Gary Shepherd (Shepherd)

Gord is right up to a point regarding youthful kissing adventures.  My lips were virgin all the way up until winter of my junior year at South, if you can believe. But then, finally, it happened (although in the awkward, bumbling sort of way that Gordon and I typically seemed to be prone to in these sorts of situations).  In any event, I had been flirting quite a bit with Linda Booth in our 7th period Scribe "class" under the very loose tutelege of Mrs. Zarr.  This led to semi-long evening walks from my house through Liberty Park on up 13th South to Linda's house on Harrison Ave at 11th East.  For some reason I had revealed my kissless condition to Linda, and we had jointly agreed that Linda would bestow me a kiss on a particularly freezing Feburary night.  I rang her doorbell, Linda came out, bundled up, and we walked around the block several times trying to maintain small talk with quavering voices through chattering teeth. I was literally frozen and didn't make an amorous move of any sort. Finally, Linda said, "I have to go in now," as we rounded her corner for the 3rd time.  We walked up the steps to her porch, she started to open the door and then turned toward me. I lurched forward and grazed the bridge of her nose with my lips before sliding down to the proper place for my long awaited kiss.  It was a bomb of a beginning, but I walked home whistling and happy anyway.

I appreciated the telling of your several stories regarding names and your father.  I know how much his actions hurt and disadvantaged you and your family.  So it made me admire all the more that you were nevertheless able to also discover and report a few of his admirable qualities.

Susan Hemmingsen (Marchant)

More fun reads.  Gold and Green Ball trivia (thanks for this),  name and nick name trivia and stolen kiss info.  (plus the warning that a few of those nick names better not be used).  What more can we ask for this Spring of 2021? 

Or is it REALLY Spring here in the area of Salt Lake City, Utah?  It flips from winter to spring faster than I can hobble around these days.  Yesterday,  when I was shopping at Sam's Club waiting for some help out with my goods, a "no-coated" young college age kid looked outside and then said to me,  "Brrrr".  It was rainy and cold so I followed with the obvious grand-motherly question,  "Oh, where is your coat?".  He replied that he had very recently moved to Sandy from Florida and needed to go shopping....and soon!  Yes, I said you better if you want to survive for long in this here place this crazy time of year.

My first kiss? or kisses, if 6th grade counts, was at a dance studio owned by a friend's family.  One afternoon our dance class followed with the activity of "Post Office", chasing, hiding and stolen kisses.  It was fun, and I so wanted this to happen on a weekly basis but no such luck.  It  abruptly ended.  I never knew exactly why....just heard rumors that the parents who were not around when our Post Officing took place got wind of our escapade and all came to a slamming halt.

In my younger years I had a few nick-names pinned to me which were the garden-variety for Susan - Suzie and Sue.  I put a stop to them because of my dislike and distrust for the two adults trying to make these stick as I felt they also were attempting to accompany the names with a certain image which did not meet with my  approval.  With passing years I've met new people and friends who call me Sue which is okay with me, and a sweet grandchild  who, when he struggled saying my name, came up with Nana Thuzie which I found endearing.  This nick-name has stuck and some in my family use it.

Susan Hemmingsen (Marchant)

Sorry to hear of the passing of Ellen Besse, and I send my condolences to her many loved ones who loved her dearly.  Ellen to me was South High's stately Hollywood-blond who dresssed up the halls of old South High.   I  remember her telling me that her plans for the summer were to begin a trip around the world with her Grandmother.  Wow!  that seemed like an adventure from the gift of the gods!  May Ellen rest in peace.

Gwen Aupperle (Koehler)

I, too, have fond memories of Ellen.  Always thought she was gorgeous---and she had that long, beautiful blond hair.  I think we were in the Southern Belles together?!  I also remember her being kind, funny and friendly.  It is hard to realize that, at our ages, there seems to be a long list of good-byes to people, the increasing awareness of our own human frailties and the realization that more of our lives are behind us than ahead of us!  We can take so much comfort in hearing about the amazing lives of our contemoraries and the journeys they have traveled since we were together in the halls of South.  Those fellow students obviously enriched our young lives.  May comfort come to Ellen's family and friends.

Judy Morris (Morgan)

When Ellen moved to Utah, she moved in with her grandparents in a large house around the corner from where I lived.    As kids we had "occationally" climbed the fence to retrieve green apples from his wonderful trees.   I never really knew her grandparents but Ellen and I became friends and attended church activities and classes together.    She was everything I was not, tall, blond and gorgeous and she was fun to be with.   Sorry to hear of her passing, but happy she has family to miss her and remember her goodness.    My best to them.

Not sure what block you and Linda walked around that cold winter evening, but you well could have passed my house 3 times.   Had I known I'd have come out and given you both encouragement!!!  :)   

Gary Shepherd (Shepherd)

I sure could have used the help, Judy.  By the way, with regard to Ellen Besse, my wife, Lauren, had a date or two with Ellen's youngest brother, Tommy, after Ellen's family moved to Bountiful.  And Lauren's next oldest sister, Shannon, had a serious dating relationship wih another of Ellen's brothers, David.  Small world, as we continually discover.

L. Brent Christensen

Judy Granger (Bell)

This brings a touch of sadness to my heart.

Gary Shepherd (Shepherd)

Hello, boys and girls.  Things have been pretty quiet lately in this little corner of the internet universe.  Gord and I have been a bit concerned that we were hogging too much of the oxygen in this forum and felt squeamish about inflicting on all of you old Cubbies more of our small stories about growing up in Salt Lake City.  But we’re going to do it one more time. I say one more time, because, after this, the stories we’ve been posting will all be collected together—along with a bunch of others we haven’t posted—and published in a book that we have titled:  Growing up in the City of the Saints:  Glimpses of America in Salt Lake City During the 1950s and 60s. 

Not all of our stories involve old friends from our public school years at Liberty Elementary, Lincoln Junior High, and South High School, but many of them do.  In the event any of you are curious to see if you or others you know are cast as characters and might want to get a copy to see, we have decided to take the risk of inappropriately advertising our book in this forum.  It is now available for PRE-ORDERING at Amazon.com under the category of Biography and Memoirs. Once you're on this page, just type in: Growing up in the City of the Saints: Glimpses of America in the 1950s and 60s, and all the ordering information will pop up on the screen. There will be two choices: a Kindle eBook for $5.99 and a print (paper back) version for $19.99. The actual publishing (and therefore availability) date for either version will not be until this September 30. But you can pre-order the book now and be assured of receiving it at the earliest possible date.

At least some of you have already read draft versions of a few of the stories in this book that we have posted previously.  So you know it's a memoir of sorts.  But the chapters are all vignettes of specific events that were meaningful to us is various ways as we developed our attitudes and values growing up; it's not a straight beginning-to-end narrative of our lives. The writing is colloquial, and our stories always involve our interactions with other people, including, as I mentioned, many of our old boyhood friends from days at South High, Lincoln Jr,, and Liberty Elementary—some of you, in other words.  We had a great time writing these stories and hope that many of you will derive equal pleasure from reading them.

OK, so what follows now is a set of five early boyhood episodes we have excerpted from several different chapters, each episodes recalling risky behaviors we engaged in with fortunately happy endings that easily could have resulted in much merited disasters.  

