a trial to my parents, misbehavior-wise, than my younger brother and sister.
I am forever grateful for the many hours I spent with him at so many tasks, as we worked side by side. Because of it I gained experience with the shovel, hoe, rake and hammer and saw, to say nothing of the many other tools and equipment, including the wheelbarrow, growing accustomed and somewhat skilled with them all. My experience by his side as we dug, cultivated, renovated, repaired, built additions and dwellings were all vital for future years as a husband and father. I’m amazed now at how many big kids and grown men are so awkward and inept with something as essential as a shovel or hammer.
Since before my early teens and on into—now quite a ways through—adulthood, I have esteemed him my best friend. If given the choice to hunt, fish or pal with a best friend or with him, he always won out, and he still wins out every time. Oh how I looked forward to each outing, when he announced we would do something together, whether on the spur of the moment or in the specified future.
I have always felt a close kinship to him regarding fun and hobbies. I believe in the truth of kindred spirits, especially since we enjoy so many things in common that have their settings in the great outdoors, athletics or just plane old adventure. This is not to infer that I will ever be as well rounded to deal with life as he is, or that I eclipse him in personality, intellect, knowledge and wisdom. Unfortunately, I fall far short. But, what fun I’ve experienced with him, and how fortunate that my children too have been with us on many occasions.
I’ll relate one vibrant experience that forever impacted my life. At home after school, I grumbled in complaint about a class mate. With feelings of disgust, I said disparagingly of Stanley, that I couldn’t stand to sit by him because he looked so unkempt and smelled like an out house. Daddy sat down beside me and said he needed to explain a little about Stanley’s family. Well, as I listened, I found I knew nothing of the recent surgery on the father to remove a lung, his physical weakness at the time, their desperate financial situation and that their bathroom plumbing was plugged. My own unhappy plight as a new boy in town, trying desperately to find friends, strangely, appeared before my minds eye. He told me other things too and continued the discussion with a couple of stories about other good people, his friends, but, despised by the community. Then he solemnly looked me in the eye and said, “Remember this Mac—We McBrides are always friends to those who don’t have a friend.”
Daddy has always been the finest example to me in steadfastness in the Church and to all duty. He took the lead in our family, and fortunately, though often too slowly, I followed. His deep testimony of true and eternal principles demonstrated more through deed than word, laid the foundation on which I could hopefully begin to build a stalwart person of myself. I have never known him to be other than a man of integrity to his family, friends, associates: and God. May I stay as true and on course as he has throughout his life. Would that every son could be as fortunate to have such a dad as mine.
Anyway, way back then he was the best father on the face of the whole earth, and he still is now. I am grateful for all he has done for me. I have always loved him and will love him through all eternity.
Both Mother and Father: Over the passing years, they have been to nearly all of our family’s special events. Things like baptisms, settings apart, mission farewells and home comings, weddings, receptions, family and holiday family gatherings. It has been our pleasure to be invited by them to travel together and for us to have them along with us on many vacations, outings, visiting children, picnicking and sightseeing drives.
Surely we have done and said many things that have irritated them as married children with our own families, for we are only humans. Yet, never have we heard one instance of criticism, nor observed a single experience from them appearing in the least, critical, disgusted or disappointed with us. Would that I could say the same, about myself, regarding my own children.
Their constancy and unwavering steadiness in church attendance, religious obligations and fulfillment of callings has been testimony in itself of their undeviating belief in the restored gospel of the Savior that they found in “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Their examples caused me to reflect and then to search for the truths and depth of understanding that they had searched for and found. This led me to knowledge that I wanted to share with others as they had painstakingly shared with me. They supported me, as a 20 to 23-year-old, on a two and one-half year mission; they did so at a financially difficult time in their lives. I learned recently that my brother, Jon, saw the hardship their sacrifices caused them and hence decided he should not fill a mission, which he now admits was a mistake—three of his five girls and all five boys have served missions. Nevertheless, it touched my heart and I hid tears that welled up in my eyes when I heard the depth of their unselfish sacrifice and their desire for my spiritual welfare. Except for the great mission of being a proper husband and father, no other experience in my life has surpassed the importance of serving as a missionary. Of course, the example of their marriage relationship and their treatment of me was the primary driving force for me to even have the chance to be a good husband and father.
