Kite-Flying Time

I have gotten into a routine, some might say a rut, lately with just posting my Rambling Through Time Articles here....sorry.  It seems like all I do any more is write, go to school, write, do Relief Society stuff, write, study and take tests, write, and occasionally do laundry and fix food.  


Happy spring.  Please go fly a kite for me!

One thing you can always count on in Millard County, in addition to the decent people of the area, is the wind.  The wind makes for either superb kite-flying or kite-shattering experiences.  When I was a kid I had a great deal of sympathy for Charlie Brown and his lack of kite-flying skills, but the spring after my ninth birthday I stopped feeling sorry for him because I was dealing with my own kite woes.

Every March a bucket full of paper-covered balsa sticks would appear near the toy rack at Morris Mercantile.  Word would spread like wild fire, "The kites are here" and all the kids in town would collect their quarters and head to the store.  The way the paper was tightly wrapped around the wooden sticks made it impossible to tell what the design on the kite would be, so it was always a surprise after paying your 75ȼ and unwinding the paper to discover what your new kite looked like.

The kite I opened on the steps of the Merc in March 1971 had a yellow background with a bright red Chinese dragon emblazoned on the front.  I excitedly ran home, asked my mom to attach a tail of fabric scraps, found several spools of string from previous years' kites, and headed to the pasture.

I carefully attached one end of string to the center of the kite, uncoiled a few feet of the twine, and tossed the kite into the incessant breeze.  This routine usually had to be repeated over and over, but on this particular day, that new kite caught a draft which carried is straight up into the air.  It spooled the string out so quickly, I had to grab the next ball of twine and the tie the ends together.  The air current continued to pull my dragon kite higher and higher until the second spool of string was exhausted and the kite was just a yellow speck far off in the distance. 

I was anticipating the bragging rights I would have at school the next day as I started winding the string around a wooden stake.  I kept wrapping the string around and around bringing the kite closer and closer. When it was about 100 yards out, a sudden gust of wind grabbed it, spun it upside down, and slammed it to the ground off in the distance.  I started walking and winding in the general direction of the fallen kite, exalting at the height it had achieved.  I rolled and rolled as I walked past the chicken coops, I wrapped and wrapped as I passed the pig pen, I wound and wound as I approached the corrals.  I saw the string was stretched over the top rail of the goat enclosure so I continued winding as I stepped on the bottom rung of the fence to peer over it to locate the landing place. 

Oh, the horror that met my eyes as I pulled myself up to look over the goat pen.  My kite had fallen right in with the goats and all that was left of it was some shredded yellow paper, the string, and the last bit of balsa wood support stick being chewed by the nanny goat.

I will never forget the visual image of that goat's lips, tongue, and teeth pulling those last few inches of kite stick into its munching mouth.  That picture has replayed in my mind hundreds of times over the years.  Good grief! I don't believe Charlie Brown's kite-eating tree has anything on my kite-eating goats. 

Spring Fever Rambling

This is my Rambling Through Time column for the 

3-20-2012 edition of the 

Millard County Chronicle: 

Ditch Burning Time

When the air warms up and the ground dries out, I begin to notice a waft of smoky vapor.  I inhale deeply trying to capture the fleeting scent, then realize it isn't real.  The distinctive smell drifts up from a corner of my memory every year about this time.  It is the aroma of burning weeds, grass, and leaves along the ditch banks of my childhood.  Early each spring, Hon Taylor would come by with his huge propane tank pulled by a tractor with a hose connected to his military-grade flame thrower, which he used to clean the irrigation canals of all the dried material which had accumulated over the previous year.

As small children, my brother and I were enthralled by this ritual and would follow Mr. Taylor and his marvelous contraption as he blackened the ditches all along the perimeter of our property.  The fire roared as it leapt from the nozzle and the stream of flame instantly incinerated the dead vegetation.  The blast of heat waves would redden our faces and arms as we observed the spectacle.  A time or two Mr. Taylor had to warn us to 'stand back'.  Okay, it was probably more than a time or two…but how could you resist striving for a better view of that action?

One year I recall that the large corner post of our lower corral, which was a creosote-soaked railroad tie, caught fire after Mr. Taylor made his rounds.  We hauled bucket after bucket of water down there that afternoon and thoroughly drenched the thing, but late the following night, my mom noticed an orange glow from that corner.  She and dad went out with more buckets of water and soaked the tie again. The next morning, we realized the fire had continued to smolder; there was nothing but ashes left to mark where the post had been.

After charring the ground each year, a miraculous thing always occurred.  Just like the legend of the Phoenix rising from the ashes; up through the sooty dirt of the ditch banks came the sweet, tender, spear-shaped shoots of asparagus. 

