WELCOME TO "DINE BIKEYAH" (The Peoples' Land)

Window Rock, Arizona -- capital of the Navajo Nation.

Leaving on a Prop Plane

        As the plane's twin engines droned on towards Holbrook, Arizona, I made myself comfortable and thought back over the past week. With the Mountain Rescue, a Farewell talk, last minute shopping, and saying goodbye to friends and family, it had been a bit hectic.

        In those days Missionary Farewells were a big deal. Special Farewell announcements were printed, and the missionary’s family provided the whole Sacrament Meeting program. It was an honor to have my Grandpa Francis and my father speak, as well as my mother and brothers and sisters take part.  
       

Mission Farewell program cover

R Max Rogers and Howard Francis.

Howard and Jessie Francis with their grandchildren at Francis's farewell. November 15, 1964.

        Following the farewell I was off to the Salt Lake Mission Home. The few days I spent there were a spiritual feast. We had been taught by Apostles and other General Authorities, our Savior’s personal representatives here on earth.

        We spent time in the Salt Lake Temple learning more about our sacred covenants and gaining spiritual strength for the challenges that lay ahead. By the end of the week we were on fire, ready to take on the world, and change lives for the better. Having been called by a Prophet and set apart by an Apostle, I felt blessed to represent Jesus Christ and His gospel.

Salt Lake Temple and Temple Square in the 1960s.

        The flight from Salt Lake City to Holbrook, Arizona didn’t seem like a long way from home. But, it might as well have been a third world country half way across the globe.

Holbrook, Arizona. 1964.

      After a brief orientation with President and Sister Baird, I was on my way to White Rock, New Mexico with my new companion, Elder Steve Harward. He was from American Fork, Utah, and had been out for about six months.

President J. Edwin Baird and his wife. Holbrook AZ Mission Home.

White Rock, New Mexico

        White Rock was located in one of the most remote areas of the Navajo Nation. It was about forty miles south of Farmington, New Mexico. Forty miles of terrible dirt road winding its way through the Tsé badlands!

Tsé badlands south of Farmington, New Mexico. 1964.

        If you continued south another thirty miles past White Rock you would reach the small reservation community of Crownpoint.

Map of the Navajo Nation.

        It was like going back in time. Many of the people were still using wagons pulled by horses, firing up wood-burning stoves, and their homes had no electricity or running water. Most of the families raised sheep, goats, or cattle, on land allotted to them by the Navajo Tribe. They lived in small isolated camps comprised of two or three hogans, livestock enclosures, and a few outbuildings, including an outhouse. In general most camps were located three to five miles apart. 

The Blackie family in their horse pulled wagon.

       The missionaries drove bottom of the line Dodge pickup trucks with aluminum campers. Inside the campers were wooden benches used to transport riderless members to church meetings.

Dodge pickup truck with camper shell and heavy duty jack. These trucks were used by LDS Missionaries on the Navajo Reservation in the 1960s. 

        The White Rock Elders lived in a "badlands" setting right out of the Old West. Our home was an abandoned trading post tucked away in a small desert valley. It had rock walls and was surrounded by an old picket fence. I half expected to see John Wayne leaning up against a hitching post.

White Rock Trading Post. November 1964.

       There were outbuildings where our drinkable water and gas for our truck were stored in fifty gallon drums. Inside there was only one room in usable condition. A propane heater provided warmth and white gas lamps gave us light. Late at night you could hear the eerie sound of wild coyotes howling off in the distance.

       I found a bleached-out bull skull with sharp horns to help decorate the wall above my bed, along with a Mexican shawl to give the room a little color, and a picture of a beautiful Breck girl from a hair product ad to remind me of what might be waiting for me when I returned home in two years.

Artesian Well Shower at White Rock, New Mexico.

        About a mile away was an ancient stone block shower fed by an artesian well. It had a men’s side and a women’s side. Hot water poured from a section of fire hose suspended from the ceiling. It would feel great on freezing cold mornings. But it did have its downside. The well water had the smell of sulfur and if you happened to swallow it the result would be smelly, gassy burps. 

       

Elder Harward on top of an old coal shed showing off his climbing skills.

      Home sweet home! I could tell right off this was going to be one great adventure.

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

   

   

ON A ROLL or DAD’S GERMAN VW BUG

   Dad had returned from Europe with a new VW, a shiny red Bug. Wow! A Bug! VW Bugs were taking the USA by storm. This car was his pride and joy.

Francis with his dad's red VW Bug.

On rare occasions he would let me drive it, if I promised to keep it in showroom condition. My good friend, Paul Evans, was impressed. His dad had a small Fiat that he would race through “The River Bottoms.”  He couldn’t wait to introduce me and the VW to his favorite racetrack.

    Winding through its curves, adrenalin pumping, tires squealing, was a real rush! As time went by we were only satisfied with more speed, more G’s, and the feel of the Bug’s back end sliding out on the curves. We thought we were great drivers! Dad had asked, “Why are the tires wearing out on the sides?” The Red VW would become one of his great mortal trials.

   The night of BY High’s Homecoming celebration I offered a good friend, Paul Denham, center on our State Championship basketball team, a demo jaunt through the River Bottoms. The excitement was impressive as we leaned into the curves, our hearts pounding, lunging ahead with each shift of the gears. We were on a roll and also totally unaware that down the S-curved road about half a mile a gravel truck had lost its load. We hit the curve and the gravel at top speed. The Bug slid across the road sideways, hit an irrigation ditch and rolled twice into a hay field. Fortunately we were strapped in tight.

   We unbuckled, got out of the car, looked ourselves over for damage, and found none. I couldn’t say as much for Dad’s new VW. There was hardly a spot on it that wasn’t scratched or dented.

     The car started up and we got it back on the road, but as we began the long drive for home we soon discovered that along with other problems the back axle was bent. We bounced along, up and down, up and down. Our top speed was now just 10 miles an hour. We stood around for several hours at the garage where our friend, Paul Evans, worked. It was hard to know where to begin fixing the Bug. We decided it was definitely a job for the professionals.

   Climbing the stairs that night at 1:00 in the morning to tell Dad what had happened to his prize import was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. After making sure I was ok, he groaned, “We can fix it, but it will never be the same.”