Live and Learn

A phone call came a few days ago from the other side of the world. My wife and I were relieved to hear from our oldest son after 7 days of “radio silence” while he backpacked alone in the wilds of Tasmania. The area was so remote his charter flight dropped him off on a remote dirt runway. The area is described as, “pristine wilderness, unaffected by humans”, with weather that is “highly changeable, and can be severe”. For several days he slogged through thigh-deep bogs in rain forest conditions, doing his best to discern tree roots from the plentiful black venomous snakes. He didn’t see another human being until his 5th day, which accounts for his remark, “I’ll never feel more alone than I did on this hike,”

 

When I hung up the phone, I was very thankful for his safety. At the same time I chided his foolishness for hiking alone.  I also remembered being just as foolish more than twenty years ago.

During my Grand Canyon infatuation years, I became obsessed with finding the Point Huitzel route to Royal Arch and Elves Chasm. One late November trip took me by motorcycle from Phoenix three hours north to the Canyon, another hour ride across the Hualapai Indian Reservation on rutted dirt roads, then another two miles on foot through the pines to the south rim. After a cold frost-on-the-sleeping-bag night, I dropped into the Canyon expanse to search for the route, aided by a topographical map and Harvey Butchart's directions.

I was able to pick out landmarks and was certain I was on track until I hit the Coconino sandstone which guards the canyon from almost all would-be intruders with 400-foot vertical cliffs. Try as I might, I could not find a route through. As I searched, I saw a ledge about 8 feet below me which looked promising. With excitement I slid down to the ledge on a near vertical wall. But a look over the ledge gave me a severe case of vertigo rather than a route down. There was nothing but air for 200 feet below me. Unnerved, I turned to climb back up the way I came down. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest when I found it too steep to climb.

I was in a pickle. A precariously slanted 8-foot wide ledge was all that stood between me and a 200-foot fall to certain death. I couldn’t go down.  I couldn't go up. I verbally chided myself for getting myself into such predicament. The old adage “look before you leap” never meant more. No one knew where I was. I was hours and many miles away from civilization. I might rot on that ledge for weeks or months before my bones were found. How could I be so stupid?

I said a pleading prayer. My prayer was answered when I saw a 8-inch wide vertical crack in the rock. It was too narrow to squeeze my whole body in, but I was skinny enough to get in a little more than half. With fists and knees wedged into the crack, I was able to inch my way up like a worm, all the while hoping I did not lose grip, fall, and roll off the ledge to my death.

When I finally pulled myself up and rolled onto safe ground, I felt a rush of relief. That was enough for me. I pulled on my backpack, climbed out of the canyon and hiked back to my motorcycle. I was exhausted, and was even more so after the 4-hour ride home. It was the evening before Thanksgiving when I arrived. The aroma of homemade pies, a loving wife, and three beautiful children greeted me. Indeed I was grateful for them all.

I returned to the Grand Canyon a few months later with hiking partners. We found our way through the Coconino, which required climbing through a very interesting hidden crack and down an Anasazi Indian tree-trunk ladder to some ancient petro glyphs, and finally to the Esplanade plateau. Afterward, I took that same route several times on trips to the Royal Arch and Elves Chasm. It should come as no surprise that subsequent trips were never done alone.

Papa John

What kind of a goofball would marry a guy’s sister without bothering to introduce himself to his soon-to-be brother-in-law? That alone was enough to get John Martin off on the wrong foot with me. In the years following the marriage, my skeptical impression of the man seemed to be confirmed when he rarely showed his face at family gatherings. He always had a plausible excuse for being absent, but after a while, it seemed clear that he had no real interest in getting to know me. So, why would I want to get to know him? I did see him on rare occasions. He seemed nice enough, but I just wasn’t sure that he was the caliber of guy that I had always wanted my sister to marry.

It’s funny how one’s perspective changes with time. Twenty eight years have passed since that rocky introduction. Twenty eight years have passed since John Martin eloped with my dear sister and entered the bonds of holy matrimony. Twenty eight years have made me grow to love and appreciate the man.

Thank you John for gracing my sister’s life. Thank you for taking her as your eternal companion. Thank you for being such a good dad to my nieces and nephews. Thank you for being such a fine “papa” to your daughters who aren’t your biological offspring, but get treated like they are. You’re not such a bad brother-in-law after all. (wink) I apologize for any misgiving I might have had about you all those years ago. I’m indeed thankful to count you a member of my family.

Campouts, Scouting, and Other Things

Bear Siding on the Verde River

It was a Friday morning when a bunch of Boy Scouts met in the church parking lot for our first ever overnight campout. Scoutmaster Steve was really only a kid himself, who at the age of 18 had been asked to work with a ragtag patrol of 11 year olds. Our previous scouting experience had been performing lame skits and making mostly useless gadgets in cub scouts. But we were older now and ready for real scouting stuff. When a second “adult” leader failed to show that morning, Steve was not about to leave us disappointed. He stuffed the whole patrol, camp gear included, into his old 1950’s vintage Rambler sedan.

At the beginning of the trip, the stuffy confines didn’t bother us, even though nearly every kid was either sitting on someone’s lap or being sat on. But forty hot and windy miles later we were off the highway and traveling on a washboard dirt road.  We were grateful for the extra room when two boys were relegated outside to the hood of the car. Driving between 15 and 20 miles per hour, Steve did his best to view the road between the two human hood ornaments and avoid large pot holes which might send them flying. The two boys dangled their feet in front of the grill and clutched a headlamp ring with one hand and a metal hood ornament with the other.