HIS NAME WAS “DOBBS,” by Bruce Lane McBride, {my youngest brother): Among the members of our family and acquaintances, almost everyone had a nickname. I was “Guzzie”, Floyd was Mac, Leonard was “Chinie”, Orlando was “Lando” and for a number of years, they called Darvil “Dobbs”. I never knew the genesis of the name, and I think it only stayed with him into his early teen years. Beyond that time I don’t know that he was called anything but Darvil—unless you count the time he and his friends decided to spell their names backwards; then it was “Livrad”. Two of his friends, Gordon and Fenton, were “Nodrog” and “Notnef”. And there were others.
I point this out just as a hint as to the type of person Darvil was, and is. Surely, anyone with names like Dobbs and Livrad is bound to be a peculiar person. Now I don’t want anyone to get bent out of shape because I used the word, “peculiar”. While originally the word was restricted to mean quaint, odd, strange, (not that he isn’t a little of that too) in more recent times it has taken on a different meaning, as many words do in a changing world. We can all recall when ”Keep off the grass,“ meant simply, “Don’t walk on the lawn,” and “Pot” was something you cooked your dinner in. Need I explain what comes to mind when these words are spoken today?
My use of the word “peculiar” is meant to convey some of the following: Having a character exclusively its own, select, special, uncommon, unusual excellent or distinguished. While all these have related meanings, I like the middle one. Surely Darvil is the uncommon man. Let me mention a few of the things which put Darvil in this unique category.
When he was a youngster I recall that he was continually pursuing innovative ways of having fun in the neighborhood: Playing destruction derby with rolling hoops; a game of golf with home made clubs, with the entire neighborhood, including the school yard, as the playing course; a trolley ride by cable from the top of our tall mulberry tree across the corn patch to our neighbor’s fence; a cycle-dome for a tricky bicycle ride; writing and producing plays with the neighbor hood kids to take the parts.
Darvil participated in sports excelling in basketball and track. In high school, the trophy winner for best player and first place in the conference pole vault and third in the State; and in junior college, he was a member of the basketball team that excelled in the State.
Without enumerating the details, Darvil distinguished himself as Student Body President of the high school and the junior college, also as an educator, a public servant, (eight years in the Arizona State Senate) A story teller (At the drop of a hat he had a story to tell.) Author, Poet (At the slightest provocation he would write a poem on the spot.) A builder (He made the adobes and built his own home.)
A kind and gentle person, Darvil’s life has been full of charity and good works. The closest he came to being unkind to me was one time when he and a friend went for a hunt along the river bottom. Unwanted this time, I tagged along, barefoot, a respectable distance behind. Consequently they led me through thickets of willows, across rocky terrain and through patches of sand burrs. Though slowed at times I was not defeated.
Above all, Darvil was kind and thoughtful to our mother. Living close by, he and Jo were attentive to many of her needs, for which she was truly grateful.
In many fields Darvil was a leader. In church callings, a youth leader, a scouter, a Branch President, and excellent speaker. In all these endeavors Darvil was not satisfied to perform at an ordinary level. He always strove for, and indeed attained the more excellent dimension. Greatly loved by a delicate and devoted wife and emulated by three talented children and a myriad of grand and great-grandchildren, Darvil with Josephine at his side, stands as Patriarch to a truly great posterity.
Besides all this, in our later years, backpacking buddies: an endeavor in which I was the more experienced. I led him over some steep and rugged trails; but he did more than just tag along.”
True it is that many have had the responsibilities and done the things that Darvil has done; But few there are who have done them so faithfully and well. Is not this the legacy of my beloved brother: an uncommon Man?
Not bad for a guy with a moniker like “Dobbs.”
Darvil: Floyd, named me Dobbs—he claimed when asked my name I would say, “Daubel.” Just for fun he
started calling me “Doorbell.” Just how the thing degenerated to Dobbs, I’ve never figured out. But, it stayed with me through junior college—really until I left Thatcher.
A TRIBUTE TO JO AND DARVIL, extracted from a letter to Darvil David (Mac) McBride with the salutation, “Dear Cousin Mac and Linda, Sunday, January 8, 1995.” by David Phillips, (living in Heber City, Utah) the youngest son of Jo’s elder brother, Virgil:
David Phillips writes: When Daddy passed away on July 30, 1978, Uncle Darvil and Aunt Jo came up for the funeral and get-together of family. President Kimball spoke at Dad’s funeral. Uncle Darvil gave the family prayer and said the most comforting things to us as family members. I’ll always remember the spirit that was there as he talked about Dad, life, the plan of salvation, and the great hope that lies in Jesus Christ. (He attended Mom’s funeral as well, and spoke.)
