JOHNNY ONE NOTE

        I loved music, but for some reason music didn’t have the same affection for me. Dad played the clarinet, harmonica, and could sing with the best of them. Music was my mother’s first love. She played the trombone well enough to win awards and scholarships, and even played in a dance band. But her angelic voice was her real gift. If she hadn’t devoted her life first and foremost to her family, she may well have been on the road to stardom. So, with this talented gene pool, why was I born a tone deaf Johnny One Note?

Max and Florence both played in the Morgan High School Band.

        It was a family tradition to wander the neighborhood at Christmas time going from house to house singing carols. My sister, Kay, had inherited my parents’ musical talents and was appalled and embarrassed by the sounds coming out of my mouth. “Mom, would you please ask Francis to just move his lips and pretend to sing? He’s making us all sound bad,” she implored.

Max Rogers family carolers. 1962.

        Fred Webb, our High School choir director, must have been of the same opinion. After two weeks in his class he discovered from whom that terrible sound was coming, and begged me to drop chorus and take a different elective.

        It was in James Mason’s band class that I finally found my musical home. The trumpet could play beautiful sounds as long as I could blow and press the right valves. Mr. Mason was a bit concerned about my embouchure, but my mother felt that the trumpet was the right instrument for me. I rose early, usually at 5:30 in the morning, and bugled my way through various trumpet exercises. I was excited, but our next door neighbor, Wilford Smith, was horrified and complained loudly to my parents. Why should he care? He was an old military man and should have been used to early morning bugle calls. But the result of his protests was that I used a mute while practicing.

        Some of my best buddies were also squawking and tooting away on their instruments. George Taylor played the oboe, Dave Clark the clarinet, and Dave Beck rocked on the French horn.

        James Mason was a master at his profession. He 

James Mason

soon had our gang of musical misfits producing harmonic sounds that stirred our emotions and brought tears to our eyes. Meanwhile it was our lack of harmony that brought tears to Mr. Mason’s eyes.

        It was in the basement of BY High that Maestro Mason taught us to appreciate the power of good music. It would become a joy and a comfort to us throughout our lives. If I had to pick one instrument that tugged at my heart strings, it would be the oboe and George Taylor made it come alive and sing with celestial wonder. “Gabriel’s Oboe” from the movie, Mission, has always been a favorite oboe solo of mine.

        We won high honors in many regional and state music competitions, but there was one I will never forget. Our first number was to open with an incredible French horn fanfare. Dave Beck was at his best. I had heard him nail his solo to perfection many times. The lights dimmed, the audience hushed, and James Mason picked up his baton. Standing tall and proud with his arms outstretched like a giant bird, he swooped into the down beat. I glanced at the French horn section. This was Beck’s big moment. What? He was still fumbling with his mouthpiece as the baton fell. He quickly jammed it into his instrument and blew. It wasn’t the heart stopping fanfare that rang out that evening, but a loud, obnoxious BLAT! After a quick moment of shocked silence the audience and band members alike had a good laugh. Composing ourselves we were ready to give it another shot. This time Beck nailed it! At the end of the number the audience rose to their feet clapping and cheering us on. Beck had been redeemed.

 James Mason conducting BY High Concert Band.

        The verdict came down from our parent school, BYU. Our High School would have a marching band and be represented in Provo’s Fourth of July parade. And the band members would wear BYU’s old marching band uniforms. It was a scramble for the mothers to get these college size uniforms to fit their high school kids. James Mason made it clear that this was not his idea. He didn’t sign on to be a marching band drill instructor. But, being a true, loyal soldier he would comply. And if we were going to do this, we would be the "best damn marching band" in the parade. And we were!

BY High Marching Band on parade. Francis with his trumpet, Dave Beck with his French Horn.

        After my mission, I took piano lessons from Richard Hatch, one of my favorite missionary companions. I learned just enough to memorize a few popular songs, the kind that would impress and lure beautiful BYU coeds. My wife said it worked. I said, Whatever it takes! 

        Today my musical talents are rather limited. But I do play a mean conch shell!

Francis playing tunes on the Conch Shell.

BIG FISH STORY or ENSENADA HERE WE COME!

      The fish are biting in Ensenada, Mexico! That was the word on the street. Not just any old fish, but deep sea fish. The kind you see hanging over mantles accompanied by legendary stories. Soon we would have our own heroic fish tales to brag about. Our Scout Troop was about to experience a “super activity.” Troops around the Valley were working hard to outdo each other in that department. Great backpacking treks deep into the High Uintahs, rubber raft trips down the rapids and cataracts of raging rivers, and now it was our turn. A “super duper” deep sea adventure to Ensenada, Mexico, was in the works. My dad used his Study Abroad tour director skills to secure all the arrangements for this trip.

      Dad, J. V. Beck, Ab Swenson, Chuck Peterson, and a few other fathers, had signed on to escort our somewhat rowdy troop on our quest. The plan was to caravan in station wagons to Nellis Airforce Base just outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, then on to San Diego, California, where we would cross the border into Mexico, and travel the 80 miles down the coast to Ensenada. There we would hook up with our chartered fishing boat. 

 

Nellis Airforce Base front gate. Nevada.

       Nellis Airforce Base was fascinating. Our guide led us out onto the tarmac where we inspected real fighter jets. We were close enough to the powerful engine blasts that the wind tore at our clothes and blew off a few hats. The base treated us like kings.

