91 Still Vertical

By L.K. Abbott

The information about the book is not available as of this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781465305800

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Copyright © 2023 by L. K. Abbott.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 09/19/2023

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Contents

Preface

Thoughts From My Sisters Beloved Brother

1. Childhood: A Call Started It All

Schooling/Miracles of Depression

2. Christmas/Home/Remedies/Trip with Dad

3. Schooling/Bucking Fence/

Marvels of Our Time

4. A River Named Virgin/Cisterns/

Flood Dam’s a Gonner

5. The Narrows/Denzil’s Honesty/Scout Camp

6. The Virgin Tragedy/A Miracle

7. Brother/Aviation/Searching Sky/

First Plane Ride

8. The Virgin, My Brother, and Me

9. Faith/High School/Music Film/Corrections

10. Work/Contribution/Mr. Sweet

11. Gigs and Dating? Sorta/Ego Is Beginning

Okie’s Dust Bowl

12. City Slicker Cowboy

13. Concur Hollywood/Trust I Must

14. Dixie Junior College/Give Me a Break

15. Mary Knock Out But Knocked Down

16. Gold Mine/Collateral/Dad’s Help/Married

17. Trailer Home/Faster, LK, Faster/Shorty

18. Assayer/Car Dealers

19. Home/Pop Emery/December 7/Union/Draft

20. War/Employment/Home for Trailer

21. Bishop Meeting/Entertain/

Mr. Bigs/Habit Kicking

22. Two Masters/Engineer/Nick the Greek/

He’s a King?

23. Seeing Believing/Dad’s Interest in Me

24. Stick with Me, Kid

25. Bakersfield/Bombs/Earthquake

26. Pencil Jockey or TV/Differing Faith

He’s Still Listening

27. Inside TV/Bakersfield Stake/Nepotism

28. Movin’ on Up/Family/School/

Sisters of Laredo

29. Family Communication Failure/

New Challenge Social Drinker/

New Management

30. Adults and Youth Return to Hollywood

31. Lord, Are You Listening/Easter Sunday

32. Vietnam, My Son, and Faith

33. Miracles and Promptings

34. Relocating/Welcome/What’s This

35. That’s an Office/Lord, Please Listen/

Answer My Best Shot

36. Gopher or Management?

37. Management/Recommendation/

Changes/NCCJ

38. Salaries/Vacation/My Compensation Added/Assignment

39. Righting of Wrongs? Flying Visit

40. New Position, No Description

41. Recruit Sign Sister Stations

42. Japan/My First Encounter/Mr. Fukuda

43. Adjusting to Culture/Mr. Furuhata/NBS

44. Philippines/Singapore/Boogie Street/Thailand/Cambodia

45. Vietnam/Hong Kong/My Love and Treasure

46. What Now, My Love/Hold on, Mom

47. Gary Totland—Utah Special Olympics

48. Taiwan/Changes at Salt Lake

49. My Official Japan Report

50. Shattered Dreams

51. Act on This Quickly

52. How Much Better Can It Be

53. A Prophet’s Birthday/Boating/

Lake Powell/Not Mary?

54. Paraguay/Promises

55. Open House Mormon Temple in Japan/Anniversary Golden Bell Invitation

56. Time for Decision/Reader’s Digest Award/Company Party

57. Making a Stand in Dixie

58. Mary Mae, My Love

Dedicated to my Mary, my eternal companion,

and children, Kathy Lynn and Gregory,

for their love and their conviction that as

a family we will be together again.

Preface

W hy would a person ninety years of age decide to write his memoirs? The most compelling reasons were I always had a desire to write my history for my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Born handicapped at the conclusion of World War I and the beginning of the great depression in absolute poverty, my memoir is the story of my life as a Mormon. It is from my personal journals of hardships and tests of faith. Considering the blessings received by my family and me over the span of ninety-plus years, you can understand my faith has increased, not decreased.

