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Show (J H-CS By ALl:ON 4 cussed, but the final say was always his. It usually was what everyone had in mind anyway. It's funny what comes to m ind when we set the wheels of memory turning. Every morning as I rushed to catch . the school bus, it was Dad who whipped up my fried egg sandwich. He was the official taster of the weekly homemade home-made ice cream sessions, but we children were the official "lickers" of the dasher. Once when I was sick and couldn't go to the movie being shown in town to help raise money for the church building fund, Dad went -' then came and sat on the edge of my bed giving me a blow by blow review. It took nearly two hours for him to tell me the story, but I felt I'd been there and hadn't m issed a thing. Dad did have one fault that really got under Mother's skin not coming to meals when called. Once he came in nearly a half hour late. "What's been holding you up?" demanded Mother irritably. A pause, a twinkle in his eye, and the curt reply, "Oh . . . just my own two little feet." Or the time he'd procrastinated again and the gravy had lost some of its lovely cream i-ness. i-ness. "Well, save this when dinner's over," he commented com-mented wryly. "We can always use it for wallpaper paste!" Well, such was life with Dad. We studied scriptures together, he called us to family prayers. He rejoiced in his children, grandchildren grand-children and great grandchildren grand-children ( a total of 106 descendents to date). As the years fly by and I relive my memories of home and family, Dad only becomes more dear. I hope it's that way for you too. who could believe that I'd forget it? Must be a sign of the times. I thought I had one more week till Father's pay. Now its past and most 0 you Dads will have celebrated your special day fltth family and loved ones. I may be old fashioned, but I still like to think that Father is the head of the home. Mom's not left out -she's the heart of the home -but Dad to me it tops. I never knew my own Father. My second set of parents were divorced when i i was four. Then one day s when I was ten, a pleasant looking lady with a bit of Scottish brogue came to my California boarding school to take me home. This family had eight children of their own, most married and on ' their own. Their youngest was a senior in high school. Now I was to be added to ! the family circle. I thought the train ride from San Francisco to Salt Lake was really fun. There, at the Salt Lake station was the tall, lean man who was to become my dad. He came forward, gravely shook my hand and we proceeded to drive to Tooele, where my new home was located. I was really excited. It was a farm! I'd always been I an animal lover. Myfavorite books and movies were about animals. I was determined then and there to grow up to be a "Cowgirl". We came into the little town of Pine Canyon, not many houses, children playing in the streets one flashed by on a horse. "This is the place", I thought. It didn't take long to get acquainted with the kids in town, but getting acquainted with the family and their umpteen children was another matter. It seemed seem-ed hard for me to call dad, "Dad". The other kids in the family my age were calling call-ing him Grandpa so that's what I called him, too. I soon had m y chores to do, easy ones at first taking care of the rabbits, chickens, watering the stock. Later in the season, and years, I ' plowed, planted, dug spuds, tromped hay and felt like a bird when I was perched on the high stacks of fragrant blossoms. I learned to climb trees. One of my favorite spots to read was in a just-right just-right crotch of an apple tree. I built rafts to float down the four foot wide, one foot deep creek which ran through our fields and passed about twenty feet from my bedroom window. One night as the gigantic full moon shone into ro y window, a hoot owl softly murmered his haunting question -whoo,whoo, whoo? I unlatched the screen and everything was so beautiful that I clambered out the window and sat on an old bench under the plum tree. Som ething rustled around the , corner of the house and I jumped up, ready to race back to the safety of my bed, but no, it was only grandpa. He had on his old bib overalls and was barefooted. bare-footed. He peered up into the trees to see the owl. Then he saw me standing by the bench. "Nice out here tonight," he said. I nodded and we sat down. He didn't speak and neither did I. It was just too beautiful. The creek giggled softly as it rushed under the pole bridge; in the fields the calves talked over the fences. Lass, our collie dog, lay at our feet, now and then dozing off, chasing some rabbit or squirrel in her dreams. Finally the owl gave us a parting hoot and flew away for his evening's pursuits. "Well, we'd better go in," said Dad. We did. But I can still feel the moonlight on my face, and hear the cry of the owl, and feel that special warmth in the corners of the heart when something is shared with someone you love. Dad is nearly 89 years old now. Through the years there was never any doubt that he was the head of the household. Things were dis- |