Nellis Air Force Base pool.

      We ate in their mess halls, swam in their pools, and slept in their barracks. Before we tucked ourselves in for the evening, we took a drive to see the bright lights of the Las Vegas Strip. With curious eyes plastered against our car windows we didn’t want to miss a single thing.

Old Golden Nugget Casino. Downtown Las Vegas,NV

       We took in every detail: the million dollar stack of cash at the Golden Nugget; the fountain Evil Knievel had jumped on his motorcycle at Caesar’s Palace; extravagant hotel signs advertising boxing, Elvis, and horse racing. Later our chaperons left for a late night visit to Tinsel Town. The next morning while eating breakfast at the airmen's mess, the term “Watermelon Girls” was heard whispered amid snorts and chuckles from some of the more senior members of our group. 

Evel Kenievel on his motorcycle. Behind him the fountain he jumped over at Caesar's Palace, Las Vegas, NV.

Elvis Marquee. Las Vegas, NV.

  

        The next day our caravan headed for San Diego, crossing the long, hot, endless Nevada-California desert. Stopping for potty breaks and burgers put us behind schedule, and we found ourselves driving down the coast of Mexico in the dark. The only thing keeping us awake was the sound of blaring trumpets from mariachi bands playing on the radio.

Postcard. Ensenada, Mexico.

       Our plan was to set up camp on the beach. We hadn’t anticipated on doing it in the pitch black of a moonless night. It had been an exhausting trip and an early morning appointment awaited us at the boat docks. We rolled out our sleeping bags and were soon fast asleep dreaming about reeling in large trophy fish.

       We were awakened very early. No alarms necessary. The tide had rolled in and was lapping at our sleeping bags. In no time at all we had broken camp, packed our gear, and were on our way to the boat launch. 

Ensenada's Finest. Fishing boat in Mexico.

         One glance at our fishing boat and we looked at each other. Really? This is Ensenada's "finest"? After walking the plank leading to our fishing boat, we were outfitted with long sturdy poles. From the look of things we would be landing some big ones today! It took us about an hour traveling seaward to where the giant fish hung out. There we bobbed at the mercy of the rolling swells. Up, and down. Up, and down. Up and down. Buckets of stinking fish gut chum were thrown overboard, followed by our fishing lines and baited hooks. 

         With anxious eyes focused on the water, we were all waiting for the cries of success. We waited, and waited. Then we heard it. A loud cry. And then another, and another. Not from fishing success, but from green faced scouts spilling their guts overboard. The massive puking exhibition inspired those of us holding back to join the concert of bellowing belchers. We would gladly have paid the charter a bonus to take us back early. But it didn’t happen. When our rental time was finally up, our tally of trophy fish equaled four 10- to 14-inch monsters. It definitely was a fishing trip with stories to tell!

Look what I caught in Mexico!

      By late afternoon we were all feeling more like our perky selves and headed for the tourist trap shopping district where cool souvenirs could be hunted down. I found a switch-blade knife and a small carved statue of a laughing donkey. Memories of sixth grade and Mrs. Arrowsmith! The most exciting find was a package of explosive cherry bombs, definitely taboo contraband that must be kept hidden.

Mariachi Band. Ensenada, Mexico.

       That evening, on a cantina’s festive patio, we stuffed ourselves on the best Mexican food ever. Then we listened to a live mariachi band blare, strum, and sing, bringing our south-of-the-border experience to a fitting end.

      Much to our disappointment we bypassed the Las Vegas Strip on the way back. I think the dads were anxious to get back home to their families. To relieve the cries of “Let’s stop for burgers,” Dad broke open a large box of freshly picked oranges. Soon all was silent except for the continuous slurping of orange, after orange, after orange. A painful lesson was learned that day. Oranges and young scouts are an explosive combination. It didn’t take long before the air in the station wagon was so rancid even a skunk would run for cover!

      With our heads hanging out open windows, gasping for fresh air, Dad searched anxiously for a roadside privy (the kind made of wood that had seats over a common hole in the ground). Finally spotting one, he pulled over in a cloud of dust. All four doors flew open and out spilled a gaggle of scrambling scouts. The race was on for the Men's “triple-header.” What? The door was locked. You’ve got to be kidding me! Music was drifting out of the ventilation ducts. We knocked politely. No luck! Then we pounded. The door remained barred. This guy was really enjoying himself. What did he think this was -- an exotic spa?  In desperation we hopped with legs crossed to the Women’s side, piled in, and uncorked the dike. 

      Before leaving this lovely place, a mischievous plan began percolating. While Dad sat innocently in the Rambler wagon with its engine running, three of us slipped back in to the Women's side of the privy where music continued to drift up from the three exposed holes. The constipated stranger was still sequestered on the Men's side. Squinting hard we peered down the dark, stinking holes into the thick muck below. There were five faint spots of light reflecting off the surface. This could only mean one thing! Two bare butt cheeks were covering the sixth hole. With evil grins we lit and dropped three cherry bombs -- one down each hole -- and ran for the car. "It's about time!" blurted Dad. His remarks were followed by a muffled BOOM. BOOM. BOOM! as we edged our way back onto the highway. All in all, it was an explosive ending to our Super Duper Scout Adventure!