***

(1)

            We were back in Salt Lake City after short residencies in Billings, Montana and Cowley, Wyoming, where our dad had attempted (and failed ) to jump-start a business in ice cream and candy sales. It was the spring of 1953, and the two of us were racing each other home for lunch. The Liberty Elementary School where we attended third grade was a half block around the corner from our home at 312 Herbert Avenue. But there was also a driveway shortcut on Third East, which we always took by hopping a fence and squeezing past the adjacent garages that separated our parents’ property from the next-door neighbors. Gordon got over the fence first and forged ahead through the narrow opening between the two garages.

            “OOWWW! OOOWWWW!” Gary suddenly began howling as an excruciating pain inexplicably stabbed through his right foot. Gordon whirled around and saw Gary hopping behind him on one foot. Stuck to the bottom of the PF Flyer on his other foot was a long board. For a dazed moment, Gordon didn’t understand what was happening: Why was his brother hopping around with a board stuck to the bottom of his shoe? Within seconds, however, the problem became crystal clear: Jumping the fence, Gary’s foot had landed on a large nail sticking up from a discarded board, and it had been driven into the lower sole of his foot. Gary was now crying for help with increasing anguish as he too realized what had happened. Without the slightest hesitation or forethought, Gordon rushed to Gary’s side, grasped the sides of the attached board with both hands, and yanked it free from his foot. The two of us hobbled into the house together, presenting ourselves on the back-porch stairs to our frantic mother, who, while fixing our lunch, had heard us shouting.

            After an emergency visit to see our family doctor, who administered an uncomfortable tetanus shot, Gary survived the ordeal and returned to school the next day, navigating awkwardly on a discarded crutch from Grandma Shepherd. What cautionary lesson did we learn from this painful occasion? Not much, apparently, as demonstrated by future misadventures, but at least from then on, we always looked to see what we were going to land on before taking shortcuts and hopping over neighborhood fences. And we knew we had each other’s backs no matter what.

***

(2)

Later that same summer, not long before Liberty Elementary would usher us into the fourth grade, Gary was pumping hard on the little second hand, red and yellow bicycle that Dad had purchased for the two of us as compensation for the new, big, silver and blue bike that Don had received for his birthday that April. Gary had built up a head of steam blowing out of the tiny side street (425 East Grace Court) that ran only one block in length and dead-ended at the back of the Sudbury Maxwell grocery store on Ninth South. Immediately in Gary’s field of vision loomed Fourth East—a busy north-south thoroughfare. A small Jehovah’s Witnesses Kingdom Hall—improbably situated in the middle of our Mormon neighborhood—stood on the other side of Fourth East. Houses and trees on Williams Avenue blocked the view of everything north or south of Kingdom Hall until one was practically at the intersection. Gary knew he should at least slow down and survey for oncoming traffic, but he was pelting forward at top speed, and no cars could be seen traversing his limited field of vision. Go for it! That impulse easily overrode the modicum of cautionary good sense that, for a nano second, had whispered inside Gary’s head.

            Well, of course a car was directly on track to meet Gary. It suddenly zapped into the periphery of his left eye as he shot across Fourth East, a late 1940s dark blue Chevrolet. SCREECH! BLAM! The Chevy’s left bumper smashed through the little red bike’s rear tire. Gary was propelled headfirst, over the handlebars, into the gutter that was flowing with run-off water right in front of Kingdom Hall. Saturday service congregants had just emerged from their worship services and were milling about on the sidewalk adjacent to the curb. They stood stunned as Gary landed with a splash before their feet. Gary lay stunned too, stupidly wondering if he was dead. The only person in action was the car driver—a young adult with floppy blonde hair and blue tattoos on his sinewy forearms, who was chauffeuring his mother. He immediately jumped out of the Chevy and was at Gary’s side in a flash. Without hesitation, he scooped Gary up and laid him in the back seat of the car while his mother cried, “Oh no, oh no!” Gary remembers only two questions from the young man: “Are you hurt?” Gary: “I don’t think so.” Young man: “Where do you live?” Gary: “312 Herbert Avenue; it’s just the next street down the block from here.”  

            Eddie Stover, one of our neighborhood friends who coincidentally witnessed the accident, sped through a nearby alley to alert our parents. By the time Gary and his broken bike were delivered to the house, Mom was already in the front yard, wringing her hands with an anguished look on her face. Dad bounded down the porch steps accompanied by Gordon, who had been reading a book on the front porch swing. Just then, a black Ford police car roared around the corner and pulled up behind the Chevy in the driveway. The cop jumped out, assumed command, lifted Gary out of the seat and carried him up the porch steps into our house, as neighbours began bunching around. “Can you stand, son?” Yes, I think so.” The officer stood Gary on the floor. “Where are you hurt, son?” “I don’t know; I don’t think I am.” “Well, we better take a look.” The officer pulled and off came Gary’s damp, dirt-smudged t-shirt. Then he tugged and down came Gary’s torn Levi jeans and droopy little boy underpants—huge embarrassment! But all that the disrobing revealed were scrapes on Gary’s right knee and right elbow and a few scratches on his stomach and the palm of his left hand. “Looks like a damn miracle,” concluded the cop.

***

(3)

It was the summer between fourth and fifth grades. Gary accompanied Dad on a sales trip to Boise, Idaho, where they stayed overnight at a friend’s home on the outskirts of town. The friend had sons of his own, one of whom was just a year younger than Gary. The next morning, while Dad visited with his friend and friend’s wife, the younger son was more or less assigned to befriend Gary and show him a good time. They were both initially awkward but before long discovered they shared certain sporting interests, including swimming. As it happened, the family home was situated on a bluff overhanging the Boise River—a one-hundred-mile-long tributary of the Snake River, famous for its salmon fishing. Gary’s new friend said that he and his older brothers sometimes swam in the river later in the summer, and maybe that was something he and Gary could do—although, as an afterthought, the river was running pretty high at the moment, and no one had tried it out yet. But OK! No problem! An old swimsuit, approximately Gary’s size was found, the two pre-teen boys doffed their clothes and slipped into their trunks, then made their way down a steep dirt trail to the river bottom.

On the way down, Gary’s new friend began having second thoughts about the wisdom of carrying out this proposed dip in the river. But, anxious to prove his mettle, Gary dismissed these concerns and instead continued elaborating on his swimming experience, pooh-poohing the potential problems of swimming in a river (which he had never done). Swimming was swimming, you just had to know the right way to do it, Gary said in self-reassurance.

            When they came into a clearing at the river’s edge, Gary gave a little inaudible gasp.  The distance between them and the opposite shore was wide—maybe fifty yards—a lot wider than he had thought it would be. Even more worrisome was how fast the deep looking water seemed to be moving past them.  Too late now, though, to back off, as Gary heard his new friend saying, “Go ahead if you want, I’ll walk down and meet you at the bridge below here.”