Bear Siding was a very remote area on the Verde River which offered a nice camping spot and a splendid swimming hole. We swam a good part of the day. A rock ledge offered a terrific spot to do cannon balls. It was high enough to give us a thrill but not enough to scare us to death. While we swam Steve entertained us with stories of the first time his troop visited this place, including the repulsive behavior of one Don Covey who stood at the end of a makeshift diving board, bared his butt, and pooped into the water. As the story went, boys scrambled from the water as if it were alligator infested and refused to return for hours.

After a long day, our evening meal was unremarkable. When the sun went down, we returned to the river for more swimming – this time not bothering with swimming trunks, but skinny dipping in the dark cool waters of the Verde River under the evening stars and a silvery moon. It was done in perfect innocence. The next morning we faced a whole day of more fun, but decided we had had enough. We packed up our gear early, made the short hike to the car, and were home by noon.

Decades have passed. I’ve served as scoutmaster myself four different times. That overnight trip of yesteryear broke a dozen of today’s Boy Scout regulations which fall under the headings of “Youth Protection”, “Safety Afloat”, and “Tour Permits”. And if any scoutmaster today were to swim naked with his boys, I can only imagine he would end up on a sex offender list declaring him to be the pervert that many would assume him to be.

Last week the Boy Scouts of America settled a lawsuit with six men who were molested by a former Portland Scout leader nearly 30 years ago. That lawsuit and dozens that preceded it have made the Boy Scouts of America a safer place for boys. It has also left an organization so encumbered by rules and regulations that far more time and effort is placed on compliance than the fundamentals of scouting.

Next Spring I’ll once again donate to “Friends of Scouting” because I want to make a difference in young men’s lives. But it will pain me knowing that much of my donation will be used to pay for the crimes of a demented individual and not to enhance the lives of America’s youth. And while the plaintiffs are quick to say, “It’s not about the money,” the lawsuits quite obviously would not have been filed without it.

Scoutmaster Steve cared for his boys. His intent was to teach us to abide by the Scout Law, which declares that a scout is “trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous…” and eight other attributes of goodness which today’s society places little importance. I give thanks for Steve and the favorable impact he had on my life. He gave freely of his time to help a handful of snot-nosed boys grow up. He taught principles of goodness. It is a shame that every young man involved in scouting can’t have leaders like him.

Pocket Knives and Change

My introduction to pocket knives began at age five. It really wasn’t much of a knife but when I found it lying around the house I claimed it as my own. In reality, with only a 1-inch blade, it was nothing more than a keychain trinket. The blade was so dull I’m not sure it would have cut my finger if I tried. But that didn’t stop me from whittling on a church pew during a particularly dry Sunday service. My mother apparently was not as bored as I since she sat focused on the speaker, oblivious that her five year old was defacing God’s house. When she finally glanced my way, her face turned to horror. I got smacked. The pocket knife was confiscated. After the meeting I was tearfully marched to the bishop’s office where I was prodded to declare my sin and ask for forgiveness. Fourteen years later when I stood at the pulpit in that same chapel prior to embarking on a full time mission, the third pew from the back still bore the scares inflicted by a thoughtless five year old.

In fourth grade I was trustworthy enough to have a pocket knife of my own – a real one. I may have gotten it for my birthday. It resided full time in my blue jeans pocket. I took it to school. With it in my pocket I felt grown up, like my big brother, who at 16 years my senior was an avid outdoorsman and always carried one.

As a teenager I carried a knife. As a Boy Scout, it was one of the ten essential items for the outdoors. My Kabar pocket knife was used for a variety of purposes – from cleaning my fingernails to eating apples one slice at a time. The blade got cleaned between uses, if wiping the blade on a pant leg could be considered cleaning. As an adult I continued carrying a pocket knife. Even in middle age, a knife in my pocket served as a reminder of my big brother, especially after he passed away.

As my sons grew, times were changing. As adolescents they learned like I did that a knife was a Boy Scout ten essential. But if they carried one to school, zero tolerance resulted in a week-long suspension.

The September 11 demise of the Twin Towers brought more change. Since then, I’ve twice found myself in an airport security line and realized too late that I had a knife in my pocket. Both times I removed myself from the line and searched for a safe hiding place in the airport. When I returned to those airports a week later, my knife was still there – once under a sink in a men’s room and the next time on a high ledge in baggage claim. I felt a little guilty, clandestinely hiding contraband, trying to avoid security cameras, but at least I kept my knife.

Further change was evident yesterday when I read about Monday’s police shooting at Boren and Howell streets in downtown Seattle. John T. Williams, better known by the street name “Cowboy”, sat whittling a piece of wood. This homeless man was actually an accomplished carver who sold his wares nearby at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. When a police officer ordered him to drop his knife he didn’t comply. The office responded by pumping four balls of lead into the man’s chest. Witnesses were dumbfounded by the act and felt the man posed little or no risk to the officer. The officer’s version, though yet to be released, will undoubtedly claim he felt threatened. Either way, the knife cost the man his life.

In recent years I’ve quit carrying a knife. It’s just too much of a hassle with security checkpoints.

