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!  

TERROR OUT OF THE MIST

    Getting up at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday mornings to deliver newspapers was not my idea of fun, especially in the winter with temperatures dropping into the low teens. The worst part was alarm anticipation. I had a windup alarm clock that ticked loudly and could wake a hibernating grizzly. Sometimes I'd stay awake half the night trying to beat the obnoxious sound of the alarm and turn it off before it rang. Coat, scarf, hat and gloves. I was off, pumping my Schwinn the two miles to the Daily Herald office and loading up the heavy Sunday papers. At least I had my little Border Collie, Skosh, to keep me company.

Francis and Skosh, the Border Collie.

    The route was quiet, eerily quiet as I pumped along. It must have been the thick fog hovering close to the ground. I got off my bike to adjust the heavy canvas bag holding the newspapers. That's when I heard it. Something big was running toward us. I could hear its claws clacking on the pavement. The sound grew faster and closer. Suddenly leaping out of

the mist was the largest Boxer I had ever seen.

A monster of a dog! Without warning it attacked my little dog, locking its strong jaws tightly on the ruff of her neck and shaking her wildly.  It was killing my dog!

    I began kicking the boxer as hard as I could. I kicked its sides, I kicked its legs. I kicked between its legs. It didn't seem to notice. In desperation I grabbed its spiked collar and pulled with all my might. The beast dropped my dog and turned on me, sinking its sharp canines into my gloved hand. Then just as quickly it was bounding off through the fog looking for its next victim.

    It was quiet again except for the occasional whimper from Skosh as she gently licked my wounded hand. Despite my fears she seemed to be ok. In the dim light of an apartment building I removed the glove to examine my damaged hand. Blood poured out. One of the viscious dog's sharp teeth had penetrated through the leather glove, through the back of my hand, and exited my palm. It could have been worse, much worse! After the required shots, Skosh and I both recovered physically, but we were left with a bad case of Crazed Dog Contempt.  

SKOSH THE WONDER DOG

Francis and Skosh in Ash Avenue backyard.

    At age twelve I was lucky enough to snag a Daily Herald paper route right next to my school, BY Junior High. It was so convenient. I could leave school, pick up my papers a couple of blocks away at the Daily Herald Office, do my route, and be home in time to enjoy the rest of the day. Even better, I earned enough money to feel independent. I could buy my own clothes, and not be surprised by nerdy fashion items like the combat boots Mom had found on sale.

       Each day while pumping my bike around the paper route, I would stop at a particular apartment to help comfort a young puppy named Skosh. You see, Skosh had a bulky cast on her back leg from being struck by a car. As the months went by her leg healed and she began following me on my route. One morning while loading up for school, there she was, sitting on our front porch. I returned her to her owner, but each time she was let loose she bolted and ran the two miles to my house.

    Returning Skosh after each escape was a painful experience. It was sad to watch the young couple's disappointment. It was obvious Skosh wanted to be with me. It broke my heart to watch Skosh being led into their apartment against her will. I'm sure it had nothing to do with her owner being a mailman! For the next few weeks Skosh was chained to a clothesline and couldn't follow me. I would try to ignore her whining and whimpering when I rode by.

    One night our doorbell rang and there stood the mailman and Skosh. He asked my Dad and me if we would like to have Skosh for keeps. He and his wife had talked it over and decided that since she was expecting a baby soon maybe Skosh should be my dog. I waited until he had left, then scream, "YES!"

Our family at Bear Lake: Kay, Mom holding Karalee, Paul, Skosh, Francis, Russ and Joel.

    Skosh was like a member of the family. Even Mom bought into the idea. She went everywhere we went, even swimming in Bear Lake when we were on vacation. She became so protective of me that she would bear her teeth and growl when Dad was sent to dish out some well-deserved punishment!

Francis and Skosh.

    She was a great friend to me over the next few years, especially when I broke my arm playing baseball. It seems she knew what it was like to have a broken limb with a bulky cast.