RAPHAEL CLEMENT—MY FATHER, MY TEACHER
During my growing up years, the image I gradually developed of my father was that of a teacher. To me, he was a teacher in the true sense of the word; an instructor, educator, trainer and disciplinarian in the daily growing up things I needed to know. Dad was a consistent person. When he gave instructions to his children, it was with directness and he tried to get us to reason or think in a common sense mode. Long explanations were not his style, so they were short and precise. After instructions were given, he expected them to be carried out with good results. If they were not followed, then we had to take the consequences. On the other hand, it should be highlighted that he had a quality of fairness mixed in all of it. I liked his style and went with his flow. Dad's "warm fuzzy" side became more visible after world conditions had settled down and he didn't have to spread himself so thin anymore. He could allow himself to relax a bit even though he still had several more teenagers to raise - me being one of them.
Overall, the experiences I had with my dad were very good ones, and when I think back, I can't help but appreciate and look up to him. He taught me how to work, and how to balance freedoms with limits. Hindsight has shown me that Dad's style of teaching rewarded the learner with character-building traits.
My father was an influence for good in the lives of those around him. Dad was a loving father. A loving father is one who presides in the home; one who guides and protects his children. We saw that Dad definitely presided in our home, because when he had to be away during hard times to earn (there was a time when he had to drive 200 miles round trip every weekend to be home with us), his presence was felt strongly there even when he was away. We knew we'd be held accountable for our conduct and assignments when he got back. Protective, because he made his children aware of the ever-present evils in the world and giving advice on how to avoid getting sucked into any of it.
The earliest experiences I can remember having with Dad was when I was quite little, around three and four years old.
Every spring Dad brought home his annual supply of 100 baby chicks. It was like Easter, only with a hundred fluffy yellow baby chicks cheeping in chorus all at once in a large flat. It was set on the ground out by the chicken coop, and I delighted in watching them, they were so cute. Dad had a very tender side to him that he let show once in a while. He reached down and picked one up and put it in my hands to hold. His large hand made the baby chick look very tiny. In my three-year-old innocence, I didn't know they were one day meant for chicken dinners, so nothing was there to bar my simplest of pleasure and enjoyment of the baby chicks while they were yet downy little balls.
Another time was when Santa brought me a toy washer with agitator and wringer. I remember washing some of daddy's handkerchiefs for him on wash day, rinsed them and hung them in a row on the oven door handle of our coal stove to dry. My only thought was to make them ready for him to use. It turned out that he was happy to have the clean hankies and took notice that I was learning how to wash clothes and helping my mother.
One Christmas Santa brought me a beautiful red toy piano. I kept "music-making" going on it non-stop. It must have driven everybody crazy with the constant Plink! Plink! Plink!, which is unique to toy piano's. I think Dad didn't enjoy the sounds of that piano very much. He may have wondered what was the matter with Santa to build such an obnoxious toy. One day I discovered it had been stepped on and broken. It wasn't in Dad to waste anything, so it must have been a fairy who stepped on it "accidentally on purpose."
In my early childhood, Dad didn't have much to do with "small fry", but I had the advantage of learning lessons from him indirectly, by observing him handle my older siblings in different situations. I was more of a quiet, observant nature. Mom used to say I was something like Dad - I'd do more thinking and listening than talking.
But one day (when I was age seven), there was a lesson I had to learn from Dad very directly. The roof of the chicken coop had made the best "look-out". I could see for a mile in any direction. One time I was up there when he came out of the house and warned, "You kids stay down off that chicken coop, you'll damage the roof and make it leak rain in on the chickens!" Then Dad and Mom left to go downtown. Just as soon as they turned out of the lane, I wanted to try my "look-out" one more time, so I climbed right back up on the chicken coop. Shanna followed me. Well, evidently Dad looked back and spotted us on the roof again. He turned around and came back and really scolded us. Dad never in my life laid a hand on me, but his disapproval was as bad to me as a licking. I was sorry, and learned that when Dad said something, he meant it.
I was about six years old when Dad let me help with the spring planting of potatoes. This made me feel big and useful working alongside the "bigger" people. He handed me an old dented milk bucket full of potato "eyes" that were cut in the kitchen. I remember Dad talking to me in a teaching way. He said, "Walk along in the furrow and drop one potato eye at a time." He showed me how far apart to drop them in the ground; where to step and where not to. When the bucket became empty, I was to run back to the house and get it filled up again, and the process was repeated. When the planting was all finished, I watched Dad and Grandpa cover up the potato eyes with dirt and turn water down the long furrows from the ditch close by. Then came weeks of waiting for little green leaves to sprout up through the ground. This potato garden was put a little north of the house. I was number six in the family to learn from Dad, early on, that working the land required patience. I watched as Mother Nature grew her miracle. It was a special day for me when I was sent to dig new potatoes out of the ground for the dinner table. I imagined I was Dad's partner when planting the potato garden. I loved it when he showed me how to do things.
There were several white "boxes" Dad kept "down between the cricks" on the Fairview farm. They were his beehives. We had all the honey we needed for our own domestic uses, but Dad also sold it for income. He had an ongoing honey business all his life - good honey and good money. But he had a problem with beestings, they were severely toxic to him.
My sister Beverly told me about one of his earlier bouts with a beesting. When she was little, one day in about 1935, she was with Dad and Mom "down between the cricks" where he was working with the bees. She said he always wore a flat black hat with a visor and a netted bonnet, and a white long-sleeved shirt. He always wore protective netting, but on this occasion a lone bee somehow crawled underneath it and stung him. The sting was so toxic it caused him to fall to the ground and pass out. Mother rightly thought he was dying and she said to Beverly, "Run like a deer and tell Christensen's to come quick, your daddy is sick and needs help!" They came and helped Mother get Dad up to the house and put him into bed. Even though he ran that risk every time he worked with the bees, he kept bees continually all his life.
In later years I remember one such time in Richland when I was 15 years old. Dad had been out gathering honey from his beehives when he received an unwelcome beesting. After he was brought home I saw for myself the huge welts that appeared over his body and how sick he was from the toxic effects. It always put him right to bed. Mother said he nearly died several different times over the years on that account. I helped Mom nurse him back to health that particular time. It took several days for him to recuperate.
After moving to Richland, Dad and Mom, with some of their close friends, and Grandpa D.A. Clement organized themselves into "The Bee Company." Grandpa was knowledgeable about bees and honey, having grown up under the excellent tutorship of his father, Darius Salem Clement, with his honey business. When their family lived on Fairview Canyon Road near the mouth of the canyon, there were massive amounts of wild flowers on the mountains, providing a "bee heaven" for their bees. This knowledge about bees was passed down to Raphael - only Raphael's farm was down in the valley where his bees produced alfalfa and clover honey. It was said that the Clement's had the best honey around.
I will try to describe Dad's honey extraction process in the "Bee Company", to the best of my ability. One time in Richland (I was age 15), Dad brought the honey extractor home and put it in the basement for a short time to be cleaned up. He wanted me to wash it down so he could take it back out. It was a big round open metal drum with some other parts mounted inside. I wanted to know how it worked, so I asked Dad to show me. I may not remember all of it, but probably most.
The extractor looked to be about 36" across and about 28" high, and sat directly on the floor. The dimensions of the wood honey comb frames (which I'd seen before) were about 1'x 2'x 1".