A little over two years ago, I contacted my sisters: Millie Guinn, ninety-three, Shirley Ann Syphus, eighty-five, to meet with me in Mesquite, Nevada, where we were born and spent our childhood. I secured a journal for each to record events as we remembered them during that time. Each of us shared what we remembered. Each experienced the same events, but remembered them slightly different. Pondering reasons for the difference, I concluded it could have been difference in ages and gender. I decided if my memoir was written by someone other than myself, it would be the writer’s interpretation. The text would probably be easier to read and market, but would remain an interpretation with writer bias. I wonder if Hollywood’s films based upon true stories help or lessen the true story of an individual’s actual life. I felt the importance of writing a personal memoir comes from honest revelations of highs, lows, ebbs and tides, success and failures, happiness and pain experienced by the writer and in his or her own words.

The deaths of my father and my brother, only two years apart, caused me to doubt the presence of a loving and caring God. My mother’s and sister’s love for me never diminished. I made many mistakes during my angry youth. Punishment from Mother sometimes was hurtful and hard to deal with, yet I praise and thank a single mother for always following through with punishment and love as needed.

We all travel life’s journey in different ways. We may never become a president, a CEO, or chairman of the board, but we can be successful in personal accomplishments. Learning to accept successes and failures with faith all contributed to my being proud of who I became. As a result of prayer, hard work, and a struggle to maintain my faith, I found peace and happiness in a world gone mad. Like most, I have asked on occasion, why should I strive to be a person of integrity, honesty, and impeccable morals. Why?

The answer? I’m a responsible person held responsible for choices. Choices I made creating the person I became. At the conclusion of ninety-plus years, I can blame no one or hold no one responsible but myself.

During the years of 1969-1980, shattering events in my employment prompted me to write, If God kept his promises like many employers I know, then heaven would be a continuation of the Hell I am now experiencing, so why try to get there? My memoir will answer. God proved to me over and over again he is near, ready to keep his promises. He asks I keep my promises to him. The same rules apply today; perform the work prior to receiving pay.

On June 5, 1981, Howard Pearson, Desert News Television editor, wrote: Television should look behind the cameras for some of its fascinating human-interest stories. For instance LK Abbott of KSL-TV has engaged in enough activities that he would be a suitable subject for at least an hour special. Here is a television executive with a story containing as much drama as the movies/miniseries on television with executive ability to lead, but whose only appearances in front of the camera have been on behalf of his work with the Special Olympics and Sister Stations. One of these appearances was when chosen for a single honor by a competing television station KUTV Channel 2 in Salt Lake City. That channel selected him to be honored on their Together We Care project, citing individuals for their community service. Mr. Pearson’s statement of my having many stories to share helped in my decision to write 90+ Still Vertical.

On May 26, 2009, my great-granddaughter, Shelby Erasmus, interviewed me via phone for a school assignment entitled Veteran Interview. She wrote: "It was really great getting to talk to my Great Grand Father. It was like listening to a movie. It was really entertaining and I loved hearing him talk about it. Some of the things he mentioned I really wasn’t expecting so it was great to learn about those from him. Talking to LK, my Great Grand Father, I noticed a few things the way he spoke was very cool. He used a lot of catch phrases and he never really stumbled over his words or struggled with what he was saying. He is a very sharp guy for eighty-nine. It could have been a result from his TV broadcasting experience, but I think it came from his life during the great depression. He really stressed how much people talked to each other in the thirties. All that practice made him an eloquent speaker, a skill that is quickly fading in our society.

A second thing I notice was how passionately he felt about civil rights. Especially when he talked about his old boss Mr. Sweet. He didn’t say much about him, but the way he talked of him was remarkable. He expressed great respect and love for Mr. Sweet, his black boss. It was just surreal. It was then I realized what he must have seen and lived through. As interesting and entertaining as his stories were they weren’t just stories they were actual events that really happened to him and affected him. This was a really great experience. I just wish I had more time to talk to him so I could hear all his stories.

