tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35278778229410873222024-03-15T18:09:13.836-07:00Robert Goble's BlogRobert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-83935405037458197442017-03-18T10:58:00.000-07:002017-03-18T10:58:03.006-07:00Identity Thief Assumes Another's Facebook Profile. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I hate to break it to J (<i>Ladejobi</i>), but I don't really have any cash to send to identity thieves; I don't really have enough to send to myself, so I'll be glad to send you this stock photograph. Maybe we can both wish together. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If you're a facebook user, how often have you gotten a friend request from a stranger? How about a friend of a friend you don't know, a "mutual friend"? I get a lot. Most of them post selfies of beautiful young women with wardrobe malfunctions, and their small stable of friends happens to boast all men. I've gotten quite good at using that little "delete request" button. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today, on this beautiful spring Saturday morning with bright sunshine and yellow daffodils (I really should be doing yard work right now), I shuffled out to my lap top to check e-mails and facebook messages. I see the little red number indicating today's friend requests, and my automatic question is how many of these requests will survive my delete button. Instead of the usual number of buxom beauties (I quickly check the number of their friends to give me the first clue whether it's a real profile or not, but the buxom beauty usually gives it away from the start. If I happen to be number three or four of their entire stable of friends, that's a good indicator of a phony profile, but, come on! A twenty-something model wanting my friendship? I quickly check my wallet and shake my head. Nope.), I find a photo of a sweet looking grandmother type who happens to be the friend of a friend. My automatic assumption is she's someone who has read my comments on Magna history or one of my novels. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just as my finger is on the "confirm" button I notice the number of her friends. I'm number three. I withdraw my finger from the "confirm" button. Instead, I decide not to delete the request right off, but to have some fun. So I message the little old grandmother--I hate identity theft and the people who commit it. I hope you'll get the same awful enjoyment from this as I did, so I'll stay in on this beautiful spring morning to write this blog just for you.<br /><br />To protect the innocent, I'll abbreviate names. The person sending me the friend request had robbed the identity of "J." Our mutual friend is "L.W." <br /><br />Here is the conversation that followed: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> Hello. Tell me about you. </span></div>
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school friend so you page show on my profile wish i read and find interesting
and i try to add you up If i must confess, work has prevented me from
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page great things have to me on it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hope you have heard about the Home
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> I see you have L.W. on
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me: How's L.W. doing these days? When
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> She is doing good Am talking to her now to know when
she is getting but haven't reply me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me: </b>Ask her how Berlin was. I loved it
there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Okay Hope you have also heard about the
Home Care Service Grant program going on now?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> Are you from her high school class
in Alta? You might be a grade younger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Yes..........I was just wondering if
you have heard about the current program going on now?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> Looks like a great program to donate
to. I donate millions to charities. I live in Las Vegas right now. How can I
help you. Are you still there? Gotta run now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>I'm having trouble not laughing out loud. People are still asleep in my little humble home in Magna. </i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid="">By now I have contacted L.W. to tell her the new J profile is a fraud. I also notified facebook.</em></i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Yes I need assistant from you</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> How may I "assistant" you?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> I need $ to maintain my condition of
living.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> Where are you living these days?
Alta?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J: </b>No......am in south carolina now I rent a house am living here So i need your assistant to settle
my bills for the house rent and some other things. Are you there?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>At this point I find the real profile for J. The real J is a retired mathematics professor who had taught at the University of South Carolina - Columbia. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> How could you have fallen on hard
times? You were the great mathematics professor at South Carolina State.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>South Carolina State is a different university. </i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Yes There is alot to say all things just
change and getting bad suddenly So that is why am looking for
assistant that someone like you can help me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> Was it the hurricane? Or the
earthquake? Is your house all right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Is the earthquake </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Can you please render a little
assistant now?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">South Carolina isn't known for big earthquakes.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> I'm writing a check for $10,000.00
right now. Do I send it to your old address? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> No </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> I can send it to your box at the
university. I still have your address there. Mark can receive it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>I just made up mark on the fly. </i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> No</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> I'll call Mark right now. I'm getting the phone. He'll be
devastated to know your situation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> No don't call Mark right now</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> He'll donate too. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Let me send you the address to
deposit me the money.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> My publisher will be interested in
your story. The great mathematics professor suffers financial tragedy in the
South Carolina earthquake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J: </b>I don't want Mark and others to know
about my situations now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> They must! We can pool the money. So what address do you want the
money sent to. My publisher can donate another $10,000.00. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> I need an Itunes Card first Send me an Itunes Card $500</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> To what address?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> You just get to any store and get me
the Itunes Card of $500 and snap it and you send me the picture.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> I don't carry a phone for public
reasons. Only the publisher has my phone number. I should get you in contact
with my agent and lawyer. They can help you if you want Itunes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Please tell me where you are
staying. I can have a check sent priority mail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J: </b>Ok Let me have it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> Please send me your address. I'm
assuming you're with your son if your house was destroyed in the earthquake.
I'll send it to him. He can get it to you. My wife is preparing the envelope.
All we need is your address. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> You have to send it to me through
Western Union store or Money gram store Send me the picture of the envelope
and money for proof</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me: </b>How? I don't use a cell phone. I can
call my lawyer to help you. He can use his camera. He also has a computer
forensics department to help me locate your IP address to know the location of
where you are writing me from. That will help me help you. I have him on the
phone right now. He's patching onto this conversation to locate you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>A long pause.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Are you there? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Another long pause. I start to do other things.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He just messaged his IT employee. They'll ping my IP address and
reflect onto yours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> So how did you want me to believe
you that you are sending me the money?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me: </b>Please help me to help you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Did you have a WesternUnion or
Moneygram account?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>I can't believe the guy is back at this point.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> My wife is a mathematics teacher.
She said to tell you hello. She remembers the faculty dinner you attended at
Brown university. She was a graduate student then. You had a wonderful
conversation with her. She's very surprised to hear this news.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Ok</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me:</b> My lawyer says he was able to get
your phone number. He just sent it to me on another message. I'll give you a
call right now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>At this point I make a wild guess of where our little identity theft criminal might really be. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By the way, your IP address is
showing Africa.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J: </b>Yes</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Bingo!</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i> </i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me: </b>How did you get to Africa?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> I went there to visit someone for
excursion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>I've never met a person suffering devastation from an earthquake in South Carolina who is able to go on an African safari. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Me: </b>Give me the address of your hotel
where you are staying. I'll send the money there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015754692310"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">
</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> Okay Name:Ladejobi Shuaib City:Surulere
State:Lagos Country:Nigeria Zip Code:23401</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>This time I laugh out loud. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">send it Western Union or Money gram store</span><br /><span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A long pause.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are you going to send me the money how do I believe you send me the picture</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So now I know I'm supposed to send $10,000.00 to Ladejobi Shuaib. Whatta guy. I'm so sorry to hear he was devastated in an earthquake in South Carolina. I'm not done having fun yet. </i></div>
<br />
<div class="_4tdt _ua1">
<div class="_ua2">
<div class="_4tdv">
<div class="_5wd4 _1nc7 direction_ltr">
<div class="_h8t">
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid=""><br /></em></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><b>Me:</b> Hang on a little longer. My lawyer just messaged me and told me that his CIA contact can pinpoint your exact location. I'll have my lawyer wire the money to the CIA contact, and he can take it personally to J in Nigeria at this address </span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<span class="_40fu"><span class="_2u_d"></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="_4tdt _ua1">
</div>
<div class="_4tdt _ua1">
<b>J (<i>Ladejobi</i>): </b>No Sent the money Western Union or Money gram store</div>
<div class="_4tdt _ua1">
<div class="_ua2">
<div class="_4tdv">
<div class="_5wd4 _1nc7 direction_ltr">
<div class="_h8t">
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><b>Me:</b> My lawyer handles my money. My wife is calling your number right now. I need to speak with you. </span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><br /></span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<b>J (<i>Ladejobi</i>)</b>: No I do not have a phone</div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><br /></span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><b>Me:</b> I gave permission to my lawyer to have his CIA contact pinpoint your location through your IP address and then match it with GPS data. He will find you there. </span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><br /></span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<b>J (<i>Ladejobi</i>)</b>: No are you going to send the money send it Western Union</div>
</div>
<span class="_40fu"><span class="_2u_d"></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<span class="_40fu"><span class="_2u_d"></span></span><div class="_4tdt _ua1">
<div class="_ua2">
<div class="_4tdv">
</div>
<div class="_4tdv">
</div>
<div class="_4tdv">
<em></em></div>
<div class="_4tdv">
</div>
<div class="_4tdv">
<br /><div class="_5wd4 _1nc7 direction_ltr">
<div class="_h8t">
<div class="_4tdt _ua1">
<em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid=""></em><div class="_ua2">
<div class="_4tdv">
<div class="_5wd4 _1nc7 direction_ltr">
<div class="_h8t">
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><b>Me: </b>Don't worry. He's very fast. </span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid=""><br /></em></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid="">By now I'm getting breakfast, and the family is awake and about the house. I invite my wife and daughter to read the conversation. We're all laughing.</em></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid=""><br /></em></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><b>Me:</b> Your computer IP address is not a hotel. Where are you. My wife is ringing your phone. </span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid=""> </em></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><b>J (Ladejobi):</b> </span><em class="_4qba" data-intl-translation="This message has been temporarily removed because the sender's account requires verification." data-intl-trid=""> </em><span class="_4qba">That is not my phone that phone is not with me</span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><br /></span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="_4qba"><b>Me: </b>Yes it is. She's speaking to you right now. Stay at your location. We'll be sending the authorities. We've now pinpointed your GPS coordinates. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="_ua2">
<div class="_4tdv">
<div class="_5wd4 _1nc6 direction_ltr">
<br /><span class="_40fu"><span class="_2u_d"></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="_ua2">
<div class="_4tdv">
<div class="_d97">
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>J:</b> You are sending the money through
money gram store.</span><span class="5w-6"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span><span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hope you
understand me Robert? Just ask your lawyer to transfer the money to the address
I sent to you throughr money gram and he should send me the reference number he
was given from the store. L.W. is here on Facebook with me.</span></span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Me:</b> Ask L.W. what she thinks of Berlin. Has she been to the opera? </span></span></div>
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<span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="_5wd9 _5wdc uiBoxYellow clearfix">
<span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>A long pause while I finish my breakfast and start on other projects. When I return, the </i></span></span><span class="_4qba">J (Ladejobi) <i>messages are no longer there, and a message from facebook says the message has been temporarily removed and the sender's account "requires verification."</i></span></div>
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<span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span><span class="5yl5"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></span></div>
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Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-7983517130178515382015-11-01T07:53:00.000-08:002015-11-01T07:53:58.464-08:00Part V Is Here! In Older Worlds: Chad Crawls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6gGTeAVi69G7_1pL-JaSR5LPHz_weqNXDfG-OTuT65YyArUTRs4Qj3BZpCLE8GayN_2MXJhhrNk1euM34Cn5HZCpiWuVld61MjaLrqCThs-QrdHh63RRsl0JxVOBzcfS9ErIanEZNdg/s1600/In+Older+Worlds+Part+5+v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6gGTeAVi69G7_1pL-JaSR5LPHz_weqNXDfG-OTuT65YyArUTRs4Qj3BZpCLE8GayN_2MXJhhrNk1euM34Cn5HZCpiWuVld61MjaLrqCThs-QrdHh63RRsl0JxVOBzcfS9ErIanEZNdg/s320/In+Older+Worlds+Part+5+v2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Older-Worlds-Crawls-serial-novel-ebook/dp/B016SGEGEA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1446391126&sr=8-1&keywords=in+older+worlds+chad+crawls">Click here for In Older Worlds: Chad Crawls (A Serial Novel, Part V) on Kindle.</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
While Dwight Donaldson's expedition of young guardians travel into
perilous and unexplored areas of the other world, Judith seeks to
protect her grandson, Donnie Fish. Dwight Donaldson's past is revealed,
and the Mahesh cult reunites in dark rituals. The path of Bogie's life
will be forever altered, and BJ will stumble upon the truth.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Chad Crawls is the fifth of a six-part e-serial.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"An addicting storyline. I feel as if I had lived and grown with the
characters; it's an emotional ride, and I begin to miss them like old
friends. Goble's descriptive writing brings to life a town and a time I
never knew and made an alter-earth believable!" --Wyatt Rivers<br />
<br />
Start the journey here by reading:</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Older-Worlds-Nancy-Disappears-Serial-ebook/dp/B009PUG3GQ/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1446392387&sr=8-2&keywords=nancy+disappears">In Older Worlds: Nancy Disappears (A Serial Novel, Part I)</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Older-Worlds-Donnie-Bleeds-Serial-ebook/dp/B009Q92X7E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1446392544&sr=8-1&keywords=Donnie+Bleeds">In Older Worlds: Donnie Bleeds (A Serial Novel, Part II)</a></div>
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</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Older-Worlds-Weevil-Kills-Serial-ebook/dp/B00AJB5GNQ/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1446392674&sr=8-2&keywords=weevil+kills">In Older Worlds: Weevil Kills (A Serial Novel, Part III)</a></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkbjzR01NEJz3SXirf58pblb3VLzLwE0qPjW_YoJSc7e90KsrfjNvPTUmi7ihICozh2BgUz2a99wa0yc9Y9FLOuj9sF6jHyqzP3KAmNl5_AxiAog8HE3GYuAugk94ezlLR-4JTaNgDCk/s1600/Part+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkbjzR01NEJz3SXirf58pblb3VLzLwE0qPjW_YoJSc7e90KsrfjNvPTUmi7ihICozh2BgUz2a99wa0yc9Y9FLOuj9sF6jHyqzP3KAmNl5_AxiAog8HE3GYuAugk94ezlLR-4JTaNgDCk/s1600/Part+4.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Older-Worlds-Jennie-Weeps-Serial-ebook/dp/B00CCFMF90/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1446392829&sr=8-1&keywords=jennie+weeps">In Older Worlds: Jennie Weeps (A Serial Novel, Part IV)</a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Soon to be announced, the breath-taking and terrifying conclusion:<br />In Older Worlds: Rachel Heals (A Serial Novel, Part VI)</div>
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Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-71809342361290072882014-10-05T11:47:00.001-07:002014-10-06T15:17:53.067-07:00Interview with Daniel Thatcher, Magna's District 12 State Senator.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gFQbsqhtuie6NrI3mMqcWC0kfhMXo51WLc9I0frgzIlF77FAgiFmqw3svo2EG1og3HL14pnxuQnFDR0Ezi3Vy7RWTqCuJoxUqrR2iTzAUOwbRl11X7nxqLhNhUb3_wEjZhZl1L43GU4/s1600/S6301111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gFQbsqhtuie6NrI3mMqcWC0kfhMXo51WLc9I0frgzIlF77FAgiFmqw3svo2EG1og3HL14pnxuQnFDR0Ezi3Vy7RWTqCuJoxUqrR2iTzAUOwbRl11X7nxqLhNhUb3_wEjZhZl1L43GU4/s1600/S6301111.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">State Senator Daniel Thatcher. Magna (Historic Pleasant Green) Main Street 2014. <i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: Senator,
I really appreciate your time, that you would take the time to talk to me. I'm
very interested in the work you've been doing, and I've seen you at meetings,
Town Council meetings, Community Council meetings. I've seen you at our
parades, and I've had numerous chances to talk to you, and you've told me some
very interesting things at different occasions about what's going up on the
hill in Salt Lake. But just to introduce you to people who might not know you,
you're the senator for District 12. So what is District 12 please explain
district 12 for those who don't know what that is?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: Well, District 12
takes in parts of West Valley, Magna, Kearns, West Jordan, one precinct in
Taylorsville, Copperton, the unincorporated west bench of Salt Lake County,
Tooele, one precinct in Erda, Pine Canyon, and Lincoln out in Tooele County. So
as you can see it's a very small, very compact, very homogenous area. (Smiles)
That's a joke, by the way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: (laughs)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: It's huge!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: It's massive! I'm
mainly writing this for my fellow Magna (historical Pleasant Green) residents.
I'm very interested in the work that you've been doing for us. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Public Safety</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: As a senator, I see
my first and foremost obligation as protecting people. Now there are many ways
I do this. The highest profile of these is that actually serve as the Chair of
the Appropriations Committee for Executive Offices and Criminal Justice, which
is the budget that oversees corrections, public safety, the Highway Patrol, the
entire judicial branch, the executive branch--so the governor's office, the
Attorney General's office, the auditor: all of these things I am responsible to
figure out their funding. So that's probably the highest profile way in which I
take care of public safety and protect people. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From 1980 until 2010 the
number of cars on Utah roads increased by almost three hundred percent. The
number of troopers to keep those people safe didn't grow by a single trooper.
We did not add one single trooper to the road in thirty years, while the number
of cars tripled. So in the past four years, I'm very proud to say that there
are thirty two more troopers on the road than there were when I took office.
Our safety stats show that. The number of accidents are way down. The number of
drunk driving incidents are way down. We have statistically the safest roads in
the U.S.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsmC54cIPgJQn7ydJkMBZfuO4QWb709u5RhmB2Ftn3HoAIY8BdllKJFWa0PghDlPw15r7hqYmmvmituW7o4oNLl6WfVQ65Xg4i4yrS86r10QTCNwY-QISwa6Gqm7lgpBDV3-h1U7NRs4/s1600/Rpictures+164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsmC54cIPgJQn7ydJkMBZfuO4QWb709u5RhmB2Ftn3HoAIY8BdllKJFWa0PghDlPw15r7hqYmmvmituW7o4oNLl6WfVQ65Xg4i4yrS86r10QTCNwY-QISwa6Gqm7lgpBDV3-h1U7NRs4/s1600/Rpictures+164.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4th of July in Magna (Historic Pleasant Green) 2009. Salt Lake County Sheriff before UPD. <i>Photo by Robert Goble. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>:
I've talked to several people recently who don't know who their senator is.
They say they don't vote and wave off the conversation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: Many people don't
know that they have legislators. I mean, they know, oh, well, the law says this
and that but they don't really understand the process by which something
becomes a law or by which a bad law is repealed. A lot of people don't
understand that they have people who have specifically been elected...now maybe
some of them vote; half of them statistically don't. You have a member of the
House of Representatives and you have a member of the Senate that have been
elected to represent you and your entire neighborhood and area in deciding what
the rules are, what should be changed, what should be removed, and who's
allowed to do what to you. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now I take my
responsibility as a senator very seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think that my primary obligation is to protect people. Sometimes that
means protecting people from the government. I don't represent the government,
I represent the people. When the government steps out of bounds, there is
nobody that can step them down. There is no one that can intercede. When Salt
Lake County-- I'll tell you, half the reason that I ran for office in the first
place was because of the response that I got from the person that had been
representing us in the senate, when I asked him what he was going to do about
the police fee that Salt Lake County dropped on Magna. Salt Lake County broke
the law to do that. They violated tax law by calling a tax a fee. But here's
the problem: even though it was blatantly obvious that they broke the law,
there's only one entity with the authority to make them stop, and that's the
state. Only the state can make the county stop when it's out of bounds. In this
particular case we had a senator who felt..."well...you know...whatever
the county does, that's not my problem. I should let the county do whatever
they like. I'm sorry. I couldn't stand for that. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So the very first thing
that I did when I decided that by golly somebody has to stick up for us, and if
nobody is going to run, I guess it's going to be me. I made a commitment that I
was going to walk every precinct. I knocked so many doors it was ridiculous. I
wore out three pairs of shoes. Every single door that I knocked in Magna, in
Kearns... they all said the same thing: This thing is so egregious. Can you
please help us. Well, I gave my word that I would, and that was the very first
thing I did when I got elected, was to pick that fight. And it got bloody, and
it was brutal, and it was rough. And it took a year longer than I wanted it to
take, but we won that fight. We passed a law that said 'you may not charge a
fee for public safety purposes.' <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Public safety is
non-negotiable. A fee is appropriate for something like a fishing license. If
you don't want to pay a fee for a fishing license, if you don't want to pay to
run hatcheries and stock streams and lakes in Utah, then by all means don't pay
that fee, and don't get a fishing license, and don't use the benefit that you
don't want to pay for. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But how do you opt out of
police protection?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: You can't.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
You can't. It is a fundamental right as a human being to life and to liberty
and to go about your business as long as you're not hurting others. If we don't
have public safety, then you don't have those fundamental natural rights that
all human beings are granted by their creator.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: Right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: So if we're not
taking care of that, then, frankly, what are we even doing? So that was the
first fight that I picked. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the Township Bill</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: This past year,
I'll tell you, one of the most insidious things I've ever seen was this
township bill. It was sold by Salt Lake County as this great thing that will
protect the boundaries of your township, and it will help increase the
services... Well, I like to call it the 'Frankencity bill,' because their plan
was to take all unincorporated areas, non-contiguous areas, to take areas that
do not connect and have nothing in common and form a giant unconnected monster
of a city. It would be a Frankenstein's monster patchwork with Magna and Kearns
and the unincorporated west bench and Copperton and Millcreek and the Sandy
Islands and the Canyons and make it one giant unconnected city--<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wait! What?</i> How is that a good deal for
any of those areas? The other challenge is it would create a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">city</i>, which means that the county would
be able to start using all of the taxing authorities that cities have that
counties don't. Counties aren't cities! There's a reason they don't have those.
They have tools cities don't. Cities have tools counties don't, because they're
supposed to be doing different jobs. So this bill almost got rammed through
with almost no one understanding what the consequences of this bill would be. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It took almost everything
that I had to get that bill delayed. Now, it's going to come back. It's going
to come up again next year. We can't just ring our hands and say, oh, no, what
are we going to do? What we need to do is we need the people of the
unincorporated parts of Salt Lake County to speak up. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I will be fighting this
again. But if Salt Lake County is showing up and claiming to have support from
all of these councils... they claimed to have support from the Magna Town
Council. They claimed to have support from the Kearns council. It's hard for me
to imagine these councils would have said: Yes. Go ahead and plaster three new
taxing authorities onto our citizens. Please lock down our boundaries so that
we can never incorporate, we can never self-determine, we can never have our
own planning and zoning commission. That's not okay. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So that really took a lot
of work. What I was able to do, I pointed out how complex and how potentially
far-reaching the consequences, that we needed to study this for a year, so
we're going to study it for a year. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Salt Lake County is not
going to give up. They know if Magna incorporates they'll lose their power and
authority over you. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, there needs to be,
obviously, something. Because, if you want municipal services, you're going to
have to pay for them, and this is not the way.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sWjslZHJDporASF1NKmOMMyzidhIlb73QEAPx65gF60_xP9E4vkjbD-zcEKXngU9T4FHuD5cupqrIpMI_aNofoOUiol6CrKBPa0LAsDQjYepaseSmr1dW2CMleDmovGAamcwxCQMCFc/s1600/DSC00260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sWjslZHJDporASF1NKmOMMyzidhIlb73QEAPx65gF60_xP9E4vkjbD-zcEKXngU9T4FHuD5cupqrIpMI_aNofoOUiol6CrKBPa0LAsDQjYepaseSmr1dW2CMleDmovGAamcwxCQMCFc/s1600/DSC00260.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What Sets Thatcher Apart From Other Senators?</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: There are
twenty-nine senators and seventy-five members of the house of representatives.
We have CPAs, we have developers, we have bankers... I'm the only guy up there
that I am aware of that actually works in construction. I'm the only blue
collar guy up there that works with his hands that I'm aware of. Frankly, I
think that fits perfectly with our district. The other difference is my level
of involvement. I am so active in every community out here. I have been to
every single school in the entire senate district, and I believe I'm the only
legislator that can say that. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because of my
responsibility as the Chair of appropriations for Executive Offices and Criminal
Justice, I feel personally responsible for going out and seeing first hand
where the tax dollars that I appropriate are being spent. I go out with the
Department of Public Safety and do checkpoints and see how they're
administering them. I've gone with the State Bureau of Investigation and seen
how they do undercover alcohol stings. I've been on countless ride-alongs with
the Highway Patrol. I've been up in the search and rescue helicopter. I have
driven the emergency vehicle operations track. I've sat in countless court
room, watching to see how people are treated at every stage of the criminal
justice process, from both the victims and the accused. I've seen the juvenal
justice system in action. I've seen how parole is handled. I've gone with the
Board of Parole officers to revoke some paroles, because I've wanted to see
what happens. What are you guys going through when you go and revoke a parole?
And I'll tell you, it's hard to watch. It's hard to watch somebody being picked
up from their home because their house is filled with drugs and alcohol,
especially when there are children present. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It's difficult for me to
go to a school and have the person who is responsible for tracking visitors in
that school tell me, oh, I can't find the clipboard. Just go on in. Not okay. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today I started my day at
a breakfast with a non-profit as they were explaining what they do and where
they spend their money and why they would like more money to expand their
program. I left that early so I could get to an elementary school in Tooele,
and help hand out end of year awards to their students who had scored
particularly well on their testing or who had won the events at track and field
day last week. that was the high point of my day. </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Magna's Economic Development</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: I went to the
groundbreaking of Freeport West, which is going to be millions<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of square feet of light industrial out here
in West Valley, which should bring thousands, literally thousands of jobs. And
because it's just on the other side of 7200 West, hopefully that will have a
trickle effect into Magna as well. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frankly, I wish that
Magna's (county's) Planning and Development... I wish that Magna had economic development that
cared as much about Magna as West Valley City cares about West Valley City. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
let's talk for just a minute about Freeport West that is going in West Valley.
It is just east of 7200 West, right on the frontage road, just off 201. It is
close enough to Magna that you should be getting gas stations, you should be
getting sandwich shops, but you'll notice that both of the gas stations that
popped up specifically to support the Freeport West popped up on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">east </i>side of seventy two. 7-eleven and
Maverick both across the street from each other on the West Valley side of the
border. Why? Wouldn't it make more sense for one of them to be on the West side
of that road for people coming in to have a right turn access? Why did they
both build on the West Valley side? Why didn't one choose to build in Magna?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: My first assumption
would be that they got a better tax break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: I don't know that
that's true. I will tell you this: when I spoke to the developers, when I spoke
to the investors who chose to buy the land and chose to develop and chose to
put this Freeport center together, the both told me "we wanted West Valley
City because these guys have rolled out the red carpet. These guys have bent
over backwards, West Valley City has been so good to work with, they have bent
over backwards, they have helped us every step of the way." <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Why isn't Salt Lake
County's Planning and Development being as business friendly as West Valley?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: I think that's the
biggest complaint as I talk to business owners around Magna, the frustrations
they have with the county. That's the first thing they bring up: frustrations
with the county. They don't feel like that either their being treated fairly or
that it's made easy for them. And so a lot of businesses either chose not to
open up on Magna or they end up folding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: Well, look: I was
born and raised in West Valley City. I live in West Valley now. As a West
Valley resident I don't think it is appropriate for me to tell Magna what to
do. Now as your senator when Magna tells me what they want, it is my job to
have their back and to go to bat for them and to fight for them. So I am not
specifically encouraging Magna to go one direction or the other, but I don't
think I step across any boundaries to say this: if Magna were to incorporate,
if they had sufficient tax base to incorporate, if they had their own planning
and zoning and didn't have to go to the county for permission to bring in
business or to give out business licenses or to change zoning to allow for
commercial or industrial development, I suspect that there would be a lot more
jobs available in Magna, maybe close enough to bike to work. I think that there
would be a much stronger tax base in Magna, which would allow either lower
taxes or higher levels of municipal services. But to do this you have to have
businesses. People have to be able to hang out a shingle and start hiring. If
you've got planning and development run through a group of people who don't
care about Magna and don't care whether or not you have business development,
and, frankly, it seemed to not want you to have a sufficient tax base for you
to incorporate....<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Am I making an assumption?
The answer is, yes I am, and I would love to be wrong, but I don't think I am.<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Education</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: Education is very
important. A lot of folks in this area are employed by the Granite School
District. We hear a constant shout that there isn't enough money for everything
we want. What would you say to the assumption that the legislature isn't giving
out enough money to education?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
Here's the challenge: I only know what we give to the State Office of Education
to be appropriated by the State School Board. That's part of the challenge of
education. Each year the legislature appropriates a certain amount of money,
but that money goes to the State Office of Education, and they decide how much
goes to each school district, and the school district decides what goes to each
school.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppJ4AQM9uYoypWdY-a1DIOI4tivBeRP1burE4JjKX-hyQd_TtwMHT5pAVQ8tXi2i0JtoCLv1naWwEBLhLREO_k_9vLpYBrg9_Ch2eI5Jta8fR0PvKGzjTb8SO5BvrB6lEGZmjAizvLDk/s1600/img023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppJ4AQM9uYoypWdY-a1DIOI4tivBeRP1burE4JjKX-hyQd_TtwMHT5pAVQ8tXi2i0JtoCLv1naWwEBLhLREO_k_9vLpYBrg9_Ch2eI5Jta8fR0PvKGzjTb8SO5BvrB6lEGZmjAizvLDk/s1600/img023.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Cyprus High before demolition 1983. <i>Photo courtesy of Wanda Beck, taken by Lloyd Beck.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: So
what determines how much money you give to the State Office of Education?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
Actually there are a couple of things. First and foremost, most people don't
know this: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every</i> single penny that
comes in from income tax goes to public education. It's in the Utah State
Constitution. Every. Single. Penny. One hundred percent of all income tax goes
to education and cannot, by constitutional law, go anywhere else. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: I
didn't know that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
Yeah. Most people don't. Even people who are politically active do not
understand. You hear all the time there's not enough money for education.
Well...okay...sort of. That's kind of true. The challenge is much of our
property tax goes to education. Did you know that?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: So
we have income tax and property tax<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>going to education.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
And General Fund, which is sales tax. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>:
Okay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
So we actually give just over 50% of the entire state budget for the (Not
including restricted funds. Restricted funds<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>are things, like for example, a fishing license. If you want to go
fishing, you pay a certain amount of money, and it fluctuates based on cost of
running the fish stock programs. So if I don't fish, I don't want to pay my tax
money to run a hatchery, grow fish, and then drive them up and dump them in
lakes for people to fish. But some people are willing to pay for that, and so
that is an appropriate use of a fee. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So what they do is calculate
the cost of running the hatchery, stocking the ponds, things like that, and
they calculate out how many people are going to get fishing licenses, and
that's the cost of a fishing license. They don't make money off a license,
because that is a fee, and you're not allowed to make money off a fee. A fee by
statute is money to cover the cost of a service requested by the individual. So
the money that goes to, say, paying for fishing licenses would not be included
in part of that 50% because that's a restricted account. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But if you're looking at
the education fund and you're looking at the general fund, which are moneys
that can be spent for education, 50% of the entire state budget goes to public
education. Over 15% goes to higher education. So when you look at it that way,
two-thirds of the entire state budget--did I say 50% ? It's actually 51.2. I'd
have to look at the exact number. But when you add public and higher education
together, it's two-thirds of the entire state budget. Now, does that sound like
a state that is not committed to education?<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So we've got 18% that goes
to Medicade, which we couldn't cut even if we wanted to. So if you're doing
math at home with us, that's 67% plus 18% is 85%, leaving 15% of the state
budget to cover every single thing that the state does besides Medicade and
education. So what would you like to cut so that we can give more money to
education? Because I'll tell you right now if I shut down the entire Department
of Corrections (which for the record I'm not going to do), but if I did, if we
let every single prisoner out, if we laid off every single corrections officer,
if we shut down probation and parole, if we shut down juvenal detention,
juvenal detention, juvenal probation, if we shut down the entire Highway Patrol,
if we shut down the entire Department of Public safety, if we laid off all of
those employees, if we shut down the courts so there was no way that we could
adjudicate disputes, if we laid off every judge, if we laid off every public
defender, we could increase the education budget by roughly two and a half
percent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: Would
it be correct to assume (I've heard this said by upper administration) the
Granite School District has had to tighten its belt over the last few years
because of the State Legislature? Or perhaps the State Legislature isn't giving
out enough money to education.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
I would hate to have to speculate out loud. There are some things that it could
be. It could be that they have fewer students. If the Granite School District
has fewer students, whereas Alpine has more students, then of course, because
of the weighted pupil unit, Alpine is going to get more money and Granite is
going to get less money. So for me to come out and say that Granite's getting
the same amount of money, the reality is I don't know. I don't know that
they're getting the same amount of money. I know that in the past several years
we have increased education funding every single year that I've served in the
legislature. Every year there has been more money going to education than the
year before. So if Granite is saying that they're getting less money, the only
thing that I can think of that would validate that statement would be if
Granite has fewer students. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I had this
conversation with Superintendent Bates I asked him to get me that data. I told
him that we had increased the amount of money going to education. If I recall
correctly, I want to say that it was to the tune of 100 million dollars. He
said, "well, we got more money than last year." I said, "well,
show me that. You come back to me and you show me how much money you got last
year and how many students, and how much money you got this year and how many
students. And with that data, if it doesn't add up, I will personally go to the
State Office of Education on your behalf and ask for an explanation." <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I never got that information.
I never got that data. So if that is a legitimate claim, it certainly makes me
curious why he would not get back to me and allow me to champion his cause if
it is just. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>:
What do you want the people to know about what you've done in favor of
education in the state of Utah? What do you want the people of Magna to know
about what you've done for education?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
Let me tell you. When you're dealing with education you have to walk a fine
line, because the reality is: Who is in charge of education? It depends on who
you ask. If you look at the Utah state constitution, the Utah state
constitution requires the election of a State Board of Education who is tasked
with quote: "general control and supervision over education." So we
actually elect a state school board. The problem is what does "general
control and supervision" mean?" because the legislature is tasked with
statute and appropriations. So if we get to decide what's funded and what
isn't, does that violate the constitutional requirement for general control and
supervision? So that's one of the challenges. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You've got the governor's
office of education, you've got the state office of education, you've got the
state school board, you've got the local school board, and you've got the
legislature who all have a part to play in education. And part of the reason
that we get in trouble is because everybody thinks that everybody else is
stepping on their turf, but not doing their own job. I think the office of
education is supposed to do X, Y and Z, but they're supposed to leave A, B, and
C to the legislature. We'll they're mad because they think they're supposed to
do A, B, X, and C, and they're mad at us for doing B because they think
--that's a bad analogy, unless you have a John Madden whiteboard so you can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boom! </i>Go over here, which I don't have.
The problem is, if I think you're supposed to be doing certain things, and
you're not doing them, I'm mad at you because you're not doing what I think
you're supposed to do, and I'm mad because you're doing things you think I'm
supposed to do, and you're mad because you think you're supposed to be doing
that, and you're mad at me for not doing the things I'm supposed to do. Because
there's no clear chief, we have all chiefs and no Indians. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When it comes to
education, one of the most important things for me to do is tread lightly. So
the first thing that I did in education that actually will make a real impact
is requiring exposure in expenditures, which has never happened before in the
history of our state. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here's why it's a big
deal: We talked before about how I give money to the State Office of
Education<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from the legislature, they
give it to school districts, school districts give it to schools, but we really
don't know how much is going where. We don't know who's getting how much money,
we don't know why, and we don't know how they're spending it, except in very
broad strokes. I'm not okay with that. When you look at the administrative
office of the courts, I can tell you how much money was spent for interpreters
who speak Swahili. Actually, I can give you a case by case breakdown on how
much money we spent on interpreters for each language or the entire program all
together. This year it was roughly nine million dollars. I can actually get you
specific detailed breakouts. I can tell you how much money we spent for
ammunition for the training range for the Highway Patrol. I can tell you how
much we spent per day if you really wanted that much detail. Because in every
aspect where public funds are being used, we require<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>complete and total tracking, except with
51.2% of the state budget. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With education in the
past, the state office of education has said, we don't have to report to you
our expenditures. I'm not okay with that, and I hope you aren't either. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: I'm
not okay with that. I want the legislature to know more about what's being
spent in the school districts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
For the legislature it's important for us to know, but this is also available
now to the general public. It's also now available to employees of the school
district. So now an employee of the school district, if they choose to spend
their personal time going and looking through their school's budget, for the
first time ever we now require that that be public. So you can go through and
say, wait a minute, you told me I couldn't have a projector for the music room
and yet you spent X amount on--</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>: Ten
thousand dollars on a brand new office for a principal when her office was just
fine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
Here's the thing: at the end of the day we are not passing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>judgment on how money is spent, we are asking
for disclosure. I kind of feel the same way about myself. I have to account for
everything that I do: every vote that I take, every position that I advocate
for. There's a record of all of that. And it's all public. Go to le.utah.gov,
which, by the way, just won an award for the most transparent state
legislature. All of that is public. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So here's what I'm looking
forward to. I'm looking forward to going through and looking, because we
already know which schools have the best outcomes for kids. We know which
schools have the highest graduation rates, we know which schools have the
highest reading success. For the first time ever we're actually going to be
able to look at those schools,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and how
much do you want to bet that our top performing schools have similar spending
patterns?<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Whether it's schools that
invest more in computer labs do better, whether it's schools which spend more
money on teacher development do better, whether schools with smaller class
sizes do better...What if we find out that schools that spend more money on
their sports teams are actually more successful because kids have more school
spirit and, therefore, work harder in class--I don't think that's the case,
but, you know what? What if it is? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>:
(laughs) Football is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big</i> business in
high schools. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
Of course it is. Anyway, the point is, now that we finally know where the money
is going, for the first time ever we'll be able to judge where the best use of
each dollar is.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5uY_nnTLxkx85WjlIvOHnylqq6MYovdN1uZx8kw5-bNWXoJehbpqhzTIK1xJ5NvkLnnT_br222CL8WzWH_3M28eXLHuAwbNyZOK-Hprxujs0gkWBwa7jWJ5rUKpHGm4s4XoaiWryNlPM/s1600/Magna+Ele..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5uY_nnTLxkx85WjlIvOHnylqq6MYovdN1uZx8kw5-bNWXoJehbpqhzTIK1xJ5NvkLnnT_br222CL8WzWH_3M28eXLHuAwbNyZOK-Hprxujs0gkWBwa7jWJ5rUKpHGm4s4XoaiWryNlPM/s1600/Magna+Ele..jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magna Elementary before renovations, circa 1991. <i>Photograph courtesy of Howard and Bonnie Stahle</i>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Transparency in Education Spending</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
The most important thing that I have accomplished to date in education would
have to be the transparency in education spending. Right now we do get sort of
a general aggregate report of how money is spent, but it does not have the same
level of detail that every other public expenditure carries. With every other
agency I can tell you to the penny where all the money goes. I can tell you how
much money is spent, when it was spent, who received the money, and what we got
in exchange for that money. I can do that with every single agency in the
entire state of Utah, except public education, which, as we previously
discussed, is more than 50% of the entire state budget. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, let me tell you why
that's exciting to me. For the first time ever, I'm going to be able to go back
and look at our top performing schools, schools that have the highest
graduation rates, schools that have the highest college readiness rates. For
elementary schools, we can look at reading rates or test scores. So we go
through and we look at all of our top performing schools, and then we compare
how they spend their discretionary funds. Some schools will spend all of their
Title One money, all of their Trust Lands money to get smaller class sizes. Are
those the schools that are the most successful? Some schools do teacher
development. Are they the most successful? Is it a combination of all of these
things? Is it computer labs? Is it the ones that are doing innovative pilot
programs the legislature keeps putting out there? Because if it's not, maybe we
should stop doing those innovative pilot programs. But what if it is?<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This, for the first time,
will allow us to ask the questions that we successfully ask in every other
aspect in Utah life. And that is, is this the best use of that one dollar? In
education, prior to my bill passing, the answer is, we don't know. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once that report hits, for
the first time ever, we will be able to compare apples to apples, dollar to
dollar. How did your school do with the limited resources that were allocated.
This is the best part: we won't have to legislate changes, because principals
are a competitive bunch. If a principal looks through and sees that all the
successful schools are the ones that have multiple computer labs and that class
sizes don't matter, I think they will voluntarily make those changes. If we
find out that it is class sizes, I think you'll see a shift in paradigm in all
those other schools that are not doing that at the moment. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The reality is I can go
through and I can show you study after study to show that each of these
different options will increase your outcomes. But I can't compare dollar for
dollar, apple for apple, where the biggest bang for the buck is, and after this
report comes out we can. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Safety Line for
Vulnerable Students</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>: The
single most important thing I will probably ever do with my life is the
education safety line that I am working on right now in conjunction with Steve
------- The Utah Department of Health, the Attorney General's office, the State
Office of Education and State School Board--this is one of the other things: if
you're going to be working on education issues,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>you really should be working with the school board. This has been a very
collaborative effort. We have two members of the state school board. We are
working right now on putting together a method by which students of any age
will be able to contact the University of Utah Neuropsychiatric Institute,
staffed 24/7 by licensed clinical social workers, and they will be able to get
help anonymously for issues from bullying to suicide to sexual assault and
substance abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right now, if a child
goes to a councilor and mentions that their household has seen domestic
violence, well, they are required by law to report that. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robert Goble</b>:
Then they call the D.C.F.S.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Senator Thatcher</b>:
D.C.F.S. shows up, and maybe they take those kids. What if the kid knows that?
And because of that he's unwilling to talk about his problem? This would give
him an anonymous place where he would know he could call and just talk through
what is happening in his household, and it gives that council an opportunity to
convince the kid, if you want things to get better, you really do have to tell
an adult. If you want your dad to give help, you have to tell us where you
live. The kids then can voluntarily give that information. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They have a similar
program in Colorado, where they are getting two thousand calls a month on this
help line. Two thousand kids a month! Initially they set this up to be a tip
line where you could call up and report other kids for being bad. You could
call up and say Johnny said he's going to bring a gun to school, or Jill says
she's going to kill herself. This amazing thing happened. They set it up so
kids could tell on each other, and what they found is, kids were calling for
help. Kids were calling and saying, I'm getting bullied at school and I'm
thinking of killing myself and I don't know what to do. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How remarkable is that!<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They put this tool out
there, and kids started reaching out and getting help to the tune of two
thousand kids a month. That fact that Utah doesn't have this: not okay. We have
got to get it finished. We have got to get it right, and we have to get it
active and implemented by next school year. So that is probably the most
important thing I will ever do in my life, and that's coming up next year. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi17r1HKe2pCON93W7H2U01W7ajM4XR3R4hRFzxt0AxQ44GGoc4qxS3p_sMdRnlQuv49hf8ewmEULBfuS4FOMGI14Hci-oEWkghxeEJuByXVSeOqZwxpWDHamoHO9OyoljbXLffc6iSst8/s1600/DSC00274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi17r1HKe2pCON93W7H2U01W7ajM4XR3R4hRFzxt0AxQ44GGoc4qxS3p_sMdRnlQuv49hf8ewmEULBfuS4FOMGI14Hci-oEWkghxeEJuByXVSeOqZwxpWDHamoHO9OyoljbXLffc6iSst8/s1600/DSC00274.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo by Robert Goble. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</span>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-81577715671902150492014-07-04T21:28:00.000-07:002014-07-04T21:31:14.180-07:00Magna 4th of July parade 2014<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhna1q8Srp0YApld9gQ3DDhqc9xL6dKH7raGVZpNST01IqjfHGpOur6C4r6D6iUs1xUfHDWrWQhQIJmC7-hOT9S8uQY2xihIZYZx1rMxnb48_mhpkzLOSWVPB9D3poM0Fn4uXdeDKz1PaQ/s1600/Blog+size+pleasant+green.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhna1q8Srp0YApld9gQ3DDhqc9xL6dKH7raGVZpNST01IqjfHGpOur6C4r6D6iUs1xUfHDWrWQhQIJmC7-hOT9S8uQY2xihIZYZx1rMxnb48_mhpkzLOSWVPB9D3poM0Fn4uXdeDKz1PaQ/s1600/Blog+size+pleasant+green.tif" height="201" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pleasant Green Circa 1920. Notice the Pleasant Green ward building in the background. Main Street facing east. Photo taken near today's 8700 West. <br />
<i>Used by permission, Utah State Historical Society, all rights reserved. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If anything can be said about Magna (historic Pleasant Green) it is that we certainly love our parades. Rick Duckworth, a generational Magna resident, history lover, and president of the Magna History Club said not only is our parade known to be, at times, one of the largest in the state, but to us it's a "family reunion." <br />
Though this day commemorates 238 years of our nation's independence, this month we commemorate 140 years since this pioneer town of Pleasant Green was established, July 21, 1874. The pioneer spirit burns bright still in our hearts. Many of today's residents are descendents of the original pioneer settlers of Coonville and Millstone Point, which later became Pleasant Green (popularly known as "Magna"). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnckaQ7ZjYPjQg6YkN5XmSU133maAdh0yw2yF9Xdy8vh93teqltFqpq7G50b-E4SVlI5Hi_ow_uyyVzIAbj5RTnIzM4k4DDYO211KQz7QajSwXBInJ5fzmOEwtyLqKP4ZEr4hWjroF0M/s1600/img097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnckaQ7ZjYPjQg6YkN5XmSU133maAdh0yw2yF9Xdy8vh93teqltFqpq7G50b-E4SVlI5Hi_ow_uyyVzIAbj5RTnIzM4k4DDYO211KQz7QajSwXBInJ5fzmOEwtyLqKP4ZEr4hWjroF0M/s1600/img097.jpg" height="143" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Historic Pleasant Green Main Street. Notice the Empress Theatre on the lower left. <i>Photo courtesy of Sylvia Sutton Sharp.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oRGex8h8sVD7sS9RVHqa-ZicEKcMe0bXrFgneCkwKidJbEzy31FjT1XTkzxwazkcIHCTgX0MduOziSJ9Cn12XGLuQRl2TJ83Pz958C7xAIZnHYFHzKkmS3oUwR2KQy5gL7oJeJm6yAk/s1600/img096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oRGex8h8sVD7sS9RVHqa-ZicEKcMe0bXrFgneCkwKidJbEzy31FjT1XTkzxwazkcIHCTgX0MduOziSJ9Cn12XGLuQRl2TJ83Pz958C7xAIZnHYFHzKkmS3oUwR2KQy5gL7oJeJm6yAk/s1600/img096.jpg" height="146" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Historic Pleasant Green Main Street. Notice the original Magna Elementary (later Webster Elementary) behind the trees. <i>Photo courtesy of Sylvia Sutton Sharp.</i></td></tr>
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The following photographs aren't as old, but they do show the ever-changing character of Main Street. We often take the present for granted and find ourselves surprised when it disappears into the past. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSnuefZ_-yFTGPLFUGwKDmL9KT52x_dyWjJ2C0kvH3JMF8PqEzwjpBQOfIB-60IqNoxVcDqC65IDVnkfZXF2nZte62S7DByBJak19Vz_Izv0HthIj1PXaVGTUpAA2WYByp4F6tK4Nzdvw/s1600/img091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSnuefZ_-yFTGPLFUGwKDmL9KT52x_dyWjJ2C0kvH3JMF8PqEzwjpBQOfIB-60IqNoxVcDqC65IDVnkfZXF2nZte62S7DByBJak19Vz_Izv0HthIj1PXaVGTUpAA2WYByp4F6tK4Nzdvw/s1600/img091.jpg" height="223" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parade circa 1991. <i>Photo courtesy of the Magna Times.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-N4t-aWHmcm1BFc_5TXkSzykLJUMkD8HSGDcvebJvJpUbmniL9NNXdL4tvv2QSE8t6nqPu5aeJw-Sz1e6qapiirozSDqOzC08oPao_9KeQahqBcvzMTKM7aOyn3Tm1u0DnN7f2gp_UM/s1600/S6301054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-N4t-aWHmcm1BFc_5TXkSzykLJUMkD8HSGDcvebJvJpUbmniL9NNXdL4tvv2QSE8t6nqPu5aeJw-Sz1e6qapiirozSDqOzC08oPao_9KeQahqBcvzMTKM7aOyn3Tm1u0DnN7f2gp_UM/s1600/S6301054.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 4th 2014</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrnE2LPY-5hjrpDDJWpNSMycNTDZUCP1ks1EBNm1T2kgN77_VXvaVNI0i30RVcwr-SzCpJgPR7MB2Pc9pQ92smkSwNf7LqipDX9sc4eQPbCh_MmH7-93Sq1ASYRdhGxzwGu-v4AdjvvHY/s1600/img092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrnE2LPY-5hjrpDDJWpNSMycNTDZUCP1ks1EBNm1T2kgN77_VXvaVNI0i30RVcwr-SzCpJgPR7MB2Pc9pQ92smkSwNf7LqipDX9sc4eQPbCh_MmH7-93Sq1ASYRdhGxzwGu-v4AdjvvHY/s1600/img092.jpg" height="225" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1990s <i>Photo courtesy of the Magna Times</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12tjEEmwed7CAoHhYL9ZZndL6bpvALQ0Gf-060QU0kxs1Wwtog6H1l92M0X1ZysXfxLRNjEtVTlMcfOgxbyZnFKx_zvMnHwoiiJY1uTIY2z4VpwjMCPjBfTpBP0zS2AkhHOs3dtbujZU/s1600/S6301071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12tjEEmwed7CAoHhYL9ZZndL6bpvALQ0Gf-060QU0kxs1Wwtog6H1l92M0X1ZysXfxLRNjEtVTlMcfOgxbyZnFKx_zvMnHwoiiJY1uTIY2z4VpwjMCPjBfTpBP0zS2AkhHOs3dtbujZU/s1600/S6301071.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 4th 2014</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt63D4ZG1QdzyiHI9QuC01Yh7jZMIqeD9szNHcNpqqR8OpMbUSWtLaXN8Gzuvysmso2Va-D-SSXnTJ_BkkBI5VNAyEmx3rRapakC6SEuJuxzROxQCABD5pOALhMuPDgswA4fcIqcc5tU/s1600/img094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggt63D4ZG1QdzyiHI9QuC01Yh7jZMIqeD9szNHcNpqqR8OpMbUSWtLaXN8Gzuvysmso2Va-D-SSXnTJ_BkkBI5VNAyEmx3rRapakC6SEuJuxzROxQCABD5pOALhMuPDgswA4fcIqcc5tU/s1600/img094.jpg" height="223" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many things can change in two decades, yet many things can stay the same. Notice the Perk Dry Cleaners to the left and the Gem marquee to the right. This was a Christmas parade, possibly mid-nineteen eighties. <i>Photo courtesy of the Magna Times.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAy8zM8UPEu7nn-W8yvaYOeNWJT3OIGfEPD8whxl5J1H24P0hHsyFf6f1516GYoZIYvFjNMC9fMN53CWQT0yzmiKptDBOFfPRuccTSYIjzaiekas4BXJiFBjQaFuK8mgysarMuxsdJDac/s1600/S6301059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAy8zM8UPEu7nn-W8yvaYOeNWJT3OIGfEPD8whxl5J1H24P0hHsyFf6f1516GYoZIYvFjNMC9fMN53CWQT0yzmiKptDBOFfPRuccTSYIjzaiekas4BXJiFBjQaFuK8mgysarMuxsdJDac/s1600/S6301059.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 4th 2014</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nP07XzTuCbR0NTWi5iEEzklO4Pa6Vo1oUO7hz60NgfKiF5AgbObymStMJLLmnjoWPIVG0eQaFahXdTnXj3UrcOV3MzxGzz-kiXq3v9Qoyb_l0YYk4pBlbMRkE1pMeq9Sohj7mZkft5k/s1600/img095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nP07XzTuCbR0NTWi5iEEzklO4Pa6Vo1oUO7hz60NgfKiF5AgbObymStMJLLmnjoWPIVG0eQaFahXdTnXj3UrcOV3MzxGzz-kiXq3v9Qoyb_l0YYk4pBlbMRkE1pMeq9Sohj7mZkft5k/s1600/img095.jpg" height="218" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the small park at the left next to the dry cleaners. Both are now gone, and the library is now in their place. <i>Photo courtesy of the Magna Times.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyd467g7DMIsl9GzY2_KD3D-S2F_GaIFlE44jKlRCODcbqM2_L_ZN-lJgrwp2AitcKPZNrmhsdvL5AZUwcFNGYqCr0C0qLNe8TkIXtlouezd7OiG0yZahmBPks0xBNtNpsK68cqaElJlM/s1600/S6301089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyd467g7DMIsl9GzY2_KD3D-S2F_GaIFlE44jKlRCODcbqM2_L_ZN-lJgrwp2AitcKPZNrmhsdvL5AZUwcFNGYqCr0C0qLNe8TkIXtlouezd7OiG0yZahmBPks0xBNtNpsK68cqaElJlM/s1600/S6301089.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">State senator Daniel Thather: Magna's senator, a man who doesn't quit, let alone hardly rests. He fights for the kind of government that will work for us, standing against those who would assume that we work for the government. With every step he takes and every day he spends on the hill, he carries that spirit of the Declaration of Independence that we celebrate: the Spirit of '76. </td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"Now I take my responsibility as a senator very
seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think that my primary
obligation is to protect people. Sometimes that means protecting people from
the government. I don't represent the government, I represent the people. When
the government steps out of bounds, there is nobody that can step them down.