Things have changed. I liked them better the way they were.

Lois Fuller

“And I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom, that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God.” (Mosiah 2:17)

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This is truly a story of service to God. It is one without a beginning. It has no end. And though one might think September 16, 1917 to be a logical starting point, such would leave so much untold. So let’s begin in the year 1881 with one Alma Moroni Hunt and his wife Rosetta. This couple loved the Lord dearly. It was in God they trusted, when they came to this valley (Pine, AZ), to carve a life from a harsh wilderness. With a few other stalwart Mormon families, they cleared the land, planted crops, and built homes. Alma and Rosetta had a host of children, including a fine son named Isaac.

Isaac was raised in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. And so it was as a young man, having a testimony of Jesus Christ, Isaac answered the call from a prophet of God to spread the Gospel. He and a companion traveled by Horseback to Flagstaff, and then by train to San Francisco, where they obtained passage on a freighter, bound for the Society Islands in the Pacific. On these Islands he served the Lord for nearly four years.

A missionary companion, Elder Poulter from Ogden Utah, one day received a letter from home with photographs of his sisters. Upon viewing his companion’s pictures, Elder Hunt found one of the young ladies to be particularly attractive. Upon finishing his mission, Elder Hunt traveled to Salt Lake City to give an account to Church leaders, and then traveled to nearby Ogden to meet Elder Poulter’s family. There he met Florence face to face. After returning home to Arizona, Isaac went back to Ogden to court Florence and win her heart in matrimony. The two of them came to Pine to start their life together. Here they built a small home on the family homestead.

The couple was first blessed with a son, whom they named Burton, and then four years later, on September 16, 1917, a beautiful baby girl, whom they named Lois. She was born in the same house which she enjoyed retirement in more than sixty years later. The home offered every convenience that a young lady hoped for: a stone fireplace for heat and kerosene lamps. If there was running water, it was in the ditch out front. The bathroom was small, about 50 paces to the south. Travel was by walking, horseback, or wagon.

Lois’ childhood was full of good times. There were aunts and uncles and a slew of cousins to play with. There was the large red rooster in the barnyard that was quite aggressive and terrified her when he chased her. Brother, Burton was a good companion and lots of fun, though sometimes he acted like the boy that he was, like the time he brought Lois to clausterphobic hysterics by rolling her up tightly in a large rug and refusing to let her out.

More brothers and sisters were to follow. The first was Isaac, who brought a flood of tears to the family when he was stillborn. When Lois was seven a baby sister was born, whom her mother named Ruby. Four years later Lois was blessed with yet another sister, Enid. And finally, a baby sister named Rachel, who sadly only lived but a few hours.

When Lois was only fourteen, tragedy struck her happy home. Her Dad was miles away working on his ranch. Lois was home with her mother and sisters when her mother was struck suddenly and very seriously ill. Lois’ seven-year old sister Ruby was sent to town for help. With her heart pounding wildly, running so fast it seemed her feet hardly touched the ground, Ruby raced down the lane into town crying for help. But before help could arrive, while she was tended by her beloved daughter Lois, the children’s mother passed away. Thus, at the tender age of 14, Lois became the woman of the house, and in many respects mother to her two little sisters, the youngest, Enid, being only two and a half years old. With this immense responsibility, Lois learned to serve the Lord, for

“…when ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God.”

The girl’s mother had a widowed sister, Aunt Ina, who made extended visits from Utah to help out. In time their dad married her. Aunt Ina was certainly not a stepmother. She was far more than an aunt. She was a second mother which helped fill the void left by their first.

As a teenager Lois attended High School in Pine. During her senior year, she and her classmates pulled a Halloween prank by rounding up virtually every cow in town and corralled them in the school yard. And if that wasn’t enough, outhouses were appropriated, with one of them being strategically placed on the school house roof.

For graduation, Lois’s parents took her to Mesa to buy a beautiful new dress. It was a soft peach color with a large organdy collar, ruffles, and v-cut in the back. Lois had never had a dress so beautiful. She wore it to graduation, which was held in the old church down town. When she walked down the aisle to get her diploma, she stood tall, slender and stately. Her family was proud.

Shortly after graduation, Lois found herself head-over-heels in love with a handsome young man. His given name was Loren, but family and friends all knew him as Poke. Poke Fuller and Lois eloped to Flagstaff and shortly thereafter moved to Jerome. It was there that the couple’s first of eight children was born, Leon. On occasion Lois’s little sisters, whom she loved dearly, would visit. This was a happy time of life, being young and in love. Little did Lois know there were another seven children to bare.

From Jerome, the family moved back to Pine and it was here that their second son was born, whom they named Loren after his dad, but always called him by his middle name, Dennis. Three years later, Lois was blessed with a bouncing baby girl, Sharon. Over the next thirteen years the family moved eight different times, living in Millersville, McKinsley’s Mill, Heber, Hops Canyon, Pleasant Valley, Phoenix, Pleasant Valley again, and finally Prescott, which was home for over twenty years.

There are thousands of memories of these names and places. Let me share with you just a few which reflect the character of this good woman and her devotion to the Lord and her family.

