YOU'LL SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT or DAISY RED RIDER CHRISTMAS

 

        The movie "A Christmas Story" has always had a special place in my heart. Every boy growing

The movie, "A Christmas Story"- it's a family classic.

up can hardly wait for his first BB gun. It’s a rite of passage. But, we all faced the same obstacle. Mothers. “You’ll shoot your eye out!” I had just turned ten, and my father had finally prevailed.

        Very early Christmas morning, before any of the rest of the family was awake, I left my bedroom in stealth mode. I crept quietly up the basement steps, through the kitchen and into the living room to examine what booty Santa had left. No wrapped presents at our house. There in the soft glow of the Christmas lights on my assigned chair, right next to the stuffed stocking, lay a long thin box. Yes! It could only be one thing. Printed on the side was a magnificent picture of a Daisy Red Rider Lever-action BB gun. It had finally happened. I could hardly contain my joy. I'd be the envy of every kid in the neighborhood.

Ralphie trying out his new Daisy Red Rider.

       Hefting the box I made a shocking discovery. It was empty. What the heck! Was this some kind of sick joke? I frantically searched the room, in the closets, behind the curtains and under the couch, but no BB gun. With lingering questions and fading hope I headed back to bed.

        By sunrise the house was alive with the sounds of happy kids and parents enjoying the surprises of Christmas morning. “How do you like the present Santa brought you?” questioned Dad. “Oh, you mean the empty box?” I groaned. “Oh, it’s real alright and it's magnificent,” he chuckled. Dad left the room and returned with the real thing, the Daisy Red Rider. Together we read the instructions and danger warnings. Then, after swearing blood oaths, “cross you heart and hope to die,” and any other promises my parents could swear me to, the Daisy Red Rider was finally really mine.

Official Daisy Red Rider Lever-action BB gun

        The wood stock felt comfortable in my arms as I cradled it, lined up a shot and gently pulled the trigger. Wow! This is a beauty, I thought. Shooting at targets and stationary tin cans was fun, however I soon lost interest. After all, I was born to be a Backwoods Hunter, killer of wild animals just like my hero, Davy Crockett.

 

        Roaming the nearby hills, tracking down lizards and squirrels proved disappointing. They wouldn't sit still long enough to get off a good shot. It was in Stewart Grow’s orchard that I finally found my wild pray. Birds. They could be spotted flitting through the branches of the fruit trees. If I stalked quietly I might get close enough to squeeze off a winning shot. Sure enough, after several near misses, my BB found its mark. A small bird tumbled from branch to branch, finally coming to rest at the base of a peach tree. Hurrying over to examine my trophy I couldn’t wait. There in the grass lay a small beautiful bird. My shot had hit it, but it was still alive. Wounded mortally, peeping weakly, it was suffering a slow death. What I saw broke my heart. With tears in my eyes, I took careful aim and put the struggling little bird out of its misery. The great Hunter of Wild Beasts had lost all interest in killing.

My 93-year-old dad, R Max Rogers, with his new Daisy Red Rider BB gun.
My mom, Florence, has given in and is trying to be supportive.

        Fifty years later the roles were reversed. Again over the protests of my mom, I bought my 93 year old dad a Daisy Red Rider BB gun for his birthday. He needed it to scare away the neighborhood cats that were using his vegetable grow box as a community outhouse. We brought out the old targets and tin cans, then shot off a few rounds for old times sake. Dad's gone now, but I still have the Daisy Red Rider and a load of great memories.

PUPPY LOVE

   

Lady and the Tramp.

      There were rumors going around about sixth grade. Namely about the teacher, Mrs. Arrowsmith. “She’s an old biddy with a smile like a laughing donkey. She’s a strict, merciless General who eats little trouble makers for breakfast and spits out their bones!” Yup, that’s what they were saying. It all sounded pretty scary, but I’d judge for myself.