There is no one that can intercede. When Salt Lake County-- I'll tell you, half
the reason that I ran for office in the first place was because of the response
that I got from the person that had been representing us in the senate, when I
asked him what he was going to do about the police fee that Salt Lake County
dropped on Magna. Salt Lake County broke the law to do that. They violated tax
law by calling a tax a fee. But here's the problem: even though it was
blatantly obvious that they broke the law, there's only one entity with the
authority to make them stop, and that's the state. Only the state can make the
county stop when it's out of bounds. In this particular case we had a senator
who felt..."well...you know...whatever the county does, that's not my
problem. I should let the county do whatever they like. I'm sorry. I couldn't
stand for that.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"So the very first thing
that I did when I decided that by golly somebody has to stick up for us, and if
nobody is going to run, I guess it's going to be me, I made a commitment that I
was going to walk every precinct. I knocked so many doors it was ridiculous. I
wore out three pairs of shoes." </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
--State Senator Daniel Thatcher.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2VfHvJ7mdRSreWlg_WPBtYW2MCDQT5VZwJ0fSmbAiKzUighVyZpiv9EfWlTl5t1cf-hPFlaAh_0Wlb0_wFShNfsmB5TQ3hD-hLzjatRlFNveTGs9H8dWuJaQ7rJzFlpydzUWO2pNhpQ/s1600/img090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2VfHvJ7mdRSreWlg_WPBtYW2MCDQT5VZwJ0fSmbAiKzUighVyZpiv9EfWlTl5t1cf-hPFlaAh_0Wlb0_wFShNfsmB5TQ3hD-hLzjatRlFNveTGs9H8dWuJaQ7rJzFlpydzUWO2pNhpQ/s1600/img090.jpg" height="217" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas parade circa 1984 or 1985. It was around this time that many of the buildings along the historic Pleasant Green Main Street (popularly known as Magna) were demolished. <i>Courtesy of the Magna Times.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2yGj8iLUN-VAChIyv-YNR9f2laGwHNzYo_GVR9loSLSNFgJ95Lb6mjM8wX9VoW8syDdFBwnVE1xb6RhkBrChwgio4kPcvnZCW3d7ycI0LrbuV0sHcgOiF6-7kDu23NYz-NhFjoAw5Pp8/s1600/S6301081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2yGj8iLUN-VAChIyv-YNR9f2laGwHNzYo_GVR9loSLSNFgJ95Lb6mjM8wX9VoW8syDdFBwnVE1xb6RhkBrChwgio4kPcvnZCW3d7ycI0LrbuV0sHcgOiF6-7kDu23NYz-NhFjoAw5Pp8/s1600/S6301081.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4th of July 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCGL7KppVeuyTTAJcor7Vyljv_OUn-93WCF7QScot2clXxXtTMNrjOTL54qjus3dKVLaRTXHWBDW6BpC8CzINcZxuB3Jgyi9voWt_2FwgmvDHaR1_aq7rXkDpONZtT8hRXwCIuys29-Y/s1600/img089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCGL7KppVeuyTTAJcor7Vyljv_OUn-93WCF7QScot2clXxXtTMNrjOTL54qjus3dKVLaRTXHWBDW6BpC8CzINcZxuB3Jgyi9voWt_2FwgmvDHaR1_aq7rXkDpONZtT8hRXwCIuys29-Y/s1600/img089.jpg" height="206" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early 1990s <i>Courtesy of the Magna Times.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4th of July 2014. The celebrated Cyprus High School Spinnakers. More than a tradition, this institution boasts generations. Main Street hasn't known a 4th of July without their swinging swords since Cyprus has had a drill team. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Though another parade has been added to history, the experience and the fun won't be forgotten. Buildings and landmarks will come and go, but it is each other who we celebrate; it's the greatness that comes from small things as we choose to build each other up, instead of tearing each other down that we celebrate. We celebrate the freedom to become anything we choose according to how hard we work, and we celebrate the freedom to take such roads as long as that freedom can be preserved. We celebrate the on-going fight against the forces that would keep us from realizing our highest potential, the fight laid out clearly and the lines drawn in the Declaration of Independence. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gp4QfwwvDH-nhcITiDY4CjgeiyZG9U1r61viHqH5MhGA8A5RoK3iKB0soin0395-hf1vW7llu3Im8TZsAIiwDyDu5-xcrYPyDhuUmYFnFIYl4ov1jfIwAJ5EPPW5OijFZtrAodk0nTI/s1600/S6301061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gp4QfwwvDH-nhcITiDY4CjgeiyZG9U1r61viHqH5MhGA8A5RoK3iKB0soin0395-hf1vW7llu3Im8TZsAIiwDyDu5-xcrYPyDhuUmYFnFIYl4ov1jfIwAJ5EPPW5OijFZtrAodk0nTI/s1600/S6301061.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carolyn Richards and daughter, Cassie, working to make sure the 5k goes smoothly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwwuSKRWHhTs6uw3od51zL4mMprgdeaOG0nHcYxBwUaYMLvCXIcRArZCvrUxNfQsgewnKL9DErVk5LtGobwVB8L8e_JHwPuO74SuTGjfY9F0ZfFqRalFieEf62jKZLOl1gAZbzzg874Q/s1600/S6301033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwwuSKRWHhTs6uw3od51zL4mMprgdeaOG0nHcYxBwUaYMLvCXIcRArZCvrUxNfQsgewnKL9DErVk5LtGobwVB8L8e_JHwPuO74SuTGjfY9F0ZfFqRalFieEf62jKZLOl1gAZbzzg874Q/s1600/S6301033.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joseph Hastings, the tired runner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VW4fy7t6DI72F3SnblnmAtkd_sT6nj05KO1qK6JCgFv_B6p5IfcLQ2S36ekY-QJIJH7tcGYyjgbqzrcBq84iIXZyOFDJUuQZRs_MmvhUUTTfrClY6B_8c-Yof96Dmi3vGUUYY2TcBBg/s1600/S6301028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VW4fy7t6DI72F3SnblnmAtkd_sT6nj05KO1qK6JCgFv_B6p5IfcLQ2S36ekY-QJIJH7tcGYyjgbqzrcBq84iIXZyOFDJUuQZRs_MmvhUUTTfrClY6B_8c-Yof96Dmi3vGUUYY2TcBBg/s1600/S6301028.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lion's Club breakfast, special thanks to Smith's.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzgYRgUsOnVYXhgAwuLDeNol44VPOwKPImGxHrsi48qIIvqUsHUPc40FO9GoJMJP-zqR0InCIIvPMfHJhiqlnO0PWQY7G9eUSIFIqWk139e3srqQi7XDNmBqf9IdjMr9l8hDyaJqm_JI/s1600/S6301052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzgYRgUsOnVYXhgAwuLDeNol44VPOwKPImGxHrsi48qIIvqUsHUPc40FO9GoJMJP-zqR0InCIIvPMfHJhiqlnO0PWQY7G9eUSIFIqWk139e3srqQi7XDNmBqf9IdjMr9l8hDyaJqm_JI/s1600/S6301052.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pete Renaldi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkDRoO792Bz9JX-t_6YOYlhC4XLL9jKY7r0zDw3hjSeUphrjiVdMFcN3utPcDpCThOFB1MSixKoEqjW6XgxVp7iu7SeT62daJMn9Hj4a11cmTVpfHT8Bb4JNMnnmdnWWJeVGerqGpZ_8/s1600/S6301068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkDRoO792Bz9JX-t_6YOYlhC4XLL9jKY7r0zDw3hjSeUphrjiVdMFcN3utPcDpCThOFB1MSixKoEqjW6XgxVp7iu7SeT62daJMn9Hj4a11cmTVpfHT8Bb4JNMnnmdnWWJeVGerqGpZ_8/s1600/S6301068.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sue Duckworth, Magna's State Representative, a generational resident with a special love four our history and our community. Through the toughest of times, the Duckworth family has continued to serve our community. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAdi96lFoEoAvV4G3_tvSXKPQv9dcrj36QQQT1DMbeIfrrG-b4vCy5gFBXgH4EaREGttL-s3A5ceWD2RQTtVd3g-L8YH0g4iihrzZulWYR84dBmZ8bfd2AlTTKk5SCKrGWgMcz_Nr6ko/s1600/S6301123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAdi96lFoEoAvV4G3_tvSXKPQv9dcrj36QQQT1DMbeIfrrG-b4vCy5gFBXgH4EaREGttL-s3A5ceWD2RQTtVd3g-L8YH0g4iihrzZulWYR84dBmZ8bfd2AlTTKk5SCKrGWgMcz_Nr6ko/s1600/S6301123.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sebastian Randazzo, owner of Nonna's Pizza. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4rbMmhibP3blm2SvjmaWe_yJM5AYBrDzevkPdJBY_4KAr5AW_3glcsJ_Qo0IQpP5BaW3H_sj7Ly7Exa_ytLFOMUJrNGSxthFXj1PujSdRDysAGh_PuufjnjqowHNZiUg17a1nfZKEo6Q/s1600/S6301127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4rbMmhibP3blm2SvjmaWe_yJM5AYBrDzevkPdJBY_4KAr5AW_3glcsJ_Qo0IQpP5BaW3H_sj7Ly7Exa_ytLFOMUJrNGSxthFXj1PujSdRDysAGh_PuufjnjqowHNZiUg17a1nfZKEo6Q/s1600/S6301127.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Storm, owner of Art On You studios. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFiSyyn9E7hyphenhyphenn90nORoqBzXYKqch5xu_q83kGpLRgpHKg56-1wak88ofGND40uCmh2U3Vd2AUiO6YtEdq6p7Q3lDtwPH4KBQMO5gdp5ILifw-5bJANnI13gbQC2OLpJtfiK9nODHftXE/s1600/S6301100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFiSyyn9E7hyphenhyphenn90nORoqBzXYKqch5xu_q83kGpLRgpHKg56-1wak88ofGND40uCmh2U3Vd2AUiO6YtEdq6p7Q3lDtwPH4KBQMO5gdp5ILifw-5bJANnI13gbQC2OLpJtfiK9nODHftXE/s1600/S6301100.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Folks show support for candidate Bill Both, running for state representative District 22.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwskyyrw1C14cPd_nftoJYhy_KP-K6JI3dVXqXCNGJ2CRYIUkW25Q3ITRCo-ET0Q5SjxBUOS6VraqsVINDTuvyj0NrZxJBb3xgu5TVlA3aQlP1pTNReDxQNPR6UezYKpn4wqsTOJ8x88/s1600/S6301063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwskyyrw1C14cPd_nftoJYhy_KP-K6JI3dVXqXCNGJ2CRYIUkW25Q3ITRCo-ET0Q5SjxBUOS6VraqsVINDTuvyj0NrZxJBb3xgu5TVlA3aQlP1pTNReDxQNPR6UezYKpn4wqsTOJ8x88/s1600/S6301063.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Magna</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wkQf2pwyHRuDCA3B6zvi095eaSAdNS5Kenl1rGy_XwE_G6rW9GwC96d3sM1KOQEO8yJ_Odks24FxMlWcgqP0RO4KwV_ir6mmvKgoR9xesP6z_b5QDPxJ0n0O_PCfUtJ0lMCEZ4WJfGI/s1600/S6301101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wkQf2pwyHRuDCA3B6zvi095eaSAdNS5Kenl1rGy_XwE_G6rW9GwC96d3sM1KOQEO8yJ_Odks24FxMlWcgqP0RO4KwV_ir6mmvKgoR9xesP6z_b5QDPxJ0n0O_PCfUtJ0lMCEZ4WJfGI/s1600/S6301101.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rick Duckworth speaks to Senator Daniel Thatcher</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntO5pDh6-gwdmenrW0io07cABzxFqKZ9LQwyMoMIJuk6Kwz4ZO5zZX9fjvUbYk4jmhcFsc96AsKrLpuzVwXampajeFQ0qz0003tuEAuBFODtVDiczfYkhCi5xFZ8UegbN-isulUVBioc/s1600/S6301116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntO5pDh6-gwdmenrW0io07cABzxFqKZ9LQwyMoMIJuk6Kwz4ZO5zZX9fjvUbYk4jmhcFsc96AsKrLpuzVwXampajeFQ0qz0003tuEAuBFODtVDiczfYkhCi5xFZ8UegbN-isulUVBioc/s1600/S6301116.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyprus dancers strut in the heat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-66867265179206675892014-06-14T15:55:00.001-07:002017-12-28T10:48:51.134-08:00Where does Cyprus High School get its name? <br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Note: The following article was taken from e-mails I had sent to Randall Martin as he worked on the points of interest map and explanations for the Ethnic and Mining Museum of Magna and an e-mail I had sent to Georgia Vallejos, secretary at Cyprus High School, as she updated a history for Cyprus High School. </i></span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7U39inu215Ez8HgwA1UyG7UhzdFavE9_TvQI9Jv5MtQzvLRnjWAtkWpi17DyuVbdr9qdLqbWY8f0SkgYYi_LctalA28QihCbgSWOnDcUvPJjcOxOgZt-wjGqODrRc3Czl0hQIsNyZ1c/s1600/Cyprus+Name.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7U39inu215Ez8HgwA1UyG7UhzdFavE9_TvQI9Jv5MtQzvLRnjWAtkWpi17DyuVbdr9qdLqbWY8f0SkgYYi_LctalA28QihCbgSWOnDcUvPJjcOxOgZt-wjGqODrRc3Czl0hQIsNyZ1c/s1600/Cyprus+Name.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thead's Peak: named after Hyrum Theron Spencer Jr., nicknamed "Thead" by friends, affectionately called "Hyde" by his parents, who died at the age of nineteen of appendicitis, "inflammation of the bowels." He passed away October 31, 1885. The Spencer ranch now lies under tailings. It had once stood a little north and a little west of the peak. The Spencer's were some of the original settlers of Millstone Point, which by 1874 would become part of the larger Pleasant Green precinct that included Coonville. <br />
Notice how the shape of the Cyprus High School auditorium reflects the shape of that peak, a peak that has become the beacon for historic Pleasant Green, popularly known as "Magna." The modern auditorium, the darker building to the right, was designed by Charlie Brown, the famed drama teacher, and constructed in 1976.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Myth Versus the Facts</b></div>
Cyprus High School (Cyprus Junior High at the time) wasn't
named by Greek immigrants nor was it named in honor of them. That's a myth.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Greek mill workers were new to the area in 1917,
when the decision to name the new junior high school was made. They simply
weren't rooted deep enough into the community nor had they the pull and influence
that would inspire the naming of a $40,000.00 school. <br />
The facts have to do with the new Granite School
District Board of Directors, who or what they wanted to honor at that time, and
the influence Daniel C. Jackling, the president of the Utah Copper Company, had
on Pleasant Green.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Colonel Jackling's Private Rail Car and the Luxury Yacht</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being classically inclined, Jackling, there is no
mystery why the word "Cyprus" is associated in relation to his
interests in Pleasant Green and would directly or indirectly influence the
naming of a school in Pleasant Green; after all, he had named his steamer yacht
(in which he sailed the ocean blue like a pirate) "Cyprus," and he
had named his personal rail car (much like today's private jet)
"Cyprus." For the words <i>Aes Cyprium </i>(Latin) "Metal of
Cyprus," <i>Cuprum, </i>or <i>χαλκος κυπριος</i> (Greek) "chalkos
kuprios," held specific symbolic importance in his mind: the porphyry
coppers had been mined on the island of Cyprus for six millennia and had
sustained empires.<br />
In a <i>Salt Lake Tribune</i> article dated January 1,
1914, a headline read: "Jackling Party is Sailing on the Deep" The
article went on tell of the maiden voyage of the steam yacht "Cyprus"
that "sailed from Los Angeles harbor...on one of the most
luxurious cruises ever enjoyed in the Pacific coast waters. D. C. Jackling,
millionaire copper king, and owner, with a party of fourteen guests, went on
board.... Preparations were complete for weighing anchor at dawn. Mr.
Jackling, as host, is giving a yachting party which exceeds in magnificence
anything that has been carried out in the west. He will transport his guests to
Panama on the Cyprus. There the yacht will be left, and by rail and steamer he
will take them to Jamaica, Cuba and Florida, and return them to Los Angeles on
his private car." --his private car also named "Cyprus."<br />
In the society page pf the <i>Salt Lake Herald</i>
dated May 3, 1915, it was reported that "Col. and Mrs. D. C. Jackling will arrive
here tomorrow afternoon in their car 'Cyprus,' and will remain only twenty-four
hours, leaving for San Francisco on Wednesday. A large dinner will be given in
their honor tomorrow evening either at the Alta or Tennis club...."<br />
In an article from the <i>Salt Lake Telegram</i> dated
May 15, 1920, Colonel D. C. Jackling "arrived here with his family in
their private car 'Cyprus' from San Francisco. The party immediately proceeded
to Bingham and Garfield for an inspection trip to the smelters...."</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Junior High is Named </b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's important to note what would seem to be an outside influence (besides the naming of Jackling's <i>Magna</i> concentrator and the new <i>Magna</i> post office) on the small community of Pleasant Green, how its very identity was being rapidly transformed, not from within, from the original generations of settlers, but once again from a body of individuals unconcerned and even ignorant of local history and heritage. What glittered like gold (or better copper) before their eyes was the past decade of new industry, a world renowned sulfuric tsunami washing over the once quiet community of pioneer farmers and ranchers. For this was not only the biggest copper milling facility in the world at the time, but it was already contributing to the war effort against Kaiser's Germany: World War I.<br />
On the Tuesday evening of September 25, 1917, the
Board of Directors for the Granite School District held a meeting, announcing
the plans to construct a one-story junior high school in Pleasant Green--Magna already to the Tribune reporter and the board of directors. The building
contract was awarded to Salt Lake contractors Kempa & Holchaw. State
architect Richard Charles Watkins, who had planned and superintended the
construction of hundreds of schools and other buildings throughout
Utah, had drawn the plans and supervised the construction of Cyprus Junior
High. The twelve-room building had an auditorium and the latest ventilation and
heating of the time. <br />
According to a <i>Salt Lake Tribune</i> article dated
September 26, 1917, the name of the building would be "Cyprus, a term
meaning copper, and significant of the copper workings in and near Magna."<br />
As reported in the <i>Salt Lake Herald</i>, March 29,
1918, The new Cyprus Junior high opened for formal ceremonies Friday, March,
29, 1918 at eight o' clock pm with music performances in the new auditorium.
Among the speakers included Granite School District Superintendent, John Martin
Mills and president of the board of education, Delbert William Parratt, who
would later become a Granite School District superintendent and a state
senator. <br />
Classes began on Monday, April 1st under the direction of principal J.
J. Harris, 1918 - 1921. The new junior high drew 7th to 10th grade students from the
Hawthorne school (which stood north and west across the street from today's
vista school, directly in front of the old Vosnos property) and Magna
Elementary (later known as Webster Elementary). <br />
By then the red brick Coonville
school (District 47) and Pleasant Green (across from the historic Pleasant
Green ward building on Pleasant Green Main Street, approximately where the fire
station stands) schools were no longer in use.<b><br /></b></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>An Ever Evolving Campus, Even Then</b></div>
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</div>
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Pleasant Green still didn't have a high school at this
time. The eleventh and twelfth grade students took the new Magna
branch of the Salt Lake & Utah Railroad (popularly known as the
"Orem" after W. C. Orem, president of the A. J. Orem company which
built the line from Provo to Salt Lake and Granger and later from Granger to
Pleasant Green.), and traveled the electric interurban line to West High
School. Students from Garfield took the Salt Lake & Los Angeles railroad,
which shouldn't be confused with the Utah & Nevada narrow gauge that
brought mail to Pleasant Green and bathers to the Black Rock and Garfield
resorts several decades before, and by then was buried under tailings. Twenty
round trips on the "Orem" would cost the student $8.90. <br />
This arrangement with the Salt Lake School District
would be short lived. According to the <i>History of Granite School District</i>
<i>1904 - 1976</i> by Marie E. Gooderham, the "Cyprus Grammar School"
was "remodeled and changed to a high school in 1925." Students no
longer traveled to West High School, but many students in the surrounding area,
including Hunter, then took the "Orem" the other way, west, to the
new Cyprus High School. <br />
<i>Note: Irene Hulse, in </i>Rags to Riches<i>, has
the high school students being transported to "Granite High School."
The remodel in 1925 to the high school added seven rooms. The gymnasium and
manual arts building were added 1927 - 1928 and the auditorium was completed in
1928 - 1929. The home economics department and library were added in 1933 -
1934. </i><br />
This was the building demolished in and rebuilt in
1983 - 1984 and currently stands as the "main building" today.<br /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Cyprus high school campus in 1937. Taylor Park Brockbank was the principal.<br /></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbady-YJe_W3Ftdb2sR0qd0iGzQ2RAKt3dpEkbqsCPxik8eWCw1tJ_yL64db56DB_gsSC3ItD4dUpBlZIyhjuZdFBLL3ErimDX_fv3x4-gf7zr1wjPG9dgHDQCKywctHwXJT7vkMRmqhc/s1600/Cyprus+1937.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1241" data-original-width="1562" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbady-YJe_W3Ftdb2sR0qd0iGzQ2RAKt3dpEkbqsCPxik8eWCw1tJ_yL64db56DB_gsSC3ItD4dUpBlZIyhjuZdFBLL3ErimDX_fv3x4-gf7zr1wjPG9dgHDQCKywctHwXJT7vkMRmqhc/s320/Cyprus+1937.tif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Down in Flames, Up from the Ashes</b></div>
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According to local oral history and also documented by
Hulse, on July 24, 1947, during the Pioneer Day Celebrations that included a
parade on Main Street, some boys were playing with fireworks near the Cyprus
Junior High building. The building caught fire and burned to the ground in
spite of efforts to save it. The high school addition was spared. <br />
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBhD_q00PeRSx57Oyon2f1V0RbsvvA6UKA8VJ9aD0lCf0EXEeW-Olpm4Cefvs2JwJAx3cPTKbc4xnaTsDeW9MNuuufTBKqdfliBFgVRGsIx6zk_Gmy7I0u8ryFOWUPzX_le1fLasRjxc/s1600/Cyprus+1964.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1277" data-original-width="1269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBhD_q00PeRSx57Oyon2f1V0RbsvvA6UKA8VJ9aD0lCf0EXEeW-Olpm4Cefvs2JwJAx3cPTKbc4xnaTsDeW9MNuuufTBKqdfliBFgVRGsIx6zk_Gmy7I0u8ryFOWUPzX_le1fLasRjxc/s320/Cyprus+1964.tif" width="317" /></a><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Cyprus high school campus from the air 1964.<br />Notice the industrial arts building is under construction. The old auditorium still stands next to it. </div>
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<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br />Cyprus High School June 14, 2014<br />
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Sources:<br />
<br />
Schow, Nora Brown, <i>Mary Barr Young Spencer Biography</i>, May 1989<br />
<br />
Hemingway, Colette; Hemingway, Seán; <i>Cyprus--Island of Copper</i>, http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/cyco/hd_cyco.htm<br />
<br />
<span class="reference-text">Portrait, genealogical and biographical
record of the State of Utah : containing biographies of many well known
citizens of the past and present (1902)</span><br />
<br />
<i>Cuprum Copper</i>, History and Etymology, http://www.vanderkrogt.net/elements/element.php?sym=Cu<br />
<br />
<i>Salt Lake Tribune</i>, "Jackling Party Is Sailing On The Deep," January 1, 1914<br />
<br />
<i>Salt Lake Herald</i>, Society, May 3, 1915<br />
<br />
<i>Salt Lake Telegram</i>, "Colonel Jackling And Family Arrive," May 15, 1920<br />
<br />
<i>Salt Lake Tribune</i>, "Why He Named Her 'Cyprus,'" August 30, 1914<br />
<br />
<i>Salt Lake Tribune</i>, "Awarded Contract For Magna School," September 26, 1917<br />
<br />
<i>Salt Lake Herald</i>, "Cyprus School To Hold Housewarming," March 29, 1918<br />
<br />
Hulse, Irene, <i>Rags to Riches</i>, 1964<br />
<br />
Gooderham, Marie E., <i>History of Granite School District 1904 - 1976 its roots in Utah and American Education, 1977</i>, Granite School District</div>
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Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com4Magna, UT, USA40.7050423443854 -112.0983982086181640.7020328443854 -112.10344070861817 40.708051844385395 -112.09335570861816tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-63546253706919243532014-03-08T20:22:00.000-08:002014-03-08T21:13:00.099-08:00So, why does Magna have two councils? By Colin B. Douglas<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">This article by Colin B. Douglas was originally published December 18, 2008 in the Magna Times. For a while it could be found on the Magna Town Council site but no longer appears there, and now it is currently published on this blog by his permission.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i><br />
<i> Though some of the information in this story is outdated, it serves as an important historical resource for understanding of the on-going two-council question in Magna. It can also make clearer the issues of why or why not Magna should incorporate, take hold of its own future, insist that ALL of its representation (those who have the county's ear) should be made legitimate by the ballot box. It also clarifies the strange on-going relationship that Magna has with the County, why Magna's "silence" on the issue (and by no means has Magna been silent over the years, many concerned voices have been more or less ignored) constitutes "consent of the governed." Hopefully it might clear confusion on why a prospective business owner or developer would be expected to appear before two councils.</i><br />
<i> After all, the way we choose to govern ourselves still matters in 2014 as much as it mattered in 1776. Self-government takes work and education, and how educated the residents of Magna are of their own history, and how much effort residents of Magna make in making their voices heard will determine the quality of our government, whether someone outside Magna's boundaries makes the decisions for us, and whether someone who has been legitimized by ballot speaks for you makes all the difference. </i><br />
<i> Without further ado, I give you the history on Magna's two councils.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">D</span>onnie Sweazey's dispute with the Magna Township Planning Commission, County Planning and Zoning, and the Magna Community Council has a context: a 21-year-long tale of two councils that goes to the heart of Magna's history and politics.<br />
The two councils are the Magna Community Council (MCC), which was a target of Sweazey's anger last Thursday, and the Magna Town Council, formerly the Magna Area Council (MAC-MTC).<br />
So why does Magna have two councils? The question might occur to you if, as happened to Sweazey, you go before the Magna Township Planning Comission to obtain their blessing on a building project and are told that you need the blessing of both councils, whereas, in, say, Kearns, you would need to make your pitch to only one.<br />
A short answer would be "tradition and politics." A longer answer requires long lessons in civic and history.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The civics lesson</b></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>The Magna Town Council </i></b></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Salt Lake County Ordinance 2.56 provides for "establishing community districts and recognizing community councils in the unincorporated area of the county...to provide a mechanism by which a geographical area may be identified as a community for purposes of formulating and presenting recommendations on actions within the authority of the county which affect that geographical area by force of law or practice."</div>
</div>
A community council as defined by this ordinance is formed not by the county government but by the citizens of the community as a private corporation. Though it is a private organization, all its members must be elected by nonpartisan secret ballot in an election free and open to all registered voters in the community council area. A community council established in accordance with the ordinance may be "recognized" in a community district. More than one may be recognized (as in Mill Creek, which has three councils representing different areas of the district) only if there is no boundary dispute.<br />
Only a recognized council may receive appropriated funding from the county.<br />
The MAC-MTC, which meets on the first Thursdays, at 7 p.m., at the Magna Chamber of Commerce building, 9141 W. Historic Magna Main Street, is Magna's recognized community council under the ordinance.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>The Magna Community Council</b></i></span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The MCC, which meets on the fourth Thursday, at 7 p.m. at the Magna Senior Center, is also a private corporation but is a different sort of creature and is not recognized under the ordinance and receives no appropriated county funding (but otherwise, it is treated in virtually very respect by the county as if it were recognized). It is self-appointed and self-perpetuating. Under its articles of incorporation (as of 1986), it is made up largely of "appointed" members, mostly (at least on paper) representatives of community and industrial organizations and unions. At least two seats are reserved for elected public officials.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Each of the organizations represented on the MCC is entitled to one member. There is one exception to the rule: Kennecott Copper Corporation (which provides most if not all funding for the MCC; and also, by the way, donates some funding to the MAC-MTC) is entitled to two members. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The 1986 articles of incorporation "grandfathered in" all who were members at that time and provided for others to be appointed by application. Furthermore, they provide that "a seat shall be reserved for any member who has served two years or more as an officer of the corporation, providing he/she maintains continuous membership after his/her term of office expires."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The articles also provide for 20 percent of the member of the MCC to be elected from five geographical districts of Magna. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There is a residency requirement: "members of the corporation must be residents of Magna...except that the requirements as to residence shall not apply to present members."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That exception grandfathered in some members of the council who were not residents of Magna in 1986, including its president at that time, Laura Jo McDermaid, who presently serves as vice-president and who lives in the Hunter area of West Valley City.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Any member, including elected members, "may be removed from membership by a majority vote of the members present at any regular meeting or at any special meeting of the member called for that purpose, for conduct deemed prejudicial" to the MCC. (That clause figured largely in the events of 1987 that led to the formation of the MAC-MTC). </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In current fact, the MCC has eight active voting members, according to information provided by MCC Secretary Arlene Pattison. According to officers of the MCC, elections of community representatives have not been held in recent years. None of the eight current members represents industry or other organizations. Some of the current permanent members were originally elected member but became permanent by way of service as officers or by appointment. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The meetings are regularly attended by Megan Hillyard, liaison representative from the county mayor's office, and Greg Shulz, who is employed by the county to represent the west-side community councils to the county council. Magna resident Dan Peay serves as president, and West Valley City resident Laura Jo Mc Dermaid as vice-president.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>The history lesson</b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>The established order</i></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The MCC was here first, by about 60 years, and is the standard bearer of an old Magna tradition. According to documents in the possession of the MCC, it was first organized in 1927 by a Utah Copper foreman. </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Magna of that time was a mining company town overlaid on an earlier Mormon farming community called Pleasant Green. The company town has become the core of "old" Magna. The newer developments to the south and east of that core (mainly eastward of 8400 W.) are built over the farms. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Though the oral history tells of some division between the older agricultural Magna and the newer company town, at least the company-town Magna itself had a strong sense of community. As explained by Kent Goble, a Magna resident and former member of the MCC who has deep roots in the community and is a local-history buff, "The county government was not a factor in those days." Whatever was done to improve the community had to be done by local volunteer service, and through the years much was done, much of it with leadership from the Magna-Garfield Lions and the MCC.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We built our own churches out here," Goble says. "We created our own water company. It was our labor that put in sidewalks and roads. There was a time in Magna when you could raise an army of volunteer workers for a civic project."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Magna's main street became a vibrant center of life and business. The vestiges remain of a J.C. Penny store, a hotel, two movie theaters, a Safeway, and other evidences of a past prosperity. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Those years are remembered by older residents as something of a golden age, Goble explains: "We old-timers, myself included, remember the way Magna used to be 'back in the day' and dream of it's one day being that way once more. You had to be there to understand, but it was something very, very special. They (the MCC) are vestiges of something that was really special. In their own way they are trying to perpetuate that concept of community." (MCC president Dan Peay recently said as much, comparing the two councils: "The Community Council is probably more concerned with restoring Magna to what it used to be.")</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The MCC seems to have entered a new phase of its life in 1945. Dissatisfaction with county government's responsiveness to Magna's needs gave rise to an incorporation movement, led by one George Cromar, who was connected with the Lions. The movement fizzled (as with others since) when a study showed that incorporation would raise Magna's property taxes to an unacceptable level.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At the time, representatives of Utah Copper Company and the neighboring smelting and refining company (which later was absorbed into the copper company) approached the incorporation committee with the suggestion that many of the aims could be achieved through a community council. Cromar became president of the council, and the two companies together put up $3,000 to hire and executive secretary for it, and also paid off the debts fro the Magna sewer development that had been in the works since 1941. Since then, the copper company, under its changing names and forms, has, according to current president Dan Peay, been the MCC's sole financial support.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The MCC as organized in 1945 was not a democratic institution. In an article published in the Magna Times in 1946, Cromar responded to criticism that "the group should have been more democratically chosen" by outlining the organization and bylaws of the council. One representative each had been appointed to it by the copper and smelting companies and also by Bingham and Garfield Railroad, Garfield Smelter, the fire department, The American Legion, the Lion's club, the Arthur-Magna Millmen's union, the AF of L Machinists' Union, and the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen and Engineermen. Three individuals were "asked" to be members at large. Cromar explained that a mass election would have been prohibitively expensive, though later newspaper reports indicate that mass elections of three at large members came to be held. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In the process of time, the MCC came to be treated by county government as the "voice of Magna," much as a "recognized" council is treated now, and it can claim credit for many good works, including the Magna Water and Sewer Improvement District, the Mosquito Abatement District, the Cyprus High School swimming pool and skating rink, the senior center, and several parks.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Unrest</i></b></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><i> </i></b> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As Magna changed, however, dissatisfaction with the structure and performance of the MCC emerged. </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Change began after World War II, not long after the original organization of the MCC. New homes began to be built to the east of 8400 West. (Kent Goble grew up in the first "new" house built on the east side of 8400 W., in 1948; the house is still inhabited). The development continues to this day. Meanwhile, economic change came to Magna. Harder times came to the copper industry, and by the 1960s shopping centers were growing up further eastward. By the end of the 1960s, Magna's Main Street was well on its way into blight. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At first, most of the people building houses eastward had Magna roots and family connections, but then more "outsiders" came in. By 1980, the population of "East Magna" was largely Anglo, Mormon, white collar, non union, and Republican, with no connection to the copper company or the unions and no historical or cultural roots in "old" Magna, which tended to be southern European, Roman Catholic, and blue-collar, with strong loyalties to both the copper company and the unions. (The two populations still have not melded into a unified community.)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Furthermore, east-siders wanted services and parks to be more centrally located. Many came to perceive the MCC as representing the "old" Magna and being too narrowly focused on revitalization of Main Street. The began to demand more representation on the council, whit at some point responded by increasing the elected members to five, who represented districts. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As Goble explains it, it was a problem of mistrust: "The old-timers didn't trust the newcomers to understand and honor the old magna tradition, and the newcomers didn't trust the old-timers to look after their interests."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The rift between old and new widened in the early 1980s., with the rodeo grounds issue. For years, a 24-acre parcel of land near 3700 S. and 8000 W., on the south side of the irrigation canal, commonly known as the "rodeo grounds," had been designated in Magna's master plan as green space. It had long been the expectation among east-siders that it would eventually be developed as a park.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Then, on Aug. 12, 1980, the County Planning and Zoning Commission held a public hearing to consider rezoning the parcel for subdivision development. Petitions were circulated, and a concerted effort to secure the property for a park got underway, led by the East Magna Community Parks Association. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A Magna Times article published on Aug. 7 noted, "The last area tentatively earmarked for consideration as a park was located south of Lake Ridge School. Unfortunately, Granite School District sold the property to a developer and a subdivision was built there. Hundred of homes have been constructed since in the Lake Ridge area and still there are no decent prospects for a park to serve the new families and their children."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The park movement eventually lost, and the rodeo grounds became a subdivision. An individual who was present to observe events at the time recalls that the east-side residents felt betrayed by the MCC, which was perceived as having refused to support their cause.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In the early 1960s and the early 1980s, at least two attempts were made to establish community councils to represent "East Magna," but neither gained traction. As a person who was involved in one of those movements put it, "We got so much opposition from the Community Council that we just got tired of fighting it." We withhold the individual's name by request. That is a request that we encountered frequently in preparation of this article with explanations like "I've put all that behind me" and "I don't want to start another war with so-and-so."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Insurrection</i></b></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What finally "tore it" for the east-siders was a controversy over the location of the new Magna Library branch (which is now under construction on Magna's Historic Main Street). </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The MCC favored a Main Street location. East-siders, still wanting more centrally located services, wanted it to be built more eastward, preferably in the Arbor Park shopping center. After discussion in 1985 and 1986, the MCC's recommendation was forwarded to the county.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Opposition to that recommendation resurfaced in 1987. In the spring of 1987, an elected member of the MCC, Craig Taylor, representing the MCC's District 5, mailed a letter to all of his constituents urging them to write to the county if they disagreed with the Main Street location of the library. As reported in the Magna Times of Apr. 9, 1987, "Taylor said he had been approached by residents in his district who had questions. 'I was elected by the district,' he said, 'and I have a responsibility to let them know what's going on.'"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The article continues, "Taylor's letter prompted considerable discussion among Council members, some of whom felt Taylor was reopening last summer's controversy unnecessarily after the Council had voted to support the (Main Street) site." The MCC had, in fact, voted unanimously.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The controversy brought back the old complaints about what some saw as the nonrepresentative nature of the MCC, and a new movement to establish an all-elected council in conformity with county ordinances ensued, with support from some MCC members. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"One disgruntled resident" was reported by the Salt Lake Tribune on June 10, 1987, as complaining that the structure of the MCC "opens the door for control by special-interest groups." Craig Taylor's wife elaborated, "Even if the five elected officials vote the way the community wants, they are still outvoted by the others."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There were also complaints that the representation was unbalanced, since one district had only one representative, and another had twelve. Furthermore, it was argued, three of the members (including then MCC president Laura Jo McDermaid, who now serves as vice-president of the council) did not live in Magna.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
On the evening following that Tribune report, the MCC in a closed-door session voted 11-5 to expel three of its members--elected members Craig Taylor and Marlene Norcross and also Chick Paris--for actions "prejudicial to the council" (not, be it noted, to their constituents). Two other members resigned on the spot in protest, and another, also and elected member, resigned later. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
McDermaid was quoted by the Deseret News (June 11-12, 1988) as saying that the three were stripped of membership for "systematically throwing suspicions on the council's structures and its accomplishments," which she termed "subversive actions."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
McDermaid added: "The five elected members (two of whom had just been expelled) represent neighborhoods, while the others were elected by their organizations to represent the groups on the council. I think that's pretty democratic." (McDermaid still holds to that view. "We feel that we are very democratic.... It's always been a very open council," she said in a recent MCC meeting. "We're the voice of the people, as much as an elected body. We're still the voice of a lot of people in the community." )</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A few days later, at a stormy MCC meeting, about 100 residents attended to demand that the council reorganize in conformity with county ordinances. When the council refused to discuss the crowd's demands, the Deseret News reported (June 19, 1987), the crowd exited to the parking lot of the senior center, where the meeting was being held, and voted to form a steering committee to establish by-laws that conformed to those of the United Association of Community Councils (UACC, now the Association of Community Councils Acting Together, or ACTT).</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Eleven member so the new council (called the Magna Area Council), all representing districts, were elected on Aug. 3 and on Aug. 4 the Board of County Commissioners issued a notice that it had "formerly accepted and recognized the MAGNA AREA COUNCIL as the County Community Council for the Magna Community District," directing that "all Salt Lake County agencies are to accord to this Council the same status as other County Community Councils.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>A new equilibrium, more or less</i></b></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><i> </i></b> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Despite the setback, the MCC managed to hold on to its influence with the county, as county officials first set out to treat the MAC-MTC as the "voice of Magna," then wavered, then determined on a strict "middle-of-the-road" course between the two councils.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
On July 13, 1987, County Commissioner David Watson told a town meeting of those supporting the all-elected council that he had instructed the Public Works Department and its director, John Hiskey, "to recognize the Magna Area Council as the official voice of Magna," and, since elections would not be held until Aug. 3, to recognize the steering committee during the transition (Salt Lake Tribune, July 14, 1987). "This is the community council (meaning the MAC-MTC) that we will listen to," he said.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Laura Jo McDermaid reacted with what the Magna Times (July 23, 1987) described as "outrage" over Watson's statements, at a MCC meeting shortly afterward.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"He took sides," McDermaid said. "Why does COmmissioner Watson take such a divisive stand against the council that has served this community effectively and loyally for so many years?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She continued: "Why are we being ignored? The new group is quick to charge that they are not receiving their democratic rights. Well, I say that we are denied our civil rights also, and found to be guilty without first being heard."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At a meeting, requested by McDermaid, just before the Aug. 3 election, representatives of the MCC (including McDermaid), the steering committee for the new council representatives of the UACC, and the Salt Lake County Commission engaged in a long discussion, Former Governor Calvin Rampton also attended, in behalf of the MCC (Magna Times, Aug. 6, 1987)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Rampton observed, "I worked with this council (the MCC) for many years and would hate to see the experience (of the MCC) thrown away." He advised the commissioners to slow down their decision-making process on which council to recognize, "before we break something."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Commissioner Mike Stewart said, "I don't think we need to hear one group over the other. We can take advice from wherever and weigh it accordingly and hope that down the road evolution will maybe bring them back together."<br />
Beginning to back off from his earlier bold statement about the new council's being "the one we will listen to," Watson ended the meeting by saying, "Just to be fair, it is not our purpose to discourage the new group if they want to go ahead." As the polls closed for the new council's election, he said, "The county will consider the wishes of both councils. If there's a conflict, the commissioners will decide which opinion to back. We've decided not to really pick one over the other as long as they are working toward the betterment of this area."<br />
At the MCC's August meeting, after the election, McDermaid reported, "The county commissioners never intended to exclude any interested group from giving input on county decisions, whether the group is a member of the UACC or not."<br />
An interoffice memo from John J. Hiskey, the Director of Salt Lake County Public Works, dated Aug. 18, 1987, stated: "Please be advised that it will be necessary for our Divisions to include both the Magna Area Council and the Magna Community Council on any mailings or notifications of County meetings impacting the Magna area.... Although the Magna Area Council will be formally recognized by the County, this will not preclude other groups already in existence from partidipation in County government."<br />
The county planning commission began referring zoning applicants to both councils.<br />
The Newly organized MAC-MTC was not as satisfied with the county's accommodation to the situation as was the MCC. In a letter to the Board of Commissioners dated Oct. 2, 1987, MAC-MTC President Steve Harris wrote: "Since this decision of August 5 (to recognize officially the MAC-MTC as the County Community Council for the Magna Community District), the County has decided to refer zoning applicants to two Magna Councils. This is not acceptable and is unfair to applicants, neighboring property owners, and the voters of Magna and the Council members they elected to represent them."<br />
Harris quoted a Magna resident as saying, "Doesn't the voice of the people mean anything?"<br />
He told the commissioners that they were "sending a confusing and frankly disappointing message to the residents of Magna."<br />
He wrote, "The Magna Area Council, hereby, requests that the Board of County Commissioners direct the Salt Lake County Planning and Zoning Department to refer applicants to and request recommendations from the Magna Area Council as it is the only officially recognized all-elected County Community Council in the Magna Area."<br />
Twenty-five days later, another interoffice memo in the Public Works Department directed, "Only the Magna Area Council name should appear on Planning Commission and Board of Adjustment meeting agendas. <i>Developers should clearly understand that they are not required to go before two councils</i> (italics added). Listening to both councils on division letters, rosters, etc. is causing confusion."<br />
Meanwhile, the MCC was trying a new tactic. An attorney for the MCC addressed a letter to the MAC-MTC president pointing out that "the Magna Area Community Counsel (sic) has been in existence and used this name since 1927." The letter continued: "Please cease and desist in using the phrase "Magna Area Counsel" <i>immediately</i> (italics in original) as it is 'deceptively similar' and has been the cause of confusion for individuals and entities dealing with my clients. Be aware that you are now violative of Utah Code Annotated 16-10-8 1984 (1985) and as such my client could be entitled to injunctive relief, damages, cost and associated fees should you not comply voluntarily."<br />
One of the original members of the MAC-MTC (name withheld by request) told the Magna Newspapers, "That scared us." Nothing seems to have come of it, however, as the MAC continued to use the name "Magna Area Council" until with advent of the township status it changed to "Magna Town Council."<br />
At some point in the process, McDermaid, of the MCC, requested to the County Commissioners that the MCC "be granted the rights, privileges, and authority provided to community councils under Salt Lake County Ordinance Title 2, Chapter 2.56." The county declined to do so. A letter from Commissioner Stewart to McDermaid dated Feb. 10, 1989, stated: "It is our determination that these powers cannot be granted to your organization because the ordinance stipulates that a community district ma be represented by only one community council. A council already exists and is formally recognized by the County as prescribed in the ordinances."<br />
The letter pointed out that "the bylaws of your organization allow for appointed council members as well as elected members" and continued, "This is in conflict with the ordinance as it makes no provision for appointed council members."<br />
The letter made one concession: "Your request to receive the agendas of all public Planning Commission meetings and Planning Division staff recommendations that are provided to other community groups will be honored."<br />
Despite those policy statements, the Magna Township Planning Commission continues to refer applicants to both councils, although according to Bev Uipi, of the Mayor's Office, no one has directed the Magna Township Planning Commission to do so.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>The current situation </b></i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b> </b> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The objective of the county government treatment of the two councils is, as one county official (name withheld) recently said, "to keep the peace."</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
According to Bev Uipi, of the County Mayor's Office, Mayor Peter Corroon has directed county representatives to attend both councils, because "both are functioning councils." She said that "the only difference between the two is that the Community Council does not receive appropriated funds." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b> </b>Some of the acrimony that existed earlier between the two councils has dissipated, and they frequently cooperate and collaborate on events. They send representatives to each other's meetings. One member of the MAC-MTC, Norm Fitzgerald, is also and appointed voting member of the MCC. A seasoned member of the MTC said that new member of the MTC tend to want to insist that "we are Magna's council!" but overall relations are more amicable.<br />
Some might say that that is because the MTC has learned to "remember its place." One MTC member was heard to say in an open meeting, "We know we're second-class citizens," though other members took issue with that view.<br />
The MCC's view of the relative place and importance of each council may have been revealed in a glossy business guide published in 2007 by the Magna Chamber of Commerce, of which Laura Jo McDermaid, vice president of the MCC, was president at the time. All of page 10 is devoted to a history of the MCC, with a quarter-page photo of its president, Dan Peay. It is faced by a half-page photo at the top of the page, of seven of the then nine members of the council, with an identifying caption. By contrast, on page 15 is a half-page photo of the MAC-MTC, set at the bottom of the page, with now descriptive or historical information.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Is this good for Magna? </b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b> </b> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Does this arrangement--one council formally recognized, and another treated virtually in every way except fundings if it were formally recognized--serve the general welfare of Magna? Opinions differ, of course. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As Bev Uipi sees it: "Both groups of private citizens have always had the best interests of the Magna constituency at heart. Though they may be involved in different activities, they collaborate on many events."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
LaDell Bishop, former president of the MAC-MTC, said at a Magna Town Hall meeting held last spring as a joint meeting of the two councils, "Magna is fortunate to have two groups of citizens so concerned about her welfare."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ron Henline, a long-time Magna resident who once served as president of the MAC-MTC, and also as member and chairman of the Magna Township Planning Commission, says it's a good thing. "We didn't have to exclude one at the cost of the other," he said, "and I firmly believe in that."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Henline sees certain advantages for Magna in having the two councils. "The Community Council as an <i>ad hoc</i> committee can go in and say things and do things the Council can't do," he explained. "The Town Council is more limited because all they can do is go in and say, 'County Council, we need money.' They go out and lobby some of the businesses and some of the large concerns, like Rio Tinto." Explaining why the Magna Township Planning Commission refers applicants to both councils, Henline said, "It increases public input."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Chick Paris, one of the three tho were expelled from the MCC during the 1987 fracas, disagrees: "It doesn't serve the interests of Magna to have two councils acting as voices of Magna to the Salt Lake County Council. It confuses people, and sometimes the two councils take different positions. Then what is the county supposed to do?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Outgoing MAC-MTC member William Penton said, "I think it's purely political, a good-old-boy thing--you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. I think when people are told they need to go talk to both, they ought to raise hell about it. There's no way I'd go to both."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And some express their disapproval with even less gentility. At that Town Hall Meeting last spring, one Magna resident said to Democratic County Council Member Jim Bradley after the meeting, "This two-council situation is ridiculous. The county just needs to have the balls to fix it." (Bradley stood with his arms folded and gazed silently back.)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>What of the future?</b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Commissioner Stewart's hope expressed in 1987 that "down the road evolution will maybe bring them back together" has not been wholly fulfilled, and there is no sign that it will be, beyond occasion collaboration on activities.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Politically the MCC is heavily Democratic, and all along it seems to have enjoyed patronage from Democratic allies in county government. A current member of the MTC, who asked not to be identified, recalls being told by a currently serving Democratic member of the county council, whom he also asked not to be identified, "I know that you are the official council, but those people are my friends." Also, an elected official (a Democrat) from the Magna area, who asked not to be identified, asked us rhetorically and with good humor, "Don't you know the Community Council is the Democratic council and the Town Council is the Republican council?")</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
With a Democrat in the Mayor's Office and a Democratic majority on the County Council, that political reality seems unlikely to change.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Meanwhile, the MCC has been diminishing in size, and President Peay explained why they haven't held elections for community representatives in recent years: "We've just had such a hard time getting participation."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In the end, it comes down to the consent of the governed. Magna as a whole has implicitly accepted this arrangement for 20 years. How long it continues depends largely on how long that consent continues. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>Last word</b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To those inclined to find fault with the MCC, Kent Goble might well be given the last word: "We need to keep in perspective the contributions of the old council and the historic Magna that it represents. They have a vision for the future of Magna as valid as other folks do, and it's a legitimate vision, based on their love and passion and caring for this community. The county and other government entities that have come in here to replace the old ethic of community and self-reliance don't have the same love and loyalty to Magna. The council is there because they have a vision, and they refuse to give up."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Keep things in perspective," Goble urges. "Remember the great good that the Community Council has done for Magna." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The Magna Town Council (MAC-MTC) currently (as of March 2014) meets every first Thursday of the month at 7:00 p.m. at the new UFA station #111 8200 West 3500 South. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The Magna Community Council (MCC) currently (as of March 2014) meets the fourth Thursday of the month at 7:00 p.m. at the Webster Center (formerly the Senior Citizen's Center) 8952 West 2700 South. </i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
For more information please see the following two articles that had come out in the Salt Lake Tribune after the Colin B. Douglas article in the Magna Times had gained attention:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i> <a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1015979433"><br /></a></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><a href="http://archive.sltrib.com/printfriendly.php?id=12180754&itype=ngpsid">Magna council angry after Town Council grabs authority by Jeremiah Stettler</a></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><a href="http://archive.sltrib.com/article.php?id=13272180&itype=NGPSID">County does about-face on Magna's dueling councils by Jeremiah Stettler</a></i></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-33619805366570237862014-02-16T18:29:00.000-08:002016-01-07T08:28:38.540-08:00Magna Arctic Circle to be demolished and rebuilt.<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b>A time of change.</b></h2>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXUSqBiJPUPLDXn6-Y1ltoMGnbbSC4nW_KSxWJXloDG09WZJpd3mO2l6G5zHAWxWqYxyjjJf86kuA-kytcuyh9Kko6467iWeHXwKY83OjwKLRiGfmliJ2fNlAK_j7eMEn66j1F5tZ7O0/s1600/S6300727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXUSqBiJPUPLDXn6-Y1ltoMGnbbSC4nW_KSxWJXloDG09WZJpd3mO2l6G5zHAWxWqYxyjjJf86kuA-kytcuyh9Kko6467iWeHXwKY83OjwKLRiGfmliJ2fNlAK_j7eMEn66j1F5tZ7O0/s1600/S6300727.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo by Robert Goble</i></td></tr>
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<br />
Affectionately known by the locals as the "A/C Greasy," this particular Arctic Circle had weathered more than four decades as a Magna, Utah landmark. During the summers, it was the destination for many a thirsty kid on
bicycle or on foot, a watering hole for a Lime Ricky or a courtesy cup
of water--if you'd rather have used your pocket change to afford an ice cream
or some fries. It was the place to stop between the library and home. It
was the hang-out during all the many summer car shows. Maybe, after
all, you had to make that quick trip to the outside restrooms--how can I
not mention those darn restrooms?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSdGDcIKcCnF9_uMyBk2FRHvJ-Ko_ODUxpKcFdrS7QJgCCsWne2S15VcQ3m5G9ddkPmfkMyvo6Axp8pXw74HTYl1zJCJYzh3YCUdtvTfALIn_FiGyUDWdnkJpz8LwskIfiO6AwEfgbwU/s1600/S6300732.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSdGDcIKcCnF9_uMyBk2FRHvJ-Ko_ODUxpKcFdrS7QJgCCsWne2S15VcQ3m5G9ddkPmfkMyvo6Axp8pXw74HTYl1zJCJYzh3YCUdtvTfALIn_FiGyUDWdnkJpz8LwskIfiO6AwEfgbwU/s1600/S6300732.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td></tr>
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<br />
It had been the place for part-time work for many Cyprus High School students. Kemari Rawlings had worked there in the early in the early nineteen-eighties. She laughingly remembers the brown polyester uniforms with the orange rainbow. Speaking of the importance of the job to her at that time, she said:<br />