In Millersville, Cherry Creek ran a short distance from their modest home. While Lois took care of household chores, some of her children played down at the creek. While working she got a very strong impression that her kids needed to come home. There was no apparent reason, but the feeling was very definite so she went outside and called. Surprisingly they actually listened to her and made their way back to the house. Unknown to any of them, there had been a cloud burst up steam which sent a high wall of water thundering down the creek bed just minutes after the children left. By heeding the promptings of the Spirit, Lois saved her children from certain death.

Of the other places which Lois and her family lived, two stand out in particular: Pleasant Valley and Prescott.

Pleasant Valley was a very small and rural community, at the end of the world some might say. Here Poke made a living in the world of timber, logging trucks, and saw mills. There were few modern conveniences in Pleasant Valley. Electric power lines wouldn’t enter this valley for another generation. In the evenings butane lamps were used. Water came from a hand pumped well out back. And no, there was no central heat.

Lack of television was indeed a blessing. Lois was an exceptional story teller. With her children gathered around, she would tell of Goldilocks or The Three Billy Goat Gruffs. She had a large repertoire of stories. She also read to them Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and other classics.

Pleasant Valley did not enjoy the luxury of a doctor or a hospital for expectant mothers. As Lois had children, she traveled to other communities to give birth. Jerry was born in Prescott, where Lois’s mother-in-law lived. Linda and Doug were born in Mesa.

The lack of conveniences in Pleasant Valley didn’t bother Lois, but the the lack of a church did. The nearest ward was in Globe, seventy miles away over a very rough and winding road. Attendance at church meetings was impossible. This was difficult for Lois. She had a strong testimony of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. She desired to share that blessing with her children. So she asked her Bishop’s permission to start a primary in Pleasant Valley so her own children and others in the community could learn the things of God. She acted more or less as Primary President and was one of only two teachers. There were two other Mormon families in the area and their children joined in the weekly meetings. Many non-Mormon children in the area attended as well. They learned the Articles of Faith and heard faith-promoting stories. Lives were blessed. Some of those non-member children were to join the Church later in life. This wouldn’t have happened without the persistence of this good woman, who knew that,

“…when ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God.”

Lois also was persistent in starting a Sunday school. When her oldest son turned twelve and was ordained a deacon, and another young man in town was ordained a priest, Lois sought her bishop’s permission to hold Sunday School. They met in the school house. The two young priesthood holders blessed and passed the sacrament.

Life in Pleasant Valley may have been a bit rustic, but as time passed Lois enjoyed more modern conveniences. A traveling salesman once came through town, selling sewing machines. Lois bought one right off his truck. It was a Singer, with a foot treadle. Through the years she sewed shirts for her boys, dresses for her girls, and mended a thousand holes. It was a wise purchase, for that sewing machine lasted fifty years, and still has life in it. How exciting it was when Lois got her first refrigerator. It ran on butane. Lois often did laundry with a washtub and washboard. It was exhausting work. She felt so blessed when she got her first washing machine. It was a Maytag, powered by a two cylinder gasoline engine.

From Pleasant Valley the family moved to Phoenix for a short time. Lois’s seventh child, Jeanette was born there. There was a move back to Pleasant Valley, and then on to Prescott where Lois’s eighth and last child was born (whew!), another bouncing baby boy named Darrel.

In Prescott Lois found herself in the unfortunate position, for the most part, of raising her children by herself. These were trying times. But like her pioneer forebears who faced adversity before her, Lois demonstrated outstanding character. Through it all, her moral fiber never wore thin.

Allow me to paint a picture. Lois had always been a full time mother and homemaker. When she was pregnant with her last child circumstances forced her to go to work to provide for her children. Only a month after giving birth she went back to work. Initially she worked swing shift (3 to 11pm) at a local plastic factory, which left her kids at home, with the older ones watching the younger ones. After about a year she hired on at the Pioneers Home in Prescott, a state-run retirement home. She worked night shift, 11pm to 7am. This was a great blessing for she could be home for her kids in the evening, then go to work, and be home early enough the next morning to see them off to school. But even then, with the other children in school, she still had to watch her baby during the day. There were a number of years in which she probably averaged three hours of sleep a day.

Her pay, at least initially, was very meager, especially when one considered there was rent and utilities and eight mouths to feed. If there was anything left over for clothes or necessities, her children always came first. At one time her entire wardrobe consisted of only two dresses. Working as a nurse’s aide, she only had one white nurse’s uniform to wear to work. She washed it and hung it up to dry every day so it would be fresh.

The family’s diet was made up largely of bread. Mom made a batch of it once or twice a week, kneading it by hand then forming it into loaves. And we ate a lot of beans. But on at least one occasion we didn’t even have those. It was then, mother cut open some bean bags which she had previously made as toys for us children. The beans were cooked and her children were fed.

I’ve only began to touch on the trials which Lois endured. There were other very disruptive influences. But through it all, we never heard our mother complain. She accepted her lot in life no matter how hard. She just quietly went about serving her God, for,

“…when ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God.”

She was a proud woman. She never asked another for what she could do for herself. During struggles she never considered asking for help. During a particularly tough time, our bishop knocked on the door. He was obviously aware of our circumstances and concerned. He had a box of food in his arms, which he offered mother. She graciously accepted, and then told the bishop matter-of-factly that there must be someone who needed help worse than she, and please don’t bring any more.

