DAD’S STORY (Episode Three)

Tried to get in the Navy Seabees, but the draft caught me first. I was inducted into the Army Infantry at Fort Lewis, Washington. From there, I went to the Signal Corps, with basic training in Miami Beach, Florida. Most everyone thought that would be real great but it was real tough. Next, I was assigned to Radio School in Kansas City, Missouri. After school, I was promoted to Private First Class, PFC, and left for my next assignment at Jefferson Barracks, St. Louis, Missouri. Drew Field, Tampa, Florida was my next stop. This was the Signal Corps attached to the Army Air Corps. We were training in the very secret radar field. My job was in the motor pool, looking after the radar trucks. I was a truck driver as a PFC, then promoted to truck mechanic, T5 or Corporal then promoted again to head mechanic T4 or Sergeant.

We spent many months in mostly swampy places such as: Bradenton, Tampa, Tarpon Springs, New Port Richie, Sarasota, many of the Florida Keys and Key West. We had temporary duty in Tennessee on war maneuvers and then back to Tampa, Florida. When our unit was considered trained, it was shipped off to Europe. Five of us were held back to start training the new unit. You would not believe how unhappy I was at this. We found out later that our unit participated in the Normandy Invasion. Of the 200 plus men that hit the beach, six survived and all the rest were wiped out. The Germans knew all about radar, so our unit was a prime target. Aren’t you glad that I was held back to start the new outfit???

The next assignment was Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. It was a short stay there for more training and then we moved on to Camp Pinedale, Fresno, California. This is where I met and married your sweet mother, Angelina Louise Mongelli, who was born in Fresno on 22 February 1922. (And died 22 Nov 06) Is it any wonder that her lucky number is 2? We met at a dance hall called the Rainbow Ballroom in January 1945 and on June 3rd; we changed her name to Ray. By that time, I was stationed at Camp Wawona. It was located just inside the south entrance to Yosemite National Park and was a secret training base.

The war ended, thank God, and we decided to stay in the service. William James Ray, Jr. was born on 1 June 1946, in the Fresno General Hospital. We were reassigned again, this time it was Hamilton Field, California, north of San Francisco. We moved from 2102 Drexel in Fresno, to the Victory Apartments in Vallejo, California. It was 25 miles from the base and without a car, we had many problems, but with buses and many friends, we made out.

We moved again, to better housing, into the Salona Apartments, same town. I was promoted to Staff Sergeant, assigned to the orderly room as chief clerk. In late 1947, we were moved to Moses Lake Air Base, Moses Lake, Washington. The Army Air Corps became the United States Air Force. I was promoted to Technical Sergeant and assigned as first sergeant of the Motor pool Squadron. At first we found living quarters in Soap Lake, Washington and then moved on base to a trailer we bought in Spokane. The trailer was called a ‘Homelike’ and was very small, 8’ by 16,’ including the bumper. In 1950, we traded the trailer in for a ‘Pan American’ 12’ by 30.’

I went to school in Cheyenne, Wyoming, without Ann. She went back to Fresno and stayed with her parents till I finished Administration School. We then returned back to Moses Lake where, on 25 November 1950, Robert Edward Ray made the scene. The following year we were sent back to Hamilton Field, California, with the trailer and set up our home in a park called, Penn Grove, north of the town of Petaluma. We didn’t stay long before I got assigned overseas alone. I moved Ann, the kids and the trailer into Oakland to be near relatives and I left for my new outfit in Japan. The base was called FEMCOM, Tachikawa, Japan.

I was still the First Sergeant, but got promoted to Master Sergeant. After nine months, Ann, Bill and Bob joined me. At first, we got quarters at a nearby base called Yakota but soon got nice housing at Tachikawa Air Base with maid service and all. Richard Russell Ray was born in the Base Hospital on 25 August 1953. In January 1954 we returned to the good old USA. Our station assignment was Lackland AFB, San Antonio, Texas. We had real nice quarters on the base and stayed five years. I was promoted in the Reserves from Warrant Officer Junior Grade (WOJG-1) to Chief Warrant Officer (CWO 2). This was a rank I had received through tests taken in Japan.