"It paid for Madrigals. I wouldn't have been able to go on a mission to Japan or anything. After my mission, my mom asked, 'what do you want to eat? I'll bring it to the airport.' All I wanted was a chicken filet sandwich with cheese and tomato and extra white sauce, and a diet Pepsi. It was to die for. She thought it was some kind of joke."<br />
In a strange way, I imagine Kemari's experience wasn't unique. It was a part of coming home, of reconnecting with something (though not unique to Magna itself) that was a part of the experience of living in Magna: this particular Arctic Circle. It was a "Magna" experience as much as the old Pizza Stop, Grub Box, Ken's Sandwich Shop, or the Taco Time--Ken's being the last of the aforementioned standing. <br />
Years ago, I picked up a friend of mine, Robert Hosford, from the airport. After he'd spent a long period of time away from home, working in Chicago, I'd asked him the same thing: what did he want to eat?<br />
"Take me to Arctic Circle. I want a Ranch Burger," he said.<br />
Michael Goble, who now lives in Texas, had worked there in the mid-nineties.When he heard about the demolition, he jokingly said, "It's good that the lousy high school work memories will be torn down.... It was my first job. It was cool for a while and the food was good, until I needed more money. After two years I'd had enough of it. it's kind of sad to see it go, because it's a piece of Magna history. Good thing we stopped there with the family last time we were in Utah." <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHimi6SRyohjaCQkJAShXagRLyI9YORXlTHHSM-jDwgD-2AOUqYFBKCWA0gaX0oFBZ6voeuj0K8QhkQ2yKgerubpkWgTuyJdh2fMnps_hfdu8z_t0bmn_GXiHHVWsB-QCDmABA1otoxrs/s1600/S6300736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHimi6SRyohjaCQkJAShXagRLyI9YORXlTHHSM-jDwgD-2AOUqYFBKCWA0gaX0oFBZ6voeuj0K8QhkQ2yKgerubpkWgTuyJdh2fMnps_hfdu8z_t0bmn_GXiHHVWsB-QCDmABA1otoxrs/s1600/S6300736.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the drive up menu. You can see the construction of the new Arctic Circle. How many obnoxious teenagers had walked up to that drive-up window around the corner to try and place an order? This spot was like a little canyon, as the north side of the original Smith's Food King and Francesco's Italian Restaurant rose to the right.<br />
<i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td></tr>
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Very few folks can remember what this area was before Arbor Park came along. Ernie Gust remembers his family's home along 3500 south, and, not far away, the original Arctic Circle, another burger place built not far to
the west in the nineteen-fifties.<br />
"The home used to
stand where the right lane of the road is today," he says.<br />
I recall my grandmother, Evelyn Sadler Goble, could
remember when all that property was still a part of Coonville and how
the Lucerne (old British name for alfalfa) used to stretch south of the
dirt crossroads (the corner of 3500 South and 8400 West. For a time, 3500 South was the main way to Salt Lake City--there wasn't a highway 201.<br />
Soon the old Arctic Circle building will be brought to rubble, as nearly all the rest of Arbor Park. It's concrete pillars and tight drive-up window will be but a memory, much as the old Smith's Food King, Sprouse Reitz, Library, The Best Shop, Thrifty's (which later became the Reel Movie Theater).<br />
What was most special about this particular Arctic Circle (besides the individual memories of those who grew up in Magna) were the unique paintings that adorned the upper walls in the eating area. It was a place to sit and contemplate Magna history and look out at the Oquirrh Mountains at sunset (if sitting at the west windows), or looking out at Antelope Island and the distant Wasatch Mountains (if sitting at the north Windows). You night have done just that: contemplated the Magna history in the paintings, but did you know where the inspiration for the paintings had come from?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS9a-q6vBpofh_9AuMVJmo6Ha2soSpUYGPa_OR1mGCfUfJBf56Dx3wvN0E6ttPeKMfW3SUzSCVDPmcSx2IuIvRQxAvQSJ0kMKGWGJnHCtDRJW_aRPxj7QPY5wfnsAz-sjb1nj3iyp0mk/s1600/Tpictures+016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS9a-q6vBpofh_9AuMVJmo6Ha2soSpUYGPa_OR1mGCfUfJBf56Dx3wvN0E6ttPeKMfW3SUzSCVDPmcSx2IuIvRQxAvQSJ0kMKGWGJnHCtDRJW_aRPxj7QPY5wfnsAz-sjb1nj3iyp0mk/s1600/Tpictures+016.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paintings taken from historical photos, painted directly onto the sheet rock circa 1978.<br />
<i>Photo by Robert Goble</i></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>
</i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYYkbF0mSu9FlaL_et-8dZS-p4TWAU4tbHXeTCHcKFE4Ei6pGdlQIjjoBiPrPyH-S-Xa0kltkWzXxvIVnP7jfy4LAw3JNqkqttoKfUQodUbkfokpReX4vQYtkzuA-vlCLmenvi8WL0nXw/s1600/Tpictures+015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYYkbF0mSu9FlaL_et-8dZS-p4TWAU4tbHXeTCHcKFE4Ei6pGdlQIjjoBiPrPyH-S-Xa0kltkWzXxvIVnP7jfy4LAw3JNqkqttoKfUQodUbkfokpReX4vQYtkzuA-vlCLmenvi8WL0nXw/s1600/Tpictures+015.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b></b><b>Rag Town</b></h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy-HXzaAkxbyBIx5Ha-0pgsVTwPPEFWWWvCL1TbdjTes-8IxqAJM-U7LxBRWm_R4EZKMOhg8konFIRn64KtKSrYbNRwc9hEngIDy45KRCZOpdp8Wx-KNJ-3ZIMNfRxBv9eYDKM30voEQI/s1600/Tpictures+012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy-HXzaAkxbyBIx5Ha-0pgsVTwPPEFWWWvCL1TbdjTes-8IxqAJM-U7LxBRWm_R4EZKMOhg8konFIRn64KtKSrYbNRwc9hEngIDy45KRCZOpdp8Wx-KNJ-3ZIMNfRxBv9eYDKM30voEQI/s1600/Tpictures+012.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Was Magna, Utah really known as Rag Town? Not the "Magna" we know today. Rag Town was north of Webster and west of 9180 West. It was right up against the hill and cornered into where highway 201 runs up the same hill.<br />
<i>Photo by Robert Goble</i> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3f9G9bjdEMwsAwFTz6FjTjMfmYXldTh_g8_4bfRrl4ZoxvCSZoCXeUvzMUsBAldtG-kgdT9RC_K9T-Tb3xq0D9XbCh38fz_LvatLjtC77UprAcLcrGNVF18e1EtYEvmSoAMzaIvBOt68/s1600/Ragtown4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3f9G9bjdEMwsAwFTz6FjTjMfmYXldTh_g8_4bfRrl4ZoxvCSZoCXeUvzMUsBAldtG-kgdT9RC_K9T-Tb3xq0D9XbCh38fz_LvatLjtC77UprAcLcrGNVF18e1EtYEvmSoAMzaIvBOt68/s1600/Ragtown4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many folks confuse Rag Town with Pleasant Green. To state that Rag Town was the origin of Magna would be both true and false. It's not the origin by any means of today's Magna. If you consider it being part of the real "Magna" that was on the hill, that would be true. If you confuse Rag Town with Pleasant Green, that would be false. Rag Town was a very short lived episode in Magna's history. It was temporary housing for workers, quickly thrown up to accommodate the massive influx of mill workers. It appeared on the hill northwest Pleasant Green not long after the Magna Concentrator (1906) and the Arthur Mill were built. Pleasant Green had been around since the 1860s. When you drive Magna Main Street, you're really driving Pleasant Green Main Street. This photo was taken on the hill far north and west of 9200 West. This is just north of the flumes. To get and idea of where it's at, look at the smoke stack in the upper right corner. That smoke stack (there's another just to the left outside the photo) was part of the old power house, which stood where highway 201 runs today. The dirt road in the photo was just above the "flumes."<br />
<i>Used by permission, Utah State Historical Society, all rights reserved. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhYhpsdhc-60B2hAbXrnJux9GqZHBb9CE4vukf8rJmhKw-Qd95cH0NViolAwoMPSb8HuwB7zFxH0so2wENCsSkQY1aRxICn3I8Vrt_ogNwapatO6Sw_DKvu2TUbyp1NEknJoASBegDK8/s1600/U+pictures+365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhYhpsdhc-60B2hAbXrnJux9GqZHBb9CE4vukf8rJmhKw-Qd95cH0NViolAwoMPSb8HuwB7zFxH0so2wENCsSkQY1aRxICn3I8Vrt_ogNwapatO6Sw_DKvu2TUbyp1NEknJoASBegDK8/s1600/U+pictures+365.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To add more perspective, take a look at this photo, which was taken from Thead's Peak ( "C Mountain"). The peak was named after Thead Spencer, the son of one of the original settlers of Pleasant Green. The original Spencer farm was north and a little west of that peak. Its remains rest under millions of tons of tailings. <br />
To your right you see the new power house under construction higher on the hill. This photo would have been taken in the early 1940s during World War II. As far as Rag Town would be concerned, this photo would be much later in its history. Most of it was gone by then. What was left of it were the houses in the upper middle. Notice to their right, where they end, is "the flumes." In the upper left hand corner is where today's 9180 West meets highway 201. To the upper left, you see the old power house smoke stacks still standing. You notice Highway 201 still took a curvy route past the "row houses." </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0HCcQmzUrJr64qdWks54HIyMfWiXsofTN1d8ikz7N-6IihLoLVxm6Ye4GgVDS1_a0S9XVdrXdzu3vD_BozvOf6_wQgp7aSpmfDY-DJrnfU6ldtCMmo7sYRSTFb85ggtPwIp_avPupOU/s1600/Magna+power+house+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0HCcQmzUrJr64qdWks54HIyMfWiXsofTN1d8ikz7N-6IihLoLVxm6Ye4GgVDS1_a0S9XVdrXdzu3vD_BozvOf6_wQgp7aSpmfDY-DJrnfU6ldtCMmo7sYRSTFb85ggtPwIp_avPupOU/s1600/Magna+power+house+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Here's a far older example of Rag Town in 1917. Notice the old power house in the center slightly to the left. Rag Town was at its peak then. Look at the flumes, how many small houses butted up against it to the north. That is all vacant and dug out today. You can still see 9180 West in the upper middle to the right. What you can't see is Pleasant Green. Just off the photo to the right would be Webster Elementary and Pleasant Green Main Street. This photo looks north and slightly to the east. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgm1kTIw_icBiFnO5hirgRCtiUWpFhjxSuE5fAs7Bzo3QHM4AUhQreWH0uk__vaQTkvtL6HsAgfIQkOOIVhuzaSj9BGQdKVKEOTwrzY0sgjOJEEJOmal5tLLj3F_q_aFMrhtddpkOK7Ak/s1600/Ragtown+today..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgm1kTIw_icBiFnO5hirgRCtiUWpFhjxSuE5fAs7Bzo3QHM4AUhQreWH0uk__vaQTkvtL6HsAgfIQkOOIVhuzaSj9BGQdKVKEOTwrzY0sgjOJEEJOmal5tLLj3F_q_aFMrhtddpkOK7Ak/s1600/Ragtown+today..JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you're still wondering where Rag Town was, it was right in the area at the base of the hill (the photo is looking south.) next to highway 201, just as you start going up the hill. This photo is taken directly in line with where the old power house (the two old smoke stacks) were--in other words, directly behind me as I took this photo toward the Rag Town site. Those smoke stacks were demolished in the early fifties. <i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The old power house</span></h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9YQDMZvMRNhryyLerU-lbKsc3PpeZsvqYlwuGiZ8ZUmj7JVPAjcpWmf3huZm_qCL5jENdtducID9LI1nGFClZUD6fOeUKIOTmTlXZ2PBhX8bQep4uw0XE_E_cq1r1gneGbMVkhgUJr0/s1600/S6300319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9YQDMZvMRNhryyLerU-lbKsc3PpeZsvqYlwuGiZ8ZUmj7JVPAjcpWmf3huZm_qCL5jENdtducID9LI1nGFClZUD6fOeUKIOTmTlXZ2PBhX8bQep4uw0XE_E_cq1r1gneGbMVkhgUJr0/s1600/S6300319.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old smoke stacks that are seen in so many historic photos had stood for a half-century as landmarks for those who took the dusty highway to Garfield (established 1906), Black Rock, and Saltair. By the early nineteen-forties, the new power house on the hill had taken over, energizing the Magna copper industry into the twenty-first century. The power house on the hill has become a symbol for Magna, a most recognizable land mark. It even appears in feature films, including <i>The Crow: A Wicked Prayer.</i> Meanwhile, all that is left now are the fading memories of an older generation and this concrete foundation on the north side of highway 201 just as you go up the hill. It's at the base of the dike. A careful study of old photographs reveal that the tailings had once barely touched a lower elevation north and west of the old power house and over the years had filled in around the power house. In other words, the reason for the L shape in the dike in this particular spot is because the dike was built up around the old power house. My grandmother said that the folks of Pleasant Green had once been able to look North and see the Great Salt Lake. The younger generations have known nothing but the horizontal dike, a man-made hill that holds back millions of tons of gray tailings. <i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Magna Grocery</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgVDuq1z3Jbsv00gzvMm1WLIBLHiUbX-e3P5S7EyRSiuxCBp_ee2LzdZNvq_OwhW8ZvZT7ejyRLTWWgXXYtBAyM414oDaoK4yBbDBGPbzoV7ML7Rlr1ZhwmNeFz21I07MPoLsPFhkZ4I/s1600/Tpictures+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgVDuq1z3Jbsv00gzvMm1WLIBLHiUbX-e3P5S7EyRSiuxCBp_ee2LzdZNvq_OwhW8ZvZT7ejyRLTWWgXXYtBAyM414oDaoK4yBbDBGPbzoV7ML7Rlr1ZhwmNeFz21I07MPoLsPFhkZ4I/s1600/Tpictures+010.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Much as the previous painting, this one caused some confusion, though its plaque essentially correct. Many folks assumed this was Pleasant Green Main Street. That small store was, indeed, in "Magna." It was a hop away from the Magna Concentrator on the hill. Most of its customers had come from the row houses and Rag Town. It was likely a company store. <i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdHx91iP5FGfKMF8iM-RXlYs1yDb49XctsPgZpYrGGH2fZSdwTkiYxAzqbn4mqSkwemdKE12gEWds4MMwShuBSXFXXeESCbQCEASCnF1UtC0idY_3a_wG1G8bT_qgl_Oz7NK0CzIFOSo/s1600/Magna+power+house+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdHx91iP5FGfKMF8iM-RXlYs1yDb49XctsPgZpYrGGH2fZSdwTkiYxAzqbn4mqSkwemdKE12gEWds4MMwShuBSXFXXeESCbQCEASCnF1UtC0idY_3a_wG1G8bT_qgl_Oz7NK0CzIFOSo/s1600/Magna+power+house+13.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So given the name, "Magna Grocery," on the store sign. That should give as good a clue of where this photo was taken as the smoke stacks in the distance. Compare with the next photo.<br />
<i>Used by permission, Utah State Historical Society, all rights reserved. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b9FXq2QVtDUVf7XQ8xYGGCsGRo1YV3J-uxmKS8BkcEPtTIF_BdMnaIB0R85Ue2Q4-J572n7vt2nQ2rVL6-Kvf6DoAcZts6FEGcKwZwQmGZCWIQTCHyHQlVXMclGNask-P4hdo0j5lQk/s1600/Webster+Mainstreet+looking+east+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b9FXq2QVtDUVf7XQ8xYGGCsGRo1YV3J-uxmKS8BkcEPtTIF_BdMnaIB0R85Ue2Q4-J572n7vt2nQ2rVL6-Kvf6DoAcZts6FEGcKwZwQmGZCWIQTCHyHQlVXMclGNask-P4hdo0j5lQk/s1600/Webster+Mainstreet+looking+east+old.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here is the original Pleasant Green Main Street with the relatively new Hayes (Webster) Elementary, looking east. This had been Pleasant Green Main Street since the 1860s. Pleasant Green, as a precinct, was also officially "established" and recognized by the county July 21, 1874. Just a little tidbit of trivia: did you know shortly after Webster was built (1912) it was called the Hayes School? It held that name until 1922, when the Granite School District Board of Education officially changed the name to Webster. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<b>So just for fun, I'd like to point out a very big boo boo. </b></h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why this sign would advertise "Historic" Magna as being "established" in 1906, especially on the historic Pleasant Green Main Street (Est. July 21, 1874) makes me scratch my head. Magna was never "established" at any time. No records exist of such establishment. If this banner were to be correct, it should fly over today's highway 201 heading up the hill just under the power house. That's where "Magna" began in 1906 when the concentrator was put in. Pleasant Green had been alive and well and flourishing for three generations up until then. Pleasant Green adopting "Magna" as an <i>identity</i> hadn't started to fade in until well into the 1920s and 1930s. Photo by Robert Goble.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Perspective <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In this panorama taken in 1951, the first thing that clearly becomes apparent is where Magna and the scars of Rag Town stood on the hill to the lower left. Pleasant Green, (upper right) which by the time this photo was taken, had, for a generation, adopted the identity of "Magna." But by no means had the older generations, those who were already there before the invasion of industry, still knew their Pleasant Green and Coonville heritage. Coonville, which by the time this photo was taken would be known as Hercules and Bacchus, is to the right, outside the frame. <i>Photo courtesy of Doug Wood.</i></td></tr>
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Black Rock Beach</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuNSaoQXzRV8lpegP4Od9_rFatrekk-4ZGPIETMMtZn-NTHWjLZzqCdNKvYcP1bbAnDqGwD22ky-fQfBLKs85gRVIz1L-F3_SP8S9MBddbT5bX0j21KxmfOU2PVT8dh0mzIKXplpj4B4/s1600/Black+rock+Heber+C.+Kimball+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuNSaoQXzRV8lpegP4Od9_rFatrekk-4ZGPIETMMtZn-NTHWjLZzqCdNKvYcP1bbAnDqGwD22ky-fQfBLKs85gRVIz1L-F3_SP8S9MBddbT5bX0j21KxmfOU2PVT8dh0mzIKXplpj4B4/s1600/Black+rock+Heber+C.+Kimball+house.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black Rock is a "sea stack," a natural formation of ancient limestone,
carved by the geologically recent Lake Bonneville, limestone left over
from another era, the remnants of an ancient sea (not Lake Bonneville),
known to geologists as the Western Interior Seaway that split the North
American continent in two over a hundred million years ago. Black Rock
is the very northern point of the Oquirrh Mountains, those being at the
very eastern edge of the Basin and Range mountain ranges that stretch
from Utah to California. As the continent stretched, and massive sections slipped downward, ancient layers of rock were exposed. <br />
Black
Rock stands in an area where historically there had been many springs,
both fresh and brackish, and a natural passage for many generations of
Native Americans who hunted and camped nearby. In the early part of the
nineteenth century, trappers had passed by it, including Jedediah Smith. By 1846 the Donner and Hastings wagon trains had passed nearby.
In 1851, the Mormon pioneers celebrated Independence day there,
unfurling a great American flag from the top and firing cannons. <br />
The rock house was
built by Heber C. Kimball, a prominent Mormon, in 1860. Later it would
be turned into a boarding house and a resort. By the 1880, it was the very western edge of the Pleasant Green Precinct. Thousands of
people would visit the Black Rock resort by the Utah & Nevada Raliroad and by horse and wagon. Black Rock
beach was a popular destination until the late nineteen-fifties, when it
would fall into disrepair.<i> </i>The rock house was demolished for highway construction.<i> Used by permission, Utah State Historical Society, all rights reserved.</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<h2>
<b>Garfield Beach</b></h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaJbbjCcZOWzQNcvimuWjplwuMN5pyEf3Lwpe3JagYBNLjbOhavH0_hRvx96S2zN7fIo6en4J16-NRQj-hjqIK0ThrMciRXX56_QdMUg7nuoZfMF1wko9CnP94CbMCrxdQDYscqKpBeo/s1600/Garfield+resort+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaJbbjCcZOWzQNcvimuWjplwuMN5pyEf3Lwpe3JagYBNLjbOhavH0_hRvx96S2zN7fIo6en4J16-NRQj-hjqIK0ThrMciRXX56_QdMUg7nuoZfMF1wko9CnP94CbMCrxdQDYscqKpBeo/s1600/Garfield+resort+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Garfield resort was a contemporary of the Black Rock resort--several years before Saltair. In the early 1880s Thomas Douris, the captain of the City of Corinne, a popular steam boat that would take sight seers from the Lake Park resort (its remnants became Lagoon) west of Farmington to other parts of the lake, established a resort a little west of the already thriving Black Rock resort. Soon thereafter the railroad acquired it and built better bath houses with showers and dressing rooms, a pavilion, a saloon, and a French restaurant. Tens of thousands of railroad tourists visited both the Black Rock and Garfield resorts throughout the decade of the 1880s. It was destroyed by fire in 1904, and by 1906 the Western Pacific Railroad had driven its tracks right through where it had once stood. The Garfield resort was named after president James A. Garfield, who had visited Utah as a congressman in 1872 and 1875. He was assassinated in 1881. The resort shouldn't be confused with the Utah Copper Company town of Garfield, which rapidly rose two miles to the east from tent cities surrounding the Boston Consolidated Smelter in 1906 and would just as rapidly be torn down fifty years later. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1aVFBFn88YnSw7Zb-ziWwA6ZjHwYt7epIoV0Ky0clDBxauOFlMvdYRhnycDgnnz8ZsM6C9Bi1eereLbB68mzTZPi9Bk1HJ0Xx2-WYEUkrrr2jKzWDT9UYeBNXAQAqnrFXBmKgTcWrYCQ/s1600/S6300326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1aVFBFn88YnSw7Zb-ziWwA6ZjHwYt7epIoV0Ky0clDBxauOFlMvdYRhnycDgnnz8ZsM6C9Bi1eereLbB68mzTZPi9Bk1HJ0Xx2-WYEUkrrr2jKzWDT9UYeBNXAQAqnrFXBmKgTcWrYCQ/s1600/S6300326.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only a few pilings remain of the Garfield Resort, just over the Tooele County line. <i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Saltair</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxROJ62YxY8fnsQbnwssA4evYQxdw5KMOsO3tOFeJr4cdAQZMPdzWR2YWavQqQwVc4j2WJiSmoz0QVX8BowTi7uKHRC_EMOafZ3k9HSXDDa9EnHV34VlTzbH3NQf4tTPovRfkJ0-Ysv20/s1600/Tpictures+009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxROJ62YxY8fnsQbnwssA4evYQxdw5KMOsO3tOFeJr4cdAQZMPdzWR2YWavQqQwVc4j2WJiSmoz0QVX8BowTi7uKHRC_EMOafZ3k9HSXDDa9EnHV34VlTzbH3NQf4tTPovRfkJ0-Ysv20/s1600/Tpictures+009.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgT5fwDVZahByUPlUzXHGptAKxrxlnrEp8lA1ONlgjZ-8W32dhKS8mAPqiDUYlwyAT0LRO6kwgdVSPo7Yjmd3p06-3BIjmYaqfcj6VUu5ka31t9r8GMfxngQX3N5ouiJ11ja5_boNeCQ/s1600/saltair-by-night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgT5fwDVZahByUPlUzXHGptAKxrxlnrEp8lA1ONlgjZ-8W32dhKS8mAPqiDUYlwyAT0LRO6kwgdVSPo7Yjmd3p06-3BIjmYaqfcj6VUu5ka31t9r8GMfxngQX3N5ouiJ11ja5_boNeCQ/s1600/saltair-by-night.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The most famous resort on the Great Salt Lake, it was world renowned for nearly eight decades. My own great grandparents, Amelia Hardman and Leslie Sadler (Amelia Hardman was the granddaughter of Abraham Coon, his family being some of the original settlers of Coonville.), had won a dance contest on the famous shining wooden dance floor. It had weathered several fires and the rising and receding lake. Sadly, by 1970, its abandoned structure would succumb to one last fire.<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rarrvJmVneI">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rarrvJmVneI</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNK_MN-FfE7my6pO8KLsPB4tSRFtblQoH85eDDJs3zB0t04w27mQ0Jvk8e9_1YFlvhyqXfbQ7ObWCOJzVjrYltOLl90OUJ0omKn0vZBbVpT0Agp_-k30Po9S1NWDG_2bEM2taeqMbNFAY/s1600/1604803_10202934774320660_1523072327_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNK_MN-FfE7my6pO8KLsPB4tSRFtblQoH85eDDJs3zB0t04w27mQ0Jvk8e9_1YFlvhyqXfbQ7ObWCOJzVjrYltOLl90OUJ0omKn0vZBbVpT0Agp_-k30Po9S1NWDG_2bEM2taeqMbNFAY/s1600/1604803_10202934774320660_1523072327_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over this past week as I wrote this, the curator of the Fort Douglas museum, Beau Burgess, has been working to remove the paintings from the restaurant. Because they were painted directly onto the sheet rock and framed, he's had to cut them out stud by stud, but because of time constraints, he's only managed to save a few so far. The artist is still a mystery. Kimberly Buckner had managed to take this photograph before the building was closed for demolition. If anyone knows who the painter was, please contact Robert Goble at robgoble@yahoo.com<br />
<i>Photograph courtesy of Kimberly Buckner.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8miftMQ_Vy70lLBj1MfwRBwIsaPsk6af7mbkWt3j-A69h1_DuKlIkERYYaB2OkGLQZfCNbENKVjPsnKx4zniE7sUQdIY8kYiNji0B0OhpA1Zu0ovrIHiMbpn24ZS4AFrwJpWI2PVgNG8/s1600/mike+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8miftMQ_Vy70lLBj1MfwRBwIsaPsk6af7mbkWt3j-A69h1_DuKlIkERYYaB2OkGLQZfCNbENKVjPsnKx4zniE7sUQdIY8kYiNji0B0OhpA1Zu0ovrIHiMbpn24ZS4AFrwJpWI2PVgNG8/s1600/mike+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo by Robert Goble.</i></td></tr>
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Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com48339 West 3500 South, Magna, UT 84044, USA40.696131 -112.0901370000000334.21998 -122.41728550000002 47.172282 -101.76298850000003tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-31205826194320688152013-04-14T11:03:00.000-07:002013-04-14T11:03:44.271-07:00Part IV is here! In Older Worlds: Jennie Weeps<br />
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Jennie, Nancy, Kendra, Rachel, and Jeff didn't ask to become Guardians--whatever that meant. They hadn't sought the ability to cross into another world, much like their own but far more dangerous and beautiful, a world that had once cradled the earliest generations of mankind, a world with answers to the oldest questions: Who are we? Where did we come from? Are we alone in the universe?<br />
As Donnie is drawn to the darkness, seduced by pleasures and popularity, Bogie finds that sometimes the greatest searches for truth can last a lifetime.<br />
<br />
"An addicting storyline. I feel as if I had lived and grown with the characters; it's an emotional ride, and I begin to miss them like old friends. Goble's descriptive writing brings to life a town and a time I never knew and made an alter-earth believable!" --Wyatt Rivers<br />
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Start the journey here by reading:<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/In-Older-Worlds-Disappears-ebook/dp/B009PUG3GQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360436463&sr=8-1&keywords=in+older+worlds+nancy+disappears">Part I: In Older Worlds: Nancy Disappears</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/In-Older-Worlds-Donnie-ebook/dp/B009Q92X7E/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1360436557&sr=1-1&keywords=in+older+worlds+donnie+bleeds">Part II: In Older Worlds: Donnie Bleeds</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/In-Older-Worlds-Weevil-ebook/dp/B00AJB5GNQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1360436612&sr=1-1&keywords=in+older+worlds+weevil+kills">Part III: In Older Worlds: Weevil Kills</a></div>
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Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-12904467637481560372012-10-12T20:28:00.002-07:002012-10-14T08:10:30.968-07:00Part II is here! In Older Worlds: Donnie Bleeds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMa4GMFfLy_ty13ZVvOE_ZLhbKkQ10cGSzaR73snpuayukgB7kAZPE0V027zi1BnIbvMRFFn9bFreJ09U1tqYNy9VQGkzYTl21l2q6BqPLMQj6g6kJE0Qn-fycPjUpbFmGL_Dfop1zSk/s1600/In+Older+Worlds+Pt+2+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMa4GMFfLy_ty13ZVvOE_ZLhbKkQ10cGSzaR73snpuayukgB7kAZPE0V027zi1BnIbvMRFFn9bFreJ09U1tqYNy9VQGkzYTl21l2q6BqPLMQj6g6kJE0Qn-fycPjUpbFmGL_Dfop1zSk/s320/In+Older+Worlds+Pt+2+.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
In part II of the dark fantasy, In Older Worlds, a mystery connected to a strange stone stretches deep into the past. <br />
Jennie Stewart, a straight-A student, obsesses over the Mahesh cult,
searching through old news papers for answers to something she's not
even sure of herself.<br />
Under a burning eclipse a group of friends
are viciously pursued by bullies into the Flumes, only to find themselves
facing darker perils.<br />
Separated from the others, Rachel Varney
crosses into another world, and Nancy Nash, having been there herself,
comes home. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Read the first three chapters here!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Copyright © Robert Goble, 2012</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">All Rights reserved</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Cover photograph © Rick Wallace, 2012</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Not
limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this
publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, by copying electronically,
printing, Emailing, faxing, photocopying, or stored or transmitted by any other
means, without the prior written permission of the author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This is a work of fiction.
The characters, names, incidents, and places are creations of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any likeness they may bear to any actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.robgoble.com/"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">www.robgoble.com</span></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.rickwallacephotography.com/"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">www.rickwallacephotography.com</span></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Pony Rides the Sunbeam</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bogie threw his keys on the kitchen table, and his dog,
Barney, enthusiastically greeted him, nuzzling his legs and gently biting his
hand. Bogie took a beer from the fridge and a box of dog biscuits from the
cabinet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Miss me?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Bogie
tossed him a treat, which he made short work of.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Barney followed him to the bathroom with a big, wide doggie
grin, looking up almost worshipfully as Bogie relived himself. Together they
went to the living room, where Bogie fell heavily onto the couch. He took a
folded piece of paper out of the inner pocket of his black motorcycle jacket,
then tossed the jacket on the easy chair his dad used to sit on, when he’d come
home tired from work at Kennecott. Next to it was a framed photo of his dad and
one burned-out candle in a dusty holder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bogie turned on the television and stared blankly,
letting the aggravations of the day pass through his mind. Scenes of a defiant
Saddam Hussein mixed with a constant mental replay of his foreman accusing him of
being inept. President H. W. Bush, not the image of a tough guy, announced more
sanctions against Iraq for
invading Kuwait, and that a
massive build up of American and “coalition” forces was taking place in Saudi Arabia in
anticipation for a possible attack to drive Saddam (Sa-damn Insane, as the joke
went) back to where he belonged. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The urge to quit work and join the Marines almost became
overwhelming. Barney hopped onto the couch and snuggled his head onto Bogie’s
lap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who’d take care of you if I went off to hump sand dunes
and get shot at by rag-heads?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A contented Barney snorted and made himself comfortable.
The television became unbearable as talking heads began to swooningly discuss
Mikhail Gorbachev’s Nobel Peace Prize. Bogie turned off the television. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Should have given the damn thing to Reagan. Sort of
discredits the whole Nobel thing, doesn’t it, boy?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Silence filled the room. Outside, evening light made the
October trees glow. A car passed, blasting that stupid new song from the band
Warrant, “Cherry Pie.” From the moment he’d first heard the song, he’d hated
it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
used the heels of his leather boots to move a stack of books on unexplained
mysteries and solar phenomenon, accidentally knocking to the floor a couple of
books on Philolaus and his Counter-Earth theory. “Antichthon,” he whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Barney’s
eyes shifted as Bogie reached for a manila folder full of papers, sitting on a
shelf. He opened it. Inside were various notes he’d been collecting since the
day Donnie—</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Writing!
Something had been written on the back of the map Donnie’s brother had given
him. He unfolded it and let the afternoon sun that shined through the window
reveal faint images of words that had been erased. He carefully studied it
letter by letter, grabbed a pen and another piece of paper, and slowly
transcribed what he saw.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Pony rides
the sunbeam</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Take me far
away</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Ere my Eden’s wind doth blow</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In paths of
light I stray</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Pray my soul
with the eagle’s cry</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Will conquer
the burning sky<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let the vines of time cover
their eyes</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In older
worlds I’ll stray</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in 114.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in 114.75pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shit!” Bogie whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in 114.75pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Giving Barney an affectionate nudge
to get him off his lap, Bogie stood, found a couple of No. 12 welding lenses he
kept taped together on the shelf by his notes, and went outside. He put the
lenses to his eyes and stared at the sun, until it fell behind the Oquirrh Mountains. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> 15</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">October 11, 1857</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Freezing
wind disturbed river grasses. Coyotes kept their distance. Orrin Porter
Rockwell lay still, below a starless sky and misty moon, prematurely awakened
from a needed sleep. His hand slowly moved to his knife. Under orders not to
shed blood save in self-defense, he waited and listened. His own men were
farther away than the enemy bivouac—to which he was close enough to hear their
snores—so the footsteps he heard had to have been a sentry posted to keep watch
over the horses.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rockwell
and his men had burned several miles of grass (essential to maintain livestock)
ahead of the troops sent by President James Buchanan to wage war against the
“rebellious” Mormons, take control of Great Salt Lake City,
and hang its leaders. That evening he’d had the pleasure of listening to the
campfire grumblings of Colonel Edmund B. Alexander’s infantrymen as news spread
of raids destroying hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of supply wagons.
The poor bluecoats shivered on winter’s doorstep without crucial provisions,
and Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston’s troops, who’d left later from Fort
Leavenworth,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wouldn’t be arriving for
days, if not, weeks. The name of Lot Smith, the fellow scout responsible for
the raids, was becoming infamous, and Rockwell quietly chuckled. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rockwell
had ordered the burning of Fort
Supply. A gristmill, a
sawmill, a thresher, and more than one hundred log houses, had gone up in
flames before his eyes. Stockade and straw disappeared in the billowing
inferno, as property owners begged to be allowed the dignity to burn what
they’d spent years building with their own hands. Fort
Bridger suffered the same fate: two
major outposts that wouldn’t fall into the hands of the U.S. military
invaders.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Echo
Canyon, the same canyon through which the first pioneers had passed to enter
the Great Salt Lake Valley back in ’47, had been turned into a fortified death
trap should the troops try to pass, but it looked, instead, as if Alexander
would attempt to bypass the resistance by following Ham’s Fork to make a turn
through the mountains near Bear Lake, then take the city from the North. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> With first-hand memories of the Missouri mobbings; the
cold-blooded murder of the prophet Joseph Smith, Rockwell’s personal friend;
the expulsion of a peaceful people from their beautiful city, Nauvoo, Illinois,
denied their American right to their freedom of religion, their sufferings ignored
by an indifferent government, Rockwell wasn’t about to stand idle during this
last and final outrage. When the call came from Brigham Young for him to saddle
up and help hold back a third of the U.S. army to protect his people, he
rode proud.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> A grunt and the sound of urine splattering nearby. His
hand stayed close to his knife, but he relaxed, closed his eyes, and rested
until the sun peeked through the sagebrush on the hillside above the creek. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s all wheat, he thought, then gathered his
blankets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
camp he sent an express rider with a message to General Daniel H. Wells of the
Nauvoo Legion, detailing the frustration and falling morale among Alexander’s
troops. His stomach cramped with hunger as he cooked up what was left of some
flour and water. His backside ached against the cold rock he sat on to warm
himself by the fire. Several men studied a crude map. Someone mentioned Camp Winfield.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
was just there.” He turned to the men. “I need eight more to go in, play ‘em
some music tonight” —music, meaning cowbells, pot lids, and anything else that
would make noise in the dark and echo in the creek bottoms. “Keep ‘em on guard.
Don’t let ‘em sleep.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
been firing artillery,” one of the men said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Raids
got ‘em shook up. They’re positioned defensively.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hoof
beats drew everyone’s attention to the far side of camp. A large man rode in on
a tired horse. He dismounted, led his horse to the creek, then walked to where
most of the men had gathered around the fire. A couple of them silently parted
to let him though. He lifted the coffee pot from the coals with a gloved hand
then poured some into a tin cup—seemingly uninterested in asking the cup
owner’s permission. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Orrin,”
he said, lifting the steaming cup in salute.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hick,”
Rockwell said, then turned his attention back to the men studying the map.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bill
Hickman, eyebrows arching over wild eyes, emanated a dangerous humor. He nudged
a fellow and with a voice too loud for the frosty morning, said, pointing to
Rockwell’s long hair, “Hangs like my horse’s tail. It’s what’s behind it you
gotta watch out fir.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> T</span>he
conversation died. Several men moved away as if they’d suddenly forgotten
something important. A younger scout, not much older than fourteen, paled, his
eyes widening. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rockwell
slowly turned, six guns bulging in his coat pockets. A grin grew under his wiry
beard. “What’cha got for me?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sent
my two brothers to watch them soldiers. Ain’t seen ‘em since. I think they took
‘em. But I did get word a massive herd of cattle just moved up Ham’s Fork. Five
hundred head, maybe more.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
younger scout let out a sigh of relief and went about his business.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tell
me more,” Rockwell said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
unguarded.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> Se</span>veral
men exchanged glances. Rockwell folded his arms and stared thoughtfully at the
ground. “Unguarded…doesn’t sound right to me. Could be a trap. We also gotta
find out ‘bout those boys.” Turning to the others, he yelled, “What do you say
we go have us a look?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Corbel; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum; mso-hansi-font-family: Corbel; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
guess we’re not making music tonight,” Henry Brown said. He adjusted the scarf
that wrapped around his hat and chin. Sun-melted frost dripped from sagebrush
and made a light mist in the low places. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> S</span>ylvester
Wilson, a fellow Legionnaire, rode as close as he could, singing, “Old
Squaw-killer Johnston’s
on the way, du-da, du-da; he swears the Mormons he will slay, du-da, du-da,
day,” to the tune of “De Camptown Races.” He looked like a furry creature in
his buffalo robe. When he quieted down, he leaned over and said, “That’s ol’
Bill Hickman. I heard he’s one of the men who set fire to the supply trains
over Green River. Lots of wagons gone up in
flames. Didn’t kill nobody.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brown
watched the man who rode alongside Rockwell. When Rockwell raised his arm for
the riders to stop, the man beside him turned in his saddle and surveyed the
group. Henry couldn’t look him in the eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson leaned closer. “He
was one of ‘em who stood up in the darkest days in Missouri. Fought the mobs. Protected our
homes and families. Mobs would come take everything we had. They’d go take it
back. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Danites</i>.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here
we go again,” Brown said, thinking of his young, pregnant wife and his children
left behind in the parched Tooele Valley west of the Oquirrh Mountains.
Dirty, murderous Goshutes on one side, the U.S. army on the other, and
crickets from above; all he could think of was whether or not they were getting
a harvest without men or horses to do the harvesting. Would they starve? In the
morning cold, burying his face deeper into his scarf, wondering why they were
stopping, his molten anger at the Gentiles and their relentless anti-Mormonism
hardened into something more than determination. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three
men rode up from a small fork in the creek and joined Rockwell and Hickman. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
be darned if that ain’t Lot Smith!” Wilson
said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
are they doin’ up here?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rockwell
made the sign to move forward. The Legionnaires followed. Bivouacked below were
the men under Lot’s command, more than enough
to double their forces. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Corbel; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum; mso-hansi-font-family: Corbel; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> High on a bluff, lazing in the sun, and forgetting the
morning’s stinging cold that harbingered the deadly snows of winter, Brown and
Wilson waited for Rockwell and those he’d taken with him to scout the nearby
hills for bluecoats to return—he hoped with news about the two missing men and
a decision on what to do about the cattle (far more than Hickman had reported)
that peacefully grazed in the low, grassy areas along the creek. When Brown had
lost count at nearly a thousand he turned to Wilson and asked, “Is it true? What they say
about Rockwell?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Probably
not. But what is it you’re asking?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
Brother Joseph really promise him if he never cut his hair no enemy would ever
touch him?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’d
say that story’s true. I can tell you he’s walked away from more tight spots
than you or I ever would. He’s faced armed mobs, bad Indians, horse thieves,
stagecoach robbers, drunken ruffians of every sort, and angry women all the
same.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brown
laughed at the last item on the list. “I hear it was him tried to kill ol’
Governor Boggs.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
devil had more enemies than the Mormons. He put out the order for our
extermination, but I think whether any of us had vengeance in mind or not,
someone else beat him to the punch. If Rockwell had fired the shots, ol’
Lilburn wouldn’t have survived.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pst!”
One of Smith’s men waved for Brown and Wilson to follow. “We’re movin’!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Corbel; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum; mso-hansi-font-family: Corbel; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lot
Smith tugged on the reigns, his horse turned, and he faced the assembling men.
“We take the beef, we take their food, we take their food, they can’t take our
homes!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brown’s
fists tightened. He braced himself in the saddle, waiting for the signal to
charge. His body vibrated. When Smith said the word “homes,” Brown saw, in his
mind, women, children, and elderly, once again loading their wagons, handcarts,
wheelbarrows, anything that would take their humble belongings, and heading south
to Spanish Fork, where they would await word to flee to Mexico should the army
break through the rag-tag resistance in the mountains; their vacant homes and
barns, filled with dry straw, with a few men left behind ready to burn what
they’d labored ten years to build, the civilization they’d scraped from the
desert valley floor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now,
hold on!” Rockwell said to Smith. “I don’t like it. We haven’t scouted enough.
This could be a trap. We should wait a little longer.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smith,
younger than Rockwell, shook his head and laughed behind his long, black beard.
A few quiet seconds passed. He held out his hands as if nonplussed. “Hardly a
picket guard and one damn wagon master! They couldn’t have handed us an easier
victory!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Visibly
flustered, Rockwell raised a finger to Smith’s face. “Ol’ Alexander’s
discovered what a damn fool you are! There’s likely an ambush waiting in the
thickets and bottoms!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
smile disappeared from Smith’s face. He sidled away from Rockwell, wiped his
mouth with his coat sleeve, then jammed his spurs into his horse’s belly. “Ha!”
he yelled. “Come on, boys!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Damn
you, Smith!” Rockwell hollered. He swung his horse around and made after him
down the bluff. “You shit for brains! You’ll get good men killed!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
Lot’s men joined the charge, the rest of the
Legionnaires hesitated, bewildered, waiting for a clear order to follow. Then
Rockwell’s screaming voice echoed through the close hills. “Damn it, boys! What
are you waiting for? Get your granny-arses movin’!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brown
and Wilson whipped their horses into a frantic gallop. Far ahead, Smith and
Rockwell led the charging, screaming men. A few infantry guards scrambled in
terror to drive the herd ahead of the charge. Brown raised his rifle and fired
above their heads. Dirt from horse’s hooves flew into the air. Wilson hollered like an Indian and fired his
pistol at the sky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
steers started away, a giant, bovine wall of frightened confusion. One line of
men followed Smith alongside the herd to keep them from going farther up the
creek. Several other men kicked up dust and aimed their rifles at the pale
guards (boys barely old enough to grow whiskers), who, surrounded, raised their
hands to the sky and surrendered, pleading for their lives. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rockwell
whistled and yelled, “Separate the herd!” He pointed at Brown and Wilson. “You
two! Take thirty head and drive ‘em up the bluff!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
slowed their charge. Whistling and hollering, they pushed part of the herd into
the creek. As the cattle hit the water, they slowed and headed into the willows.
Some stumbled, splashing over the bank. Brush and small trees, whipped and
crashed. Clear, sparkling water churned to mud. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Though
Rockwell had said thirty, Brown counted forty-six head by the time they had
their bunch separated and grouped at bluff. Many of the men already had theirs
above the creek and into the sage. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> L</span>ines
of cattle pushed dust into the afternoon sky. The massive herd moved slowly
from the meadows into the hills. Brown yipped and hollered until his throat
hurt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson caught up to him
as they slowly moved on tired horses. He gestured with his head toward the
other side of the creek. Soldiers, silhouetted against the sun, crested the
hills. They seemed almost ghostly in the haze. Brown’s stomach hardened. He
touched his rifle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They
been watching us for some time,” Wilson
said. “Gotta be a whole company up there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
the hell are they doing? Why haven’t they attacked?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> W</span>ilson then tipped his
head the other direction. Two Indians on horseback, barely discernable, watched
from a distant hilltop. “Shoshone,” he said. “Gotta be more. I just can’t see
‘em yet.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
do I get the feeling there’s something else going on here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
there is,” Wilson
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Corbel; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum; mso-hansi-font-family: Corbel; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tiny,
glowing sparks from the fire floated into the sky as a light snow fell. Brown,
Wilson, and several other men huddled together. Though they bragged from time
to time about their role in the raid, hunger and fatigue subdued them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Things
are heating up,” Andrew Allen said. “Soldiers ain’t releasing Hickman’s brothers.
Rockwell knew that wagon master. Called him ‘Rupe.’ Scared him such he blanched
and about lost control in his breeches. Told him to tell Colonel Alexander we’d
kill every man in his command unless he turns our men loose. Then he left the
teamsters twenty head of cattle so they wouldn’t starve.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
still don’t get it. At last count we drove away pert near thirteen, maybe
fourteen hundred head, and the soldiers looked on like we was puttin’ on a
show,” Wilson
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brown,
fighting to stay warm in a wet blanket, said: “I been expecting an Indian coup.
Should have at least tried to stampede the cattle by now. They been poppin’ up
more and more closer we get to Bridger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re
interested in our movements, soldiers and Indians alike.” Allen said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Halloo!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
group stirred and turned to see who’d spoken. A man appeared, barely visible in
the fire light and falling snow. Perkins, who’d united his cattle with Brown
and Wilson shortly after the raid, reached for his rifle. Wilson put a hand over his arm. “Hold it!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
be you?” Allen asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
man didn’t answer. Wearing rabbit fur pants and coat and wrapped in a buffalo
hide, he motioned with his hand toward the fire.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Make
him some room,” Wilson
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brown
scooted aside, and the man placed two deerhide sacks before him. When he sat
down, he pulled back his hood, revealing the face of an Indian, perhaps in his
thirties. He untied one of the sacks and lifted out a strip of dried buffalo
meat, then passed the sack.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aishen</i>. Thank you,” Wilson said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
man grunted, then opened the other sack, which nearly overflowed with pine
nuts. He passed it around. Brown, sick with hunger, relished both the meat and
the nuts in one bite. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
are you,” Wilson
asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ne Hinni</i>?” Who am I?</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson nodded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Weahwewa.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson gave the name a
try, then, pointing to himself said, “Sylvester.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
other men introduced themselves, and Weahwewa nodded his head. When the men
looked as if they’d had their fill, he produced a small pouch. Inside were
finely polished stones, crystals and agates. He took one, placed it in Wilson’s hand, then placed
another in Brown’s hand. He stood, leaving the sacks of food by the fire, and,
without another word, left the group and walked into the snowy night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brown
held what he thought might be a piece of smoky quartz and admired it in the
firelight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
peculiar,” Allen said. “Don’t know if I’ll ever get them red men.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think he gets us,” Wilson
said. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">16</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Tuesday, May 8, 1984</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Sign
here,” BJ said, pointing to a line on a sheet. A smiling lady, holding her
baby, scribbled her name next to her voting information, then took a ballot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
think she’s a Sadler.” Norm said. He shifted in his chair, smoothed down his
tweed jacket, then straightened his tie. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good
family. No Rosa Jean minions there, I don’t think.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hope
not.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
are you reading?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Norm
slid his newspaper to BJ. “Soviets just announced they’ll boycott the
Olympics.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No!”
BJ laughed and looked over the article. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can’t
come up with anything original, can they?</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s
see…bloody proletariat revolution? No. The French did that first. The bomb?
They had to steal that. Most technological advancements? Nope. Had to steal
those, too. Man on the moon? Nyet.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sputnik.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ah! And I was doing so well.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> "Don’t worry, they got it from the Germans. But you have to admit, we boycotted the last Olympics over their invasion of Afghanistan
and the UN’s apparent if not tacit support of it. And so why do they boycott
this time? Um….” He read down the article. “The commercialization of the games.
Wow! Oh. Here we go: lack of security for Russian athletes. The U.S. is using
the games for political purposes, so that violates the Olympic charter. Why
doesn’t this reporter state the obvious and say the Ruskies had nothing better
than to respond in kind like kids on the playground. Does anyone actually take
seriously their moral grandstanding?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe
that would be editorializing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
pinko press editorializes all the time! Just look what they do to Reagan.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
but the Soviet way of life is the great social hope for humanity. You can’t
criticize it or you’d be anti-intellectual, unwashed.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>BJ
laughed through his teeth, tossed aside the paper, and looked at his watch.
“Time to close the polls.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Time
to watch Magna become a city and the Rosa Jean minions get their comeuppance!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
did see this other article, didn’t you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Which
one is that?” Norm picked the paper back up, and BJ pointed to an article
buried in the local news. “No, I didn’t. ‘MAGNA CITIZENS COULD <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">PAY</i> FOR THEIR CHOICE IN HIGHER TAXES.’
Who wrote this smut?</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“‘Kennecott
and Hercules would provide the lion’s share of the tax base, up to eighty
percent of the estimated $185 million assessed property valuation…increased to
more than ninety percent when Kennecott completes its 1.2 billion dollar
expansion project….The new city would be heavily dependent on the world copper
market….A downturn in industry…taxpayers could be left holding the bag…massive
increases…curtailing of city services….’ You’ve got to be kidding me!” Norm’s
face turned red. “There’s nothing here about the potential for attracting
massive amounts of business by lowering taxes and making city regulations
business friendly, which is far more realistic. It’s a scare tactic, is all.
Nothing here of substance. Let me guess…who did this reporter talk to?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>BJ
secured the ballot box with a padlock. “It’s not what it says that’s the
problem. We’ve heard it ever since the incorporation question came about. It’s
the timing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Creating
a large newspaper ball with several vigorous grips of his hand, Norm threw it
as he would a basketball. It bounced off the side of the garbage can and landed
on the floor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
woman spoke from among a small group of Rosa Jean supporters. “Good thing our
councilmen are intent on cleaning up Magna. Littering is such a shame.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Corbel; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum; mso-hansi-font-family: Corbel; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Had
Jennie Stewart gone to observe the vote with Ms. Delfini’s class, she would
have earned enough extra credit to rescue her straight-A report card, but she
couldn’t stomach spending any more time around that woman than she absolutely
had to, even if it meant her good grade. Instead, she happily indulged in her
new obsession (added upon her many other obsessions, dark chocolate being one
of them, Rob Lowe and Mat Dillon being a couple of others), the Mahesh cult.
She asked herself how something so awful could be so interesting, then asked
why she couldn’t take her eyes off the dead woman as she passed in the car?
Why, in the third grade, she’d read every book in the school library on tarantulas?
Why she’d spent the sixth grade reading about burn victims and first aid? The
answer: just because. Underneath, a little voice said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe because they scare you. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “When
Doves Cry,” by Prince, seeped softly from her radio. She didn’t sing along as
she normally would have, but instead engrossed herself in a book about famous
cults of the twentieth century. She found chapters on the Manson Family, the
Symbionese Liberation Army and the Patty Hurst case, Children of God, Hare
Krishna, Scientology, Jim Jones and the Jonestown massacre (sounded to her like
acid rock bands), but nothing on the Mahesh cult. She noticed a pattern with
some of them, how they seemed to have roots in the sixties counter culture and
alternative philosophies. All of them had one thing in common: the sacrifice of
individual freedoms. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
closed that book and opened another. This had a small article dedicated to the
Mahesh cult, with a badly printed black-and-white photo of a group of hippies
casually standing together by a grossly decorated old bus. One of them in
particular caught her attention. He had a handsome “Jesus” look. A form-fitting
button-down shirt with unfastened sleeves added a slender attractiveness. She
paid attention to the way the shirt opened over his chest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Everyone
else seemed to radiate from him. A young girl with blond hair looked at him
worshipfully, while another, a gypsy type, bowed her head in his direction but
seemed to look at his sandals. Most of the group was female, with a few males
woven among them, their faces blurred. But one face in particular stood out
among the women, framed in long, straight, dark hair, stabbed with dark
eyebrows, shining, vivid eyes, and a delicate chin. The attitude of superiority
played a low, reactive note in Jennie’s stomach. She’d seen that look
before…somewhere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
article read:</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Overshadowed by the Manson Family
murders, this communal cult arose in San
Francisco in the late sixties during what later became
known as “The Summer of Love.” Sharing many similar characteristics to the
Manson Family, this group of wayward youth centered itself around a charismatic
leader, George Doyle Lutz, AKA “Mahesh.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It has been reported that Lutz’ belief in a pseudo-Eastern mysticism and
notions of an imminent collapse of capitalism was the driving force behind his
teachings of apocalyptic environmentalism and race war. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Lutz, known to be an avid reader, had a
fascination with the books </span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">On the
Road<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, by Jack Kerouac and Thoreau’s </i>Walden<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, and also the philosophy of Friedrich
Nietzche. He dabbled in the occult, encouraging practices that, through the aid
of hallucinogens, would supposedly generate psychic visions. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> After a sojourn through Mexico, he and his growing band of followers
retreated to the Rocky Mountains to prepare
for the coming Armageddon. Their goal was to bring on this war by eliminating
organized religion, something he saw as the only way to free humanity from the
oppression that denied its authenticity and true potential. According to
testimony during the trial for the murders of Bruce Royal Bills and Gary “Alabama”
Mott, information came forward that their target was the leadership of the
Mormon Church. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> A tip led to the raid on the communal
farm in Henefer, Utah, where a large cache of drugs and guns
and thousands of rounds of ammunition were confiscated. Along with Lutz, two
other cult members were found guilty of aiding in the murders: Deborah “Shining
Star” Louis and Stacey Leah Goodman. Though Goodman has since died in prison,
Louis still serves her sentence of fifteen years to life. It is believed that
others involved in the murders are still at large.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chills
like thousands of tiny pin pricks raised gooseflesh on Jennie’s arms and neck.