Throughout these hard times, Mom stood as a pillar of strength, a shining example to her children. She was always there for us through thick and thin, good and bad. Whatever goodness we may have attained unto, whatever accomplishments we may have in life, if we possess an ounce of faith, honesty, integrity, or any other attribute favorable in the eyes of God, we owe it to our mother.

There is so much good to be remembered. A few years after moving to Prescott, there were some friends in the ward who had an old piano which they gave to mother. It was a monstrous thing, big and ugly, probably made around the turn of the century. It took eight strong men to unload it and move it into the house. It wasn’t much to look at but mother was thrilled. She hadn’t had a piano in her home since growing up. She loved to play. When she arrived home from work at 7:15 in the morning, she sat down at the piano and played some lively numbers. That was our alarm clock. When mother began playing, it was time to get out of bed and get ready for school.

Mother worked at the Pioneers Home for more than twenty years. She was a nurse’s assistant. She loved the old folks she cared for. On occasion, when one passed away, mother would come home sorrowful she had lost someone she had loved and served. And thus, even at work. Lois served the Lord, for

“…when ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God.”

Years passed. One by one her children became of age and left home. And as they did, Lois continued to serve, not only her children, but her parents. When her own father was advanced in years and suffered ill health she took time off from work to give loving assistance to him. The last few months of his life, Lois was there for him, tending and loving, which she was so good at. Likewise, several years later, she opted for early retirement so that she might come to Pine and stay with her mother (her second mother), and give her the loving help that she needed in her old age.

After her second mother passed away, Lois stayed in Pine, for it truly was home. She spent eighteen years of retirement here in this peaceful valley, in the same home in which she was born and raised. For many, retirement is a time to relax, kick back, sit in a rocking chair and watch television. But after a lifetime of serving the Lord, Lois could not break the habit. She served in the Homemakers club for years, as secretary, vice president, and president. There were projects for the community, money raised so the school or perhaps the library might have something they needed. She was active in The Daughters of Gila County Pioneers, and very deservingly was voted Woman of the Year in 1988.

Throughout her entire life she was active in Church, and served in so many capacities, for

“…when ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God.”

She worked in the primary, Sunday school, Relief Society, even as Relief Society President. In Prescott, when money was needed to be raised for a new chapel, she made and sold bread to do her part. When working nights years ago, she served as Relief Society Pianist. On Wednesday mornings she often sat through the meeting droopy eyed at the piano for she had not slept the night before. Certainly the bishop would have understood if she had declined this calling but it wasn’t her nature to say no.

She loved music and used this gift to bless the lives of others. While working at the Pioneers Home sometimes she would go to work early or stay late so she might sit in the Lobby and play piano for the old folks. They loved it. During her years of retirement, she carried on the musical legacy of her mother here in the Pine ward. Lois’s mother was responsible for getting the first organ and piano in Pine and served as ward organist for more than a decade. She taught Lois to play. When Lois’ first mother passed away, her second mother assumed the role as ward organist and served for years. When Lois retired to Pine, she took the torch from both of her mothers and served as Pine ward organist.

If a dog is man’s best friend, then my mother was dog’s best friend. And if she had a fault, perhaps she was overly fond of cats as well.

Her work ethic and love for others was evident in the fall when the fruit trees bore. Mother felt bad if even one wormy apple went to waste. She spent long hours, along with those willing to help, bottling fruit and making apple sauce. And finally, when the work was done and her storehouse was full, she unselfishly began giving it away.

Lois has 32 grand children, beginning with Lynette and ending with Jace. There are too many to name individually, but each of you know that she loves you early. She also has 20 great grandchildren, with more on the way. You daughters and sons-in-law, you know that she loved you.

Lest you think my mother was perfect, she wasn’t, which should be obvious to anyone who had heard her call someone a “jackass”. In fact, if one was a jackass at all, they were an “old jackass”. But when it came to the things that count heavily with the Lord, she had no guilt.

Perhaps my mother’s life is best summarize by the following newspaper article that appeared in the Payson Roundup:

“Charmaine Perry of Payson nominates Lois Fuller of Pine for the Good Guy award. ----------------‘The other day, after a hot dusty day at the river with my son and our dog, I discovered that my gas gauge no longer works,’ Perry writes. ‘Needless to say, halfway back to Payson from Flowing Springs, we ran out of gas and had to walk. After a while, a lady pulled over onto a turnout ahead of us and patiently waited the 10 minutes it took us to get to her car (my son can’t go too fast – he’s only four) and offered us a ride, muddy dog and all. At first I refused because her car was very nice and clean and I didn’t want my dog to wreck the upholstery. But she insisted and drove us home, although it was out of her way and messy. We were all relieved and very grateful. Most people wouldn’t even stop, let alone give two sand-speckled people and a wet, muddy dog a ride.’ ------ “Lois you truly are a Good Guy.”

Let me close with the words of the prophet Nephi.

“For we write to persuade our children, and also our brethren to believe in God and to be reconciled to Christ, for we know that it is by grace that we are saved after all we can do.” (2Nephi 25:23)

This good woman truly did all that she could do.

I thank all of you who loved my mother and enriched her life. Thank you Monrieve for being such a good good friend. There are a host of others, some I know and others I don’t. Thank you all for rending service and love to our mother. I give thanks to my sister Linda, and other family members who lovingly cared for her the past few weeks. And above all, I thank the Lord for blessing me and my brothers and sisters with such a remarkable remarkable woman for a Mom.