Mom called President Kimball’s office, leaving him a message about Dad’s passing and her phone number to call her back. But, she left the wrong number. President Kimball returned her call and told her that he had a difficult time getting through to her because the number she gave wasn’t exactly her number. Now, Mom and Dad’s number wasn’t listed in the directory, and President Kimball learned that when he called for assistance to get the number. I asked him how he got through, and he grinned and said the telephone operators were very gracious to help out. (Sure, after they found out WHO was asking them for their help!) But of course, being the humble man he was, he didn’t tell us that.)
President Kimball called Mom a few days before the funeral and asked if he could stop by her house and visit with the family. By then, he knew that Darvil and Jo would have arrived from California, Eddie and Mary Ann too. We all gathered there in the living room of their home in Salt Lake City. Utah was experiencing a terrific heat-wave that summer. This must have been about August 1, 1978. He hugged every one, and there was a great reunion between him and your parents, Mac. It was so hot in the house and we had a fan going (Mom and Dad didn’t have air conditioning.) Someone tried to offer President Kimball a seat, but he opted to sit on the arm of Mom and Dad’s Couch—not wanting to put anyone out. Aunt Jo told him, “Uncle Spencer, come over here and sit by this fan, it’s a little cooler here.” And, with a genuine twinkle in his eye, he told her, “That’s okay Josephine, I’m used to this kind of heat, I was raised in a rather hot area of Arizona, you know!” We all laughed, and Aunt Jo, understanding the little joke between the two of them, just grinned at him. She too had spent many years in that hot climate, and was familiar watching her grandfather and grandmother Kimball deal with general authorities of the church, they having served as hostess to many of the visiting ones, since he was the Stake President of the St. Joseph Stake.
Uncle Darvil wrote a poem with a line I shall always remember: “A promise made is a debt unpaid.” I can’t tell you how many times over the years I’ve thought of that.
When I was about 11 years old (perhaps 1960 or so) we went with our family over to Safford and Thatcher for a family vacation. Having lived all my life in Southern California, it was the first time I got to visit Arizona and the land where it all began for us.
We stayed at Uncle Rodney’s and at Uncle Darvil and Aunt Jo’s place. Darvil was running the store at that time. I got to go down there and see him at work, and what wonderful, wonderful memories I have of that. He gave me a bottle of pop and said it looked like I could use one. A little later, I found myself on the end of a broom, sweeping a little here and a little there and making myself useful. I think I had been “Tom Sawyered”—somehow. It felt good then, but it feels even better now. A customer came in for some ground round, and Darvil went behind the meat counter, cut some hamburger off a large chunk of it that was just delivered that morning, and put it up on the scale to weigh it for the customer. I think they ordered a couple of pounds, or something like that. All the time, he was visiting with them, asking them some questions and giving them the opportunity to tell him how they were, etc. I remember him wrapping it up, putting some tape of sorts around it, and marking the price on it with a greased marking pencil. He told me afterwards that it’s important to talk to people, and especially important to ask a few questions and give “them” the chance to speak, because everyone has something to say and wants to be heard. The problem he said, is that more people want to speak than listen! This is something I learned and it sure came in handy as I served over the years as a bishop.
Aunt Jo’s house was so cool. She had the neatest dishes and knickknacks and everything was put in its place. She was one of those perfect hostesses, always worried that someone might be hungry or thirsty and might be too bashful to speak up and say something.
She truly loves and loved her family, and she told me many times how GOOD a man my father was. At the time, I don’t think I really gave it that much thought, but now that my parents are gone, I think of it often. It was important for me to have heard those things from her—she must have known that. This too is a lesson well learned, and something I have been able to share with others.
I had a wonderful childhood, and I have the fondest of memories growing up. Aunt Jo and Uncle Darvil have always been a wonderful part of my life, and they’re the ones that have “always been there” when needed.
Mac, you really need to get in touch with Sissy. (Virginia, the firstborn of David’s siblings, and the first grandchild of our grandparents, Nettie and David Phillips.) She has shared with me stories about the laundry Dad and Darvil owned and ran, and one time down at Balboa Beach, I think it was. We were driving along an she had us stop, and she pointed out where Jo and Darvil lived. (Their actual house.) It would only be worth about a million dollars on today’s market.
