THE S.O.B.'s or SONS OF BRIGHAM

   BY High’s great basketball team had done it again! After destroying our league opponents we were headed for the State Tournament. Under the judicial leadership of Les Brown (our school social chairman), Paul Evans, and Brent Yorgason an unauthorized club was formed called the "Sons of Brigham." The SOBs for short. It was made up primarily of Lettermen who were not playing basketball. Their purpose, I suppose, was to be an intimidating show of force. You know, put the fear of God in our Heathen Foes. All dressed in dark black sweatshirts and sporting dark black knit caps, the sharp white letters “SOB” stood out like a beacon. “Don’t mess with us!” Our loud, obnoxious cheers and questionable chants turned the heads of the more dignified fans in the crowd.

    After winning our first game at the State Tournament, many of the SOBs were heading home from Salt Lake City in two cars, my red VW Bug and Dave Beck’s green Valiant. Coming down the long hill from the “Point of the Mountain” the two cars pulled side by side, windows shot down and a barrage of playful insults were exchanged. It didn’t take long before things escalated and a milk shake splashed onto the windshield of Beck’s Valiant.

1960 Valiant 4-door sedan

   Turning on his wipers in the freezing cold weather only made matters worse. Beck was forced to pull over to the side of the road to clean things up. Driving on ahead we congratulated ourselves for a job well done. The evening’s activities completed and the pranksters delivered safely home, I parked the red VW Bug snugly in front of our single car garage. 

Rogers family single car garage on Ash Avenue, Provo, UT

   Very early the next morning Dad headed out the door, late for an important church meeting. There in the driveway, right in front of the garage door, he was met with a gut-wrenching sight. His red VW was covered from bumper to bumper in thick frozen ice cream. To top things off, all four tires were completely flat with valve stems missing. Angrily rousing me out of bed, Dad cried, “Who did this? I’m late and I can’t get my car out of my own garage!” Taking in the scene through sleepy eyes, I croaked, “The SOBs." "Who?" asked Dad. "You know, the Sons of Brigham!” It took some time, but with the help of a few extra valve stems I had stashed in the glove box [a story for another time], and some physical exertion with our hand held pump, the VW was relocated and Dad was finally off to his meeting. Oh the joys of fatherhood!

    The SOB’s. What a fitting name! 

The red VW Bug pumped, polished, and looking good again!

NEAR TRAGEDY ON THE PROVO RIVER

        Early June brings a rise in the Provo River runoff along with a rise in the testosterone level of Provo’s young men. The combination of the two helped compel us to tube the fast flowing river water. School was out and a small group of BY High graduates, Paul, Tom, Kent, Dave, Jed and I were up for the adventure.

Train trestle up Provo Canyon.

        We pumped up old truck inner tubes to near explosive levels, threw them in our truck and headed up Provo Canyon to the old train trestle. Wading into the cold water was the worst part. When everyone had mounted up we pushed off. Mine was the first tube to catch the swift current. This was a great idea! Hot sun, cool water, and the grandeur of Provo Canyon rushing by was exhilarating. The rapids sprayed us with icy water and bucked and tossed us like rodeo cowboys, but we stayed in the saddle.Wahoo!

        Approaching a sharp curve near Vivian Park my tube was unexpectedly swept into a fast moving current racing along the rugged bank. About five feet from the shore, a tall tree stood in the water directly in my path, the raging water rushing around both sides.  I was on a collision course. Thinking fast, I decided to dismount the tube on the far right hand side, pass the tree, and climb back on.

        As soon as I hit the water I knew it was a mistake, a big mistake! Under the water about two feet below the surface a large log was trapped, running perpendicular to the river. It caught me across the chest and held me tight. The force of the river had me pinned. Unfortunately my head was just below the surface. I frantically reached above me, desperately grasping for something to hold on to. I had to find something to pull my head above water. I couldn't breathe!

Fast flowing Provo River during spring runoff.

