Brooks' Letter, Second Installment

I do have other pictures of Uncle Brooks, but this one is on my computer now, so I'll use it. He is center front on the front row, with Uncle Norman Sorensen on his right, and Aunt Elna and her doll on his left. The back row is Aunt Sofe Johnson, Aunt Cindy (Lucinda) Sorensen, and Aunt Lorraine Wasden. The picture was taken in Lovell, Wyoming, on Aunt Sofe's front steps in 1975

To continue with the letter: "The rest of the trip up the canyon was more and more mind boggling [and] thrilling. The roar of water, the birds daring to fly up those sheer walls, and then the dam with the water piled up behind it! This little boy and all that his eyes and mind could behold for all time - he was sure.
We made it to the "Hanging Rock" for the evening camp. Real trees big, big! A place to graze the horses like the story of "The Virginian" by Owen Wister. Next morning we passed the rock formation, "The Holy City". What romance that excited! And the day continued to expand unlimited beauty and more beauty.
Father met us below Pahaska, on horse-back. Wondered what took us so long. Camp was inside the Park just below the steep incline to Sylvan Pass. About a week later we moved camp down to Pahaska. It was here that Father put me on a road-grader - very pleased with what he had taught me to maneuver it. Hoped I would not let him down. We "bladed" the road from Pahaska to the entrance in time for Mr. Albright's first visit. The road did look neat and he took time to speak to me. This excited the other laborers because "officials" did not usually notice them. The next morning, Father kind of shuffled about for a bit, and then said,
"Now, don't get the big head but Mr. Albright said, "That son of yours can handle a grader like that? Tell him he's always got a job here with me as long as he wants one." Father, I know, hated to tell me that because he knew it would be hard on hat-bands. But for Mr. Albright to notice me, to give that notice of recognition, did a miracle for my self esteem. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could do something good, worth a compliment. It has ever been a cherished thing.
The next year, I did send him an application for work. When it arrived in the mail box there in Penrose - a big envelope - there was a second big envelope with it. One envelope said, "Report to Cody Wyoming to------." The other envelope said, "You are called to fill a Mission----."

And that is the end of his Yellowstone Park story in the letter. Of course, we know that he went on to fill a mission in Texas; he told Mother a story about some of his experiences there, which she recorded on a cassette tape, which has become garbled with time. We all knew that Uncle Brooks could be quite a story teller - perhaps that talent has come down through the family.

Shoshone River at Penrose in Winter

Uncle Brooks' letter

James Brooks Wasden as a young man. I think that all of you might have in your archives a copy of this letter that Brooks wrote to Dad and Elna on May 9, 1987, but I was re-reading it this morning, and wanted to copy part of it into the blog, since the story it tells is so interesting.
Elna had sent Brooks a copy of an obituary for a man named Horace Albright, and this was his response. "How thoughtful that you would enclose his obituary. Yes, I knew him and darn near attached a little worship to the man. If I calculate rightly, I was 17 years older then, and he had been Park Superintendent for a year. (Park, being Yellowstone Park). He was promoting the need for improved roads for the sure-to-come automobile traffic - which Father hated to see come, but had to bow to "Progress". Father felt that this was the sure sign of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rampaging throughout the world, desecrating and destroying all that is good and beautiful. How near his summary of such things proved true may not be as debatable now as then, but it was the increased activity in road building that gave Father the opportunity to return to living in the Gardens of the only remaining Eden on earth and feel the limitless wonder of it all. I can still see him wake up in the morning, go outside the tent, pause long enough to stand erect, raise his chin to bring into focus the heights of the mountain's about our camp, and inhale the sublime joy of privilege to live and feel and listen to the solitude his whole person could encompass.
Mr. Debs and his brother helped me trail our eight horses from Penrose to the Park. We drove "4" on a wagon loaded with grain and hay, and our bedroll plus cooking needs. The other "4" trailed along behind. We made it to Cody the first day and camped at the bridge which crossed over to the railroad station. This was the farthest I had been from home and the only time I had seen the Shoshone River with the city of Cody and its adjacent interests. We rolled out on beds and slept on the ground. Think of doing that now.
Early the next morning we were on our way. The only way to travel was the little thin line along the north side of the canyon you can see as you travel the present highway. Mr. Debs drove the team - thank goodness - because I was so totally enthralled with what my eyes were seeing. At first it appeared like a solid wall of stone and mountain blocked our way, but as each step forward of the teams revealed a widening crack - maybe, just maybe we might get through and not have to climb over the top. It was like the jaws of a huge gate slid noiselessly apart to let us through and then closed just as noiselessly behind us locking us in for keeps.
An automobile from Texas caught up with us. At the first chance we pulled our wagon into a side gap to let them pass. As they pulled up to do so, the trail horse at the rear jumped out and her hind leg hit the fender. They stopped all right. The poor lady was terrified. This was before the days of glassed-in windows and doors - just canvass "pin-ons". To the lady it appeared the horse was intending to get in and ride! Seemed there was a difference of opinions. I hopped down, went back and shooed the horse back into line. But the lady's terror increased; "We didn't mean to do it - We didn't mean to do it," she babbled hysterically. Her hands were quivering before her face and her eyes were so pleading - like she expected to be scalped and thrown into the gorge below. That's when I learned I had charm! I rebuked the horse, smiled at the lady, told her we were sorry. Her expression changed like sunshine bursting from behind a cloud. "You see, Henry, they are not mean; they will not hurt us." Such assurance! And they drove on.
(to be continued)