She looked up at her copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Walden</i>
that sat on the shelf next to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaves of
Grass</i>, her Jane Austen and L.M. Montgomery collections, the Bible, and the
Book of Mormon. Her eyes narrowed on the picture of the hippie man, and she
thought of “The Last Supper” by Leonardo da Vinci. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Walden</i>? Mr. Lutz, you can’t have it!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Corbel; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum; mso-hansi-font-family: Corbel; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-family: Corbel; font-size: 20.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Dotum;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>BJ
slowly placed the last ballot onto the stack, the stack that had been
independently counted by Oliver Weissman. Oliver stepped back, stood tall, put
his hands on his hips, much like the comic book version of Superman BJ had
grown up with, took a deep breath, then said: “That’s it. The count’s in. You
boys sure did put up a good fight.” He extended a hand to Norm, who paused ever
so subtly before taking it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All
the precincts are in!” Rosa Jean said as she entered the polling area like
royalty. “What’s our count here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Yea
two hundred and eighty-eight. Nay four hundred twelve in this one!” Oliver
said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “We
carried every precinct!” she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Norm
quietly shut the books containing voter information and signatures, books that
would go to the county offices. “Well….” He loosened his tie then let out a
long breath. “Supper’s getting cold.” He lightly rapped the table with his
knuckles, adjusted the lapels of his jacket, then walked to the doors without
another word. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “It’s
an historic day!” Rosa Jean said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Gordie
worked in the background, securing a distant hall. He became a wan shadow that
reflected on the tile under security lights. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Stacking
chairs, BJ watched Delfini enter, followed by several students, probably
working to get hands-on civic experience for her class. She gave Rosa Jean a
cooing hug, kisses on both cheeks, then she turned her attention back to the
kids. Gordie stayed in the background, probably waiting for everyone to leave
so he could finish locking up. BJ sent him a subtle salute, which he returned with
a wave of his hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">On
the way out the door, BJ saw Chap walking slowly to his car. His cane clicked
on the concrete. In the mild night air, he closed the distance between them,
his feet scraping in a way that made him feel not so young anymore.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Like
a bite to eat?” BJ asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Chap
hooked his cane over his arm, then fingered through his keys under the street
light. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Feel
like I’ve been bitten, rather,” he said, then opened his car door. “Think I’ll
go home and have some herbal tea to settle my stomach.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Yeah,”
was all BJ could say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “You
know, Magna will always be what it is. People get scared, never take the leap
of faith that’ll carry them to their better potential. This place will dwindle,
forget its heritage, and West
Valley will grow to
become an economic powerhouse. I can’t take the apathy anymore, BJ.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “There’s
always next year.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Nah.
This might not come up again for a generation—if it ever will. We squandered
our chance, gave up self-determination for a sense of security, security that
will crush economic growth with its benevolence. The council will cry to the
county for money. They’ll get their crumbs, the people will get fireworks and
parades, but Main Street
will never revitalize, because no business will be profitable being crushed
between the weak economy and the indifferent county bureaucracy. They worship
big government, my friend.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">BJ
nodded his head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
struggled into his seat and set his cane on the floor on the passenger side. He
sat quietly for a moment, then said: “Our immediate problem now will be the
unions. They’re too stubborn to renegotiate. Kennecott won’t have any other
choice but to lay off a lot of workers. This will be an even worse disaster for
our community. You watch. The same people who supported this anti-incorporation
campaign will support the unions in their quixotic crusade. They’re hurting us,
BJ.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “They
have a political monopoly here. How do we break its back?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
thought for a moment, then said: “Create a new town council and force the West
Oquirrh Council to dissolve. Make it so we’ll <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> have to answer to the voters, instead of half of us being
appointed by unions and local industry. Let the people of Magna decide. Haven’t
you noticed lately a lot more of an independent conservative base has been
moving into the newer neighborhoods? We have to tap into that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “How
do we do it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
smiled. “It’s late. We’ll talk.” He turned on the engine and shut the door. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">BJ
watched him drive away. Listening to the crickets and feeling the loneliness of
the parking lot next to the ball field, he felt tempted to leave his car and
walk home. He kicked a small pebble, and it clicked, echoing into the darkness.
</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">17</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Thursday, May 10, 1984</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> A
workman, hands in dirty leather gloves, deftly twisted wires holding the new,
gleaming chain-ink fence to its posts. Two others unrolled the heavy fencing as
they went. Watching their progress, Dwight Donaldson, company president and
major shareholder, probed, with his foot, deep ruts in the playground lawn left
over from a cement truck that had filled the post holes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">An
upper management suit, acting as an official escort, promptly began to explain:
“We addressed the damage with the school district. We’re bringing in
landscapers to—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’ll
personally see to the expenses,” Donaldson said. “We’ll keep this on my books.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Yes,
sir.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> After
a quiet moment, Donaldson pointed at a slope north of the flumes. “I was born
in the shadow of that hill.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
beg your pardon?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Ragtown.
My father worked the mill.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Ah!
Yes. Ragtown. I’ve heard stories.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “What
have you heard?” Donaldson asked, rearranging a small bundle of books and
papers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “The
early copper company had first built it to house workers. It eventually had to
be moved because of heavy smoke from the mill and the old power house. There
were also flooding and disease problems.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “You
could taste the sulfur in the air. Could hardly grow so much as a potted
flower, let alone a garden.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson opened a manila folder that held several
old black-and-white photos. Handing one to the manager, he said, “Tell me what
you see.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> After
studying it, he pointed toward the hill. “I see the row houses, the old power
house, several buildings that no longer stand.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
smiled. “Is that all?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’m
not sure what you want me to see.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “That’s
all right.” He took the photo and placed it back in the folder. Several people
approached from the parking lot, and he turned his attention to them. “Our
guests have arrived. Please see to it they get the very best treatment.
Wherever I go, they can go.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Yes,
sir.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
manager stepped aside. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Chap,
you old rascal!” Donaldson said, vigorously embracing his friend. “Ruth!” He
took her hand and kissed it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “None
of that silliness!” Ruth said. “Come get a hug!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Save
some for us,” Sheryl said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> A
cool breeze harmonized with early summer sun. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Judith
stepped forward, her eyes met Donaldson’s, and something inside, undimmed by
old age, recognized the young woman he’d once worshiped—and for whom he’d spent
his life secretly grieving. It should have been me, he thought. He brought her
close, slender and frail in her soft sweater, letting her gray hair touch his
face. He remembered sego lilies, a picnic at the base of Wild Cat Rock, and the
touch of her youthful fingers against his.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Unwilling
to let the moment end, he offered her his elbow, and she took it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “New
developments,” Chap said. “You’ve read the news. We lost the incorporation
vote, or I should say Magna lost. And then there’s the girl….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
subtly raised the hand that held the books and papers. Turning to his escort,
“It looks as though our party has increased in number. Would it be possible to
find a vehicle that could accommodate us comfortably? I’d like to give them a
tour to explain the new concentrator and modernizations. We’ll also be going to
the smelter and then to the mine.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Certainly,
sir.” The manager turned to leave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Oh!
And by the way, please have a lunch prepared for when we reach the mine
offices.” Waiting until the manager was out of ear shot, Donaldson passed his
books and papers to Chap. “He’s green, but he’s a good kid. Hasn’t had the
chance to truly piss anyone off yet. I don’t envy him.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Chap
held up the same photo Donaldson had shown to his escort. He squinted his eyes,
laughed, shook his head, then put it back in the folder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “You
know I had to stay neutral in that campaign,” Donaldson said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “The
opposition has tremendous influence in the local press. We could have used more
help there at least.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
sighed. “I have to be careful. I can’t show my hand.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
leaned on his cane and stared at Donaldson. “What would it have mattered at
this time in our lives?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> What’s
the word on the missing girl?” Donaldson asked, changing the subject.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’ve
asked my grandson.” Judith said. “He shrugs and walks away. Something’s eating
at him. I’ve approached him delicately. I might have to be more direct, but I
suspect he’s passed through to the other world. If he hasn’t….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’ve
taken small journeys.” Sheryl said. “I don’t have the strength to go for very
long. There’s no telling how far she’s gone. I’ve left it up to Gordie. He
hopes circumstances will be better than they seem.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
followed the trail on the other side of the fence with his eyes. Blocked. The
grass might grow back until someone cuts the fence open again—always the same
spot. Pointing to a worn, leather-bound journal, Donaldson said: “Find the map
inside. I believe I’ve pinpointed the source of all our trouble.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Ruth
took what Chap held except for the journal. He carefully turned handwritten
pages, with the brown ink fading, and found a map showing sites of important
actions that had taken place during President Buchanan’s “Blunder,” or what
others called his “bloodless” war against the Mormons. “What did you see that I
didn’t?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Pointing
at thin lines indicating creeks and rivers, Donaldson traced a route from Big
Sandy to Green River. “That dot is Camp Winfield.
Just north of there is Ham’s Fork, which today is in southwestern Wyoming, formerly and briefly Utah territory.” He took a topographical map
from Ruth and unfolded it. “Here’s the route Porter Rockwell took when he led
the Legionnaires with about fourteen hundred head of cattle seized from the
invading US
army.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s where we lost track of the story, until I
found this—Ruth, if you don’t mind…” Donaldson drew another manila folder from
the bundle. “It’s a letter written by Sylvester Wilson, a legionnaire who rode
in the charge with Rockwell and Smith to rustle the cattle. He describes being
one of the few chosen to stay with the herd, while the others were sent to act
as decoys for the troops who were following them, or at least to slow them
down.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
took the folder and carefully studied the pages inside. “They rested at the Fort Bridger
site, which had recently been burned, but then took a more southwesterly
direction, crossed the Bear River, then passed through Echo Canyon.
That makes sense.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Let
me see that,” Judith said. The others waited in silence as she read. She let
her finger hover over a line. As if not wanting to lose her place, she seemed
to try to keep an eye on one page and at the same time lift another page to
take a second look. Then she read:</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “…we moved the herd north, toward Fort Buenaventura.
The Shoshone joined us as we followed the river to good pastures and little
snow. It was then Rockwell and the good Chief Washakie arrived. And who would
be with them but that fool boy Nicholas. I was angry with him. He should have
been helping with the harvest and the evacuation. He said he could do both, but
his brother needed him for a short time. I told him I’m his brother, but
Washakie looked at me such I couldn’t look him back in the eyes. He asked for
our tokens. What followed, I’m not to speak of, but, Oh! The glorious sights
mine eyes have beheld….”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Judith
raised her head. Her hand subtly trembled. Whether it was old age or
excitement, Donaldson couldn’t tell.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Uncle
Nick!” Judith said. “I remember sitting under the table at my grandparent’s
home in Coonville when Uncle Nick would come by for a visit. He’s related to my
mother’s side of the family through marriage. He always wore a hat because of
the scar from the arrow that had pierced his skull. He was a very old man then.
I was such a little girl. I would listen spellbound to his stories of when he ran
away from the Grantsville settlement to go live with the Shoshone and his
adventures as a Pony Express rider. Did you know the Shoshone really call
themselves <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Newe</i>? It simply means
‘people.’”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
thought you’d like to see that letter,” Donaldson said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Where
did you find it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
have my connections.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Oh!”
Judith slapped his arm. “You always do!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
raised a finger to catch the other’s attention, then folded his hands
thoughtfully behind his back, took a few paces away from the new fence, then
said: “So what was Buchanan’s blunder really all about? Was it to quell a
nonexistent Mormon rebellion? He ran as a Democrat and beat Kit Carson, who ran
for the newly formed Republican Party. The big issue of the day was whether Kansas would enter the union as a slave state or a free state. I often
wonder how history might have changed had Kit Carson won the election. Would
there have been a civil war? Perhaps. But Kit knew something about the West,
unlike the soft Pennsylvanian who’d beaten him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’ve
read many first-hand accounts of that war, from both the soldier’s side and the
resistance, and I can’t help but make a few connections and draw a few
conclusions. Individual soldiers footing across the plains under the summer sun
often complained about their superiors’ inaction. Many of them had signed on,
aching for a fight and a chance to shoot a Mormon. When they met resistance in
the high country at the edge of the Utah
territory, they often stood bewildered when the officers ordered them not to
shoot. By golly! They’d been ordered to take control of something, but it sure
as hell wasn’t old Brigham Young and his house full of wives!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
smiled. “Then you’ll enjoy this!” He withdrew another folder containing a
letter incased in clear, plastic leaves. With it was a special permission slip
from the National Archives in Washington,
D.C.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Chap
smiled, shook his head, and held it so the others could see.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’ve
had copies made for each of us,” Donaldson said. “But I wanted you to see the
original before I took it back. It pays to be a close friend of the president.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Ruth’s
voice took on a sharp quality. “Does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i>
know? The president?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “To
him I’m just an eccentric Old West history enthusiast. We used to ride horses
together at his ranch in California
when he was governor.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Sheryl
spoke, adding pomp to her tone of voice. “It’s a letter from…drum roll,
please…Associate Justice William W. Drummond, the old scoundrel himself!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “It
was in his not-so-graceful letters to the press and to Buchanan when he charged
that Mormons recognized no law but the leaders of their church, ignored the
laws of congress and the constitution. Charged that they were in open rebellion
to the federal government,” Donaldson said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “So…let’s
see….” Sheryl said. “The pioneers entered the valley July 24, 1847. In their
hardship they’d sent a battalion of husbands and fathers to aid the U.S.
government in the Mexican-American war, which during that time is won, and the
Guadalupe-Hidalgo treaty is signed. So suddenly finding themselves in federal
territory once again, what’s the first thing they do?” She gasped then
whispered: “They petition the U.S. Congress for territorial status, then
statehood! Very rebellious! No recognition of Congress or the Constitution! For
their first Independence Day celebration, they unfurled a large <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American</i> flag at Black Rock. But wait!
This hadn’t long before been Mexican territory when they unfurled the flag.
Very unpatriotic—should have unfurled a Mexican flag, maybe?</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
added: “Instead of letting the Mormons govern themselves and elect their own
leaders, the feds send a bunch of federal officers openly hostile to the
Mormons and are then surprised when the good Governor Young—legally governor
according to federal law—starts using his authority to reverse bad decisions
and circumvent actions that ran against the rights of the free people. To top
it off, they send Drummond, who abandons his wife and children and brings with
him a prostitute as his consort. Then he turns around and attacks the Mormon’s
practice of plural marriage—that, right or not, good or bad, wasn’t against any
federal laws at the time, mind you!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “So
what did he have to say that we haven’t already heard?” Chap asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “This
little goodie was written in a simple diary code that became common during the civil
war,” Donaldson said. “I believe it was the letter that started it all, though
its accompanying map is missing. From the descriptions, it’s easy to guess what
he was writing about.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Very
sophisticated,” Sheryl said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
actually broke the code myself, but I recruited some trusted help at Langley to add a second
opinion in case I’d overlooked something.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Judith
poked him with her elbow. “Oh! Get on with it!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> He
put his arm around her and brought her closer. “You do the honors.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Judith
took the paper and read: </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Numbered on map:</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> 1 Sacred Indian site confirmed near
settlements west of Great SL City, north end of western mountains. Base of
foothills near Hastings’s
Cutoff.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> 2 Thirty miles east of city along river
just north of Echo
Canyon mouth. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> 3 Shoshone territory near Teton Mountains,
land of volcanic curiosities. Pocatello
and Crow in competition for site. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> 4 Cave forty miles southeast of city and
west of Utah Lake, Tin Tick Indians hostile.
Discovery of Silver deposits near site. Mormon criminals might already have
control.”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “So
they knew….” Ruth said, looking over the flumes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Let
me see that topo map again!” Chap said. “‘Along the river just north of Echo Canyon
mouth, he says! How did we not know about this one?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “That’s
what I wanted you all to see,” Donaldson said. “Rockwell was last seen here.”
He pointed to a spot between Echo Canyon and Fort
Buenaventura. “Today we
know Fort Buenaventura
as Ogden, Utah.
This spot is where the town of Henefer runs
along the Weber River. There’s Devil’s Slide
rock formation. There’s Morgan. Rockwell must have disappeared in the river
bottoms where Henefer sits today and reappeared several days later here in the
far western side of the Salt
Lake Valley.
That’s a long way to go without anyone in the settlements along the Wasatch Mountains seeing him and fourteen
hundred head of cattle.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “So
what happened there that makes you think this site is the source of all our
problems?” Sheryl asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “It’s
just a hunch, but for some reason Johnston’s
army didn’t stop there. They never occupied that area. Instead, they went
straight on to Salt Lake, passed through the vacant city, then traveled to the
place west of Utah Lake they would name Camp Floyd after the secretary of
defense at the time.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “That’s
still close to what would become the Tintic mining district,” Chap said. “They
bypassed one to go to the other.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “My
great-grandfather often spoke of a cave near Tintic. He said he thought it had
long ago been under water. Its walls were lined with tufa. It was special. The
very same day Brigham Young received word the army was on the way,
great-grandpa was ordered to take several men into what was hostile Indian
country and dynamite the cave entrance. Funny thing….Tin-tic and his people let
them do it,” Ruth said. “The soldiers must have searched those mountains till
their boots wore out, but they did make plenty of mineral claims.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
think,” Sheryl said, “it’s safe to assume someone unguided and unprotected
managed to slip through at Henefer.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Or
unworthy and uninvited,” Ruth said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Could
it have been Rockwell?” Judith asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Continuing
her thought, Sheryl said, “I assume Washakie and his people were the guardians.
But Rockwell was also a guardian. I doubt it was he or any of his men. Going by
the evidence in that letter, the spoiling event had to have taken place before
the army arrived.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “And
after Rockwell and his men had been there,” Chap said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
warmly smiled at his friends. “It’s special! It might help us answer this
question after all!” He opened a wood briefcase that held a display case framed
in aluminum. Inside it was a map, tattooed on what the guardians had originally
hoped was rawhide (a test of a few flakes determined human skin), of what at
first glance looked like the terrain around the Great Salt
Lake. East of a body of water stood two large trees side by side,
creating a sort of passage. Just like old times! Who’s up to another
adventure?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
tapped Donaldson’s knee with his cane. “I’ve stood guardian here for well more
than half a century. We all have. My strength has left me. Of the younger
generation, we only have Gordie. But only one man? Judith’s grandson shows
promise, but I think we’re being too cautious. Folks are beginning to get hurt
again. That poor young lady, the Nash girl…she’d had no warning, yet none of us
can find her. Our numbers have diminished too far. Remember Rag Town!”
</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson’s
smile disappeared. His eyes softened with deep memories. He put his hands on
Chap’s shoulders. “Have faith. The right people seem to come along at the right
time when they’re needed. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> should
know that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “And
the wrong people, too,” Sheryl said. She gestured with a nod of her head toward
the parking lot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> A
door to a dark, wine-colored Lincoln Continental reflected a dagger of sunlight
as it closed. Demint, net scarf over her hair, large, tinted glasses hiding her
high, arrogant brow, waited for Weissman to take her elbow before she stepped
onto the curb. Seagulls strutting on the warm grass in her path suddenly took
flight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
growled. “How the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hell </i>did she know I
was here? And where’s our transportation? It should have been here by now.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “She
always looks so out of place,” Ruth said. “So garishly Hollywood.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Keep
calm. Don’t make any sudden moves,” Judith said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “You
girls are terrible,” Sheryl said. “Well…maybe not.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
cleared his throat. “Time to play the impartial executive donor and local sugar
daddy.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “That’s
the problem.” Chap whispered. “The more you give to her little causes, the
worse she gets.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “It
keeps her distracted.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Dwight!
What on earth brings you to our humble little town? It’s such a pleasant
surprise!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Why,
Rosa! You always look so glisteningly
Hollywood!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Oh!
You’re too much!” Demint said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Ruth’s
eyes shined as she traded a subtle glance with Judith.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Oliver!”
Donaldson said, vigorously shaking his hand. “What trouble are you causing
today?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Looking
as if he wasn’t sure how to answer, Weissman laughed and patted Donaldson’s
shoulder. “I came to discuss some union concerns—and don’t bring up the mumbo
jumbo about copper prices. People are going to lose jobs.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “You’re
more than welcome to come to the next meeting. We’ll hash it out then.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Now,
wait a minute!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Oliver,
how’s your father? Our old men worked together for many years. Shared a lot of
beers. Did a lot of fishing.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This has nothing to do with
pappy.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Putting
her hand on Oliver’s shoulder, Rosa
interrupted. “How <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> your father? I’d
like to know, too.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
finally get him cornered, and you want to talk family?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson
held up his hand. “Oliver! You’re personally invited to the meeting coming up.
In fact, we can go together. I’ll buy you dinner after.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Oliver
acquiesced. “Oh, hell!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “He
means yes,” Demint said. Then she turned to the fence. “Very nice. I wasn’t
privy to any news that the company would be doing work near Webster.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Just
a little service to the community,” Donaldson said. “I heard about the young
lady’s disappearance. I wanted to personally supervise the repairs.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Demint
took off her glasses, walked to the fence, stopped where the trail began, and
gently placed her hand on one of the chain-links. A quiet moment passed as she
looked out toward the flumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Nature,
vibrant in the sun, momentarily darkened under cloud shadow. A breeze arose in
the distance then came in waves of grass and whirling dust. Ruth took Chap’s
hand and gripped it tightly. Sheryl gasped. Judith stepped forward and raised a
hand that held a small stone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Chap
whispered: Has Rosa any idea what stares back
at her from the other side of the fence?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Oliver
seemed to become aware of a subtle change among the group. He looked around as
if not quite sure what it was. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Demint
closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then, turning to Donaldson, she said, “Our
organization is willing to double our original offer for this insignificant
slice of land.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A
gray van arrived in the parking lot, and at that moment the recess bell rang.
Kids poured from the building, flooding the playground. The workers tightened
the last section of fence and cleaned the area, loading their tools and extra
pieces onto a truck. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Finally!”
Donaldson said, clapping his hands together. “We can finish our little tour.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Rosa</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">
touched Donaldson’s arm; he fought to hide his revulsion. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">, “You’re
not even going to consider my new offer?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “There’s
nothing to consider. This property is not on the market.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “But
imagine it being accessible to the community. A park! An open wetland
preserve!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Yes.
Imagine that,” Chap growled under his breath. He followed Ruth to Judith’s side
as she moved to the spot where Rosa had stood by
the fence. The cloud shadow passed. The breeze reversed direction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “There’s
so much history here!” Rosa said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Who
has the old photo?” Donaldson asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Sheryl
handed him the papers and folders. He quickly flipped through them, shifted a
manila folder to the top, then opened it and held it out to Rosa.
The look in his eye had changed from friendly diplomacy to something else.
“Tell me what you see.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> As
if surprised at Donaldson’s tone of voice, Rosa
narrowed her eyes, paused, then took the photo. She studied it for a moment,
then handed it back. “Here! Magna—I mean Rag Town,
what was left of it after it had been abandoned.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “It’s
the oldest known aerial photo of this side of the valley.” Donaldson said.
“What else do you see?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “The
old power house. The flumes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Is
that it?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I
don’t know. What else do you want? I’ve seen it all before.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “So
you see nothing?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’m
not sure what you’re asking.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Donaldson’s
face became pleasant once more. He took the photo and slipped it back into the
folder. “That’s all right. It wasn’t important anyway. Just being nostalgic.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I’m
sure,” Rosa said, offering her elbow to
Oliver.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “If
you’ll excuse me,” Donaldson said. “I have a tight schedule today.” He
exchanged glances with Chap, and they left Rosa
where she stood with Oliver. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> She
watched them go, then turned her attention once again to the flumes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Relieved
at having put a little distance between himself and Demint, Donaldson felt
Judith gently rest her hand on his arm. Always like a sunrise, her touch, he
thought. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “You
don’t mind if I take a gander at that photo, do you?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Be
my guest.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
moment she had it in her hands she smiled. “Oh!” she said quietly. She seemed
to fight the urge to touch the old black and white surface.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “The
pilot might never have noticed, but for a brief shutter snap…the camera….</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Yes…of
course.” She shook her head and put away the photo. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">18</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Friday, May 11, 1984</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
atmosphere in the lunchroom felt subdued as rain washed against large glass
windows. It was a strange feeling, almost sadness. Lightning lit up the
courtyard in bright purple and orange reflections, then thunder followed, and
the kids responded, for the most part, with collective, oohs, aahs, nervous
laughs, and sighs. For nearly a second most of the conversation had died down,
but then re-grew to rival the rain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chad and
friends, including Tina, mingled near the pop machines. As far as Donnie was
concerned, life would be happy as long as they stayed there. Rachel sipped on a
Shasta and ate Doritos. Jeff sat on the table, resting his elbows on his knees
and supporting his chin with his fists. Donnie scribbled the word FITAN on a
note pad, then erased it. No one in their little trio said much. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rachel
occasionally looked around the room. Donnie assumed she was looking for Bogie
(though they weren’t talking), but he tended to avoid the lunchroom, even on
rainy days. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
sucks,” she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
neither Donnie nor Jeff said anything, she sank back into her quiet mood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Have
you guys ever heard of the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fighting</i>
or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fitan</i>?” Donnie asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
what you do when you ain’t lovin’,” Jeff said as a matter of fact. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
really. It’s a word like a name: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fiton</i>.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jennie
Stewart, who sat at the next table with her friend, Kendra Farnsworth, perked
up. “You mean Phaeton?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Surprised,
Donnie turned and said: “Yeah! That’s it!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
son of the god Helios—Helios means sun. He tried to ride his father’s sun
chariot, went out of control, and Zeus shot him down with a bolt of lightning
to keep him from destroying the earth. You know, another depressing Greek
mythology story.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cool!”
Donnie said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
hot. He burned up Africa.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie
laughed. Then as she and her friends stood to leave and picked up their trays,
Donnie stopped her and asked: “How do you spell it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
thought for a moment, then carefully dictated the letters while he wrote them
down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks!”
he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
mention it.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
they walked away, Rachel said, “I like her.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff
threw her a weird smile. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
really!” Rachel said. “I think she’s nice, both her and Kendra, even if Bogie
used to make mooing sounds when Kendra walked past—the jerk.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
bell rang. Donnie picked up his tray, and Jeff took the empty Coke can that was
sitting next to him and crushed it on the table with the palm of his hand. As
they walked to the door, he threw it like a Frisbee into a garbage can. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
that moment the janitor approached. Jeff, probably thinking he was in trouble,
changed direction and moved into the crowd leaving the lunchroom. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come
here,” Gordie said, waving Donnie over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie’s
mother’s words came to his mind: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not my
son!</i> He looked at Rachel. She shrugged and slowed down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
sir?” Donnie said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Polite.
I like that,” Gordie said. “It’ll get you far in life.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stopping,
Donnie hooked a thumb in one pocket and looked around nervously. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’s
Dennis?” Gordie held out his hand for Donnie, who, trying not to be rude,
automatically shook it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
mean my dad?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“He’s
the only Dennis Fish I know.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay,
I guess. Why?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“He’s
a good man. I’d like to talk with you. Why don’t you stop by my office after
school? Can you do that?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
did I do?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know. Unless there’s something giving you a guilty conscience, I’d say
it’s good news.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“About
what?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“See
you after school.” Gordie smiled, winked, walked over to where his broom leaned
against the wall, raised his hand in a small salute, then went to work sweeping
up the mess left behind from all the kids. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
did he want?” Rachel asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie
shrugged and joined the crowd moving through the doors.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> To read more, please visit the following links and upload it onto your Kindle or Nook.</span></b></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/In-Older-Worlds-Donnie-ebook/dp/B009Q92X7E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350183129&sr=8-1&keywords=in+older+worlds+donnie+bleeds">For the Kindle version, visit here!</a><br /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-older-worlds-robert-goble/1113441810?ean=2940015585391" target="_blank">For the Nook version, visit here!</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-8701051468988909332012-09-23T12:17:00.002-07:002012-09-24T05:01:22.925-07:00Clair Huffaker: Novelist, Screenwriter, A Native Son of Magna, Utah<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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On September 8th of this year, the Magna Arts Council held it's first Books & Authors of Magna event at the local library, a branch of the Salt Lake County Library System in Utah. The event was organized by Doug Wood, a book and history enthusiast and a member of the Arts Council, and supported by Trish Hull, the library's manager. The featured panelists were Philip F. Notarianni, Jr, Mary Martinez, and myself, Robert Goble. </div>
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I was to speak on Clair Huffaker, highlighting his novel, <i>One Time I Saw Morning Come Home</i>, give a quick overview of <i>I'm Mad as Hell</i> by Howard Jarvis (Doug Wood provided both books from his extensive collection.), and introduce my new novel, <i>In Older Worlds</i>, a serial dark fantasy set in Magna, Utah. Due to time constraints I felt I wasn't able to satisfactorily present what I'd prepared on Clair Huffaker. Regardless, what seemed a minor frustration, turned into a moment of fortune, when, a friend of mine, Darrell "Monte" Kelson, spoke up (taking up what I thought were my last precious minutes) and provided valuable and welcome input on his cousin, Clair Huffaker. "Did you know that book is ninety-five percent true?" Monte asked.</div>
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This little event, in turn, led to the following interview a few days later with Monte, which I will provide it its entirety. Before I do, I'd like to introduce Clair Huffaker to a new generation who have probably never heard of him, and to reminisce with those of an older generation who might fondly remember the novels and movies of the early sixties such as <i>The Cowboy and the Cossack,</i> <i>Seven Ways From Sundown, </i>and <i>The Comancheros</i>, starring John Wayne. Elvis Presley starred in <i>Flaming Star</i>, a movie based on Huffaker's novel, <i>Flaming Lance</i>. At the time, he had become one of the most successful authors and screenwriters with Utah ties. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilN2MJduXPlbsvDHWAgJSEnUqMV5ClTX-YpUB0paltNqPSux9z3xq6RqXnwO2DCOyXS38Cq4GKSqJPDAASWeBT0t9o_xK1Tlqr6awmeuGQubq4V4jy6BXm8frMWwlmI4ZzJdvbVZX3s4/s1600/26+Huffaker.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilN2MJduXPlbsvDHWAgJSEnUqMV5ClTX-YpUB0paltNqPSux9z3xq6RqXnwO2DCOyXS38Cq4GKSqJPDAASWeBT0t9o_xK1Tlqr6awmeuGQubq4V4jy6BXm8frMWwlmI4ZzJdvbVZX3s4/s1600/26+Huffaker.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clair Huffaker<br />
September 24, 1926 - April 3, 1990</td></tr>
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Clair Huffaker (Little Clair) was born to Clair Huffaker and Orlean Bird in a little home just off Magna's Main Street September 24, 1926. In his novel, <i>One Time I Saw Morning Come Home</i>, a lightly fictionalized remembrance (fictionalized in that it was novelized into a smooth narrative form, timelines and minor details slightly altered to give flow and color to the story) "Little Clair" writes about his young parents' first home. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTVVI-Y69GvAlAsf6NUrFdCmxRLUntVohrLjeGbH8DYAmkmDCObduU6bFJOCdTIHsMhDwuPJOY7LnQn-RRGo8nUJZV4xO9xDBtL_D0Nn035uQ9c3Bur9OrM67J_wN0MWddY1clNySEiI/s1600/one+time+I+saw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTVVI-Y69GvAlAsf6NUrFdCmxRLUntVohrLjeGbH8DYAmkmDCObduU6bFJOCdTIHsMhDwuPJOY7LnQn-RRGo8nUJZV4xO9xDBtL_D0Nn035uQ9c3Bur9OrM67J_wN0MWddY1clNySEiI/s320/one+time+I+saw.jpg" width="202" /></a></div>
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His father had just started work as a railroad electrician for the Utah Copper Company. He'd be working seven long days a week, but they would be getting paid twenty-four dollars a week. His mother was expecting her first child (Little Clair). He'd found them a garage that had been turned into a one room apartment for nineteen dollars a month.<br />
Clair describes the wedding night, when his father took his mother over the threshold of the doorway, the frost on the window, the small sink, the old pot bellied stove, the simple furniture, and the kerosene lamp that was their only light. In that beautiful scene his mother declares she'd never loved anyplace so much in her life.<br />
Monte Kelson remembers his mother, Margaret Abiah Bird, (who is mentioned several times in the novel), saying she could look across the street, north east from her house on "Fifth East" (Today's 8850 West), and see the little home of her sister, Orlean, and brother-in-law, Clair (Big Clair). That little home still stands today on a property next to 8845 West 2700 South, the old Woolfenden home. A "new" property line actually divides the old garage from the corner house, so the tiny garage apartment actually sits on the neighbor's property to the east.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6EY200LadL7mhJ0T260pfHuthh4Q9K4YFMKupC6nIhEhN-HMCETDMFpGptaUPL9D8c8i0Nyu4NrDoDppvYgyUwRDtGCPIZyp7snzRTSNiGyRqc3v6cTBmk0ZZPtXV3Ctkgt2p-ZrEP5g/s1600/Monte+Huffaker+home.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6EY200LadL7mhJ0T260pfHuthh4Q9K4YFMKupC6nIhEhN-HMCETDMFpGptaUPL9D8c8i0Nyu4NrDoDppvYgyUwRDtGCPIZyp7snzRTSNiGyRqc3v6cTBmk0ZZPtXV3Ctkgt2p-ZrEP5g/s320/Monte+Huffaker+home.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monte Kelson at the place he identifies as where his cousin, Clair Huffaker, was born. Looking north west in a driveway just off of Magna's Main Street second house east from the corner of 8850 West.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZpsSenz6OMtZhEmMyck471e9btoE_tfsgGT8b3HyhADvmehRt9iWGIF9P7oysthYxlfUfgTm7q9z-PgKrMbyq838-nfYZNKDNk6BUbeajlUGnQl4JeknfB1R_uDa7hEmG05J2_noJfI/s1600/Mss+C-949+Magna,+Utah+Photoghraph+Collection+Utah+Historical+Society+Woolfenden%27s+Market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZpsSenz6OMtZhEmMyck471e9btoE_tfsgGT8b3HyhADvmehRt9iWGIF9P7oysthYxlfUfgTm7q9z-PgKrMbyq838-nfYZNKDNk6BUbeajlUGnQl4JeknfB1R_uDa7hEmG05J2_noJfI/s320/Mss+C-949+Magna,+Utah+Photoghraph+Collection+Utah+Historical+Society+Woolfenden%27s+Market.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first little home rented by the Huffakers might have originally been the garage to the Woolfendn's old home on the corner of 8850 West and 2700 South. Few of that generation are left who remember Woolfenden's Market on Magna's Main Street. <br />
Used by permission, Utah State Historical Society, all rights reserved.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The story of <i>One Time I Saw Morning Come</i> is about love through thick and thin, mostly thin. It's about the struggles of the Huffaker family to make their way through the depression, through tragedy, finally to success and to reflections upon a fight well fought. No regrets.<br />
As for success, the Huffaker family were known locally for their furniture store in Magna, Utah. The author tells of how his father started his business back in the depression days with an old Model A coup rigged with a platform to carry furniture. Many local people, the older generation, had known the the family and at some point had done business with them.<br />
My uncle, Grant Goble, told me in a separate interview that he'd worked for them after graduating Cyprus High School in 1959. When I asked what it was like working for the Huffakers, he told me in four words, with a smile, "It was hard work." </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sLTV7IiR-uFz5R6A5nKBGwno3iuYWHmaAutwbeiBasWCuHb7atvqyVAgqXpW4bToUnCRs7WNS7ACx3pkvnNk52nYzzf-gkYiN8NV-1mPRMgwYWpY6PTw_vgXVIw0EM0qRp1QtUWA31o/s1600/Main+Street+Huffaker+furniture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sLTV7IiR-uFz5R6A5nKBGwno3iuYWHmaAutwbeiBasWCuHb7atvqyVAgqXpW4bToUnCRs7WNS7ACx3pkvnNk52nYzzf-gkYiN8NV-1mPRMgwYWpY6PTw_vgXVIw0EM0qRp1QtUWA31o/s320/Main+Street+Huffaker+furniture.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Huffaker Furniture Company on the corner of "First West" (9150 West and 2700 South).<br />
Used by permission, Utah State Historical Society, all rights reserved.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiaAi7Oxxy_qzWnfzo0GWzA94ARApqMFdB5lEKd_hj5-EeH3Zn5n6PP_MPIM0tvzQzJu_Huxn9-gqe-DBRzNy293WbxTyCEhtuPRfwd2CST4nthA2-shABxD3TMDz_RKLT4QZPgFNeoE/s1600/Main+Street+Huffaker+advertisment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiaAi7Oxxy_qzWnfzo0GWzA94ARApqMFdB5lEKd_hj5-EeH3Zn5n6PP_MPIM0tvzQzJu_Huxn9-gqe-DBRzNy293WbxTyCEhtuPRfwd2CST4nthA2-shABxD3TMDz_RKLT4QZPgFNeoE/s320/Main+Street+Huffaker+advertisment.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Huffaker Furniture Company advertisment.</td></tr>
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Note: To understand the streets and landmarks mentioned in the following interview, Magna's history as a name only goes back as far as the second decade of the 20th century. It was known originally, for several generations, as Pleasant Green--not ignoring Coonville just to the south. The name "Magna," sort of an invasive creature born of the Utah Copper Company (the Magna Concentrator and the B&G row houses put on the hill above Pleasant Green), was something relatively new when Clair Huffaker (senior) and Orlean Bird first met. "Magna" as a name change was something the original residents of Pleasant Green were never given a chance to vote on. In <i>One Time I Saw Morning Come Home</i>, Clair Huffaker (senior) endearingly mistakes the concentrator and mill on the mountainside to be the Bingham Mine, from where the ore is actually shipped--twelve miles to the south.<br />
The original streets of Pleasant Green had different names. Today's 9100 West was Center Street. From there the streets (running north to south) going east were progressively named First East through Fifth East, until you reached Spencer Avenue, today's 8800 West. Going west toward the Oquirrh Mountains, you had First West, today's 9150 West and Second West, today's 9200 West, or the very last street at the edge of the foothills--nothing but grass and sagebrush from there. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpKsgtrelL1fiM3IQacnAn1iZdhGym6V2EC5S0bY-sN2wxbRAYBPR_bJEvK237X11198wkDxswFNPgGT6xAK87akqKDi8zQ3_DXQx-0u79Ca8XighohUi4F1NA6SG58V41Auca1QDwLs/s1600/Young+Clair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpKsgtrelL1fiM3IQacnAn1iZdhGym6V2EC5S0bY-sN2wxbRAYBPR_bJEvK237X11198wkDxswFNPgGT6xAK87akqKDi8zQ3_DXQx-0u79Ca8XighohUi4F1NA6SG58V41Auca1QDwLs/s320/Young+Clair.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young Clair Huffaker and his sister, Dolores.<br />
Courtesy of Monte Kelson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Interview with Darrell "Monte" Kelson, recorded 6:00 pm, Friday, September 14, 2012 at Monte's home in April Acres. Note: Monte's house is one of the original B&G row houses, built around 1916. The rest of the houses on the street were some of the original houses moved from Garfield in 1957.<br />
<br />
<b>Early Memories</b> <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Note: Darrell "Monte" Kelson is mentioned in <i>One Time I Saw Morning Come Home</i>, the hard back edition 1974. Simon and Schuster. It's at the beginning of chapter sixteen, when the Huffaker family had moved back to Magna, Utah from Omaha, Nebraska. </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Robert: Tell me about your
relationship to Clair Huffaker. He’s your cousin?
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Monte: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clair Huffaker Junior, they called him. There
was a senior, but it was Clair Huffaker.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My first
memory of Clair goes back when he lived on Third East, and his folks…and it was
during the depression years. One thing, him and I used to pick these wild
current berries. There were black ones and red ones, and we’d go down below the
Kelson garage along the ditch banks, and they would grow wild, and we would
pick them and come home, give them to Orlean Huffaker, Clair’s mother up on Third East, and she’d make jam out of them, and she’d give us a few pennies for
our work. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWY_4rGkeHj4ADLqnpVuxvr50QN1Sr7ejCWCeO3yR3fWcnWAb_fyqLWgb6CfM-OTAWkeUtQ_K8sogGziRKJNhfSBypNHiacKwfeqm1sFdTv3G31cH3AO9ylldXQucDqImqvI6EvS1HxeE/s1600/Kelson+Garage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWY_4rGkeHj4ADLqnpVuxvr50QN1Sr7ejCWCeO3yR3fWcnWAb_fyqLWgb6CfM-OTAWkeUtQ_K8sogGziRKJNhfSBypNHiacKwfeqm1sFdTv3G31cH3AO9ylldXQucDqImqvI6EvS1HxeE/s320/Kelson+Garage.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelson's Garage on the corner of 8560 West 2700 South, Magna's Main Street.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And in the
summertime when it was real hot, Clair and I would go downstairs in the
basement and open one of her jars of fruit and have ourselves a little feast there.
Then we would take washrags and dip them in cold water coming out of a tap and
lay on the bed and put ‘em on our foreheads, and we thought, man, that’s real
neat. It’s hot out there, and we’re cool as a bear. We thought that was a great
thing to do in them days with no air conditioning, not swamp coolers, not
nothin'. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
remember ridin’…I bought a bike off of Orlean Hufffaker for about three
dollars...three dollars and fifty cents. It was something that Clair and
Delores had used over the lifetime. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: How does he depict your mom
and dad?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: They were in the same boat they were
in, and they worked together and helped one another. Because it was in the
depression time…Clair senior, was selling…it was hard to sell furniture. But he
didn’t have a store or nothin’ goin’ then. He was workin’ for a guy up in Ogden, and he paid him
one percent of profit for anything he sold. And two weeks he’s been up there
and Orlean hasn’t heard a word from him. She’s got three cents to her name. It
costs three cents to buy a cube of yeast to make some bread or one cent to send
to he husband to see what’s goin’ on. Up there Clair tells the guy, “I gotta go
home. I haven’t heard from my wife for two weeks. And the guy says, “You can’t
go home. You’ve got to stay here.” So Clair quit and come home. But before he
did that his wife had to make a choice. She bought a cake of yeast and made
some bread. She had to. It was that tough.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Aunt Melva Never Drank Coffee</b> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On this book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Time I Saw Morning Come Home</i>, by Clair Huffaker, he tells in
there about his aunt Melva, his aunt, Melva Larson, and probably it was my
mother and Orlean, I’m not sure. They were huddling around, drinking a cup of
coffee and keeping their eye open for the bishop. That’s basically what the
story says. Well, Melva Larson never drank a cup of coffee in her whole life.
And she was so mad at Clair ‘cause he wrote that, he says, “Lady, there’s a
little bit of fiction here like this, but I have to sell the book.” And it
meant no slur to her at all. In a way, I guess, he’d slandered her in her eyes,
‘cause if you didn’t do it, you didn’t do it. And if somebody says it, I guess
you can get mad. It was childish.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Gravel Pit</b> </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Right at the last Hal Larson was
working as a foreman up at Kennecott. He was makin’ a little money there. And
he helped us a lot when my mother was in the hospital. I stayed up there, and I
had my tonsils taken out when I was pretty young. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My dad, he had a dump truck during
the depression. He would haul sand and gravel, and at one time he would haul
salt for the salt company, and he’d come home on Fifth East, and then he’d have
to wash the whole truck down to get all that salt off it, so it wouldn’t
corrode everything. And he worked with a guy down in the flats called Harvey
Magera. And they’d make a living that way. And I’ve shoveled more than my share
of loads of sand and gravel. We used to get this…north of the Webster School.
There was a gravel and sand pit there, and the sand there was good and so was
the gravel. In fact I found a fletching tool right…chert scraping tool by them
Indians. They used to scrape their hides with this. It’s curved and all chipped
on one side, sharp as a knife, an they’d use that to scrape it. So somewhere up
in that area at one time the Indians were livin’ in there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And my grandfather used to help us
every once in a while. He worked at Kennecott for a while. I don’t know whether
he had social security or not, but when we pulled in that day, my dad reached
in his pocket and give my grandpa over a dollar for helpin’ him load that
stuff. And then my dad was an expert at goin’ down your driveway and lettin’ it
fall down, and put it down your whole driveway without you doin’ much
shovelin.’ And that’s how he got a livin’ during the depression, was haulin’
sand and gravel and later workin’ at the salt company.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Lindbergh Goggles</b> </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But they worked together, helpin’
one another in housing and one thing or another. Because they had no choice.
Like I says, Clair, back in Omaha,
had a pair of goggles and a helmet that were replicas of…supposedly
representin’ Charles Lindbergh, who was a hero at that time. And when he come
back to Utah,
one Christmas morning I ended up with ‘em. And also I got a little airplane
from the people called Smiths, lived in Salt Lake.
He was a railroader. That’s the first time I got really associated with trout.
He was out…been fishin’ and caught some trout in the river, and I thought, oh,
that’s the greatest thing I ever seen, them wild fish. But their boy was
later…become a jet pilot and was killed in Viet Nam.<br />
And I think this model
airplane was a metal airplane…you pedaled it just like a car but it had wings
on it and a propeller that turned. And I had the goggles and the glasses and I
thought I was the king of the water. I thought I was Charles Lindbergh myself.
(laughs) I’d run everybody off the sidewalk on Third East goin’ up by Deluca’s
and Larson’s and Huffaker’s and down to where my mother and dad lived there on
Third East, just a little south and west of the Baptist church.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa51H9XKjhitV0yiKEJ__WhgG1y6RDWeiGl-sVesBHD_HOvWoy7mpK6qf5PzZ950eShC5wZGjKcWlJ5aOxIpyjU6I59ltOIfzcpVh93K8hYJjV1cAh6SAdYGGWUlLvwVf_y84nFNB-ao/s1600/Goggles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa51H9XKjhitV0yiKEJ__WhgG1y6RDWeiGl-sVesBHD_HOvWoy7mpK6qf5PzZ950eShC5wZGjKcWlJ5aOxIpyjU6I59ltOIfzcpVh93K8hYJjV1cAh6SAdYGGWUlLvwVf_y84nFNB-ao/s320/Goggles.jpg" width="169" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monte in middle with Clair's old goggles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Joe Lewis </b></div>
<br />
When he lived on Third East--I’m gonna get that exact address soon--we were listenin’ to the radio, and we listened to the championship boxing
match of the United States
where Joe Lewis won. And I think it was 1936, but I’m not sure. And that was
the first time a black guy outside of the earlier one…uh…everybody knew
Johnson. And Clair and I were walking up Third East to Larson’s place, and we
both said, “well, the best man won.” Although we were disappointed, because
that’s the first time that a modern negro had won the thing. But I accepted it.
Because, like we said, we said, “the best man won.” And I was eight years old.
We accepted it.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Weber River</b> </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But he
used to tell stories up on the Weber River. We
camped up there, and his mother used to sing “Red Wing” and play the guitar.
And we’d sleep out in straw, mainly with blankets. There were no sleeping bags
or anything. One day we was up there, and a cowboy come by, and he wanted some
matches. He run out of matches, and Orlean give him a big handful of kitchen
matches. And he said, “Well, thanks for that.” He said, “Well, maybe I’ll look
and see what this old nag can do,” and he spurred this wild horse, and it went
buckin’ outa there like a wild man. And that cowboy stayed right on and bucked
his self right outa camp. We thought that was pretty great, getting’ a real
picture of a real cowboy. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjresNnmu76v-YjW7-rCtCu0S_xojZo2QRBV_qG996JTYN5-_CbvevJZYgxPGxBR_oE3h1aYi5qpRgSXe-WXn1Z7tL6ekNWOJjGEt_n3Z38fLvJajGMG6U-ydtxlROtkiAyVAOUaV4M6a0/s320/red+wing.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="309" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ms6R-39GE0" target="_blank">To hear Red Wing, click here</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And Clair
used to tell really scary stories up there, and he’d have us all scared. And
even had some girls come over. He was always good at tellin’ stories. And we
enjoyed that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But this one time we was out on
this lake up there. I can’t remember the name of it. I think it might have been
the Weber Lake, if there is such a thing. And it’s
real cold, and I was…we were just walkin’ in it, ‘cause at that time I couldn’t
swim, so I must have been pretty young. I can’t remember for sure, six, seven,
eight years old, something like that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On the way up there, we would stop,
and Mr. Huffaker would buy us all a holiday all-day sucker, was made out of
hard caramel, was five cents, and you could chew on it all day long,
practically. We thought that was one of the biggest treats we could get. We got
this five cent all-day sucker as we were going up the canyon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And back to the river…er…the lake,
Clair and I was walkin’ out in there, just walkin.’ All of a sudden I step off
in the deep water. I can’t swim. And I panicked and started thrashin’ around,
and Clair was right behind me. I don’t know what I said, but he grabbed a hold
of me and just gently pulled me in where I could touch. And if he hadn’t have
been there…he probably saved my life, ‘cause I would’ve drown for sure. Once
you’ve panicked in the water, you’ve had it. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Well, we used to have a lot of fun
at the Weber River. We used to go play
softball up there on a meadow that was adjacent to the Weber
River. Invariably somebody would knock the ball in the river, and
we’d have to go chasing it, and usually it ended up me goin’ across the rocks
and gettin’ it. And Clair junior says, “I don’t know how you can go across them
rocks like that. We played games there, and Clair told them spooky stories.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Edgar Rice Burroughs</b> </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Me and Clair, we'd go to the library. He was always readin' them Edgar Rice Burroughs books.<br />
<br />
Note: Clair wrote the screenplay for Tarzan 66, which eventually became a movie starring Mike Henry, released as <i>Tarzan and the City of Gold.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Keyhole Cave</b></div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhteyXfWOKtaQsdZNhZGMdWX_5R9NPgn7uExbY1HtXAJSIG7JZ8pPawkrwzK15R7FS44ko8ZpFhwC-AZWhdBmC4JGvoVtyTycnDvjmWjpGmF1Ww9ExgVtv0SY3gskEog7qY6fXQvftuQCA/s1600/Key+hole+cave+ant+hill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhteyXfWOKtaQsdZNhZGMdWX_5R9NPgn7uExbY1HtXAJSIG7JZ8pPawkrwzK15R7FS44ko8ZpFhwC-AZWhdBmC4JGvoVtyTycnDvjmWjpGmF1Ww9ExgVtv0SY3gskEog7qY6fXQvftuQCA/s320/Key+hole+cave+ant+hill.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keyhole cave, lower left. Ant Hill, upper right. This photo was taken September 22, 2012, looking south at the lower part of Hog's Back from Pleasant Green Cemetery. Below, unseen in the photo are the railroad tracks. Monte said the upper tracks weren't there when he was a kid. There was only one set of tracks at the time. I remember my dad, Gordon Goble, taking my brother and I on a hike up to this cave. Inside it I found an old seventh grade Utah history book, probably from a Brockbank Junior High School student having left it while skipping ("sluffing"in the local jargon) school. Since then there has been some apparent damage to the cave, as if the floor and face had collapsed or even been blasted out. You no longer see the "Keyhole."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And then we used to go up on Hog’s
Back. And one winter day, Gene Kelson, my cousin, and Clair Huffaker, myself….
Clair had to get a merit badge for his…to become an Eagle Scout. He eventually
become and Eagle Scout. We went up to Keyhole Cave.
It’s right above Magna. And you can get up to the cemetery, and look up there.
You can see this cave. And if you look close, you can see two other holes that
looks like the back end of a kitchen keyhole that used to be like a butterfly.
There was two holes in it, and they named it Keyhole Cave.
Well, we got…you have to crawl up into it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was so cold, and Clair couldn’t
get his hands in his Levis, and so he finally kep’ his hands real stiff like.
And he shove ‘em in his Levis. And he get it down there. And he finally got a
match, and he’d pull one out like that (Monte demonstrates with a stiff hand)
and light it, and about twelve of ‘em went out ‘cause part of the deal with the
Boy Scouts and this fire was you couldn’t use no paper. You could start a fire
with a match but no paper. So he had little fine sticks there that he was
tryin’ to light a—finally about the twelfth one he got it goin’. We got a good
fire goin’. And I remember Gene Kelson, who was my cousin, was wearin’ low cut
shoes, and the bottoms of ‘em were all gone. He had cardboard in there and of
course—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: What are low cut shoes?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: Low cut. Dress shoes. And,
uh, in the snow. And, of course, cardboard dissipates. And then he was
practically barefooted. That was the way we went around in the depression
years. Didn’t have brand new shoes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Anyway, we crawled out of the cave,
and was goin’ down across the…the, uh, there was tracks to go over, they
kept these tracks in there (Utah Copper Company railroad). You’d go right out of Keyhole Cave
and walk right over to the Magna Cemetery (Pleasant
Green Cemetery).
