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.

  

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! 
     

 

ASH AVENUE FELON

Our Duplex Home on 9th East

   
     Wow! What a trip! So this is earth? Pretty awesome. Yup. Real cool! I popped onto the scene while Dad was finishing up his doctorate at Stanford University. He was thrilled to have his first little boy, but I'm not so sure Mom shared his enthusiasm. It was her third delivery in three short years. Her first girl, Kerri, lived for only a few short minutes. A cause for great sadness for my parents. My sister, Kay, was the next child, and she was just what the doctor ordered. I'm sure Mom was ready to enjoy her sweet, happy, good-natured new baby girl. It was time to take a well deserved rest, when, voila! I wormed my way into the family.

   After his graduation, Dad packed us all into his old jalopy along with everything they owned. Only a week old I got to ride in my cozy bassinet on top of the spare tire in the back seat. We were soon on our way to settle in the quaint town of Provo, Utah, and Brigham Young University. That's where my dad would teach for the next forty plus years.

Early 1940s Desoto 4-door sedan.

   The first place I remember us dropping anchor was in a duplex apartment at 750 North 900 East, close to campus. That house is still there today. I don't remember much about living there but I do recall pulling up our landlord's newly planted flowers at age 3. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I still remember Mom's kindness in dealing with me. The landlady however was pretty brutal while unloading her annoyance on Mom. This situation was the catalyst that led to my parents building a home on Ash Avenue. Grandpa Francis's banking connections helped seal the deal. My parents continued to live in this home until they both passed away. It was their first and only home, a place filled with treasured and lasting memories.

Kay (age 2) and Francis (age 4) in front of the 9th East home.

The 9th East duplex home today.

Francis and Kay having fun in the snow at the 9th East home.

Life on Ash Avenue

    At the time we moved in to our house, Ash Avenue was a dirt road in a new housing development. One block away was Briar Avenue which was paved. Briar also held all the mailboxes for the new homes in the area. This complex of mailboxes contributed to my first run in with the law.

Max and Florence Rogers home at 1167 Ash Avenue.

     Playing mailman was on my list of favorite activities. Shuffling the mail from box to box was innocent fun for me, but not for the mailbox owners. One day a policeman showed up at our house. The gig was up. I had been found out. I was a felon at age 4! Between the policeman's grumpy face and his intimidating pistol and cuffs, I was convinced I should stay away from mailboxes.

    My first stitches came from the wooden seat of a swing Dad had built in our backyard. It caught me square under the chin on the return trip. After watching Dad pound and saw while helping build our house, a tool box with kid size tools was the perfect birthday present! Sawing down our newly planted fruit tree didn't get me the same recognition as George Washington, however, but it did get my tool box grounded for a time. 

Francis and sister Kay working in the yard of their new Ash Avenue house.

     In our backyard was a clothesline Mom used to sun-dry the wash. There's nothing quite like the fresh smell and crisp feel of line dried linens. I still remember playing hide and seek between drying sheets while Mom was trying to hang clothes with wooden clothes pins. Mom would pile up the clean laundry on her bed where I would take a few high bounces off her spring loaded mattress before belly flopping into the soft clean pile. 

Francis, age four, watering the new lawn.

     For my fifth birthday my parents invested in a deluxe tricycle which took me a short time to grow into because my feet didn't quite reach the pedals. Flying down the sidewalk, with pedals spinning

Francis, age five, on his new birthday trike.

out of control, and a screaming passenger hanging on for dear life on the back was a lot of fun. If we crossed Cherry Lane, we were doomed. About the only way we could come to a stop was to capsize the trike onto someone's lawn and abandon ship. The person on the back would usually jump off before that to save his life. Great fun!

   I was a skinny little runt and wanted to look strong like my dad. With enough encouragement he would flex his biceps. Incredible! They were huge. Eat your mush and scrambled eggs, and plenty of white bread, was his advice. I put away a lot of mush, scrambled eggs and bread, but my biceps were as puny as ever.

