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.

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.

SIZZLING FAST BALLS AND HOME RUNS

    Normal kids play four years of Little League before moving on to Pony League, but since I started so young I was fortunate enough to play five.      

    Dad was as anxious to get me started in Little League as I was. After tryouts at age 8, I was selected as a player on the Elks Club team.  I used Dad's old five-finger mitt with no web pocket -- a museum piece now and close to it then.

Old-fashioned five-finger baseball glove.

    My parents didn't have much money as Dad was just starting out at BYU, but he dug deep and found enough cash to go mitt shopping. There was a small sporting goods store across the street from the Scera Theater in Orem. That's where we found the "Nokona." Sixty years later I still can smell the new leather!

Nokona Baseball mitt with its "Indian head" label.

   There was a ritual that went along with the new glove. First, oil the leather, then put a baseball tight in the pocket and tie it with rope overnight. Play with it the next day and repeat the process nightly.

    Every once in a while a kid would come along who was the size of a full grown man by age 12. A monster of a kid who could throw a 70-mile-per-hour fast ball from 35 feet away. Such was the case in one of our Elks games. While waiting on deck to hit, the biggest fear was you would pee your pants from fright right there in front of everyone. 

    Well, back in those days we didn't have fancy batting helmets. A U -shaped cardboard reinforced ear guard over your temple was about it. At eight years of age, I had a skinny frame and was barely taller than my bat, as I faced down this Goliath. I could hit the ball, but it rarely made it past the infield. Determined to hit against the giant I stepped into the batter's box. His windup was slow, reaching back for all his whip-like power he let it fly. That's all I can remember before the white light and the pain in my head. It was a good thing our baseball diamond was right next to the Provo City Hospital. It turned out to be my first concussion. Dad carried me off the field that day, but I was back for the next game rip roaring and ready to hit again.

      Our Elks Club team rarely won a game. Virgil Carter, one of BYU's first great quarter backs, played short stop. He was so upset that we kept losing he cried after each game.  He wasn't a cry baby. Virgil was just so competitive that he cried out of frustration! 

Francis in his Utah Office Supply team uniform. 1956.

    The next year Dad and a group of fathers in the Wasatch School area organized a league on our side of town. My Dad was the coach for our Utah Office Supply Team. Fathers and their boys dragged and raked the dirt field, getting it ready for our first season. Soon we had nice dug outs, a fancy backstop, a score board and a real home run fence. It took a season or two before we actually had a grass outfield. I was eleven before I finally knocked one out of the park!

    My final year in Little League was a record setter. I hit twelve home runs, two of them Grand Slams. I could have hit more, but some of the opposing coaches thought it was safer to walk me than let me hit. What a bummer! 

    I had spent most of my Little League career as a short stop scooping up hard hit balls, but as a 12-year-old it was time to convince Dad that I was also a great pitcher. I would corner him when he came home from work and insist that he catch for me on the side of the house.

Ash Avenue house with its white picket fence before Francis and his wild pitches destroyed it.

    I had three pitches: a fast ball, a very fast ball, and a super fast ball. My goal in practicing with Dad was learning to control my wild pitches and put them in the strike zone. "Fast and Wild" was my middle name. The broken boards on Dad's white picket fence were proof of my early wild days.

    Each game I would pitch both teams would wonder who would show up: "Fast and Wild" or "Fast and in the Strike Zone." In one game I hit the lead off batter in the forearm. He walked to first base whimpering and rubbing his arm. The second batter took a blistering fastball in the leg. It took him a little longer getting to first base, limping all the way. And  my "super" fast ball nailed the next batter square in the back as he turned to get away.      

    Hearing his son cry out in pain his dad leaped the fence and rushed the pitcher's mound screaming, "He's trying to kill my boy!" Lucky for me Chuck Peterson, Kent's dad and the League President, headed him off before he could do much damage. While being held back by Chuck, the father kept yelling, "He's doing it on purpose. He's trying to hit the batters!" Dad firmly replied, "He couldn't hit them if he tried. He's too wild!" Needless to say, I was replaced as pitcher and went back to playing short stop. I wonder if it was my innocent smirk that got that father so riled up? I can't see myself, you know!

Northeast All-Stars team. Max Rogers coach. Provo Daily Herald article, August 6. 1957.

    Dad's Utah Office Supply team won first place every year he coached. The winning coach was honored by making him the coach for the League's All Star Team. The championship All Star games were played on a perfectly manicured field at Pioneer Park in Provo. A large crowd was there to cheer their boys on.   

    By the end of the season I had my fast ball under control and pitched the first two innings of our All Star game. When our team came up to bat I was the lead off hitter. Watching their pitcher warm up I got my timing in sync. Driving the first pitch to deep center field I thought the ball was gone, but it hit the fence three inches from the top. I ended up on second base with a "stand up" double. As an eleven- and 12-year-old, I made the All Star Team but we never made it out of the State Competition. 

     Later when my brothers played, Dad's All Star Team went to the Little League World Series in Santa Monica, California. They took second place, losing to Japan in the final game. Now that was a big deal! Losing wasn't in Dad's nature yet he looked back on this game as one of his proudest moments as a coach. Win or lose, he played every boy who made the trip. It's something they would remember as long as they lived!

The Rogers family Little League team: Joel, Russ, Paul and Francis.

    I can't say enough about how lucky we were to have a Mom and Dad who supported our interests! Dad coached all four boys through Little League, and Mom was right there sitting in the hot sun, keeping the official score books for our team during the regular seasons.  She stuck it out, sunburned, chapped lips and all. She was a real trooper!

    Even before they were old enough to play, my three younger brothers were at the games. Paul, Russ and Joel rotated as bat boys and equipment managers while my older sister Kay jumped around in her cheerleader outfit jazzing up the crowd. One day while Mom was busy keeping score and Dad was coaching the team, my little brothers were playing in the family car above the field. Their assignment was to honk the horn when good things happened. They accidentally bumped the gear shift into neutral, which sent the car careening down the embankment. The car miraculously stopped just yards from the grand stands. It was something other than a well hit ball that brought the crowd to its feet that day!