Steve, Russell, and Ron at Shoshone River dam

When we were Younger

That Contagious Laugh

This was our only trip to Cody that we saw Dad. And as always we loved and laughed. Just as all of you did also.

Petersen kids

Not being allowed to post on the more prestigious Amsbaugh Gardens blog, I'll throw this photo in the mix for Kemp's birthday.

Old Penrose Bridge

A side view of the old Penrose Bridge, which consisted of two original railroad bridges placed end-to-end.  Question:  how on earth did they haul the railroad bridges in here at that early date?  You can see the middle pier, which was our private fishing and hiding out place just to watch the river flow by.

The End of a Busy Day

In the spring of 1968, Mother was beset on all sides with responsibilities that she always felt so keenly. She was teaching full time, had my five children and me in the house. with Tony being the baby with allergy problems requiring constant rocking and care, Brig and Pat, whom she was determined would learn how to do dishes properly; she was also planning the house to be built on the acreage on 93rd South in Washington, contemplating changing teaching positions from Powell to Little Rock, counseling me, helping Dad plan for the move, and also keeping Steve and his brood who were living in Powell in her sights. There were the gladiolus and dahlias to be planted so that they could be harvested in the fall and moved to Washington, garden to be planted, and on and on and on. This was also the spring that Uncle Norman became very ill, and Mother and Dad were worried about him. I think about this time, and think about how she was spread so thin, and still managed to oversee all the details that were necessary to their future. Mother had a tremendous capacity for work and organization.

Antique ? Doll

If I got this doll for Christmas when I was 6 years old, does that make her an antique? What does that make of me? That year I believe that Ann and I got the most wonderful dolls we had ever received. The little knit stockings are missing, but everything else is original. She has been carefully kept and brought out of hiding from the cedar chest only to show grandchildren and let them hold her for a moment. Her name is Susan.

Mother, Fort Collins, 1977

Last Installment of the Weeny Roast: Moving on to Marshmallows

Picnic: Next Installment

Wiener Roast up North Fork

Note Dad's Stetson hat, which he always proudly wore.  One time we were coming back from somewhere up above Cody along a flat long road with the windows open and Dad's hat blew off.  We tried to find it but the wind had taken it too far.  Needless to say, he was not in a good humor the rest of the way home.  Thank heaven we don't have to wear those things now to be in style.  Baseball caps work fine.

Second Photo of Outing

Steve, Ann, and Judy, Young and Innocent

Picnic, somewhere besides Penrose

The Summer of Hepatitis

The summer of 1959 was charged with emotion and challenges. I came home for the from BYU engaged, Mother was away at Laramie finishing her batchelor's degree, Ann was busy keeping the peace, Dad was lonely and bought a TV, and Stephen contacted hepatitis.
You can see from the photo how gaunt he was, and if this was in color, you could also see his yellow skin. He was one sick boy and our parents were deeply concerned. There was the trip to Dr. Colson's office for our gama globulin shots.
I remember asking Mom and Dad if I could go to Washington to meet Robert's parents (likely excuse), one night when Steve was particularly ill. What was I thinking?
Steve, how come you had to go to Viet Nam with this in your history?

Whoops: How do you get the Picasa icon so you can click on it?

Help here, friends and neighbors.  How do you activate the Picasa icon so people other than posters and authors can view the photo album?  Some one surely knows who is smarter than I am.

A New Blog for the Church History Tour

I decided it would be much easier to provide continuity of the photos from our Church history tour on a separate blog, so I started a blog to do just that, linked on the right.  I already have 10 hits, 9 from me and 1 from South America. Imagine.  Our poor Penrose blog is feeling as abandoned as this old weather beaten church house.  We will have to watch our combined storage use on Penrose, D & V, and Family Heritage.  Right now we are about 8%, but we can upgrade for $20 or so for 10G, which I will take care of when the time comes.  If you haven't caught on, Picasa records all Blogspot photos, so you can check their gallery by clicking the Picasa icon.  I'm not sure I'll leave the new blog on Blogspot.  Some things are easier on Blogspot, like adding your own photo banner, but some things, like posting strings of photos are a pain in the neck.  I'll try it awhile and see.  Cheer for the Powell Panthers, since the Cougars obviously failed to heed Bronco's admonition to achieve perfection.