I Also found a copy of a letter that Dad received from Spencer Kimball concerning Dad’s ordination to the Melchizedek Priesthood. It’s interesting to note that Dad was ordained by a Prophet of God. I will send that along with this letter. It’s interesting to note that he was ordained by a Prophet of God whose priesthood line of authority came through four men—three of whom were also Prophets of God.
[Email received Feb 2, 1997 from David Phillips]
Hi Linda and Mac:
Hope your traveling is over and your trip was good. Last night I attended a satellite broadcast for the Singles in the Church, originating from BYU Marriott Center, with President Gordon B. Hinckley as the featured speaker.
In his remarks, he addressed the subject "Faith in Every Footstep" and told how the pioneers were truly heroes, how they should be remembered during this special year, and he shared with them the article—word for word—that was in the Church News, sent in by none other than the one and only Darvil McBride! I was sitting there popping my buttons (almost). Please pass this info along to your parents.
Thanks, and stay in touch,
Old Dave [David Phillips, Heber City, Utah, Feb 2, 1997]
[David is Josephine Phillips McBride’s nephew.
He is the son of her older brother, Virgil.]
A TRIBUTE TO JOSEPHINE AND DARVIL
by
Frankie Thursa “McBride” Farr
(the youngest of Darvil’s brothers and sisters)
I knew Josephine Phillips from the time she lived in the home by the canal in Thatcher. And, I remember her as the prettiest girl in the town
I remember when she and her several friends met with a serious accident that could have taken their lives. A match was struck by one friend and jestingly placed over an old automobile’s open gas tank, and it exploded leaving Jo seriously burned and cut.
When the Phillips Family moved next door to us and Darvil started courting Josephine’s attentions, I was as happy and elated over that as maybe Darvil himself, though really not quite, I’m sure. My memory still harbors their lovely out-of-doors wedding on the Phillips front lawn.
I also recall vividly of hearing Josephine and Eleanor playing the piano. It made me want to learn the same pieces that they played, and I believe I did learn some. They both were an inspiration to me.
Also, I have always appreciated the help that Darvil and Jo gave to Mother when they lived next door to her during her final years and last days. The fact that they lived close to her was a comfort to me. Mother always paid her own way, but appreciated the fine discount when she bought her groceries at their store.
Each one of my brothers and sisters played an important part in my life for good. We often played games at night and the boys would play tricks on me, but always in fun. Darvil was responsible for much of the trickery. but of course with the help of Bruce and sometimes Ruthie and Orlando. One very vivid trick in my mind could be called “Shaking Hands and Feet with the King and Queen.” Darvil, the King, and perhaps, Ruthie, the Queen, would sit side by side with a blanket spread over their laps so that only their feet could be seen. Darvil sat on the right, with his right leg tucked back and a false leg all stuffed properly with his shoe on it, was positioned in its place. They told me to start with Ruthie and shake each hand and foot and when I got to Darvil’s right leg I was to be less gentle and give it a good, hard shake. Enjoying the game and following instructions, woe and behold, with a solid jerk-of-a-shake, I fell over backwards to the floor holding the dismembered leg. It’s needless to discuss the uproar it caused—at my expense, of course.
The chicanery that takes the cake began when they made a dummy out of a shirt and pair of pants, complete with shoes and socks. They laid it on the bed, stomach down, and put a puffed up pillow over what was supposed to be the head and told me it was Orlando there asleep. They explained that he needed to be awakened. They gave me a board and said to give him a swat, and if he didn’t wake up the first time, I was to swat him again, even harder. Being such a little girl, I followed their instructions to the T, and began to swat harder and harder, but to no avail, while they stood behind me back by the door in an uproar.
COMMENTS ABOUT MY HUSBAND
Darvil has been a most delightful person to live with. But, he has a few terrible failings. It used to be that I couldn't tolerate some of his hobbies. He always wanted to go off hunting without me, and he would go. I could have been a hunter and fisherman's widow except, I had enough temper to curtail it—well, just some.
Once, while window shopping, I found a beautiful bathrobe, and I so coveted it for Christmas. We didn't have the money then, so I couldn't buy it myself. About two months passed, and Darvil made plans to leave with other scouting men from all over the state for several days of training. For him, the experience would be wonderful, but I would find myself left behind again. However, he partly redeemed himself. He brought me that very same bathrobe as a present. He had known that I’d found it, and absolutely loved it. He knew too, that I’d refrained from buying it, because we couldn’t really afford it. I always resented it though, for I believed the true intention was to buy me off, so he could run off with a semblance of clear conscience. He went, and again I stayed home with the chores and kids.