       There it was. I felt the tip of a small branch, less than ¼ inches in diameter, but was it enough. using the leverage of the fragile branch I pulled my head high enough out of the water for a short gasp of air. I could feel the branch weakening! It couldn’t hold me much longer. With one eye above the surface I saw Kent Peterson floating by! “Are you ok?” I could read his lips. I tried to shake my head. But that’s when the small branch gave way. Now I was in real trouble.  No air and trapped below the surface.

     I put my hands against the submerged log and tried again to push myself back to the surface. Try as I might I couldn't force myself up. The current was crushing me tighter and tighter against the log. My air supply was gone. Could this be the end? Is this what it was like to die?

    The only solution left was to push down, use the current flowing under the log to go deeper. There could be more branches and trapped debris lower in the water. I had no choice. If I stayed where I was I would die. If I was sucked lower beneath the log and got caught I would be just as dead. But there was the outside chance I could resurface on the other side still alive! Exerting every ounce of strength I could muster I pushed downward. With the help of the raging current I struggled deeper and deeper, scraping under the log's rough surface. A sudden rush of mighty water, and I was popping up on the other side, reaching for the surface and gasping for air.

Fisherman wading into the Provo River

   Glancing back I saw a fisherman with his pole inching his way out into the current, trying to reach me. My tube was long gone, so I set out swimming across the river, looking for slower moving water. When my feet finally kicked the rocky bottom, I dragged myself onto the shore, totally exhausted. I just lay there for quite some time, giving thanks for being alive. I wanted to kiss the earth!  

 

Vivian Park, Lower Provo River

   My friends had gone ashore downstream and were running up river looking for me. Finding me alive and somewhat kicking they enthusiastically yelled, "Let's do it again!" Not me. One close call with death was enough excitement for one day.       

LEMONS TO LEMONADE

        My High School friends and I weren’t evil. We were just terrible teases. We enjoyed teasing girls, especially beautiful college girls, all dressed up in their finest church clothes. You see, there was a hill on the road just south of the Bean Museum that ran eastward down to a stop sign on Ninth East. To the right were the Heritage Halls which housed BYU coeds. On the other side of Ninth East was the church building the girls would attend faithfully each Sunday. On wet winter days a huge puddle of slushy snow and water would pool up right next to the sidewalk. Oh my, I think you can see where this is going.

        Still dressed in our Sunday duds Dave, Paul, Jed, and I would lurk patiently at the top of the hill waiting for the campus ward to let out. Just like clockwork, dozens of BYUs finest young women would gather in bunches waiting to cross Ninth East and move safely to the sidewalk leading them back to their dorms, and not so safely past the giant “puddle of doom.”

        Sitting in Dad’s red VW Bug with the engine purring quietly we exchanged sly glances knowing that the gaggle of girls had just entered the perfect slush zone. Suddenly the Red Bug lurched forward gaining speed as it accelerated down the hill, at the last moment veering right into the ice cold pool and sending a wall of slush cascading up and over the shocked church goers, covering them from head to toe. Running the stop sign on Ninth East we would turn south making our escape amid a barrage of shaking fists, obscene gestures, and language rarely heard from such well-dressed BYU church goers. 

Snarl!

        Soon other BY High friends caught wind of our adventures and wanted in on the action, come the next slushy day. And so it went. This time it was Brent, Bruce, and Paul Number Two who begged to share in the excitement. The puddle was bigger than ever. The crowd of girls was bigger than ever. And the crest of ice cold, slushy water was incredible. What a rush!

Puddle of Doom

        Several days later a letter addressed to my parents showed up at my house. The return address said BYU Campus Security. Evidently one of the angry girls must have had the eyes of an eagle. She had spotted my license plate number, and with the help of the campus cops they had traced it back to Dad’s red VW Bug.  The letter informed Dad that his car had been involved in a “splash and run.” The girls involved didn’t want to press charges. They just wanted $40 to pay for their dry cleaning. Needless to say, Dad wasn’t very happy. “I’ll get the money from my friends. It was an unfortunate accident,” I explained. Yeah, as if Dad believed that it was an “unfortunate accident” with Dave, Paul and Jed in the car. That would be a first! 

Ca ching! Ca ching! Ca ching!