I would walk along the ditches of our property during those first weeks of spring searching for the elusive asparagri with my hunting implements of a brown paper sack and small paring knife.  It takes great persistence and fortitude to locate enough of the slender plants to make a meal.  Each expedition would take me on widening circles to procure adequate supplies of my prey.  Like any fisherman or huntsman, the best hunting grounds were secret places known only to me.

Asparagus season lasts a very short time. The stalks become woody, begin to grow tall, and develop feathery fern-like tops with red berries as summer comes on.  It takes six years for a asparagus root system to mature sufficiently to send shoots through the soil and several more years before they are large enough to cut.

During those few magical weeks of spring as I would proudly return with my sack full of prized, succulent shoots, mom would have a pot of water boiling.  After a quick wash to remove dirt and ashes from the beautiful spears, they were quickly simmered and served salted and steaming.  Pass the butter, please.

Random Rambling

           The summer of 1968 when I was six and my brother, Jim, was three, our mother was admitted to LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City for surgeries and treatment of a tumor in her adrenal gland.  She was away for nearly three months so Jim and I became Relief Society projects as we were passed from house to house to be cared for until she returned home.  I have some hazy memories of the kind townspeople who allowed us to stay in their homes, sometimes for weeks at a time.

One of those families was the Taylors who lived on Main Street in Hinckley.  Mr. Taylor was an old farmer, who walked with two canes.  He lived with his sweet wife, and their 30-something son, Ralph, who had been blinded in one eye.  There were legends circulating around town when I was young, that Ralph, as a teenager, had been hit in the face with a snowball containing something that caused him to lose that eye. Some of the stories said it was a rock, others said glass and I remember one version which claimed it was acid.  Regardless, the Taylors were charitable and allowed this couple of little snot-nosed, cry-baby kids to stay at their home for a period of days while their Dad went to work and their Mom was in the hospital.

The Taylors didn't have any toys at their house since their youngest child was an adult and I don’t believe they owned a television set. Needless to say, those few weeks were less than thrilling for Jim and me. Jim showed his displeasure at being there by running away at least once a day. A three-year-old on the run was a big sister's responsibility so I would track him down and bring him back. He was usually hiding in a haystack or old shed somewhere between the Taylor's house and our place. 

Mrs. Taylor made us liverwurst sandwiches for lunch each day we were there. She used crumbly, homemade wheat bread.  One day as we sat at the table eating our sandwiches, she decided to treat us to some Kool Aid. We thought that sounded tasty on a hot afternoon. Mrs. Taylor set out some silver-colored aluminum tumblers. (Do you remember those tall aluminum tumblers that looked like hammered metal? They made everything taste awful and I think may be the cause of Alzheimer's in many people of that generation. For some reason they are a hot ‘retro’ item now and you can buy or sell them on ebay for an exorbitant sum.) Mrs. Taylor filled two of those shiny, metal cups to the top with orange punch.  Jim and I each took a big, thirsty gulp only to be shocked into nearly spewing it all over the Formica table. Mrs. Taylor hadn't added the cup of sugar to the water and little packet of orange powder. It was nearly the nastiest-tasting stuff we had ever tasted, but our parents had demanded we be polite, say 'thank you' and eat/drink everything we were given and never be wasteful, so I dutifully and miserably swallowed every drop of bitter Kool Aid.  I was never so relieved to see the bottom of one of those ugly cups.  I had to coax, threaten and cajole Jim into finishing his punch. He kept sipping and making faces.  Just as he finally drained the last dribbles from his tumbler, Mrs. Taylor walked back into the kitchen and cheerfully refilled both cups with more of the sour stuff. Without even a pause for breath, Jim burst into tears, jumped from his stool, and ran out the door to find another hiding place.  

Do you have a Random Childhood Memory you would be willing to share? Please email Georgia at jojaworld@yahoo.com  She will help write it up to share with Chronicle/Progress readers in this space. 

Near Perfection

The sanctity of the track has been absolute the last two mornings.  There were no shrieking teenage track team members; there were none of the normal chatty, middle-age walking groups; no speed-demon racer charging up behind me; there was just me, all alone with the whole track to myself for a full hour two days in a row.

The full moon was beyond spectacular both mornings.  Yesterday I watched it setting in the west and gleaming across Willard Bay in a glorious manner.  This morning it was in a more southern position and seemed like a spotlight because of its brilliance.  I could read my watch and pedometer without having to come into the pool of light from the parking lot...amazing.  It was so bright, I could actually tell that the new track suface is indeed red.

With a beginning like that, I should be able to do well on my biology quiz, write two Chronicle articles, clean my house and make a nice dinner for the kids who are gathering to have their dad help them do their taxes  today.  Heck, with a beginning like that I should be able to do something really spectacular....hmmm what should it be?