The honey extraction process is done by drawing a large, warm knife across the framed honey comb, slicing the thin wax off the comb. The honey begins to ooze out of the combs, so quickly drop the frames into slots mounted inside the extractor to hold them secure.
Start the drum revolving by turning the hand-crank. Get it going fast enough so that the centrifugal force throws the honey out of the combs onto the surface of the drum wall. The honey then runs down the wall and through a clarifying screen in the bottom of the drum which removes pieces of beeswax, etc., and holds there. When the combs are all empty of honey, remove the frames (to be used again) from the extractor. Remove the screen and dip the honey out of the holding area into containers - it's ready to eat and enjoy.
It's interesting that Dad tried his hand at taxidermy. This demonstrates a strain of artistry in him. It seems he and Mother did it jointly. At about age six, I remember standing by our Fairview kitchen table as they worked with the green taxidermy stuffing. I was curious and was told that it was very poisonous and not to touch it!
I remember two of Dad's taxidermied pieces. One, the head of a deer hanging on the west wall of the farmhouse kitchen. He hunted occasionally and I'm sure this deer must have been one he prized. Sometimes I slept on the kitchen cot. I remember waking up to that deer in the morning and enjoying its graceful antlers, realistic eyes and its overall majestic beauty. They did an excellent job on it making it look very much alive. Its nose always looked damp because of their careful finishing touches.
The other was a gorgeous pheasant, which stood on the buffet in the farmhouse living room on a wood platform. I remember them saying, he shot this pheasant on our own farm. It could be moved about, but seldom was - only when housecleaning which involved dusting the pheasant's feathers. Mother wanted me to do the dusting, but not without a lesson first. She showed me the direction in which to run the dust cloth across the beautiful feathers so as not to break them - always in one direction towards the tail. I gained an appreciation of the pheasant's lustrous rainbow-like play of colors. Because of that beautiful bird, later in 5th grade I drew and colored birds. It was the taxidermied pheasant in our home that influenced me as a child because I could study it up close.
I wanted my father to baptize me when I turned 8 years old, but in those days it was the duty of the 18 year old Priests in the Aaronic Priesthood of the Church to do the baptizing of 8 year old children. That all changed, and now children can be baptized by their fathers. Although I was baptized in the baptistery of the Tabernacle on Temple Square by a Priest in my ward, I did have the privilege of having my father confirm me a member of the church in our Taylorsville Ward. The memory and feeling of him confirming me is very close to my heart. A bonus is having Dad's name on my certificate of baptism and confirmation certificate (combined) for this important ordination.
When I was in third grade in Taylorsville (early 1942), Dad used to gently wake us up by having the radio softly playing cowboy songs, and the fragrance of the bacon he was cooking wafting through the air. I loved that.
I liked to watch Dad work. I admired his strength and approach towards work, a "Just get in and get it done attitude." It seemed to me that he didn't put off jobs to be done at some other time. Mother had the same attitude. Nature didn't wait - meaning that crops, animals, meals and housework had to be taken care of on time. I complained about having to work at times as a kid, but nevertheless joined in to do my part. Because nature doesn't wait for "young-uns" to get in the mood to work, neither parent would tolerate complaining, and they expected the work to be done cheerfully. "When there's a job to be done, do it," was their motto.
The upcoming incident was when I was nine years old. I don't know where all my four brothers were, but they weren't there for this - they missed a good show. I remember the scenario when Dad and Grandpa Clement brought four work horses to the south side of the Fairview farm house all decked out in their harnesses. It is unclear to me what their incentive was, but they hitched the horses to something they rigged onto the house. Perhaps to have them pull on something immovable in order to strengthen them? - I wouldn't know. But I vividly remember watching them do this. What I saw was very impressive, whatever the incentive.
Once everything was in order, with all four horses positioned just so, Dad bent over and picked up the reins off the ground. Gripping the reins tightly in his big strong hands, he systematically began giving commands to the horses as he walked a little to the side of them. Grandpa worked the reins on the far right side. Dad was confident in his proficiency as he handled the horses, getting them to dig in and pull. He kept them pulling with all their might. Every horse muscle and sinew seemed to be straining and bulging, but Dad knew what he was doing and pressed them forward until he was satisfied. At the precise moment he commanded a halt, just as it seemed like something had to give. I stood in awe of Dad and the magnificent show of horsepower I had just witnessed.
It was obvious he knew his horses well and liked to show what they were capable of. Mom, my sister Beverly, and myself all watched it together. When it was all over, Mother proudly commented in only two words about her husband's impressive skills..."Oh, My!" she said, and just shook her head.
If my calculations are correct, it was the summer of 1942, before Don left for the service, that he began digging a basement under the Fairview house. The dirt was hauled out with our one-horse scraper filled to heaping each trip.
At last - a basement to house the increased numbers of bottled fruit, vegetables and meat. For years the bottled food had been stored in the root cellar north of the house along with the cured hams, squashes, pumpkins, carrots, onions, potatoes, etc. That worked fine, but as the family grew, so did the need for more space. The cellar was filled to capacity, so we needed another place to put the overflow. So Dad and the boys were now solving that problem by digging a basement underneath the house.
One particular day, when the dirt was excavated nearly all the way over to the west side of the house (it never got dug out underneath the kitchen on the north end of the house), Dad decided to expedite the job with dynamite to make it all the way over to the west side.
Well, at that moment, Mother and the girls were up to their elbows in canning fruit that day. Mother had filled the large pressure cooker with 2-quart size bottles of fruit, and had just gotten the pressure up to where it should be to start timing the fruit, when Dad stepped out in the yard and yelled, "Ev-ry-body out of the house! Dynamite!" And Mother impatiently retorted, "Oh! Why now! I just got the pressure cooker going!" We knew that Dad didn't wait around when he was ready to do something, and that we shouldn't linger one second, so we all ran out of the house fast.
With all of us standing out in the east yard looking on, the fuse was lit - and then the BIG BOOM! The house quivered, rattling the windows. Mother held her breath that the motion wouldn't set off the pressure cooker and break the bottles of fruit. When we went back inside the house, it was a big relief to see that everything was alright. The dirt was hauled out pretty fast after the dynamite loosened it. Dad had made short work of the basement-digging project, and Mom finally got more space. Even though it was never finished (that's a whole other story), and used for only a short time, it temporarily eased the storage problem. We moved away from Fairview for good the next summer, in 1943.
The "whole other story" was that Mom wanted to get the food- packed bottles up off the loose dirt floor onto shelves, so she asked Dad to build some. He kept putting it off, so one day she went and ripped some boards off the barn to get the project started. When he came home and saw gaping holes in his barn, he decided he'd better build her some shelves or he might not have a barn left.
1943 was the second and last move to Taylorsville. Dad purchased a home with a finished basement - cement walls and floors, and lots of storage space. Mom was very happy about this. She threw a Halloween party like no other in the basement of this house. It was crazy fun! She got several family members to participate in the spook alley (except Dad), assigning them to do various things that only Pearl might think up. She wrote in her autobiography describing the details of this spook alley, saying, "Raphael didn't go for so much nonsense." But knowing Dad's admiration for Mom's creative ability, it's quite certain he couldn't help but laugh and shake his head at this entertaining creation.