Gary hesitated, then plunged in, and his new-found fears were immediately confirmed. The water was fast, and deep and, in addition was icy cold. Gary tried swimming in a straight beeline to the opposing shore, but the current was so strong he didn’t seem to be making much progress at all except to move swiftly forward on an angle downstream. He exerted all the puny strength in his skinny arms and legs to fight the relentless push of the current, fighting hard to keep from being swept away. Slowly, slowly he approached the tantalizing safety of the opposite shore, albeit on an increasingly sharp diagonal from the point of his launch. But he was becoming exhausted and momentarily felt doomed. Gary closed his eyes and kept churning with what felt like his last remaining particle of energy when, gracias a Dios, he felt a toe brush against something solid and reflexively extended an arm out to grasp a slippery but angular shoreline rock. He pulled himself forward into a little shallow ebb pool, crawled onto dry ground, and lay there shivering on the shore, sides heaving, a goodly distance downstream from where he had started. 

            While gathering himself together before walking, with trembling, careful steps, further down the shoreline to meet his waiting new friend at the bridge, the lessons of this and previous follies finally did make a conscious appearance in Gary’s thoughts: No more bragging, no more overestimating his abilities and underestimating the truth of other peoples’ concerns, and no more careless dismissal of hard realities that he had not yet experienced for himself. Good lessons to learn, often heeded in the years ahead. But, regrettably, as with most of us mere mortals, not always heeded, as further youthful misadventures would affirm and to which Gary’s wife, Lauren, will, on some occasions, dolefully attest in the present.

***

(4)

By the time we were sixth graders we had real bikes for transportation, and our territorial boundaries were exponentially enlarged. Lorin Larson had become one of our best friends, whose own bike we admired because of its ram’s horn shaped handlebars. With Lorin we rode our bikes all over town, including the bench-like hills of the Lower Avenues that overlook the downtown business and spiritual center of Mormon Salt Lake City, about a mile and a half north from our homes near Liberty Park. On one memorable occasion, Lorin and Gordon were parked at the elevated intersection of B Street and First Avenue. Their gaze was fixed downward on the steep sidewalk that paralleled B Street and terminated at South Temple—one of Salt Lake’s busiest thoroughfares—directly in front of the magnificent Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Madeleine. They had heard rumors about kids racing their bikes down this very hill. Gordon and Lorin looked at each other: “Let’s go for it!” they agreed in unison. First Lorin, then Gordon wheeled their bikes and accelerated down the sidewalk, gaining locomotive speed as they went. The challenge, of course, was to brake and turn sharply at the corner so as NOT to sail into the middle of thick car traffic on South Temple. Both Lorin and Gordon succeeded brilliantly in doing this and were intoxicated by the thrill of it all.

            Naturally, they bragged about their exploits to Gary who, in turn, was determined to try it for himself. The next day Gary and Lorin peddled all the way back to downtown Salt Lake. This time, however, Lorin suggested that Gary try riding down A Street, one block west of where he and Gordon had made their runs. Descending from First Avenue, A Street is significantly steeper than B—in fact, it is one of the most precipitous paved hills in the City. At the bottom of the sidewalk there is a slim slope of grass, about 15 feet in width, that buffers the sidewalk from the intersection of A Street with South Temple. A spark of doubt pierced Gary’s enthusiasm: “So tell me again how I’m supposed to keep from flying out into South Temple?”  “Just brake and slide your bike on its side when you get to the grass,” Lorin confidently explained.

            OK, easy. With a gulp of breath, Gary was off.  Halfway down he lightly tested his brakes; the bike frame shuttered and wobbled, and Gary quickly stopped applying pressure to the peddle. He had never travelled this fast on a bike before. Suddenly, the grassy slope and South Temple were rushing to meet him. Ok, nothing to it, just hit the brakes again and tip the bike into a slide on the grass. What could go wrong? A sprinkler head, sticking up about an inch from the edge of the lawn and sidewalk provided a quick answer to that question. BAM! The front tire hit the sprinkler head with full center force, and Gary experienced an almost slow-motion sense of floating in the air, separated from his bike (which was rotating gracefully just below him). The bike hit the pavement first, and the rear tire assembly partially cushioned Gary’s side-way landing on top. 

            SCREECH! SCREECH! Gary had heard that sound before. Car drivers going in both directions on South Temple frantically stomped their brakes to avoid plowing into the young boy and his bike that had suddenly dropped from the sky right in front of them. A very large, pink 1956 Lincoln had come to a jarring halt within three feet of Gary’s head as he gingerly lifted it up to survey the scene. People were jumping out of their cars, rushing to help or gawk. Lorin was solemnly slow-walking down the A Street sidewalk, his face stricken with fear and guilt while an old lady watching from her porch at the Adjacent Buckingham Apartments screamed at him, “Shame on you! Why did you let him do it? You’ve killed him!”

            But Gary didn’t feel dead. He felt nothing but relief, because every part of his body was telling him that, apart from a stinging cut on the backside of his left knee, he had no injuries.  Gary extricated himself from the twisted wheel assembly, picked up his damaged bike, and began pushing his way through the circle of astonished adults while answering their expressions of shock and concern with “I’m fine, I’m fine.” Lorin met him on the stone steps leading down from the grassy slope above South Temple with an awed expression on his face that looked like he had just witnessed a cadaver being raised from the dead. 

            But this wasn’t a tale either Gary or Lorin were going to repeat as a faith promoting testimony miracle at church on Sunday. No. What they were going to do was tell Gordon and then keep quiet about this little incident. We were certainly not going to confess to our parents how close Gary (and all of us, really) had come to the Grim Reaper’s scythe because of our foolish stunt-riding down A and B Streets. Some story would have to be concocted to account for the wrecked bike. We don’t recall the details of our explanation, only that our dad was piping mad again about our habitual carelessness and habit of breaking and losing things. There would be no more Christmas bikes for us! we were angrily informed. “Oh well, fair enough” we said to ourselves; our misadventure on South Temple could have turned out a lot worse than losing our bikes.

***

(5)

            By the seventh grade, and at the onset of adolescence, riding boy-bikes for transportation no longer seemed as cool to us anyway, so Gary’s bike-loss and the dysfunctional disrepair of Gordon’s didn’t seem like the end of our free-range world. We started walking again, including to the campus of Lincoln Junior High, our new school which was located on the corner of State Street and 1300 South.

            Among other things at Lincoln, we were introduced to an actual gym class, whose instructors were actual male gym teachers (Hal Hardcastle and Dean Papadakis). We were assigned gym lockers, given a list of necessary apparel items (white gym shorts, white t-shirts, gym shoes, sweat socks, and our first jock straps) and informed that we were expected to take said items home every week to be washed. Hardcastle and Papadakis also told all of us that we needed to start using underarm deodorant on a regular basis. All of this meant no more random, unsupervised marble matches for us at recess on the school playground. At Lincoln we had entered the big time of boy’s organized athletic competition.

            One of the organized sports activities we were introduced to at Lincoln was track and field. We remember in particular watching a film about the summer Olympic Games, which included a segment on throwing the javelin, an event we knew nothing about, but which excited our interest: the javelin! You get to throw a spear in competition as far as you can! Since the two of us had played little league baseball and thought we had good throwing arms, we speculated that javelin throwing might be something we could do as well. Javelin throwing wasn’t an event sponsored for young adolescents, however, and javelins were not issued for us to practice with at Lincoln Junior. However wise this policy was from a responsible, adult perspective, from our perspective it merely represented a challenge to our creative imaginations as free-range kids. After all, we weren’t restricted to playing sports or practicing them only in our gym classes at school. We could walk over to Lincoln’s playing field after school hours or on the weekend any time we wanted. As for throwing the javelin, we hatched an idea: Why not make our own javelin and practice with it on our own, free time? That, of course, is exactly what we did.