The Best Mousetraps

I reworked an old blog post for my Chronicle article this week.  Supposedly recycling is a good thing.... I hope someone else thinks so.

On a gusty day in March 1969, my dad was moving his giant stack of cement forms from one place on our property to another. Jim and I were helping, though I imagine a seven- and four-year-old were more of a hindrance than a help. Our brainless Chocolate Labrador, Tinker, was running around the fields biting at air and gleefully dashing through clumps of dead weeds. Our dad had set up a new location for the forms to be elevated off the ground six or seven inches and we were shifting the large, heavy, cement-encrusted and oil-drenched boards from the old pile to the new.  The very vivid part of this memory occurs when dad pried up the corner of the very last board in the old stack and a mouse streaked away into the weeds. As he continued to  lift the form, the sound of high-pitched baby animal cries came to my ears. Dad yanked the board onto its edge and revealed a large nest in the ground with about 10 tiny, nearly-naked mice in it. I was horrified and jumped away at first, but then I bent in to look at them closer. They were encased is a nest lined with all kinds of soft bits and pieces of dried grass, feathers, and old fabric fibers. The babies all had their little heads raised and must have been blinded by the sunlight streaming in on them. I had just caught my breath and started to comment about how cute they were when my dad called to Tinker and she bounded over to us, caught sight of the nest and gulped the baby mice down it two or three swallows. My revulsion was beyond bearing. I fled into the house howling at the top of my lungs. My mother rushed to my room to decipher what could cause such a commotion. Between sobs I told her the whole, ugly story. It was one of the few times I remember my mom scolding my dad about something he had done. She gave him an earful about his ruthless behavior and how it would 'scar me for life'.

The mental pictures from that day are indelibly stamped on my brain, but I feel nearly as linked to another mouse event which I didn’t witness, only heard about.

My mother-in-law, 'Mimi', had been widowed and living alone for about 6 years when she had an infestation of mice at her house. Being innovative and never wanting to ask for help, she fashioned a homemade trap by lining up peanuts on a shelf in her storage room and then putting a handful of peanuts in a deep, narrow garbage can. The next morning she had seven (YES, 7!) mice caught in her trap. She said they were a writhing mass climbing over each other attempting to claw their way up the sides of the can without success. Her dilemma became: “what do I do now?”

Mimi decided to get the can outside and dump the mice into her big, lidded garbage can. She carefully carried the can up the stairs, but as she shifted it to open her sliding glass door onto her deck, she must have tilted it enough for one mouse to claw up to the top of the can, onto her hand, up her arm, where it leapt from her shoulder onto the decking and dashed away. At that point she changed her plans for the remaining six mice. She covered the open end of the can with a heavy garbage bag, tipped the mass into the bag, tied the top, and used her gardening hoe to chop them up before dropping the bag into her bin.

Mimi was 83 years old when she became the 'exterminator'. She related the event to us as she showed us the shelf, the can, walked us out onto the deck and held up the little, short-handled hoe saying, “This is the murder weapon.” I have gone back and forth between shivers and giggles over little Mimi as the vicious mouse murderer.

I read Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nihm to my children years ago when they were small. It gave me a different perspective about mice and rats, but I will still never stop recoiling at the thought a dog eating baby mice OR having one climb up my arm. I guess Mimi and I both relate to the cartoon character, Felix the cat, when he said, "I hate them meeces to pieces!"

A Story of a Different Type

I'm not sure if I have mentioned that writing for the Millard County Chronicle is paying off for me.  Not only do I get a free subscription (both digital and hard copies!), but it is functioning as an internship for me at Utah State University.  I needed one more credit to finish my associate's degree this semester.  I'm actually earning 1.5 credits for my work at the Chronicle--BONUS!!  Anyway, because of the internship thing, I am asking for input and suggestions from the paper's owner/editor, Shellie.  Shellie has been really laid-back and hands off about my writing.  To this point, she has just published whatever I have submitted, but last week she made a suggestion (the first one).  So for this week's paper, instead of a Rambling Through Time memory, I interviewed someone and wrote an actual news story for the paper!  I know, right?!

So here is my first attempt at an interview-based column.  I submitted it to Shellie last night, but I don't know if it is what she had in mind or if she will actually run it in the paper, but I'm printing it here anyway.  Thanks for reading!