When we took trips in the summertime, between Fairview and Salt Lake to visit relatives, Dad would sometimes spot a fruit-stand by the side of the road and would stop to buy a fruit treat. On one of those trips a fruit-stand was advertising fresh pineapples. He just had to have one of those pineapples! So he pulled in, walked over and picked out a nice ripe one. The car doors flew open and out popped us kids. Using his pocket-knife, he cut open the juicy pineapple, some of the sweet golden liquid dripping through his fingers to the ground. Cutting wedges of it into smaller pieces, he passed them around to everybody. I can still hear him say, "You can't eat much of a fresh pineapple at one time, the acid makes your mouth sore." But just the same, he didn't want to pass up this rare treat and reveled in it.
Raphael always seemed to have a pet dog throughout his lifetime. His earliest recorded pet dog is shown with him in an old photo in front of his home. This photo was provided by his sister, Nancy. It looks like a Shetland or a Border Collie. Nancy wrote on the back of this photo stating that Raphael was 15 years old [1914] when he lived in this home in Fairview, Ut, at 280 North 100 East. It was a red brick house with a hewn rock foundation. "The dog was his pal for many years", she said. Raphael's father always owned herds of sheep, and a good sheepdog was an integral part in keeping them rounded up in a safe place. The sheep were taken into the mountains or the west desert of Utah to graze, and sometimes would fall prey to wild animals in spite of the sheepdogs efforts. Consequently it would be a great loss. Every shepherd knew the count of his sheep, for they were valuable income from their wool for the family's clothing and blankets. This was done clear up to the time of Raphael's young years when the clothing industry began taking over, not too long after the turn of the century.
There is a handsome picture of Dad wearing a mustache in the 1930's when living on the Sanpete farm. He proudly has his arms across the backs of his two beautiful Great Danes, "Pat" and "Mike". I've never heard when he got them, but they were there in 1935 when I was 2 years old, and Mother took a picture of me with "Mike". She had me stand and put my hand on his back (which gives a good perspective of his size compared to mine), and was so big I had to raise my arm full length to reach the top of his back. He was the size of a horse to a 2 year old.
I think "Old Pooch" should be remembered too. He was one of Dad's Fairview dogs - also a trained working dog, and looked like he could be an Old English Sheepdog. This dog had a real presence about him! His nature was quick, and he was a growler.
He'd always run up to greet Dad. I was afraid of him though because he snapped at me whenever I tried to pet him. Still, I was sad for him when some of his teeth had to be pulled, and I vividly remember watching Dad pull them out. He used a rag soaked in chloroform to put him out, and a pair of pliers to pull out the teeth. He and Grandpa Clement worked together. The dental surgery was done in the kitchen of the Fairview house. Evidently it was a good job done, because Old Pooch was alright again after a few days, and could go back to nipping the heels of the animals he was responsible to keep in line.
This dog was grey with shaggy, burr-filled hair hanging over his eyes. Dad may have cleaned the burrs out occasionally, but the hair was soon filled again when Pooch was taken to the mountains. He growled menacingly if you came too close to his territory. For him, the growl just came with the job. He was likely to bite anyone - except Dad, that is. I admired how Dad would just grab him by the ears and lovingly maul his head back and forth and talk to him - Pooch growling all the while. His growling didn't bother Dad in the least, he loved and understood his animals, large or small. But he was Old Pooch's trusted friend - and the dog knew it.
Pooch was very good at keeping the chickens off the porch too! He went after them like lightning and snapped at them if they put even one claw over the boundary line, and they'd run away cackling with feathers flying. He must have been a valuable dog to Dad for efficiently rounding up the sheep in the mountains, and corralling the larger animals on the farm. I don't know what ever happened to him when we moved, but it's my guess that Dad missed him very much.
Dad's two other dogs in Richland were first, a small Italian Greyhound, then a Mexican Hairless. I learned recently that the Italian Greyhound came to near extinction some years back because of its fragile breed, but happily, has now made a come-back. We named our pretty little tannish-colored Italian Greyhound, "Patrick" - called him "Pat". He was mail-ordered from Florida. I was 12 years old, and I remember the day he arrived at our home. Dad was so pleased with his new purchase, his eyes shone as he looked at him. I remember Pat standing there in the kitchen by the door to the basement, with Dad and everybody standing around him in wonder. He was so frightened he shivered hard. He'd had a frightening and lonely trip. How sensitive and gentle he was. And he stayed that way. We warmed him up, fed him and gave him lots of TLC. He got used to his new home and was happy being with us.
Pat was short-haired and looked like a beautifully sculptured piece of art since a greyhound's every sinuous muscle always seems to be visible, poised and ready to run. And run he did! He seemed to really enjoy what he was born to do, and Dad enjoyed creating the circumstances by which to show off his speed. When the family would drive away in the car, Pat wanted to go too, and he'd run beside the car until Dad told him to go home.
Pat had a loving disposition. He was a beloved family pet. We loved him and it was obvious that he loved us. When he looked at you with his big soft brown eyes, it was almost as if he could talk, and you sensed he had a loyal heart as big as all outdoors. When everybody would go away and leave him for a few hours, he got very lonesome. It was funny when we came home because he would be so overjoyed to see us that he'd loudly whimper and whine and carry on so; jump and leap around in circles, and lick our faces like we'd been gone for a week. He missed us and that made us love him all the more!
Carroll said of Pat: "This dog was extremely fast and quick. We clocked him in a short spurt at 50 miles per hour. He would follow me to grade school where, of course, my friends would laugh at such a funny dog. Soon other kids would bring their dogs to the school early to 'get' Pat. They could not touch him. At times there would be as many as 10 to 12 dogs after him, but he just had a ball. He would outrun them, then turn and go through the pack, going over, under, around and through them. They finally gave up. I don't think Dad knew what was happening with his $50 dog. Pat would always run after the car if the family left him. He hated to be left and would run after the car for blocks. He never chased other cars."
The Mexican Hairless dog was called "Mex". Dad sent away for this dog also, and it didn't have one hair on it! His skin felt strange when you would run your hand along his back. Your hand didn't glide over this dog as it would over the smooth hair of ordinary dogs. He was small, had large irregular brown spots, and was very friendly. Charlie Ray says of him: "He got cold in the winter and stayed indoors most of the time. In the summer, Richland was always 90 plus degrees, and I used to doctor Mex with sunburn lotion."
When Dad was the Yakima District Mission President (1945-1949), he presided over the baptisms performed in the Yakima River just outside of Richland. In 1947-49 he took me along as he had given me the small part of leading the opening and closing hymns (age 14-16). Dad wanted me to continue that service in the new chapel on Jadwin Ave., which I did up through 1950. It was a spiritual growing period for me to associate with him, and his fine example as a mission leader. He led this mission with a unique style of strength in scriptural knowledge, administration and the gift of teaching the gospel. Because of him, I was often provided the opportunity of hearing teachings from the full time missionaries. I appreciate him asking me, a teen, to assist him.
My sister Shanna and me were sometimes invited to sing duets at the different L.D.S. Branch meetings in the District. One time in 1946, we were invited to sing a duet at a District Conference (equivalent to stake conference) held at the Columbia High School auditorium in Richland. Dad would be one of the speakers, giving a talk on missionary work. Being on the program, we girls were invited to sit on the stand, and sat not far from Dad. The full-time missionaries usually attended these District Conferences too, and to my surprise years later, I learned that my future husband, Norman Wright, was one of the missionaries attending this same conference. He was laboring in Kennewick and Pasco. He has said he remembers hearing us sing, and my dad speak. But my family and I never met him until 5 years later.