There’s one fault he doesn’t like to admit. He never wants to admit he's wrong. When I argue with him, and he actually knows he’s wrong, and he knows that I know that he knows he's wrong, he gets as mad about it as a soaked rooster. Rather than admit he's wrong, he tries his best to make me feel guilty, by making me think that I'm the one who’s wrong and mean instead of him.
Week by week, month by month, on passed a decade, Darvil has brought to completion several outstanding works—and he’s still busy at it. With his love for the Old West, his pioneer ancestry, his dedication to precise history and an incessant tenacity, under his hand four outstanding books have unfolded into reality. Each has become "priceless" to our family. Each stands as a tribute to his parents and forefathers—a "heritage treasure" for our present posterity’s five living generations and for all our decedents yet to come.
He’s the author of "The Evaders": A carefully researched and documented history of the events leading up to the death of his sheriff-father and his two deputies. The book includes the ensuing events of the great man-hunt for the murderers and the eventual turning of the wheels of “partial” justice.
The second book is co-authored with his brother, Bruce, "Chariots of Hope": a novel based on documented factual history of his Great-grandfather and Great-grandmother, Robert and Margaret Ann McBride, and of the family's thirst for and quest of truth, plus their dedication to a "marvelous work and a wonder," the Living Church of God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. The story’s setting centers around the courage required under prodigious circumstances of the Robert McBride family to organize and successfully complete a journey of 3,000 miles across the uncharted plains of Frontier America, motivated by unwavering dedication to their newly found religion of their quest. The climax is the miraculous rescue of the ill-fated Martin Handcart Company with which they had thrown in their lot. The Father of the McBride group perished in route, but his heroism provided the drive that safely led the rest of the family to the Great Salt Lake Basin.
The third book is also co-authored with Bruce, "AGAINST GREAT ODDS, The Story of the McBride Family". It's a compilation of personal history sketches of their Great-grandfather, and Great-grand Mother, Robert (3) and Margaret Ann Howard McBride. Included are sketches of Robert and Margaret's progenitors and progeny including some of our grandchildren. A nearly complete record, i.e. it consists of the combining of pedigree and family group records with attendant vital statistics that culminates the masterpiece.
In addition to the forgoing, he has compiled a portion of the many poems he has written over the years; some, not included in the book are very personalized, most are spontaneous and others by request for friend's special occasions. He still continues adding to their numbers.
Though none have been published, he's completed the following fictional novels: "The Pink Gun", "Vengeance on the Verde" and "The Badge and the Gun". Right now (April 1999), he’s at his desk working on another western novel, "Pick-Im-Up". All have their setting in the Arizona Territory with which he is intimately familiar, for he has lived through more than 90 years of its fascinating history and has been personally acquainted with scores before him whose memories reached back at least another eighty years. He has also written short -short stories, “No Greater Gift,” though based in much fact, a fictional story of his relationship with a humble Indian family, living within the vast wilderness of the great White Mountains of Northern Arizona while employed by the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
At this moment, since late 1993 until 1999, and probably for another two years, Darvil, our son, Mac, and I are engaged in putting together a large volume which includes our histories including personal writings and memories of the extended family—both past and present—which will become a family treasure of great worth. (There are special contributions from Jon and Sally and others.)
These writings will be preserved and will give our children and their children and continuing posterity, a clear, colorful, vivid gaze, not just a glimpse, into our character and integrity, understanding of both of us as real, vibrant people of imagination, hopes and dreams. Though far from perfect, true-to-truth, we hope to be perceived, at least in part, exemplary roll-models of whom memory will live on to inspire all our descendants.
As we continue to cooperate together with our history—and we know it's still in its infancy—we as husband and wife, father and mother, grandfather and grandmother and even great-grandfather and great-grandmother and on back, hope to leave more precious gems. Precious gems in the form of an example by which you'll be inspired to live, and a matrix from which you who belong to us, will help develop your own, already wonderful histories, which in turn will strengthen and bless even additional generations of our descendants.
Let me take a smidgen of credit at this point. I am, always have been and will be to the end, jealous of anyone and anything that takes my husband away from me. He's mine, and I like all his attention, but I still have to share him too much. I don't like it, but he's an independent cuss, usually appropriately so, though occasionally not, and I know the endeavors he puts his hand to are unselfish ones and of inestimable worth. I grumble out loud and under my breath, but without me to feed him, pick up after him, read his compositions, do his other many biddings and be his love, believe me, he would have accomplished much less. Actually, he and my children and their wonderful spouses continually let me know how wonderful I am, too. So there! (Darvil: Oh, pshaw! She makes me sound like a mixture of perfections—an extraordinary example of how blind love can be.)