My princess (that’s what I call her) Shelby, we probably will never have the opportunity to get together again and rehearse more of your great-grandfather’s life; perhaps 90+ Still Vertical will fill the void. I plead with everyone to accept life as your greatest gift.

Learn to love, share, care, give, work, and express daily thanks and gratitude to all who help you on your journey. Thank God at the conclusion of each day for his bounteous blessings. No matter your trials, look closely for his blessings. Give yourself in every way to help the Lord answer your prayers. Never delegate to the Lord. When you pray for blessings for the sick, poor, and needy, have you done your share in helping them? If not, that is delegating. The Lord is a great taskmaster. He will follow your commitment and answer by blessing you with peace and love.

You will soon recognize from my memoir that I spent too much time not liking or hating because I felt I deserved better treatment. I felt I was receiving little help from God, when in reality he was constantly trying to help me. There were times I wondered and questioned, but my mother’s actions and testimony were such a part of me, I never completely turned off my spiritual connection. Problems developed when employed by KSL-TV, a corporation owned by my church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon). Why? Find the answer in my memoir. I let management phrases such as because the Lord called you or the brethren decided or the brethren called you upset me constantly. I should have known church priesthood leaders with authority and position are the only ones to do so. I believed KSL-TV management had the authority to use such phrases because they managed. My duty was to accept each assignment as one from the Lord. My point of 90+ Still Vertical is to help members of all religious organizations to look inward when making decisions — decisions that could affect your membership, belief, and the person you will become.

I was blessed by a family’s love. I prayed for my Savior’s love. My opportunity of associating with President Spencer W. Kimball and President Gordon B. Hinckley gave me glimpses into heaven through the process of forgiveness; devotion to God in deed and love opened the door in helping me to seek forgiveness from all I had hurt and to forgive all that had hurt me.

Few men experience seventy-plus years with their beautiful

companion, raise two outstanding children who prove their devotion by daily work and service to God and community wherever they live. I know without a doubt if anyone were to ask my wife, Mary, how this was accomplished, she would smile and reply, Because we earned it.

Thoughts From My Sisters

Beloved Brother

Dear world traveler,

When You visit Ambassadors, Potentates, and Heads of State—

When You dine in beautiful halls on golden plates

and drink from crystal goblets—

When Vistas of earth emerge as a panorama beneath

Your window space.

When a patchwork of valleys, rivers, cities, deserts spread

Like a vast scroll ever unrolling—

Do you Dear Traveler see the small barefoot boy waving?

Beneath?

—Millie Guinn, sister, age ninety-three

T he dance had already started. We could hear the music faintly at first growing louder and more exciting as we drew near to the open-air dance hall on the roof of Alf’s apartments. The few lightbulbs made little light for the dancers and the musicians. The big attraction was the orchestra of my brother, Laurel (LK). His pianist was Ann Tobler. A kid played trumpet from Bunkerville—I don’t recall who played the slap bass—and my brother, Laurel (LK), played clarinet, saxophone, and did the vocals. It was great. I loved it when they practiced in our living room with music from all the latest movies.

We made our way up the steep flight of wooden stairs, nearly out of breath as mother and I helped Aunt Mead to the wooden benches sitting along the railings of the roof. I was so proud of my brother. He had one of those big paper funnels he would sing through. He had such a beautiful voice, and I thought him the most handsome boy in town. He certainly was the smartest. He loved music and sang my favorite songs: Rain, When You Gonna Rain Again? The Anniversary Waltz, Dance with My Dolly, Standing on the Corner, and You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby.

I snuggled between Aunt Mead and Mamma; it was one of my happiest nights. I was dreaming along as my brother sang Red Sails in the Sunset. Then he put his paper funnel on top of the upright piano, walked across the floor, and took my hand; I was dancing with my brother, my prince charming. Tonight, I was really in a fairyland. I was Cinderella for sure. No glass slippers, probably heavy brown oxfords, but my heart was singing and my feet were light. I think I was floating. Yes, I was Cinderella at the ball, and tomorrow, I would be little sister again herding cows along the riverbank. But while my brother twirled me around the dance floor, I was in a fairyland more beautiful than Cinderella’s.