            Fortunately for us, Lorin’s dad had mechanical skills and tools, including, of all things, a small blow-torch device that could be used to weld metals. We’re not sure how he did it, but Lorin somehow soldered a heavy piece of lead into a kind of dull point attached to the end of a broom handle.  A little sharpening of the point with a file and voila!—we had our homemade javelin.

            That Saturday, Ron Swenson joined with us, and the four of us walked over to Lincoln’s athletic field to try out Lorin’s javelin. It was awkward at first, but we began getting the hang of it and started launching a few decent throws, which we measured by pacing off steps from a line we had dug in the grass with a stick. Eventually tiring of our new sport, Lorin, Ron, and Gordon strolled off the field and started heading for home. Meanwhile, Gary was still practicing throws on the other side of the field, 50 to 60 yards away. On his last throw he heaved the primitive spear just right; it caught a nice breeze blowing across the field and climbed the sky, the way we had seen javelins properly thrown in the film shown to us in gym class, before arcing back to earth. Gary was mesmerized by his own achievement. Not one of us previously had come close to making such a long, elegant throw as this one. Gary gazed at the spear’s flight path until it began breaking downward. Suddenly, Lorin, Ron, and Gordon appeared in his line of vision. LOOK OUT! Gary yelled urgently from across the field. Too late.

            Gordon heard Gary yell and turned to see what the matter was. Thunk! Lorin’s javelin pierced him in the groin. Yes, it pierced. But Gordon didn’t know that at first. He instantly grabbed the spear’s broom handle when it struck, and it fell to the ground as though it had bounced off him. His groin stung, but Gordon was madder at Gary than worried about any possible injury. “Blankety-blank-blank! He bellowed through gritted teeth as he hopped around on the sidewalk, “Why didn’t you look where you were throwing that blankety-blank broomstick!” Gary, of course, was abjectly apologetic and wanted to know how badly his brother was hurt. Gordon looked at the small, entry hole in his jeans and said, no he didn’t think it was bad, it just smarted a little. He’d be okay, he said, with practiced nonchalance.

            Lorin and Ron collectively issued a sigh of relief, and the four of us headed back to Lorin’s house, which was closest to the school (and besides, Lorin’s parents weren’t home).

By the time we got to Lorin’s, Gordon was limping badly and thought it best to take a closer look at himself. Lorin went with him into the bathroom and Gordon dropped his pants. There was hardly any blood, but he could see a small, bluish puncture wound near the intersection of his crotch and right thigh. He bent over for a closer look. That’s when he lost consciousness. All Gordon can remember is groggily coming to on Lorin’s bunkbed, where he had been dragged and laid prone by Lorin, Gary, and Ron. At that point we knew we would have to bring our parents into the picture.  

            What resulted was another emergency visit to the family doctor, who happened to be a relative on our mother’s side: Maurice Taylor. Dad took the two of us in the family car, while mom stayed home with our little sister Sue to fret and say a prayer. Laid out on an examining gurney, Dr. Taylor probed Gordon’s puncture wound with a blunt, steel instrument. “Look at this, Shep,” he said to the twins’ father as he raised and twisted his instrument high enough to show the length of the wound. “Another quarter inch to the right and it would have severed his femoral artery.” Gary watched grimly as Gordon grimaced in pain at Dr. Taylor’s rude poking. And this time it was our dad who fainted, flat onto the tiled floor of the examining room.

            As with Gary’s earlier brush with the Grim Reaper on his bike, our parents never learned the true story of what had happened that day. To protect his brother and buddies from any blame for the accident, Gordon devised an implausible story about awkwardly tripping on a mysterious spike while running laps at Lincoln in preparation for the school’s annual track meet at the end of the year. Lorin, by the way, thought it best to destroy and dispose of his homemade spear. No more javelin throwing for us! But we’re not sure we learned any sober, adult wisdom from the experience. For us, the corollary outcome of another brush with the Reaper and our subsequent cover story was not a lesson in the avoidance of risky behavior as we were growing into adolescence. Rather, what primarily resulted, once again, was greater reinforcement of our brotherhood bonds and boyhood friendships, which we had forged and valued most highly in the intoxicating world of free-range kids of the 1950s.

David Manookin

I really enjoy your stories and how well they flow.  It is daunting to try and post one myself as I do not feel I have the fluidity, or a good story telling ability.  I failed the last term of Mrs. Zarr's English class because I could not think of any stories I could make up or others of my own I could tell. The only successful writing I have done is my Master's thesis and that was mostly research and compiling of sources. That took two years!

Gary Shepherd (Shepherd)

Don't give up on yourself, Dave.  Just sort of start daydreaming about your subject until mental images start popping up in your head and then write down descriptions of what you are seeing in your mind's eye.  Anyway, glad you jumped into the conversation.  Mrs. Zarr would be proud.  Let's try lunch again if we can all get safely through this new round of COVID in our midst.    

Gordon Shepherd

A big shout-out to Dave Manookin who called me yesterday evening out of the clear blue sky to wish me (and Gary earlier) a happy birthday and warm New Year’s greetings for 2022. It was a welcome surprise to hear his voice after so many years. We chatted and reminisced for close to two hours about old friends, our school days at South, and subsequent experiences together as callow missionaries in the costal jungles and mountains of southern Mexico in the mid-1960s. At South, Dave was a school photographer for both the Yearbook and Scribe. In our phone conversation, he modestly gave credit to photography editor Ed Gobel as the guy “who really knew what he was doing.” Maybe so, but Dave was the one I depended on to make the sports page look great. Like any true photographer, Dave had an uncanny eye for “seeing” a potentially interesting picture and framing his shots. Good photographers take good photographs. Thanks, Dave, for your invaluable help so may years ago and for your friendship ever since.

Gordon Shepherd

In reminiscing recently about childhood friends growing up in Salt Lake, I thought about Mike Martines. Most of you probably didn’t know Mike or don’t remember him. Mike was a year younger than us, but attended Liberty Elementary and Lincoln Junior before transferring to East High, where he graduated in 1963. Gary and I played sports with Mike when we were younger and remained friends after he transferred to East. Mike’s best sport was tennis. He won the singles state championship at East, played for the University of Utah, was elected to the Utah State Tennis Hall of Fame, and eventually returned to his boyhood roots to coach and manage the tennis facilities at Liberty Park.  

I dedicate the following story to Mike’s memory. It’s a fictional story (which, I must admit, was a lot of fun composing), but also one whose imaginary plausibility is supported by some of the background facts and details that I have incorporated into the storyline. Since the story’s focal narrative unwinds at Liberty Park, I hope it proves to be of interest to those of you who, like Gary and I, grew up close to the park. 

Warm best wishes to the Class of 62. May all of us enjoy a safe, rewarding, and peaceful new year.

HERO WORSHIP AT LIBERTY PARK

Ricardo Alonso González: To his associates in the game, he was a tempestuous and caustic loner. To young Mike Martines of Salt Lake City, he was a God.