             A couple of years ago, Kevin Caldwell was living in Davis County and working in the real estate business.   He and his wife, Brittany, had purchased, remodeled, lived in, and then sold a series of homes.  Brittany, tired of the process gave Kevin the ultimatum of choosing one last project or else... What a project he picked!  As of a year and a half ago, the Caldwells are the owners of the old Millard County Academy.   Kevin and Brittany Caldwell and their four children--Colton 22, Shyann 15, Maverick 9, and Savanna 6--have lived in several Utah towns over the years, but have decided to make Hinckley their permanent residence. 

            Kevin originally saw the old Millard Academy building on the MLS (multiple listing service).  The family stopped by to see the building and grounds on their way to Las Vegas for a weekend, they submitted a bid when they returned home, and were closing on the sale a few days later.  It was a quick decision, but one the Caldwells are not regretting.

            Since moving to Hinckley, Kevin and Brittany have enrolled Shyann, Maverick and Savanna in the local schools; have hauled away over 150 loads of garbage and debris from the premises; replaced the entire roof decking; covered it with tar paper; and installed nearly half of the 90 windows in the building.  Kevin says in the next couple of weeks they will start shingling the roof and will continue to install windows so the structure will finally be weatherproof. 

            During the warmer months, the Caldwells reside in the old gymnasium just south of the school building.  Kevin says to imagine living in an RC Willey store.  Furniture arrangements define the boundaries of living areas within the large, airy space.  During the winter, it is too difficult and costly to heat the whole gym, so they live in a 5th wheeler parked between the school and the gym buildings.  That must offer quite a contrast, far beyond the temperatures, between the winter and summer months for the Caldwell family.

            Kevin says their ultimate goal is to make the Millard Academy their home.  Their plans for the old Hinckley High Gymnasium include refinishing the hardwood floor, re-installing the basketball hoops, adding exercise equipment, and offering it as community sports facility.  As for the school itself, he hopes to restore it to its former glory.  Kevin and Brittany Caldwell love the history of the area and specifically this building.  Many people have stopped by in the last 18 months to see how the work is progressing.  Caldwells often offer a tour of the work site and have visitors sign a guestbook.  They have appreciated the visits and hearing the stories of hundreds of former students who attended school in the structure.  The Caldwell family says this venture is a 10-year project, but look forward to eventually opening the renovated building  for tours and hosting an alumni dinner to celebrate the restoration of the magnificent old edifice. 

Last of the Series of Tours (Millard Academy)

This was an absolute labor of love for me to reminisce as I walked readers through my old Elementary School.  There were periods of tears flowing down my cheeks, there were  smiles and out-loud guffaws as I strolled through some of these old memories.  I hope you won't find them too tedious.  Thank you for your patience and for wandering with me through an important part of my childhood.

Hinckley Elementary School--Part III, Upstairs

          Welcome back to the Millard Academy.  How generous of you to come and finish the tour of this splendid, old building.

            Let's head up the north staircase with its carved oak banister and balusters, past the girl's restroom on the landing and up the next stairway to the second floor.  We'll step off the stairs into the interior corridor, walk forward and turn right to the only door on the north end.  This leads into Mrs. Tolbert's second/third grade classroom.  The most vivid memory I have of third grade and this room was Mrs. Tolbert's piano and singing folk songs about Billy Boy (who liked a young thing who could not leave her mother), On top of Old Smokey (all covered with snow), Down in the Valley (where you hang your head low); and so many others.

            Coming out of Mrs. Tolbert's room, as we head south along the carpeted corridor we come to the double swinging doors centered on the west wall.  I was fascinated by this room with its heavy, old, walnut tables and walls of books.  Because of this space, I have always wanted a library in my home.  I'd like to replicate this room exactly with its rich, dark wood furniture, moldings, and doors; bookshelves from floor to ceiling on three walls; and huge framed windows overlooking the school yard and town.

            Straight across the corridor from the swinging library doors, was a set of four steps going up to the back entrance onto the stage in the auditorium.  There was a set of coatrooms on either side of that door.  I think I might have to devote another column to these coatrooms and the antics that went on there.  A monster lived in one which devoured school papers, mittens, sweaters and other miscellaneous items and got me into big trouble once.

            Back down these steps, we will turn left and walk to the only door on the south wall. This was Mrs. Hardy's fourth/fifth classroom.  Within this room I learned Utah history, discovered my love for Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, and developed friendships that have lasted through the decades.  It is a place I connect to pure joy and great sadness.  Mavis Hardy was a sparkling personality and a delight to be around.  Every student loved her and I was thrilled, after spending my fourth grade year in her class, to find my name on her door on the first day of fifth grade.  Unfortunately shortly after that school year began, Mrs. Hardy became ill and starting missing days, then weeks at a time, and finally she didn't return.  Mrs. Hardy passed away in 1973.  School was closed for her funeral and the church was filled far beyond capacity with family, friends, and students paying respect to this marvelous lady.  It was the first tragedy of my life.