OUR GRANNY JO AND GRANDDADDY
by
Linda Ann McBride
Presented to the family at the Family Reunion
by
Darvil David (Mac) McBride
June 9, 1996 at the Schnepf Summer cottage in
Show Low, AZ.
-----------------
They were from hardy faithful pioneer stock.
Not too far removed if you hear Darvil talk.
Mac said, “Linda, why don’t you write us their story
You do the work and I’ll take all the glory.
Where do we start? There are just tales galore.
Then Linda yelled “Stop! I can’t take anymore.”
Hands on her hips, Audra said, “This is too late
To start writing tales on this very last date.
Linda said, “I don’t think so, it’s not late at all.
To which Audra replied, “Last minute takes gall.
We’ll start with Darvil of the two he’s more sane.
After tales about Jo, he seems quite inane.
Darvil grew up with brothers but it’s still sad.
He lacked what we all have: a mighty good dad.
Of course there was Leonard to lead him astray.
In prohibition Leonard made beer one day.
Leonard slipped his young brother a shot or two.
Not knowing it was green Darvil swigged the brew.
What Darvil drank down soon came up the same way.
I guess that he nearly lost his head that day.
Sadly his lawn was on the Main Street of Town.
It didn’t take long for the word to pass ‘rown,
That Darvil sat there and was singing a song,
A cursing green beer ‘cause his skin tone was wrong.
At church Granny begs for a baby to hold.
You think that’s nice? Hey! You’ve just never been told.
Once in her arms, she gives a pinch. Makes them cry.
Then she’d take them out though we never knew why.
Until one day she picked a baby too old.
“Don’t pinch me Granny Jo, your hands are too cold.”
So in church keep your baby. We wouldn’t lie.
If she holds your baby then she’ll make it cry.
You can’t leave your kids with her, this gal is tough.
What she did to Porter boys was really rough.
Now you all know she’s said, “Jon’s kids were such brats!”
Sally’s kids were even worse! Wiggly as rats.”
My kids all were angels, perfect as could be.
If she’d had our kid’s, this scene you’d never see.
In the back seat they were sitting. Greg was good
Greg told the tale so that’s how it’s understood.
Steve and Cole were fighting. Greg in the middle,
Jo reached back. Gave him a bop. Greg! So little!
“Why did you do that Granny Jo? I was good.
“Well….for all the times I didn’t, and I should.”
Jon and I were small. Dad took us for a ride.
Bending was a lady, showing her backside.
Darvil had this thing—I think it shoots a pea.
A direct hit. Innocently said, “Not me!
Shooter went to Jon—or me—we got the blame,
Traumatized us so, we’ve never been the same.
Now you can see why we both are odd.
T’was that darn pea shooter when he hit the broad.
Jo, took Kim and Dee shopping. Never left the car.
They looked in every window, even in a bar.
Kim looked up at Dee and said in a voice not low,
“Why does she go when it’s stop and stop when it’s go?
Dal asked Granddaddy to go and hunt some deer.
“I’d like to, but THE BOSS won’t let me I fear.
So he trembled and shook then asked her in fright.
“Oh all right! You can go but only one night.
Darvil when young had a hen ready to sit
Brought home a hundred chicks. Hen lost her wit.
She went clear crazy. She’d stagger and cluck
All over the place, a puck, a puck, puck, puck.
With Jon’s family, vacationed at Panguich Lake.
They would catch fish, wrap in tin foil to bake.
But a motor they needed and also a boat.
“Can we use yours Mac? Do you think it will float?”
It didn’t, you see, they made it tip.
Yet Jon David only got wet to the hip.
In his life jacket he was sitting so high,
When they finally got him, he was still dry.
Yet he kept yelling as he floated away,
“I’m drowning, you’ll be sorry you laughed one day.”
Jon David didn’t drown. His cry was just bunk.
And the boat and the motor weren’t even sunk.
One motorcycle trip. I, Jon, Lloyd and Dad.
T’was the greatest adventure we’ve ever had.
I didn’t trust Dad for he was a nov -- ice.
He thought while riding, to wave would be nice
I said Dad, “Take my bike, but don’t wave at all.
If you wave at folks then you’re likely to fall.”
He got on my bike and took off in a rush.