Lois and her eight children (circa 1988)

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Words spoken at Lois' funeral, Pine, Arizona, April 25, 1998.

Darius Gray

Thank heaven for men like Darius Gray. I’ve been an admirer for a couple of years. Prior to that I didn’t know who he was, which may seem odd to the thousands of people who recognize both the name and the face of the onetime newsman of KSL television in Salt Lake City. 

I was first introduced by a podcast, and then the video “Nobody Knows: The Untold Story of Black Mormons.” More recently I got better acquainted reading a trilogy of historical novels which he co-authored, “Standing on the Promises”. The sufferings and hardships experienced by African Americans in the distant and not-so-distant past were brought to life like no history book could. As I read, I cringed at man’s inhumanity to man, and in the process reflected, not always proudly, on my own youth.

The year was 1972. It was the beginning of 7th period, the last hour of the day at Prescott High School. Thirty teenage boys were stuffed desk to desk in a small classroom. “Mr. Mac”, our auto shop teacher, was notoriously late getting back from the teacher’s lounge. Today was no exception. As we waited, the jabbering of ten overlapping conversations filled the room. One of them was a testy exchange between two teenage boys who were throwing insulting barbs at one another. No one paid much attention until one called the other a “stinking n*gger”. For a moment the room went silent. All eyes focused on the boy who let the n-word slip from his lips, then on the boy the caustic barb was directed at, both of whom were as white as Florida beach sand, and then finally on Barton Brown who was sitting a row away from the other two.

Barton was a friendly unassuming boy, always quick to smile. He was easy to like and didn’t have an enemy in the world. He would have been just another friendly face in the crowd, had he not been African American, one of only three out of a student body of nearly 2,000.  Like Joe Louis, Barton was a credit to his race – the human race.

With the n-word still hanging in the air, a classmate prodded, “Barton, you’re not going to let him get away with that are you?” Others joined in. Barton was slight of build and probably hadn’t been in a fight in his life. He wasn’t eager to exchange blows, but what do you do when someone has insulted you and every member of your family, and peer pressure is squeezing you to do something about it? The class was ready to retire outside to witness some fisticuffs when the first boy apologized for the remark. Barton candidly accepted the apology. Every one sat back down. Mr. Mac showed up to teach. The class went on as normal.

In retrospect, two things stand out. First, this incident was soon forgotten by everyone, everyone except  Barton who I’m certain remembers it to this day. Second, though the slip of the n-word came from a rural “cowboy” who might be expected to harbor prejudice; it could easily have come from almost any other classmate. The word was common. If any of us really held ill will toward African Americans, it was not based on firsthand experience. Most of us had never had a conversation with an African-American. Other than Barton, there wasn’t opportunity.

With a 1970 census count of 13,631, there likely were less than ten African-Americans in our town in Northern Arizona. What the town lacked in African Americans, it made up for with a vibrant Hispanic community. While in grade school a Hispanic family lived next door. Their son was my best friend. One might expect one minority to be sympathetic of another, but no. My friend and his family used the n-word casually and frequently. Such were my growing-up years. I heard it at home. I heard it at school. I even heard it from one of my teachers. Sadly, I was a product of my time.

Thank heaven for change, both individual and society in general.

Last year my son attended a premier of “Nobody Knows” at which Darius Gray was present. After the viewing, Nate approached Darius and extended his hand for a handshake. Darius brushed it aside, called him “Brother”, and gave him a big hug instead. When hearing of the experience, I found myself a bit envious.

I too would like to give Brother Gray a hug, to express my admiration for him and other African Americans who persevered through horrendous adversity, who put the promptings of the Spirit above all else, who didn’t let social snubs, condescending attitudes, and blatant bigotry detour them from the path they knew to be right. Thank you Darius, not only for your own example, but for working with Margaret Young to bring to light other pioneers, who like you, persevered and held true to the faith.

Tender Mercies of the Lord

Recently when I walked from our kitchen into the garage to retrieve an ice cream sandwich from the freezer, the words of David Bednar came to mind. In regard to an unlikely experience that some would count as happenstance but to which he attributed to God, he said, “Some may count this experience as simply a nice coincidence, but I testify that the tender mercies of the Lord are real and that they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence.” Standing there in the garage, as I pawed through stacks of frozen food in search of a tasty treat, I experienced a tender mercy of my own.

Over the years I had retrieved things from that same freezer a thousand times. But this time, it occurred to me that I was experiencing something unusual. It was more than unusual. All considering, it was truly amazing. What were the odds? One in a million? The chance of winning a lottery couldn’t be much higher.

The explanation dates back 57 years to Louisville Kentucky, soon after the opening of General Electric’s “Appliance Park”. This was the first facility to manufacture appliances that later became common, such as the self-cleaning oven and through-the-door ice and water dispensing refrigerators. The plant is still in operation today. Since opening in 1952, it has spit out more than 185 million appliances. One of the first was a food freezer, model 1HC-11-LC1. Thousands of the units rolled off the production line. One was trucked to Chicago where it was purchased by a short thin woman, Elizabeth Gustainis, who was only one generation removed from her Lithuanian roots.