—Shirley Ann Syphus, sister, age eighty-eight

Chapter 1

Childhood: A Call Started It All

Schooling/Miracles of Depression

T he ringing of the alarm clock was not only displeasing during a sound sleep, but also damn disturbing since I never used an alarm clock. It quickly became evident it wasn’t a clock but the phone. I looked, it was nearly 6:00 AM ; I must have been in a deep sleep.

As operation manager of KLYD Television and Radio in Bakersfield, California, I was tired from the pressure and changes in programming and local commercial production during the Christmas season. A shortage of staff was not making it easier, so which one of my employees were calling in sick or wanting time off? Picking up the phone, I tried to hold back on my displeasure of the call by answering with a drawn-out, inquisitive Yeees?

There was silence! I was on the edge of losing it when a voice replied, Is this Mr. Abbott, LK Abbott? What is going on? This is not the voice of a family member, friend, or employee. With a little more warmth and question in my voice, I replied, Yes, this is LK Abbott. Can I help you?

Mr. Abbott, this is L. H. Curtis, president of KSL-TV. I remembered he was the tall handsome man standing over six feet with a delightful but authoritative look greeting me on my first visit to Salt Lake City two years earlier. My impression was he certainly knew how to dress. I was completely bowled over by his clothes, warmth, and concerns. My flight, on that occasion, had been diverted to Boise, Idaho, to set out a fierce snow blizzard at the Salt Lake airport.

Arriving at KSL-TV and Radio studios a day late, Mr. Curtis had been quick to convey his concerns about my trip and visit to their studios. I am sorry to call you so early, he said, but ever since your visit with us two years ago, we have been looking for a spot to have you join our expanding organization. An opportunity is now available, so I’m calling to see if you would be interested. The position is director of Commercial Film Production. It includes overseeing the production of all commercial films, including shooting, developing, editing, and recording. Starting salary would be your current salary at KLYD-TV plus an additional $50 per week with the opportunity to advance. What do you think? Do we have a deal?

He hesitated for a moment, then continued, If your answer is in the affirmative, you would need to be in Salt Lake City, ready to go to work on New Year’s Day, OK? It was only seconds before I replied, but it seemed forever. Should I? My wife, my children, what would they think? There would be much to be done in a short time. There would be accounts to close, home to sell, service organizations to be notified of my leaving. There would be packing and arranging for shipment of personal belongings such as furniture and clothing. I would need to notify my son, Gregory, currently serving in Vietnam. Our moving would mean his return would be to a new community and home. My daughter, Kathy Lynn, and her family would also need to be notified. The main deterrent was moving to an area that experienced heavy snow and icy winters. We had never lived in such climates. Desert Rats they call us, for the desert was the only home we had known. I remembered my one time, two years earlier, on a visit to Utah. Then rather quickly decided, I could handle it!

Was I crazy? It had taken me forty-nine years to attain my current comfort zone, why leave? Mr. Curtis was waiting for my answer. Salt Lake City was a much-larger television market than Bakersfield. Opportunities would be better. Could I possibly deal with the politics, the backstabbing, the gossiping that seemed to plague employees of corporations? I quickly got rid of such a thought; KSL was a church-owned TV. But then, there was the weather. Mr. Curtis was still on the phone, I must answer.

I’ll be there, Mr. Curtis, you can count on it.

That is great, LK. I’ll have my secretary send you all the information on places to stay, shop, locations of churches, and schools—

Mr. Curtis, I interrupted, my children are grown. My daughter is married and lives out of the area, and my son is currently serving in Vietnam. The information you mentioned will be sufficient. Oh, and by the way, may I wish you an early Merry Christmas?