Ricardo, more commonly known to close friends as Richard, despised the nickname of “Pancho,” by which he was familiarly known by millions of tennis fans worldwide. As a promising junior tennis player growing up in central Los Angeles in the late 1940s, Richard González was quickly named “Pancho” by sportswriters because he was of Mexican descent. If you were Mexican, you were Pancho, even if you didn’t like it and protested that it wasn’t your name—So what, kid. Babe Ruth never complained about being called Babe. You’re Pancho, get used to it. Richard liked even less the nickname “Gorgo,” imposed on him later by players on the professional tennis circuit. Gorgo was short for Gorgonzola, an Italian cheese—a convoluted and demeaning reference to being a “cheese” champion after he won the U.S. amateur championship in 1948 at the age of 19, but then played poorly and lost at Wimbledon the following year.

Cheese Champion? To hell with that! What did these pampered white kids know about fighting for respect? González’s parents didn’t belong to an upper-class country club; they had migrated to Los Angeles from Mexico before Richard was born and where his father subsequently worked as a house painter. Richard learned tennis on his own at Exposition Park in South Central LA—no tutors, no professional lessons. Athletically gifted, fiercely competitive, and destined for greatness, he didn’t have the luxury of continuing to cultivate his game as an amateur. In 1949, Ricardo Alonso “Pancho” González turned pro. His goals were to 1) become the best tennis player in the world and 2) make a good living while doing it. By 1958, when Mike Martines met his hero, González had accomplished both of his goals.

***

 In 1958, Mike Martines was 13 years-old. He lived with his parents in a working class neighborhood in Salt Lake City close to Liberty Park. Liberty Park was Salt Lake’s biggest public park, an 80-acre oasis in the old residential center of the city that featured ancient trees, expansive lawns, tailored gardens, children’s playgrounds, ballfields, picnic grounds, an amusement park, a boating lake, an aviary, a swimming pool, and six lighted tennis courts. Thus, like his hero, Mike learned to play tennis at a public park. But unlike his hero he benefitted from organized, adult supervision and coaching. In the early1950s, a junior tennis program had been implemented by the Salt Lake County Recreation Department at all Salt Lake City parks. The program eventually included instructional clinics, free lessons, little league teams, and a series of tournaments for different age groups. Mike Martines got started whacking tennis balls at the age of six and was first exposed to tournament tennis as a young ball boy at Liberty Park.

My brother Jerry and I had known Mike as a kid who attended the same elementary and junior high schools that we did. We too lived close to Liberty Park and occasionally played tennis there with some other boyhood pals. But never with Mike Martines. He was already way out of our league. We played little league football together in the fall, however, (Mike was our quarterback) and occasionally shot baskets in the winter at the Liberty-Wells Stake Center a few blocks from the park. But what I recall most about Mike’s early athletic skills as a kid was his marble-shooting ability when we attended Liberty Elementary. Mike was without peer; hardly anybody dared risk their marbles playing for keeps against him. Like a marksman at a rifle range, Mike sighted his taw by resting his chin on his shoulder, squinting his left eye shut, and then, with his right eye focused and steady, he gazed down the length of his arm to the top of his knuckle as though affixing the cross-hairs of a scope squarely in the middle of a target: SMACK. A stickup marble would fly out of the ring at high velocity while Mike’s taw spun dead in the center of the ring. Highly consistent in his aim and knuckle power, Mike Martines was the undisputed playground champ. It occurs to me now that these were among the same skills Mike displayed on a tennis court. The precision power and accuracy of his ground strokes and service game were very similar to the way he cleaned the ring when playing marbles at Liberty Elementary. 

“Hey, Jordan!” Mike called out, “wait for me!” Mike caught up and we exited the doors of Lincoln Junior High together. “My big brother Marty (14-years older than Mike) got some tickets to see Pancho Gonzalez play next Sunday at the State Fairgrounds! But now he can’t go and said I could take a couple of my friends instead. Do you and Jerry wanna go with me?” 

What? Yeah, sure! I’d like to go and so would Jerry  . . . but Sunday? I’m not sure our parents would go for that. They’re pretty strict about not missing church meetings or playing sports on Sunday. What time would it be?”

“It’s a four-man round-robin tournament that starts at 10:00 in the morning and goes until the championship match is over some time in the afternoon,” Mike replied, “so it’s pretty much all day. Tell your parents that my mom will take us and that she thinks it’ll be okay if you just miss one Sunday of church. She thinks this would be a good way to pay you back for help’n me with my math homework this year.”

“Oh, okay,” I said as I thought to myself: “your Mom thinks a lot differently than mine.” “I’ll ask and let you know if we can go or not,” I told Mike, with more outward optimism than I felt inside.

“By the way,” Mike added, “González and some of the other pros will be giving a free clinic at Liberty Park Saturday before their Sunday matches at the fairgrounds. You oughta come to that too. Maybe you can learn how to hit a decent backhand,” he said, grinning.

“Yeah, maybe so,” I replied and grinned back in acknowledgement of my tennis shortcomings. “What time Saturday?”

“Nine o’clock,” responded Mike. “From what I hear, González can be pretty grouchy so, if you come, don’t be late!”

“Gotcha,” I said. “Jerry and I’ll be there. And I’ll talk to my Mom and let you know what she says about go’n to the tournament matches on Sunday.”

 I gotta admit I was surprised later when my mother consented to let me and Jerry skip Sunday services to go with Mike and his mother to watch professional tennis matches on the Sabbath. She was devout in her Latter-day Saint faith and insisted on her sons fulfilling their religious obligations. But she also was acquainted with Mrs. Martines, who was one of her Avon customers, and she thought it might seem insulting if she said no to her offer to take us as repayment for helping Mike with his homework.  “You can go boys,” Mom said, “but this is an exception. I don’t want you to make a habit of missing your church duties and assignments.”

 “We won’t,” the two of us promised in unison. “Thanks!”

Saturday morning Jerry and I made sure to get to the park courts early. When we arrived, Mike was already there. He was dressed in a white t-shirt, white shorts, white athletic socks and tennis shoes, and had his tennis racket with him. Jerry and I looked at each other: Hawaiian style short sleeve shirts, cut-off jeans, and no tennis rackets. It dawned on us that we had merely come to watch and listen, whereas Mike had come to play.

Just then, Pancho González himself drove up in a brand new black and silver Corvette and parked in the shade of some large cottonwood trees that lined Liberty Park’s perimeter road across from the tennis courts. González swung his long legs from behind the steering wheel and stepped out of the low-slung sports car (I remembered reading somewhere that González had said as an alternative to playing tennis for a living he’d like to be a racecar driver).  He, like Mike Martines, was dressed in white tennis attire and carried a small duffel bag with several rackets and cans of tennis balls. González was tall, lean, and dark from the sun, with dark flashing eyes and a full head of black hair (he distained the short crewcuts favored by many of his 1950s contemporaries). His lanky, six foot three inch frame was all fluid motion on a tennis court. His size, quickness, power, and competitive fierceness gave him both a physical and psychological advantage over many of his smaller opponents. He was often described as a “big cat” on the prowl, ferociously patrolling his side of the court. Pancho González perfected and epitomized the serve and volley game that dominated 20^th century professional tennis. His booming first serve was the most powerful of his era, which he followed so quickly to the net that most of his opponents’ returns of service never had a chance to bounce before González slapped them out of reach with crisp volley shots. And, of course, many of his service points were aces that couldn’t be returned at all.