We were blessed with a son, Joseph Michael Ray, on 11 November 1957. In October 1958, I received reassignment orders again, this time for Iceland. The family could have come with me but we would have had to stay for two years instead of the normal one year, if I went alone. The older children would have had to fly to school in Scotland and only get to come home on weekends. The weather in that part of the world was poor in the winter. Our shuttle planes were not the most trustworthy, so we couldn’t see putting them or us through that worry. Thus we decided that I would go by myself for one year. By the way, it might be of interest to note that Iceland is not the land of ice and snow, but rather, Greenland. The Danes named it Iseland, meaning island and it deteriorated to Iceland.

Anyway, In June of 1959, I got word of a General’s plane that had broken down and was being repaired at our base in Keflavik, Iceland. The plane was going to Norton Air Force Base in San Bernardino, California for further repairs. I took a short leave, hopped aboard and flew half way around the world and surprised the family on their way to church one Sunday morning. It took a week of hopping from base to base to get back to Iceland but it was well worth the thrill of coming home from around the world, unexpectedly.

My reassignment back to the States was to March Air Force Base, Riverside California. We moved Ann and the boys from Fresno, where they had rented a home near Mother Mongelli, then Mrs. Joe Pirani. We went to Arlington, California, a suburb of Riverside. Here we purchased our first home and started Bill, Bob and Dick in school. Joe was still too young. John David Ray was born there in Riverside on 25 August 1960. Gary Phillip Ray was next on 26 April 1962. It was the same Riverside hospital, and the same doctor, Dr. Franklin J. Dailey. He was not only a great doctor but also a wonderful friend.

On the last day of 1962, we retired from the United States Air Force as Chief Warrant Officer, CWO-3. Shortly after buying our new home in 1959, we met a fellow named Al Line, who owned a Locksmith shop in the area. He had hired me part time so I was familiar with the business. When he retired, I bought the shop. Much time was spent learning the ropes and getting started in business. On 1 August 1965, Timothy Patrick surprised us by being a girl, Cheryl Kathleen, a girl after six boys. What happiness! What a change it made in our lives; our prayers had been answered! (Note from Bill, Jr.: Bill, Jr. and Jean didn’t want the name Timothy Patrick to go to waste so they named their two boys, Scott Patrick and Timothy Daniel).

Many milestones were passed in Riverside. The kids grew up; Bill Jr. joined the Air Force. Ann’s mother was killed, hit by a car while crossing the street, going to Our Lady of Victory Catholic Church, the day before Easter, 1967. The next year (when Bill, Jr. came home from Vietnam) we decided to move back to Washington. We arrived in Monroe the last day of August, 1968. We stayed the first few weeks with Dad and ‘Tiny,’ my new step mother, after which we bought our new house in Marysville. Then I started working for the new Boeing Plant in Everett, in the wing stub join unit. The first part of September I helped build Airplane #1 in the 747 series. After two years, on Airplane #50, the clouds of recession were brewing.

I looked for and found employment with the University of Washington in the Police Department Lock Shop, as a Locksmith. During the years spent at the UWPD, all the children finished school, grew up, got married and left home. We retired from the U. DUB on 1 June 1983. The following year Ann and I retired again on Social Security. We were 62 years old. After traveling around and having fun, we decided to sell our house and bought a mobile home in Glenwood Mobile Estates. This we did on 10 May 1986. We are still traveling around and having fun. The mobile home is the best living we have ever had and is bigger than our house. Here it is 1998 and we are making plans for our seventh trip to Reno and to many, many other places in the spring chasing dinosaurs.

DAD’S STORY (Episode Two)

When I started school in 1928, I went by school bus to Park Place School. The school house has long since been torn down. I believe the site is now a ball park. I was held back and repeated first grade at Monroe Central School. That year, 1929, Dad started to work at the Monroe Reformatory. As a guard, he soon took over the additional job of looking after the Blood Hound Dogs. Their job was to follow and catch the escaped convicts.

