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Show "sr'Tr")"? ft 'firry,? 7 ?'f j-f-'t. ?rrr r" '"' 1 A?18 77e Parr Record Wednesday, September 30, 1998 . The Bk Trees Emt Arrived Specimen Spruce Massive Sizes 1 5 '-20' The Best Prices of The Year. RED BARN NURSERY IN PARK CITY 2060 Rasmussen Rd. (next to White Pine Vet) 435-649-6434 We're Big on Trees. And We're Big on Service Slow down You won't regret it ; jwa CSIS mt4' Please slow down so we can walk to school safely.' Katie Maloney, 7th grade Treasure Mountain Middle School Rocky Maloney, 5th grade, McPolin Elementary School This message is brought to you by: JVxsThe Park City Police Department The Park Record. Sunday in the Park By Teri Orr Sweeping changes - bit by bit Never mind the calendar it is time for spring cleaning. I somehow missed the ritual at the right time (story of my life) so the accumulated stuff is just screaming to be liberated. A summer of open doors and open windows has manufactured manufac-tured layers of dust on bookshelves and window ledges and places too high to reach on a regular basis. , And the piles, oh the piles of catalogs and newspapers and magazines I meant to read, or order from, or clip an article and send to a friend. Every room has piles next to the big chair in front of the television, next to my bed, next to the bathtub, next to the bookshelves, on the steps inside the garage, in the trunk of the car. These piles are not to be confused with the piles of just mail bills to be paid, invitations to respond to, letters to return, and reminders from the dentist, the mechanic and the video store for various parts of my life that are overdue attention. atten-tion. The piles that make me crazy are the piles of urgent FAXES I MUST LOOK AT RIGHT NOW! I don't know how it could be that so many other people's idea of urgent is so out of line with mine. Quite honestly I find myself rebelling more and more to the idea of urgent and immediate attention just because someone has access. I don't always check my "i phones messages at home until late at night. I can appreciate if someone is trying to reach me and leave one message, but unless you want to give me money or tell me you're bleeding I can't imagine why people leave the same non-urgent messages over and over in urgent tones. This forces me to write down names and numbers when I finally take messages off the machine. Which usually means I grab a broken pencil and look for an envelope to write on the back of. Which explains the piles of envelopes with half written messages and phone numbers that don't connect to names that are also lying in piles around the house. Repair piles are big around my house too. Like my desk top with the big pack of batteries for the boom box over at my office. And the box of pen refills for all my lovely pens that are on the bottom of briefcases and in the sea of purses in a pile on the closet floor. The grouping of things needing repair with simple tools like super glue or needle and thread or a hammer and nail are stashed in the laundry room awaiting their a don't know many other people's of line with mine." time. Under the bathroom sink are piles of potions and lotions that one day I might use on various body parts. Or medicines I might need for the return of an illness or tools that maybe aren't really broken and by say leaving the blow dryer under there for a couple months, a spontaneous healing may occur. There are hair ornaments for when my hair was shorter and longer and thicker and younger. And there is a stash of greasepaint so I can be ever ready to appear as a clown at a moment's notice. Tucked around baskets are instruments of torture-tweezers and files and clippers and razors and tiny little scissors that are always dull. It is also the season where my closets never produce the right outfit for the right climate whatever time I choose to get dressed and no matter where I intend to go. I try on piles of shirts thinking I really need a sweater but trying to compromise with a vest. Sandals give way to sneakers but hiking boots seem to cumbersome still. Cotton shirts seen frivolous now but jeans too heavy too committed to winter. The result is another pile of abandoned clothes for wrong days. I'm sure theologians theolo-gians would have much to say about the clutter in my life. I can hear my godfather's booming boom-ing voice say "the road to hell is paved ' And those dreaded life "woulda, shoulda, how it could be that so idea of urgent is so out Teri Orr. with good intentions!' words of a frustrated coulda," that simply mock opportunities lost and currently form a mantra to my mess. My friend said the other night she re-carpets every couple of years just to be forced to deal with the clutter in her life. She, like me, finds the garage a handy place to store more stuff and so rarely do cars ever get shelter from the storm there. I realize my entire house and it's subsequent piles is a project too large to be undertaken all at once. And my ability to act upon all my good intentions could be a full time job. So I'm starting start-ing in my bedroom I'll light a few candles and put on some soothing music and eliminate a few piles, a few dust bunnies, and try to bring a little order to a small part of my universe. It just might make spring cleaning in autumn seem like a perfect way to spend a Sunday in The Park... Teri Orr is a former editor of The Park Record and director of the Park City Performing Arts Center. Tales from old Park City By Justin L "Jack" Fuell Aunt Eke We have relatives in our family, a bunch of relatives, rela-tives, who were well known in Park City's hills. As these words are being typed, we have a CD ROM disk that