González strolled over to the small club house and disappeared inside. Outside a small crowd of mostly kids and some young adults gathered and waited. At exactly 9:00 A.M., Pancho González stepped out of the clubhouse, smiled, and saluted his fans sitting in some hastily assembled bleachers in front of the tennis courts. Whereas many court officials, tennis administrators, and fellow players feared and despised him, González had a mostly warm relationship with the fans who watched him play. “Good morning!” he said. “Thanks for coming. I like the park here in Salt Lake. It’s the third time I’ve been here. Of course, like me these courts are getting old and could use some renovation,” he said, using his racket as a pointer for emphasis, “so that old guys like me don’t stumble over some of these cracks I see starting to spread on the concrete around the baselines. And these wire nets have got to go!” The crowd laughed and cheered. “But the reason I come here is not to criticize Liberty Park tennis courts. The reason I come is because I grew up near a public park and that’s where I not only learned to play, but to love the game. Exposition Park in Los Angeles was my second home when I was a kid,” he explained, paused, and then added, “Hell, after a while it was my only home!” The crowd laughed and cheered again. “So I’m glad to be here. I’m happy to teach and encourage kids whose families can’t always afford to join country clubs or pay for private lessons to learn the game, to love the game like I did.” 

 Sitting next to me and Jerry, Mike Martines’s eyes were shining.

For the next 20 or 30 minutes, Pancho González talked about tennis fundamentals and demonstrated the proper form for hitting forehands, backhands, and first and second serves, as well as the proper footwork for return of service and playing the net. Then he asked for a volunteer. Mike Martines didn’t hesitate a second. He stepped forward as quickly as Pancho González rushing the net and said, “I’ll be your volunteer!”

“Okay, kid. What’s your name?” González asked as he looked Mike over, taking note of his dark hair and complexion, accentuated by hours in the sun like his own.

“Mike. Mike Martines,” responded Mike.

“Hmm, Martines. Do you spell your last name with a z or an s on the end,” queried the great Pancho González (or was it Gonzales?).

 “With an s,” said Mike.

 “Okay, Mike, we’ll have to talk about that later”—and again the crowd laughed good naturedly. “But right now, let’s you and I play a little tennis for all these people to watch. Does that make you nervous?”

“No way,” answered Mike. “This is exactly what I want to do!”

 “Good! Good!” responded González. “I like a kid with fire and spirit! Let’s see what you can do. Go to the other side of the court. I’m going to hit you some balls, first to your forehand and then to your backhand.”

Mike dashed around the net to the other side of the court and readied himself. Pancho  González, professional tennis’s number-one ranked player, hit a soft ball to Mike Martines’s forehand, who whipped his racket around and smacked it back across the net. Pancho returned the ball with more pace to Mike’s forehand again, and again Mike sent it whizzing back. This went on for a rally of four or five more strokes, with increasing pace on the ball. Then González started hitting to Mike’s backhand, following the same pattern of increasing the pace with which he hit each ball.

“Look’n good, kid!” González called out to Mike, “Come to the net now. Let’s see how you do there.”

Mike, in fact, was very good at the net: quick, agile, deft with his volleys. “Hey, kid, you remind me of me!” González complimented him generously, and the crowd applauded.

“Let’s go through a few serves and call it a day. You’re wearing me out. I gotta save a little bit of my A-game for tomorrow against Trabert and Rosewall at the fairgrounds!” González quipped, and the crowd laughed appreciatively again.

González had Mike serve first. Mike hit his serves accurately and with a fair amount of spin but not with a lot of power, and González tapped them back gently while Mike continued rushing the net to volley. Then it was González’s turn to serve a few. His languid serving motion was so smooth and elegant that it belied the force with which he hit the ball: THWOCK! The ball flashed past Mike—poised to return service— so quickly that he scarcely had time to twitch his racket, let alone commence any kind of a swing. “Sorry, kid,”  González called out, “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting too confident against me!” and once more the crowd chuckled and then applauded. González concluded the clinic by hitting softer serves that Mike could return and giving him pointers on how to switch his feet and slice his backhand returns.

They had been on the court for close to 40-minutes. González was pleased. “This Martines kid is good,” he thought to himself, and “he’s going to get better. I’m glad I got to work with him a little on his game while giving the rest of the kids here some pointers on fundamentals. Plus, it’s been a good, relaxing way for me to get a little workout before tomorrow’s matches. That goddamn Trabert somehow still thinks he’s better than me! I can’t afford to get too mellow. I’m going to whip his butt!”

Quickly ending his self-motivating reverie, González asked for a towel to wipe the sweat off his face and neck and then proclaimed to the crowd in the bleachers: “Thanks, everybody for coming out today. I hope I see you all again tomorrow at the fairgrounds where I plan to beat Mr. Trabert and Mr. Rosewall. Meanwhile, how about this kid Mike Martines?! He’s gonna be a helluva tennis player in a few years. I hope I’m retired by then!”

The crowd stood and applauded while Mike Martines, standing next to his hero, beamed and beamed. This had been the greatest day of his life.

González signed some autographs and the small crowd began melting away. Jerry and I approached Mike to confirm that we’d be going with him and his mom to the fairgrounds the following day. Just then, González looked up from his last autograph and said to Mike, “Who’re your buddies there?”

Mike introduced us and said, “This is Jordan and Jerry Pastor. They’re twins.”

“So I see,” González said. “Pastór, huh? Good name to have. It means Shepherd in Spanish. Did you two already know that?” he asked, fixing his gaze on me and Jerry.

I was about to shake my head and say no when Jerry spoke up and said, “Yes, we do, and we like the name too. We like being Shepherds.”

González looked us over some more and said, “Good,” and stuck out his hand. His grip was strong and calloused from wielding a tennis racket everyday as his primary tool of gainful employment. “Speaking of language, hermanos Pastór, I want to talk to Mike here a little more about his last name.”

“What do you mean?” Mike asked quizzically.

“It’s not a big deal,” González replied, “I’m just curious. How long has your family spelled Martines with an s?” he asked.

 “I don’t know,” Mike shrugged. “Forever, as far as I know.”

 "How about your dad? Where was he from?”

 “Richfield, Utah,” Mike answered.

 “And your grandfather?” Do you know what his name was and where he was born?”

 “Yeah,” said Mike. “His name was Francisco Anelato Martines—with an s—and he was born somewhere in New Mexico before it was even a state. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.”

“That’s cool,” González responded. “Your Martines relatives probably lived there before the U. S. took New Mexico away from Mexico. First they were Mexicans and then they became foreigners in their native land. Maybe that’s when they changed their last name from Martinez to Martines—to seem more American.”

Mike didn’t know what to say.

“Hey, it’s not that important,” González said. “It’s just that I’ve been studying my own family’s history a little bit recently. When my parents moved to LA from Mexico, they changed our last name from González with a z to Gonzales with an s. I’ve decided I like the original spelling  better, that’s all. By the way boys,” González continued as he looked at all of us with peircing eyes that never blinked, “you can call me Mr. González or even Richard or Ricardo, but don’t call me Pancho. That’s not my real name, okay?”

