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.