I was 13 years old (1946) when Dad put his foot down about reading "Funny Books" from the drugstore. He saw some of them in the house and told us he didn't want them around and to get rid of them. "They are a complete waste of time", Dad said. He wanted us to read good books that uplifts the mind. Another thing he didn't want us to do was use slang words but to speak using normal english. I was a little concerned that my Nancy Drew Mystery books might have to be exiled too, but luckily they didn't. They were fun and adventurous stories for a young girl of 13. In fact, it could have been those that sparked my interest in accepting the lead part in a suspense filled two-act mystery play in church M.I.A. Dad, Mom and other family members came and watched, giving family support.
When I played on the girl's church basketball team during my junior and senior year, Dad and Mom came and watched when we made it to the championship play-offs. The last one, we lost by one point. We met in the Lewis and Clark school for these activities.
One summer, when I was fourteen (1947), Dad signed up with me in a folk dancing class, sponsored by the city. I was really happy about that. The class met in the Sacajawea school gym. I loved to dance, and I found that he did too, and that he was really good at it. He was relaxed and enjoyed the fast folk dances. He was 48 yrs. old then, but seemed much younger when dancing. That experience with him meant so much to me because we were learning new dances and having a great time together. What a sport he was, to be dancing among a bunch of young kids. My friends thought I had a cool dad. After that, Dad and me always danced a waltz or two, a schottish, or the fox trot when attending the Stake formal Gold and Green Balls. He was a smooth dancer, and handsome besides. I was always proud to be in Dad's company and to write his name on my dance card.
When my delightful baby sister, Susan, was about 8 months old and could be away from her mother at night, was when Dad and Mom began setting up her crib in my bedroom one saturday morning. I scratched my head in query - this was so sudden - no warning! They said to me, "We're moving the baby in here for you to take care of nights." That was all. I even remember them standing the crib against the east wall. It barely fit into the space since there was a large wooden box originally built over the stairway which used up a whole corner of the room. I was 14 and in the ninth grade. I think they were putting me in training for future, plus making it so Dad could get a full night's sleep after coming home from swing shift. I enjoyed tending babies though. She was a cutey and when I think back, it was a good experience for me to get up and take care of her needs in the night and trying to stay awake in school the next day, but I managed alright.
I guess what Dad told us about reading good books earlier stuck with me because, when I was 14 I started taking the Book of Mormon with me baby-sitting. I wanted something to do after the children I was tending had been put to bed. Dad and Mom had talked about what a great book it was, they had both read it several times. Anyway they got my curiosity up, and I privately decided to give the Book of Mormon a try. So on my next baby sitting job I curled up on the couch with it and began to read through the first couple of chapters. I found I liked it. The next sitting job put me in 2 Nephi, but Isaiah was too steep for me, so that's where Dad comes in about that. I was surprised - and relieved - at what he told me to do. He said, "Skip over that part for now and come back to it later. We'll discuss it then." His advice was eagerly accepted. Over time he helped me and I began to understand it better. It's still difficult, but most of it is understandable.
When I turned 15, I hired out for a full week, caring for a family of children while the parents went on vacation. I lived right in the home for that week, which gave me the opportunity to have many uninterrupted evenings for reading the Book of Mormon. I was loving the book, soaking it all in, and it was making me feel good that everything I was reading felt right and true. I continued reading the book, I wanted to get all the way through it.
As teenagers in Richland, we were expected to be home at the same time every evening for supper. Meals were usually ready on time with a pleasant atmosphere, and delicious food. Mother was a great cook! We were not allowed to eat between meals (except for a snack of celery or carrot sticks kept in a jar of water in the refrigerator), so we were hungry and didn't want to miss our good hot evening meal.
I was 14 when during the course of one of our evening meals, Dad watched the teen's table manners - without raising his head, just his eyes. I must have been in a big hurry eating, because he said, "Barbara, cut that bite in half." It was uncomfortable for me being watched, but amazingly, this time I saw some humor in it and was amused. The look of him struck me so funny I couldn't help laughing inside. His lively blue eyes were peering from underneath his bushy eyebrows and they looked kind of like a handsome little gnome - his eyebrows would sometimes grow so long they'd curl around and get in his eyes. So when he'd blink, the hairs would tickle and elicit a funny expression on his face that looked quite comical! His looks and eyebrows reminded me of Mark Twain in pictures.
But out of deference to Dad I stifled my giggles. I knew what he meant. I also knew by then that he wanted his daughters to grow up lady-like, but sometimes I just didn't have time to be slow, what with my school and church activities and everything. But I learned I had to eat slow when I ate with him. As a result I had to hurry faster on the other end to get the dishes washed up; then have to run to my music rehearsals, sports, or M.I.A. in order to make it on time. But in reality, that experience of having to eat slow, repeated many times over, turned out to be a two-pronged lesson. Dad was teaching me the all-important lessons of efficient time-management, and good table manners. I don't know how much of it took, but I've tried not to waste his efforts on me.
Sometimes after dinner, Dad led out discussing the scriptures. He patiently saw to it that we clearly understood his answers to our questions. He had the gift of discernment of the scriptures and could easily understand what they meant, so it made for a wonderful experience being taught the gospel by him. The Washington schools didn't have Seminary as in Utah, and it was good he taught us those things. Along the way, he stressed the importance of incorporating principles of the gospel into our own lives, which would bring us true and lasting happiness if we were diligent in elevating our thoughts and actions to that level.
This is a true story coming up of how our piano came about. In about 1939, when Shanna and myself were little girls in Fairview (about 4 1/2 and 6 yrs.), we used to "play the piano" on the northwest window sill in the kitchen. We were "accompanying" ourselves while we sang make-up songs. We sat together on the floor at the low window sill, making up music and words to fit things we could see through the window outside, and would giggle ecstatically at some of the silly things we'd think up.
I wanted to play real music like cousin Norma Dean, so when we visited Grandma and Grandpa Olsen in Salt Lake, we made up tunes on their piano. I wanted to learn to read music, which I did at a later time.
When we moved to Taylorsville, then to Richland, we had "hoped" at first, then "asked", but eventually turned to "begging" Mom and Dad for a piano. We were always told, "Well, we can get a piano when your Grandpa Clement strikes gold." I knew he went prospecting in earlier years, and I believed he would surely strike gold. Oh, the anticipation of a child! By the time I was in my early teens, and still no sign of "gold" or a piano, my hopes began to wane.
Then, out of the blue one day, in 1948 (I was now 15), the magical announcement was made that Grandpa Clement had gone to Utah to get us a piano. We were overjoyed, and a big cheer went up! "It's really and truly happening!" You'd think the queen of England was coming to visit our home the way we hurried about, cleaning the house and changing the furniture around in order to place this new arrival in just the right spot. By now I had gotten old enough not to believe Grandpa had struck gold. But secretly, hoped he had! It conjured up all kinds of delicious imaginations.
Our little-girl dream had finally come true. The long awaited, beautiful Wellington upright piano was delivered to our house in Richland, Washington from Daynes Music store in Salt Lake City. It was such a happy day!
The color of it was a charcoal colored finish. It had been a demonstrator piano in the store, and was a very fine one, having excellent tone. That wonderful piano enriched our family life, and it became the center of our musical world in our home. There was music going on all the time, every day, of voice and piano from then on - with ourselves and family, our friends, and with the full-time missionaries when they'd come for dinner.