And they had a fresh grave there. They was buryin’ somebody. We walked and went
home. I remember that vividly, how cold it was that day.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Death in the neighborhood</b> </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And then during one year we had
real high snows. I can’t remember, was it…Huffakers were livin’ in a house just
northwest of Cyprus
High School. They tore
all them old houses out. But the weather was so bad, the snow was clear up to
the roof. And I remember that’s when I run into…aware of death. A little kid by
the name of John. I think it was Alice Ribotto’s brother died. He was about six
years old. And I thought that was terrible that somebody should die. That was
my first association with death. And that was in the Huffaker house up, like I
say, just north and a little west of Cyprus
High School. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: How did that little boy
die?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: I don’t know. I think it was
pneumonia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: So the Huffakers lived
north and west of Cyprus?
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: Yeah. They lived up there
for a while. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Pistol in the Shed</b></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everybody
was moving around. And while I was up in there…uh…that’s when Clair (senior)
was first starting his furniture store. But I remember livin’ there. He spent
most of his time on Third East. And up the street was Al and Melva Larson. They
were up between…uh…There was a bishop that was a barber. Can’t think of his
name right now. And Delucas were just one house above him. He lived one house
north of Delucas. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And in the
back they built a little shed in there. And one night I was. It was summertime,
prowlin’ around, and I got into that shed. And hangin’ on a coat rack was a
pistol in a holster. And I took that pistol out and admired it and looked at it
and put it back and left. And I thought that was really somethin’ that he had
this pistol in his little cabin, or not cabin, a room he had out there in the
back.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Delores</b></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Okay. On
that little house on Third East, just below Huffakers, My mother and dad lived
in a little house down below there that Marvin, Dale Kelson.... And it was right north
of Bill Beck, mister Bill Beck and his wife and Bill Beck Junior, that I grew
up and palled around with for a long time. But…uh…I remember when we was up at
Huffakers one day. Delores was trying to learn how to ride a bicycle. She got
on the bicycle. She was very giddy (getty) and had a lot of nerve and was a
very beautiful girl. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Robert: Now
who’s Delores?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Monte:
Delores was the second child of Orlean and Clair Huffaker (senior). There was
Clair (junior), Delores, Nancy, and Jerry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, uh,
she got on the bike and started down, and just as she got down by the church on
Third East and went over to the Baptist church, she lost control and plowed
into a fence and went flying. She didn’t get hurt, but she didn’t know how to
put the brakes on. So she learned a lesson there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But her and
I and Clair used to go up on Ant Hill. It’s just above Magna, just a little
east of Keyhole Cave. And we was up there one day and we
started runnin’. Clair and I got down and Delores decided she was goin’ to run
down it. We were hollerin’ at her to not run. You can’t run! Well, she got up
some pretty good speed. Well, you get runnin’ down a hill fast enough and
you’re not gonna pull out of it when you get to the bottom. She crashed. It
didn’t hurt her. She was a pretty gutsy little girl.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One time
down at my parent’s house on Fifth East her and I got in a tussle about
something, and I challenged her for somethin’, so we got in a wrestling match
and fell on the bed. Believe it or not she got me pinned down and had both her
knees on my shoulders. And…uh…course we was just kids, and it didn’t mean
nothing, except she just won the match (laughs).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And she
later went and worked for Fay Gillette over in Tooele and become his assistant.
I think he was a deputy at one time out there. He was the old time Sheriff in
Tooele. I got a lecture from him when—well that’s another story. Back to
Huffakers.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Fight</b> </div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhUzoIaWVcH6m-En-JOgYihQDMw9Tl84x3TpiUtxXdZRWIQIUzAtmpH0RnEOBLOiy4DNa4Q9ulGGPJctcc90Xo7H9Hg5r4B7Bnq3NWrAVIk4o4BQEQfYksqm39zg9OFfAZ01GpqC2wxA/s1600/Baptist+church.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhUzoIaWVcH6m-En-JOgYihQDMw9Tl84x3TpiUtxXdZRWIQIUzAtmpH0RnEOBLOiy4DNa4Q9ulGGPJctcc90Xo7H9Hg5r4B7Bnq3NWrAVIk4o4BQEQfYksqm39zg9OFfAZ01GpqC2wxA/s320/Baptist+church.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old Baptist church, now an historical site, sits on the corner of the old Fourth East (8900 West and 2900 South). Slightly to the right of the photo in the middle, behind the church, which is now a back yard, is the field where the fight between Huffaker and Wing had taken place. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Um…I seen
him one time right in the field by the Baptist church between Third East and
Fourth East. Him and a guy named Wing was gettin’ into a fight. Wing cleaned
his wagon. They was fightin’. Wing accused Clair of takin’ his Saturday Evening Post Magazine
route off…on the B&G row, where the bosses lived. But…eh…I know Clair was
up there a long time before that. Later on Clair fought Laurence Honeycutt if
front of our house on Fifth East. Of course he whipped old Laurence pretty easy
out there. He (Clair) was the same guy over in Columbia University,
decided he wanted to be the champion of the school. And he trained and went in
the ring and knocked out the champion and took over the title. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And when we
was up there hikin’ above Magna, I’d get tired sometimes and I’d tell him,
“Clair, I’m tired.” And he’d stop, and we’d both sit there on a rock and take a
little nap and then we’d continue on our trip down to Magna. And he’d never get
angry or push you. He’d just go along with you and help you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One time we were down there at
Herons. He was down there to get a merit badge for his Eagle Badge. Mr. Heron
was pretty knowledgeable about Indian relics and stuff like that. And I can’t
remember what the badge was. He was quite a goer.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Hunting with the Huffakers</b> </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One time when my mother and dad,
Daryll and Margaret…uh…we lived in a house just above Russell’s on Fifth East,
Myron Russell’s place. I was sleeping on the porch in the summertime, well it
was early fall, I guess. I’d been to the show, and I was waitin’ for Clair
Huffaker (senior) pick us up in his pickup truck. He had sideboards on it he
used to haul furniture for the furniture company. Him and my dad were goin’
deer huntin’ down at Oakley. So they finally showed up and we all got in the
truck. There was Orlean there and Dolores and myself and my mother and dad. And
we ended up down at Oakley. And one day my dad and Clair Huffaker senior left
camp to go deer huntin’, and Clair and I, we had our twenty-twos. We did a
little plinkin’ there. Pretty soon they came into camp later that night. I
thought, Oh boy! I was so proud. I thought my dad shot. Turned out that Clair
(senior) had shot it with a thirty-aught-six, and my dad hadn’t got it. But we
had a good time down there and finally camped out. Back in them days you might
have stayed in a tent. I’m not sure, but in back of a truck, usually with straw
and sleep in there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He had a twenty-two, and I had a
twenty two, and once we went down in the flats. And it started rainin’ and
thunder and lightning like crazy. So very foolishly we got underneath a shell
of a car to get out of the rain a little bit and the wind, and it was thunder
and lightning. Clair said, “I think we better say a prayer before we get
killed.” So he said a prayer in this car that day for us kids, and I remember
that.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Cyprus High School Memories</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At the time I went over to Cyprus High
School, I had to be in the tenth grade, because
it was either the eleventh or twelfth grade was puttin’ on an assembly, and
they had a little magician show they were showing. They had a table with a
cloth over it and a guy standin’ there with a blindfold on him. And then a guy
next to him would hand him somethin’. And this guy with a blindfold on him was
supposed to be a…read his mind and tell ‘em what he had. So the guy that
actually had it was blindfolded and actually look away from him. And the guy,
they’d hand ‘em and apple, a book or somethin’, and the guy would say, “It’s a
book.” And everybody was really dumbfounded. “It’s an apple!” And underneath
the table, under this sheer sheet that was under there, Clair Huffaker was
hidden under there, and he would see what the thing was, and whisper it to his
buddy what it was, and then he’d call it out. He had us all baffled. So I think
Clair was only a couple of years older than me. I’m not sure, but I’ll find
out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Cyprus Junior High</b></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: That was over in Cyprus
Junior High, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: High School.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: So that’s after it burned
down. That’s after the Junior high burned down?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: Before.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: But Cyprus High School
was built then? Was there a junior high next to the high school? Is that how it
was?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: Yes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: So you had two buildings
then at the same time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: Two buildings. Yes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: I didn’t know that.
(laughs). So the old building…the junior high—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: The junior high’s the one
that burned down, not the high.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: Where was that at? Do you
remember? Where would it be if I—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: It seemed like south of
there, but I don’t know. It might have been east-west of there, I can’t
remember. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: Was that—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: You had a picture of it
there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: I did. It doesn’t show me
where it was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: It was a short building.
Uh…I can’t remember…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Robert: You think it could have
been out on the field? You know, you go behind the football field, and they
have the big practice field. And someone once told me it was out there. But I
don’t know if that’s true. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Monte: I remember it wasn’t air
conditioned. Seemed to me it might have been south and east of there a little
bit. But it couldn’t have been much east, because that’s right up against the
street. I don’t know where it was for sure. I remember the fire department
chief, Roy Smith, when it caught fire they didn’t have no water. He took his new Buick and blam! Jammed it into a irrigation ditch with
water in it, and they got water out of that to start with. I mean, that’s using
your head.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOAXF_LR4rv-hzoj0ii0jnwmTYkoaBYPKQR92mBorrzggAaLMSh0Yc5O5ooSD2awFAtU3kIuZbckTYki-EBtaPyNYCgxwrfhZsDtiiUhubhKfEizFGYN4y0GS6KrzEH0Mlr9Su4G0pof8/s1600/Cyprus+junior+burning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOAXF_LR4rv-hzoj0ii0jnwmTYkoaBYPKQR92mBorrzggAaLMSh0Yc5O5ooSD2awFAtU3kIuZbckTYki-EBtaPyNYCgxwrfhZsDtiiUhubhKfEizFGYN4y0GS6KrzEH0Mlr9Su4G0pof8/s320/Cyprus+junior+burning.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fire Chief Roy Smith's buick in the ditch as Cyprus Junior High burned July 24, 1947.<br />
Courtesy of Monte Kelson</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> Later Days</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1T7QF_lluEnatt-6UkS61ggu37s9uLskiVjZzcdn2pU5JiehO3cVcDUg1B1sAfF1Ndy_5ysIvPnsL9SDosNIxBzkkUIlW8T7D7VBPQCTegIhzbd-PFoK6IPRpUSke1iMZKsbmhrpbxdE/s1600/Later+Years.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1T7QF_lluEnatt-6UkS61ggu37s9uLskiVjZzcdn2pU5JiehO3cVcDUg1B1sAfF1Ndy_5ysIvPnsL9SDosNIxBzkkUIlW8T7D7VBPQCTegIhzbd-PFoK6IPRpUSke1iMZKsbmhrpbxdE/s320/Later+Years.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The home on the corner of 3370 South and 8400 West Monte Kelson identifies as the house Clair referred to in his novel in chapter nineteen, when he takes about his parent's later years, such a contrast to the tiny garage where it all started. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b> </b>Then in later days his dad got
cancer, and they lived up there on 8400 and built a nice home up there. Clair
was up there. He’d come up there, and we’d go visit with him and we’d talk
about some of the things he was doing. He was trying to take his dad back to
Mayo and see what he could do for him. But actually his dad had terminal cancer
nothin’ nobody could do for him. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And about once a day he’d have to
go up in a room all by himself, and nobody could bother him while he wrote an
article. He had a weekly article in a paper in California he had to put out every week. So
there was an hour or so there he had to be by himself while he wrote this
article for them.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjB-OoNPZotjNsmNSyUbSkap385aDASUqJAxl1tL3lmsQJ_nqW96Rj58kfaY1btGX_74O8t4exzFLZ_4evH3zLFhWqYEzdZsBuyPIvLwOqh6VuZIaIJi8-8Yq20HsuP9ABBIfebUURpQ/s1600/Mother+with+Clair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjB-OoNPZotjNsmNSyUbSkap385aDASUqJAxl1tL3lmsQJ_nqW96Rj58kfaY1btGX_74O8t4exzFLZ_4evH3zLFhWqYEzdZsBuyPIvLwOqh6VuZIaIJi8-8Yq20HsuP9ABBIfebUURpQ/s320/Mother+with+Clair.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clair Huffaker on right with Monte's mother, Margaret Abiah Bird.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And he come down later on when his
mother died and was at Peel Funeral Home. He used to always stop in and see my
mother on Fifth East. I remember one year my wife had just cooked up a big
turkey dinner over here on Elmer
Street. And we were gettin’ ready to sit down for
it, and my mother was supposed to come up and she called and said she wouldn’t
come up. I found out Clair Huffaker dropped in on her. And Dolores was with
him. That time she was living with him down in California. Her and her first husband got
divorced, and she was down there. And I was so angry at my mother, cus they
could have both come up and had a beautiful turkey dinner, and my mother wanted
Clair all by herself.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Songs We Sung </b></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In this book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Time I Saw Morning Come Home</i>, we got some songs that we sung I
was very familiar with:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Pony Boy.” Tells about two boys
that grew up together and went to war in World War I. One of them got wounded
or killed, and the other one said, I’m not gonna leave you, cus they were pony
boy’s as children. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“She Wore a Yellow Ribbon.” I think
that’s that old Texas
song. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The Daring Young Man on the Flying
Trapeze.” Who flew through the air with the greatest of ease. I was at a church
meeting when I was a very young kid, and my cousin, Lois Bird, who later become
Lois Bird Johnson, was there when they sang this song, and a guy was swinging
in a swing as the daring young man as the flying trapeze. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Among My Souvenirs.” I’m not too
sure about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Grandpa, Grandpa.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Sentimental Me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The Big Rock Candy Mountain.” I remember singing that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“My Heart Stood Still.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Home Sweet Home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Casey Jones” They had that old
railroad song. I remember singin’ that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Red Wing,” was Orlean Huffaker’s
favorite song. She used to play a guitar and sing Red Wing. It was about and
Indian brave that was far, far away and was dying. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The prisoner’s song,” was one of
my favorite songs. My mother had it on a record. We had an old Victrola record
player. You wound it up with a spring and then played these records. It tells
about a guy that got put in prison. And I made some copies of it. I haven’t
heard of it for…clear back in the thirties. The other day I run into it, and I
made some copies, and I even got it memorized. I could probably sing it to you.
Tells about a rich man. Was in jail, prison, and evidently he talks about, “If
I had wings like and angel, over these prison walls I would fly.” He’s in
prison. He can’t get out. He owns a boat decorated in silver and gold, and he’d
sell it if he could just be back in his lover’s arms and die there. Very old
time song. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“When you were seventeen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Welcome to hard times.” Vaguely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“My Merry Oldsmobile.” I remember
that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One of my favorites and still is,
is the “Red River
Valley.” When they sing
it and they talk about the cowboy, it wasn’t a guy or me, it was a cowboy. That
was an original song.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Jolly Old St. Nicholas.” Everybody
knows that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Bye Bye Blackbird.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll Take You Home Again,
Cathleen.” Another famous Irish song that my grandmother had records of. And I
named one of my daughters after Cathleen. I think that’s a beautiful name. And
I named her that going over to the church. We hadn’t picked out a name for her,
and on the way over there, I thought of that, and that’s what we gave her.
Cathleen Kelson. (Laughs)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<i> Note: Clair Huffaker's daughter, Samantha Clair Kirkeby, currently works as a script supervisor for a long list of films from the late eighties to the soon to be released movie, starring Johnny Depp, The Lone Ranger. This long list of films includes, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Waterworld, the Pirates of the Caribbean series, Angels and Demons, and many more. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com32675 S 8950 W, Magna, UT 84044, USA40.7111811 -112.104772740.518607599999996 -112.42062969999999 40.9037546 -111.7889157tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-47572055892780559322012-08-07T11:03:00.001-07:002012-10-13T07:32:48.761-07:00In Older Worlds is finally here!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAyEygM8W4swjeayDlafV_UATVL2KIUaC7Lh5eKPlQK6BZBG36B1RRU-3klbJHVfbAh0ps7oMVGrUUT9RzLdT4Re8Tz9-gxrvlMo5aBkg78ggHjvGOUPByfMTu-lAIClwSywTQUvxOTw/s1600/Cover+Idea+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAyEygM8W4swjeayDlafV_UATVL2KIUaC7Lh5eKPlQK6BZBG36B1RRU-3klbJHVfbAh0ps7oMVGrUUT9RzLdT4Re8Tz9-gxrvlMo5aBkg78ggHjvGOUPByfMTu-lAIClwSywTQUvxOTw/s320/Cover+Idea+1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
It's finally here! After nearly three years <i>In Older Worlds</i> will come out, an e-book series of novellas, one episode after the other, taking you deeper and deeper into into the mysteries underlying the strange events that took place in 1984 in the little fictionalized township of Magna, Utah.<br />
Imagine a group of cult members flee a Manson-like commune during the fall of 1969. Something dark follows them and takes an interest in their children. Forward to 1984, and various, seemingly unrelated teenagers begin to experience strange things and soon discover something special about their lives.<br />
As a little note, this novel started as a short dark fantasy story, <i>Pony Rides the Sunbeam.</i> Over a decade ago I had written various other short stories that had related themes and elements. Those close friends and family who had read <i>Pony Rides the Sunbeam</i> had mentioned it could easily be made into a novel--a few enthusiastically even said it should be a movie. After several unsuccessful attempts to publish <i>Pony </i>as a short story, I returned to it, and the other related short stories, and began to rework them, eventually bringing them together into a story that not only draws upon elements of dark fantasy and horror, but a box within a box type of mystery (much like the <i>Lost </i>television series) where the answer to one question reveals a piece of a greater puzzle.<br />
Without further ado I would like to introduce you to the first four chapters:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Copyright © Robert Goble, 2012</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">All Rights reserved</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Cover photograph © Rick Wallace, 2012</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Not
limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this
publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, by copying electronically,
printing, Emailing, faxing, photocopying, or stored or transmitted by any other
means, without the prior written permission of the author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This is a work of fiction. The
characters, names, incidents, and places are creations of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any likeness they may bear to any actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">www.robgoble.com</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">www.rickwallacephotography.com</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Foreword</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When
my friends and readers ask me, “What’s your new book about?” I admit I’m eager
to fill their ears, hoping what I tell them will inspire the kind of urgency
that would make them mark dates on their calendars and invest in the latest
e-book reader with the sole purpose of beginning the dark, somewhat disturbing
new serial novel, a fantasy set in the west side of the Salt Lake Valley during
the summer of 1984. It’s a novel that draws heavily on the nostalgia of those
days and seems to carry with it its own soundtrack—I would suggest googling
Youtube (two words unthought of at that time) or some other site that has
quick, accessible music, or simply digging out the old boxes full of the tapes
and records of those fond times, and playing them along. I hope you’ll dive in,
immersing yourself in the spirit of the times, and feel a little of what I felt
scraping over the pavement of old memories with worn shoes and sore feet—and
yet at times it was hard to come back to the present. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Speaking
of friends and readers, one in particular comes to mind. As I enthusiastically
dragged him through the plot, staring inwardly into the visions of my own
imagination, he kindly stopped me in mid sentence and said, “You really ought
to get out of Magna.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">After
a silent pause, I clumsily tried to explain how I wasn’t satisfied with how I
had situated the story of my last novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Across
a Harvested Field</i>, in Magna, yet had only tiptoed around the township,
timidly leaving out the richness of the community. I’d even left out the name
of our beloved high school, substituting “Magna” in place of “Cyprus.” I had
to go back. There was so much more to write about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
held up his finger, and with a sage shake in his head, a patronizing smile, and
a long, patient blink of his eyes, he said, “No one cares about Magna. No one
knows where it is. You have to branch out, write about what’s familiar to the
greater audience.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">At
that point I had nothing left to say. I smiled, told him, “Thank you,” and
filed his advice in a safe place where it wouldn’t bother me, and went on
writing. I went on writing because the story itself, though entirely fictional,
was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magna</i>, a very subjective Magna,
but it was the little corner near the Point of the West
Mountains at the edge of the Great Salt Lake that I knew and loved and was brimming
with untold treasure chests of stories. It was the salad of imagery filling the
mind of a shirtless teenage boy, longish hair blowing in the wind, Judas Priest
screaming through his headphones, the tender bruise under his eye felt every
time he blinked, the heat of the bleaching asphalt under his bike tires, the
drying tears on his cheeks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
combed over each scene, fighting to stay true to the physical setting, turning
the Magna of 1984 itself into a fictional character, though not wanting to lose
even a brick of an old building, a crack in a sidewalk, or a piece of shattered
glass in the dirty gutters. I named no one. Not one local character in the book
ever existed. The historical characters (for this book floats on heavy elements
of historical fiction mixed with fantasy) never performed the acts depicted in
the story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Though
the story faithfully sticks to the timeline of that year, events like the local
incorporation vote or the 1984 Summer Olympics passing by like scenery on a
stage, it also unabashedly draws on, satirizes, and takes well out of context,
the unique political character of the township. That I confidently treat as
sacrilegiously as a young boy on a pig farm might take the once-living bladder
of a hog, fill it with air, and kick it around like a ball. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Today
Magna has two councils, a democratically elected Town Council, and a “private
organization,” another council wholly unelected, that acts as if it carried an
authoritative share in the voice of the people to ear of the county government.
Those two councils didn’t exist in 1984. But the politics that lead to that
unique and on-going state of affairs did. The fictional “West Oquirrh Council”
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Older Worlds</i> is not the council
that served generationally through boom times and hard times, doing great
things for the community, and whose members were well-known and well-beloved.
This fictional story doesn’t act as a history of Magna nor reflects upon the
real individuals who love and serve their community and hold its real history
dear.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As a
dirty, street-wizened punk (who looked a lot like Bogie in the story) once said
outside the old Safeway on Main
Street, knuckles dripping with blood, “I can say
all I want about my family, but you say something, I break your face.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Don’t
worry. He’s a good-old-boy. And if you’re with me, he won’t bother you. Take my
hand as we step onto this worn trail through fields and backyards and alleyways
as we pass through the light into older worlds. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Map</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
found this map in my brother’s stuff when I helped box it up when we moved to
our new house,” Corey said. He cleared his throat. “My parent’s held out hope
for a long time. I mean, maybe Donnie was pissed for some reason and ran away.
It’s not like I cared to wear his clothes when I grew into them. By then we had
the money to buy my own. The styles had changed a little by then. I didn’t need
hand-me-downs. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re still in boxes in the loft of
the garage. I get the feeling my parents still think he’s alive. It gives me
the creeps. You know my mom never cried?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
tossed it onto the coffee table.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you mind if I take it and get a copy?” Bogie asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Keep it,” Corey said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bogie picked it up, held it, lightly touched the paper
with his fingers. It trembled slightly. As he turned to leave, Corey stopped
him with one last question.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You were there, weren’t you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bogie didn’t face him. He looked old, his long hair
hanging unwashed, uncombed over his face. His shoulders hunched defensively
under his black leather motorcycle jacket. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Corey continued. “You were with him when he disappeared.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bogie opened the door and faced the afternoon sun, which
gave little warmth in the late autumn. A cold wind blew leaves over the yard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, I was,” he said and attempted to close the door
behind him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Corey swiftly caught it before it could shut. “Then why
don’t you tell me what happened to my brother.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because I’m still trying to figure it out.” Bogie
briskly walked away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before Corey could ask another question, Bogie mounted
his motorcycle, aggressively kick-started it, then backed out onto the asphalt
circle. He turned the wheel, put it into gear, and hit the gas, not enough to
peel out, but tiny rocks flew up and hit the neighbor’s car. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Asshole,” Corey whispered, as he watched Bogie disappear
around the corner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1df-7XmWpmEJ0troM3y0rVv0BKGHhbBkY5c1DCa5i1EelE8rseyYQPZB8Rrxtg8hNo8Xlkbb84Xg73t6yIE7D2w6JbCDplwfH5XEOZLvETQntqoQKKRhW2Tl1Eil1b_lBKRaRUwxwWd0/s1600/Map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1df-7XmWpmEJ0troM3y0rVv0BKGHhbBkY5c1DCa5i1EelE8rseyYQPZB8Rrxtg8hNo8Xlkbb84Xg73t6yIE7D2w6JbCDplwfH5XEOZLvETQntqoQKKRhW2Tl1Eil1b_lBKRaRUwxwWd0/s320/Map.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Prologue</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Wednesday, October 1, 1969</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How did I get here?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cool air lifted a hand drawn Beatles poster. Behind it,
moonlight turned a bullet hole in the wall into a star. Stephanie Hardman
(a.k.a. Meadowlark) swallowed, looked into her baby’s shadowed face, then
slowly detached him from her breast. The others in the room slept
peacefully—mostly stoned—on their mattresses and sleeping bags. An old propane
heater, stuffed in a fireplace, softly hissed. Meadowlark watched the door with
fear and guilt and second thoughts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But if Mahesh really knew everything, why wasn’t he
stopping her? Why wasn’t she dead already? Just thinking of him caused her head
to pound with love—and terror. He was her life, her soul, her universe. No
devotion could have been as complete as hers—until the baby came. Maybe
Meadowlark deserved to die. Maybe she should hand her baby to the new girl as
Mahesh had ordered, and then confess her weakness and ingratitude. The thought
of confession felt sweet: a way to unburden herself. He was merciful; perhaps her
confession would bring mercy, especially if she ratted on Dennis Fish—a.k.a
Doggie. Which was worse: having her throat slit and her baby’s losing his
mother completely, or letting Doggie take the fall and living to see her baby
grow, even if in the arms of a different mother? She would face several hours
of self-criticism, if not several days, but after that it would all be
forgotten. She could go on. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s what all
this was about! His wisdom! His glorious wisdom! This was a test!</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mahesh
hoped she would confess. Doggie was one of Mahesh’s chief lieutenants, wasn’t
he? Mahesh needed people he could trust, people who would sacrifice their very
lives, even something dearer than that: their own children. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Pride
swelled in her heart. A flood of images from her religious, working-class
childhood, the dreary, endless hours of Sunday school, passed through her mind
like a vision. Still hazy from the acid she’d been tripping on, she wasn’t sure
it really wasn’t a vision. God had commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son
Isaac. As he raised the knife, an angel spared him. He got to keep Isaac and
God’s favor. And when two women, both mothers of infant sons (one alive, one
dead), approached the wise king Solomon for a judgment, both women claiming to
be the mother of the live child, Solomon ordered the child be cut in two. The
true mother was revealed when she pleaded that the child be given to the other
woman to spare his life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This
was Meadowlark’s divine test, for who else could come up with something so
brilliant but Mahesh himself? She was supposed to rat on Doggie, who was under
orders. Mahesh’s wisdom would be revealed, and Meadowlark would be rewarded
with her baby and with his favor: his innermost trusted circle. He was Krishna, Mohammed, the Buddha, the Savior. He had saved
her from that most odious enemy of mankind: I, ego, self. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A
glow grew in her belly, and the smile of peace bloomed on her lips. I’ll die
for you; I’ll kill for you<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>she
thought, as she looked toward the darkened stairs. Her eagerness to confess
nearly brought her to her feet. But Mahesh was asleep. She couldn’t disturb his
rest when his work was so important. She would wait, not for Doggie’s signal,
but for the sun to rise. In the power of the morning light, she would surrender
herself to Mahesh, lie down at his feet and kiss them, then bask in his love. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So…how did I get here? </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The
first time she saw him was on the way to San
Francisco. It was the spring of 1967. She was sixteen,
free, turned on to a new life, hardly looking back at what she thought of as
the stiff, structured world in Utah
that she’d left behind, a runaway poet. She’d hitched a ride with some college
kids, who took her as far as Berkley.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Left
alone and penniless under the arches of Sather Gate, entrance to the University of California campus, she saw him on a
blanket, his long, dark, Jim Morrison hair and loose, unbuttoned shirt, so
clean: an Adonis in the form of a panhandler. He played a strange musical
instrument before a gathering crowd. The metal strings sounded exotic,
something she couldn’t resist. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
found a place to sit on the concrete, while everyone else stood, except for a
hippie girl who leaned her head against the greenish, ornate metalwork of the
gate. Her eyes were closed, and she rocked back and forth in mild ecstasy.
Though San Francisco
was only a few miles away, Stephanie felt in no hurry. Experience and being
were the purpose of existence; she was there, in that place, because she was
meant to be there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
mysterious whine and twang of the strings vibrated in her mind like an answer,
a guide to all else. She looked the musician in the eyes and felt herself one
with his movements. From time to time he looked up at her, and she felt his
energy connect with hers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When
the music ended, he held his fingers over the strings, until the sound faded
into nothing. His eyes stared at the space between himself and Stephanie for a
long time. She watched him, expecting another performance. Instead, his dark
eyes rose, and she fell into his stare. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes,
you may,” he said. He looked at her with love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">For
a moment she couldn’t speak. She glanced around at the crowd. By the way all
attention seemed to focus on her, there was no doubt who he was talking to.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Um…I’m
sorry. I don’t know—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes,
you do,” he said. “You may play this, if you want,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He’d
read her mind. She’d just thought how groovy it would be to try out that
strange…guitar? She felt cold and warm at the same time. Forcing herself not to
be shy, she stood up and walked to the blanket. He moved over to allow her some
room, then carefully helped the instrument over her lap. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sit
like this, with your right leg in over the left, not cross-legged, a yoga
position. It’s easier that way. You can rest it on your knee,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
thought, what is it?.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s
a sitar,” he said smoothly, as if her inner question had been part of the
conversation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A
tremor went through her chest, and he gently reached around her shoulders to
lift the neck. He smelled like a mixture of old leather, smoke, and something
wild. He could have been in his early thirties, twice her age, but then again,
maybe ten years younger than that. She liked the way his chest felt against her
shoulder. Something deep inside made her feel the need to lean against him, and
she succumbed, surprising herself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
it,” he said. “Let yourself be free. You can do anything if you’re free.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
hippie girl who had been leaning against the metalwork straightened and seemed
interested. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Stephanie
wanted to giggle like a bashful little girl, but she composed herself to act
more mature, more sophisticated. “Okay. What do I do now?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
gently took her right hand and pressed her thumb to the bottom of the neck,
where a joint connected it to the gourd-like body. “This is your axis point.
Let your arm rest. Relax it. That way you can move your hand.” He stroked her
forearm, and she couldn’t relax. “Now use these two fingers.” He took the
forefinger and middle finger of her left hand, held them gently, then touched
her thumb and pressed it against her fingers. “Feel that?” She nodded. “That’s
how you want to press.” His fingers stroked the space between her thumb and
forefinger. “That’s where the neck rests.” He then placed her hand under the
neck, as he would have a guitar, but the instrument was much wider. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now
you need this.” He took a funny wire contraption off the tip of his right
forefinger and slipped it over hers as he would have a ring. “That’s your pick.
You pluck the strings with it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">After
a pause, while she put her hands into place, he backed away. She instantly
missed his touch. He watched her with an encouraging smile. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay.
Here it goes.” She pressed the fingers of her left hand onto a fret and plucked
with her right hand. The richness of the sound surprised her, and she faltered.
When she tried again, a twangy whine escaped into the air. She slipped her
fingers up the frets as she’d watched him do. The tones rose clumsily, almost
in a minor scale, ending in a major scale. The surrounding group clapped. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
did I tell you?” he asked, his voice slipping over her shoulder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Giving
it another try, she played around with the strings until her fingers hurt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Like
a meadowlark,” he said. “Pretty as a meadowlark. That’s your name. That’s who
you are.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“My
name is Steph—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“No.”
He shook his head and radiated love. “That’s your old life, what you left
behind. Here you’re free to be a meadowlark.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Stephanie/Meadowlark
smiled and felt as though she’d known him forever. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
knew you the moment you sat on the ground, while the others stood. A mark of
humility,” he whispered. “And you, too,” he said to the hippie girl behind him.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
sat forward as if surprised. “Me?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
think I didn’t notice?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Stephanie/Meadowlark
exchanged a perplexed glance with the hippie girl. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
right. I felt your energy. You’re Sahaja,” he said. “A natural healer and
teacher. You were born with it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
hippie girl’s eyes widened, almost fearfully, worshipfully.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
nodded and smiled humbly. “Do you have someplace to go?” he asked
Meadowlark—for Stephanie had disappeared from her heart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“San Francisco,” she said.
“But as far as a place to crash….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
shifted and took Sahaja’s hand, stroked it and kissed it with profound, almost
tearful reverence, then took Meadowlark’s, which had held the neck of the
sitar, and joined them, and they clasped. “Sisters,” he said. “Tribal sisters.”
Looking at Sahaja, he said, motioning with his hand to Meadowlark, “Take care
of this one. She’s an ember in the wind, just a child.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sahaja
nodded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">His
demeanor changed. The magic had blown away in the breeze. He lifted the sitar
off Meadowlark’s lap and handed it up to a fellow leaning against a stone
pillar. “Thanks, man! That was a trip.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Her
new mysterious friend stood and stretched. She didn’t want him to go. “What’s
your name?” she asked, and reached out and touched his sandaled foot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
caressed her hair and said: “I have no name. But Mahesh will do.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sahaja
stood, and so did Meadowlark. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
not your sitar?” Sahaja asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
shrugged. “Mine, yours, everyone’s. It was all of ours for a moment.” He gave
the true owner a brotherly nod and smile and pat on his shoulder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sahaja
took hold of his shirt sleeve. “Where did you learn to play like that?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Another
humble, almost bashful smile adorned his face like a string of jewels. “First
time. Beginner’s luck, I guess.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sahaja
looked as if she wanted to kneel down before him. He reached out and embraced
her. A tear slid down her cheek. “Will I see you again?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Of
course. It’s in our karma. It’s a powerful thing…karma.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“It
is,” she said, and wiped away the tear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
reached out and drew Meadowlark into a tender embrace. She felt herself yield
to him as she would to a lover. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Soon,”
he whispered. “You still have a journey to take. San Francisco?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yes,”
she whispered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“We’ll
watch for each other at Haight and Ashbury. Do you know where that is?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Meadowlark
shook her head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
okay. You will soon.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
left both girls standing at the gate to Berkley
and disappeared into the campus. Meadowlark wanted more than anything to hold
on to him, to make her journey one with his, but he was right: she still had
her own journey to take. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Late
that evening, under a violent sunset, she reached the corner of Haight and
Ashbury with Sahaja at her side, and as the song said, she hadn’t forgotten to
put some flowers in her hair. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Cold
mountain air whispered through the old farmhouse. Meadowlark felt her first
real tear of regret break through the icy mask of devotion that had become her
face. The smile of peace on her lips was only a crust. The Hell’s Angels were
due to arrive by the coming afternoon, and she would probably be chosen to show
them special hospitality. She already knew she needed medical attention,
especially antibiotics. Some days were better than others. But as she sat in
the dark, though craving the love and acceptance of Mahesh, she felt she
couldn’t offer any more service in his name—something else she would have to
confess. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">An
outbuilding door, not properly closed for the night, softly banged: a distant,
lonely sound. She looked out the window and saw silhouettes of cottonwood trees
and pines under indifferent stars. Inside the house darkness swirled, a thick
mixture, like muddy oil. She imagined herself tiptoeing out the door, leaving
Doggie and Mahesh’s elaborate tests behind, walking to the river, and, together
with her baby, plunging into its black waters. The thought felt sweet, and she
asked herself: how long would it hurt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As Mahesh had said, he appeared a few weeks later, a
vision of prophethood, parting the shining seas of beautiful people crowding Haight Street. His
white linen shirt with leg-of-mutton sleeves; faded, hand patched jeans; and
leather sandals shouldn’t have stood out among the throngs moving in and out of
Golden Gate Park, but there he was. He raised his arms from his sides,
reminding Meadowlark of the many paintings of Jesus she’d seen, and she felt as
if her heart sailed over the surrounding San
Francisco hills. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Distant sounds of
The Grateful Dead pushed through the muggy June air. Sahaja had led a group of
friends and roommates to the park to participate in the <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Summer Solstice "Do-In"</span>
Meadowlark had heard Jefferson Airplane was playing somewhere near the polo
grounds, so she’d decided to tag along, instead of staying behind to mend a
used baby doll dress she’d picked up at a flea market for seventy-five cents. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A shouting kid in a top hat and Lincoln beard was peddling an underground
newspaper he called a “dirty hippie paper.” Bare feet and moccasins swished
along the sidewalk. Beads rattled, and colorful art adorned storefronts.
Several people danced atop a Volkswagen bus. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Love to you,” a man said, and handed her a flower.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank you!” she said warmly, taking it, but her smile
was aimed at the approaching apparition that defied the heavy overcast that
turned distant hilltops into faded dreamscapes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My beautiful tribe!” Mahesh said, extending his hands as
far as he could, as if wanting to embrace the whole group.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sahaja was the first to land in his arms. A ripple of
jealousy tickled Meadowlark, but she continued to smile and take the
not-so-eager-approach. Soon she had her moment, as he whispered in her ear: “It
wasn’t soon enough, beautiful. You are so beautiful.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He hadn’t whispered anything to Sahaja. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a round of introductions was made, he naturally
took the lead, dancing and gliding and flattering, until even the men seemed to
fall in love with him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the evening ended, the group, of which some had no
permanent home, but moved from pad to pad, all gathered over a pot of rice in
an upper apartment that overlooked Clayton
Street. A girl from downstairs brought up fresh
lemons to squeeze over the rice to make it taste better. Pot smoke permeated
the room. Mahesh sat under a cheap Ben Shahn poster of a man wearing an
old-fashioned military uniform. The caption underneath read: LE CAPITAINE
DREYFUS. Having no idea who Capitaine Dreyfus was, she immediately associated
the uniform with the uniforms the Beatles wore on the cover of their new album,
<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club
Band.</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> Until a few weeks before, the only song she’d known from it by heart
was the one the radio incessantly played: “With a Little Help from My Friends.”
Since then, several people in her circle had picked up the record. The current
song of the day was “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Soon
the rough circle of people in the room changed from its egalitarian formation
to an orientation focused on the newest addition, who spoke passionately of
“master-and-slave moralities.” Feeling the merriment of the past few days catching
up to her, she lay at his feet and drifted in and out of sleep. The
conversation, mainly his, drifted to the white oppression of blacks and the
coming revolution. The LBJ society wasn’t great; this was no longer
Eisenhower’s society; civilization was falling apart; western culture was a big
prison, a turkey farm for the slave masters; freedom was something you paid for
in Viet Nam blood; blood
would soon run in the streets of America. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
the night turned to early morning, Meadowlark asked him if he had a place to
stay. He said: “</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The foxes have holes, and
the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his
head.”<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
knew instantly whom he was quoting, yet she felt as though she were hearing
those words for the very first time, as if <i>he</i> were their author. Before
anyone else could speak, and before Sahaja, who was ten years older than
Meadowlark and had become a big sister to her, could make a move, Meadowlark
sat up and said, “Here’s a place for you to rest your head.” And then she
pulled him down into her lap and stroked his long hair and beard. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
I’ve had enough for tonight,” Sahaja said and left the room. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meadowlark
didn’t try to see the look on her face. She only wanted that moment. Whatever
else would come, would come. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
reached into his pocket and pulled out a wadded-up paper bag. He unraveled it
and withdrew a sugar cube. Though partial to pot, she’d avoided most other
drugs floating around, especially LSD. She’d seen a few bad trips. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">He held it to her lips.
“Take, eat.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
thanks.” She stroked the dark hairs of his arm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Again,
he touched it gently against her lips. She didn’t turn away but looked down at
his strong neck, his mature, slightly sweaty chest, and then the shape of his
hips and legs, the way they filled his jeans. She studied a strange stone
attached to a gold chain that hung around his neck.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s
a first time for everything,” he said softly. “I’ll guide you through it. There
are so many wonderful things to see.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something
inside her said, <i>Make an excuse.</i> She saw herself going to the bathroom,
or standing up and saying she needed to go on a walk, maybe taking him with her
through the moody San Francisco
streets. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Instead,
she felt the pressure of his fingers against her lips. She relaxed, let them
part; the sugar cube slipped between them, and her tongue caught it. Mahesh
looked up at her and lovingly stroked her cheeks, then her neck, then her
shoulders, then her chest. She enjoyed the way it made her feel. Slowly the
sugar cube melted on her tongue. She fought the urge to crush it with her teeth
just to get it over with. As the time passed, nothing happened. He sat up and
kissed her, slowly shifting position, until, naturally, she lay on the floor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
the kissing became more passionate, the thought that the LSD should be
something they did together began to nag at her. Taking his bearded face in her
hands, instead of thinking of him as sexy, she thought of him as ridiculous,
and she stopped him and asked, “What about you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
<i>about</i> me?” He stared into her eyes, then resumed kissing her neck and
slowly unbuttoning her shirt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why
don’t you drop, too?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
long hair fell into her face, and, for a moment, it seemed to fall from a great
distance. He swished it back and forth like a broom, and she had the urge to
bite it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
was my last one,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She’d
clearly seen the bag when he’d opened it. There was more inside. She reached
for his pocket. He shifted her hand to place it elsewhere and smiled. Whether
he did some himself or not probably didn’t matter. What bothered her was that
he would lie. But the more he touched her, the more she wanted to lock that
thought away behind some inner door and just let him love her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
a few more minutes, she felt as if her tired head had cleared. She wanted to be
awake and experience every moment. She began to talk about herself, reciting
what he’d missed since the day they met at the university gates. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
are your parents like?” he asked, then nibbled on her ear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
took her a moment to respond, because her ear suddenly felt twice as large and
his teeth felt like fangs, sexy fangs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“They act like bourgeois
pigs.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded his head, then looked deep into her eyes. His face was the only face
that existed, as big as a drive-in movie screen; hers was a smear, a pile of
dust, smudging into the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
is your dad like?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A
hypocritical bastard. He cheated on my mom, got excommunicated from their
church, and then had the gall to come and tell me I needed to be clean and pure.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did
he ever apologize?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In
his own way, I guess. I could never look at him again without thinking of that
other woman, especially when he’d supposedly straightened out his life. My mom
never left him.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow,
don’t you, like, think that should be a good thing?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know. It’s like he became a stranger. Maybe I’m the stranger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
wounded you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meadowlark
didn’t say anything. The pain of her home life became too real, and all she
wanted was escape it and start a new life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can heal you,” he said, and he pressed her flat against the floor, like a piece
of paper. She was in the floor; she was the floor. A small peace sign drawn
over the door with the word <i>PAX</i> written underneath it became something
chilling, sinister. She would have to get a rag and some cleaner and remove it
before it cursed the room. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Later, in the thin light
before the sun rose, and in the cool breeze under an open window, Meadowlark
would find herself passionately embracing him, flowing with his rhythms, and he
would breathlessly whisper in her ear: “Think of your father. Think of your
father.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
black bundles on the floor weren’t really her sleeping tribe, they were dead
bodies. Death was everywhere. It filled the old farmhouse with its crushing
presence. Even her baby was dead. Painted o</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">n
the wall, barely perceptible, was a figure sitting in the lotus position, a
silhouette emanating rays. Dots of various colors rose in a straight line from
groin to head: Mahesh’s “path to nirvana.” It stood out, blurred and gray, an
evil spirit that would step from the wall at any moment, quietly walk toward
her, its face the abyss, and she would go insane. On the other wall, in fresh
blood red that looked dark gray, was painted a goat. In the center of one eye
was the communist hammer and sickle. This she refused to look at. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All the dark bodies stirred at once, their heads turned,
and white cataract eyes opened to stare directly at her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Feeling a horrible shock, she awoke from the nightmare.
She gripped her baby and felt for his breath. Another tear turned cold on her
cheek. Feeling pain from sitting too long, she stood and quietly paced in front
of the window. The despairing thought that she might have missed Doggie’s
signal grew inside her like mold. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What use would it be to turn him in now? But then what if
her chance to escape was real and she missed it?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The tribe’s first major communal decision was on the day
they bought the old school bus. Ken Kesey’s famous bus ride was already legend,
so in a sort of tribute to Kesey, but also out of economic need, Mahesh had
found the vehicle through a mechanic friend who worked in Napa valley. The latest owner had used it to
haul bees—screening off the driver’s section, of course. Everyone pooled what
cash they had plus a few favors Sahaja agreed to provide, and the bus was
theirs—Mahesh’s, but the title would carry the name of Dennis Fish, a regular
among their group and a good mechanic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They abandoned the apartment on Clayton Street and split, setting out on
the road to escape “the man.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The bus made it to Chihuahua,
Mexico, before
its first major breakdown. Everyone was positive and hip for adventure, so it
wasn’t a terrible set back. Dennis/Doggie was in charge of repairs, which
required some creative wheeling and dealing to acquire engine parts; in some
cases a few of the group managed to find some day labor for a few pesos, which
mostly ended up buying beer, marijuana, and a few tortillas. Local peach farms,
which were in season by then, provided many of their meals—the farmers
unknowing. Meadowlark discovered nopales and how to prepare and cook them
through a lady she washed clothes for; and then came the time when Sahaja, who
had studied Spanish in high school, disappeared for two days and then returned
with a twenty-pound sack of rice roped onto her back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Happiness permeated their world—for awhile. Driving along
dusty highways in red sunsets, they set out for ancient ruins and empty
beaches. Mahesh would read aloud from some of the many books he kept in an old
military locker. One favorite was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On the
Road</i>, by Jack Kerouac. He would reverently go back and reread parts for
emphasis, then say, “Do you feel it? It’s karma.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On clear nights, lulled to sleep by the surf, Meadowlark
would lie in Sahaja’s arms, safe in her sisterly embrace. In the mornings, they
would wade, hand in hand, through the ebbing tide and pick up shells, of which
they would make jewelry. Out of clam shells they fashioned bikini tops, which
became hits among the other girls, and wore them nearly constantly—when they
weren’t topless—burning themselves as brown as the locals. Wreathes of small
shells adorned their sun-dried hair. After sundown, they would dance around the
bonfire as Doggie played the guitar, passing the peace pipe and drinking cool
fruit juice mixed with tequila. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Month after month the little band of gypsies traveled the
coast, gathering fellow revelers, surfers, and wanderers, and the love
increased. Mahesh preached apocalyptic tempests while everyone moved with his
words in dreamy mescaline grooves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nature, even the weather, was their cradle. Paradise
couldn’t have been as free and perfect. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then things began to change. Meadowlark would always
associate one night in particular with the beginning of the end. It was the
night she went on a moonlight walk along the beach and stumbled upon Mahesh and
Sahaja in a love embrace. She began to turn away, when Mahesh asked: “Where are
you going?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Meadowlark simply smiled and said, “I’ll leave you two to
your private moment,” and turned to leave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing’s private here,” Mahesh said. We share
everything. Come.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Knowing she should reject society’s programming in every
way possible, she abandoned herself to stranger passions; drugs helped to numb
away the inner warning voices.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shit’s goin’ down,” Mahesh said. He’d taken the chain
from around his neck and stared at the stone. With the other hand he withdrew a
knife and used the blade to move the stone around as it reflected the light of
the distant bonfire.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since when did he start carrying a knife? Meadowlark
asked herself, feeling sore and cold and exposed to the elements. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As he pulled up his pants, his white, glowing legs
disappearing behind denim, Meadowlark watched his movements and thought he
looked old. He sheathed the knife. “We’re going back,” he said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sahaja sat up and shook the sand out of her hair. The
wind began to blow, and the surf grew louder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His face seemed to disappear in the shadows. “That’s
right. We’re going back to the belly of the beast, to the Rocky
Mountains this time. Shit’s goin’ down.” Then his eyes, as if
floating in the middle of nothing, turned to Meadowlark. He touched her belly.
“And this…this is where the world starts over.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How could he have known? she asked herself, then bowed
down and kissed his feet. She hadn’t said a word, but during the past few weeks
she’d felt different, sometimes nauseous in the mornings, and had missed a
period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sahaja stared at her, the look on her face unreadable. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later that night, Sahaja claimed to have a vision. At
first Meadowlark thought she was into the music, tripping, swaying back and
forth and humming, but then the shaking set in. Her eyes rolled back to where
only the whites showed. She crept among the party like an aboriginal shaman,
jerking and moaning, then she stopped before Meadowlark, who froze in terror,
and placed her hands on Meadowlark’s belly. The things that howled from her
mouth left Meadowlark curled on the ground and weeping like a child. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The signal came: Doggie lit a cigarette near the window.
The flame made a ghostly image of his face, which then disappeared. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Losing strength, she nearly let herself fall back onto
the chair, but a weak foot took one step forward, then the other. She found the
kitchen door and carefully avoided the creaking floorboards. The dead light
from the window revealed black shapes of guns stacked along the walls and
ammunition spread across the table. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gripping her baby, she carefully turned the doorknob,
then froze. Soft shuffles, almost footsteps, came through the ceiling. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s awake. He
knows.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Strength hemorrhaged from her body. She wanted more than
anything to fall onto her hands and knees and weep in submission. Her shaking
breath was the only sound until her baby stretched in her arms and let out a
little grunt. She felt his hand move, and she knew he was sucking his thumb. He
was awake. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Something
happened inside her chest and head, something electrical that caused her to
grit her teeth, widen her eyes. Gasping, she eased the creaking door open and
slipped out. Her body tensed against the cold night air, and she tucked the
blanket over her baby’s face. As she stepped off the porch and past the sound
of sleeping chickens, the electrical feeling increased, and she ran pell-mell
across the yard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rounding
the bus, she nearly collided with the battered old farm truck they’d stolen
from a nearby town. She reached out and swung at the air like a blind person.
She ducked a tree branch and felt the crunch of leaves under her feet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Out
of nowhere, a large form seized her around the neck. Another hand covered her
mouth. She nearly fainted as Doggie’s voice, warm against her ear, hushed her
and said, “This way.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
felt him carefully let go. He took her hand, and together they found the
overgrown ruts of an old dirt road that led to the river. She nearly stumbled
trying to keep up. The road widened into meadows. Doggie pulled her out of
moonlight and into treeshadow. As they moved, the song “Eve of Destruction”
played over and over and over again through her head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My friend.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Her friend.
Her love. Her truth. She was abandoning him at the hour he most needed her. She
slowed down and loosened her grip on Doggie’s hand. They were somewhere near
the place, she was sure, where Bruce and Alabama
were buried: Bruce, their landlord no more; Alabama, a threatening snitch no more. Her
fingers slid from Doggie’s, but before she could turn back he skidded to a stop
and seized her by the Mexican blanket that covered her shoulders. She
instinctively gripped her baby close and hunched forward to protect him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
took a breath to scream, and Doggie clapped his hand over her mouth, hurting
her lips. The pain and his intensity brought her attention to where she thought
his face would be—only darkness. Mountain cold filled the loose places in her
clothes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
said through his teeth: “This is our only chance. He’ll bury you here, too. You
know that. You can’t turn back now. You can’t lie to him.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
gripped her hand, tugging it; she felt as if other hands pulled her the
opposite direction: black hands, dirty hands, dead hands. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
baby fussed. She gave in and let Doggie lead her to the river, where they
crossed through knee deep water. Her legs cramped, causing her to slow down.
She continued to hold the baby, steadying herself over the slick, rounded rocks
and the force of the water. On the other side, she ached in the breeze. Lights
from a house several miles away sent a dreamy message from a life she’d
forgotten.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Exhausted
and hurting, she barely felt her feet scrape along the dirt road. They crossed
a bridge of old railroad ties. From there she could see headlights shoot by on
the highway. Doggie lifted his Zippo lighter, which reflected moonlight, and
flicked it. The flame shone for a moment but quickly went out. He kept doing
it, defying the moving air, until, up ahead, another tiny flame appeared. He
let out a long sigh. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Who’s
that?” Meadowlark asked, her teeth chattering. The baby fussed and squirmed
under the blanket. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Friends,”
Doggie said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Filled
with dread but too exhausted to run, she let him lead her to a small group of
silhouettes standing in the road. The test was over. She’d failed. Tears filled
her eyes, and she wept for her baby.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Doggie
fiercely hugged one of the silhouettes. He flicked his lighter. In the flame,
Meadowlark saw the tribal member she knew as Warlock. Others stepped forward,
and she searched for Mahesh, knowing the end was near. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
couldn’t leave without her,” Doggie said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“We
know,” Warlock griped him by the hair, and they touched, forehead to forehead:
a brotherly gesture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
okay?” A voice came from the group, and Meadowlark realized it was directed to
her. Tender hands reached out and touched her cheek. “Is the baby okay?” It was
Sandy, one of the girls whose nickname never stuck, who also held a baby. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m
cold,” Meadowlark said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Doggie
whispered in her ear. “Let’s go.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Feeling
confused, she let him lead her to a jeep concealed in the brush on the side of
the road. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
started to ask: “But how—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Mahesh
only thought it broke down,” Doggie said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
could picture his mischievous smile, and for the first time since she could
remember she felt hope. He helped her to the front passenger seat, where she
would sit on Warlock’s lap, and tucked the blanket around her. The others found
places, packed like sardines, in the back seat. Doggie fired up the engine, put
it into gear, and the old army jeep bounced and rattled over bushes until it
hit a dirt road. He didn’t turn on the headlights. The road passed under them
like a dark river. Her baby began to cry, and so did she.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When
they reached the highway, she curled herself against Warlock to protect the
baby from the icy wind. Occasionally she looked back, expecting the old bus or
the farm truck to be following them, but the only headlights she saw were from
other innocent travelers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
canyon steepened. Doggie shifted to a lower gear, and the wheels whirred. She
buried her head in her blanket. For awhile, she listened to her baby. When she
looked again, she saw what seemed to her to be the canyon walls moving apart,
and below them were the lights of the Salt Lake Valley, glittering like a spilled
treasure box. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">1</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Ides of March, 1984</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Wind
and sleet raged against the little northwestern corner of Salt Lake County called Magna. A blinking yellow
traffic light swung wildly, turning the sheets of sleet above it momentarily
gold, then spotlighting the road underneath, and then it winked out. Across the
street, as the sleet changed to a heavy snow, pieces of a billboard sign broke
away and sailed east, into vacant lots and fields. The Sinclair sign, with its
glowing green dinosaur extinguished in the power outage, shook and rattled.
