STATE FAIR CARNIE

       The State Fair was coming to town: Animals, Music, Ferris Wheels and Cotton Candy. Every thrill ride known to man was going to be there. We gassed up the family car the night before and woke up at first light. We wanted to hit the rides early before the crowds arrived. Standing in line for rides was for suckers!

       

        We made the 50 miles from Provo to the Salt Lake Fairgrounds in record time, parked the car, bought a bundle of ride tickets, and were ready to enjoy the best the Fair had to offer. The first ride the kids ran to was the Octopus. They handed their tickets to the Carnie and jumped into the first car, securing the chrome bar tightly across their laps. Their eager looks broadcasted, “Push the button! Let’s get this show on the road!”

The Octopus ride at the State Fair.

      From across the park sounds of rides firing up and kids screeching began to fill the air. But, there they sat. Five minutes passed, enough time to have completed the Octopus ride and be off to the next thrill while the lines were still small. But, no! There they continued to sit, locked in their seats like caged animals. After ten minutes two more excited riders showed up and were locked in, but the ride stood still.

State Fair rides.

       More rides were coming alive all over the park. The sounds of joyous children were everywhere, except on the Octopus. I approached the Carnival Professional. They had looked long and hard to find this greasy haired, toothless, tattooed prison parolee. “Could you please start this ride?” I asked.

Typical Carnie.

        “Not 'til all them seats is full!” barked the Carnie. He was enjoying this. It was a power trip! Seeing a white collar family man squirm under his control was giving him goosebumps. “If you won’t start the ride, could you please take my kids off so they can move on to other rides?” “No can do! They have to wait.” Fifteen minutes had gone by and no one else had gotten on the ride. This could go on forever. I felt we were stuck in a horrible nightmare.

  

        Now twenty minutes had ticked by since our excited kiddos had been locked in their seats. The Fair was in full swing. I couldn’t believe this. We were caught in the “Twilight Zone.” The kids were stomping their feet and pounding on the sides of the car. “Do something, Dad!” they implored. 

The Twilight Zone.

       I approached the Carnie once more. “We’ve been here twenty minutes. It’s time to start the ride or let my kids get off!” He was grinding what was left of his teeth. Hatred for people like me was beginning to surface. His left eye was starting to twitch, his hands began squeezing into fists, his mouth and throat were making guttural noises before he spit a blob of tobacco juice just inches from my shoe. “I’ll let ‘em off. But they don’t get no tickets back!” he growled. “Whatever!” I replied. He smiled a sly grin and turned toward the ride. The kids were squawking, “Come on! Hurry up!” This slowed him to a snail’s crawl.

      While this was going on I noticed our tickets laying on the entrance stand. I snatched them and stuck them in my pocket, feeling a twinge of guilt for taking back my own tickets. Strange! Released from Carnival Lock Down the kids came running, eager to finally get on a real, moving ride.

        Suddenly, with the howl of a wounded animal, the Carnie was after us. “Give me them tickets!” In a flash we were toe to toe. He could certainly move fast now! His dirty-nailed hand was out and shaking. “The tickets!” “Oh, you mean MY tickets? The ones I paid for so my kids could actually go on a ride?” His shaking hand jerked upward, and quick as a striking rattler he grabbed my shirt and almost lifted me off the ground. He must have been pumping iron in prison for years. This guy was strong!

Musclebound iron pumping prison parolee.

        From behind me the kids were yelling, “Beat him up, Dad! Show him whose boss!” “Yeah, you want me to be toothless too?” I thought to myself. Just as my pride was shattering and the kids’ belief in their dad’s invincibility was quickly disappearing, a voice, as if from heaven, boomed, “Hey, Joe! Get the hell over here and do your job!” A slight pause, a moment of indecision, then a quick shove, and Joe the Carnie reluctantly trudged away.

State Fair Cotton Candy booth.

        The kids enjoyed the rides, the animals, the freaks, and the cotton candy, but I felt sick inside. My kids would always remember their dad being collared by Joe the Carnie for as long as carnivals  came to town. 

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.”

  

ROAD RASH ON A SHINY NEW VESPA

Vespa 150

    Ash Avenue was buzzing with the sound of Vespa motor scooters. All of us got our drivers licenses about the same time and all of us “Ash Ave” boys bought Vespas: Paul Gilbert, Phil Swensen, Joe Clark, Kim Bateman, Emery Smith, Jan Henderson, Stewart Grow, George Taylor, and yours truly! It was almost comical to see us all arrive at BYU High, flip up our kickstands, grab our books, and head for class. We were cool, and that was for sure. I bought mine for about $600. It had extra equipment which made it just a little cooler than the rest.

    To make the payments I worked as an early morning janitor for JC Penney’s. Then I worked in the kitchen at a rest home. And finally I took over Stewart Grow’s car route, delivering papers for the Deseret News. There was a gas allowance for the car route, but using my economical scooter put extra bucks in my pocket.

1950s Deseret News masthead

    The paper route covered the River Bottoms and went all the way up Provo Canyon to Wildwood.

Wildwood community in Provo Canyon

Off and on my brother Russ would ride on the back and stuff the rolled papers into Deseret News tubes alongside the road. His reward was usually a pop or a milk shake at the Riverside Café near Vivian Park.