There was fun and laughter and cheer in our home constantly. Our home atmosphere was usually happy, but as kids sometimes will start arguing over something, Mother would quickly start singing, "Angry words, O let them never from the tongue unbridled slip, May the heart's best impulse ever, check them 'ere they soil the lip. Love one another, thus said the Savior, Children obey the Father's blest command, Love one another, thus said the Savior, Children obey His blest command." She soon had me learn to play that song on the piano, because she said she wanted to have an accompaniment. Clever mother! She made us learn the words as well. The words were a strong reminder that we should behave kindly to one another.
Mother always kidded about "Grandpa's gold", which he never struck, but I'm certain he paid for the piano! I don't know by what method he paid for it; perhaps he saved out of his small pension or cashed one of his bonds. He was a generous man. I heard him say many times that he had promised us girls a piano, and he was intent on making good his promise - "As soon as I strike gold." What a great gift Grandfather Clement gave to our family! We were so happy about getting our piano we soon started lessons, I was fifteen (1948). Dad paid for the lessons. Later on Dad took piano lessons himself in about 1952, age 53. His teacher was Helen Madsen, same as ours. He was really admired for that.
Dad paid for my tap dancing lessons the summer I was thirteen. Being in the lanky stage, I needed those lessons to learn gracefulness. I enjoyed it and was kept busy - but not too busy to keep Dad's clothes ironed after doing the family wash. (Nice trade). I became the oldest girl at home after my sister Beverly married, so those jobs fell to me. I also hired out, ironing for other families for four summers. I felt Dad's ever present support as mom directed my homemaking basic training. I don't know how competent I became with it, but I can say I've always enjoyed the field of homemaking.
One time Dad came walking into the kitchen from outside while I was standing by the sink washing dishes. He said, "Barbara, put an apron on." Didn't say another word. He noticed things, no matter how small. Raising a big family was quite an enterprise, and he was a high quality overseer. I'm glad about that now. He didn't say it, but I think he was rightly concerned about my clothes he'd paid for, and me getting them soiled. So I dutifully put an apron on. Nevertheless, because of that brief but effective interaction with him, I became converted to the idea and made it a habit to wear an apron when washing dishes. After I married I sewed myself plenty of aprons to have on hand when doing my house-work and cooking, because Dad was right - as usual. Whenever I put an apron on, it reminded me of that little incident.
Dad gave me a lesson in saving my money to buy the things I wanted. When I was fourteen I wanted a bicycle of my own. Dad merely said, "Save up your baby-sitting money and you'll soon have enough to buy a bicycle. But also remember to save more than the cost of the bicycle to pay your tithing, you'll need to thank the Lord with it." I followed his advice and it wasn't too long until I ordered my navy blue girl's bicycle through the catalogue. The day it arrived, I rejoiced in the success of the real lesson Dad taught me - "A penny saved is a penny earned". My bike brought us girls in the neighborhood lots of enjoyment. Boys wouldn't be caught dead on a girl's bike, and I was glad about that because my bicycle lasted a lot longer than it would have otherwise. I thank my dad for the lesson of saving my money.
By 1947 I was fourteen, and the family had shrunk to six kids at home. Dad took the family on a fun vacation to Utah. The folks had an agenda of things in mind to accomplish during that trip. The four older kids, DeVon, Carroll, Barbara and Shanna were to get their Patriarchal Blessings in Salt Lake City by the Church Patriarch, Eldred G. Smith.
We visited relatives, and then Dad took us to play. It was the greatest! He took us to Lagoon in Farmington one day for rides and fun on all kinds of things. I really liked walking inside the revolving double and triple-barrels, each one going in the opposite direction, end to end. The Ferris Wheel and the "wild" (in those days) roller-coaster. Then we went to the Great Salt Lake the next day to float in its dense, briney waters at Black Rock Beach. We all got in the lake for some fun. Charlie was 5 1/2 years old, and Susan was the baby at that time. Dad told us, "You don't want to try to swim in that water or the salt will get in your eyes and sting them, so just relax and float, but take care not to drift out too far." It was a new but neat experience. I remember how the salt would cake on your skin when you get out and dry off. There was a clear-water shower plumbed in the beach, just a pipe with a pull-string sticking up. That dad of ours sure knew how to show us a good time! He told how he used to love going to these resorts at Sunset and Black Rock Beaches from the time he was a boy. It was a memorable trip.
As a young girl, I had done quite a bit of public singing and I remember wishing I could have the privilege of singing with Dad in public some day. When that day came and he invited me to sing a duet with him, I was 15 years old. I wanted to do it well so I wouldn't embarrass him. I was in seventh heaven, I couldn't believe it was actually happening. How I admired his truly beautiful clear tenor voice! Later on, one of the songs I remember singing together on a program was, "That Silver-Haired Daddy of Mine." He sang the lead and I sang the high harmony which he taught me for this performance. I already knew the lead part, but he said he wanted me to learn the high harmony so I'd know both parts and could sing either one. It was a neat experience to sing with him.
Our house was usually teeming with people moving about, so sometimes we sat on his bed upstairs to practice, other times we'd go to the piano in the living room. We enjoyed the time we spent together practicing. The song, "The Holy City", gave me goose-bumps when listening to him sing it solo in church. I know he loved that song - the music and the message of it was one of his favorites - and he sang it with power and great spirit. He sang many solos this way. His gorgeous, refined tenor voice could easily sail up to the high notes. He sang in the ward choir and the tenor section was enriched having him there. I wish so often now, that we had tape recorded him singing.
One sunny afternoon, when I was about 16 years old, Dad stopped by my room to bring me something. It turned out to be a personal history form. He handed it to me and briefly explained it's purpose and said, "I think you should write down your personal history on this." My first thought was that I hadn't lived long enough to have a history to write down. He must have read my mind, because I looked at it with it's twenty lines, then I looked at him and he gave me a nice smile (I couldn't resist that!) and I said, "O.K., I'll do it."
So I went to work on it, and found to my surprise that I had actually done a few things in my young life to write about. He was teaching me the importance of record-keeping. I still have that small early history. It's a good thing because when I read through it I am reminded of things I had long forgotten about. I know this was the time Dad planted the spirit and love of genealogy work in me. I had to grow into it and I'm not at all great at it, it's just something I love doing.
In 1950, when Dad was building a house in Pasco, WA, he invited me to drive him back home to Richland. I guess I was stunned, so he asked me again if I would like to drive the car, and I said uh.. o.k., sure. I was seventeen and had learned to drive from my friends. One time, Dad sent Carroll and me on an errand to Walla Walla, 60 miles distant from Richland, and when we reached the outskirts of the town, he let me drive the car for about five miles or so. Dad didn't want his girls to drive for some reason. I don't really know why, except he may have been thinking that in a protective way - possibly to protect his cars from teenage drivers! But I couldn't see my future without a car in it, so I learned to drive.
What went through my mind was, Dad must have gotten wind that I could drive, and figured since I was determined, he probably should personally check out my driving ability.
I didn't know what to expect, but anyway we got in his plush green Nash, he handed me the keys and we drove off. On the way home we had a lovely quiet visit. He communicated gently with me in a way which put me perfectly at ease, and seemed pleased with my driving (whew!). But still, by the time we arrived in Richland, twelve miles or so, he had given me a couple of general suggestions about driving a car, which I appreciated, and has stayed with me ever since. One was, "If you miss a turn, don't slam on the brakes - just keep going and drive around the block and come back around to where you wanted to turn in the first place."