Initially, the freezer served time in Elizabeth’s home in Addison, Illinois. A few years later it moved to her family’s beach house on the shore of Lake Michigan where it purred away on hot summer days, dispensing frozen treats to Elizabeth’s visiting grandchildren. At the age of 19, when many of its siblings from the Louisville plant were undoubtedly being replaced with newer models, this freezer moved to Houston Texas where Elizabeth lived with her son’s family. Ownership of the freezer unofficially passed to the next generation when Elizabeth’s son moved it to Scottsdale Arizona in 1978. In 1982 at the age of 26, the freezer passed to yet another generation when Elizabeth’s granddaughter took possession in Phoenix, Arizona. When she and her family moved to California in 1992, the freezer’s resume boasted 15 years defying sweltering desert heat in stuffy confines of hot Arizona garages. Over the next 19 years, as it journeyed from West Coast to East Coast and back again, the freezer survived the upbringing of five of Elizabeth’s great grandchildren.

Today the freezer sits in my garage in Newberg, Oregon, full to the brim. It quietly purrs away, just as smooth and functional as it did when it began life 57 years ago, uncomplaining, performing its silent duty with a load of ice cream, frozen berries, waffle fries, roasted chicken, and chocolate fudge 3-layer cake. Each time that my granddaughter Jenika, who is Elilzabeth’s great great granddaughter, enjoys an ice cream sandwich from its depths, it marks the fifth generation which this family heirloom has served.

Like the freezer, our faithful dog Yodi prefers to spend most of her time in the garage. Anyone making a trip to the freezer is greeted by her wagging tail. At 16 years of age, she is 112 in dog years. That’s an impressive number, but it pales in comparison. If the average life span of a kitchen appliance is ten years, the freezer that Elizabeth Gustainis purchased 57 years ago is now 445 years old in appliance years. That in itself is miracle enough, but even more miraculous is that this antique has never broken down, never been repaired, never had need of a service technician. For 57 years it has quietly purred away, serving one generation after another. It shows no sign of stopping. Yes, the original exterior paint is closer to rust brown than original white, but it’s purely cosmetic. The freezer is as functional today as it was the day it rolled off the assembly line nearly six decades ago.

While this remarkable performance might be dismissed as circumstance, could it be more?  As unlikely as this performance is, surely the Lord played a roll, for the “tender mercies of the Lord are real and….. do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence” This tender mercy binds my wife, my children, and grand children to a proud ancestry several generations removed. It stands as a reminder that the Lord is mindful of Elizabeth Gustainis’ posterity. Indeed it is true that the Lord’s tender mercies are the very personal and individualized blessings which we receive from our Father in Heaven. Who would have thought that an old freezer would be one of them.

Maggy

We received a smile-inducing, bubbly Christmas letter from an old friend this month. She didn’t call it a Christmas letter. How could she when it was dated mid February. But no mistaking, it was a Christmas letter. Like the twenty-plus letters which preceded it, this one warmed our hearts and made us grateful to count Margaret as a friend. After all, who wouldn’t want to be friends with a personality who writes with Erma Bombeck’s wit and likely could have succeeded the legendary humorist given the chance.

Our paths first crossed Margaret’s back in July of 1979 at 2007 N. 49th Street, Phoenix, Arizona. As young-marrieds, apartment #1 of the small apartment complex served as our honeymoon suite. Next door in apartment #2 was an aloof man, most remembered for complaining if we more than whispered after 8pm and for religiously and meticulously washing a black Chrysler Cordoba in front of the complex every Saturday morning. In apartment 3 lived Mr. and Mrs. Dietz, the managers of the complex, who obliviously called me Dennis for months on end, and whose domestic squabbles were legendary. And in apartment 4 lived Margaret, a friendly girl who at age 30 seemed almost a generation removed.

We became acquainted with Margaret as we exchanged pleasantries while passing on the sidewalk. The relationship took a twist when she made a house call to our apartment to render first aid to our pale leaf-shedding rubber plant named George. Despite Margaret’s best efforts, George died soon after. We didn’t hold it against her. Donna and I likely killed George by drowning. As sad as George’s passing was (he was a gift to Donna), the ordeal cemented a life-long friendship with Margaret.

After 14 months of marital bliss, Donna and I were forced to move from our one room apartment on north 49th street when we threw reason to the wind, completely disregarded the terms and conditions of our lease, and took steps to violate the no-kids-allowed policy of the adult-only complex. As my pregnant wife and I left, we bid adieu to our friend Margaret. We saw her a few months later when she paid a visit to our new place on a Sunday morning and fixed us crepes for breakfast. We told ourselves that she came to see her old friends, though our bouncing baby girl was the obvious drawing card. This was the last time we saw our friend, but certainly not the last time we heard from her.

Over the next 28 years Donna and I bounced from one state to another. As we brought five kids into the world, as career moves took us from coast to coast to coast, we kept tabs on Margaret through her yearly updates. We watched from a distance as she married and raised three daughters in the Midwest. Our hearts ached when divorce shook her life. We were delighted when “Prince William” graced it.

If one assumed that this 30-year friendship was spawned by common interests they would be wrong. Even back in the day, if we passed each other on the sidewalk after grocery shopping, Margaret would likely have skimmed milk and yogurt in her bag, while we would have chocolate chip ice cream and potato chips in ours. If we ever voted for the same presidential candidate it could likely be blamed on a hanging chad or misplaced hole punch. It was a job that brought Donna and I to Portland Oregon three years ago. In contrast, Margaret’s gene pool was clearly in play last year when her daughter moved to Portland, undoubtedly lured by a “Keep Portland Weird” bumper sticker.