Over the years, many of the dogs were raised and trained by Dad at home, on our farm. I recall my brother Ed and I “Making Trail” for them, as Dad called it. We would run from the house a short distance, and then Dad would turn the pup loose. This game grew and so did the dogs. No matter how far we went or how well we hid, they always found us. We had many laughs about the fact that the so called, “Blood Hounds” were feared by the escaped prisoners. When caught, Dad had no need of a gun to control the convict; he just threatened to turn the dogs loose. The dogs were so gentle; they would probably have licked them to death.
After running for miles, baying and slobbering foam from their mouths; they were excited and wanted to jump all over them. The prisoners took this to mean that they were vicious and the convicts wanted nothing to do with them.

My Uncle Charlie Hansen had an early model Buick auto that was his pride and joy. I don’t know the year but the head lamps had to be lit with a match. They were not out front like they are today but they were attached to the car about where the outside rear view mirrors are on today’s cars. The horn was one that had a handle that you pushed down and it made the sound of AH-OO-GA. Everything on that car was trimmed in brass. He continued to buy Buicks until he died in 1941.

My grandfather, James William Ray, had many cars but one in particular stands out in my memory. It was a new 1929 Model T Ford sedan. He put oil all over it to make it shiny. The roads were all gravel in those days and very dusty. He wouldn’t take it out of the garage except on rainy days because the dust would stick and cake to the oil. There was no thought of car wax back then but Grandpa’s car never got rusty.

My Dad bought a 1926 Dodge touring car in 1929. It was so tough that we used the fenders as an anvil to straighten nails, crack nuts on and so forth. The wheels had wood spokes and during the dry summer the spokes dried out and became very loose and made a heck of a noise. We had to drive it out into a stream or lake to soak up the water to keep them tight.
If the battery went dead, we just jacked up the rear wheel, left it in gear, with the switch on and spun the wheel till it started. He didn’t drive it at night because the headlights didn’t work. There were no fuses in those days; at least not in that car. When the lights burned out, due to a short in the wires, he didn’t bother to replace them. In 1932 he bought a new 1931 demonstrator Model A Ford from Bickford in Snohomish. It was their first year in business. He paid $300.00 plus for it. What would a new Ford cost today?

In 1938 I bought a 1928 Model A Ford Roadster for $35.00, with the money I had made selling a sow and nine young pigs. I have had many cars since then but none have been as much fun as that 29 Model A.

Experiences I had during my many years of growing up on the farm and going to school, could fill up a book all by themselves. Monroe was the greatest and I have so many wonderful memories that there is no way I could ever put them all down on paper. So I just won’t try and we’ll settle for highlights that I’ve already mentioned.

I went into the military in October of 1942. (more to follow)

DAD’S STORY

(The following memories were written by my father in 1998)

In an effort to inform and enlighten anyone interested; I have decided to set down some of my memories of life. Elsewhere you will find my wife, Angelina Louise Mongelli Ray, better known as ‘Ann,’ has put down her memories. Also, I intend to list our family tree.

I was born William James Ray, on 1 May 1922, at Fraser Lake, BC, Canada, to American parents who were residing there temporarily. My Father, James Marion Ray, was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota on 18 December 1897, the youngest of four brothers. He had traveled to Canada with his parents, who were following the wheat harvests. In a small town, called Riverhurst, he met and married my Mother, Hazel B. Hulbert, born 14 August, 1896 in San Francisco, California. She had been married previously, in 1913, at Swift Current, Saskatchewan, Canada, to a man named Danill McDonald.

She had two children with him. My brother, Earl Norman Chester Ray, was born 1916 and my sister, Gladys Margaret, was born 1917. After my birth, my parents moved to Prince Albert, Sask., where my brother Joseph Edward was born on 3 February, 1925. Throughout our younger life, he was called Edward. Upon entering the military, he had to produce a birth certificate, which indicated that his first name was really Joseph. Thus he became ‘Joe.’ All my parents and brothers and sister are deceased.

The family moved back to the United States in December of 1925 and settled in Aunt Elva’s and Uncle Charlie Hansen’s summer home in Florence Acres, approximately five miles east of Monroe, Washington. This was near my Grandfather James William Ray and Grandmother Dora Francis Ray’s new home. They had lived in the Hansen house while building their new home. The land in that part of the state had been logged, that is, all the old growth timber had been cut, in 1923 – 1924. The railroad ties used to lay the railroad tracks, on which the log trains ran, were left when the loggers moved, but they took the rails with them. Many early settlers used these ties to build their homes with. When they were stood on end or laid down flat, they were strong and made fine weather resistant homes. During that period, there was no electricity available out in the country. We used kerosene and gas lamps or lanterns. Not ever having experienced anything else, this life was perfectly normal to me.