      I was growing up. I had just turned eleven and had parked my first home run in Little League. Maybe school was about to change for the better. It did, and her name was Olivia Smith. Up to this point in my life girls were nothing but pests out to get you in trouble every chance they got. But Olivia's deep brown eyes and golden hair gave her the look of an angel, an angel that melted away

The "new" Francis in sixth grade.

my wicked ways and nudged me down the road toward Sainthood. As Beverly Burrup so wisely put it, "She tamed the tiger!"

    The question became, not what Mrs. Arrowsmith wanted me to do, but what would Olivia want. Better handwriting, you got it! Turn in my assignments on time, you bet! Baths, clean teeth, nails, deodorant, the works! I even used Vaseline petroleum jelly to keep my porcupine hairdo looking sexy.

Jar of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly

    Up to this point, Olivia knew nothing about my newfound infatuation. But that was about to change. Occasional touching during the "allemande left and dosado,” or “swing your partners" during Square Dancing was egging me on. I had to ask her to a Saturday evening movie. The movie date was set up, and my mother drove us to the musical, "Oklahoma," at the Paramount Theater in Provo.  I wore my Sunday suit and my Converse sneakers, the ones with the big star on the side. We shared

1950s Converse sneakers with the big star.

buttery popcorn and even held hands now and then. Movie over, there was Mom waiting to deliver her safely home. Hand in hand I slowly walked her to the door, and gazed longingly into her big brown eyes when a jolting blast from the car horn snapped me out of my mesmerized state.

     I enjoyed spending time teaching Olivia and her younger brothers how to play baseball. I knew we were making progress when one of them pounded the baseball through our kitchen window. They were definitely getting better! Another time I took Olivia and her friend, Martha, to play tennis at the BYU courts. That was a mistake! First, I spent an hour chasing wayward balls and, second, three was a crowd. The best part of playing tennis was downing an ice cold mug of root beer across the street at Heaps of Pizza.

1950s Heaps of Pizza sign.

    At the end of sixth grade our class was preparing to wow parents and administrators alike by performing "Sleeping Beauty." The boys were making swords and putting together soldier uniforms, while the girls were practicing being beautiful sleepers. The question on all of our minds was who would be Sleeping Beauty, who would be Prince Charming, and would he really awake her with a kiss? When the cast was announced, it was Olivia who won the part of most beautiful sleeper,

The lovely Olivia Smith

and Kent Peterson would be the one to awaken her with a kiss. I was hoping for the part, but I guess Kent was the most Princely. He had the curly hair and lips for the job!

The princely Kent Peterson

        And what about Mrs. Arrowsmith you ask? She was as tough as nails and a stickler for rules. She was just what I needed. I memorized some character building poems, some lines of which I can still remember. Underneath it all she had a soft heart and really cared about her students. 

        Summer finally arrived and it turned out to be the best ever. My neighborhood pals all enrolled at BY Junior High, a private school run by Brigham Young University, and Olivia ended up at Central Junior High on the other side of town. Well, that was that! On to new friends and more charming young ladies. 

 

TRUCKIN' IN MORGAN WITH GRANDPA

        Grandpa’s old black Ford truck was as much a part of his farm as his team of horses or his tractor. On a few rarer occasions Grandpa would let me tag along with him as he ran his farm errands.

1940s Ford Pickup Truck

We would bounce along to the feed store, stop to chat with the old timers that congregated there , throw in a few bags of this and that, and we were off trucking over to the tack shop. Grandpa would pick up a few horse shoe nails, and chat some more. It was hard to tell if it was farm business, or church business, or both, seeing how he had been the Bishop in Morgan for about a dozen years. Then we were off again, chugging along and loading up bailing wire and gunny sacks.

Front Street in Morgan, Utah

        Between stops Grandpa would let me put my hand atop the long gear shift lever coming out of the floor. Then he’d cover mine with his large gloved hand and together we’d grind through the gears. Each time we would miss a shift we’d look at each other and laugh, like “Was that you or me?”

Howard Francis as a young man.

        Wherever Grandpa went he would always wear a hat. He'd been a hat guy since he was a young man. One day he grabbed a hat covered with fish hooks from the rack by the kitchen door and said, “Are you coming or not?” We headed for his trusty old truck and were off. We rattled past the Fair Grounds on our way to Como Springs.

