When we did time in Utah
10/12/03 12:02 PM
During a conversation about canning the other night, the conversation took a strange twist and I found myself talking about how, when we lived in Utah, I did as the natives did … bought my brown sugar, pecans, pastas, beans, etc. in 25-pound bags or containers. When we moved back to South Dakota I brought back several containers full of food (the two-year supply) and cases of jams and jellies.
One year I even went so far as to decide the time had come for me to make bread (which I still cannot do in 2001) before bread machines were in existence. Not one to do any things small, I went all out. I made 28 loaves of bread one day. I mean to tell you I not only made white bread, I made rye, whole wheat, wheat and honey, pumpernickel, cracked wheat and the list goes on. The turkeys were happy about the loaves they could actually peck through. Thus, the end of my bread-making days.
It was interesting living in Duchesne, we had wonderful friends there and heathens or not, we were all readily accepted into the community. It was a good to place to live and our place was about half a mile from downtown "up in the trees." There was this neat winding road that led to a clearing in the trees where we had parked our 25X70 double-wide. Ed built a white ranch-style fence around the property and it was like a piece of heaven.
However, we once moved into a small three-family community in Utah (in spite of all the warnings not to) and as we stopped at the one stop sign in town the local law enforcement walked up to us and asked if we were staying or passing through. Not knowing he was not friendly we explained who we were, why we were there and that yes, we would be staying. "You have until noon tomorrow to get Utah plates on your vehicle and trailer." Needless to say, the local folks did not like us "oilfield trash" and reminded us of the fact (by their actions) at least six days a week. We had been warned, but we refused to believe people treated other people like that. Wrong.
One day I was visiting an oilfield friend when there came a knock on her door. The local sheriff (who greeted us the day we came to town) asked for me and I went to the door. He then proceeded to tell me that Mrs. Whatsherbutt said she said she had seen me speeding two or three days ago and he wanted to see my driver’s license. Long story short and in true barbara stallman fashion, I told him what I thought about that, his religion and his "Uncle Grandpa" status, then shared my thoughts about his wife who was sitting in the car (apparently she was his backbone). I received my ticket and an order to appear before the judge, Mr. Whatshisbutt (they were all related.) I had my day in court and paid my fine, telling the judge that I would do it again for another ten dollars.
He was nicer than me and shame on me for my actions, but we’ll chalk it up to the innocence of youth … I might have been married with a couple of kids, but I was still under 20. No excuse, I know, just ignorance. I might be more tactful if it were to happen the same way again, but no guarantee!
One more interesting experience as we traveled down life's highway.