ERNIE AND ME

    I met Doug Wilkinson (the youngest son of Ernest L. Wilkinson, President of Brigham Young University) while playing my first year of Little League Baseball. We were both nine year olds and played for the team sponsored by the local Elks Club. We became good friends and he would invite me to his house to play. His house just happened to be the President’s Mansion on the BYU Campus. Before leaving home to pump my “no speed” Schwinn to the president’s home, Dad would pull me aside and implore, “Be on your best behavior and don’t get me fired!”

The President's Mansion, Brigham Young University

     In the mansion’s palatial surroundings, Doug’s mother always had cookies, cupcakes and other goodies in ample supply. His aged grandfather would sit on their outside veranda and rock away in his comfortable chair. He was always glad to see us. And we were glad to see him because he would dig deep in his pocket, extract a small leather pouch filled with money, give us a handful of coins, and send us happily on our way to the Cougar Eat located in the basement of the old Joseph Smith Building. It was there that Doug would order up carmel- or hot fudge sundays for the two of us. On a good day we went for the mother load – banana splits!

    Doug had inside knowledge of secret places all over campus. He could get us into the dome above the Eyring Science Center where the telescope was housed. But even better, he knew where to find the hidden door in the building’s basement that led to the underground “heat tunnels.” These tunnels below the sidewalks could stealthily lead us to almost any building on campus. I remember Doug and I popping out of the tunnels into Field House during a BYU basketball game. We watched the game, snagged some popcorn, and were soon back trucking through the tunnels again.

Eyring Science Center, BYU Campus.

    I met President Wilkinson on a few occasions when he walked through his front door, gestured a quick hello, and shuffled his short frame off to his den. Unlike his wife, he had no time for youngsters. Doug was a year ahead of me in school and attended BYU Elementary, a private school. So when baseball season finished we didn’t see each other, much to my father’s relief.

Ernest L. Wilkinson Center, BYU Campus

     My next involvement with the President was not with the man himself, but with a stack of his “Wilkinson for Congress” bumper stickers. You see, Ernie felt the US Senate was calling. They needed his help. Paul Evans, Dave Beck, Tom Schaerrer, and I had just loaded up on his free campaign stickers at the Wilkinson Student Union Center about closing time. We wanted to help him on his way. Sometime later after downing burgers, shakes and fries at Stan’s on Ninth East, we were cruising back across campus when suddenly red and blue lights flared on behind us and Paul’s Fiat was pulled over by a campus cop. He stopped us right in front of the Administration Building. “Why?” Paul politely asked. We hadn’t done anything wrong! “Just a routine stop at this late hour,” he replied. Noting the passengers’ jovial spirits he abruptly ordered us all out of the car. The officer suspected that we had been drinking and wanted to search the car for booze. The very idea! We never touched the stuff!

     Paul, being the driver, was rudely locked into the back of the squad car. The rest of us stood outside watching the officer with flashlight in hand search the glove box, under the seats, and even in the trunk. Meanwhile, my dear friends took it upon themselves to plaster the passenger side of the cop car with "Wilkinson for Congress” stickers. Finding us innocent of his suspicions, we were set free. “Stay off campus this late at night!” the officer barked his condescending dismissal.

Wilkinson for Congress bumper sticker

    Several days later a letter arrived at my house from, guess who, Brigham Young University Campus Security informing my parents of my late night trek through campus, and my possible involvement in the improper use of election stickers.

Francis Max Rogers, Student Body President of BY High School 1963

    My days at BY High were coming to an end. It had been a great four years with outstanding teachers, good friends, and a bundle of fun memories.

Francis with other student council judges during BY High Friendship Day.

Francis making his move during a BY High dance.

 Paul Van doing the forbidden Twist

   We may have been mischievous pranksters at times, but when it came to loyalty to the school, we went out of our way to bring honor and respect to BY High. In sports, music, Debate, Legislative Forum, and in all aspects of Forensics we excelled in regional and state competitions. My friend, George Taylor, and I won Superior ratings as debate partners.

    Preparations were being made for our long anticipated awards assembly. Every Student Body President since time began had received a Leadership Scholarship to BYU. I had applied and was assured by our school counselors that I was a “shoo-in” for the scholarship and didn't need to apply for any others. It was my job as student body president to meet with the administrators and counselors to help plan the awards program.

Mr. Nelson, BY High Principal

    The awards and scholarships were rolling in daily but still no word from BYU about mine. Then it finally happened. Principal Nelson, with a grin on his face, handed me the official envelope. It was sealed and stamped from the office of Ernest L. Wilkinson, President. “Well, go ahead and open it!” Mr. Nelson prodded. With anxious eyes and shaky fingers I peeled back the flap on the envelope and withdrew the contents. It contained a single sheet of official BYU stationary. On it was a short typewritten note:  “We would like to recognize your service as Student Body President of BY High School. But, unfortunately, we cannot offer you a scholarship. We cannot lower our standards.” Signed, Ernest L. Wilkinson, President.

    What? That was it? No explanation? I handed the note to Principal Nelson and walked away. I thought I heard him mumble, “Wilkinson. What a jerk!” My sentiments exactly! In In the back of my mind I questioned: “Was it the stickers? The Big Splash? Or maybe he remembered me from the days when his son, Doug, and I were roaming the campus!"

Ernest L. Wilkinson, President of Brigham Young University

George giving silent thanks for his scholarship. Francis faking sincere interest.

    Time moved on. It was winter and Provo had been pounded with a major snow storm. I was driving past the President’s mansion in Dad’s red VW Bug, when I noticed a short, well-dressed man trudging through the deep snow. He looked annoyed as if he were late for an important meeting. I pulled to the curb, rolled down my widow and asked if he would like a lift. When he turned I recognized him, President Ernest L. Wilkinson in the flesh! He nodded, took me up on my offer, slid into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door, thus dislodging an avalanche of wet snow from the open window sill onto his lap. He sat stoically, staring out the window, refusing to brush off the snow, apparently too proud to admit it even happened. I delivered him safely to his destination where he growled his first word, “Thanks.” And he was gone. I reached over, rolled up his window, and thought, “Maybe I should have introduced myself.” Nah, I don’t think so. I can’t lower my standards.

Francis Max and the famous red VW Bug

   

   

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.       

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! 
     

 

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.

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.