        Let’s see. Forty dollars divided by four would be ten dollars each. A brilliant idea popped into my conniving brain. What about Brent, Bruce and Paul No. Two? We didn’t actually know which group of perpetrators had been found out. If I could collect ten dollars from all six of them, that would total sixty dollars. My share would be “zero” – and after paying the $40 for the dry cleaning, I would have a net profit of $20! CA CHING! After all, what are friends for?  All went as planned and each paid their ten dollars. No one was the wiser until years later at a class reunion when a group of us were swapping old war stories and the two different car loads told the same story. I had been found out at last! We had a good laugh and went on to more reminiscing about our youthful escapades.

        One day not too long ago Brent and I and our wives were out to dinner when we began laughing about the big splash incident. Brent’s wife, who had been listening, spoke up and said, “I think I was one of those girls!” Then with a disgusted glare, my wife growled, “If I had been one of those girls, I would still, after all these years, punch you in the nose!” Good thing she wasn’t!

(No last names of those involved will be given to protect the rights of the juvenile perpetrators.)

FINANCIAL BIG SHOTS or BIG MONEY

NICE TOYS EQUALS "MUST WORK"

        By the time Stewart and I were sixteen we both had Vespa motor scooters, and both got jobs working at JC Penney’s on Center Street in Provo.

JC Penney's store in late 1950s

        We got up before it was light and buzzed off to work, running every stop light along the way. There we swept the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, emptied the trash cans and washed the front door windows all in time to make it to our first class at BY High. A year later we were both working in the kitchen at Eldered Care Center, loading food trays and washing dishes. I continued to spend a big chunk of the money we earned on religious books.

Eldred Center rest home in South Provo

        Next Stewart landed a car route delivering the Deseret News through the River Bottoms and up Provo Canyon to Wild Wood. After he graduated from High School I took over his route and delivered the papers on my Vespa.

INVESTMENT CLUB or FINANCIAL BIG SHOTS

        Stewart was a good friend and an ambitious worker. Under Stewart’s leadership a group of us organized a club called “Young Investors.” It wouldn’t be long before we would all be driving Corvettes, so we thought.

1961 Corvette

        We each put in $200 and began investing. We followed penny stocks in the newspapers, found one we liked, and visited in the Salt Lake Penny Stock Exchange. They refused to sell us anything. They said we were too young. 

Salt Lake Stock & Mining Exchange - Salt Lake City, UT

        We later bought stock in a movie company that was making a movie about the Mormons crossing the Colorado River at “Hole in the Rock.” It went bankrupt.

"Hole in the Rock" Pioneers. painting by Lynn Griffin.

       We paid the back taxes on a piece of salt grass property near Goshen. We felt like bigshots standing on the County Courthouse steps and bidding on tax sale property. It turned out the title was disputed. The Park Service claimed ownership. Bummer.

Utah County Court House, Provo, UT

        Our last investment before leaving for missions was a loan to the Southam Mining Company. It seemed Mr. Southam was sending out his own missionary and was short on cash. We looked for big returns from “The Man Upstairs.” Maybe we’ll collect in Heaven!

        Toward the end of my Junior year at BY High, some members of our investment club encouraged me to run for student body president. With this group of "Winners" backing me, how could I lose?

Francis standing next to his campaign sign. His sister, Kay, made the poster.

        Our platform was "The Big Deal." We all dressed like gangsters from the '30s in double-breasted, pinstripe suits and carried violin cases. We used Ray Ashby's brother's Model A as a backdrop.

1930s Ford Model A.

         I climbed the old metal fire escape to the second floor platform, and gave my passionate campaign speech to the gawking crowd below. When the votes were counted, the Young Investors finally prevailed. I got the job!

BY High Executive Officers, 1962-1963.

      What became of the Young Investors? We served missions all over the world, got married, and after college each of us was successful in our own way. Stewart Grow became a real estate developer; Paul Hoskisson became a professor of Ancient Scriptures; Ray Ashby became a Seminary principal; Joe Clark became a teacher; Steve Grow became a lawyer, and I became a Seminary principal, and then an Elementary School teacher.