       Ah, the Fair Grounds! Once each summer the grounds came alive with excited people from the outlying communities. The local farmers would bring in their best livestock, farm produce, and cooked up goods to be judged. Grandpa usually did well in the top prize categories with his cabbages, wheat, and in the horse team competitions. Uncle Scott would race his quarter horse on the long oval track while onlookers cheered. Meanwhile we kids were hunting down cotton candy and carnival rides.

        Well, back to the story! Grandpa pulled the truck to a stop at the bridge crossing the Weber River. There he set me up with a pole, line with sinker, and worms. I had never been fishing before and he insisted that I thread that slimy, wiggly sucker onto the sharp hook. I couldn’t believe any fish would think this was a tasty treat! 

What? You're going to do WHAT?

     Once Grandpa was satisfied that I had mastered the art of baiting my hook, he plopped his fishing hat on my head and left me dangling my fishing line from the bridge. He had business next door at the Como Springs Café. Como Springs was a happening place, the hot spot for Morgan and surrounding towns. It featured a café, a bowling alley, a roller skating rink, a dance pavilion, some carnival rides, and a natural springs swimming pool. I had spent some time there learning how to swim.

Como Springs swimming pool in Morgan, Utah. 1950s.

       My Uncle Scott convinced me to jump off the diving board at the deep end. He promised to catch me, but somehow I slipped through his hands and sank like a rock to the bottom before he could rescue me. When Grandpa returned he acted surprised that I hadn’t caught anything. We threw the fishing gear in the truck and headed back to the farm, grinding gears all the way.

         Sometimes Grandpa would wake me up while it was still dark outside, even before the long-necked rooster had croaked its morning greeting. Grandma was busy with breakfast and packing lunches while my Uncles, Scott and George, were filling water jugs with ice. We piled in the old truck and headed for the cabbage fields next to the river. It was time to attack the weeds. “This row’s yours,” announced Grandpa. Looking down the long row it appeared to disappear into the horizon. I looked around. There were dozens and dozens of similar rows. This was a job for Superman, and we were mere mortals! With no complaints Grandpa, Scott and George all dropped to their knees and went to work. As the sun came up and the day wore on, I began to understand why Grandma would lovingly massage Grandpa’s sore muscles at the end of the day. 

      Working bent over hour after hour was incredibly painful. I also learned that “damn weeds,” “little shits,” and “water sucking bastards” were not swear words, but were the true biological names for what we were pulling.

    When break time came we were glad to rest our weary bones in the cool shade of trees growing along the river bank. Grandpa would retrieve the jugs stashed in the water at the river’s edge. Chugging down ice cold liquid was heavenly! Now and then we would hear a splash and a loud “whop” from beaver showing their annoyance at being disturbed in their tranquil habitat.

Weber River. Morgan, Utah.

      Just downstream a bit was a swimming hole where the river slowed before dropping over some low waterfalls. A lot of local teens swam there, but I didn’t dare. I was afraid I would be washed over the falls and down the river.
 
        At the end of the day we dragged ourselves back to the truck and headed for home. I was worn out, totally beat up, and done for. But Grandpa and his boys still had chores to do. The cows needed milking, animals needed to be fed, and more, much more before they could call it a day. I’m sure they weren’t impressed with my “city boy” work habits, but I was impressed by their sheer strength and determination to get the job done. They were my heroes!

EPILOGUE

     A few years before Mom and Dad passed away, my wife and I drove them to Morgan for a trip down memory lane. We crossed the bridge leading to Como Springs on the north east end of Morgan. But we were disappointed to find that it was gone. Nothing of the original recreation area was left. It was totally covered by swamps, brush and weeds.

Max, Florence and Francis looking at what was left of Como Springs.
It was hard to believe!

Nothing remains of the old Como Springs resort.

     The trip to Como wasn't a complete waste. It had jogged an old memory Dad had hidden away. It went something like this: When he was frequenting Como Springs as a young man in search of love, he found a most beautiful young woman who showed up at the dance pavilion each weekend.