In 1927, my Dad, who in his youth had been nick named “Bill,” (What a confusion that caused in my life.) purchased 20 acres of logged off land on an old logging road, across Woods Creek and up on the hill, above the Hansen property to the south, about one mile, as the crow flies. The only way to get to it was to go back toward Monroe, one and half miles across Woods Creek, to the Greenfield’s property, turn left on the old logging road, through the Greenfield’s gate and follow it another one and a half miles back up the hill. At the time, the Woods Creek crossing was by way of an old railway trestle, covered with planks, instead of rails and without guardrails. This was high in the air and upstream from the present bridge.

I recall coming home with Dad in our Model T Ford to find the gate locked and Mr. Greenfield waiting with a shotgun, refusing to allow us to cross his property. As a child, this made quite an impression on me. We went back to town and got the Sheriff, who talked Mr. Greenfield into letting us pass. Sometime later, a road was cut through from what used to be highway #2. It is now called old Owens Road. The road that was cut through is called Van Brocklin Road. Mr. Van Brocklin and his wife, Nellie, lived near us at the end of the road. My Mom and Dad and the Van Brocklins were very close friends. I have some pictures taken at some of their parties. Also at the end of the road lived the Gilliland Family that included Jack, Dolly and their son Calvin, who was like a brother as well as a friend.

A few years after we moved from the Hansen house, Dad’s oldest brother, Chester Ray, brought his eight, great kids down from Canada. They also moved into the Hansen house that we had vacated earlier. Needless to say, there were a lot of Rays around. Since it was a short distance down the hill and across the creek, we communicated often. We had different trails that led to crossing points, such as, log jams and shallow water. Downstream and toward town about ½ mile lived our Aunt Ella and Uncle Tom Green. Aunt Ella and Aunt Elva and Grandmother Dora were sisters. Their maiden names were Day. Of course, we were all close. As Uncle Chester’s children grew older, they married and the family separated. Their mother had stayed in Canada. Some younger ones went with sisters and some went with other relatives. Helen stayed with the Greens. She and I were the same age and in the same class at school. We saw each other often, dated once in a while and were close friends as well as first cousins.

As mentioned earlier, the entire area had been timber and was logged off a few years before we came down from Canada. The farms were called stump ranches and for good reason. The average stump was from four to six feet in diameter. Many were larger. Much of my early childhood was spent playing but as we grew older these stumps, limbs, logs and so forth had to be cleared and burned. It seemed that for many years the sky was always smoky from burning wood, night and day. I have some old photos that bear this out. (more to follow)

MEMORIES BY ANGELINA (Episode Three)

My teen years were mixed up. My folks lost their home and we had to move to a smaller house in a different community. It was across town and it felt like another world. We were all devastated and hurt. My folks went through hell and their entire world came tumbling down along with mine. My brothers were younger and seemed to accept what happened. Leaving the old neighborhood was hard to take but with time things got settled and we made the best of our situation. Our new neighbors were very nice and soon we were good friends. It took a while but we made the old house livable and clean. Momma was a very neat lady and the landlord couldn’t believe we could make it look so good.

It was not a comfortable house at all but it kept the wind and the rain out. Also it kept us warm most winters. But (it) was unbearable in the summer. We had a summer kitchen in back of the house where we had our lunches and dinners in summer. It also had an old fashioned brick oven that momma used to cook bread, cookies and pizza in. Papa always had a very beautiful vegetable garden which we enjoyed all summer. We also had fruit trees, (and) grape arbors, with an abundance of fruit and nut trees.

By the time I had graduated from high school, I was trying to help the folks out with money. My brothers did too, whenever they could. John was too young but in later years he more than made up for it. It didn’t take much knowledge to pick figs, just back breaking work. This didn’t last long; we decided there was more to life than picking figs or cutting for ten cents a box. These were fifty pound boxes. We went to the cannery instead. That was just as bad. (It was) hard work, twelve hour days, seven days a week. Sunday was just another day. We did this in summer to make extra money to help our folks out. I worked a couple of summers on the swing shift. It was the pits.