Dad was a very organized person, and lived by high standards of tidiness. One morning (I was 17), before I left for high school, he stepped into my room on his way out and firmly said to me that he wanted us girls (my sister Shanna and me were roommates) to leave our room clean and the bed made up every morning before leaving for school. He stood there silent for a few seconds, making sure I understood what he said, and then he left.
We had gotten busier in our high school involvements, and more rushed on school mornings. Then we began taking too much time getting ready for school. Consequently we neglected our bedroom duties which, of course, put more burden on Mother, and Dad wouldn't have that.
So, Dad put the responsibility squarely on my shoulders to work out a solution to the problem (maybe because I was older). Knowing I'd have to face him sooner than later, the wheels turned real fast in my head throughout the day at school. I understood Dad's ways, and without him having to say it I knew that he expected the change to be made by the next morning!
I talked with my sister about what Dad had said, and what should be done about it. The solution was: From then on, we would stand inside our roomy clothes closet when changing our clothes so we could hang them up right then. We wouldn't allow any clothing, school papers, or anything else to be dropped on the floor or accumulate underneath the bed anymore. The plan worked out well and evidently the results met Dad's requirements because he said no more about it. That was just one example of how he effectively taught accountability. The nice thing about this effort was coming home to a clean room. And the extra bonus was learning that it's easier to keep up than to catch up.
During this period of time (age 17), Mother had to take a trip to Utah for a week and left me in charge of the cooking. After she was on her way, Dad said, "All I want you to cook is beans and rice, nothing else." Stamped in concrete! I guess he was thinking that teenagers don't know much about cooking and decided to take the safe route of having just two dependable items - beans and rice. You can't really ruin those two things and they are nutritional.
Well, after three days of the same thing, I needed a change because it was getting to be just too much for me. I decided what I would do to change things. So I made a good batch of bread, and when I served that hot bread to him with butter and honey, he didn't mind that too much. He couldn't believe it, he was so surprised and said, "When did your mother teach you how to make bread?" He saw that I could cook something more than just beans and rice. He let me cook anything I wanted to after that. Mother had told me many times, "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." I decided to put what she said to the test and see if it was really true - and it was.
In the summer of 1950 Dad took the whole family on two different outings. I was still a teenager and would be starting my senior year in high school in the fall. This included the married ones and their kids. It was a lot of fun, all the family played together. The first outing was to the Walla Walla, Washington city park. It was a beautiful and spacious park where we all enjoyed each other and a picnic. This was a special day because Dad did several things with us - played ball, tossed bread to the ducks, walked together from one exotic flower garden to another admiring their colorful beauty. He got a big kick out of acting as referee for the little kid's foot races, and he was a great sport with the teenagers.
The second family outing was in 1950. The extended family was invited to go. We had a good sized group, about 15. It is remembered as the one to the Snake River Grand Canyon. We camped at this place one or two nights. I think this was close to the time when Carroll would be joining the navy to go to the Korean conflict. DeVon was already in the navy at this time. Dad always loved to be in the great outdoors as much as possible. He was impressed with the place as he stood at a point overlooking one of the deepest canyons in the world. I grabbed my camera and took his picture standing on the "rim of the world." It is a special snapshot of him enjoying the overlook and grandeur of the place.
It is 1951 and I am 17. By this time, Dad had been Stake Patriarch for almost a year. I'd been working closely with him as his first secretary, typing Patriarchal Blessings and letters. That was a very special, faith-promoting experience for me that I will never forget. By this time, I guess Dad must have figured I was ready to stand on my own, because he soon presented me with a challenge. He would test me, that was typical of Dad. The problem was, you just never knew when the test would come - and it did come - but as a complete surprise! He provided me with a major experience to last me a lifetime. I was grown and gradually moving towards leaving the nest. I believe he wanted to learn for himself if I was spiritually grounded before setting out on my own. He was very protective of his daughters, and he knew being spiritually grounded was the thing that carries a lot of weight in getting through life a lot happier than without it.
Here's the surprise test. One Sunday morning, Dad and I were the first ones ready for church, and we were alone in the living room. He was rummaging around for something on his desk, when he casually said, "I would like to hear some of my family bear their testimony this morning." Nothing more was said about it and he went about his business, then left the room - which left me to myself.
Suddenly it struck me - "O my gosh, he means me!" That sure set me on my toes and jangled my once peaceful morning! This would be my first time to bear my testimony. Although I had the desire to for some time, I had not done it. I'd never mentioned it to Dad, but sometimes he just knew things.
When we got over to church, Dad was respectfully invited to sit on the stand, being the Stake Patriarch. When the meeting was opened to testimonies, he stood up first and gave his testimony. That was great, I always enjoyed listening to him do that, but it was soon going to come my turn. I believe to this day, that he said a little prayer for me that I would take the challenge - I needed a nudge.
With Dad's challenge propelling me, emotions and thoughts about what I would say had weighed on my mind for the previous one and a half hours. I decided to say something from the Book of Mormon that had really jumped off the pages and impressed me in 2 Nephi, Chapter 3. I don't know how ready I was, but finally it felt like I was helped to my feet and I stood to give my testimony. I was nervous and glanced at Dad when I started, then gradually gained confidence. I can only give an overview of this testimony. I expressed my purpose and feelings for giving my testimony and talked about Joseph of Egypt's vision in which the Lord revealed to him about Joseph Smith, a choice seer (a prophet in our day), and of the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Then read some verses:
"And thus prophesied Joseph saying: Behold, that seer will the Lord bless; and they that seek to destroy him shall be confounded; for this promise, which I have obtained of the Lord....shall be fulfilled."
".... And his name shall be called after me; and it shall be after the name of his father (meaning Joseph Smith, Sr). And he shall be like unto me; for the thing, which the Lord shall bring forth by his hand, by the power of the Lord shall bring my people unto salvation."
From my own study and personal witness, I know the Book of Mormon is a true record of the people in ancient America, that Joseph Smith is a true prophet of God, and that he did translate the Book of Mormon through the gift and power of God, and prepared it for publication for our day. (End of testimony).
I am indebted to Dad for his invitation to me on that Sunday morning, and that I accepted the opportunity he placed before me. He gave me something lasting. I never forgot Dad's faith in me that morning. He led the way by setting the example. He didn't ask something of me that he wouldn't do himself.
Raphael was just as sure that the Book of Mormon is true as he was sure that his horses could pull in a pulling contest, because he tested them first. The horses, by testing their strength, and the Book of Mormon, testing by prayer, asking the Lord about its truth.
Dad was a firm foundation for our family. His children's spiritual welfare as well as temporal was always very much on his mind. He truly cared about us and did the work to show it, using precept and example. That to me is real love. Dad talked many times about his concerns for his posterity. He left a legacy to his children how to live upright lives, by doing the things a loving Heavenly Father outlined for us to do for our happiness. Raphael did many things to show his love in the things that mattered, not only for his immediate family, but also for his extended family.