To My Fellow Penroseites

Without even consulting all of you who share the ownership of our Penrose blog, I have taken the liberty of embellishing it a bit, as you can see.  I thought the addition made it an authentic Penrose morning.   I hope you all approve.

Jay and family come to visit

Since I can't put this on the prestigious Ambsbaugh Gardens blog, I'll add our birthday greetings here.

Backing Up Blogspot Blogs

I have been researching backup methods for Typepad (Professor Blog) and Blogspot blogs, and came across this post.  I haven't tried it yet but it looks promising.  Problem is, I'm already choking my poor hard drive.  Let me know if anyone tinkers with it.

The Hill Cumorah in Days of Yore

This sign is definitely no longer here.

These steps are no longer here.  And how did all the trees get on the Hill Cumorah?  Photos from the 1920s show a bald and treeless hill.

Steve and Mary Lynn Meet Us in Palmyra

We were so pleased when Steve and Mary Lynn came to Palmyra to see us.  There were a few problems, however.  Steve called to say they were in town and would soon be there so we told them to meet us by the Catholic church a half-block north of the corner with four churches on it, across from the 39 stone steps up to see the grave of Alvin Smith, which we did not attempt.  Steve, however, neglected to tell us he was in the other Palmyra south of the true Palmyra and that it would be some time before he arrove.  I saw him go whizzing past the four-corner-church aggregation, realized he was not oriented correctly, so to speak, and then returned.  Whereupon, he shooed the dog in the back seat, who was not anxious to go there, but went peacefully, and we headed for the Hill Cumorah.  Several of the tour members remarked that Steve and I looked identical.  That could have one of two meanings:  (a) I really look young and handsome, or (b) Steve looks like an old geezer.  After Hill Cumorah, we drove south to Canaindaigua  and looked at the mansions on the end of one of the finger lakes and had dinner.  I felt a little surreal to be so far out of place and still have my little brother around.  We had a great time, agreeing that he and I missed our conversations with our Dad.  For my sisters, Steve looks shaped up in each and every regard, so rest easy.  This visit was definitely a major highlight of our trip.

In this photo, Steve is considering whether it will be worth it to make some little noises that might irritate me.  Note the original Hole in the Wall, from the doorknob, which fit perfectly into the hole.  I did not learn this until the last couple of months, but Steve and Ann were the original Hole in the Wall Gang, dumping pea pods and other treasures down there.  An anthropologist would have a field day tearing this house apart.

TREASURES ON THE DRESSER

This was the most intriguing thing on the folks dresser, (other than the piggy bank calendar). It was filled with threads, the old pocket watch with the opals, special silver dollars, buttons and so forth. The story as I remember it was that Dad started it and Mother finished it. It is a remarkable example of the craft. The original plans for this and the clock shelf still exists along with other early patterns.

Raspberries

Last week, we were picking raspberries from our fall-bearing canes - after two heavy frosts (20 degrees on Friday morning and this morning), there probably aren't any left, but oh, they were delicious! Picking raspberries always brings back memories of Mother and Dad's big patch in Washington. Picking with Dad was always a challenge because he liked to reach through the row and take the big ones on my side, as well as his. Raspberry picking time was a good time to talk and laugh and work together. Remember Mother's last summer, when Judy would bring baby Ben over, put him in the bedroom with Mother, and then we'd go down to the patch and pick like crazy. It was solace to do the practical things that summer - made life a little easier.

Sunday School President

I am not the one responsible for this copy, but I sure appreciate whoever did do it. Our father seemed to take this calling in stride. While I was in high school, I was the Sunday School Secretary and attended Stake meetings and his presidency meetings. Riding with him to and from was where I really learned to drive, ice and all. But more importantly, Dad would talk to me in a very fatherly way about life, his and mine.

REAL TREASURES

This weekend reminded me of what the real treasures in life are to us. Scarce moments spent with two unexpected travelers reverberates the joyous sounds of PENROSE MORNINGS.

The Story Teller Laugh

If we were to list characteristics of any family gathering, one defining tradition would be that of a good, long, sometimes loud, and always a hoot, laugh. It was usually proceeded by some story, comment, or just looking at each other with the look of "I know a secret". Remember Mother laughing until she cried?

When Ann lived in Olympia, there was an ailing lady in her ward, that requested to hear her laugh. She said it would make her feel better.

In this case, Paul Tanner, who is a great story teller, and Dad are in the middle of it. No wonder that Dad lived a long life. And Paul has had miracles in his own.

Northern Wyoming Map from 1939

Brig found this old Shell map of the State of Wyoming that includes the site of Penrose. I put a red star on the map to help you find it. Be sure to enlarge this map. It also includes the post office for Painter, which is in Sunlight. That is the place where many letters between Mother and Dad were addressed to when Dad was working in Sunlight during the Depression.