OCR Text |
Show f Page A6 Many - 'STffc -- Thursday, Idle Thoughts from Mt. Waas Trails by Ollie Harris by Adrien F. Taylor LITTLE MIRACLES. LITTLE ADVENTURES The first visit to the grave after the death of a parent, or any loved one for that matter, is an event. I tried earlier this emotionally-charge- d spring to find my mother's grave, but several shrubbery and tree landmarks that were removed fairly recently prevented me finding it, which was just as well. My sisters and left flowers, warm thoughts and a few tears at the grave of our parents during our visit to Salt Lake City last week. Gretchen Jackson, one of our Schreiner cousins hosted a group of us for lunch on Friday, and we decided mutually that we should do this every year. Family reunions of any kind are good, and we are now, after all, the elders of the family. After lunch, on a whim, we sisters decided to go take a look at the house where mother grew up, on 8th West, now renumbered to 9th West. We found the house for sale by owner, so decided it would be okay to knock on the door and introduce ourselves. The current occupants of the house were most gracious, and we traded information. "The footings for this house were started 89 years ago June 8, on the day our mother was born," my sister informed them. "We took down a wall here to make this room bigger," they said. They had in storage what had been a built-i- cabinet on the former wall, made by our grandfather, who was a master cabinet maker. They hoped someone of the Schreiner lin, eage would be interested in the piece. the to where out us a took shed storage They am sure beautiful and It's and is. huge piece someone in the family will want it. Years ago Sam and had friends who had one of Grandpa Schreiner's grandfather clocks, and also one of his distinctive footstools. sure would like to have one of those items, although dont know where we would put a grandfather clock, which was much "too tall for the shelf." Back to cousin Gretchen. In her entryway she had a sewing case made by Grandpa Schreiner. She didn't know that, and really only came to the full realization when we asked our other cousins about their mother's sewing case. "Yes, Margaret has that," came the answer. The sewing cases are timeless and distinctive. Grandpa and Grandma Schreiner converted to the LD.S. church in Germany and came to Utah with their four children, Alexander, Emma, Hilda and Bill. Our mother, Norma, was born in Salt Lake City. Among all the other things Grandpa built during his long life were 170th scale replicas of the Salt Lake Temple and Tabernacle. Below are photos of those works, circa 1936. With Grandpa is his second wife, who we called Aunt Katy. These replicas are somewhere in the church's storerooms, and we suspect church historians may not have the complete story on each. I j I have seen miracles and I have had adventures. Its just that they were little ones. I had one of each within the last couple of days. Ill start with the little miracle. This morning I was out mostly for the exercise. I had hiked to the rim of a canyon and was slowly descending, returning to the truck, admiring and photographing beautiful things along the way. Just under the rim was a patch of yellow, princess plume flowers. As I admired them I suddenly asked myself, Is that a honeybee? You see, I havent seen a honeybee anywhere within the last three or foqr years. A virulent, parasitic mite invaded all of the hives, both domestic and wild, and virtually destroyed the bees. I have felt lonesome out in the canyons or anywhere else without the company of buzzing bees. To tell the truth, the absence of the familiar buzz of bees made me uneasy. It just wasnt right. So, this mornings sighting of first one bee, then two, until I had seen ten bees, all on princess plume flowers, was a miracle. I practically heard choir music inside my head. I felt the urge to catch one and let it sting me just to prove that the bees are back. I might have done it, too, except it would have destroyed the bee. There is a hive somewhere nearby, made up of bees, or perhaps the mites somehow missed these bees. I hope the bees reproduce and spread. I wish them well. I experienced great joy in the miracle of the bees. And now, for the little adventure. I went shooting a' couple of days ago. I distinguish shooting from hunting. This was just plain shooting. I took three rifles and a pistol. The rifles consisted of a very old Remington singleg and shot, my Browning a newer Ruger semi-autThe Ruger is a tarbarrel get model with a heavy, hammer-forge- d and a delicate trigger. It is topped by a scope that cost nearly as much as the rifle. The pistol is also a Ruger. mite-resista- n I I nt sweet-shootin- I face. Deer flat holds memories for Barbara and me from over forty years ago when we lived there and I worked underground in the Hideout uranium mine. I took Barbara with me on this outing although she just sat sewing in the truck as I went shooting. Deer Flat is infested with an almost infinite number of huge crickets. I am not an entomologist but