Max Rogers with a college buddy.

      He asked her for a dance, and they both had a great time. Dad was quite taken by her. One evening she showed up with an adorable little girl who turned out to be her daughter. "Well, ok," Dad thought. "She has a daughter. But she's charming, and she's beautiful, just like her mother. These things do happen!" They continued to meet up on weekends. One evening, while waiting for her to show up, his good friend asked, "I noticed that young lady you've been taking an interest in." "Yes, indeed," Dad responded. "Have you met her daughter," the friend asked. "Yes. She is as lovely and delightful as her mother," Dad replied. "Well then, have you had a chance to meet her husband?" With that, Dad was left speechless. He picked up the pieces of his broken heart, and soon moved on in search of less encumbered young ladies.

 
 

NEIGHBORHOOD SPORTS and GAMES

       There were a couple of basketball hoops in our neighborhood. The Allens next door had one above their garage, and on the other side the Smiths had a small court out back with a regulation height standard. We would most often play HORSE or “Twenty-one.” I’m sure games on both courts contributed to our Wasatch Wildcats winning the 5^th Grade Championship.

        Our backyard was set up for a variety of games. Volleyball, badminton, croquet, ping pong, tether ball, a swing set with pullup bars, and it also served as an imaginary big time football field.

        When we played in Phil Swenson’s backyard, our dads (Max Rogers, Ab Swensen and Wilford Smith) would watch from the patio balcony and critique our football skills. Em Smith was the best at rushing, Phil Swensen was the best running back, and I was pretty darn good at catching passes over my shoulder.

Willow Tree Line Backer

    Ash Avenue in Provo was the football capital of the world for young boys dreaming of BYU Cougar stardom. No touch- or flag football for us. That was sissy stuff. It was tackle or nothing! Between birthdays and Christmas we had all collected a variety of pads, jerseys, and helmets. Once suited up we felt we were invincible. Nothing felt better than hitting and smacking each other at full tilt. The sound of helmets and pads cracking was music to our ears.

    My helmet was a beauty to look at, white with a block Y insignia on the sides and a blue stripe from front to back. Unfortunately it was a toy, not really made for protection. But to me it was the real thing.

    There were three back yards big enough for imaginary stadiums and ours was one of them. We practiced hard, knocking each other around, and even challenged other neighborhoods, sometimes charging admission. There was an obstacle, however, a large willow tree in the end zone at one end of our backyard. 

     During an intense knockdown, drag out game I was the running back. Fourth down and a few short yards for the winning touchdown. With head down, ball tucked securely, and legs pumping, nothing was going to stop me from scoring, except the immovable object, the willow tree linebacker. I was "in the zone" and didn't even see it. Another bump on the head, and a splitting headache. It was obvious my equipment needed to be upgraded!

Francis in upgraded football equipment

Other Neighborhood Games

       One of our favorite made up games was “Annie-I-Over.” Each team would start out with an equal number of players. They would flip a coin to see who went first. The winner could choose either the front yard or the back yard to start. We’d yell “Annie-I-Over”

and throw a tennis ball over the roof to the kids on the other side. If your team could catch the ball before it hit the ground you would attack by running around the house. Anyone you could hit with the ball before they made it safely to the other side was now on your team. In the end the team with the most players was the winner.

         “Kick the Can” was our favorite night game. We could have played all night, but our parents would eventually drag us home kicking and screaming.

Marbles

        At Wasatch School playing marbles was a big deal, an early introduction to gambling I suppose.

“Pots” was my favorite. It was like golf in a way. Taking turns each player would shoot his best marble into a series of holes in the ground. The last hole contained the “jackpot,” a collection of ten or twelve marbles anteed up by the players. Winner take all! The first to shoot his taw into the final hole took home the jackpot. “Snudgees,” in other words thrusting the marble forward with your hand, was a gross violation of the rules. Sometimes the game became so intense that we had to assign a referee to keep fights from breaking out!