    One sunny Saturday Joe Clark and I took a road trip to Salt Lake on our shiny new Vespas. My 150 was a beautiful blue and Joe's 125 was a boring tan. We went by way of Camp Williams on Redwood Road to avoid the heavier, faster traffic.

Camp Williams on Redwood Road near Bluffdale, UT

     On the long straight hill just past Camp Williams we decided to see just how fast these babies could go. By crouching low we might be able to bury the needle at 65 mph. Joe was just ahead of me with our scooters whining at top RPMs. I was determined to make up the distance when suddenly a large German Shepherd bounded onto the road chasing Joe's scooter.

German Shepherd loving the chase

    It must not have seen me because it ran right into my front wheel. The next thing I knew I was flying through the air looking up at my scooter cartwheeling above me. The scooter hit the road in front of me showering me with sparks as it slid down the rough pavement.

With no helmet I followed, sliding from shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, and elbow to elbow, until finally coming to rest in the middle of the road. My clothes were shredded, my upper body covered with road rash.

A passerby in his car stopped and came to my aid. I was taken to a local clinic and hosed down with disinfectant. It felt like I had been set on fire. Still in shock, I can't recall how I got home.

    One month and eighty dollars worth of repairs later, I was back on the road. I still have small scars on my shoulders, hips and elbows where the road sanded me down. Looking back I was lucky, or blessed, not to have been seriously injured. In those days only dorks wore helmets!  

CHRISTMAS GREED

    All kids love Christmas. Lights, music, presents under the tree. Santa always showed up at our house, and always ate the cookies set out for him. I never could figure out, though, why Santa gave Dave Beck bigger and better gifts than the rest of us Ash Avenue boys. I knew for a fact he wasn't any nicer.

    Now that I was in Junior High it was time for me to start buying some of my own clothes. Not that the combat boots Mom had gotten on sale were that bad. I told my mocking friends I was a trendsetter! With five siblings, I knew my parents couldn't afford many of the fashionable clothes my pals were wearing. You know, like Gant shirts with the small loop atop the back pleat.

    I had a paper route and saved up for a clothes buying binge. It was Christmas time and everyone was catching the spirit. Clark's clothing store had carolers and hot chestnuts.

Hoover's and Levin's lured us in with Elsha and other spicy colognes, guaranteed to turn pretty heads. "Would you like that wrapped?" Why not! The fancy Christmas paper made each purchase look expensive. After all, the wrapping was free!

    I didn't buy that many clothes, but having each item wrapped separately made quite an attractive stack. At first I put no tags on them. I just let them sparkle like the silver icicles hanging on the tree. My brothers and sisters insisted on knowing whose presents were piled so high next to the tree. Being continually pestered I finally relented and tagged them, "TO FRANCIS FROM SKOSH." "What? All those presents are to you from your stupid dog?" they screamed. "I can't help it. Skosh loves me!" I replied with a smirk.

    I wasn't greedy. I would have presents for them as well. They just weren't out yet. I thought my presents were so beautifully wrapped that they would add to the Christmas feeling! It was a Christmas never to be forgotten. To this day, my brothers and sisters share this holiday memory with joking contempt.

  

SNAKE MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE

   

Brigham Young Academy. Home of  BY Jr High and High School. Provo, Utah.

      Summer was over and a new Junior High adventure was about to begin. George Taylor and I were still good friends in 7th grade. We had many sleepovers at his parents' house on

Francis Rogers and George Taylor, 7th grade

the mountain. We would stay up past midnight and watch Nightmare Theater. George could do a great imitation of Boris Karloff, "I'm going to suck your blood."

Brigham Young Academy. Education Building.

    On the third floor of the Academy Building was where the girls hung out learning the secrets of cooking and sewing. Located on the second floor was Room 250A, a large room with a hardwood floor, big enough to hold dances.  Nobody ever said a word when we danced cheek to cheek, but the Twist was never allowed.

My standard lunch: Tuna fish sandwich and potato chips.

   The first floor was a combination of four classrooms, one of which morphed into our cafeteria at lunch time. BYUs pink punch and hard rolls were a great addition to Mom's standard lunch of tuna fish sandwiches, chips and an apple.

   

Mr. Verl Allman dressed up as the Mad Scientist

     Verl Allman was our 7th grade home room and science teacher. His class was held in the basement of the Administration Building. He was in charge of teaching us about animals, and how they reproduced. It was easy to see that he enjoyed his job!  

Verl Allman's 7th Grade Science class on Snake Mountain:
[Back row] Marsha Ann Nelson, Jan Sylvester, Eileen Sheffield, Beverly Burrup,
Jim Tyndal, Dave Clark, Myron Walker;
[Front row] Kim Tangren, Francis Rogers, George Taylor

     The highlight of our class was a field trip to Snake Mountain on the other side of Utah Lake. The slithery reptiles were everywhere. A few of them were poisonous, but most were harmless Western Racers. After having had our fill of snake hunting, we set off for Utah Lake where we waded into the shallow water and wrestled giant carp. Some were almost as big as we were. Junior High was a blast!

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.