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

   

   

THE S.O.B.'s or SONS OF BRIGHAM

   BY High’s great basketball team had done it again! After destroying our league opponents we were headed for the State Tournament. Under the judicial leadership of Les Brown (our school social chairman), Paul Evans, and Brent Yorgason an unauthorized club was formed called the "Sons of Brigham." The SOBs for short. It was made up primarily of Lettermen who were not playing basketball. Their purpose, I suppose, was to be an intimidating show of force. You know, put the fear of God in our Heathen Foes. All dressed in dark black sweatshirts and sporting dark black knit caps, the sharp white letters “SOB” stood out like a beacon. “Don’t mess with us!” Our loud, obnoxious cheers and questionable chants turned the heads of the more dignified fans in the crowd.

    After winning our first game at the State Tournament, many of the SOBs were heading home from Salt Lake City in two cars, my red VW Bug and Dave Beck’s green Valiant. Coming down the long hill from the “Point of the Mountain” the two cars pulled side by side, windows shot down and a barrage of playful insults were exchanged. It didn’t take long before things escalated and a milk shake splashed onto the windshield of Beck’s Valiant.

1960 Valiant 4-door sedan

   Turning on his wipers in the freezing cold weather only made matters worse. Beck was forced to pull over to the side of the road to clean things up. Driving on ahead we congratulated ourselves for a job well done. The evening’s activities completed and the pranksters delivered safely home, I parked the red VW Bug snugly in front of our single car garage. 

Rogers family single car garage on Ash Avenue, Provo, UT

   Very early the next morning Dad headed out the door, late for an important church meeting. There in the driveway, right in front of the garage door, he was met with a gut-wrenching sight. His red VW was covered from bumper to bumper in thick frozen ice cream. To top things off, all four tires were completely flat with valve stems missing. Angrily rousing me out of bed, Dad cried, “Who did this? I’m late and I can’t get my car out of my own garage!” Taking in the scene through sleepy eyes, I croaked, “The SOBs." "Who?" asked Dad. "You know, the Sons of Brigham!” It took some time, but with the help of a few extra valve stems I had stashed in the glove box [a story for another time], and some physical exertion with our hand held pump, the VW was relocated and Dad was finally off to his meeting. Oh the joys of fatherhood!

    The SOB’s. What a fitting name! 

The red VW Bug pumped, polished, and looking good again!

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.