I spent my last elementary year in Mr. Farnsworth’s fifth/sixth classroom in the southwest corner of the top floor of the school. Mr. Farnsworth spent the entire year telling us he was preparing us for junior high, but I think he prepared us for life.  He effectively taught all the academic subjects, but in addition our class produced the school newspaper; we decorated the bulletin boards each month; and we adapted several books into plays.  Blue Willow and Robin Hood hold a special place in my heart because of my roles in those productions.

From Mr. Farnsworth's classroom, we'll stroll across the wide corridor and then along a narrower walkway to enter the auditorium that takes up the entire east side of the top floor.  This room was the crowning jewel of the Millard Academy.  It had a beautiful hardwood floor; a raised stage with a heavy, royal blue, velvet curtain; and great arched ceilings which made the acoustics so superior, a sound system wasn't needed.  I remember years of dancing, school programs, class photos, plays, and sixth grade graduations that took place in the auditorium.  I'm pretty sure if you look there now, you would find a piece of my heart tucked away in a corner because I left it there when I graduated from Hinckley Elementary School in May of 1974. 

An old photo of the stage at  the Millard Academy--1920

  Until two years ago, I worked for the Arts in Education Division of the Utah Arts Council, during that time I was invited to many private and public institutions to help establish arts programs. I have also had the chance to visit schools of several states and even other countries. I discovered there are wealthy schools and there are underprivileged schools, there are facilities parents pay tens of thousands of dollars per year for their children to attend.  I always find myself comparing my own education to what these schools offer and I have come to the conclusion that I had one of the richest learning opportunities available anywhere in a beautiful, old, historic building located in Hinckley, Utah.

This is how the auditorium looks now with the plaster torn down and
wood flooring pulled up.  I have great hopes that it will be restored
to its former majesty and that I can visit it without crying someday.

Send your comments concerning this or any other topic to Georgia by phone or email--801-737-4787 or jojaworld@yahoo.com 

The Millard Academy Part II

This is the column for this coming week's Millard County Chronicle.  In my defense I typed it at 11:00 p.m. last night, so I was getting rather ridiculous.  My proof readers, Dani and Bryan, didn't veto it though, so it was sent to press. 
Hinckley Elementary School--Part II, Downstairs

This is a photo from the back of the school taken in 1912.
It is such a beautiful building.

This is the front entrance of the Millard Academy
with its first graduating class in 1914

            It has been 38 years since I attended Hinckley Elementary School, yet I still frequently find myself within those walls in my dreams.  The place seems to hold some kind of spell on my imagination, because I wake up some mornings with the vague feeling of having walked the halls and stairways; performed on the stage of the auditorium; played games in the gym; or studied in a classroom or the library the previous night.  Perhaps it has something to do with the many happy childhood hours I spent in that edifice.

            Over the seven years I attended HES, there were  never enough students to warrant having a teacher for every grade so the second graders were split between the first and third grade classrooms and the fifth graders were split between fourth and sixth.  Even with combining the grades this way,18 students was my largest elementary class size.  Most teachers now would think it was pure heaven to have that kind of student-to-teacher ratio.

            Relying on 38-year-old memories and more-recent sleep images, I invite you to walk with me through Hinckley Elementary:  Upon entering the giant, arched front doors of the school, we find ourselves in a large inside lobby.  The classrooms are on the outer walls with the windows, so this foyer is a great echoing space with doorways exiting off from it.

            The building is completely symmetrical with each side a mirror image of the other. If you turn to the right upon entering the front door, the main office is the first room you encounter.  I seriously have no memory of ever being in this office.  I guess that means either I never got into trouble or I just never got caught. Beyond the office there are two doorways on adjacent walls at the inside corner, the first door leads to an empty classroom, but the next one is Mrs. Hales' first/second grade classroom.  I spent two fun-filled years in that room learning to read and write and singing songs about little white ducks and lily pads.  Continuing past Mrs. Hales' room, we come to the wide, green-carpeted stairways--one going up, with the boy's blue-tiled restroom on the landing--and a flight going down to the gymnasium on the lowest level.

            Back at the front doors, if we turn left, we will pass the nurses office (right across from the principal's office), then the two doors at the northwest corner that lead into the Kindergarten rooms.  The wall between the two rooms was taken out so there was a classroom section and a playroom section in the large space.  My memories about this area of the school all revolve around graham crackers and milk, a big toy train, blocks, poster paints, and sleeping mats rolled up and stored on the back counter.  One time in 1974 when my mom was PTA president and I was watching my baby brother during an after-school meeting, I took little Mark into the kindergarten room to play and ended up losing the end of my finger to a vicious guinea pig who lived in a cage where the sleeping mats had previously been stored.   Now that recollection merges with my actual kindergarten memories.