There were the usual good-byes, a click on the telephone receiver, then complete silence. What had I done? I was fortunate my beautiful wife, Mary, had not been awakened during the telephone call. I slowly walked through the master bedroom, opened the sliding glass doors, and continued to the diving board at the far end of the swimming pool just west of the patio and master bedroom. I sat on the diving board looking into the clear blue water. A blush of the early morning sunlight touched its reflective surface. I suppose I was hoping for confirmation from somewhere to my question. Was this kid from Mesquite, Nevada, a product of the great depression, ready to step into the corporate world? The reflection on the water was mesmerizing and took me back to that wonderful time when having nothing was everything you had. Now was the time to take action and meet the challenges of a new tomorrow.

*     *     *

I was the fourth child born to Myron Decatur Abbott and Martha Ann Burgess. Other members included my brothers E. O. (deceased), Denzil, Millie, and Shirley Ann, who would be born three years later. Mother’s journal gives some insight:

One afternoon your father rode up informing me he had traded the old horse he usually rode, for the little mare he was riding. I loved the old horse but said nothing because your father was so pleased. After a lot of sweet talk, he realized I was not too happy about the trade suggesting we drive to Delta, Utah, a three or four day trip by wagon and visit with my sister. Instead of traveling the regular wagon road, your father took a short cut, so he said. We were moving along at a fair rate, when suddenly one of the horses dropped to the road, pulling the other horse down with him. Your father jumped from the wagon screaming, Annie, get the children out of the wagon. He wrapped the reins of the horses around his hands, pulling with all his strength. He kept pulling and speaking softly. Soon all had calmed and the horses were back on their feet, Never had I been so frightened. Things were strewn everywhere. Dust filled the air. The children’s crying and sobbing only added to the confusion.

When I finally gained my composure and calmed the children, I said, Myron, I’m not going back with you unless you get rid of that horse. When we arrived at Delta, your father traded the horse and a few days later we began the long wagon journey home.

At one particular place on our return, it was necessary to drive down a steep hill into a swampy area. As the wagon negotiated a sharp turn, I noticed the new horse had a crooked foot. Looking your father in the eyes, I said, Myron, if we don’t have a baby with a crooked foot, I’ll eat my hat.

What happened after that I would never forget? Your father grabbed my arm. It really hurt. But he held tight, staring into my eyes. I wondered what he was going to do? He had never hurt me or acted like this before. I felt the pressure lessen slightly and he finally let go of my arm. I had a weird sensation, and I knew, yes I knew I had marked my baby."

*     *     *

As predicted by Mother, I came into the world with a right clubfoot. My foot turned over on its side. My ankle served as my heel. The toes of the foot pointed in the opposite direction of my left foot. Life to me would be forever "a step and then a drag" situation. Trying often with all the persuasion I could muster, I was never able to convince my mother that she had nothing to do with my being born with a clubfoot.

Dad and Mom were a part of the pioneer group that developed land along the Virgin River in Nevada and Arizona in the 1920s. They were hardworking people; understanding you worked and produced or you perished. Their days began with the lighting of candles and kerosene lamps to penetrate the darkness so horses could be harnessed and hitched to a wagon, filled with their personal work equipment, and delivered to the work site by the time daylight was breaking to the east and they could begin their day’s work.

Days ended much as they began. Many chores had to be completed long after sundown by the light of lamps. When completed, the lamp wicks had to be trimmed, again filled with (Pearl Oil) kerosene, and short-burned candles replaced for the next day. Extinguishing all sources of light, sleep came quickly to the tired and exhausted bodies. In a few hours, the routine of work, darkness, and rest would begin again. In six days, they would be able to rest from their labors and use the time on the seventh day of the week to worship and to offer thanks to their God as they attended church. Later they would join forces to help friends or strangers crossing the hot, dry desert.