R. Max on his bike with Kay, Francis and Paul

    Sometimes Dad would come home from work, lie down on the living room floor, and start reading the newspaper. Just when he got well into it, he was jumped on by all his kids. Kay would hold down one arm and I would subdue the other while my younger brothers, Paul and Russ, would bounce on his belly. His best defense was the dreaded "Scissor Lock." With some effort he was able to squeeze all four of us between his legs. Years later I found myself using the same tactic on my own kids.

ABANDONED or MOM'S R&R TRIP TO EUROPE 1952

1952 BYU Europe Tour Group

        My mother made an earth shattering decision. She was leaving all four of us kids and going to Europe for three months. My Dad had helped to organize the BYU Study Abroad program and she wanted to spend the summer traveling through Europe with his tour group of 30 students. But what about us? My sister Kay was 8, I was not quite 7, Paul was 3, and Russ was still in diapers. Who would take care of us? That’s when we were introduced to Mrs. T. She was about 60, and could have passed for the Wicked Witch of the North. She was a stone faced general with no patience for kids.

        As soon as Mom and Dad were out of town she began laying down her ridiculous rules. “You will eat your mush with little milk and no sugar. You may not stir it and you must eat every bite!” The four of us looked at each other like this woman is nuts! Then came the best part: “If you poop yourself, you will stand naked on the back lawn while I squirt you clean with the garden hose.” I hadn’t pooped or peed myself in years, but just the suggestion made my sphincters twitch. We all looked at Russ who up to this point in his life thought a droopy diaper was a fashion statement. She was true to her word. She made us all stand at attention and watch as she hosed down Russ while he shivered and screamed. We tried to show him how to poo and pee in the toilet, but he was just too young.

Kay, Russell, Francis and Paul. 1952.

        “Now you will scrub this kitchen floor every day after breakfast.” “But it’s not dirty!” “You will scrub this kitchen floor every day, dirty or not! Did you hear me?” Oh joy. Only two months and 29 more days of this abuse! The dishes weren’t clean enough or dry enough so we did them over and over. Sometimes we scrubbed the kitchen floor two or three times a day. A few times I escaped the house just to see a friend, but mostly to get away from her. After being caught, I had to be by her side all day. I was like her puppy. I had to follow her wherever she went.

        Mrs. T’s old farm home was about two blocks away. I would follow her to her house where she slopped her pigs and watered her garden while Kay looked after the little ones. We all looked forward to the evenings when she would turn the reins over to a sweet, kind young lady who would tuck us in and stay the night.

        Our summer vacation was slipping away and soon we would be back in school. The General’s constant nagging, belittling and abuse of Russ was causing resentment to build to an explosive point! One day, after slopping her pigs she disappeared into her bathroom. While water was running into her bathtub I began exploring her kitchen. There on the stove sat a box of wooden matches. Hm. I pulled

over a kitchen chair, nabbed the match box, climbed down and began building a teepee with the red tips forming a beautiful peak. The teepee just happened to be constructed on her kitchen chair. Now for the finale! The last match lit perfectly on the side of the box and when I touched it ever so gently to the red peak the whole thing went up in a hiss of fire and yellow smoke. I don’t know if it was the loud hiss or the smell of smoke that alerted Mrs. T., but the bathroom door flew open and she was greeted by a blazing teepee fire on her wooden kitchen chair. The spanking that followed hurt, but not enough to overcome the joy of sweet revenge! When my parents finally returned, her only remark about me was, "This boy will end up in prison, if he lives that long!"

    And what about those great presents Mom and Dad promised to bring back from Europe? Well, we all looked just swell in our new lederhosen and traditional German outfits. We were ready to star in Mom’s next musical, “The Sound of Music.” Well, “The Sound of Music” never happened, but for the next few months we were paraded like showdogs for Dad’s German club events. And yes, we did look swanky, didn’t we?!

     I later learned that Mrs. T. was mother to my favorite Seminary Teacher who also became my Mission President. Strange how life works!