I think they are the infamous Mormon crickets. They range in size from about of an inch to nearly an Most of them are black although long. the very largest ones are bronze. We drove to a pond that is in the lower part of Deer Flat. I parked the truck there and took three-quarte- inch-and-a-h- rs the Ruger semi-aut- o target rifle and began walking around the pond. The crickets scurried everywhere across the dried mud flat beside the pond. I began shooting them. In just a little while I emptied my pockets of bullets and had to return to the truck. This time I dumped about a hundred more bullets into my pocket and took the Ruger semiauto pistol. It may sound silly but I had an absolute blast walking around the pond shooting crickets with the pistol. Hitting a cricket with a pistol requires a mix of skill and luck, with emphasis on the luck. It was especially fun to catch a cricket at the waters edge where, at the crack of the pistol, a great hole appeared in the mud and debris fell from the sky into the water. Im sure this cant compare to hunting Cape buffalo in Africa. But, like I said, my adventures and miracles are little ones. Writers on the Range Sam Remembers by Sam Taylor it . Buying used gets him enthused Moab before the town got big enough to have a The Emporium Building, which houses the realank. Slickrock Caf6, has a lot of memories for me. It was originally built to house the Cooper-Marti- n Store, a general merchandise facility which carried nearly everything you might need. Later, the store was sold to Ralph J. Miller, Sr., after his Moab Co-o- p building on First North and Main burned down. A great old guy managed Cooper-MartiPhil in on lived was a bachelor home a who Moogk First North now housing Southeastern Utah Title Co. When I was growing up, Phil had a 1940 Buick coupe which was always parked out in front of his home. Mr. Moogk, as we all called him, learned to drive late in life. He knew you had to use the gear shift and clutch, but he didnt really under- The Grand Valley Times had its first office on the second floor of the Cooper-Marti- n Building before it moved across the street to occupy the north half of the First National Bank building when it was built. still have some pictures taken from that second story window by my Dad. He could see everything that happened downtown from that window. Tom Mix also occupied an apartment on the second floor of the building. Tom was the town painter, and did occasional work on our home on Second East. Tom threw a poker party for his friends one night a week. My dad always attended. Dad got stuck with taking me with him on one of those nights. It was in the late 1 930s, and Adolph Hitler was gobbling up Europe. Tom Mix was well read, and listened a lot to radio. The discussion the night his Atwater-Ken- t spent seated in a room next to the poker room, all the talk was about the situation in Europe and whether or not the United States would get pulled into it. dont remember any talk about the impending threat from Japan, which burst into the news on December 7, 1941. Although well read and knowledgeable, Tom Mix had trouble with words containing more than one syllable. The night listened in, he kept talk-in- g about a Balkan country called Checkumslappenback." had to dig out my grade school geography book when got home to find out what he was talking about. I couldnt pronounce it either. I'm glad most of the old buildings on Main Street have been preserved and are still being used. They were a big part of my growing up. I n. stand gears. For some reason or other, rode with him on one occasion. As we traveled up east on First North in low gear, said to him: Why dont you shift gears, Mr. Moogk. He answered: Why? Its pulling it OK. didnt say anything more. Told once that he ought to get the Buick tuned up, he replied that he saw no reason for that. He had just put on new. windshield wiper blades. Mr. Moogk always wore striped bib overalls. dont remember ever seeing him dressed any e other way. You could call him on the old him and list. give telephone your grocery Mr. Moogk would do your shopping for you and have your groceries delivered to your door. think about everyone in town had a charge account either there or at Millers. always remember, though, that he was good to us kids. In return, we would weed his long row of huge lilac bushes once in a while. Cooper-Martiserved the banking needs of I I I I I I crank-handl- I I I I I n ISSN 1538-183-8 (UPS) 6309-200Entered as Second class Matter at the Post Office at Moab, Utah under the Act of March 3, 1 897. Second class postage paid at Moab, Utah 84532. Official City and County Newspaper. Published each Thursday at: 35 East Center Street, Moab, Grand County, Utah 84532 0) address: editormoabtimes.com ail address to: The 435-259-75- Member Armed with these firearms and several hundred rounds of ammo, I drove out to Deer Flat which is the large mesa located south below the Woodenshoe, and above and just to the west of Bridges. It is a very beautiful place with a sea of green crested wheat