A short time after I was born, our family moved to an area referred to as the the Big Bend. It lies about seven or eight miles east of Mesquite, Nevada, along the north banks of the Virgin River in Arizona. To irrigate the fertile, but aired land, Dad constructed a waterwheel with materials he gathered from junkyards, the river, and roadways. The completed waterwheel lifted the water from the river into an irrigation canal constructed along the hillside a couple of yards above the river. Flash floods in the river were always washing out the rocky dam Dad had constructed to divert the river water to the wheel. The loss of any part of the rock dam left the wheel completely nonfunctional. In addition, the pesky little gophers delighted in burrowing holes in the banks of the irrigation canal and ditches. The great numbers and masses of holes would soon cause the banks of the irrigation system to collapse, letting the beautiful stream of water instantly disappear into the dry, thirsty soil leaving the canal empty. Rebuilding the dam seemed to be a daily process.

My brother Denzil related to me, while our parents were experiencing great financial hardships during the depression,

they cooked and ate cracked wheat three times a day, pulled pig weeds (a weed) for greens, and wrapped their shoeless feet in burlap to protect against the heat of the rocks and the burning sand. Yet under those horrible conditions, they remained ready and willing to always help others.

It was not unusual for motor buses to encounter trouble on the narrow dirt roads passing our Big Bend Ranch high on the hill above the flat riverbed land where Dad farmed. Often when trying to negotiate a sharp turn, the buses backed too far. With one of the bus rear wheels hanging over the precipice, it was unable to move. The passengers and driver would get out of the bus, stand in the road, wave their hands and hats, calling for help. Directing all their efforts toward the lonely figure working the fields far below, it took considerable time to get his attention. When they did get his attention, he quickly unhooked his team of horses from the plough or mower and headed up the steep embankment. He was very familiar with the problem since it happened quite often. Hitching his team to the bus, he pulled it safely back on the road. The passengers would join the driver in tying and resecuring extra tires and all the water bags to the side of the bus. Strange as it may sound, the moving bus cooled the water bags to the point that the water was refreshing and cool to drink.

Extra tires and water were a necessity for driving across the desert. The water-cooled engines regularly overheated and tires blew because of heat or rock punctures. The procedure for dealing with an overheated water-cooled engine: stop and let the engine cool sufficiently and replace the lost boiling water with cool water from several water bags. Flat tires were replaced by jacking up the vehicle, removing the wheel and tire. The hard work came in removing the tire from the wheel, so the inner tube (rubber), could be patched. Using a little water from one of the bags and a tire hand air pump, one was able to detect the hole (leak) in the inner tube. Then with some grating on the tube, a little glue, and a patch over the hole, the tube was checked and rechecked for air leaks. Finding no other hole or leak, the tube was inserted into the tire. The tire was then mounted on the wheel.

Finishing was the most difficult task of all. Everyone must take a turn at the hand pump inflating the tire to its proper pressure. Dad’s pay for his deeds of kindness in pulling motor buses back on the roadway or fixing flat tires was a thank-you. For Dad, that was sufficient during those challenging economic and otherwise difficult times. Being neighborly and friendly was reflected in each person’s contact with others.

*     *     *

Life was not getting better as the 1920s continued, so my parents gave up the Big Bend farm at the end of their lease and moved to Mesquite. Here, we would be close to extended family members while Dad looked for work in Las Vegas. He found a position with Dr. Parks, a banker and real estate owner/developer, immediately arranging for the family to join him. Again, here is a quote from my mother’s journal:

Dr. Parks upon seeing Larky’s club foot said to your father. Myron, you take that baby to Salt Lake City and have that foot fixed. Don’t you worry about cost, just have it done. I’ll take care of it no matter the costs. Your father was honest, loyal and dedicated. He kept every promise made. Your father proved in a very short time he was a man of integrity. Dr. Parks gave your father his personal checkbook full of signed checks, and sent us on our way.

After a successful operation, the family returned to Mesquite except Dad, who continued to work for Dr. Parks in Las Vegas. Mesquite, Nevada, was wonderful. Its people were hard, rugged, religious, working people and all members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Everyone knew everyone. Children greeted all adults as uncle, aunt, grandma, or grandpa. Adults greeted each other in the frontier, Good morning, Sister Hughes or How are you, Brother Barnum tradition. All acted as one big family with few secrets. If a child needed correction, the nearest adult was free to make the correction. Not one person took offense or threatened to sue. We were family—a magical area and time in which to live.