Right after graduation from high school, Dad paid for private voice lessons for me. At first I was reticent to ask him because of the money, but I got up the courage and did ask. He was pleased about the prospect, and his support was really great. He took an interest in my development, and like any parent, wanted to see good results from his investments. It went unspoken, but I knew to him that it meant "work hard", so I did work hard and progressed. I wanted to make it worth his while. When Dad was pleased with the results of something, he beamed all over. In looking back, I can see that he gave me a lot of himself, which I do not take lightly.
After graduation from Columbia High School (now Richland High) in the summer of 1951, I got a full time job with General Electric. Dad approached me and kindly explained that his grown children were expected to pay room and board as long as we lived at home after age 18. I felt good about it and I did so for eight months before my marriage to Norman Wright. I don't think Dad spent that money on himself, but instead, held my payments in reserve to put towards my wedding trip to Salt Lake and the wedding reception in Richland. I wanted to pay my own wedding expenses and saved my money as Dad had taught me to do. This enabled me to pay for my trousseau, my wedding dress, bridesmaid's dress, invitations, printed Thank You notes, etc.
Norman had come from Utah to Richland in 1951 to work for G.E. and had been called as Stake Clerk to President James V. Thompson. Dad liked Norm right off and saw him frequently in the stake offices. We dated over a period of several months and became marriage minded. When it came time for Norm to ask my father for my hand in marriage, one day Dad was at the church on Jadwin Ave., and happened to be in Bishop Alex Smith's office. Norm saw him there alone and went in and asked him.
Dad and Mom traveled 750 miles with us to be married in the Salt Lake Temple on 22 April 1952. During our marriage ceremony, my father, Raphael Clement, acted as one of the witnesses. It is one of the special and warm things in our life to have his signature on our Temple marriage license. Robert D. Young, who was then President of the Salt Lake Temple performed our temple marriage and sealing. I requested President Young because he had performed Dad and Mother's temple marriage and sealing in the Manti Temple. I thought that would make a nice connection.
Dad was bright in keeping up with the times, etc. One thing we could be sure of, his eye was on Government happenings every day, and he could criticize or praise governmental proceedings and decisions as much as anyone else. He was very critical of some of President Roosevelt's policies, I remember. He said, "Every time I think about doing my income taxes, I cuss Roosevelt."
He voted in political races, although his opinion of politicians ran pretty much as they do today. In Richland I remember one teasing interaction between Mom and Dad just after they'd come home from the voting booths. This was the November 1952 Presidential election. It was an exciting day of getting a new president of the United States. After I'd voted I drove up to visit the folks. When I got there I found Mom in a mirthful mood. Just as I came through the front door, she laughingly announced that she was a Democrat for Adlai Stevenson and proud of it, and voted as such. Dad was a Republican and voted for the Eisenhower-Nixon ticket. I don't know if she ever changed parties after Dwight Eisenhower won that election for President.
About May of l953, Dad had to make a trip to Utah. He didn't want to go by himself, so he asked me if I would like to go with him. Yes, I really wanted to go and be with him, and I could stay with my mother-in-law in Pleasant Grove while he took care of his business. I was expecting my first baby (Peggy) and he promised he would take good care of me. I had just pulled through a hard case of morning sickness, which Mother said had worried him because I'd lost so much weight - down to skin and bones and bedridden for 2 months time. He said, "This trip will be good for you now that you are feeling better and on your feet again. It will help you start gaining your weight back to normal."
I loved that 1400 mile, one-on-one "date" with my dad. We had time to talk about things, and I learned from him. We had fun too! One time he wanted me to spell him off driving, so we switched places and I got in the driver's seat. It was a 2-lane highway (no freeways yet) on the long, straight stretch through the Idaho desert that most of us are familiar with. And typically, you wouldn't see another car for hours.
Instead of going to sleep, Dad talked me up to going 80 mph. I thought, "What! This is Dad breaking the speed limit?" He was really enjoying what his Nash could do! He got a great kick out of that, and I caught the spirit of it too. So here we were, Dad and me, enjoying a high speed run out in the middle of the desert - it was great sport! He was a confident car handler, I felt safe when he was in a car, and I learned from him some of the important things about open road driving. One thing he said was, "When there is an incline in front of you, start getting your speed up way in advance - before you reach the foot of the hill - so that you don't overwork your engine by trying to raise your speed after you've reached the hill and start up." This was the perfect situation to put me to the test and he did so. In all of this, he taught me confidence by giving me experience.
We stopped in Ontario, Oregon for something to eat, and being the gentleman that he is, treated me to a chinese dinner - my first. He told me that a lot of Chinese immigrants had settled in that area as farmers, and that the Chinese cooking was good because it was authentic. "It's not Americanized", he said. Chinese food is one of my favorites still. He pulled over for rest stops frequently.
That was very nice because when I was a kid, Dad's way was to drive straight through to his destination with a minimum of stops. When he did stop to get gas, he'd give us 5 minutes at the service station to be back in the car, ready to travel again. There were no car air-conditioners at that time, and it was hot traveling! When you rolled down the windows for some air, what you'd get was a stiff, hot wind in your face. There were so many of us still young at home, we were always packed in the car like sardines in a can. No station wagons or vans in those days - family cars were sedans. But he said he would take good care of me, and he did just that! We had the whole car to ourselves this time - in Dad's luxurious Nash.
When coming to a good view of Mt. Timpanogos on the return trip home, he looked up to the ridge of the mountain and said, "Would you like to see a sleeping Indian maiden on this mountain?" His statement sparked intrigue in me, and I said, "A sleeping Maiden? I really would."
As we travelled along, he began the description by saying, "Now if you follow the rim of the whole length of this mountain with your eyes, you can see the outline of "The Sleeping Maiden." Then he proceeded to point out where her head was on the south end near Provo Canyon. "As your eyes follow along northward", he said, "You can see her nose, then chest, like her arms folded across her chest. Her torso, then her legs stretched out full length, until finally you come to her feet, with the toes turned upward at the north end of the mountain. Can you see it now?" I could! It was exciting to watch this "Sleeping Maiden" emerge as he sculpted with words. It was exciting to learn something special about that mountain. The Sleeping Maiden is plain to see when you know it's there. I've always treasured that moment, for I heard in his voice how much this mighty 12,000 ft. high, perpetually snow - covered mountain meant to him.
The spirit about him in that moment was so tender and wonderful. I'd never seen him quite like that before, as if he was seeing this mountain for the last time (it may well have been). A picture began to form in my mind - of him - and I began to realize how many dozens of times he had passed by this magnificent mountain in his travels over his lifetime, and it became his. He obviously deeply loved it's legend and beauty that he was now sharing with me. That was such a special moment for me to remember.
It was truly a memorable trip - to be with just him and soak in his sweetness, his warmth and love. It drew us closer. I love him and appreciate more every day, the time he gave me in his shortened life.
This May 1953 trip came (I now think) at the onset of Dad's cancer illness. I sensed he was experiencing some kind of sensations of not feeling 100% well, and of course, not knowing the reason why at that point. If I am correct, this was his last trip to Utah - his birth home.
After I moved back to my native Utah from Richland in 1963, and living in the shadows of Mt. Timpanogos, (it's practically in my back yard), its stately prominence attracts my attention to it every day as I drive around town, and I remember my wonderful Dad. He is still influencing me on every turn.
I still take occasional one day trips back to our Fairview farm roots, and feel his spirit at this special place that he had such great love for, and put so much time and muscle into. Each time I go there, I am refreshed by remembering all the good teachings he gave me. With gratitude, I'm reminded of all the disciplines he gave me while growing up, they were for my benefit so that I would learn important lessons.