All three of us nodded our heads.

“All right then, enough of this boring stuff about names,” González concluded. “Mike, let me just offer you a few candid suggestions about your game. You and I are built differently. When I was your age I was already six feet tall and still growing. I don’t think you’re ever going to be my height (Mike was stocky with short, muscular legs). The serve and volley game may not work best for you the way it does for me. But you’re fast with quick reflexes, and you can really cover the court. You already have good, accurate ground strokes. Maybe a strong baseline game would work best for you. But here’s the thing, once you perfect your fundamentals and start going up the tennis ladder in competition, you’ll face guys who are just as fast and quick and accurate as you are, and some of ‘em will be even more so. What counts in tournament matches is concentration and endurance. And by endurance, I mean psychological endurance—the endurance to resist becoming demoralized when you make a few unforced errors or fall behind in a match. Never beat yourself, Mike. Make the other guy beat you, on every single point, even when you’re down 40-love. You’ve got to keep coming back. To win, you’ve got to want to win. You’d be surprised at how many really good players know this in principle but don’t have the psychological fortitude to stay focused on every single point in long, really tough matches. Sheer talent alone won’t make you a winner. When you step onto the court you gotta fight!”

The three of us all nodded our heads in perfect agreement but said nothing in return. “Alright, boys, enough preaching from me. I don’t know why I’m tell’n you all this. I know I’m not a great role model: I lose my temper, I cuss, I drink and smoke. Hell,  I never even finished high school. But I know tennis. I came up the hard way and I was lucky. Mike, don’t follow my example off the court. You’ve got potential. Stay in school. Get a scholarship to play tennis. But don’t lose your fire on the court! That’s what’ll push you to the top of your game!”

“Yes sir!” responded Mike, his face still bright and eager.

“All right then, where’s the coke machine around here?” González queried. “Cokes will kill you, so only drink water when you’re playing. But I’m gonna have one anyway. Do as I say, boys, not as I do.” He half-smiled, slipped a dime in the soda machine, and pulled out a cold bottle of Coke. “I might even have a martini tonight at the hotel to relax a little, but don’t tell Jack Kramer” (chief executive of the professional tennis tour who disliked González but recognized his talent and crowd appeal), he said with a wink as he downed his Coke.

“How far from the park do you live boys?” he asked as he walked toward his Corvette.         Jerry and I both pointed across the street: “Just a half block from here,” I said.

“How about you Mike?”

“Three or four blocks further west,” Mike replied, “close to Lincoln Junior High.”

“Hop in. I’ll drive you home,” said the number-one ranked professional tennis player in the world.

Mike Martines whooped, “Alright! Thanks Mr. González! . . . I, uh, I mean, Ricardo! Wait’ll my Mom sees me coming home with you!” and he jumped in the passenger seat as Ricardo Alonso “Pancho” González turned on the ignition and with a smooth roar theV-8 engine jumped to life and the black and silver Corvette commenced to roll, just like a big cat on the prowl.

***

Sunday, May 25, 1958, Pancho González faced off against three other touring professional tennis players at a round-robin tournament played at the Utah State Fairgrounds in Salt Lake City. Jerry and I were there in front row bleacher seats with Mike Martines and his mother. When González and the other players walked onto the court, Mike stood and loudly yelled, “Adelante, Ricardo! Whip their butts!” 

González looked up, saw Mike glowing in the mountain sunshine, raised his racket in acknowledgement, bowed to Mrs. Martines, and then proceeded to the umpire’s table. Here’s a United Press International summary of what followed on the court.

Gonzales Wins Twice: Defeats Trabert, Rosewall as New Tennis Series Starts

SALT LAKE CITY, May 25, UPI—Pancho Gonzales defeated Ken Rosewall 10-8 today in the final of a one-day tournament on Jack Kramer’s realigned professional tennis tour.        

A crowd of 2,500, the largest to witness a tennis match in Utah was on hand for the competition in 90-degree weather. The single day tournament plan, which went into effect today when Lew Hoad dropped out of a competitive tour with Gonzales.

Gonzales opened the afternoon’s activity by whipping Tony Trabert, 8-3. Rosewall  earned the shot at Gonzales by turning back Pancho Segura, 8-5. When the Hoad-Gonzales series ended, the big Californian was leading, 48-34.

***

Fast forward fifty-six years later. In May, 2014, Salt Lake City’s Deseret News published a feature story under the following headline.

Back home again: Coach Mike Martines aims to revive tennis at Liberty Park

 May 30, 2014, Salt Lake City—Taking over at Liberty Park, which has been the epicenter of tennis in Utah for most of the past century, is a dream come true for the 68-year-old Martines.

Back in the early 1950s when Martines was growing up west of Liberty Park—on the corner of Third East and Kelsey Avenue—he got involved in a game that would serve him the rest of his life.

“This is where I grew up,’’ Martines says as he sits in the small clubhouse at Liberty Park between lessons. “I started playing tennis here when I was 6 years old. I played all my tennis here. Now I’m coming back home 60 years later.’’

Martines remembers how it used to be as a kid at Liberty Park. “There were six white concrete courts with black lines and wire nets with the center strap welded into the court.’’

Later, more courts were added and the concrete was replaced by asphalt. Many tournaments were played at Liberty Park, where young Martines worked as a ball boy.

 He attended East High and went on to star for the University of Utah tennis team under Harry James. The highlight of his career was making it to the NCAA doubles semifinals in 1966 with another Utah Hall of Famer, Jim Osborne, and helping his team to a sixth-place finish.

Most of his time since has been spent teaching tennis, including 17 years out of state in        Arizona, Idaho and California.

“I’ve been teaching tennis since I was 13 years old,’’ says Martines. “It’s probably the greatest joy of my life, giving back to the tennis community and teaching young men and women how to play tennis. I love it. It’s been a wonderful journey for me. Liberty Park has been the icon of tennis for 50, 60, 70 years. This was the only place people played tennis. We need to get them back.’’

***

To this declaration (if he were still living), the world’s dominant tennis player of the 1950s—Ricardo Alonzo González—would undoubtedly say, “Adelante, Martines!” And he might even repeat his encouraging admonition to Coach Mike when he was just a 13 year-old kid learning the game himself at Liberty Park: “Remember, Mike, what counts is concentration and endurance. And by endurance, I mean psychological endurance—the endurance to resist becoming demoralized when you make a few unforced errors or fall behind in a match. Never beat yourself. Make the other guy beat you, on every single point, even when you’re down 40-love. You’ve got to keep coming back. To win, you’ve got to want to win.”

Mike Martines passed away in Salt Lake City in 2020 at the age of 75. His tennis hero, Ricardo Alonso González, preceded him in death by a quarter of a century. In near poverty, González died in Las Vegas, Nevada in 1995 at the age of 67. His funeral expenses were paid for by professional tennis great, Andre Agassi. 

Dedicated to childhood friend, Mike Martines

Gwen Aupperle (Koehler)

Thanks for another great read from the Shepherd "boys".  All your personal reflections of fellow Cubs (fact or fiction) are so kind, clever and bring back good memories of so long ago.