Thank you Maggy Michaels for sharing this crazy roller coaster of an experience called life with your ol’ East Phoenix friends. May God continue to bless you. Please dear, keep those letters coming.

Harvey

It was early afternoon on a hot August day in 1989. Sweat dripped from our brows as two friends and I trudged up the South Bass Trail in the Grand Canyon. The increased elevation brought cooler temperatures compared to those deep in the canyon, which this time of year was more reminiscent of a blast furnace than a national park. When we finally reached the rim, the typical euphoria of having accomplished the task, the satisfaction of conquering one of the seven natural wonders of the world, the pleasure of standing on the rim and looking down thousands of feet on beauty we had just experienced – all of that was missing. Our 4-day backpacking jaunt had in fact been cut short by two days. Two of us felt rather distraught over the matter, having our attempt to reach Royal Arch scuttled. The other was elated to be out of the canyon. This newbie couldn’t wait to cover the 30 miles of rutted dirt road back to civilization, away from this hell hole. He had had enough of the two kooks who had brought him to this wilderness inferno where life hangs in the balance of water in one’s backpack and green-slime bedrock pools which may lie around the next bend or may not exist at all.

As I dropped my burdensome backpack to the ground and felt the instant relief to my back and shoulders, I became aware of two other hikers preparing to head into the canyon. A where-are-you-going, where-have-you-been conversation ensued. When one of them mentioned a shorter route to Royal Arch off of Point Huitzel, my mind was suddenly off the ill-fated hike we had just completed and onto the next adventure. When I pressed for details about this other route, he simply said, “Harvey writes about it.”

He didn’t bother with a last name. The other hiker was a complete stranger. We had never met and weren’t likely to again. Yet the name “Harvey” rolled off his tongue as if he were referring to a mutual friend or one of my brothers. He knew that I knew who Harvey was.

It seems a bit pompous when Grand Canyon Explorer John Wesley Powell, the first to float the Colorado River through the canyon, commands three names instead of one. In contrast, the man who “walked over more of the Grand Canyon than any other alive or dead”, is simply known as Harvey. To any serious hiker who has experienced the backcountry of the Grand Canyon, Harvey is a mentor, a friend and a teacher. Never mind that he died a very old man in 2002. His presence and influence lives on.

Through his “Grand Canyon Treks” books, Harvey clued me and countless others into the wonders of such places as Royal Arch, Elves Chasm, Deer Creek, and Thunder River. If his books are Holy Scripture for the Canyon enthusiast, they are written in the language of Isaiah. They sort of make sense, but the real message is only gleaned by the most devout follower. Harvey didn’t give details on how to reach a destination as much as he pointed in the right direction. While nearly every hiker with Grand Canyon fever holds Harvey in near reverence, nearly all have near cursed him when drinking water ran short and with sun-parched lips they struggled to find a route using Harvey’s cryptic words.

Recently I got a book for Christmas, “Grand Obsession, Harvey Butchart and the Exploration of Grand Canyon”. When I finished reading it today, it caused me to pause and reflect. I already knew a little about Harvey the hiker. Now I knew Harvey the man.

Harvey’s fever-like obsession with the Grand Canyon was an extreme full-blown case for sure. In comparison, mine was mild. If Harvey is the Michael Jordan of Grand Canyon hiking, I’m a division II college player at best. When I add up all the days I’ve spent below the rim, they total a few months. Harvey’s add up to years. I’ve hiked hundreds of miles. Harvey hiked thousands. Fortunately the canyon never claimed the life of one of my hiking buddies like it did Harvey, but it scared me senseless when it threatened to. I can relate to Harvey’s frustration with hiking partners that could not keep up. While Harvey is in a different league, I feel a kinship through similar experiences, from a hungry and horrid cold night below the rim in shirt sleeves, to drinking green “pollywog soup”.

Who would have thought that this revered man, a quiet math professor, had the flaws that he did. Until reading his biography, I couldn't imagine Harvey being a litter bug or starting a brush fire by illegally burning toilet paper. The account of him hanging upside down from a failed rope ascent was comical. Though I’m envious of Grand Canyon places and sights that Harvey experienced that I never will, there is one experience that I’m happy to do without. Harvey’s obsession cost him years of marital happiness when his wife played “second fiddle” to Grand Canyon. I’m grateful my own canyon fever was never that severe.

I offer thanks to Harvey the hiker who was responsible for showing me so much of the Grand Canyon. I thank authors Elias Butler and Tom Myers for introducing me to Harvey the man. And, a big thank you goes out to all who have shared my Grand Canyon hiking experience over the years, including:

Monte Baldwin

Don Davis 

Nate Fuller 

Nick Fuller 

Lynette Baldwin 

Ryan Baldwin 

Jerry Nelson 

Brad Brown 

Leon Fuller 

Dan Fuller 

Jerry Fuller 

Loran Dennis Fuller 

Jeanette Martin 

Rick Charon 

David Fuller 

Jennifer Wraught 

Rob Brusman 

Carol Brusman 

Rusty Spencer 

Jack Grimm 

Bill Grimm 

Brad Edwards 

Steve Dahmer 

Bill Townsend.