Darkened storefronts and houses seemed to turn away from nature’s angry abuse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In a
window in the corner house, a red brick Victorian, a lighted candle was placed:
a tiny, fragile glow, innocent against the tempest on the other side of the
glass. Behind it, a girl (some called her Nutty Nancy Nash), pretty by any
standards, but empty in her eyes, paced the floor and moaned as her exhausted
mother, Sandy Nash, struggled to keep her from running out into the storm. Her
stepfather, Paul Nash, a science teacher at Cyprus high school, sat tiredly in
an antique wooden chair and guarded the door. Nancy’s brothers and sisters held
vigil in the kitchen and made hot chocolate on the gas stove. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nancy</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> waved her hands in the air, put a knuckle to her
lips, squeezed her eyes shut, screeched, attacked the closest piece of
furniture, then repeated the actions. Sandy
tried to calm her and for a moment felt hope. Nancy seemed to succumb to her mother’s arms
but then fought away. Miles, her younger brother, both guarded the kitchen door
and supervised the hot chocolate but didn’t look confident enough to stop his
sister without hurting her should she decide to bolt through the kitchen. He
also looked exhausted. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This
wasn’t the first time Sandy
had thought of institutionalizing her daughter. Each occasion brought sharp
feelings of guilt and hopelessness and frustrating indecision, and then she
would tell herself that maybe sometime in the future things would change. But
then she would look at the neglect her other children suffered. Anger would set
in, and she would imagine Nancy
as some sort of black hole, sucking away all her motherly energy, dominating
everyone else’s lives and schedules … and sleep. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Yet
there was something more keeping her from giving up. Nancy had been there. Her bright, beautiful,
dynamic, happy, fun little girl had been there, in her home, in her life, in
her arms; such a sweet, burning, intelligent personality. She wasn’t completely
gone, and Sandy
knew it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Not
long after Nancy’s
thirteenth birthday she had become distant and moody. At first Sandy attributed it to puberty, but when the
strange outbursts and behavior problems began, not only at home, but in school,
she became worried. The specialists told her symptoms of autism rarely, if
ever, showed up so suddenly or in an older child. Since they hadn’t found
evidence of a brain tumor, the most likely diagnosis was an obscure condition
called CDD, or childhood disintegrative disorder, also known as Heller’s
syndrome. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Still,
something wasn’t right about the diagnosis. Her condition didn’t completely
match all the symptoms. Sometimes, if just briefly, she seemed almost there,
scared and lost and pleading in her eyes. If it was simply a mother’s hopeful
imagination, it was still enough to keep taking her for tests, even out of
state. The strangest symptom of all occurred every time they traveled more that
a hundred miles from home. She would become catatonic, as if completely
surrendering to whatever held her captive. Her eyes would droop and become
blank. She would lose all bodily control. Upon returning, she would reenergize
and start to fight again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Financially
drained, physically drained, and emotionally drained, Sandy raised her
trembling hand, wanting to strike the hooting, arm-flapping, biting,
scratching, smelly, stringy-haired, animal-child, who should be cheerleading
basketball games and choosing a dress for the freshmen dance. Paul stood up from
his chair and tenderly gripped her arm. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll
take it from here,” he said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Lightning
momentarily turned his glasses into two white blanks. Sobbing, Sandy left the room. From the doorway, she
could see Nancy’s
dim form swaying hauntingly back and forth, her hands cupping her ears against
the loud claps of thunder. Sandy
sat on her bed, and hot tears stung her face. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
bedroom window facing westward flashed with a terrible volley of lightning. She
instinctively covered her head with her arms. At that same moment Nancy screamed; Sandy
screamed with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> On
the west end of town, somewhere between Webster elementary school to the north
and the Pleasant Green Cemetery to the south, on a street with a great view of
the Oquirrh foothills, Beau “Bogie” Lewiston dreamed he was a famous movie star
performing the steamiest scene of his career. His costar was the one and only
Donna Plato from the TV show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Diff’rent
Strokes</i>, and as the scene progressed the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Diff’rent Strokes</i> theme song played, as if the movie itself were an
extension of the television show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One moment, he was kissing Donna’s silky, innocent-girl
lips; the next, he was kissing his new real-life girlfriend, Rachel Varney—but
she still had Donna’s lips. Just as things were getting good, his best friend,
Jeff Addis, walked into the room to watch. Bogie tried to send him away, but he
wouldn’t move. So when Bogie’s hand began to wander, Rachel-Donna slapped it
away, frustrating him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But I love you,” Bogie said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rachel-Donna’s head turned. She looked him in the eyes,
and her face changed to something terrible. Her slimy mouth, full of dog teeth,
opened, and she took a long, deep breath and howled loudly in his face. He
screamed and turned to Jeff, whose face had also turned elongated and dog-like,
and he also began to howl. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
intensity of sound became large and threatening, as if the air around them were
a rushing river. He grabbed a knife and without another thought plunged it into
the Rachel-Donna creature, whose jaw snapped and bit at his face. He thrust the
knife again and again, feeling the skin and tissue break and the warm blood
pour over his hand. When he looked again, it was just Rachel gasping and dying
in his arms. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
woke up, swimming in horror and sound. He fell out of bed. Pain in his shoulder
brought him into reality. Rain and sleet thrashed his windows, and behind the
noise he heard his dogs howl and whine and scratch at the door. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Stumbling
around in the dark—for the power was out—he made it to the kitchen. Lightning
revealed the black silhouette of his father slumped in a chair at a table
covered by gleaming, empty bottles. Bogie passed him in disgust at the smell of
urine mixed with alcohol. The dogs barked and whined in a chorus. When he put
his hand on the doorknob, his dad growled: “Well, aren’t ye gonna let ‘em in?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sure,
dad.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
unlocked door, caught instantly by the wind, swung open and slammed against the
side of the house. Sleet blasted in with three, large, happy, wet dogs. They
pattered across the kitchen floor and, one after another, shook off water.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Dad’s
voice issued from the darkness. “You kids want dogs but won’t take care of
‘em.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Ignoring
him, Bogie remembered he’d left the dog bowl outside, so he found a dusty,
wooden salad bowl that hadn’t been used since his mom ran off with a trucker (a
guy Dad used to work with at Kennecott) and poured the dogs some food.
Lightning struck close by with a startling, simultaneous blast of thunder,
revealing the side of Dad’s grisly face. One yellow, rheumy eye glared at him, the
kind of glare he knew to stay away from. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Letting
the dogs go about their business, he sneaked away and passed the living room,
where his oldest brother, Junior, slept on the old hideway bed with his
girlfriend. The dogs would eventually wake them up, if the storm hadn’t
already, but he didn’t care. Knowing his dad was home and pissed-off drunk, he
thought it better to take his little tape recorder and a few tapes and spend
the rest of the night in his closet, which wasn’t the best of places to hide if
Dad really wanted to come after him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">If
it weren’t storming, he’d just leave, just sneak out and wander the night until
he found a safe, comfortable place to doze—the old people’s tool shed with the
faulty lock nearly always sufficed, but he often fantasized of Rachel letting
him into her warm bedroom. He thought one of these nights he might actually get
the guts to pay her a visit and knock on her window. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Using
a match as a torch, he chose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pyromania</i>,
by Def Leppard, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blackout</i>, by
Scorpions, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">El Loco</i>, by ZZ Top—all
tapes his next-to-oldest brother left behind when he went to jail for drugs.
What he really wanted to hear was that new song “Legs” that had recently come
out on the radio. He thought it was ZZ Top, but wasn’t sure. If it was, he
would have to acquire the new album, which wouldn’t take much effort if he was
careful. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Inside
the closet, he felt the vibrations of the house. The flue for the furnace ran
exposed up one corner, keeping things warm. He moved aside some boxes where the
carpet was still clean, took a blanket with him, shoved a rolled-up sleeping
bag against the other corner, and then went for the tape player. The old, black
Sony tape player, rectangular like a brick, something his parents had bought a
decade before, was missing the rewind, forward wind, and play buttons, but by
using a butter knife he could press the little metal pieces that the plastic
buttons had been attached to into place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Because
rewinding was the hardest, he always let the tape run through to the end, where
it would automatically stop. Then he would play it on the other side and just
be patient for the next go-around when he could hear his favorite songs over
again. But on the Def Leppard tape, nearly every song was a favorite song, so
it didn’t matter, unless there was one he felt he really needed to hear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
checked the batteries, slipped in the tape, closed the little door, carefully
started it, then adjusted the sound so he could listen to it by laying his head
on the speaker as if it were a pillow. The creak of the gears and moving parts
added to the hiss of sound as the blank beginning of the tape rolled through
the magnets. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">His
dream was to get a “ghetto blaster:” a portable stereo big enough to announce
to the world that his music ruled. His grandparents on his mom’s side always
sent money for Christmas, never presents. But he couldn’t complain about cash.
In the past his parents had made him use it for school clothes, but lately Dad
didn’t seem to care. Bogie received a one hundred dollar bill, which Dad still
kept somewhere. So if a ghetto blaster cost sixty dollars, along with it he
could easily afford two pairs of Levis (if he caught a sale at the mall), which
were enough to satisfy Dad if he asked. There were other ways to get clothes if
he needed them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
tape noise changed in quality. As if from far away, a note, probably a guitar
effect, faded in like a harbinger, introducing a sad ringing of clear guitar
strings. They made him feel mysterious and lonely. Joe Elliot’s rough, nasally
voice, not as whiny as Robert Plant’s of Led Zeppelin, but fuller, groaned in
with the lyrics of “Foolin’,” pining about Lady Luck, love gone bad, and
loneliness. Then the heavy emotion and heavy distortion kicked in, making Bogie
want to play air guitar in the dark.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Downstairs,
Dad howled at the storm, and Bogie, ever cautious, raised his head to listen,
in case Dad’s voice came closer. Junior was probably up by now, and when Dad
got that way Junior often served him something strong enough to put him
unconscious the rest of the night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s
a bitch-kitty storm!” Dad yelled. “Devil’s gonna come, you know!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Bogie
stared into the darkness, swallowed in fear, and hated his dad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> On
the south end of town, in some cheap duplexes, Marge Eaton lit candles and
incense, sipped coffee, looked over the boxes that still needed to be emptied,
and, troubled, listened to the storm. Her house shook, and something in the
swamp cooler on the roof rattled. Since she couldn’t sleep, she dedicated
herself to repotting a plant that had been damaged in the move: Fergie, her
spider plant. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her copper and silver jewelry softly tinkled as she
worked. The moist soil felt good in her hands. She wanted to bury them in the
pot along with the plant. Living sisters, rooted in the earth, free of human
care or responsibility. Nature was happy; humanity was a curse. She asked
herself: Are we evil or divine? Whatever we were, whether hairless apes or
something else, we were the last to come. She imagined life would be happiest
if she embraced the inner animal, left civilization, returned to the wild to
have sex, scavenge for food, and then die early, before having to rot away
senile in some geriatric prison for the poor. But it was the system that kept
people from nature, held them hostage and unauthentic, unfulfilled. Capitalism
was the great crime, raping the earth, building ever bigger and bigger,
poisoning, devouring, until it was on the edge of destroying itself and
everything else in nuclear disaster—the image of Ronald Reagan’s face drifted
through her mind like a ghost, and she shuddered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When she was finished with Fergie, she turned out the
light and let the power of the storm flow around and through her. She
approached the window, remembering her mother’s drunken voice muffled by a
cigarette: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Don’t stand by a window in a
storm. You’ll get struck by lightning.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Whether that was true or not, she had to see the storm.
Sheets of rain turning to sleet lashed the street, and naked trees whipped and
bent in the wind. She wasn’t accustomed to Utah’s weather, but the storm felt unusual,
extra powerful. The energy didn’t make her feel like dancing in the rain, like
most storms she’d experienced; it felt like an angry wake in an astral sea. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lightning split the eastern sky in two, and the glass
simultaneously reflected the outside world and the room behind her, revealing a
shadowy face that wasn’t her own, the eyes dark, icy, and hateful. She spun
around to see Chad,
her son, her love child, standing in the doorway, staring at her, not with the
hate she’d seen in the reflection, but with contempt; then he turned away with
sleepy disinterest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When he was a little boy, he would have stood by her to
study the storm with innocent curiosity. That boy was gone. A deeper voice,
impossible to ignore, but quiet enough to dismiss as a night terror asked: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So what had taken his place?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She felt the rotating universe above her press down like
a giant thumb. Slowly, the storm began to calm, but in a confusing way. The
energies around her had risen to a peak, instead of passing, almost as if she
were in the very center, in the eye, so to speak. She looked at a cheap granite
pyramid covered in Egyptian symbols she’d bought in a New Age store in California. On one side
was the ubiquitous Eye of Horus. As much as she claimed ancient mystic
knowledge, the eye seemed just as foreign as if she’d never understood it at
all. Its golden reflection took on living qualities in her imagination, and she
thought, as she stared into the depths of an otherworldly vision, something
stared back, and she slammed her eyes shut in horror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her hand trembled, which meant a message from beyond. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once again Chad was in the doorway, glaring at
her. She found a pencil, grabbed the closest thing she could find, which was a
phone book, relaxed, let herself slip into the trance state that often reminded
her of the onset of labor and child birth, surrendered to the other forces that
took hold of her hand, and began to write. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The last thing she remembered was her own voice, far
away, as if she weren’t in the room at all: a terrible sound between singing
and crying in agony, saying words she couldn’t bear to hear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The power was still out when Donnie Fish woke up. A light
snow kept the world outside gray. Listening to a distant, moaning chainsaw, he
remembered the dreams he’d had during the night. They’d left behind sensations
of fear and regret, and he was glad they were only dreams, except for one,
which had come apart from the others. It felt like a promise in the form of
soft sunshine in a girl’s hair, her hand in his, a smile, and peace. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
others were a confusion of righteous anger, as if he were leading a charge
against an unjust world only he could change; but the harder he fought, the
more it crumbled in his hands and blew away into desolation and tragedy. It
played in disconnected scenes from the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Road Warrior</i>. Dad had rented it over the weekend, and they’d
watched it together, eating homemade popcorn and drinking RC Cola. Donnie had
seen himself in the dream as Mel Gibson’s character Mad Max but he’d sported a
Fidel Castro beard and cigar. The town had burned, and his feet had splashed
through pools of blood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Letting the dreams fade away, he rubbed a sore neck
caused by sleeping with his pillow over his head to muffle thunder and lightening.
He sat up and looked through the sleet-spattered window, then let out a long
breath in surprise. A giant limb, torn from the big elm that shaded the parking
lot, lay snugly inside the crushed windshield and cab of his family’s
nineteen-seventy-something Impala that the neighbors had not-so-affectionately
dubbed “The Bomber.” Dad had the trunk open and was removing tools. Directly
below Donnie’s window, the cheap redwood privacy fence that guarded the greasy
cement slab outside their kitchen sliding doors was also flattened under a pile
of limbs. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After finding a pair of socks that didn’t stink (tube
socks: one had green and yellow stripes on the top; the other had blue
stripes), he put on his shoes, then went shivering down the stairs. For
breakfast Mom had set out peanut butter and jam. His little brother and sisters
sat in their coats at the table, eating, while Mom, interestingly shaded by the
fallen tree limb, stood at the sliding door and watched Dad. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t want to bus it again,” Mom said, still facing
the doors.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie was about to say he was glad he didn’t have to be
embarrassed riding around in a junky car anymore; the kids at school were
already making fun of it. Then Grandma Judith spoke up from the shadows in the
living room. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sure I can scrape up something to help get you
another car.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t want your money,” Mom said. “You know that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grandma didn’t answer back. Donnie saw her tighten her
lips and look away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The truth was his parents didn’t have the money for a
car, nor would they have it in the near future. What sat under the fallen
branch had come out of a want ad for two hundred dollars. Dad’s new day job
pushing tailings at Kennecott took care of the rent, Mom’s night job as a
waitress at Francesco’s bought the food. Whatever paid for things like
telephone service and the occasional movie and VCR rentals obviously didn’t
make it into savings. Donnie wanted a paper route, but he was afraid they’d
just have to move again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grandma, pulling a shawl tight around her shoulders,
walked into the strange light of the kitchen, gave Donnie a squeeze on the
shoulder, then joined Mom at the sliding doors. “When are you going to let me
help you, honey? You can’t carry the weight of the world on your back forever,”
she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Expecting an argument, Donnie tensed, but was surprised
when his mother said with a soft voice: “I don’t intend to, Mom.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“At least let me get some nice family photos done before
you leave again. If you don’t want them, I’d like to have them. K-mart’s having
a special—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mom shook her head and let out a long breath. “We’re not
leaving.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grandma turned to her, unbelief in her eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s right,” Mom said. She folded her arms tighter
around herself. She seemed scared. “Denny’s got a job with potential. I like
mine. Maybe we can really get a house this time.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grandma carefully put an arm around Mom’s shoulder. Mom
didn’t pull away. A minute or two of silence went by, then Mom said quietly,
“We’re not running anymore.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie finished his sandwich. When he looked up again,
Mom’s head was resting on Grandma’s shoulder, a scene he took in with a wave of
odd feelings. He picked up his plate and went into the living room to sit where
Grandma had been. Above his head was a framed print of an old painting Mom had
picked up at a yard sale, a painting that had haunted him since he was little.
A golden retriever looked as if it had just emerged from the soft autumn grass.
His nose pointed straight at a pretty, yellow-breasted meadowlark perched on an
old cedar fence post, the barbwire, rusted and sagging. The two creatures
stared at each other, their eyes terribly dark, full of secrets; it was their
eyes that haunted him. Mom had named the painting: “Doggie and Meadowlark.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Music from outside cracked the quiet moment. Dad, in a
dorky hat with ear flaps, waved his arms over the branches and danced to “I’m a
Believer,” by the Monkees, something from the oldies station. The kids laughed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“At least the radio still works!” he yelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie set his sandwich aside, leaned forward, and shoved
his hands into his hair. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">2</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Friday, March 16, 1984 </span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pen scratches, paper shifts, desk squeaks, sighs,
whispers, and someone chewing gum all answered Ms. Delfini’s question: “Should Magna, Utah,
incorporate as a city?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Donnie
intently watched the edge of no return, where Tina Barnes’ legs disappeared
under the hem of her denim miniskirt. Finally, Jennie Stewart, the Freshman
class president of Brockbank Junior high, raised her hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Miss Stewart,” Delfini said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back straight, pencil-like, under a bush of permed blond
hair, Jennie cleared her throat and said: “I think so. We should be a city: the
City of Magna—though
my dad says the name should reflect the true old heritage: Pleasant Green. He
supports the name change. But yes! We should—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank you, Miss Stewart. Is there anyone who opposes the
incorporation of Magna?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>More gum chewing—it was the large-boned girl who sat
behind Donnie. She was nice, but not attractive. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Anyone at all?” Delfini twirled her hands as if stirring
the air would bring about answers. “What do you think would happen to the tax
base without Kennecott or Hercules to help foot the bill for basic government
services? Are there enough businesses to help meet the cost of police and fire?
How about snowplows and road maintenance and sidewalks and traffic lights?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jennie spoke up again: “My dad says the county is the
problem for our lack of businesses. If we were free to make our own rules, we
could make changes in government that would be business friendly and—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank you, Miss Stewart. Let’s give others a chance to
respond, shall we? And please raise your hand next time.” Someone in the back
of the room snickered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Red faced, Jennie looked at her notebook. Donnie felt
sorry for her, until Tina moved her legs. He figured out how to put his head
down on his desk and peek through a space where his arms were folded. No one
would notice him staring, and he could enjoy the class period in the way he
thought it should be enjoyed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I disagree,” Shantel DeMint said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She sat near the front of the room with the New Wave and
punk crowd. At the beginning of the school year she’d tried to copy Cyndi
Lauper’s weird style, but then cut her hair extremely short, which gave her a masculine
look. Donnie hated her “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mois-mois</i>”
voice—a term he felt witty enough to have conjured up himself when he was new
in the class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently there were
others who might have hated it, too. The subtle tone of noises changed. The
girl behind him gave her gum a little pop. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not fair that the big corporations can just opt out
of paying their fair share of taxes,” Shantel continued. “Magna should stay a
part of the county. People here are mostly poor and can’t afford a raise in
their property taxes. We should focus on Magna Main Street redevelopment, which
the county will help with. That will revitalize the Main Street town center.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie heard Jennie mumble: “It hasn’t been the town
center since before we were born.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shantel
continued: “Besides, staying a part of the larger county makes things more
equal for everyone.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ooh! Big words,” someone with a deep bass voice
whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie snickered before he could help himself, causing
others to join in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well said, Shantel!” Delfini turned to the rest: “Can we
show some respect in this room?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie glanced up to see if she was looking at him.
Haloed by a poster of Cesar Chavez, she put her hands on her hips and severely
looked over the class. He put his head back down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Any more comments?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slightly raising his head, Donnie couldn’t help but
glance at Jennie, who still stared at her notebook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All right! Let’s move on to world events,” Delfini said.
“What’s happening in Central America?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Customary classroom background noise: paper shifts and
chewing gum static. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Delfini unrolled a large, old map of Central
America, one that, unless she tied it to something, would spin and
roll back up. Every time she used it, she grumbled about lack of government
spending on education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please, someone tell me where El Salvador is,” she said tiredly.
“There has to be someone in this room who can point it out—because you’re my
little geniuses, right?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brad Anderson (Mr. Basketball) raised his hand. Donnie
noticed Tina perk up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um….” Brad stared at the map. “Like, right there by Honduras and Nicaragua?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bonus for the boy with the bloated brown basketball!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude!” Brad’s friend sent him a high five. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, why is El Salvador important in the news?”
Delfini asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shantel quickly raised her hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, sweetie?” Delfini smiled. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s a civil war, and Reagan’s interfering?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Exactly!” Delfini said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There are, like, freedom fighters against the dictator
government. I think they’re the NFL or something like that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Laughs from the Brad side of the room. The gum-popping
girl behind Donnie snickered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Close!” Delfini said. You mean the FMLN: Farabundo Martí
National Liberation Front—say that five times fast.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The kid with the bass voice unsuccessfully tried just
that, winning a broader round of laughs and sending the class into mild chaos. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jennie had her hand up again, but Delfini didn’t seem to
notice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, everyone. Let’s calm it down a little.” Delfini
shifted to stand in front of a poster of bright primary colors with giant
bubble letters over a peace sign, spelling the word: LOVE. “You said Reagan’s
interfering. What do you think about that?” she asked Shantel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like, I think it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">totally</i>
undemocratic. I think he’s going to turn Central America into another Viet Nam. He’s
trying to stop an oppressed people from throwing off their tinpot dictators
supported by Republicans.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s very insightful. Kudos to Shantel!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ms. Delfini?” It was the gum-chewing girl. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And Kendra, what do you have to add to this stimulating
discussion?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think Jennie’s had her hand up a long time.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For a moment Delfini’s face became an unreadable mask.
Kendra—so that was her name—subtly popped her gum again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jennie,” Delfini said, her smile widening, but cooling.
“Please share your thoughts with us.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jennie dropped her arm as if relieved. “I disagree. El Salvador is under threat of being overthrown
by Communists like Nicaragua
had. In fact, the terrorists are hiding in Honduras
and being aided mainly by Cuba,
the Sandinistas, and the Soviet Union. They
have to be stopped before another country falls. It’s a threat to the US.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“O…kay? Um…please share with us your evidence.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s a fact!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So…the Salvadoran government isn’t an oligarchy with
little regard for civil rights? A military dictatorship? There aren’t death
squads terrorizing people who oppose it? The people aren’t suffering crushing
poverty and inequality?”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I didn’t say that. What I’m
saying is—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please. I’m just trying to understand where you’re
coming from.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re not freedom fighters, they’re Communist
revolutionaries. They’ll just bring in a different sort of dictatorship, a
pro-Soviet one.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So it’s okay for the people to live under a dictatorship
as long as it’s not pro-soviet, or rather, progressive? Let’s use the term <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">progressive</i>. They want to bring social
progress and equality to their country. What’s wrong with that?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But they won’t.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please. I beg of you once again. Please share with us
your evidence for that argument.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My dad’s in the military. He knows people. He also talks
to a lot of people in his business. He explained to me how Cuba and Nicaragua are exporting their
Communist revolutions and how the Nicaraguan government sends aid to the
terrorists—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s not use that word ‘terrorist.’ I prefer ‘freedom
fighter.’ After all, if we were to argue about who is a ‘terrorist’ and who
isn’t, we could make a good case that the American Founding Fathers would fall
into that category. I always say, one people’s ‘terrorist’ is another people’s
freedom fighter.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What a shame. We’re out of time. Everyone, please let me
have your attention. You’re assignment is to go look up stories in the paper
about the crisis in Central America. Both our
school library and the public library have current and older editions you can
look through. The public library has <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
New York Times</i>—which I prefer above the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deseret
News</i>.” The last two words she said with a subtle sneer. “Then write three
paragraphs explaining what you understand about the problems there, mainly in El Salvador and Nicaragua. The third paragraph
should give ideas on what America
should do about these problems.” The bell rang over her voice. “I’ll also
accept feedback from articles you might read in publications like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The New Republic</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mother Jones</i>—because you’re my brilliant
little dearies.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie took an extra ten seconds to watch Tina shift in
her seat before he sat up and stretched as if he’d been asleep. A subtle
movement of air brought her perfume his way, and he felt as if he would
spontaneously combust if she didn’t at least notice him, send him a little
smile or something. But she didn’t. She picked up her books and joined a couple
of girls heading to the front of the row. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On his way out the door, he caught his reflection in the
window and wished he could cover his face. His Levi jacket cuff had left a
large imprint from his forehead to his cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A
slow flow of high school students clogged the hall. Almost like aliens, they’d
invaded the junior high after the school district had torn down the old Cyprus high school (named in honor of the
ancient copper mines on Cyprus Island in the Mediterranean Sea, an homage in
connection to the modern Utah
copper industry) building a block away. The school had literally sunk with the
falling water table. Stories floated about cracks appearing in walls, and doors
stuck so solidly in their frames the custodian had to pry them open with a crow
bar; and since their mascot was the pirate, the joke was “the pirate ship had
sunk.” So the other joke was that the students and staff—Delfini being one of
them—who had come over for some of their classes while their new building was
being built were the survivors, and Brockbank junior high was the rescue boat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When
Donnie reached his locker, someone had the one next to his wide open so that
the door blocked Donnie’s access. It had been vacant up until then. Donnie
figured the owner must have been a new kid. He was tall and could have passed
for a high school student, but the high school students all had their lockers
somewhere on the Cyprus
campus, just not in the building under construction. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Pardon
me,” Donnie said in a polite voice and moved the door slightly. As he reached
for his combination lock, the kid slammed the door back open, hitting Donnie’s
hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Dude!”
Donnie yelled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Seeming
to ignore Donnie, the kid grabbed his jacket, lifted out a book, paused as if
to think about his selection, then shoved the book back in. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hey,
can I get to my locker?” Donnie asked, fighting to stay polite. Most kids at
the school seemed to follow an unwritten rule that one should open a locker
door just enough to get in, but not enough to block the other person. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When
he was about to reach for the open door again, the kid slammed his locker shut
and turned away as if nothing had happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Jerk,”
Donnie said under his breath. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
kid disappeared into the crowd, and Donnie felt cold. He decided to go the
opposite direction. Once outside, he took a breath and decided to forget about
the stupid tall kid. His feet scrunched through melting snow. Beyond the fence
that lined the school property was a trail through an alfalfa field that led to
the 7-Eleven. It was muddy, so he stayed along the edge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">While
he walked, sensations of the dreams he’d been having floated through him like
smoke from a distant fire. He remembered touching a girl’s hand—the one image
that had stuck with him. The breeze felt colder, and he lifted up his collar. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once inside the 7-Eleven, he eyed the nachos. Someone had
left the bin open, so he sneaked a chip and wondered where the couple of
dollars in his pocket would go the farthest: nachos? Big Gulp? Slurpee? Candy
cigarettes? A chocolate doughnut, or video games? He chose the nachos and video
games. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Occasionally glancing at the doors, as if the tall kid
would come in after him, he poured hot cheese sauce from the dipper, carefully
spreading it so he would have a place to pick up the chips, but then thought it
would have been easier to fill the paper tray with cheese first, then put in
the chips—the trick was to jam as many in as possible. After that, he opted for
a Big Gulp of Coke for two fewer video games. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Several kids had gathered around Centipede, leaving Dig
Dug open. He walked to Dig Dug, ate a nacho, chased it with Coke—savored
it—then put in a quarter. He studied the high scores for initials he might have
known, then the happy electronic music started.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His little white and blue character tunneled through
different layers of progressively darker shades of orange, pumping Pookas and
Fygars until they burst into a gory mess: a thoroughly addicting game. Donnie
was on the sixth level when a kid next to him said: “Dude, those nachos smell
good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie briefly glanced at his food, but couldn’t take his
attention away from the ghostly floating eyes that chased his little character
across the board. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A very pretty girl slapped the boy on the shoulder and
said: “Bogie! Don’t be rude.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What? Can’t I ask for a nacho?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re being embarrassing!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie waited for the brief moment when he graduated to a
new level, then picked up his chips and offered them to the kid, who looked
surprised. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude! Thanks, man!” He took a few, lifting them in
salute.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re such a retard!” the girl said to the kid. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another boy, who was playing Centipede, seemed to eye the
nachos through a mop of long hair. Donnie offered him some, too. He took one
without looking away from the game. Donnie then offered some to the girl and
smiled. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“No,
thanks,” she said, but smiled back. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With one quarter left, Donnie stepped away from Dig Dug
and waited for a turn at Centipede. This time the kid the girl referred to as
“bogie” was playing. The girl put her arm around Bogie and rested her head on
his shoulder. Donnie felt a mixture of longing and jealousy. He wondered how
guys got girlfriends like that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the background “Too Much Time on My Hands,” by Styx, escaped from a transistor radio sitting on the
counter. Donnie worked on his nachos until he was full. Half the nachos still
remained, so he offered them to the kid with long hair, who smiled slightly and
took a couple more.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Bogie
vigorously moved the trackball on the game, shooting his character from one
side of the screen to the other, blasting the centipede, which divided into
independent segments, each segment turning into a mushroom. Donnie learned a
new trick as he watched Bogie position his character in a spot where, if he
kept shooting, he could create a tunnel of mushrooms— “shrooms,” he called
them— that the centipede would follow down to its demise. But then a spider
came from nowhere and wiped out his character. Bogie punched the machine as it
bleeped out a sound of failure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, that sucks,” Donnie said, and offered Bogie some
chips. “You want the rest of them? I’m full.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure,” Bogie said, taking the tray. “Aren’t you, like, in
Brockbank? I think I seen you there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” Donnie said. He took a drink of Coke. “So you
guys live around here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Round and around,” Bogie said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donnie noticed his sandy blond hair, the way he had it
parted in the middle and feathered back. He seemed tough, but not…bad. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m Rachel,” the girl said. “Footloose” seeped from
headphones that hung around her neck like a collar. “This is Jeff,” she said,
pointing to the kid with long hair. A little smile might have ticked at the
edge of his lips. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let’s give the man some room,” Bogie said, and motioned
with his hand toward the video game. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The trio parted to let Donnie through. He set his Coke on
the floor, put in a quarter, and pressed the start button. He felt the girl
looking at him and became self-conscious. His movements weren’t as quick as he
wanted them to be. When he tried the tunnel trick he’d seen Bogie do, the
spider came out of nowhere and killed his character also. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I hate the spider!” Bogie said, and gave Donnie a pat on
the shoulder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff clasped his hands behind his back and raised an
eyebrow—reminiscent of Spock from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star
Trek</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We gotta blow,” Bogie said. “Thanks for the grub, dude.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nice to meet you,” Rachel said, smiling. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bogie pulled her close, protectively under his arm. As
they turned to leave, he paused thoughtfully, then raised a finger. In a Red
Skelton lisp, he said: “Confucius say: go to bed with itchy butt, wake up
stinky finger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Donnie
laughed and watched them go out the door, but his focus drifted over their heads
to the Sinclair station. Someone, who he thought looked an awful lot like the
tall kid from the locker incident, stood leaning against the cinder block wall
by the restrooms and smoking a cigarette. Donnie slipped out the door behind
his new friends, followed them a few yards, then, after a brief “so long,” went
the other direction past the hardware store and toward the field. When he
looked back at the Sinclair station, the tall kid was gone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A
feeling of loneliness slowed him down. The sun had mostly fallen behind the
tips of the Oquirrh
Mountains, the edge of it
still throwing its glass and silver rays, briefly blinding Donnie as he stared
at its beauty. The northernmost peak (from his perspective smaller than the
others) caught his attention. A desire to walk that direction began to grow.
The feeling turned into curiosity, as if he suspected something special was out
there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
the sun’s rays died away, leaving behind a hazy glow. He shoved his cold hands
deep into his jacket pockets and headed home instead. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">3</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Saturday, March 17, 1984 </span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Judith
Hardman raised her cup of Postum and let it warm her hands. “I’ll always
associate this drink with the war. That’s when I stopped drinking coffee.
Remember when coffee was hard to get?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
remember it being worse in the Depression,” Charles “Chap” Breeze said. “But I
was never a coffee drinker, so I really didn’t notice.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ruth,
his wife, smacked him on the arm. “Stop your fibbing! You drank it when we met.
It was only after you started going to church you quit. Even after you’d sneak
it now and then.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t recall that,” Chap said with a grin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
think I didn’t notice it when you wanted a kiss, you old fool!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Judith’s
attention shifted to the kitchen. “Oh! You shouldn’t have!” <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> Sheryl Wallace, their host, entered
the living room. “Coffee cake is ready!” She carried a glass cake pan with oven
mitts. “It’s right out of the oven, so be careful.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now
tell me,” Chap said. “If this is coffee cake, then are we breaking the Word of
Wisdom? I’m just asking.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
be quiet!” Ruth said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Morning
light shone through the windows, striking the large bookshelves that lined the
walls. Judith noticed how between sets of neatly arranged books, many of them
on Orrin Porter Rockwell and other colorful characters of the Old West,
displays of crystals sparkled and fossils seemed to come to life. She felt a
chill and thought of Sheryl’s husband, Walter, who’d recently passed away. The
others in the room seemed to sense the feeling and became more sober as Sheryl
passed out plates of cake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
just us now,” Sheryl said. She sat back with her own plate, then took a sip of
her drink. “You’d have thought knowing what we knew and doing what we did would
have made us immortal.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ruth
smiled. She reached over and put a hand on Sheryl’s arm. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
what news do you have for us?” Chap asked, turning to Judith. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fighting
a mixture of fear and excitement, she said: “My daughter says she and Dennis
are staying for good. They’re ‘not running anymore.’”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sheryl
held her fork above her plate as if she’d suddenly turned to into a statue.
Ruth lost her smile and swallowed. Chap grunted, nodded his head, then put down
his cup. He spoke: “I have Gordie Rushton on the West Oquirrh Council with me
now. I just have to get him with your grandson—Donnie is it? Before someone
else does, that is.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
ought to be easy. Wasn’t Gordie a comrade of your daughter and her husband?”
Ruth asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Stephanie
doesn’t know,” Judith said. “She doesn’t know about me.” She motioned to the
others in the room with her hand. “She doesn’t know about us. Gordie’s the only
one from their…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">group</i>…to know so far,
and that’s pure synchronicity. Stephanie’s fought hard to avoid anyone she
associated with. I’m terrified what she’d do if I told her everything. She
might leave forever.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
a chance,” Ruth said. “They’re all coming back. They could never really leave.
It draws them. What we risk is a big reunion without us here to make sure
things go right.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There
are others,” Chap said. “Not friendly. You could pass them on the street and
not know it. DeMint campaigned fiercely to bring into the council a young woman
I’d never seen before. I should have suspected there was more going on than her
corrupt cronyism. If it wasn’t for Gordie I never would have known who she was.
She teaches at the junior high school during the day. It’s no accident she’s
there, and with your grandson at the same school….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Judith’s
face hardened. “Then why don’t we do something now?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
is too big for us. We’ve lost track of all the pieces, and things are just
beginning to fall together.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
was arrogance,” Sheryl said. She sadly shook her head. “We thought we were the
shining ones.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We
had no one to guide us,” Ruth said. “We have to step forward now, as we should
have long ago. Maybe this time things will be different—for the grandchildren,
anyway.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe,”
Chap said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">¯</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> To
Donny, that Saturday morning felt just like a spring morning should feel. Snow
continued to melt, leaving black puddles in the Safeway parking lot. Though his
little sisters wanted to stop at the machines that dispensed candy, peanuts,
and little toys in plastic eggs, Mom herded them through the door to the
shopping carts. Donnie yanked one out of a long row, causing a metal clatter.
His little brother, Corey, went to go look at the magazines. When Donnie
started to follow him, Mom said: “Stay with me. I need your help.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Knowing
it was useless to argue, he pinched his lips together and sulked to the produce
section. Beyond the large glass windows, the supermarket interior felt
shadowy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the cereal aisle, he stared at dirty floor tile and
thought of the thousands of shoes and shopping cart wheels that had passed
through there. His two little sisters started fighting over whether to get the
Boo Berry or to get the Count Chocula, but Mom held a box of Kix and let out a
sad breath when she looked at the price. Spiritless shopping music played over
an intercom system, punctuated at times by calls to employees.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Donnie,
could you get me two loaves of bread?” Mom asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He turned to go.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please make sure you get the cheapest.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Someone’s voice whispered down the aisle behind him:
“Stephanie? My gosh! Is that you? I didn’t know you were back in town!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Donnie
turned and saw a woman holding onto a shopping cart with one hand and a girl
about Donnie’s age with the other. She had stopped by the Quaker oats and
nearly bumped carts with Mom.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sandy!” Mom said in the
same tone of voice and reserve, as if they were glad to see each other but didn’t
want the rest of the world to know it. Mom put her hand on the lady’s arm and
glanced around. Secretive, Donnie thought. But that’s what he was used to about
his parents. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
girl hid behind her mother and played with her bottom lip. She stared in the direction
of the shredded wheat but didn’t seem to look at anything at all. She rocked
gently back and forth. Her hair was bland and unstyled, no makeup: a retard,
Donnie thought. Pretty…but still a retard<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Is
that Nancy?”
Mom asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sandy</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> paused as if unsure what to say. “She’s had a lot of
problems.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m
sorry to hear that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Donnie
could see the conversation didn’t include him, though Sandy had glanced in his direction. He walked
away, thinking of bread and the possibility of getting away from his brothers
and sisters and wandering through town, maybe heading west, to the foothills.
He turned his attention to a different girl, blonde, high school age, who stood
at a nearby till, waiting for a customer to come along. She didn’t seem to
notice him. When he found some loaves for forty-nine cents each, he thought:
That ought to make Mom happy<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Donnie
raised his head. The retard girl stood alone in the middle of his aisle. Some
other look had replaced the emptiness he’d seen in her face. Her head tipped
slightly forward and her arms dangled loosely at her sides. Ape girl, he
thought and found himself slowly backing away. Her eyes suddenly focused and
followed him, and he thought he saw her smile, which gave him the creeps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Some
of the kids in the neighborhood talked about her: Nutty Nancy Nash. She was the
butt of dirty jokes, probably because some couldn’t reconcile a pretty girl
like her being feeble-headed. If a guy lost a game or something, he got a free
ticket to go “hump Nutty Nancy.” Others didn’t take to kindly to that talk and
ridiculed the ridiculer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
was about to turn the corner when he felt a strong grip on his shirt, which
made little pops in the seams. He turned, surprised. Nancy let out a small hoot and pulled. His
first thought was to clobber her with a loaf of bread, but he didn’t. Instead,
he reacted by gently putting his hand over hers. Her fingers tightened and she
yanked, forcing him to grab her wrist.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Nancy!” Sandy called down the aisle. “Nancy, honey, let go!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Her
eyes seemed to tell him something, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t. A
babbling noise came out of her mouth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Honey!
Let go!” Sandy
said, as if talking to a toddler. She slapped Nancy on the hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nancy</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> whined and grunted, then gripped Donnie in a big bear
hug. He put his hands on her waist and pushed. That wasn’t enough. Her slobbery
mouth pressed against his cheek. The scene had caught the attention of other
shoppers and the blond checker. Her mother tried to free him; the harder she
pulled, the tighter Nancy’s
grip became. Donnie felt his face turn red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Stop
it Nancy! Stop
it this instant!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">His
instincts made him want to fight her, but something else, almost like an inner
voice, told him differently. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wait!”
he said. “Wait! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stop!</i>”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Sandy</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> stepped away with a panicked look on her face and
momentarily wove her fingers into her own hair, looking around at the turned
heads and staring faces. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
put his arms around Nancy
and said: “Hey! It’s okay. I’m your friend. I’m Donnie.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
let out a sound of excitement that sirened from a high pitch to a low growl.