Was soon out of sight as he went through the brush.
We found him soon. We didn’t need a beagle.
There he was again! On the ground! Spread eagle.
For where the road had curved he just went on straight.
He didn’t see the curve till it was too late.
By the roadside, three senoritas pretty!
“I didn’t wave! I just looked.” What a pity.
Darvil lay there in the dirt my bike on it’s side.
Now relegated to the truck he had to ride.
One day we all got lost, couldn’t find each other.
Lloyd went fast, we were slow, so, we didn’t bother.
Darvil was our tracker, he lost Lloyd in the heat.
Asked, Why? “Hell! He hits ground only each hundred feet.
In her house there’s a name on every styro cup.
Old and torn they may be. She.... never gives them up.
Year after year, as her grand kids come to stay.
She gets out those same old cups to use each day.
Takes the toast we didn’t eat. Put it in a bag.
Next morning we get it and never dare to gag.
She saves the ice cubes, when you leave them in a glass.
There’s frozen milk on them? “Well, that’s to give them class.”
When you’re at Granny’s house, and in her freezer look.
You’d better think twice for you might be too shook.
You know she saves everything. It might just be gross.
So at Granny’s house, never look too close.
Then came Dance Festival held in the big Rose Bowl.
From Ojai came LOTS of youth to stay. Oh no!
Someone spoke to Shari, “We all think it’s sick!
In each and every cup there’s a tooth mark nick.”
Linda turned to Windy. To our group you’re new.
We all have a story, what are you to do?
“I have a story though I’ve known Jo for hours few.
Who couldn’t have a story then? Tell me, who?”
She takes my arm, leads me from place to place.
She tells me I belong—see my pretty face.
For I am Mac’s Debi’s half-brother’s, sweet child.
My eyes are just like Debi’s. Man this is wild!
She tells me I’m like family—seems I’ve always been -
Creative like Linda, I guess that makes me Kin.
When you’re with Granny Jo, it all seems so right.
But what I’m hearing makes her seem out of sight.
And I am not the only one, thinks she may be strange.
Greg and friends think too, she’s a little out of range.
Jo and Darvil gone, Greg took a friend to Newport Beach.
She left them cold cereal within easy reach.
They looked everywhere, up and down, to their right.
Jo asked, “Now what is wrong? I left it in plain sight.”
You two are jas onkies—your thinking’s poor.
It’s in the dish washer—just open up the door.
When Saundra was little, Maybe only three,
Sally wanted a photo—Granny said, “Gee!
I’ll put on my makeup—do I look all right?”
Saundra said, “You’re wrinkled,” with a smile so bright.
Let me ask, would you say, Darvil’s some vain?
To be called Golden Boy, in the sun he’s lain.
Those chicks at the beach look over at this laddy.
Looks good! He looks rich! What a sugar daddy.
That was fine ‘til one day, this had to be stopped.
See my line Darvil said, Then his pants he dropped.
Linda said, “Oh my gosh, I don’t think that’s neat.
Don’t mind to see your line—but just not your seat.”
Now we all know Jo is sweet to us and dear.
That she’s very proud of us she’s made quite clear.
Once we thought for a treat we’d go to her ward.
Bishop said, “Not again!” We were in accord.
She stopped the lesson when we came one by one.
She bragged on us ‘til lesson time was done.
The President said, “Sister McBride, will you pray?
Can’t go on. You’ve left no lesson time today.
So Jo’s words we’ll use to honor them tonight.
They are wonderful, talented, glamorous and bright.
Creative, kind, darling, charming, and so sweet.
Precious to all of us and we think they’re neat.
OUR PATRIARCHAL BLESSINGS
DARVIL BURNS MCBRIDE -- PATRIARCHAL BLESSING
Thatcher, Arizona, August 15, 1950
A blessing given under the hands of Patriarch Marius Mickelson upon the head of Darvil Burns McBride, son of Robert Franklin McBride and Clara Sims, born December 27, 1908, at Pima, Arizona.
Brother Darvil Burns McBride, agreeable to your desire and in the authority of the Holy Priesthood, I place my hands upon your head and in all humility and faith pronounce upon you a Patriarchal Blessing that will increase your confidence in the Lord’s glorious work.