           

            Past the kindergarten complex was the other set of stairways; going up to the landing, here is the pink-tiled girl's restroom with three stalls, two sinks and a large rack filled with wire baskets for the girls' gym clothes. I remember the gritty soap in the dispensers and the toilet paper holders meting out little folded squares, but mostly I remember the way the room smelled of floor wax, bowl cleaner, and sweaty gym clothes.  When I read Harry Potter to my children several years ago, I pictured this restroom when I read about Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. 

            Taking the stairway down leads us to the gymnasium, just like the stairs on the south side of the building.  The gym was a place of wonder and magic.  Weekly each class had an appointed time in the gym.  We played basketball, dodge ball, ran laps, climbed the rope or did chin-ups on the bars.   There was a set of stairs leading to a catwalk that encircled the ceiling of the room. During gym period, the teacher would send a student up there to untie the climbing rope and toss the end down below. I recall the thrill of climbing that massive rope from the floor all the way to the top and putting my hand on the ceiling; I remember throwing a ball so hard, I got boys 'out' while playing dodge ball; and I recollect the powerful feeling of pulling myself up on the chinning bar.

            Oh, wait... maybe those last few memories were just dreams…

We will tour the upstairs of Hinckley Elementary next week.  Please call or email your memories (and dreams) to Georgia at 801-737-4787 or jojaworld@yahoo.com 

This week's RTT Column

Hinckley Elementary School--Part I (The Outside)

The old Millard Academy building was completed in 1912.  The Academy served the students across Millard County until 1923 when it became Hinckley High School.  The building was used in that capacity for 30 years until 1953 when Hinckley and Delta High Schools merged.  The building then became Hinckley Elementary School.

I walked to and from Hinckley Elementary from kindergarten through sixth grade in every kind of weather. As all the girls of my generation, we wore dresses to school every day, regardless of how much snow had accumulated or how hard the cold wind raged.  Walking to and from school wasn't the only time we were exposed to the elements.  The lunchroom was located outside the school on the north side of the building.  The sixth grade students were first to eat each day.  The younger students would stand on the cement walk waiting for the tables to empty before the next group would be allowed to enter, collect a tray of food and be seated to eat.  The cafeteria was a barrack building from the Topaz Interment Camp located west of Hinckley, it had been hauled in from Topaz sometime after 1948 when the Japanese-American citizens, who had been relocated there for three years during World War II, were finally released. (It would be interesting to know what the  Millard Academy and Hinckley High students did for lunch each day prior to this building being brought in and fitted as the cafeteria.)

We always rushed through lunch so we would have plenty of time on the playground at the noon recess. The playground took up the northwest portion of the school grounds with a tall silver slide, monkey bars constructed of 2" pipe, and two large swing sets all positioned in deep bed of pea gravel.  All the equipment was built of heavy-duty, galvanized steel and I believe is currently in use at the Hinckley City Park.  Behind the school there were two baseball diamonds and a football field.  There was also a pile of shale where children spent many recesses splitting rocks in search of trilobites.  The double-wide, straight sidewalk that ran from the street to the great arched front door of the school was the perfect place for jump rope and hop scotch and a large spot under a huge cottonwood tree at the south side of the school was cleared and leveled for playing marbles. It was a veritable fantasyland of recess fun!

During my second grade year, a new craze hit the playground--spinning on the monkey bars. Using our coat or sweater to limit the friction and for padding, we would hook one knee over a bar and throw our weight forward twirling head over heels around and around until we were so dizzy we had to lie on the grass while the world stopped reeling. It must have been quite a sight with all those little dresses and skirts flying in the breeze. This fad caused some trouble for me when my family moved to Pleasant Grove the last six months of my third grade year.  One of the first days at my new school, I tried to show some girls how to spin on the monkey bars, not realizing their bars were spaced differently.  When the bridge of my nose met a lower bar on my first rotation, it knocked me out and I learned how painful a broken nose could be.

When we moved back to Hinckley at the beginning of fourth grade, the new trend was to bring bright-colored plastic water guns to school.  Mr. Farnsworth banned water pistols, but that didn't stop kids from bringing them and having water fights during recess.  Over the first few weeks of school, the sidewalks and sandy playground areas were littered with green, orange, red and yellow plastic shards where Mr. Farnsworth would seize and smash the water guns to smithereens with the heel of his shoe.