She bounced up and down and loosened her arms. Donnie gently pried himself
free. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m
so sorry!” Sandy said, taking Nancy and slowly moving to the door. “This is
so embarrassing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s
okay,” Donnie said, wiping the slobber off his face with his stretched shirt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Grunting,
Nancy leaned one way, then the other, nearly
pulling Sandy
over with her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Bye, Nancy,”
Donnie said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She
abruptly stopped and turned her head. For a few seconds, Donnie saw that look
again in her eyes, as if she had something to say, then she left willingly and
docilely with Sandy.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mom
stood speechless at the opening of the aisle, holding the cart. The older of
his little sisters was upset. People returned to their business as if nothing
had happened. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“She
can’t help it. She doesn’t know better,” Mom said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
know,” Donnie said. “Can’t we just get out of here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mom
started moving toward the check-out counter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Donnie
looked at the blond girl. “I’ll wait outside.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t
go anywhere. I still need help with the groceries and your brother and
sisters.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He
knew what she meant, which was something just as embarrassing as getting loved
on by a retard: Mom planned on pushing the shopping cart all the way up the
road to the apartments, something he thought only vagrants did. Without a car,
his family was reduced to being shopping cart people. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> To read more, please visit the following links and upload it onto your Kindle or Nook. </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/In-Older-Worlds-Disappears-ebook/dp/B009PUG3GQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350138527&sr=8-1&keywords=in+older+worlds+nancy+disappears"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In Older Worlds at Amazon.com</span></a></div>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-older-worlds-robert-goble/1112414217?ean=2940014814331" target="_blank">Older Worlds on Nook at barnesandnoble.com</a></div>
Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-34222581996299328942012-07-04T18:32:00.003-07:002012-07-05T14:33:09.522-07:00Magna Fourth of July Parade 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Magna parades stand out in the fun, generational memories of Magna residents. These are special times when neighbors and friends compete for shade and greet each other with smiles and enthusiastic hand shakes. It's hard to tell who's liberal or conservative or what religious creed they might hold to. You might see a Mormon helping support the Spaghetti dinner hosted by Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church or a baptist throwing in a few bucks to help local needy families. We all hold something in common, a love for our community and historical heritage.<br />
A fictional Magna Forth of July parade (as it might have been in 1984) will appear in part III of my new serial novel, <i>In Older Worlds</i>. Magna itself, the physical setting not the people, will act as a setting for a strange, dark fantasy/horror. It's written in a way that a person who grew up in Magna at that time would recognize and understand. For those who have never seen Magna, it will be like an introduction to a great, personal friend.<br />
I'd like to send out a special thank you to Todd and Carolyn Richards for your dedication and service to Magna and the Fourth of July committee--they even stored the Miss Magna float in their yard when no one else would take it! <br />
As for these photos, taken today, with love, enjoy them! And God Bless.<br />
Robert Goble<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magna Fourth of July parade possibly late 1940s to early 1950s. Notice the Empress Theater in the background. Photographer unknown. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" 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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfOGByMVBZZ1tBjef_6SRUGBDrcFfLjBTA_i4HPEPGTcynzJglXHk1SdmTQnAQ24x_3bMIjN6MqrNJut6xViRH7PmcSGgp1dKJuxEypuiqmkEuCzr8CVAIhyeIEw_eQ3l63W5LyUBLOc/s1600/empress+riders.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfOGByMVBZZ1tBjef_6SRUGBDrcFfLjBTA_i4HPEPGTcynzJglXHk1SdmTQnAQ24x_3bMIjN6MqrNJut6xViRH7PmcSGgp1dKJuxEypuiqmkEuCzr8CVAIhyeIEw_eQ3l63W5LyUBLOc/s320/empress+riders.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magna Fourth of July parade 2012. Magna Mountain Riders. Notice the same Empress Theater as in the above photo. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZie_p70CqjIid2-2MeKastDiRfX0c3xNY22a-95Yoy5oHVqOzXPpJU22jcVI7uuUIWYmYj1x5-ll25P6AwgX1IsqMyjHpmyygKs993d4w8ayvcd169kyNTKGidBTK1ffk9hkIWu-7dw/s1600/S6302276.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZie_p70CqjIid2-2MeKastDiRfX0c3xNY22a-95Yoy5oHVqOzXPpJU22jcVI7uuUIWYmYj1x5-ll25P6AwgX1IsqMyjHpmyygKs993d4w8ayvcd169kyNTKGidBTK1ffk9hkIWu-7dw/s320/S6302276.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Town Councilman Todd Richards walks the parade route along 8560 West near Brockbank Junior High minutes before the parade starts. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPR0Y6MUuK-_oVJBv-SxdbPXqPdXc3-0IDvSAq89oxX8RhkqJz_ccmhqbTJbk_C4LrHRgj2tfhYhvxNathfxeijFCoDgMS8MQER-icvlqxkKgD2xnOMshZ23Cr6mAt4h8pNSOLxvL660/s1600/Lanktree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPR0Y6MUuK-_oVJBv-SxdbPXqPdXc3-0IDvSAq89oxX8RhkqJz_ccmhqbTJbk_C4LrHRgj2tfhYhvxNathfxeijFCoDgMS8MQER-icvlqxkKgD2xnOMshZ23Cr6mAt4h8pNSOLxvL660/s320/Lanktree.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kylie Lanktree, Miss Magna 2012, stands with Little Miss, Elle Crossly in front of Magna Elementary on 3100 South minutes before the parade starts. Ken's Sandwich Shoppe, though not in the photo, is just to the west.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TOUGKc5faGgPfA71ZbN-rKKHcJVpjCI2PHfV4WqUJ8jrl20x3ztxjK3DXysw7q91alWyBbsBvjismKVMeoYHWj6sird1UD-2KMoKKaNfxDBvoWH7V-Z4a96GwLJHooL6ZxToWmG0234/s1600/first+attendant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9TOUGKc5faGgPfA71ZbN-rKKHcJVpjCI2PHfV4WqUJ8jrl20x3ztxjK3DXysw7q91alWyBbsBvjismKVMeoYHWj6sird1UD-2KMoKKaNfxDBvoWH7V-Z4a96GwLJHooL6ZxToWmG0234/s320/first+attendant.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Magna royalty First Attendant Marky Johnson with her Little Miss, Taila Robinson in front of new Magna library on Main Street.</td></tr>
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class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Miss Magna royalty Second Attendant Jill Cardenas with her Little Miss, Jensen Brian in front of the new Magna library on Main Street. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6iU3ymOC1lVF4kaNFaDuX3yNjJyuDQ8T5wU92pHp7Avoou0w7fqF5NB7cBI8vFgmJcoKtFEuVfa0FD-HLv30qijG9FD3YlRNHZBL9Pe84F1R0m3dW0BfKmcvKAHt5iZ9twgc_uSTmjc/s1600/Ryan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ6iU3ymOC1lVF4kaNFaDuX3yNjJyuDQ8T5wU92pHp7Avoou0w7fqF5NB7cBI8vFgmJcoKtFEuVfa0FD-HLv30qijG9FD3YlRNHZBL9Pe84F1R0m3dW0BfKmcvKAHt5iZ9twgc_uSTmjc/s320/Ryan.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Magna director Ryan Egbert along parade route on 8560 West near Brockbank Jr. High. His wife, Bonnie Egbert, formerly Bonnie Goble (Miss Magna 1994), is also director.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRcIAomsmbgp1T93OoCyPE0Xd-18lQQTh3iP61m3nAeI9Z31hy61VC9BAORtaQm50IXtpkB4OvTnR8r-ZEKIJo0GHhEtXusAchOhoGzlYTUaUm5h4c5Vyae4B2dVu19zOcWxbpNgYdaho/s1600/Brockbank.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRcIAomsmbgp1T93OoCyPE0Xd-18lQQTh3iP61m3nAeI9Z31hy61VC9BAORtaQm50IXtpkB4OvTnR8r-ZEKIJo0GHhEtXusAchOhoGzlYTUaUm5h4c5Vyae4B2dVu19zOcWxbpNgYdaho/s320/Brockbank.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Folks gather along the parade route in front of Brockbank Jr. High.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcnvUEm2xyFSq4sq7647aIw2X0jWdS88_axmCXiFujcW4mMl3RQxZGxSWQuR7SYA8vLaIQZ6U1WVYKaMrZSrwUdUFUBNKnzVJb2teCfOlmZhrVAyjKHF2NRAecTVmTPBnPupkePW3g_8/s1600/flag+cyprus+C.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcnvUEm2xyFSq4sq7647aIw2X0jWdS88_axmCXiFujcW4mMl3RQxZGxSWQuR7SYA8vLaIQZ6U1WVYKaMrZSrwUdUFUBNKnzVJb2teCfOlmZhrVAyjKHF2NRAecTVmTPBnPupkePW3g_8/s320/flag+cyprus+C.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Ridge Elementary students carry the flag past 3010 South. Looking west toward Cyprus High School. The Cyprus C rises proudly on Thead's Peak in the background. <span class="st"></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnyPNc0fDj8xcx8fbGRTsgVZ8TwUbPdUyQQoliMNy00M1t5F85exG32ouFpdMFYZYfTUC7VyHb2AY1W5Az9iBI9e9pgR3bmbtnT-iQ04ob2CaCYo8YPHDTxMrI-2Swbmq0BpMxi2Ssxw/s1600/Jazz+Band.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnyPNc0fDj8xcx8fbGRTsgVZ8TwUbPdUyQQoliMNy00M1t5F85exG32ouFpdMFYZYfTUC7VyHb2AY1W5Az9iBI9e9pgR3bmbtnT-iQ04ob2CaCYo8YPHDTxMrI-2Swbmq0BpMxi2Ssxw/s320/Jazz+Band.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jazz band, Happy Valley Strutters, plays an upbeat tune dedicated in memory of Norm Fitzgerald, a well loved Town Councilman who had recently passed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ZGi1YuWmy0klIMV5qG9vmPn3Ev9ow0M_qyEJuAiGsNrENM3qgWLKBwq8cWDNUMwhtJ55IwMITWWh9USKubv1KZkz5RZdlOk8tRJ3Z8aj0pqma__Nr3VNTMsO5kMViqdQN9_n19KNSKg/s1600/Mayor+Coroon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ZGi1YuWmy0klIMV5qG9vmPn3Ev9ow0M_qyEJuAiGsNrENM3qgWLKBwq8cWDNUMwhtJ55IwMITWWh9USKubv1KZkz5RZdlOk8tRJ3Z8aj0pqma__Nr3VNTMsO5kMViqdQN9_n19KNSKg/s320/Mayor+Coroon.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salt Lake County Mayor Peter Corroon along 8560 West. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEte4rSmncgf1YgVHCx9eXmM5fUpBgyx6_tdY4XxaN4TxmDyP5H2bX8SpaKtVAeVGK82QijItrczWJzKzOHsCMIVF1pVH4-TqSUcTsV6KLI1Nec4_swwoRhMNitLlUFUgut4bFoBYAbnE/s1600/Corner+by+grub+box.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEte4rSmncgf1YgVHCx9eXmM5fUpBgyx6_tdY4XxaN4TxmDyP5H2bX8SpaKtVAeVGK82QijItrczWJzKzOHsCMIVF1pVH4-TqSUcTsV6KLI1Nec4_swwoRhMNitLlUFUgut4bFoBYAbnE/s320/Corner+by+grub+box.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crowd fills the street at the corner of 2700 South and 8560 West as the parade approaches. Photo looking east. Notice the Grub Box sign in the background. The Grub Box will appear in my new novel,<i> In Older Worlds.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-Xa_K5mkYwU9Sw70eKBWxpBs4WcDvIZlg_K9aqhE6l4c0cjHwOwf6zW4wDRpZ6iUpk7sZRG-VzmJ2oM7jM5QCaEAivkqyODy3HG1_EZbYmn2aCPodm8wdRB8IO2sPMqzkazhUWyssPM/s1600/Walgamott.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-Xa_K5mkYwU9Sw70eKBWxpBs4WcDvIZlg_K9aqhE6l4c0cjHwOwf6zW4wDRpZ6iUpk7sZRG-VzmJ2oM7jM5QCaEAivkqyODy3HG1_EZbYmn2aCPodm8wdRB8IO2sPMqzkazhUWyssPM/s320/Walgamott.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rod and Joline Walgamott, best known for their tireless work on the board of the Oquirrh Hills Performing Arts Alliance, and as Atlas holds the world on his back, so Rod and Joline hold the Empress Theater.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UGMf0qjXavggK8IJ8_RNPNe04fZHkknt2CF62fmlLJEGnh9LSktSHyfMYgcLML7_F2VD0G8ERw8wcU9yFp7_hLYqatmmZ3qLHjO7zbzaA_V_SsbbzeYApSSywEq8x4iDLwetX5MzXcY/s1600/Shoni.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UGMf0qjXavggK8IJ8_RNPNe04fZHkknt2CF62fmlLJEGnh9LSktSHyfMYgcLML7_F2VD0G8ERw8wcU9yFp7_hLYqatmmZ3qLHjO7zbzaA_V_SsbbzeYApSSywEq8x4iDLwetX5MzXcY/s320/Shoni.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daughter and mother, Alyx Pattison and Arlene Pattison. Alyx, a former student of Cyprus High School and member of the dance company under the auspices of Lori Rupp, is now a partner of the Chicago law firm,<b> </b>Katten Muchin Rosenman LLP . Arlene, a former resident of Garfield and long-time resident of Magna, is appreciated for her service with the Community Council. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RGsPhdezDmpm7r6jvDW7Ew8nDAPJBUtiy1Z1XTUZdu0fpU9Z_JMM0_FjvZMby0UJJQw9kMCYmcEMn3efykPCB6z5dyvbPqPtqcX85ONhXQu3p3GDVEoTvwTsIM_Fo9ly2AZ3VITvXmU/s1600/John+alfred.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RGsPhdezDmpm7r6jvDW7Ew8nDAPJBUtiy1Z1XTUZdu0fpU9Z_JMM0_FjvZMby0UJJQw9kMCYmcEMn3efykPCB6z5dyvbPqPtqcX85ONhXQu3p3GDVEoTvwTsIM_Fo9ly2AZ3VITvXmU/s320/John+alfred.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Alfred recently returned from serving as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Albuquerque, NM. He shows his prowess as a horseman. For the record, the horse is steadily moving along Main Street. He isn't standing still. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibv2nLsQXQuNuEPBxMZ3HzU2sA0GRXA_5AWJKwo4qi4DkBkXWXcr0sLN_e55KM_3zDX9WbbukpOLiSPb5zaSxPs3tODpF1lvVT6LKt2Ni6KB1cNxixRFHdWIUhBDx_dSVCSZhOCoZUpBo/s1600/Cruz+family.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibv2nLsQXQuNuEPBxMZ3HzU2sA0GRXA_5AWJKwo4qi4DkBkXWXcr0sLN_e55KM_3zDX9WbbukpOLiSPb5zaSxPs3tODpF1lvVT6LKt2Ni6KB1cNxixRFHdWIUhBDx_dSVCSZhOCoZUpBo/s320/Cruz+family.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brian and Tamara Cruz and family. Brian can boast a heritage to the earliest settlers of the Magna area (Pleasant Green and Coonville) through the Sadlers and Hardmans, to Abraham Coon, an early pioneer. Coon's Canyon in the Oquirrh Mountains is named after him. Lehi Nephi Hardman was the first LDS Bishop of the Pleasant Green Precinct. He had chartered the Pleasant Green Cemetery (Cemetery Hill) in 1882. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7vnUAJsUQR9cl9jgy3JuRiQy_Iq1-nLAU20z1MOG_r6wdKAikNPZ1iFAkSstp-3O0ue8PUdi8dcNuCxQmlQOlNZKsGutqZf8rL4GtQJ5eCr41lDH3zKQqnPMk04NAxTdACsrVFKa7Zo/s1600/Route+west.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7vnUAJsUQR9cl9jgy3JuRiQy_Iq1-nLAU20z1MOG_r6wdKAikNPZ1iFAkSstp-3O0ue8PUdi8dcNuCxQmlQOlNZKsGutqZf8rL4GtQJ5eCr41lDH3zKQqnPMk04NAxTdACsrVFKa7Zo/s320/Route+west.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parade-watchers braving the sun with smiles. Main Street looking west. Oquirrh Mountains in the background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaB4auqQIO33P0xuIhlWQ94l1DrukqQggKo_nYmHJrQJ7rom_vNG9A6kIa8XYkrrKj6H3JsGhPhDbZ7QjXN99eFRpqcEMR7QlBSunFfYPTGFjhXecCOmgW4QDYrjhwADF89Rr9I10JLtA/s1600/Jim+Bezzant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaB4auqQIO33P0xuIhlWQ94l1DrukqQggKo_nYmHJrQJ7rom_vNG9A6kIa8XYkrrKj6H3JsGhPhDbZ7QjXN99eFRpqcEMR7QlBSunFfYPTGFjhXecCOmgW4QDYrjhwADF89Rr9I10JLtA/s320/Jim+Bezzant.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim and Shellie Bezzant on the shady 8500 West near the Peel Funeral Home and just North of Brockbank Jr. High. Jim Remembers Fourth of July parades all the way back to the sixties and seventies. His father is Dick Bezzant who has served the community for many years, including sitting on the Magna Water Board. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwCHMSgBV8IuGe_sjEtjOysv07OnPN3ze0mMKeEz3SzzU9FOkZ1MxSfMBUizxuGh1Z6ByPR9Zm4M294Ir09rE7n0VjtTPPUC32QOpgbpakeLv4iygRU0Zbhej9_oPqiZvwfmggqv8bT0/s1600/miss+magna+power+plant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwCHMSgBV8IuGe_sjEtjOysv07OnPN3ze0mMKeEz3SzzU9FOkZ1MxSfMBUizxuGh1Z6ByPR9Zm4M294Ir09rE7n0VjtTPPUC32QOpgbpakeLv4iygRU0Zbhej9_oPqiZvwfmggqv8bT0/s320/miss+magna+power+plant.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main Street looking west. Notice the kennecott power plant that has stood on the hill since the 1940s.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcLZNkd4n7-2BC2KWppcbWt4meb2JGJM1Y3fhJ7SqjApIebsZlx14WrLc6oemt_kf_GtJo8MqBKesVJLgoRA-WPcmNu2BTJwG3Yw1xukBqR-7JPytmtCwZYQlyhRGaH8Z-EiT16hyvRE/s1600/cyprus+football.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcLZNkd4n7-2BC2KWppcbWt4meb2JGJM1Y3fhJ7SqjApIebsZlx14WrLc6oemt_kf_GtJo8MqBKesVJLgoRA-WPcmNu2BTJwG3Yw1xukBqR-7JPytmtCwZYQlyhRGaH8Z-EiT16hyvRE/s320/cyprus+football.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyprus High School Football.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwljsRWXETg3xY64Csio4SHD0nVMoP8ZPuhUa4CaW_d8K_9YkOo8ofC0aiRTM4Q4DICE47KzDWYrekbq-5Y8YJy4wGg8i4nfb2zOBNE2_bQ4bJm8LQnVJKdEFh29HCqXdp-BaHRN6S-rc/s1600/Cyprus+high+cheerleaders.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwljsRWXETg3xY64Csio4SHD0nVMoP8ZPuhUa4CaW_d8K_9YkOo8ofC0aiRTM4Q4DICE47KzDWYrekbq-5Y8YJy4wGg8i4nfb2zOBNE2_bQ4bJm8LQnVJKdEFh29HCqXdp-BaHRN6S-rc/s320/Cyprus+high+cheerleaders.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only Cyprus High School cheerleaders get a military escort.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9DkeM5FyFhuwurWsp_w9g3lm3ZQLIBlB3pi9SjuEkvVwYJBagxSbJPjVDvnb7RtUW0nuwa-NQKcGVLLYysCDr45n96tq7VLOxA2PCm_oslkNOdApffbzup_2ynHtEO7Sk4RjZdsJS34/s1600/Cyprus+high+SBO.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9DkeM5FyFhuwurWsp_w9g3lm3ZQLIBlB3pi9SjuEkvVwYJBagxSbJPjVDvnb7RtUW0nuwa-NQKcGVLLYysCDr45n96tq7VLOxA2PCm_oslkNOdApffbzup_2ynHtEO7Sk4RjZdsJS34/s320/Cyprus+high+SBO.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyprus High School student body officers. My daughter, Tara Goble can barely be seen with her arm raised in the boat. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHG1y-CPE5ay9Bek1y8VhH1h1xgMGRELGqiDoPqEjr6Fl53-Dt84yR3pGeaUi524zf7G-kW1iJXGAN9wyodu9xpyXGIxx9zYYWSO1YW9xKcsYyYzWwiVUu5q4V2mNK2o0x4u9u0esCQM/s1600/Spinnakers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHG1y-CPE5ay9Bek1y8VhH1h1xgMGRELGqiDoPqEjr6Fl53-Dt84yR3pGeaUi524zf7G-kW1iJXGAN9wyodu9xpyXGIxx9zYYWSO1YW9xKcsYyYzWwiVUu5q4V2mNK2o0x4u9u0esCQM/s320/Spinnakers.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cyprus High School Spinnakers near the new library on Main Street. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKytPmyOFEwIAWIPM_0FEGu3-L6nfzTD9emZ1K_I0tzl3vdEXNaRDNXAj-NEF4Qw9RgXWHOQ_X6lZASNpd2DblTWB4gUBtsMNupPhRgj9WU2mBBuEd10zDZ8CHSfcwaGzdsVOtNTFoRt0/s1600/Parade+route+more+west.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKytPmyOFEwIAWIPM_0FEGu3-L6nfzTD9emZ1K_I0tzl3vdEXNaRDNXAj-NEF4Qw9RgXWHOQ_X6lZASNpd2DblTWB4gUBtsMNupPhRgj9WU2mBBuEd10zDZ8CHSfcwaGzdsVOtNTFoRt0/s320/Parade+route+more+west.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parade route farther west near the old Dyches Rexall Drug Store. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLiDaeHxMqwWvxUw6cjH1IfTc7STZS_1B8UT_rzuCzv5C2V5QeKljCPcnJGxXjlv7EZaaaEFxcaAjPA-ti3nSDrrPvUzJJmuwZ-AoqBEjUxStVUtv2FGMMGyb5wWpSKy0Oqfqgy8RMPs/s1600/suds.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLiDaeHxMqwWvxUw6cjH1IfTc7STZS_1B8UT_rzuCzv5C2V5QeKljCPcnJGxXjlv7EZaaaEFxcaAjPA-ti3nSDrrPvUzJJmuwZ-AoqBEjUxStVUtv2FGMMGyb5wWpSKy0Oqfqgy8RMPs/s320/suds.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and Jackie Sudbury serve as announcers near Magna Oil Changes Etc. The whole Sudbury family is well known and loved in Magna. John is a face any sports fanatic in Utah should know, but by far he is known and loved by so many youth he has coached and supported in football and other sports. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6FRprKxXWyynuTyFgjzWeIN6p9EGIJjZAumKCOlQSyioN2YtpxwqaRLgnPV6avUhoegcIopNbRujIFq7eEAVmqAlRQM4tK8fP1_DdgWjLd7O05nfGzilRqip8-GiU9TOdTChgNpLLeA/s1600/Brandt+Goble.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6FRprKxXWyynuTyFgjzWeIN6p9EGIJjZAumKCOlQSyioN2YtpxwqaRLgnPV6avUhoegcIopNbRujIFq7eEAVmqAlRQM4tK8fP1_DdgWjLd7O05nfGzilRqip8-GiU9TOdTChgNpLLeA/s320/Brandt+Goble.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brandt Goble is well known and loved in Magna. He has run for office and served with unions. He's currently the president of West United Soccer, helping coach and train kids in an international sport. His family's influence is also historical and influential in the area sharing heritage to Lehi Nephi Hardman and Abraham Coon. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmH8uthuAvj2jhy9mjjdcVaXtWfdJybDqIpXhIGMl_WSvq01j7EY8QHEGlQvtfonmaHpw7718imV6aMeodMJ5qGQO6F6T13p02uq5NDBbZmSYWUIeCF392jRno9SsyCpYTb9JyC_EFQ0/s1600/Michael+Jensen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmH8uthuAvj2jhy9mjjdcVaXtWfdJybDqIpXhIGMl_WSvq01j7EY8QHEGlQvtfonmaHpw7718imV6aMeodMJ5qGQO6F6T13p02uq5NDBbZmSYWUIeCF392jRno9SsyCpYTb9JyC_EFQ0/s320/Michael+Jensen.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Jensen has a long resume of service to Magna and Salt Lake County, including Salt Lake Council Councilman for District 2 and Chief of the Unified Fire Authority. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0eiJ-yAHZLI-_IDWzH1xrgTLq5vQG0PUgcXyGNRlp-MksOOD4i98oTMdbH_LTXovyIW4s1NswBIXr1n1K7pCvuaP0KvEhcLKgEyJXx6-zi31rA0-MCS58K2nEi2wHahHvK2D6Z8Dspw/s1600/Chinese+dragons.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0eiJ-yAHZLI-_IDWzH1xrgTLq5vQG0PUgcXyGNRlp-MksOOD4i98oTMdbH_LTXovyIW4s1NswBIXr1n1K7pCvuaP0KvEhcLKgEyJXx6-zi31rA0-MCS58K2nEi2wHahHvK2D6Z8Dspw/s320/Chinese+dragons.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's a parade without Chinese dragons?</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistL3t0jBTVTdqeaFRcK0QGghCSSiJHlItgsKPMssanybWRAbcC_octleVFEXvz83xUdjjem2EjJyMnO7CdYfDYv7_LyPOhw81JQJ0hh98bi_fcqfeVBPpWe56MMerXrgeLjWsRvbx9LU/s1600/Senator+thatcher.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistL3t0jBTVTdqeaFRcK0QGghCSSiJHlItgsKPMssanybWRAbcC_octleVFEXvz83xUdjjem2EjJyMnO7CdYfDYv7_LyPOhw81JQJ0hh98bi_fcqfeVBPpWe56MMerXrgeLjWsRvbx9LU/s320/Senator+thatcher.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel Thatcher, State Senator District 12, keeps Magna close to his heart. This active young senator chairs two committees and is an active influence in ten others. He frequently keeps his ear close to the voters by attending local meetings and staying in touch with many residents. You can often speak to him face to face at West Side Matters meetings. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeEfT9FUgzwevVgid48EpFrZu307FNR_ZMR40dejERg9lVl47ONLqoSj56xirWxuEIKuph6jfHmFG7DVEkZ8zZXy674ygPsXgu4jeYmpuAC1piutUwKuHp4-tLgmp2gUgeD6DKqoYpIM/s1600/rep+duckworth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeEfT9FUgzwevVgid48EpFrZu307FNR_ZMR40dejERg9lVl47ONLqoSj56xirWxuEIKuph6jfHmFG7DVEkZ8zZXy674ygPsXgu4jeYmpuAC1piutUwKuHp4-tLgmp2gUgeD6DKqoYpIM/s320/rep+duckworth.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">State Representative District 22, Sue Duckworth is well-loved among the Magna residents. The Duckworth family is known for many years of service to the community and state. Her husband Carl also served as representative. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqu-MnCTHyF1ignzfrO8EXuRx3fjKqIn-CwgUHHqOTj5v_8symhcbO-uqYN5RRiaIrW5cYoM9-_kcdZ-U3mG2KW-oba3BwwncX8crtWjzYrsOGc4-0fd8a4AyUElJ1ZQrJ8Dude307lM/s1600/rice+family.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqu-MnCTHyF1ignzfrO8EXuRx3fjKqIn-CwgUHHqOTj5v_8symhcbO-uqYN5RRiaIrW5cYoM9-_kcdZ-U3mG2KW-oba3BwwncX8crtWjzYrsOGc4-0fd8a4AyUElJ1ZQrJ8Dude307lM/s320/rice+family.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rice family smiles in the sun. Laurie Rice has served in the PTA at Orchard Elementary. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKsq8EMJ7NyhYcGQUyCbxNH-icpGGA6DVEc0YL6j32MFOo3SEB8zz1u_BuWNlhpLZAvU1dESu_8csAIOPwAEbhrfGRoQ-X34kFkzTsQUt3N6pWlLTMOzBjOjKlcqoEbR5t6D6Dv-pppA/s1600/Donny+sweazey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKsq8EMJ7NyhYcGQUyCbxNH-icpGGA6DVEc0YL6j32MFOo3SEB8zz1u_BuWNlhpLZAvU1dESu_8csAIOPwAEbhrfGRoQ-X34kFkzTsQUt3N6pWlLTMOzBjOjKlcqoEbR5t6D6Dv-pppA/s320/Donny+sweazey.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donnie Sweazey rumbles past in his catchy purple hot-rod. He's best known for his business, Oil Changes Etc. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEger8t-93Rr6ZDOTjT51_aovop-ePGj6qZbNO9Kg_fmx888qISkxD77jp6dsUc6be38cs-Gnu-Ut5JyuaC1voqopJBS8FiY4sEcqC5jxkBh78wj_M1fnf5EWEx2CIXBkPlw_lvkHayTzwQ/s1600/Gem.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEger8t-93Rr6ZDOTjT51_aovop-ePGj6qZbNO9Kg_fmx888qISkxD77jp6dsUc6be38cs-Gnu-Ut5JyuaC1voqopJBS8FiY4sEcqC5jxkBh78wj_M1fnf5EWEx2CIXBkPlw_lvkHayTzwQ/s320/Gem.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parade watchers sit in the shadow of the old Gem Theater. Many long-time residents have fond memories of the old-fashioned seating, stage under the screen, red curtains, and pickle jar that sat on the glass counter. The last movie I saw there was<i> Raiders of the Lost Ark. </i>The Gem will appear in my new novel, <i>In Older Worlds</i>, as it was still showing movies in 1984. Remember the family movie nights on Mondays?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEfAUhTHKljXG1MZPKCVvXQgvaqy5JH2SMJ6FelC0jdVPxS4LTvqwbKz10MYAauDY3lFZHdVM4Q-6rjD-W07pkJOjF_TpIQWJ8VXjETnKM8nYRKGds4y8YXiyvqUEVpcc6SJQ_ZHqPrM/s1600/Main+street+looking+east.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXEfAUhTHKljXG1MZPKCVvXQgvaqy5JH2SMJ6FelC0jdVPxS4LTvqwbKz10MYAauDY3lFZHdVM4Q-6rjD-W07pkJOjF_TpIQWJ8VXjETnKM8nYRKGds4y8YXiyvqUEVpcc6SJQ_ZHqPrM/s320/Main+street+looking+east.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another shot of Main Street looking east. The Ethnic and Mining museum is nearby. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhykT6x2z8k3syqA9BZ9NU3egNceCpxZdMx5f7NdqLZWFc4F0yQm-cpBTcSPXnkCvZVR2l22jK8OQG9AisLioTSDf-wB1_EDk9PMrXNtlH6592hp-cmW6I6l6PunMCKduw-eCVook6_tGI/s1600/richards+in+car.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhykT6x2z8k3syqA9BZ9NU3egNceCpxZdMx5f7NdqLZWFc4F0yQm-cpBTcSPXnkCvZVR2l22jK8OQG9AisLioTSDf-wB1_EDk9PMrXNtlH6592hp-cmW6I6l6PunMCKduw-eCVook6_tGI/s320/richards+in+car.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once again, a special thanks to Todd and Carolyn Richards and the Fourth of July committee for a wonderful and successful parade!</td></tr>
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<br />Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0Magna, UT, USA40.7091121 -112.101608840.6850391 -112.1410908 40.7331851 -112.06212679999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-86321361945086672362012-07-03T19:24:00.004-07:002012-07-04T07:56:56.382-07:00Great Britain Comes to Stage at the Empress with Oliver!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOGzDAtj2zLZZA8yb8Glk5vGQ3ZNqc_H1Bdr3PtZCXQCWQiwL4Hfau1flu1OQ-cSjzBvKlaWXZGy5INhuBli6vtV1h0h8cDhOgAwmeItYn-DkkQ9kAk9BtnIHVdnOCJwV5yf4XdmKBRD0/s1600/empress.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOGzDAtj2zLZZA8yb8Glk5vGQ3ZNqc_H1Bdr3PtZCXQCWQiwL4Hfau1flu1OQ-cSjzBvKlaWXZGy5INhuBli6vtV1h0h8cDhOgAwmeItYn-DkkQ9kAk9BtnIHVdnOCJwV5yf4XdmKBRD0/s320/empress.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Empress on a hot July afternoon on Magna's Main Street before a showing of <i>Oliver!</i></td></tr>
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Theater guests familiar with one another greet each other with smiles, waves, and handshakes. It's a true community theater, and the intimate "family feeling" spreads to newcomers and out-of-towners eager to enjoy the classic British musical and generational Broadway smash by writer and composer Lionel Bart, <i>Oliver!</i> The lights dim, erasing the empty stage, and the music begins. </div>
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But just before, downstairs, under the stage, the scene was of actors and actresses, most young, a few old, for many their first play, dressing, singing, and preparing to give their all to delight the audience and carry them the Dickensian world of London in the 1850s. </div>
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"I see London as a dirty, gritty place," said Lila Cripps (ensemble and 'bit parts')...the people at that time were either very rich or very poor or working very hard. It would be a very difficult time to have to live that way, and I think it makes people nowadays open their eyes."</div>
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First-time Director, Becky Walk, hovered near as the actors gathered in the theater before the guests' arrival. Having done musical theater in college, she fell in love with the "cute little community theater" where the "people are awesome." When Becky had heard the Empress needed a director for <i>Oliver!</i> her sister and the play's choreographer talked her into joining. She took her role seriously, researching the "old town London," the costumes and the music and much more. Already familiar with the play, having been a fan since she was a kid, directing the show was a "neat" experience that took a lot of dedication, especially keeping the large cast of kids on task, "but they've really done a good job." </div>
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The actors made a circle on the stage floor and took each other by the hand, linking the wide circle, a bonding moment. </div>
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Though many of the actors and actresses were regulars at the theater, Michael Johnson (Bill Sykes), a student of the Actor Training Program in the Department of Theatre at the University of Utah, had "never seen a show or been in a show" before at the empress. "I walked into this theater," Michael said, "and absolutely fell in love with
it. I love the space, like just the way it’s set up. And downstairs...the
dressing rooms...everything it’s just perfect. It’s a
great atmosphere I love the people who work here. Its been
awesome" </div>
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Actress Valerie Packer (Nancy), also her first time at the Empress said, "It's so fun. Its
such an intimate setting. The audience can see your facial expressions, and I
think (they) get a better feel for your character." She had dreamed of playing the role of Nancy since her mother had played the same role "when she was my age."
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Next door the sound of power tools drifted into the street. By then the play had run to intermission and the sun cut its last rays over the golden peaks of the Oquirrh Mountains. As guests filled the foyer and bought goodies, the kind of goodies that made the musical even better, Bennie Nugter worked in the "Toy Shop" building a new wooden ladder for the theater. For Bennie the Empress was a family endeavor. His wife, Marie, was backstage working on props, while their son and daughter, both actors, prepared for the second act. </div>
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Bennie, not a resident of Magna, spoke proudly of his family's dedication to the theater. His daughter, Sasha (Charlotte) "was in every show last year one way or another.
She auditioned for all the shows that she could audition for. Some she got in and
some she didn’t, and the ones that she didn’t get in, like<i> Forever Plaid</i> was all
guys, she actually did lights. Ever since she was a little kid she’s been a little theater
bug and she doesn’t mind getting up in front of people and going
into character."</div>
Behind him on the wall were drawings of scenery, one of a hob fireplace and a brick hearth with a "secret compartment," a fireplace he'd dedicated many hours of work to, the same fireplace Brett Hanson (Fagin) hunched over with suspicious eyes glancing about for witnesses as he sang, "Reviewing the Situation."<br />
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In the afterglow of a musical well done, as the audience slowly moved into the foyer and out into hot summer night and and the shining streetlights to meet the actors (an enjoyable tradition that hopefully will last for many years to come), Leora Thomas of Salt Lake City walked to her car. "I'm really hooked on this theater, and it brings a lot of memories back to me. My husband was from Garfield. We come out quite often to see the plays here and we enjoy every one of them, which is fantastic!"</div>
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<i>Oliver!</i> runs through July 21, 2012. Visit the Empress Theater website for more information on the coming <i>Beauty and the Beast, Jr</i>.; <i>Hello, Dolly</i>; and <i>The Christmas Box</i> and many more. </div>
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<br /></div>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-72046862911720407672012-06-20T21:13:00.000-07:002012-06-21T22:16:47.689-07:00Suds, Spray, and Sandals<h2 style="text-align: center;">
The 2012 Miss Magna Scholarship Pageant Fundraiser </h2>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">We're Taking good girls and turning them into outstanding Women --</i><span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">Ryan Egbert, Pageant Director</span></b></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></div>
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Sunlight flashes off cars passing by, cars that might look a little dusty after nearly a month of no rain, cars that could use a wash. Air rises from baking parking lot asphalt. Water splashes from a hose. Buckets are filled. Sandaled feet shift as markers glide over poster board. "That's cute!" someone says, as ink dries nearly instantly in the warm breeze.<br />
Across the street, Magna's Main Street, a faded Lion's Club sign hangs from an old metal light post. To the west, the whitewashed Cyprus C shines proudly from Thead’s Peak. To the east, the ever-changing scene of business bustles near the Veteran's memorial, the distant Wasatch mountains as a backdrop. A lone seagull flies toward the Kennecott tailings dike, and, as a young woman steps out onto the sidewalk with her poster to spiritedly advertise the fundraiser car wash, Five Dollars! the first customer turns into the parking lot of ABS Body & Paint and leaves a twenty. <br />
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"It makes me feel good (to help)," says Sam Salisbury, owner ABS Body & Paint. "These
girls are sure working hard. They deserve every ounce of credit. I think they’re doing a real good job. Magna's kind of an economically
strapped community, so anything we can do to help them out. They need our support."</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsNx2nucBZuL-jSxz9uVv43PW9Ey_so_0_9byMwX-4SPYuHzPNOi6nMF7ZroEvAcjP8ewCF9tAJpM6LOrwCfJcWUK4c5rB2aKyOMfSsB24aK2Y59GyoStTnbkR_vQB4_ky0JzLvDJouxc/s1600/Sam+Salisbury.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsNx2nucBZuL-jSxz9uVv43PW9Ey_so_0_9byMwX-4SPYuHzPNOi6nMF7ZroEvAcjP8ewCF9tAJpM6LOrwCfJcWUK4c5rB2aKyOMfSsB24aK2Y59GyoStTnbkR_vQB4_ky0JzLvDJouxc/s320/Sam+Salisbury.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the bay behind Sam Salisbury (unseen in the photo) sits a work of art in progress, a '67 Camero Rally Sport, its body sand blasted and gray with epoxy primer, undergoing a "full restoration. Sam has been in business on Magna Main Street for over twelve years. </td></tr>
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No other event (except the Independence Day parade) has been as enduring in this community as the Miss Magna Scholarship Pageant. It's an historic event with generational roots and representation.On June 30, 2012, Magna will once again celebrate our outstanding young women in a scholarship pageant held in the Cyprus High School auditorium at 7:00 PM. Tickets will be $5.00 at the door. To help support the pageant and keep this wonderful tradition alive, please visit the following website and hit the "donate" button. Every little bit helps. <br />
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<a href="http://www.missmagnapageant.org/" target="_blank">http://www.missmagnapageant.org/</a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHor212pZvFc0-uQB-ooYFLRzbMqJA54j3vgfYTS3xTMy1WAuxrYm_2YQdRrq7wMm04kqNfRrctUIKAeSBnFZq_G4_kL_yPjh9XOwsexV-UqnS37_D4jvLn8ZvuiSQZWJb2VtsRtquiL0/s1600/Alexandria+Burt+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHor212pZvFc0-uQB-ooYFLRzbMqJA54j3vgfYTS3xTMy1WAuxrYm_2YQdRrq7wMm04kqNfRrctUIKAeSBnFZq_G4_kL_yPjh9XOwsexV-UqnS37_D4jvLn8ZvuiSQZWJb2VtsRtquiL0/s320/Alexandria+Burt+2.jpg" width="213" /></a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Across the valley, at the same time as the fundraiser, Alexandria Burt, the reigning Miss Magna 2011 prepared to compete in the final night of the Miss Utah competition.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqKz0nlOT7thF7adu2oTjGh2XQu-jHPC0Wh30gykqlqK9lS2Ff-Jvc25tbUHHWlTvwql3PyR3RyYACxRlzfBzXMk9eNs9FSBkDONm9REVAjAGgehLdK_dxrahCK7892Wy5XBghRwk4ww/s320/Alexandria+Burt.jpg" width="213" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <span id="yui_3_2_0_18_1340340744670196" style="color: #595959;">Erica New</span></td></tr>
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As an update: Magna is proud of Alexandria's strong and stellar performance at the Miss Utah pageant. She is a graduate of Cyprus High and lettered as a Spinnaker through her sophomore to senior years. She is currently a Freshman at the University of Utah, studying Strategic Communications and performing with their dance team. She has done an outstanding job representing this community. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Car Wash Fundraiser</b></span></div>
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All suds, spray, sandals, tank tops, shorts, and sunglasses, the
outstanding contestants of the Miss Magna 2012 Scholarship Pageant put
on the sunscreen and went to work. <br />
Introducing the ladies who will compete to represent Magna 2012:</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Kylie Lanktree</b></span></div>
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Being a part of the pageant has "changed" Kylie to be a "better person. Though a motivation for becoming a contestant was the scholarship, she said, "It's really more than just the money...It's getting me ready for life." <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Kelsey Hodges</span></b></div>
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Kelsey wants to "make a difference in the world." She loves to help people and is concerned about hunger in Utah. The pageant has helped her grow. "I’m not so shy
anymore. I’ve made some new friends. I’ve gotten out there and met new people, and got my face out there (to) let people know that beauty pageants aren’t just
a pretty face and anybody can be a title holder."<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Kyrsti Orvin</span></b></div>
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Kyrsti views the pageant as "life-changing fun." She credits the persuasion of her friends and Cyprus High School music director, Kerry Moore for helping her gain the confidence to join. "I can do things I thought I couldn’t. It’s helped me discover my talent
a little bit more...It will help me help other people." <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Brenda Rodriguez</b></span></div>
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For Brenda the pageant is, "having fun with my friends and enjoying the moment right now." She likes to "get into the history of Magna." She's concerned with "abuse against women." The pageant has taught her "to feel like I could do
anything. Like no one could put me down.I think it’s gonna help me by the lessons it taught me...like right now, work as a team. Everything’s a team. There’s no I in team. Like in work, if there’s an I
in team, then you’re not going to get along with your co-workers or your bosses."<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Brittany Kinder</b></span></div>
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Brittany, a former contestant for the Miss Magna 2011 pageant, has returned to share her passion. Last year it was "kids with cancer." This year it's "drug abuse...because I lost a friend recently." She feels the pageant is "definitely going to help me get, maybe, scholarships, help
me with college as well. And also it will help me be more open to charity."<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Marie Lucero</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVhN717lQzBNt0Edut2lVQANGuWgKKtqik6-zhdh3Rgcg8A07dz5s2eKV3XnCMqW228U4P3P04a8Kx49g6dEr3E4RSGoj4ZqmLXBoL2HdQO4sXZvkOsBaBJ7yi0gcrudi0bWHH5WVDXM/s1600/Marie+Lucero.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVhN717lQzBNt0Edut2lVQANGuWgKKtqik6-zhdh3Rgcg8A07dz5s2eKV3XnCMqW228U4P3P04a8Kx49g6dEr3E4RSGoj4ZqmLXBoL2HdQO4sXZvkOsBaBJ7yi0gcrudi0bWHH5WVDXM/s320/Marie+Lucero.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div>
Marie has also returned to run again this year. "Every year that I’ve done it, it’s made me keep on
going, and making me believe that I can do something that I never thought I
could do."<br />
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She wanted to do it "because a lot of people would
always say a lot of girls can’t do this because you have to be pretty, and you
have to be perfect, and I just wanted to prove to everybody that I could do
something like this, and let little girls look up to me and know that they can
do this, and it’s possible for anybody to do it, shape, size, anything." She wants to "give hope to all the breast cancer
survivors."<br />
The pageant has changed her to "become a better person and be able
to look at others and care for them more than I care about myself." </div>
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"I’m a part of
something big...that everybody will remember
and look back and be like, 'oh this person did this,' and that it makes me feel great."</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Mary "Marky" Johnson</span></b></div>
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For Mary, it's made her realize "what I can do for myself, like how I
raised the hundred dollars, and how I’m learning a talent, cus I’m gonna dance
for my talent, and I normally would never dance...When I get down to it, I practice and I practice, and I get better. It makes me have more confidence in myself." <br />
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The pageant has made her feel more involved in the community and achieve her goals. She feels it will help her with communication, like job interviews. It has strengthened her confidence. </div>
She is concerned about "funds for the arts in school." She's doing it "because there’s people in school that don’t
always necessarily fit in in the athletics and anything else like that. And
when they don’t have anything to do, then there’s nothing to motivate them to
stay involved."<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Cancace Finau</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD0aH_FEOcDIvPK8f5MEguXtDzKEcJ1pLyy2GAzfzNc9wON0H6MSnMRyaGe-9umdQnJV6tl0OjzwV1BQQ9iSao2xrPTlaW0lFbygI1THBu-fFrFsLeHlq7g9g2OXLtwj531ks3MQELh0/s1600/Candace+Finau.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD0aH_FEOcDIvPK8f5MEguXtDzKEcJ1pLyy2GAzfzNc9wON0H6MSnMRyaGe-9umdQnJV6tl0OjzwV1BQQ9iSao2xrPTlaW0lFbygI1THBu-fFrFsLeHlq7g9g2OXLtwj531ks3MQELh0/s320/Candace+Finau.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Candace feels the pageant is going to help her be more open with people. She credits it for helping her have the confidence to gain her recent employment at Target and meeting new friends. It has helped her grow and "realize that there’s
more to this world that people don’t see, and I feel like I can help make it a
better place."<br />
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To Candace, the pageant improves women, "makes us more responsible and helps us build up our standards. It will make me more confident with everything I do."</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Brianna Ekker</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2cURZzkgM5jMT2v-991UH-pJ6qEFRrF2vc7BkSQRaSg8ixB2U4dTAPJ0Y_jZnGKhJcYKjq8M421Ss_jbacnnC0SFRB9uipnd3PPyjaG0Ep9ggSMrlrJAG_wcsUs47LniX6RwNaseH36E/s1600/Brianna+Ekker.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2cURZzkgM5jMT2v-991UH-pJ6qEFRrF2vc7BkSQRaSg8ixB2U4dTAPJ0Y_jZnGKhJcYKjq8M421Ss_jbacnnC0SFRB9uipnd3PPyjaG0Ep9ggSMrlrJAG_wcsUs47LniX6RwNaseH36E/s320/Brianna+Ekker.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Brianna joined the pageant to gain more confidence in herself, "a good way to get out of my shell." She's excited to participate in "things that many great women have done." She's gained more confidence and credits the pageant for helping her "learn who I really am."<br />
She's concerned about "raising awareness against the signs of depression and suicide in young kids and teens."<br />
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<b>Contestants not present at fundraiser:</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Jill Cardenas</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Harlie Permain</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Brittney De St. Jeor</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Co-director Ryan Egbert </b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgujeVru-EzUjQg-ToqEkGF5tBT68UVvZy2vSE0Ml3v9WDUCugjH8Bwo6qX9a5vwWbFiguV2K-TzgkZWq3nZEwRJgwfMqlAkOQG7_Ld9ESI2ez5j-pPIShFiOjE06yb0ghcBx_DyKuHNmo/s1600/Ryan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgujeVru-EzUjQg-ToqEkGF5tBT68UVvZy2vSE0Ml3v9WDUCugjH8Bwo6qX9a5vwWbFiguV2K-TzgkZWq3nZEwRJgwfMqlAkOQG7_Ld9ESI2ez5j-pPIShFiOjE06yb0ghcBx_DyKuHNmo/s320/Ryan.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Co-director Ryan Egbert with the contestants. Bonnie Goble Egbert, Miss Magna '94, is not present in the photo. Bottom left is eleven-year-old volunteer and Ryan's niece, Noelle Goble. </td></tr>
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Ryan Egbert "got involved" with the pageant because his wife, co-director, Bonnie Egbert, is Miss Magna 1994, formerly Bonnie Goble. "It really made a huge difference in her life." </div>
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"There’s so much more to a beauty pageant," he says, "than what
people think. It’s truly a scholarship pageant. We’re trying to take good girls
and turn them into outstanding women. They have to learn amazing things. They
have to learn how to do public speaking. They have to be a leader. They have to
learn how to market. They have to market the Miss Magna pageant, to market
themselves.They have to have a talent that they can share. For a lot of them that’s been a tough one to develop and work on. And then they
have to learn how to hold themselves, how to walk, poise, etiquette. In the end it makes a
huge difference. That’s why my wife and I are willing to
sacrifice our time our energy our money and try and get this done here in Magna
for these girls, just make a difference."</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Dedication</b></span></div>
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Many great people have dedicated time, talents, energy, personal
funds, and much more to keep this important event alive and burning in
the hearts of the community, especially in recent years. So many
individuals deserve a special "thank you," including former Miss Magna
royalty and contestants who hold the pageant dear and continue to serve
and volunteer (and this is not excluding the many unsung heroes), Millie
Ellett, Stacie Kingdon Woolston, Natalee Johnston Stewart, Donnie
Sweazey, Starr Campbell, Dottie Alo, and Kathys Flower Shop, all deserving more than just a quick mention on a
list.<br />
One "unsung hero," in particular, will be remembered
with gratitude to the support he gave, especially during the tough times
and ups and downs in recent years. This good man understood the
importance the pageant holds to this great township, a man Magna will
always hold in dear memory for all his service: Norm Fitzgerald.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55eIBr15Cuulzcib-GyTAQnDPag15K21EKrr5oVOBefTI0uUhavJm43B8Smah-oxlXHTdJR-MH81w-o9VohKE2RC6tZDip8zGOgJrIvpxc83UQ4sI5g4sb9eT8E5qzqCmNPLnG7K6wak/s1600/Norm+Fitzgerald+Memorial2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55eIBr15Cuulzcib-GyTAQnDPag15K21EKrr5oVOBefTI0uUhavJm43B8Smah-oxlXHTdJR-MH81w-o9VohKE2RC6tZDip8zGOgJrIvpxc83UQ4sI5g4sb9eT8E5qzqCmNPLnG7K6wak/s320/Norm+Fitzgerald+Memorial2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Robert Goble, "Magna's writer," is the author of two novels, <i>A Winter Morning's Sun</i> and the award-winning <i>Across A Harvested Field</i>. His latest novel due to appear sometime in 2012 will be a dark, fantasy-horror titled <i>In Older Worlds</i>. </div>
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<br />Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com08491 W 2700 S, Magna, UT 84044, USA40.710742 -112.09423640.7092375 -112.09670349999999 40.712246500000006 -112.0917685tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-65291518995593290692012-06-10T16:10:00.000-07:002012-07-22T06:53:49.569-07:00Transit of Venus viewed from Skull Valley, Utah<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN9WqlMeYMYKA57oqigUDvIF7WXC8izWhfnwTMyz05Y6jdwKEuCZ4qTFgl5p0_qVAI-o-rrFk1drFtiGUAbV2Q84GottVxdqwEJCEdW-e6w5VY7NtIAZf3VyOJpwovjWtf_ZWvMCXujo/s1600/transit+of+venus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN9WqlMeYMYKA57oqigUDvIF7WXC8izWhfnwTMyz05Y6jdwKEuCZ4qTFgl5p0_qVAI-o-rrFk1drFtiGUAbV2Q84GottVxdqwEJCEdW-e6w5VY7NtIAZf3VyOJpwovjWtf_ZWvMCXujo/s320/transit+of+venus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of the Transit of Venus taken by David Jensen June 5, 2012 just off I-80 at the junction of Skull Valley Road--Lone Rock just in sight and the Goshute reservation not far away. The image was projected through a 1985 Celestron owned by Alex Hoppus. Notice the black dot on the upper left of the sun disk. The image being inverted on the cardboard, looking directly at the sun, the black dot would be on the upper right of the disk.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The traffic light turned red. I leaned forward and glanced up at the sky. I thought, of all the days a cold front could move into Utah, it had to be Tuesday, June 5, 2012. Throughout the work day I had occasionally glanced at the on-again-off-again sunlight as gusts of wind sometimes reached upwards of forty to fifty miles per hour. I gritted my teeth, thinking the damn storm could at least shed a drop over the dry Salt Lake valley, water my lawn, if was going to ruin my once-in-a-lifetime view of the transit of Venus over the sun.<br />
By 5:30 PM I was really in a state. The clouds had only gotten darker, moving fast from the northwest and hanging low over the Oquirrh Mountains. As I headed west on 4100 South, painful memories of the eclipse of July 11, 1991 came back in full force. I'll never forget the excitement as I waited for the umbra to pass directly over Atizapan de Zaragoza, Mexico, just northwest of Mexico City. In fact, I remember squinting up at the sky all that morning with butterflies knowing I would finally experience a total eclipse--the only other solar eclipse I'd witnessed was a partial view of the eclipse of '84 out on the school grounds of Kennedy Junior High in West Valley City, Utah, as a spot inside a crude pinhole camera made from a box.<br />
The rainy season in Mexico had calmed a little, so I had hope that the sky would be clear long enough to witness it. My hopes were quickly dashed as, through the smog, I began to discern approaching thunderheads. I was walking somewhere along the Adolfo Lopez Mateos highway, just before it turns into the Adolfo Ruiz Cortines highway (for no other apparent reason than it turns and takes you to different neighborhoods, but such are the streets of Mexico) when I looked up through the rapidly approaching clouds and the thick cover of smog and I saw the moon begin to take a bite out of the disk of the sun. I was thrilled--until the the thunderstorm wiped out my gorgeous view and extinguished all my excitement. To make things worse, I found myself caught in one of the worst hail storms the locals claimed they had ever seen. For a while the day turned to night, except for the horizon in all directions that could be seen, and I knew the great celestial dance of shadows was taking place directly over my head. Shell shocked by lightning, frozen by the curtains of rain and hail (icy at 7400 feet above sea level), I ran to the closest shelter I could find: a garishly painted doorway, and I watched as the brief, strange night, under the pounding storm, became day again. It was over long before the storm passed.<br />
So in the afternoon of June 5, 2012, I found myself trying not to speed along 4100 South (the slowpoke ahead of me made that far easier), reliving my Mexican disappointments, and looking for sunshine and hint of sky on the western horizon somewhere beyond the Great Salt Lake, which I eventually saw. A rabid sort of hope returned as I decided west, somewhere along I-80, was where I needed to go.<br />
I arrived home in time to grab my eleven-year-old daughter, Noelle (I still can't figure out why my wife didn't want to go), trade the car for the minivan, and head out like an explorer into unknown territory with no guarantee I would see what I hoped to see.<br />
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The following link is to a diagram of the transit:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://thewatchers.adorraeli.com/2012/05/05/venus-transit-of-2012-will-not-be-seen-again-until-2117/" target="_blank">http://thewatchers.adorraeli.com/2012/05/05/venus-transit-of-2012-will-not-be-seen-again-until-2117/</a></div>
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My daughter and I talked about the orbit of Venus and how, from our perspective, humanity is only able to see the planet Venus pass between the earth and the sun twice every century, the last event being June 8, 2004. Before that it was December of 1882, when Chester Arthur was the president of the United States, and Thomas Edison had strung the first electric Christmas tree lights. I think she began to understand the significance of what we hoped to see and seemed to become more excited as we passed through the small canyon created by the north end of the Oquirrh Mountain range and the Kennecott tailings pond that had taken over a century to build. I told her that in past generations, those who once traveled along the old trail (that's now highway 201) could simply look to the north and have a great view of the Great Salt Lake and its islands, the most famous being Antelope Island. Wagon trains had once passed along that route on their way to California. Goshute Indians had hunted and camped along the the abundant marshes and freshwater springs (now crushed under a mountain moved by man) for centuries.<br />
We crested the hill and passed the site of the town of Garfield, which had been both built and removed by Kennecott--some of those houses were moved by truck bed and still stand in Magna, West Valley City (formerly Hunter and Granger), and other areas. As we passed, we saw (under construction) Kennecott's new Molybdenum Autoclave Process Facility rising over the ghosts of the past.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1-PL7PQarqH6g_hG4IFhwikpOE2CsvbkQ3xLHxeqkMIpgjhAuw0fJXgEf7bhtLjTAK3RDTZZJo8vnCTwTTk0sIT9NyyQtcZaTo_5FkmR7cDmH_cmNUSSDO39eD0HWj6l-rP_aKTVkT0/s1600/U+pictures+518.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1-PL7PQarqH6g_hG4IFhwikpOE2CsvbkQ3xLHxeqkMIpgjhAuw0fJXgEf7bhtLjTAK3RDTZZJo8vnCTwTTk0sIT9NyyQtcZaTo_5FkmR7cDmH_cmNUSSDO39eD0HWj6l-rP_aKTVkT0/s320/U+pictures+518.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garfield, Utah, looking north from the Oquirrh Mountains. The dike that holds in the tailings pond rises in the background. Just below it would be the old Lincoln Highway. Beyond it is the Great Salt Lake and Antelope Island. Photographer unknown. Photo possibly taken circa 1940.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgtaKpkrFle0EjAU9C5mNGREfEAKxGt5ahrMJEgVnBs0fymeVQ3oGYVKjYUywrJcjoY5J0W8cpk4g-ghHMUA_-o68jBo0qw21HbwGhp-EHiSbXxnUL666jRBXh1-QmgelSBAgpiGP4M0/s1600/U+pictures+246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgtaKpkrFle0EjAU9C5mNGREfEAKxGt5ahrMJEgVnBs0fymeVQ3oGYVKjYUywrJcjoY5J0W8cpk4g-ghHMUA_-o68jBo0qw21HbwGhp-EHiSbXxnUL666jRBXh1-QmgelSBAgpiGP4M0/s320/U+pictures+246.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A different view of Garfield from the north (the unknown photographer probably standing on the dike) looking south. The Oquirrh Mountains rise over the town. One interesting feature is the large rock outcropping on the hill. It's hard to see in the photo, a cave overlooking the town, but not the famous Dead Man's Cave.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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After passing Black Rock, we reached Lake Point. At that moment I was disappointed that the thick clouds continued on well over the Stansbury Mountains on the west side of the Tooele Valley. I had hoped to be able to stop at one of our favorite spots on the foothills of Lake Point. We took the turn-off to I-80 and continued west. The air had turned cold and the wind had died down. Finally, somewhere north of Grantsville, salt crusting the edge of the water filled the spaces between the highway and the railroad, the sun broke through the clouds. "Quick! Hand me the lens," I said to my daughter. She took one of my grandpa's old welding lenses out out of its envelope, handed it to me, and I briefly looked through it at the sun. I felt a knot of excitement as I immediately spied a tiny dot on the right of the disk. "Look!" I said, and handed her the lens. "Wow!" she said. "I see it!"<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkiLrc73SOiMzi2UiWdeAsJoZJHXBbSzVJ4JuF4-0uMgvGtN2zZvolsUqTJ3NlIqGP0WVC3d7XmnY-G2uWg7Mc5BXhWpyVYsIdY9xK1QTXEEPMsNU6g8Ji8gZnLZ1aPIMbZL3btLlLsHw/s1600/kat+paulson+venus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkiLrc73SOiMzi2UiWdeAsJoZJHXBbSzVJ4JuF4-0uMgvGtN2zZvolsUqTJ3NlIqGP0WVC3d7XmnY-G2uWg7Mc5BXhWpyVYsIdY9xK1QTXEEPMsNU6g8Ji8gZnLZ1aPIMbZL3btLlLsHw/s320/kat+paulson+venus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Kat Paulson June 5, 2012</td></tr>
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The moment didn't last long as another band of clouds blocked our view. My daughter, with disappointment, slipped the lens back into its envelope. I was determined to to see the event all the way to sunset, and looking west, I knew we would be able to. We continued on past Stansbury Island. Another patch of sunlight shined down in bright rays over the mountains and distant highway ahead, but it wasn't enough. I wanted the clear break in the storm that I could see over the west desert. I was willing to drive to Wendover if I had to. <br />
We got our break as we reached Exit 77 along I-80, the old Skull Valley Road that led to the military facilities at Dugway, Isopea (now a ghost town), and the Goshute Reservation. I was thrilled to see the sun, unobstructed, shine over the desert, and a not to distant Lone Rock casting its shadow. We turned and arrived at the site where the old Teddy Bear's Truck Stop used to stand. I was disappointed that the old building and sign had recently been torn down. It had been a landmark as long as I could remember. <br />
Dave Beedon, a photographer, had taken a photo of Teddy Bear's Truck Stop in 2004, not many
years before it was torn down. The photo looks east toward the
Stansbury Mountains. We stood on this site, now nothing more than
gravel, weeds and slabs of concrete, looking into the western sky.<br />
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Link to Dave Beedon's photography:</div>
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<a href="http://www.pbase.com/listorama/pl_ut_timpie">http://www.pbase.com/listorama/pl_ut_timpie</a></div>
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A small group of people had gathered at that same spot, some of them pointing telescopes at the sun, among them were David Jensen and his son, who provided the first picture shown in the blog; Alex Hoppus, around whose 1985 Celestron everyone was gathering; Steve Dupaix and his son and their Maksatuov-Cassegraine mirror telescope, through which we could clearly see the many sun spots--several more of his family arrived later, still able to witness the event; and Kelly Jones and her nieces, who had "chased the sun" as we had. <br />
This group of complete strangers stood together, watching and sharing and conversing and storytelling and mingling for hours as Venus slowly passed over the sun, and as our tiny spot on the earth slowly, inexorably, turned away. But we all had time to witness it. We had time to enjoy it and soak it in and make memories and say to future generations, "We were there. We had seen it. We understood it. We marveled at it. Take time to enjoy it when it's your turn. Maybe you'll think of us as we think of you, standing where we once stood under God's marvelous celestial engine of time and place.<br />
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<br />Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0Skull Valley Rd, Dugway, UT 84022, USA40.735291285346761 -112.6544952392578140.711227785346765 -112.69397723925782 40.759354785346758 -112.61501323925781tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-85656326851628199002012-05-21T08:47:00.001-07:002012-07-22T06:21:49.696-07:00Annular Eclipse Sunday, May 20, 2012 Kanarraville, Utah, USA<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqf2pz7TYEK0uA9V_dk5XTdeCNoYgRa7r5SsUaVkQ44PqWOXhhaTxZNZDRu3z-HWMifJqwCgpXHV6l7nRvRmYaEHjRBJbJBwYzOVxyL0qhqBh0B82P5Jv99fAxvy7g0oIeZvPE2O5C2hI/s1600/101_4868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqf2pz7TYEK0uA9V_dk5XTdeCNoYgRa7r5SsUaVkQ44PqWOXhhaTxZNZDRu3z-HWMifJqwCgpXHV6l7nRvRmYaEHjRBJbJBwYzOVxyL0qhqBh0B82P5Jv99fAxvy7g0oIeZvPE2O5C2hI/s320/101_4868.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br />
My wife, Betsy, and I looking through my grandfather's old welding lenses. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKcDoEV0JeJfdFKW7H-_rRYU8uXp4a8-tejKqXyc7bekkOg8jY8oV8hiAhDqapzGsi4pVrmR7r6bRWalp42Cv6f5a52sJG90SHKI2ACJ-62i6WFqIdjeV7s3cXxOrANAlJ4OUZrJv640/s1600/kat+paulson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKcDoEV0JeJfdFKW7H-_rRYU8uXp4a8-tejKqXyc7bekkOg8jY8oV8hiAhDqapzGsi4pVrmR7r6bRWalp42Cv6f5a52sJG90SHKI2ACJ-62i6WFqIdjeV7s3cXxOrANAlJ4OUZrJv640/s320/kat+paulson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo taken at close to the same time at Kanarraville, UT by Kat Paulson. The image we saw through my grandfather's welding lenses had a
greenish tint, but as Kat Paulson, we also stood directly in the umbra
to see a perfect "ring of fire." The word penumbra is a combination of two Latin words <i>paene:</i> almost, and <i>umbra</i>:
shadow--think of the words umbrella or umbrage. The Umbra is an inverted cone of shadow, the larger end starting at the moon, the smaller, ending at the earth, or the
spot where the complete "ring of fire" can be seen. This cone passed
over parts of China, Japan, the Pacific Ocean, and the western United
States. It passed directly over Kanarraville, Utah. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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<br />
Though my radio was broken, I tapped my hands on the steering wheel and sang "Snow (Hey Oh)" by The Red Hot Chili Peppers. (I put in the link to add the song that was in my head most of the day. Listen to it as you read this, and maybe you'll share some of the same vibes.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1R_tvdXX6Y">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1R_tvdXX6Y</a> </div>
<br />
The van was filled with the spirit of fun. My kids laughed and teased, and, as we passed Utah Lake, I tried to tell them the history of the first Europeans to see the Lake, Friars Francisco Atanasio Dominguez and Silvestre Velez de Escalante and their small expedition. I tried to get my kids to imagine the Timpanogos Utes, who lived around the lake, and what the Timpanogos might of thought their strange visitors. I pointed out Spanish Fork Canyon where the expedition came into the valley and asked my kids to try and imagine no freeway, subdivisions, industrial parks, but lush wetlands and riparian ecosystems cutting through the vast sagebrush-covered rises and foothills. Imagine the Ute people fishing at the lake shore and hunting in the marshes and gathering the abundant roots and plants and seeds. I wondered if it wouldn't be fitting to call Utah lake, Lake Timpanogos as the Utes had called it. Then again, "Utah" is in honor of the Ute-speaking peoples who had called that land home--and do so today. Still, it was the Spanish that called these people the "Yuta" people. If they call themselves "Nuchu," shouldn't we do the same?<br />
<br />
My thoughts all seemed to sync with the feeling of time and history passing under a grand celestial clockwork. The sun was a little past its apex in the sky, and I knew somewhere hidden behind the shining, blue atmosphere, the moon followed its ancient course and would soon be casting its shadow over the western United States and, particularly, a little town called Kanarraville, Utah, which, to me, at that point, was merely a dot on the road atlas tucked behind my water bottle, a bag of dried cranberries, and the Pringles my kids loved to munch on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6svcWypSqmOQ1_Za_PSzmZUhWEmIlOS6PX3vPKXUotw4YUfXigJyJpuhWz04-7DTyZ69kHsudJxCVEBxS0ZOghhcP9kkLGR8cK39mbkEd9B7fgcRcP1Ytw5eqFQeDU_wBE511HFJUKU/s1600/Bennion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6svcWypSqmOQ1_Za_PSzmZUhWEmIlOS6PX3vPKXUotw4YUfXigJyJpuhWz04-7DTyZ69kHsudJxCVEBxS0ZOghhcP9kkLGR8cK39mbkEd9B7fgcRcP1Ytw5eqFQeDU_wBE511HFJUKU/s320/Bennion.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bennion Gardner from Magna, Utah was in Cedar City, just nine miles north of where we were when he took these photos by simply using a special pair of glasses as a light filter. Notice the difference between the photos taken in California above. Bennion was in the direct path of the umbra, seeing what we were seeing. </td></tr>
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Friday afternoon, at the last minute after work, I went to the Clark Planetarium to pick up some special glasses to view the eclipse. I was already in an awful mood (with the added aggravation of trying to navigate through Salt Lake traffic and find a parking place) as I walked up to the desk. A girl, probably with an attitude as wicked as mine, had rudely taped a sign to her shirt saying something to the effect of "<b>We are out of eclipse glasses!</b>" which only made me want to as her if she had any and where I could get them. But I didn't. I turned and left and regretted having passed on such a funny impulse. Luckily, on the highway, with the Oquirrh Mountains before me still fresh and green from rain earlier that day, I remembered a box of welding equipment my grandfather had left behind many years ago. I still had it in the basement. I thought I had seen some dark welding lenses. Sure enough I was right. They were the perfect tint. I tried them out standing in my back yard and looking up at the sun. They were so dark I feared the perfect green circle I saw might have been too dim, but they worked out just fine. I had enough for everyone to pass around and enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime event. Those lenses in their brittle paper pouches had to be fifty years old or older. My grandfather had retired as a welder at the Arthur Mill at Kennicott in Magna back in 1976--I remember trying to pick at his retirement cake at the party and getting shooed away. Who would have thought his grandchildren and great-grandchildren would be using those lenses to see an annular eclipse? Thanks, Grandpa.<br />
<br />
We left Utah valley, following I-15 past Mount Nebo that overlooked the small city of Nephi--the city where my grandfather was born and raised, and onward toward Cedar City and the little town of Kanarraville just a few miles south. The terrain and geology slowly changed. We left behind the valleys where the ancient Lake Bonneville had left its mark some 40,000 years ago in the high foothills--a long, steady shoreline covered in scrub oak and grasses. Cedar trees took over the valleys and mountains that run along the edge of the Great Basin that I seemed to feel stretching thousands of square miles to the west. I thought of the Payute people and the more ancient Freemont Indians who had gazed upon those same cedar trees, mountains, and valley's and had loved them. I remembered my grandpa telling me of the pottery and arrowheads the farmers used to plow up as they turned sagebrush hunting grounds into irrigated fields.<br />
<br />
The closer we got to Cedar City the more the relatively new volcanic characteristics of the terrain became apparent. The Wasatch mountain range gave way to the Pahvant and Tushar ranges. Hundreds of millions of years ago an ancient sea had covered much of the western United States. As the North American tectonic plates moved, stretched and compressed, mountain ranges and valleys were formed. What was once seabed had become mountain peaks. Not more than a few million years ago, central and southeastern Utah had been a hotspot for volcanic activity. I kept my eyes open for the ancient cinder cones and basalt flows along I-15 in Millard county. I never cease to be excited when I can see where newer lava flows and ash cover the more ancient rock beneath. It's most apparent were the ground had been cut and blasted to make way for the freeway. <br />
<br />
We finally reached Kanarraville and found a dirt road that took us into the eastern foothills. We parked in the shade of a cedar tree, took out our folding chairs, and put them in the shade among the sagebrush and tuff and andesite boulders that dotted the hillside--more testament to the relatively recent (in geologic reckoning) volcanic activity of central-southern Utah. It was still early in the afternoon, so we took out the cooler, made sandwiches, and talked about coyotes, mountain lions, and rattle snakes. I relaxed and breathed the fresh air tinted with sagebrush and cedar. We took turns looking up at the sun through the lens, until finally, at around 6:40 PM, I stood and saw the edge of the moon, a dark disk, begin to take a bite out of the sun. We were riding the earth into the moon's penumbra. What was more exciting was that we were in the right place (and time), that tiny point on the earth where we would pass under the moon's umbra, and because the moon was at it's apogee (greatest distance from earth) the eclipse wouldn't be total, but would only cover most of the sun, creating the "ring of fire" effect, hence "annular" from the Latin <i>annulus</i>, or ring.<br />
<br />
The moon travels around the earth in an ellipsis. Its orbit isn't a perfect circle, so when the moon is at its closest distance, about 221,473 miles away, we call it the lunar perigee. On May 5th of this year the moon was at its perigee, so we experienced a "super moon." You could visibly tell it was closer. Sunday, May 20th, the moon was at its apogee, about 252,722 miles away from the earth.<br />
<br />
At the moment the move moved into position over the sun, the quality of light became strange and dim. The color of the sky above us turned a shiny, steely gray-blue, and the shadows changed. Though we purposely tried to avoid the large crowds along the highway and filling town, we heard a rising roar of voices and applause. A feeling came over me that I was seeing something special, and I quickly made sure each of my kids, Tara, Noelle, and Charlie, had their lenses. My sister, Bonnie, and her son David were also with us. We shared that moment and I felt a profound satisfaction that we had made the effort to take such a long and successful trip to witness this once-in-a-lifetime event.<br />
<br />
While we watched and cheered and marveled, my daughter pointed out a little jackrabbit that had come out of the brush into the road close by. It sat as transfixed as we were, facing the sun, and I wondered if it had come out because of the strange light and the roaring, distant voices, to marvel as we did at that wonderful moment. <br />
<small> </small><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhR-QN6AA-WLtM27P2qdfH7yKPQDqpq2eW1XsFzSSA58rjQndinL53z9gUkwMd-yI6L1QUbuZ1-rgy-2YF4K1Rbtxj4Q9q_Mz2L_l_O5as30eFwRijrS87G2e6Wf_HkQ1pHpnQpx6HZ5w/s1600/101_4890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhR-QN6AA-WLtM27P2qdfH7yKPQDqpq2eW1XsFzSSA58rjQndinL53z9gUkwMd-yI6L1QUbuZ1-rgy-2YF4K1Rbtxj4Q9q_Mz2L_l_O5as30eFwRijrS87G2e6Wf_HkQ1pHpnQpx6HZ5w/s320/101_4890.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The eclipse created strange light effects. Look at the double shadow of my daughter cast over the dirt road. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iJ3TjjlvMoydNKHhXHpcPuA5eN8MVZEuvpx4vdloy9_-trSQmVT4MFTd2eisbIyud7LQ3VZsMvpqt_F74J8b1RnpxdLhtM3VMmGhZCvAeqSH07mH-bJN4fbwm3Fq_6DDuFQN-w2Gpsw/s1600/101_4896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iJ3TjjlvMoydNKHhXHpcPuA5eN8MVZEuvpx4vdloy9_-trSQmVT4MFTd2eisbIyud7LQ3VZsMvpqt_F74J8b1RnpxdLhtM3VMmGhZCvAeqSH07mH-bJN4fbwm3Fq_6DDuFQN-w2Gpsw/s320/101_4896.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The spaces in the cedar trees became tiny pinhole cameras, casting hundreds of inverted images of rings over the road. This is the same effect that is created when you put a punch a hole in a box and point the hole toward the sun. The light will cast a tiny inverted image of the sun onto a flat, smooth surface. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTRScR5QsYOlx99PXGRDzg8Ea6ICKOMfcTeHFwDJhLlXStFxMsXhVxryyVG6IkrxFghqQd0W9dYz0aMu2AQq1IhrMHAwq1BSgVPuBAUYASK9ckVxRGF1wezlnwwpKD8-4uu3tZjw04dg/s1600/101_4905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTRScR5QsYOlx99PXGRDzg8Ea6ICKOMfcTeHFwDJhLlXStFxMsXhVxryyVG6IkrxFghqQd0W9dYz0aMu2AQq1IhrMHAwq1BSgVPuBAUYASK9ckVxRGF1wezlnwwpKD8-4uu3tZjw04dg/s320/101_4905.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More of those tiny, inverted rings shining on the van door. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3snQCC1aLj__lfaTGtGJGMmH6mRCfIN0Ti40al5u13o0LBJZpTADJRhqsh_7o843qk7ceSpDOSZ94jOebjQ5Ct7VC9taaLc6GmFzMXXvjqVEMmZSkQi9HJP-q8yOtCP6wgW8mi9qT2ac/s1600/101_4893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3snQCC1aLj__lfaTGtGJGMmH6mRCfIN0Ti40al5u13o0LBJZpTADJRhqsh_7o843qk7ceSpDOSZ94jOebjQ5Ct7VC9taaLc6GmFzMXXvjqVEMmZSkQi9HJP-q8yOtCP6wgW8mi9qT2ac/s320/101_4893.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here was at the moment the moon moved into position over the sun, creating the "ring of fire." Even that diminished light was too much for my daughter's little camera. Too bad we didn't have a better camera with one of those expensive filters! We tried to use the lenses, but it wouldn't work. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As the event waned, and the sun began to brighten, I couldn't help but think of a quote by Carl Sagan:<br />
"How is it that hardly any major religion has looked at science and concluded, 'this is better than we thought! The Universe is much bigger than our prophets said, grander, more subtle, more elegant?' Instead they say, 'No, no, no! My god is a little god, and I want him to stay that way.' A religion, old or new, that stressed the magnificence of the Universe as revealed by modern science might be able to draw forth reserves of reverence and awe hardly tapped by the conventional faiths.' --<i>Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space </i><br />
<br />
Carl, could you have been there with me, a religious mind and soul, at that moment, and shared that moment with me mind to mind, you would have understood when my heart cried out to the grand organizer, architect, and creator: "How great thou art!"Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com01-99 N 100 W St, Kanarraville, UT 84742, USA37.5388676 -113.184116631.0984611 -123.2915386 43.979274100000005 -103.0766946tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-46697547701496672702012-04-29T19:40:00.000-07:002012-04-29T20:36:00.402-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQrPV77B2wDPN3lgp-ddWtYQOsuJSuN_UpS_gDb8pI9y4ARZLEL7bZ6i8w3D1SF1LON4F6SKOYD92Zffx9yJa3oyhsq_7r2lSXdUx69dRICHfDXGMXtB65whzMHb5O03Hukg3kkwu-hc/s1600/Dutcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQrPV77B2wDPN3lgp-ddWtYQOsuJSuN_UpS_gDb8pI9y4ARZLEL7bZ6i8w3D1SF1LON4F6SKOYD92Zffx9yJa3oyhsq_7r2lSXdUx69dRICHfDXGMXtB65whzMHb5O03Hukg3kkwu-hc/s1600/Dutcher.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Dutcher’s Howl</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> I remember physically flinching when I read Ginsberg’s “Howl.”