identifies 117,000 of my cousins, and that's just the Allreds from Mom's side of the family. I grew up having something close to 31 aunts and an almost equal number of uncles. That was a transient number because a few were always casting their eyes about trying to improve their lot. Going back one more generation, gen-eration, to my grandparents families, added another 34 that we called "Auntie." It's nice to have big families fami-lies like ours, but this demands under severe penalties penal-ties that we keep them straight in our minds and in our conversations. Reunions could be a nightmare and heaven help the poor soul who forgot the name, face or favorite stories of a close relative. Cousins weren't our only problems back in those Uinta and Wasatch Mountains, though. My family gathered in those hills from such diverse places as Tennessee, South Carolina, New Jersey, Ireland, England Eng-land and Australia. In many ways, English was almost a second or third language and much of the confusion that cluttered up my life in the 1920s and 1930s was mine because of the way I heard and understood the things being said around me. The meaning of many of the most common words in my vocabulary had almost no actual relationship to what I thought they meant. We gathered often in those mountains and celebrated cele-brated life together but we weren't acquainted with many in our families, fami-lies, because they were scattered from northern Idaho to Willcox, Ariz., and from Nebraska to the Golden Gate. Some just didn't have the time or the means of getting together at reunion time, and perhaps others just didn't care. We loved them dearly and missed tmm'mimmmmmm them terribly, but our contact was mostly through the U.S. Mail. So now you can see why I didn't get to meet all of my aunts, uncles and cousins. We had so many relatives that we spoke of ourselves our-selves in our own code words, by nicknames and favorite family terms. Some of our names were simple sim-ple contractions: Haze, Zo, Zel, Hy, Het, Jim, Ken, Et, Alt, Lou, Hat, but then we had Nick, who wasnt a Nicholas but a Nile; Aunt Min who wasnt a Minnie but a Mary Ann; Jack who wasnt a John but a Justin; and Suz who wasnt a Susie, but a Dwaine. I struggled, trying to make sense of all these things for 50 years, and so now I merely report them, I dont explain them. We also had a mysterious Aunt Eke. (I've struggled strug-gled with this spelling, realizing that it might possibly be Eek, like the sound of screams we read in the funny papers 60 years ago.) I have no idea of where Aunt Eke fit in the family tree. We never saw her at reunions, no pictures of her hung on family walls or occupied album pages. I knew of no letters or cards from-her, but she was always right there, hovering just over the horizon in family meetings and conversations. conversa-tions. Aunt Eke's presence was felt during special times, during moments of near reverence, much like the magic nights when we gathered and Dad showed us Grandpa's watch. We sat in silence as someone dug , deep into a drawer or trunk and lovingly, respectfully, removed a carefully wrapped bundle, a packet encased in flannel, and tied with ribbons for safety. We hardly breathed as a precious treasure was set before us: a fragile piece of china, a crystal goblet, or perhaps heavily tarnished silver of great worth. The narrator whispered her explanation that this treasure had crossed the plains, and that it had arrived in Salt Lake City with the Brigham Young Party in 1847. The speaker carefully explained that these treasures were special, rare and valuable. They were Aunt Eke's. I sat through many such displays in my early years and as her treasures were presented before us, I wondered won-dered about this special relative, this woman, this obviously very wealthy aunt who owned so many fine things and even more obviously didnt have her own place in which to store them. Where did she live, who was she, and why didn't she come to our reunions? Kids never questioned adults back in those days. I thought about this special relative, I speculated about her state of health, her family and wondered if I'd ever meet her. Actually she was even more mysterious than I realized: we didn't even have her listed in the Family History pages, either. That worried me, and so I searched carefully through those old pages for a name, for someone hidden down there among those lines and pages from the long ago who had earned her strange nickname, Eke. My mystery was finally solved after we moved into California's Mother Lode Country. I strolled past a jewelry store and stopped to listen as the owner described his finest wares to those gathered at his counters. "These bracelets," he explained, "were worn by the wives and daughters of Spanish colonizers coloniz-ers more than 200 years ago. These are antiques of the finest quality." I gasped at his words! Aunt Eke's? Could he be related to us, too? I stepped closer and gazed at the card lying in the display case. Antique gold! So that was the explanation! A different way of spelling an old family word. Aunt Eke, Aunt Eek, Antique. Mystery Solved! And just in time, too! Justin Fuell, a former Park City resident, has written two books of his early recollections-Jackie and Beeba and Me. He lives in Marana, Ariz, with his wife Beeba. (k i Aunt Eke's presence was felt during dur-ing special times, during moments of near reverence, much like the magic nights when we gathered and Dad showed us Grandpa's watch." Jack Fuell The last day to register by mall lor Nov. 3's general election is Oct. 14. Election forms are available at the Coalville Court house, the r.larsac building and Kamas City Hall. Register now. A |