Even though I was terrified of Mr. Farnsworth before I reached sixth grade, I looked forward to being the oldest at the school and to all the privileges that went along with that.  Mr. Farnsworth's classes were given the responsibility of keeping the school grounds looking nice. We had a day in the fall and one in the spring when we brought rakes, shovels and other yard tools and worked outside during the school day cleaning, pruning and burning to keep the grounds neat. These were the two days each year the girls could wear pants.  I can't remember if we took advantage of that to slip away from the work and twirl on the monkey bars.  It makes my nose ache to think about it.

Next week we will take a stroll down memory lane inside Hinckley Elementary School.  Please email or phone Georgia with your memories of this grand old building and the rooms, teachers, students, and events of this place (jojaworld@yahoo.com or 801-737-4787).

Recommended

Within the past month, I have read completed four books.  

I have also read several chapters from my Folklore and Biology 

textbooks and I am on track with the 

100 day Book of Mormon reading plan our ward is doing.  

I have read a lot this month.  

I have watched no television this month.

Today I added two of the four recently completed books to my 

"Favorite Books" list on this blog.  

One of them should have been there all along 

because I have read and loved it twice before.  

I just finished A Tree Grows in Brooklyn 

by Betty Smith for the third time.  

I read it first when I was a teenager and again about 

12 years ago, but this reading, has left my heart weighed 

with a pang of tenderness and sadness.  

The poignant story of Francie Nolan growing up in New York 

in the early 1900s is both 

powerful and gentle; brutal and sweet.

The second book added to the list was one I 

finished a few days ago,  

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

by Rebecca Skloot is  

the true account of the woman behind the 

infamous HeLa cells which have changed the course of 

medical history forever.  It is also about Henrietta's 

poor, uneducated and beleaguered family left behind 

to struggle and suffer through the mystery of who 

their mother was and the part she has played in 

advancing modern science.

At times it was so compelling, I could hardly put it down 

and at others times, so disturbing 

I wasn't sure I could pick it up again.

I recommend them both heartily!

Rambling Through Time

I have been asked how to locate and read the Millard County Chronicle on-line. I found that it is now impossible to read the on-line version of the paper without having a username and password (which requires a subscription), so I've decided I will start posting my Rambling Through Times column here each week so they are accessible to those people who have asked to read them.  Thank you to my loyal fans--you both know who you are!


Here is the column that will run in tomorrow's Chronicle (1/25/2012) entitled The Merc:

Another fond memory of growing up in Hinckley was visiting Morris Mercantile on Main Street.  The 'Merc' was one of very few Hinckley businesses in operation while I was growing up.  Another was the Sinclair station at the corner of Main and the highway, which was referred to as the 'Hinckley Second Ward' due to a number of Aaronic priesthood holders who would congregate there on Sundays to drink pop and visit during church.

My mom would send me to buy lunch or dinner fixings at the Merc and would tell me to say, "Put it on our account." and Mr. or Mrs. Morris would write up the order in a little book, I would sign it, and the yellow carbon copy would go into the bag with the purchase.  I loved when Mr. Morris would slice long, red paper-wrapped bolognas.  When I close my eyes, I can still smell fresh bologna slices with the red strips of paper peeling from the edges.  I recall the ancient cash register that sat high in the center of the store surrounded by the refrigerator cases.  It probably weighed a couple of hundred pounds and it rang cheerily every time the cash drawer opened.  You could spend hours exploring the soft goods,  school supplies, toy rack,  greeting card drawers, and the shoe and clothing shelves in the back of the store, but my favorite thing in the whole place was the candy counter.

The Morris' candy counter was a glass case about five feet wide and four feet high with sliding glass panels in the back for  access. The well-stocked case had glass shelves.  The top shelf was divided into compartments which held the penny candy like Smarties; Pixie Sticks; Swedish Fish; Tootsie Rolls; Hubba-Bubba Bubble Gum; and my favorite: thick, stubby black licorice sticks that turned your whole mouth black.

The next shelf down held nickel candies which included packages of Pop Rocks and small boxes of Lemon Heads, Boston Baked Beans, and Alexander the Grape. Those thin taffy slabs and the flat Jolly Rancher sticks, which you could lick into a candy dagger, were also five cents each. 

Ten cent candy was kept on the shelf just below the nickel stuff.  A dime would buy a roll of Necco wafers; a thick, crunchy Chick-o-Stick; a bag of red or black Twizzler bites; or a box of Good and Plenty, Mike and Ike, or Hot Tamales.  Those long, red licorice ropes; the packets of powdered candy with the edible dipping stick called Lik-M-Aid; and the soda-flavored Bottle Caps also resided on the dime shelf.

The lowest shelf in the case held the items that went for a quarter--candy bars and rolls of Life Savers were the things I remember down there.  The candy bars were bigger and Life Saver rolls were longer back then, but  I rarely spent an entire quarter on one item.  I felt I got more value from my twenty-five cents when I purchased a bag of penny, nickel and dime candies. 