grass that seems to flow in waves as the wind blows across its High Country News The way of tee-bol- t, o. I Postmaster: Send changes June 16, 2005 UYmWSn UTAH P.O. Box 129, Moab, UT Times-lndepende- or FAX by David Feela Westerners are packrats. Blame it on the availability of flea markets or just the size of our backyards. My house is no exception, except that most of my stuff comes from the midden heap, which doesnt mean Ive been pilfering artifacts from sacred sites. The Anasazi used to dump their trash much like many of our ranchers, farmers and land owners which into the nearest arroyo to have taken midden archaeologists calling heaps. In a thousand years, whoever digs up my ruin will find more than they bargained for. The midden heap T refer to has been sponsored by a local thrift store. Im proud to live in this region, because the West is a haven for us types, folks who never throw anything away because one day it might come in handy. Maybe I ought to have been an archaeologist. I own enough stuff to open my own museum, but I lack the training to properly classify and display it. My mother was appalled when she first learned that I shop at thrift stores, lb her and to many of her generation, thrift stores were full of dead peoples clothes, where the destitute shuffled in for a handout. She insisted on buying her stuff new. I try to think of a thrift store as an excavation. The goods arrive, usually in a mound at the back door, and savvy sorters begin by digging through the bags and boxes to separate whats saleable from what belongs in the dumpster. During this process the workers can be heard to exclaim, Look at this! Or, What the heck is that supposed to be? When archaeologists can't identify an artifact, they pass it off as having sacred or religious significance Luckily, the volunteers dont write dissertations about their quandaries. They simply shrug their shoulders, laugh, and set it out on a shelf to see if a customer can identify it. I never realized before how much of the world gets discarded. Everything new can suddenly turn less than new, less than perfect. Once upon a time, thrift shops were havens of the poor, those down on their luck or just plain downtown, looking for a drink. The Salvation Army, Goodwill, New Horizons. Names flying fix-it-- like flags where we pledge our sympathy. Ive seen people in the aisles, holding a shirt up against a shadow, fitting a foot into a shoe theyd like to fill. Others are families, mothers with children in tow, furiously shopping so they might fill an empty bag, college kids laughing outrageously at what looks outrageous. Then buying it. Pioneers settled the West, spurred by the thrill of discovery, and it's exciting to know that the thrill hasnt vanished. Last week, I found a car rack for my mountain bike at a thrift store, identical to the $60 version I bought at a specialized bike shop. The used one cost me 3 bucks, so instead of owning two, I returned the expensive one for a refund. Ive purchased furniture with no down payment, and the only interest I have to deal with comes from the people who stop by and ask, Wherever did you find that chair? Ive got more used books than 111 ever be able to read in one lifetime, but when I heard that bookshelves in a double-wid- e make good I warm a insulation, get feeling every time I another. buy Some people might call what I do cheap, but Im comfortable with the word. Compare the thrifty feeling with the typical advertising banter of blowout sales at most retail stores and youll understand why used gets me enthused. I mean, really, a 15 percent savings on Levi jeans! Big deal. The relaxed fit Im after is the knowledge that my total bill adds up to an average mall shopper's sales tax. You see, theres nothing wrong with secondhand. So much of what we use hardly ever gets used up. When we learn to feel at home with what has been in other peoples homes, we begin to see the West as a great not just a receptacle for glass, recycling bin aluminum, paper or plastic. As thrifters, we are bom into the ranks of gold diggers or even tinhorn sheriffs, the ones who asks the rustler with the noose aroqnd his neck, what he intends to do with his boots once hes ridden into the unknown. David. Feela is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org). He is a teacher in Cortez, Colorado. 84532 435-259-77- NATIONAL NEWSPAPER ASSOCIATION and Get the scoop from a reliable source PRESS ASSOCIATION Samuel J. and Adrien F. Taylor, Publishers Adrien F. Taylor, Editor Sadie Warner, Assistant Editor Tom Taylor Zane Taylor Lorinda Applegate Carrie Switzer Lisa Church Jeff Richards Marjorie Miller Circulation Manager, T--l Maps Press, Production Manager Advertising Sales Staff Writer Contributing Writer Contributing Writer Contributing Writer Jeannine Wait Dorothy Anderson Jose Santana, Jed Taylor Ron Drake Ron Georg Oliver Harris A.J. Long I The Contributing Writer Mail Room Supervisor Backshop Castle Valley Columnist Columnist Columnist Distribution Times-lndependen- t, your community newspaper published weekly L |