My breathing changed, my heartbeat quickened, and as much as I wanted to
greedily dive into the feast of language, Ginsberg didn’t let me take freely.
Like Aladdin’s booby trapped cave of wonders, distracting treasures hid
dangerous things that couldn’t be taken without also taking the inevitable
consequences, only there was no redeeming Jinni in the end.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> As I read the
poem, I perceived a story of deeply religious yearning and faith wasting,
desiccating over the sterile, barren ground of existential despair and a
wasteland of shattered American ideals: “and
blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma
sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> I heard the
same cry, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani” in Richard Dutcher’s film, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Falling</i>. “My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> At the April
27<sup>th</sup> “premier” (though originally released January 18<sup>th</sup>
2008 and brought “out of the vault” four years later) at the Broadway Centre
Theatre in Salt Lake City, I watched and listened carefully, trying to
understand why he would say this film was “my most personal, most favorite, why
I became a filmmaker.” If I were to understand that he also might mean this was
his best, I would have to agree—though I don’t ignore the beauty, depth and
sheer art in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God’s Army</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brigham
City</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">States
of Grace</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> The story
centers on Eric Boyle (director/actor Richard Dutcher), an aspiring scriptwriter
and filmmaker who struggles to make ends meet chasing and competing for footage
of police scanner tragedies on the streets of Los Angeles. His wife (Davey Boyle) Virginia Reece is an
aspiring actress who “wants to be a star more than anything…the biggest <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fucking</i> star in the whole world!” and is
willing to do anything to get there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Falling</i> isn’t the first falling-from-grace
movie where the protagonist suffers a profound disillusionment and loss of
faith in long held ideals, setting him on a journey to tragedy or personal
destruction. Some say it’s a deep movie but don’t venture to go any further in
explaining why. To understand what might make it unique and set it apart from
other movies of the same subgenre one would have to have a little deeper glimpse
into the Mormon mind and heart.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Eric Boyle
profits on other’s suffering. He witnesses the agony of physical trauma and
can’t ignore the mental, spiritual and emotional devastation that comes with
it. He’s well aware that his films contribute to a twisted form of passive
entertainment for a corrupt American society—a business his best friend and
coworker had died for, leaving behind a grieving widow and a little boy. For a
“latter day saint,” a modern disciple of Christ, in spite of his “inactivity,”
conflict is inevitable on many levels—which in no way ignores but recognizes and
seeks to enhance the common human sympathy any person would or should (ideally)
feel for another regardless of religion, culture etc. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">The Book of Mormon is very specific
about the covenants a person makes at baptism. If a person is</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span>“…desirous to come into the fold of
God, and to be called his people, and are willing to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">bear one another’s burdens</b>, that they may be light;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Yea, and are to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">mourn with those that mourn</b>; yea, and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">comfort those that stand in need of comfort</b>,
and to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">stand as witnesses of God at all
times and in all things, and in all places</b> that ye may be in, even until
death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first
resurrection, that ye may have eternal life—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Now I say unto
you, if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized
in the name of the Lord, as a witness before him that ye have entered into a
covenant with him, that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ye will serve
him and keep his commandments</b>, that he may pour out his Spirit more
abundantly upon you?” (Mosiah 18:8-10)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Boyle would see himself exploiting
others for gain, violating those basic covenants he had once cherished and even
taught to others as a missionary. He wouldn’t be able to maintain an existence
with one foot in “Zion”
and the other in the “world.” Eventually he would have to choose. He would have
to repent, which would mean leaving behind his cash cow, or he would have to
embrace the exploitation of others, callusing over his guilt by saying to
himself it’s all hypocrisy anyway. The world is what it is. That’s reality.
Therefore it all must be a lie. It’s time to grow up and put aside innocent,
childish ideals and live in the real world. The crisis moment would be very
painful. A walk back to the savior would seem far longer than to simply embrace
what he truly loves. To turn back would be to lie to himself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No servant can
serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else
he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and
mammon.” (Luke 16:13)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Another major compromise comes along
when he takes a screenplay he’d dedicated months to perfect to a sleazy movie
producer. With bikini-clad women in the background, the producer dismisses the
screenplay and starts into a speech saying, if he wanted “raw and violent,” he’d
“get Tarantino and Scorsese.” He wanted Boyle to give him something he’d “never
seen before.” He wanted to be “shocked” and “offended.” Shock the people, then
“they’ll remember your name.” Boyle couldn’t just show blood and broken bones,
he had to expose the “marrow” in the bones. “…rape and kill a kid, then I’ll
give you some money.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Not long after a new scene shows
Boyle typing the title of a new screenplay: “Marrow.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
"We believe
in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, <br />
and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow <br />
the admonition of Paul - We believe all things, we hope all things, <br />
we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all <br />
things. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">If there is anything virtuous,
lovely, or of good report or <br />
praiseworthy, we seek after these things</b>." (Joseph Smith, 13<sup>th</sup>
article of faith)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">The major realization he’d come to a
crossroads is when he witnesses a murder he had the power to stop. Instead of
reaching for the gun his boss had given him, he grabs his camera. The night the
footage airs on the news, footage he was paid twenty thousand dollars for, he
stays up late reflecting on his childhood, looking at a photo of himself as a
young, innocent, idealistic boy. He reflects on his days as a missionary (Here
flash scenes from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God’s Army</i>.)
baptizing people he’d taught the gospel of Jesus Christ to, believing in the righteousness
of his service to God, and probably taking great joy and comfort in his
personal relationship with his savior. Turning to his increasingly distant wife
for comfort, he sheds tears. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m so far off. I’m falling,” he
says. Davey reminds him of the twenty thousand dollars he’d made. He went on,
saying, “I used to be such a different person. I used to pray. I don’t even
pray anymore. I used to be a missionary.” He admits he could have helped the
man who’d been murdered. When he says, “We’re not supposed to be like this; I’m
not supposed to be like this,” she changes her attitude and coldly leaves him
to grieve alone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">The story has enough background on Boyle’s
life for the audience to see he hasn’t been completely faithful to his life’s
mission as a “latter day saint.” He still follows some of the notable outward
expressions of faith, such as keeping the Word of Wisdom by not drinking
alcohol, but it’s become clear by his own choices he’s brought himself to this
crisis of faith. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">What’s seems not to be quite clear is
if he had married another faithful latter day saint. The night he turned to her
in tears, he said, “You wouldn’t understand.” It’s common for a member of the
church to seek, if possible, to be “sealed” to his or her spouse by special
authority for time and all eternity in the temple. Ideally, this would assume
that both the man and the woman had been faithful to their baptismal covenants,
especially being committed to being chaste before hand, meaning they abstained
from sexual relations until after the marriage ceremony. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“<span class="dominant">The first commandment</span> that God gave to Adam and Eve
pertained to their potential for parenthood as husband and wife. We declare
that God’s commandment for His children to multiply and replenish the earth
remains in force. We further declare that God has commanded that the sacred powers
of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded
as husband and wife.” (The Family: A Proclamation to the World)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">While Boyle is off compromising his
faith and standards to pursue his big, worldly, dreams, recording a murder he
could have stopped, Davey is pursuing big, worldly dreams of her own. She wants
to be a movie star. Her moment comes when she’s called in to audition for an
independent film that would require nudity and sex scenes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="dominant">“The family</span> is ordained of God. Marriage between man and
woman is essential to His eternal plan. Children are entitled to birth within
the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother who honor
marital vows with complete fidelity. Happiness in family life is most likely to
be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ.” (The
Family: A Proclamation to the World)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">She is called in to stand before the
camera and read some lines. “You’re fantastic! You don’t have to read again,”
says one of the men behind the camera. Davey beams. Then comes the left hook; they
want to see how she looks without her clothes on before they “make a final
decision.” She begins by unbuttoning her shirt. The scene switches to the rapt,
almost salivating men behind the camera—not failing to mention the woman
authoritatively telling her to remove her underwear and turn around. Davey’s on
the verge of crying. “She’s perfect,” they say. “Like the girl next door.” The
scene switches to a moment with her alone in the dressing room in tears. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Jerry, probably the director, follows
her out the door. “Davey! You got it! They love you! You got the part!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Celebrating, she throws her arms
around him…and kisses him passionately on the lips. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">A profound, reoccurring symbolism
takes place in the form of the appearances of young boys. The first is when
Boyle arrives at the scene of a jumper/suicide. He watches a woman reporter
coax a small boy through the crowd gathering around the smashed and
blood-spattered body. She signals the camera man to record, sensationalizing
the moment the sheet is lifted and the mess is exposed to the boy, who, up
until that moment, had probably been innocent of such tragedy and death. She
exploits his shock and terror.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Another scene is after Boyle records
the murder, he’s shaken and becomes reflective. He sees a Jewish father
tenderly spending time with his son. Boyle seems to long for a child of his
own, for his family to grow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">When Boyle goes back to visit the
widow and son of his best friend who’d been killed on the job, he takes the son
on an outing for the day. They pass the time at the Los Angeles temple grounds, scattering birds
and picnicking in the beautiful gardens. The moment is sweet and seems to
illustrate a return to the peace and safety of the innocence Boyle had
cherished but forgotten. They pause before a statue of Christ, a reproduction
of the famous Christus statue, originally crafted in 1821 by the Danish
sculptor, Bertel Thorvaldsen, a statue that has become an important symbol of
the resurrected savior for the Mormon faith. A sister missionary reads the
following scripture:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Come unto me, all
<span class="clarityword">ye</span> that labour and are heavy laden, and I will
give you rest.<span class="verse"> </span>Take my yoke upon you, and learn of
me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.<span class="verse"> </span>For my yoke <span class="clarityword">is easy</span>,
and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">This scene seems to give hope for
Boyle, that his heart has been broken, and perhaps he might repent and turn to
the savior for rest from his trouble heart. Unbeknownst to him the murderers
he’d captured on camera are pursuing him, brutally tracking him down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">When he returns home, he accidentally
spills the contents of a broken garbage bag and discovers his wife’s pregnancy
test. He sees she’d tested positive. His joy increases as he believes he’s
about to become a father. For a Latter Day Saint, that means something deeply
sacred and profound. It means he will be taking part in the great eternal plan,
that he will have posterity in the Lord, posterity that won’t end but continue
on through the eternities. That tiny baby means everything, a deeply sacred
hope. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And again, verily
I say unto you, if a man marry a wife by my word, which is my law, and by the
new and everlasting covenant, and it is sealed unto them by the Holy Spirit of
promise…in time, and through all eternity; and shall be of full force when they
are out of the world; and they shall pass by…to their exaltation and glory in
all things, as hath been sealed upon their heads, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">which glory shall be a fulness and a continuation of the seeds forever
and ever</b>.” (Doctrine and Covenants 132:9)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="dominant">“We declare</span>
the means by which mortal life is created to be divinely appointed. We affirm
the sanctity of life and of its importance in God’s eternal plan.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="dominant">Husband and
wife</span> have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and
for their children. “Children are an heritage of the Lord” (Psalm 127:3)…” (The Family: A
Proclamation to the World)<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">When Davey comes home, Boyle greets
her with a celebration, a cake, balloons, and what seems to be a (possibly
non-alcoholic) bottle of sparkling grape juice. The celebration sweetens as he
takes her to the couch and tenderly kisses her belly. He tells her he found the
pregnancy test. She begins to cry. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">She says, “I’m not pregnant.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">He looks at her nonplussed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">She says, “I was pregnant…It wasn’t a
baby…just a little bit of stuff…only six weeks along.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">He realizes she’d been lying to him,
as she becomes more mean and defiant. “You didn’t have a meeting,” he says.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">“I had an abortion today.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">The scene intensifies, both of them
weeping. She tries to leave as his horror and grief continues to grow. “You
killed my baby over a movie!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m not sure it was yours,” she says
coldly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">His passion of horror and grief turns
to violence as his world shatters around him. His ideals, the sanctity of the
family, the sacred glory of children, all wiped away by her betrayal; the
essence of wrong and right vanish in a murderous rage. He nearly chokes her
unconscious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Central to Mormon thought is the
understanding that we leave the presence of a loving father in heaven to come
here, passing through a veil, forgetting all our premortal existence. This
earthly, mortal existence away from the presence of God is literally a
spiritual death. We’re sent here free agents to do as we choose, but because of
this freedom, we’re absolutely responsible for all our choices and the
consequences thereof. God isn’t responsible for the sins of man. He doesn’t
will the horrors, murders, wars, outrages, suffering, betrayal, even accidents
and misunderstandings caused by man. Whether or not he intervenes, it’s to his
own purposes, which for the most part still remain a mystery unless revealed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">But he does reveal his will through
revelation and inspiration, through prophets, and a universal guiding influence
or light Mormons refer to as the “light of Christ,” which isn’t to be confused
with the guidance and whispering of the Holy Ghost. Whether a “latter day
saint” or not, every human being is capable of being influenced by this light
of Christ which guides God’s children to increasingly greater light in this
world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">On the other hand, Satan and his dark
influence is just as real and active, distracting, confusing, deceiving and
carefully leading God’s children away from this light, this special influence
from our father in heaven. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Boyle would also know that God is
both Just and merciful. His plan is that we all will inevitably be brought back
to his presence to be judged according to the light and understand we were
given in this world. No unclean thing can be in his presence. Therefore he
provided a savior to atone for our sins. Through him physical death is overcome
by means of the resurrection; through him spiritual death is overcome by having
paid the price for our sins. The only thing He requires of us is to repent and
forsake our sins (sin no more) and turn to him with a broken heart and a
contrite spirit, keep his commandments and endure to the end. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Boyle, if he were in his right mind
(spiritually speaking) he would recognize that everything that had gone wrong
in his life was either due the consequences of his own choices or the choices
of others. Not God. That’s the true “reality” of this life—“reality” seeming to
be the buzz word associated with this movie. Boyle, at this point, ideally
would have recognized this reality. You can’t trust in man, only in the
redeeming graces of God, even if God doesn’t make all the consequences of our
decisions magically go away. Whether or not we repent, the consequences of our
actions are irreversible, even possibly reverberating into the eternities. Our
lives are inseparably tied to the eternities. That’s why we need a savior and
redeemer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“…neither trust in
the arm of flesh” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:19)<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Boyle leaves
his wife behind in a rage. When he discovers the murder of his boss, by then he
also discovers he’s being pursued by the murderers he’d caught on camera. He
sees they have his address. Once again he’s made a terrible mistake—one
terrible mistake and personal decision leading to another. He tries desperately
to reach his wife who, caught up in the cause and effect of her own choices, finds
herself between a knock at the door and the ring of the phone. She chooses to
answer the door. By the time Boyle returns it’s too late. He finds her hanging
from the chandelier, dead. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Though for
this scene (and many other in the movie) which the acting alone could be
nominated for awards, an analysis of the way it was made is very deserving; but
staying within the dimension of Mormon thought, the tragic emotional wound of
finding his wife hanging and being unable to resuscitate her, especially after
such a horrible marital crisis and then all if it being left unresolved for him
in this lifetime, Boyle, instead of recognizing his own responsibility in the
events leading up to that moment, he throws all responsibility to the heavens
with one terrible look and says, “Fuck you! Fuck you!” –recall the sleazy
producer that said “shock them and they’ll remember your name.” This scene,
indeed, would be shocking to some with certain understanding and faith. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> Here the
character parts ways from such tragic characters as Job and Joseph Smith. Where
Job, after losing everything important to him in his life, his riches, his
family, his health, his dignity, he never once chose to “curse God and die.”
The one thing he held, even as he held no promise that his own life would
continue much longer, or of any physical restoration in this lifetime, he held
his faith in God and a recognition that in all God’s dealings through the
eternities, he’s just and merciful. He sought comfort in the only place left
that it could be found. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span>“I have
heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore
I abhor <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">myself</i> and repent in dust and
ashes.” (Job 42:5-6)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> When Joseph
Smith was unjustly held in the jail at Liberty, Missouri through the worst of
the winter months, (December 1838 – April 1839) he and his companions suffered
filth, sickness, hunger, outrages from guards, and were helpless to act on the
news of the horrors and outrages committed by the mobs against the saints in Missouri, including the
famous “extermination order” issued by governor Boggs. Falling into the darkest
of sorrow, Smith pleaded with the lord:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3527877822941087322" name="1"> </a>“O God,
where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place? <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3527877822941087322" name="2"> </a>How long shall thy hand be stayed, and thine eye, yea thy pure
eye, behold from the eternal heavens the wrongs of thy people and of thy
servants, and thine ear be penetrated with their cries?<span class="verse"> </span>Yea,
O Lord, how long shall they suffer these wrongs and unlawful oppressions,
before thine heart shall be softened toward them, and thy bowels be moved with
compassion toward them?” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:1-3)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">The lord answered him, revealing the
purposes of such suffering in his life. This revelation has also meant understanding
in the worldly suffering of every latter day saint since, especially the
suffering that comes uninvited by our own actions, but is simply due conditions
of the chaos and unpredictability of this life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
“And if thou shouldst be cast into the pit,
or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; if
thou be cast into the deep; if the billowing surge conspire against thee; if
fierce winds become thine enemy; if the heavens gather blackness, and all the
elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very jaws of hell
shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these
things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good. The Son of Man
hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he? ...fear not what man
can do, for God will be with you for ever and ever.” (Doctrine and Covenants
122:7-9)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Boyle
descends to attempted suicide, which he couldn’t bring himself to pull off, but
then makes good on his “fuck you” to God and goes into a bar and has his first
drink of alcohol. As he leaves the bar, he seems to turn his rage and grief
toward the thing loved and which had driven his life to that point, his
cameras. As he smashes them into a dumpster, his wife’s killers attack him.
He’s pierced in the side by a knife, but manages to fight them off in a
vicious, bloody contest of life and survival. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">He gets the best of his last attacker by hitting him with a brick. As the
gangster lay stunned, Boyle straddles him and continues to pound the man’s face
in murderous passion with the brick. Images of all that led to that moment,
images of his wife, flash through his mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">When he looks up, he sees a boy holding a soccer ball and staring in
horror, but it’s not just any neighborhood kid. The boy represents his
innocence. This is where the film dives completely into the symbolic realm as
Boyle staggers to his feet and tries to reach out to the boy. The boy runs,
birds fly, and Boyle stumbles after him, the boy alluding him at every turn.
Bleeding from his pierced side, blood dripping from his hands and splashing
onto his feet, Boyle manages to reach the Christus statue on the Los Angeles temple
grounds. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">He falls before the statue, an unseeing, unhearing, silent block of
stone, and his cry, “Help Me!” turns into a guttural, pleading, agonizing wail <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">de profundis</i>, a wordless “Eli, Eli, lama
sabachthani.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">“</span>And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying,
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46)</div>
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“My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?
Why art Thou so far from helping Me, and from the words of My groaning?”
(Psalms 22:1)</div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">He finally falls by the side of the road, the boy gone for ever, the
birds having flown away and the scene turns to darkness and the sweet sound of
chirping birds into the credits. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">As the credits ended and the dim yellow lights shone on the blank screen,
people applauded, stretched, spoke and whispered amongst themselves, and I
couldn’t help but ponder on a few last scriptures. Before the very “foundation
of the world” (Ephesians 1:4), there was an event that would determine the
direction of the history of mankind for the eternities. God stood in the midst
of his children and presented his great plan and declared, “…we will take of
these materials, and we will make an earth whereon these may dwell; and we will
prove them herewith, to see if they will do all things whatsoever the Lord
their God shall command them.” (Abraham 3:24-25) It was a time when “the
morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy” (Job
38:7). Though the stakes were high, and some wouldn’t return; some would fall;
those who stayed faithful to the end would “have glory added upon their heads
for ever and ever.” Abraham (3:26)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">God had made it clear that because man would be free to choose and fall,
justice would have to be satisfied, a saving atonement was essential to his
plan. For the atonement to work, mankind would need to turn to the savior with
a broken heart and a contrite spirit and keep his commandments and endure to
the end. Some wouldn’t accept it out of choice. Even then, in the preexistence,
a third of the hosts of heaven didn’t accept it. When Lucifer stood and spoke
out in contrary to God’s plan, he said, “…I will redeem all mankind, that one
soul shall not be lost….” (Moses 4:1) I can imagine implied in that statement,
at least as a deceptive argument to those he wanted to influence, he might have
said, “It’s not fair.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">Implied in Boyle’s “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani” was that existential
question, if God were so just and merciful, then why doesn’t he end the
terrible suffering in this world? Why doesn’t He, who had created the world we
stand on, and had commanded the tempest, “peace, be still,” simply say the word
and end all war, hunger, prejudice, racism, sexism, homophobia, etc.? Why can’t
you answer me?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">The answer isn’t blowing in the wind. It’s not in Boyle’s howl to God
beneath the dead, unanswering statue. It’s in the understanding that he cannot
take away our freedom to choose or He would cease to be God. Even the savior himself, as he hung agonizing and dying on the cross, experienced that silence as the presence of the father withdrew, causing him to cry out, </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;">I ask, Boyle, art thou greater than he? </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-43097966687142818832011-11-26T13:02:00.000-08:002011-11-26T14:06:25.835-08:00Hugo<div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="right" style="text-align: left;margin-top: 1.5pt; margin-right: 20.25pt; margin-bottom: 1.5pt; margin-left: 0.5in; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Arial;color:#666666">Paramount/Everett<o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IIL300WAOQnqfhdTvTaK44RE7NtTX-cBRFI9tMsLz1B37ZWyGkK1l4ePWg0ODvvgvHEnuAYc33p3UOQVaLhbwBdO0JBcTqPh2LNH3fBd0YXF5MoA1-qyomxLFDSpsUUwCZjvFgtIKdk/s320/hugo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679416465712802610" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px; " /> Do you want to go on an adventure?<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; ">Martin Scorsese, the academy award winning director known for movies such as <i>Taxi Diver</i>, <i>Cape Fear</i>, <i>The Aviator</i>, and the recent <i>Shutter Island</i>, will take you on his newest adventure, <i>Hugo</i>, his first 3-D film, to a world of steam; the chug of heavy coal engines; cool brass; dank, rusting iron; and the unforgiving wet winter Parisian streets of the nineteen thirties.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; ">He’ll introduce you to a young boy with vivid blue eyes, Hugo Cabret (played by Asa Butterfield), orphaned by the death of his father and left by his alcoholic uncle to work alone behind the walls of a big train station, fixing and maintaining the giant clocks, his view of the world, lonely but perceptive from behind the clockworks.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: Arial; font-size: 10px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </span>He’ll show you a mysterious, mechanical man, an automaton, left behind in disrepair, and a notebook, both of<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: Arial; font-size: 10px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span>which might hold a message from Hugo’s father.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; ">You’ll meet a young girl, Isabelle (played by Chloe Moretz), with a key on her necklace; an officious inspector on a mission to rid the train station of orphans; and a bitter, old shopkeeper (played by Ben Kingsley) who snatches the notebook from Hugo’s hands.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; ">The film features an impressive array of star power, including performances by Jude Law, Sacha Cohen, Ray Winstone, Helen McCrory, and many others—and for the <i>Lord of the Rings </i>aficionados: Christopher Lee.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; ">The film is an adaptation of the book <i>The Invention of Hugo Cabret</i>, by the Caldecott award winning author, illustrator Brian Selznick. What’s special about this book is not only the 284 stunning pictures illustrating the story, but a fantastic tribute to the pioneer movie maker, Georges Méliès, who’s films were a veritable magic show of special effects. He was the first to experiment with science fiction and fantasy—recall the early 1902 silent film <i>Voyage Dans La Lune</i>:<i> </i>A Trip to the Moon. Its iconic imagery of a spaceship piercing the eye of the man on the moon inspired generations, and which also repeatedly appears in the both the book and the Scorsese film.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; ">Méliès was also known to be a collector of automata (self-operating mannequins or robots that run on non-electronic complex clockworks or wind-up technology), which collection he donated to a museum only to be lost or destroyed by neglect. After making more than 500 films, he fell on hard time, the majority of his films being melted down to make boot heels for the military, and he spent the remaining years of his life selling toys in a <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city> train station.</p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFuqjDRuWwZ531Q0YTmCbE8ZzYHLUQ0A3ACeK2scJUuYfv9y0PcijIkcPI79Jw-ADOvxwQ5y6Ylyfsx-yjQvxDv03unQ-9fuQtzJS5U-TAwcimgxyL3jDORFalPKiHkr2pP_Z_fheFrM/s1600/themaninthemoon.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFuqjDRuWwZ531Q0YTmCbE8ZzYHLUQ0A3ACeK2scJUuYfv9y0PcijIkcPI79Jw-ADOvxwQ5y6Ylyfsx-yjQvxDv03unQ-9fuQtzJS5U-TAwcimgxyL3jDORFalPKiHkr2pP_Z_fheFrM/s320/themaninthemoon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679419122134736834" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Iconic image from <i>Voyage Dans La Lune</i>--Voyage to the moon</p>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-5225906745412511172011-10-29T07:16:00.000-07:002012-06-21T09:17:37.224-07:00The original Grub Box lives on in Google...for now.<div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Grub Box as it appears here is featured and described several times in my dark fantasy/horror in progress, Pony Rides the Sunbeam. This photo must have been taken around '08 before the little burger hop was torn down, and the business was moved behind the Rice King and a little to the west. My little bro., Mike was kind enough to send it to me--the poor guy gets a little nostalgic, having moved to the parched planes of Texas. I do admit, it sucks having no grub box there.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvark1HKdkXDiCQgIs8KzIbORU4YCcTf4X78CLyxRwszoBGI_-EF3NKw8glPZjxf5AsQEr5JZQIkIouIA0zKGnc-6e26K9-qCcNyYpG417BO7v48TYfCzKwyTHeBo7zVSxbo1S9wrqiLc/s1600/the+Grub+Box.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668918282275669330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvark1HKdkXDiCQgIs8KzIbORU4YCcTf4X78CLyxRwszoBGI_-EF3NKw8glPZjxf5AsQEr5JZQIkIouIA0zKGnc-6e26K9-qCcNyYpG417BO7v48TYfCzKwyTHeBo7zVSxbo1S9wrqiLc/s320/the+Grub+Box.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 212px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I took this photo less than a year later when this great old landmark was being torn down to expand the parking lot. I pity the poor soul who doesn't remember standing on that cement slab in the blazing sun or under the cool, bug-swarmed fluorescent lights on a warm summer night or in the freezing dead of winter to satisfy a craving for something on the surprisingly large menu--perhaps a Grub burger, onion rings, and a shake. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_YanBXnnwGbw2i818JKA7Oy22K1QKsy20pydruIn24GYaXYPehFxAn6lS3eo4Ge7l2W7RHftvrTpoWaI_Ivph8aVkF8DbiDxAuIM86Rt0b3dyLPi5kA3lRQEvRA63Gfdn7zIvVYamZQ/s1600/L+pictures+102.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668918280469606594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_YanBXnnwGbw2i818JKA7Oy22K1QKsy20pydruIn24GYaXYPehFxAn6lS3eo4Ge7l2W7RHftvrTpoWaI_Ivph8aVkF8DbiDxAuIM86Rt0b3dyLPi5kA3lRQEvRA63Gfdn7zIvVYamZQ/s320/L+pictures+102.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Where the Rice King and the police station now stand, there used to be tall elm trees and picnic tables. Many a Cyprus high school student had come down to enjoy the shade, a pastrami burger, and the good company of friends. Like the Arctic Circle on 8400 West or the unforgettable Taco Time next to the old Reed home on the corner of Main Street and across the road from the old 7-eleven, it wasn't uncommon to see friends working there--and maybe to score a free ice cream or Coke. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Though I remissness in the past tense, it's for the landmark and not for the restaurant itself. The grub box still thrives about a hundred yards to the southwest of where it once stood. The food's still great.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Another note about Magna nostalgia is if you travel directly to the south, as the crow flies, over house tops, over Brockbank jr. high, then take a slight turn east at 3100 South, you'll land on Ken's Sandwich shop. It's still there, but run by different management today. Thirty plus years ago we would leave swimming lessons at the Cyprus pool, and on our way home, stop at Ken's for a sandwich so thick in meat we could hardly finish it. His tables, especially the one closest to the door, were covered in graffiti, scratched with thousands of names and mysterious messages left behind by generations of kids who'd enjoyed friendly moments over a bag of Funyuns, a Dr. Pepper, and a Turkey Sandwich with everything on it. I particularly remember the epic: "Michelle is a fox!" Who was Michelle, and why was she a fox?</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In my novel-in-progress, Pony Rides the Sunbeam (Update: since this was originally posted, I have changed the name of the novel to <i>In Older Worlds</i>), a group of people flee a Manson-like commune back in '69. Something dark follows them and takes an interest in their children. Forward to '84, and you have a group of teenagers running around Magna and the west side of the Salt Lake valley, experiencing strange things, and discovering something special about their lives. </div>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-22478898608694584632011-09-26T14:16:00.000-07:002011-09-26T14:16:24.000-07:00Robert Goble's Blog: Whittling and Magical Doorways<a href="http://robertgoble.blogspot.com/2011/09/whittling-and-magical-doorways.html?spref=bl">Robert Goble's Blog: Whittling and Magical Doorways</a>: As I think of ways to describe a town punctured with magical doorways to a hidden world, my boy takes an interest in pocket knives. I figur...Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-35932085043982071332011-09-25T18:18:00.000-07:002011-09-25T19:00:54.726-07:00Whittling and Magical Doorways<div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As I think of ways to describe a town punctured with magical doorways to a hidden world, my boy takes an interest in pocket knives. I figure he's old enough to learn to safely whittle under my supervision, so we both select a stick from the woodpile behind the house, then set out on the road to find a quiet place where I can teach him the art of whittling. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>We drive around the West Point of the Oquirrh mountains--all the while I point out landmarks like Dead Man's cave, the site of the old Arthur mill at Kennecott where my grandfather worked as a welder for forty years, the old, crumbling concrete highway along the hill, Goshute Indian and pioneer camp sites, Black Rock and what's left of its beach, and many other sites riddled with my own memories of my own father taking me for rides along that same highway. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>We soon pass the Great Salt Lake, and I fight the sun with my visor. My boy talks of everything that seems to come to his mind, and I listen and smile and try to pay attention to both him and the traffic. I turn off the highway at Lake Point (still thinking of magical doorways) and follow a small road lined with dry fields and old homes. We reach the foothills of the same Oquirrh mountain range, but on the west side that overlooks the Great Salt Lake and the Tooele valley--our destination. After a small hike, we find a place to sit on an outcropping of ancient, fossiliferous, Pennsylvanian-era limestone, and we pull out the pocket knives and begin to whittle together under the sunset. </div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8uuZ37Sx11lhrzMGEYdbpmsl5KF0Z4DqcrWnlG6MxuxtD7nHldPFWpky2-3jjn9xYDzd6omm6RdIU8VyWiOlbN3jasPHk0qLsNbwiL7z2QrOh1xTRgVz8sIY2U19ba4k_S8fv_fgg7E/s1600/Sunset+at+Lake+point+Autmnal+Equinox+2011.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8uuZ37Sx11lhrzMGEYdbpmsl5KF0Z4DqcrWnlG6MxuxtD7nHldPFWpky2-3jjn9xYDzd6omm6RdIU8VyWiOlbN3jasPHk0qLsNbwiL7z2QrOh1xTRgVz8sIY2U19ba4k_S8fv_fgg7E/s320/Sunset+at+Lake+point+Autmnal+Equinox+2011.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656472570580795426" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Late September sunset in Lake Point, Utah</div>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-50862283206401650662011-09-23T08:59:00.000-07:002012-07-22T06:02:56.083-07:00InspirationReds and oranges are beginning to spread through Coon's canyon in the Oquirrh Mountains. The earth, in its Autumnal Equinox, dances with the sun, and around my house bright September light shines through trees that seem at rest. I breathe cooler air and lay hung over from a night of coughing and phantom nerve pain in my neck and shoulder. I stare at a plate of potato hash covered in ketchup, take a sip of orange juice, and my head nags me for caffeine and dark chocolate. Ideas for a new chapter begin to form, and as they do, I turn to Francesca Woodman and Joyce Tenneson for inspiration.<br />
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To see photos by Joyce Tenneson, click here:</div>
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<a href="http://www.tenneson.com/">http://www.tenneson.com</a></div>
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To see photos by Francesca Woodman, click here:</div>
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<a href="http://www.mariangoodman.com/exhibitions/2007-11-28_francesca-woodman/">http://www.mariangoodman.com/exhibitions/2007-11-28_francesca-woodman/</a></div>
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</div>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-36689346190758345632011-09-18T12:02:00.000-07:002012-07-22T05:50:54.690-07:00Haunting dance<br />
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To see the photo by Vadim Stein, click here:<br />
<a href="http://2photo.ru/ru/post/24576">http://2photo.ru/ru/post/24576</a></div>
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<a href="http://14991.portfolio.artlimited.net/">http://14991.portfolio.artlimited.net/</a></div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This September couldn't be more beautiful. The sun and temperature are the most friendly they've been in a long time for a Sunday walk, and I'm behind an open window, listening to cars pass, and fighting off a cold. But I'm also thinking about how to finish one of the largest chapters in my new novel, a dark fantasy called: <i>Pony Rides the Sunbeam. </i><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-style: italic; white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">My mind seems to be drawn to dance, especially ballet. I watch stories told in pantomime, grace, and fire, and I fantasize of being a dancer. Something about a Vadim Stein photo of two dancers encapsuled in fabric haunts me for several minutes, then Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake catches my eye. It's the scene where Prince Siegfried sees Odette as a swan on a lake. It's a dark and magical moment. I let the story pass, but grasp the feeling. That's what I want: the feeling. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-24419058891733634452010-09-18T10:07:00.000-07:002010-09-18T12:55:33.797-07:00Strange Bacchus Highway Sightings and Events.The highway that runs along the Oquirrh mountains from North to South is called 8400 West as it travels through Magna, then changes to the Bacchus highway, heading South past 4100 South. It still runs through what was once Coonville--where ATK (Hercules) is today. At the intersection of 5400 West, at the bend if you head east from there, you can still see one of the Coonville stone foundation. Most of the dry farms up there go back to the Coonville days, which started in the 1850s when Abraham Coon and a few other families ran cattle and Wilford Woodruff had his sheep herds there.<br /> Quite a few TV shows and movies had been filmed there: Touched by an Angel, Stephen King's The Stand, etc.<br /> Growing up, it was a quiet road that traveled over the Oquirrh foothills (remnants of sand and gravel bars left over from the ice age Lake Bonneville, aroyos cut through them, and alluvial deposites) all the way to a small town named Herriman, and to the Kennecott mine and Butterfield Canyon. I remember hearing about the town of Lark and how it used to be somewhere along there, until Kennicott removed it--yes, another whole town moved by Kennecott: remember Ragtown and Garfield?<br /> Anyway, close to Herriman there used to be what we called the sand dunes. It was actually an old tailings dump left over from early mining and smelting operations. People would ride motorcycles there. We'd hike it, looking for old bottles, and play on the old wooden constructions that would just out of the mineral tainted sands and wonder what they'd been used for. Usually we did this as part of our trips to Butterfield canyon. I heard later about the heavy metals and silicates we were breathing when the wind kicked up dust storms, or when we chased down dust devils--it was fun to to stand in the middle of a strong dust devil. Sand would get into places you'd never guess.<br /> There was also an old mine dump at the bend in the road near 11800 South. I used to go rock hunting there. I picked up some spectacular chunks of Pyrite, molybdenum, Zink, and black limestone. There was so much sulfur and sulfuric acid all over the place that your shoes would go brittle and you'd smell like it for days afterward.<br /> You never knew what wildlife you'd see, especially at night. To this day I catch glimpses of coyotes, deer, elk, owls, and other birds of prey and scavengers. Mountain lions aren't uncommon. But now with all the growth and construction, these sightings are becoming much more infrequent.<br /> The highway is also a prime place to take a date and park at one of the great spots overlooking the valley. On a clear night the lights are spectacular. You can see the Wasatch Front all the way from Ogden to the south of the Salt Lake Valley.<br /> The gravel pits were great places to go shooting. We'd take our twenty-twos and plink cans all Saturday afternoon. Once when part of a pit wall collapsed, we found a layer of sediment at least ten feet below the surface full of snail shells and some kind of mummified plant like matter. I wanted to take some of it home with me because it was interesting, but I couldn't find a container. I went back a week later and found it completely bulldozed away. Who knows what stories that layer of sediment could have told about Lake Bonneville?<br /> Since the highway was such an out-of-the-way place for so long, used mostly by west side residents and Kennecott workers, it was only fitting that strange stories would pop up now and then. There would be the usual hitchhiker stories or the lone wanderer along the road. A few people had claimed to have seen UFOs; experienced feelings of spookiness while driving alone in the night. One lady in particular used to tell me she always felt as if something, maybe a presence, rode in her back seat all the way from the the old iron scrap place to the last rail road bridge before heading into Magna.<br /> Personally, I remember one snowy night back in my high school days (late 80s) when a bunch of us filled a car to go to a dance in Herriman. The radio was turned up, and we were chattering about girls and anything else that would come to mind. Then all of a sudden a terrible green glow filled the clouds above us. It wasn't the flickering come and go of lightning, but a steady and heavy glow that revealed the texture of the clouds and flurries over and around us. It lasted for at least ten seconds or more. Sheet lightning? A meteor? Who knows, but it was significant to have us nervous the rest of the night.<br /> What animal has a striped tail, is shaped like a skinny coyote, but is much larger, and has a much longer, almost unnatural snout, and it's eyes reflect a golden glow in the headlights? It sure as heck wasn't a mountain lion. It stood in the middle of the road, as if smiling, tongue hanging out. The horn wouldn't make it move, until I nearly hit it. I've seen Great Danes that looked almost that big. It slipped away into the dying, late fall grasses and sagebrush, and seemed to disappear. I stopped the car and backed up to look for it. I'd never seen anything like it, nor seen anything like it again.<br /> Dave was a friend of mine who used to love to hike the Oquirrhs, regardless of whether he was on Kennecott property or not. One night, just after sunset, he was coming off Hogsback, near Lion Rock, when he saw a strange glow coming out of one of the deep aroyos coming off the mountain. He was the curious, if not at all superstitious, type, so he immediately changed course to investigate. The closer he got, the more he felt a terrible warning feeling, as if something were telling him to stop and turn around. He ignored it as long as he could, until he heard a strange noise, like the howl of a dog, but not quite. He'd heard coyotes often enough that there was no question it wasn't that. The feeling became so powerful that he felt he finally had to stop and turn around. He knew it wasn't safe running in the dark, let alone hiking, but he couldn't stop himself. Soon he was running wildly toward the highway. At one point he nearly got hung up on an old barbwire fence.<br /> My grandmother, who was of the last generation born in Coonville, told us of the night the lightning balls came down the stovepipe during a storm. I vaguely remember her description. It was a bright glow and made hardly any noise at all, except for a little crackling noise when it disappeared.Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3527877822941087322.post-16871438793071509452010-09-02T21:41:00.000-07:002010-09-02T21:44:11.924-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoFxWj-DU1emcMaN1LOjul6xYB9YAB6GF6y73UyJW2m7lwD-yGE0xtNeIEVfnNYUOow3j1e_s7jU210DLjHSzC8ehvxdP2zaN3UMuq8Vzkmterac_zmgoRpaznq7NmPZp3oAhLMoW-Duc/s1600/b+pictures+011.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoFxWj-DU1emcMaN1LOjul6xYB9YAB6GF6y73UyJW2m7lwD-yGE0xtNeIEVfnNYUOow3j1e_s7jU210DLjHSzC8ehvxdP2zaN3UMuq8Vzkmterac_zmgoRpaznq7NmPZp3oAhLMoW-Duc/s320/b+pictures+011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512543264103876338" border="0" /></a>Robert Goblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11181098153604083921noreply@blogger.com0