The Merc's clerks took candy orders from kids with faces pressed against the glass front of the counter.  Sometimes they spent long periods of time with a single indecisive child as he tried to select from the array of scrumptious options.  Once chosen, the medley of sweets were dropped into a small, flat, paper sack, the coins or old pop bottles would be collected and counted before the bag was handed over to complete the transaction.  After school and throughout any given summer day, a line of children was usually waiting for their turn to push themselves against the front of the case.  Mr. Morris was constantly saying, "Don't lean on the glass."  When I was young, there were a myriad of hair-line cracks along the front of the case, as time went by, the cracks increased in number and size and on my last visit to Morris Mercantile as an adult, the case had so many pieces of cardboard and tape holding the glass together, you could hardly see through it anymore.

When I was young, a visit to the Morris Merc candy case rivaled  a Willie Wonka golden ticket.  Every kid in Hinckley had a life-time supply of every candy we wanted (except for the Everlasting Gobstopper; that's what we were leaning against the glass looking for).  I wonder if Dr. Cox, the only dentist in Delta at the time, realized why the kids in Hinckley had the worst teeth in the whole county?

Do you share some of Georgia's childhood memories?  Please send comments to her by email or phone: jojaworld@yahoo.com  / 801-737-4787.

University Tours through the Years

Yesterday I took Camille to Logan for a tour of Utah State University.  I can't quite put my finger on the reason why this has been so much more difficult on me than taking the other three around to universities during their senior years.  It was exciting and fun and we looked forward to the next phase of life, but with this youngest child, I'm wanting to hold back and hang on a little longer.  I suggested that she live at home and commute the first year.  That didn't go over too well.

Kevin, our oldest, received a scholarship from USU when he was a senior so that was the only university he considered attending.  He and I went to several campus events for seniors and were shown around and given the information on housing, meal plans, tuition and campus life.  He attended the Applied Technology College for the few months between high school and his mission and when he returned from Korea, Kevin had no qualms about his decision to attend Utah State.  We moved him into his dorm in August 2005 and he hasn't lived back home since then.  He received his undergraduate degree in May 2009 and started his masters program the next fall.  He receives his graduate degree on May 4, 2012 and we will see where he goes from here.

Danielle had several options open when she was in high school.  We did college tours at Weber State, Utah State, and Southern Utah State.  She auditioned with her clarinet for all of these schools' music directors.  Every one of them wanted her to play in their orchestras and bands and all offered her scholarships to do so, but none were as persistent as Dr. Stoffen at SUU.  He called her every day or two until she finally agreed to choose Cedar City.  She had a full-ride academic scholarship, a housing scholarship, and a music scholarship.  Dani finished her bachelor's degree is three years without incurring one penny of debt.  She ended up changing her major from music to history her junior year, but she still had a music minor when she was finished.  She graduated from SUU on the exact same day and time as Kevin was graduating from USU, so Rob and Bryan went south and Camille and I went north to support our graduates that day.  A month later newly married Dani and Kelly were heading to Baltimore.  Now three years later, Dani will be graduating from Johns Hopkins University with her Masters on May 24, 2012.

Bryan also had several university tours scheduled, but he decided that even though he played several instruments, he didn't want to be in college band or orchestra, so his tours did not include auditions.  He was burned out from the many high school music events he participated in.  Bryan had full academic scholarships offered to him by Brigham Young University, Utah State University, Weber State University, and University of Utah.  He also had an incredible amount of interest from out-of-state universities.  In the end, he opted to attend U of U in Salt Lake.  They required him to attend one quarter before his mission and then place the scholarship on hold until he returned from Hungary.  He attended one more semester at the U when he got home, but his focus had changed during that time, and he has since transferred to WSU where they have a stronger Information Systems and Technology program.  He is working towards his graduation in 2014.

So back to Camille.  She has mulled over her options and considered her siblings experiences.  She originally felt like she had to go some place the other three had not attended so she was leaning towards Utah Valley University, but that fell along the wayside somewhere.  Then she thought perhaps she would follow her sister to SUU in Cedar City, but that didn't see fruition and now she is set on following Kevin to Utah State.  Considering that is where I attended school 30 years ago and am once again enrolled, plus that is where her dad received his degree, I suppose that gives her more reason to want to be an Aggie.  Rob, Kevin and I all have had very positive experiences with USU and living in Logan.

This is such a big decision and becomes all-encompassing during the next chapter of a teen's life.  I wish Camille all the success and happiness she can possibly attain as she prepares to leave home and begin school in just a few short months.  I hope that I am up to losing our youngest child to university life and all that accompanies it.