You have received a testimony of the Gospel which will continue to grow within you according to your diligence and usefulness in the Church. You have made covenants with the Lord in His Holy House, whereby greater responsibilities were placed upon you; and you have received the Holy Priesthood of the Son of God. And I say to you, dear Brother McBride, honor that Priesthood and the Lord will honor you; for great responsibilities will be placed upon you and there fore I say, seek the spirit of humility, for through that spirit you will know what to do when responsible questions come be fore you; for you shall enjoy this spirit of discernment, which is your right and privilege, if you will only seek the Lord for His guidance.
You will be called to fill responsible positions in the Church of Jesus Christ, and by seeking the Lord in all sincerity you shall be able to accomplish every responsibility that will be placed upon you.
You are entitled to this blessing for you are of the chosen seed of Israel, a descendent of Joseph through his son Ephraim.
Trials will come your way, but they will only make you more faithful and sincere.
You will be called to preach the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, to warn the world against sin and wickedness which prevails today greater than it has ever done before. The judgment is being poured out and will be poured out upon the wicked, for they will not repent. And great joy and comfort will come to you that you have been called to warn your fellow men.
I seal upon you the blessings of life and health and strength that you may live and accomplish the mission for which you came upon the earth. You will be able to convince the honest in heart of the truthfulness of the gospel; for knowledge and wisdom shall come to you from the Lord and you shall know to give the proper advice and counsel to those that are in need.
The spirit of the Lord shall follow you and you will be able to overcome every obstacle that comes your way.
I say to you, dear Brother, receive the spirit of humility and you shall never be disappointed. The power of the Priesthood shall rest upon you. You shall enjoy the gift of healing and you shall lay hands on the sick and they shall recover; and I say to you exercise that gift, for it is yours.
Every blessing your heart can desire in righteousness shall come to you.
You shall have part in a glorious resurrection and enjoy; immortality and eternal life in the Celestial Kingdom of our Father, where you will stand as a Prince of Peace among the people of God; for I seal these blessings upon you in the authority the Lord has given me and in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. (#1095)
JOSEPHINE PHILLIPS MCBRIDE -- PATRIARCHAL BLESSING
Thatcher, Arizona, August 15, 1950
A blessing given under the hands of Patriarch Marius Mickelson upon the head of Josephine Phillips McBride, daughter of David Dee Phillips and Nettie Jones, born June 8, 1912, at Thatcher, Arizona.
Sister Josephine McBride, by the authority of the Holy Priesthood which the Lord has permitted me to bear, I place my hands upon your head and in all faith and humility pronounce upon you a Patriarchal Blessing that will increase your faith in the Lord’s glorious work upon the earth; and I say to you, dear Sister, the Lord loves you for your faith and confidence in Him and your mistakes in life are forgiven. You are accepted in His sight and His power will rest upon you, for you are one of His chosen daughters—a valiant spirit in the Spirit World to come here and accomplish a mission in mortality, a wonderful privilege that you will more fully realize in time to come.
You are a descendent of the chosen seed of Israel, a descendent of Joseph through his son Ephraim. Every blessing the Lord promised to them and their descendants shall be verified in your behalf.
Your progenitors were god fearing people, and they have given to you this wonderful inheritance that you have faith in the Living God. And it will become your responsibility to teach that to your children that they also may grow up in a knowledge of the Gospel and bring to your greater comfort than anything else in the world. As the mother has greater influence over her children, so also is the responsibility equally great for their mother.
You shall be protected from sickness and harm and live until you have accomplished the mission for which you came upon the earth. You shall not be laid low in sickness, for the Lord will watch over you and sustain and comfort you in all that you undertake to do; for I seal upon you the blessings of life and health and strength, and wisdom and understanding shall come to you from on High. You shall be protected from the power of the destroyer, and the angels of Heaven shall have charge concerning you, and you shall feel their influence that will encourage you to greater usefulness in the Church of Jesus Christ.
I say to you, Sister Josephine, teach your children the value of purity; for sin and wickedness rule the world; that they may grow up and become useful, valuable instruments in forwarding the Lord’s great work upon the earth, and joy and comfort will come to you. You will live and see some wonderful changes; for people on the earth, and if you are faithful to Him and His cause, you shall see Him face to face.
The blessings of the Lord will follow you wherever you go, and you and your dear ones shall never be in want. So I say to you, be of good cheer; there is a wonderful future before you. Be grateful to the Lord that you have come on earth in this most eventful time the world has ever known.
You shall have part in a glorious resurrection, and enjoy immortality and eternal life in the Celestial Kingdom of our Father; for I seal these blessings upon you in the authority the Lord has given me and they will surely be fulfilled, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. (#1094)
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