In the summer of 1953 in Richland, after a nice visit with the folks, Dad walked my baby, Peggy Lynne, and me to my car. I was a new mother. Everyone usually parked their cars across the street from the folk's house, in the store parking lot. Evidently, Dad had observed me loading my arms with the baby, the stuffed diaper bag, my purse and food. Mother's Danish generosity always filled your hands with some good treat to take home with you. Instead of just letting me manage by myself, Dad came and helped me carry my stuff to the car.
He then demonstrated caring by giving me the following practical tips on keeping babies happy and comfortable. I felt his love and concern for me in starting my new motherhood. He gave me something lasting. I gave him a hug and told him how much his interest in our welfare meant to me.
Here are the things he wanted me to remember to do:
1. He said, "Don't tie their shoelaces too tight, it cuts off their circulation, and makes their legs ache. They cry because they can't tell you."
2. "When they get in an awkward position from time to time, let them stay, it lets them stretch different muscles and it feels good to them."
3. "Give them some water every day, not only milk, it's refreshing to them."
4. "Don't do a lot of lifting and carrying of babies, instead use the stroller, and give them lots of fresh air." I didn't have a stroller yet, so I needed to buy one.
This last suggestion about a stroller and fresh air caused a sudden flash back to a time on the Fairview farm in 1943, reminding me of Dad's consideration for Mother when he bought her a stroller to use for "Charlie-Boy" - that was his nickname for a while. So I used this opportunity to briefly remind him about that time, and the good results of his thoughtfulness. He knew the story so I didn't go into detail with him.
It was in the summertime when Charlie was about seventeen months old. I vividly remember that "cadillac" stroller - it was blue with yellow trim, and was ordered through the Montgomery Ward Catalogue.
Mother was happy about getting a stroller to carry her growing, active little boy. And so she sent me to the mailbox every day (for a week at least) down the lane, which was about 3 city blocks long, one way, to see if the mailman had delivered the package yet. Never mind the hot sun (at first, anyway), it seemed worth it to me as I had joined in her excitement.
I was 9 years old then, and it became my job to watch for the mailman and go pick up the mail. It wasn't often we got a package in the mail, at least not such a BIG one like this would be. Days of anxious waiting and checking the mailbox went by with the disappointment of no package. By then I was beginning to REALLY MIND the hot sun!
The mailbox could be seen from the house, and finally one day the mailman set a box on the ground by the mailbox post. Mother wasn't home - this was the BIG DAY - and she wasn't home! But I was so excited that I ran all the way to retrieve the box. I read the label, and on it was printed the magic words, CLEMENT and MONTGOMERY WARD! I hadn't thought about it WEIGHING so much, but started the long trek to the house with the package, half carrying and half dragging that big box full of hardware, bumpity-bumping over the tops of half submerged rocks and occasional hard dirt clods. I was hot and sweaty and my arms ached.
I was home alone, and once I got the package inside the house, it seemed like Mother would NEVER come home. I waited and waited. I was getting more and more anxious to look inside the box, knowing it was the stroller. The cardboard even started to look transparent. It crossed my mind that Mother might not approve of me opening it, but I couldn't stand the anticipation any longer so I got a pair of scissors out of the treadle sewing machine drawer, and a knife from the cupboard and opened up the box. Oh, it's beautiful I thought, and Mother will be so pleased! When Mother finally did come home, I was praying she wouldn't be mad at me for opening the package. She wasn't, but instead she was rather happy to have the head start. Together we assembled it, then we put little Charlie-Boy in it and she sent me to take him for a ride down the lane in his new stroller - his "first car".
It was a bumpy ride over the hard, uneven ground, but that's just what he seemed to like. I loved my baby brother, he was the cutest, happiest little boy, he laughed a lot. He loved nature! Because of that, I enjoyed tending him, and showed him up close the animals and the birds in his new world on his daddy's farm. And of course down the lane to the main road every day to get the mail. I took him on many walks that summer. He loved his rides in that blue stroller with the yellow trim. And he got lots of healthy fresh air! Dad was sensitive to Mother's well-being, and Charlie's. He loved them both and took care of their needs.
Dad took Charlie for rides on the horses with him. He was eighteen months old. They both loved that! It was always a proud moment for Dad when he'd ride off holding his little son firmly in place in front of him on the horse. He was starting Charlie out the very same way he had his four older sons before him. It was 10 years since his last boy and he exhibited much joy in that. He'd let Charlie help stop the horse by placing the reins in his little hands, and wrapping his big hands around Charlie's, he called "Whoa" to the horse in a commanding voice. And Charlie, in his little commanding voice echoed, "Whoa". Dad got a big kick out of that - Charlie was starting out right. Grandpa Clement also took Charlie out in the field with him at times to ride on the disc or hay rake, etc., the last one in a long line of older siblings having that special treat as children. Riding behind the sounds and smell of the work horses as they pull, is an unforgettable experience. They are a wonderful animal and friend to man.
In Richland (when I was ten), I remember Dad calling us together for family prayer. It was an important part of our daily family life.
This was important to me as I had gained a testimony of the power of prayer from having been seriously ill a few times in my early life and miraculously brought through by receiving priesthood blessings. Also, having done baptisms for the dead in the Salt Lake Temple (the previous winter with my sunday school class), was an experience which served to deepen my understanding of the value of prayer.
When we knelt down together for family prayer, I felt a sweet and warm spirit of the Lord's peace come into our home as Dad prayed. His voice generated personal humility and gratitude, great faith and confidence in the Lord's love and protection over his family. It set the tone for the day. Even with the comings and goings of a large family, the atmosphere in our home was peaceful and happy. The rhythm of a prayerful home sent us off to school remembering how to live. Then if we forgot ourselves from time to time, all Dad needed to say was, "That will do" - and we understood. What a wonderful team Mom and Dad were. They pulled together for the RIGHT! I thank them for being the great examples and exceptional parents they were, and for all they did for me personally, although I've fallen short many times.
It was the first part of November 1955, two weeks before Dad departed this life, that I took my first two children, Peggy Lynne and Randy to visit their Grandpa Clement. When we entered the house on Taylor Street, I followed two-year-old Peggy up the stairs to her Grandpa's bedroom. He smiled and greeted us. His eyes smiled too as he greeted Peggy and took her tiny hands into his own for the few precious moments that he talked to her. Then they gave each other a sweet hug and she went downstairs to see her Grandma. There would be love and warmth in her good-smelling kitchen.
Dad and me sat on the edge of his bed quietly visiting. After a while, as if prompted by the spirit, he reached over and firmly took ten month old Randy from me onto his lap. He talked to me about Randy, prophesying some things about his future in the spirit of a patriarchal blessing. Though not a formal patriarchal blessing, it was something special and lasting he gave his grandson. I went home feeling very moved, and resolved to make that personal connection with their Grandpa Clement live in them always. I've made him known to my later children as well.
Because Dad loves each individual member of his large family, I know of a surety that he has made his presence felt to all of us in different ways since his passing. I appreciate this opportunity to put into words my thoughts and feelings about him.
My love and gratitude is full for my father, my teacher, who seemed to know how to chart my course and lead the way for me in this life. He always treated me with respect and dignity. I hope I can live in such a way as to honor him. I love him very much.
No comments:
Post a Comment