I have many memories of Liberty Park; picnics with my family and taking my toddler son there to enjoy the playground many years later.  One funny memory came during a visit there to the aviary and nearby pond.  I had just seen a certain movie that did not paint  a certain species of birds in a very good light---namely sea gulls.  While watching a large flock of said birds swim around on the pond there was a loud noise that spooked them and they took to flight right over my head----I did a good impression of duck and cover, a visceral reaction for sure after that Alfred Hitchcock film.

I also want to thank all those who sent me birthday messages on Dec. 1st, but must set the record straight, I am ONLY 77 not 78 yet!  I was enrolled in kindergarten in Minneapolis, Mn. when I was not quite 5.  Guess there were no cutoff dates then for having to be 5 by first day of kindergarten.  So all along I was always almost a year younger than my classmates.  Not that is matters much at all now.  Age is not so much a matter of counting the years as making the years count as the saying goes.

The last 3 months for me have been rounds of rehab, pt and daily exercises to bring my left knee back up to snuff.  I had had it replaced 2 years ago (my right one done 8 years ago and doing just fine) and it just never worked like I expected or wanted it to.  I had had the same surgeon as the one 8 years ago but finally decided to ask for a second opinion.  Outcome was that the wrong size prosthesis had been installed so it was replaced this past Sept. (different surgeon). Guess it only takes a millimeter or so off in the measurment to make a huge difference.  Decided to put all my energies into getting back to "normal" and not spending energy, time and money taking any legal action.   I guess everybody has a bad day, would just hope this doesn't happen often.  May have jinxed it when I said, after going through this twice, "Sure glad I don't have 3 knees!"  Oops.

I am looking forward to using both my new knees  walking around on sandy beaches, dipping myself  in warm tropical waters, and meeting up with friends over umbrella decorated libations on the big island of Hawaii in a couple of weeks.  Hoping that travel will still be safely available then as we are as protected as we can be.

What challenging times we are in but would like to pass on the words I saw on a bumper sticker while sitting at a stop light a few days ago,  "May something good happen to you today"  and I may add, "every day".  Happy 2022 to all.  Gwen Aupperle Koehler

Gordon Shepherd

Gwen,

Thanks for sharing your memory of Liberty Park and the Tracy Aviary.  When we were in junior high, Gary and I used to trudge past the aviary every morning at 5:00 on our way to deliver the Salt Lake Tribune to paper customers between 13^th-17^th South and 5^th-7^th East. At that time of day the only things stirring were us and the peacocks, who occasionally managed to escape the aviary and wander around the park’s grounds near 5^th East.

Here’s hoping your Hawaii trip works out as planned, with good healthy knees, safe travel, and reacquaintance with old friends. May something good happen to us all every day.

Helen Moody (Petersen)

My memories of Tracy Aviary are good oness except for those peacocks who kept me up at night with their cries which sounded like babies crying and I kept wonderting where the mothers of those babies were.  Then my mother gave me tht full dope on peacocks and then they were just annoying! When I married and moved to Layton, the people across the highway had some peacocks and there I was again, being annoyed. Oh well,I guess the male's beauty saves them.  Your stories bring back many memories.  Thannks guys.  Helen Moody Petersen.

Helen Moody (Petersen)

HI OUT THERRE ALL YOU CUBS OF 62! This year is our 60th reunion (EEK)! We are begigning to plan for the big day and you are invitted to a planning meeting on Monday, February 21st at 3:00 pm at Gary Shepherd's house. If you can't make it you can send me suggestions before the 21st to my email which is helenp320@aol.com. Please also let me know if you will attend by the same method.. Gary's address is 2145 East Alta Canyon Road, Sandy, Utah 84093. If you hae questions call ,m (that's Helen Moody Peetersen) at 801-771-3323. I excited for this event!  Helen Moody Petersen

Helen Moody (Petersen)

Helen here again.  If you are coming to the meeting on Feb. 21st, please bring a mask.  Thanks

Paul Eddington

WOW!  Here we are staring down plans for a 60th class reunion. Wasn't it just yesterday that we were cruising State St. listening to Tom Dooley on AM radio,  munching on burgers from Dee's? Of course, shaving the haggard face of that craggy old man in the mirror each morning dispels that notion pretty fast. Given that we're all barely on the sunny side of 80, this reunion looms as an important one, perhaps a last chance for some, or even many,  of us. But enough of that morbid stuff; it'll be a joyous occasion and I look forward to it eagerly. Too bad I can't participate in the planning. That would be great fun!

Gary Shepherd (Shepherd)

Every one of your comments is spot on, Paul.  Glad that you are planning on attending this one if the fates allow.  By the way, maybe we could set up a zoom link for you to join in on  planning sessions if you'd like, eh?

Nancy Pratt (Moss)

wish I could be there to help plan - but I will definitely be there to celebrate such a momentous occasion - 60 years - I must have been 12 at the time (haha).  

Paul Eddington

Zoom or FaceTime would be fun, if only to say "Hi" to everyone. I doubt I can really add much to the planning given that I'm 55 years removed from Zion! We're going to Europe with my sister 8/25 thru 9/2, but I certainly don't expect everyone to accommodate my schedule. We'll likely come out to SLC regardless of the reunion date. Regards to all!

PS: I  lurk on this page and really treasure reading all of your posts! They truly ratchet up the nostalgia level in this old man.

Helen Moody (Petersen)

Hi fellow Cubs: We need your help to find missing classmates.  If you would go to the missing classmates list o this site and see if you know about any of the Cubs listed there, it would be greaty appreciated.. Ad we prepare for our reunion, we need to try to include everyone we can.  Look on my previous message for my emai address. THANK YOU! 

Gwen Aupperle (Koehler)

Hi, Helen,  Good to hear/see some enthusiasm about the reunion.  Has a date been picked yet?   I am thinking it sure would be fun to attend.  However, I expect it would be in the summer sometime and my husband and I are usually at the family cabin in Canada (been in the family since 1934) from mid June to Labor Day so it may not work out.   I am in touch with Lynne Madron (Madson) and she and I mentioned it would be fun to meet in SLC to attend the reunion but will just have keep in touch to see if that could happen! 

My husband and I did make it to Hawaii, the Big Island, mid Jan. for 12 days of sight seeing. Lots to fill up our eyes with birds, plants, lava flows, volcano craters and crashing waves below our VRBO near Hilo and fun to warm our feet on black sands. Had to jump through lots of hoops to get there but well worth it.  Wanted to bring back 100% Kona coffee (which was delicious) for friends and family but at $30-40 a pound not warrented.  Cannot say I would want to live there with several volcanoes around and Pele wanting to exercise her need to make her presence known at any time.  We did see a house that was surrounded by the lava, on 3 sides, which ran down to the sea in 2018.  The lava was at least 15-20 feet deep and did bury 400 homes and wiped out a prime snorkeling and tide pool area.  Odd to come to the end of a road with a wall of cooled lava cutting off forward travel.  Nature definitely in charge!

Looking forward to ditching the masks soon but it has become such a part of my outfit it is hard to feel fully attired without it!  Wearing one in the airport prior to our flights to and from Hawaii and then on the planes for 6 hours was taxing.  I could not claim that I was eating all that time in order to remove it!

Happy spring to everyone.    Gwen (Aupperle) Koehler

L. Brent Christensen

Greetings etc.