As a child, you soon became aware of the positions of the men and women in church and town. I recall Howard Pulsipher was the bishop; Elmer Hughes, owner of the grocery store and theater. He conducted church music and small orchestra for dances. He played the violin. Uncle Will Hughes made all the caskets for the area. I remember watching him build the casket for a child and how tender and caring he was in seeing it was the best possible at the time. Sylvan Hughes owned the garage. Uncle Will Abbott owned the Abbott Hotel. Uncle Arthur Hughes and his family ran the thrashing crew. Uncle Stan Pulsipher was water master. Aunt Emma was schoolteacher. Uncle Abe Woodbury owned a small store (a wonderful place to sneak a piece of candy now and then). Mr. Harper’s farmed melons and grapes received most of the attention of the youth on Friday nights. Jack Hardy owned the service station; Alf Hardy, some apartments and the dance hall; Lamond Hughes, a great, wonderful dancer. I loved watching him and Mother do the Scottish or Danube Waltz. I would be so intrigued by the beautiful way they glided across the floor in the schoolhouse, I lost out on swiping some of the pies and cakes to be auctioned off later during the night. I recall Mr. Waite’s place where he sold homemade ice cream. Three large scoops of ice cream on a banana covered with chocolate, pineapple, and strawberries, with crushed nuts for ten cents. I remember the ice house in Bunkerville. Ice was made in one-hundred-pound blocks or cakes. Later it was broken into two fifty-pound cakes or four twenty-five-pound cakes. On occasions it was work, breaking the cakes into pieces small enough to be placed in sufficient number of quart jars around the body until burial.

Television had not been invented, radio was limited, no electricity (Hoover Dam was being constructed during this period), and newspapers were not available on a regular basis. What you could see, hear, smell, or taste were your instruments of learning. I spent most of my leisure hours trying to figure out the world I was a part of.

My excitement during those economic hardships of the twenties will not be understood by my posterity and others, for they have not faced trials such as the depression heaped upon us. After ninety years, I can honestly say my youth-depression years were some of my greatest. If I mention I walked five miles to school, my children respond with Yea, yea we know, we know. What they fail to understand is, we are not complaining. Walking to school was not a hardship, it was the norm. The same as riding a bus or driving to school is the norm for them today.

*     *     *

I spent hours chasing meadowlarks over the freshly mown alfalfa as they flapped their pretended broken wings. I ran after sandpipers putting on the same act in the shallow waters along the banks of the Virgin River. I came to realize the broken-wing act of the birds was a way of leading me from their nest of eggs or young chicks. I am positive a mother, no matter the species, is always the first line of defense when it comes to protecting the young.

Shade in the desert is always at a premium. Desert creatures dart from one small shaded spot to another. Looking in the distance, heat waves distorted and painted a mirage of water just a mile or so in the distance. Dust devils (whirlwinds) are everywhere. It was the beautiful deep-blue skies overhead, with the majestic surrounding mountains, that gave me a sense of safety and security.

In this environment, I pondered answers to questions such as: Why did the sidewinder rattlesnake move across the hot sand horizontally? This was different than other snakes, why? Why did I slowly sink in the swampy marshes of the river? There was no movement, so why should I sink? Why did the Milky Way with its millions of stars appear in a different position each night? How close was heaven? How was it possible for red-wing blackbirds to cling to the narrow blades of a cattail as they moved erratically in the hot summer breezes? How were they able to construct nests? Why did the migrating geese always fly in V-shaped formations? How did they choose a leader? Where were they going? How and who decided? How could they find their way? How could a little ant find food? Was it by smell or just an accident? How did hundreds of ants join the first? What language did they speak? How did they communicate? As I asked these many question to myself, I soon learned answers to questions come in many different ways. I do know you retain and remember answers when you are personally involved.

One afternoon, when I was about four years old, I was returning home from herding our