I didn’t like piece work; I liked working the cap bottling machine instead, because it paid more money. Somehow I never made much sorting fruit or vegetables (but) sorting fruit on a belt moving table was not so bad, but, oh, how my feet and legs hurt by the time 7AM came around. We started at seven in the evening and worked till 7 in the morning. It was hard work but when you are young you don’t mind.

Getting a pay check which I earned (myself) made me feel good. I also had to share it with my folks. That’s the way it was. I can’t recall how many summers I worked at the cannery but one day I decided I would try something better, so I got a job in town as a sales person. It wasn’t very hard to take and I felt better as a person; earning $25.00 a week was great. I started working Monday thru Saturday from 9AM to 6PM. I had to walk several miles. Winter was bad but I didn’t mind the summer. I never thought of ever owning a car, might as well wished for the moon. I worked for Neal’s Department Store for two years and then was switched to the smaller store. It was closer to home and made walking to work easier.

Somehow I managed to buy a few items of clothing and shoes and did well on my pay. I tried so very hard to look stylish. I even bought a few goodies now and then to share with my folks. Momma was the best cook and she baked better goodies than you could buy. We always had an abundance of her Italian dishes on holidays. On Sundays, Papa always insisted on special dishes and we loved them too. I always helped, after Sunday Mass. Papa went to church when he could and enjoyed reading his Bible. I went to church with him whenever I could and he liked that.

At times, Momma didn’t make it for church and she would have fresh coffee and I’d help with pancakes and muffins. She had her famous Italian sauce cooking and you could smell it from blocks away. I always looked forward to our Sunday dinners. Momma could do just about anything. When I was little she sewed my clothes and I was proud to wear them. I guess she sewed for me until I graduated from high school. Her clothes always looked store bought. Yes, Momma could do just about anything.

My girl friends and I went dancing every Saturday night except for the cold winter season and bad rainy nights. We didn’t enjoy staying home on Saturday night. We went to the movies a lot, even in the rain. The umbrella helped but not enough to keep our feet from getting soaked. One Saturday night, in February, 1945, I was asked by a nice looking soldier to dance. He seemed quite nice and we introduced ourselves to each other. Our conversation was limited. We danced the ballroom floor a few times and then he politely led me to where I was seated. He thanked me and he left. My friends were excited and thought him a good catch.

A couple of weeks later, at the same ‘Rainbow Ballroom’ I saw him again and he asked me to dance. This went on for several weeks and one thing led to another and I invited him home to meet my parents. Papa, Momma and my brothers liked him. In case you haven’t guessed, his name is William James Ray. We dated pretty steady for the next few months and on 3 June, 1945, we were married.

In the fifty two years that have passed since that lucky day, life has been a bowl of cherries. Some sour, but most sweet. As of 1998 we have seven children, six boys and one girl, seven spouses, fifteen grandchildren and six great grandchildren. We say that love, Italian food and dancing have made it all possible.

MEMORIES BY ANGELINA (Episode Two)

Momma’s brother, Uncle John, worked with Papa making whiskey. Late one night the Still blew up and he (Uncle John) was burned over 80% of his body. One week later, on Christmas Eve, he died. All of Momma’s world came tumbling down. I believe that was the saddest Christmas we ever had. I know that part of Momma died with John’s passing. He was the only family she had in this country. They had a very loving relationship, very close. I remember how kind and generous he was.

By the time I was in my teens, Papa had lost almost everything he had owned. We still lived in the nice house on ‘A’ Street but his health went bad and he gave up on life. He became very ill, developed double pneumonia and almost died. For a long time he could not work. He stayed in bed for weeks as the illness lingered. Momma tried to care for him but the doctor decided to bring in a nurse. Momma had her hands full with my brothers and me. Papa slowly recovered but was never the same. He had given up bootlegging after Uncle John’s death and while he was ill, most of the property was lost. How they managed to pay for the doctor and nurse is a mystery. Somehow they did and I was glad. Papa recovered some and did odd jobs here and there. I worried about him and Momma (when I) was a very young age. Being the oldest was the pits.

To regress a bit, I started school without knowing a word of English and was so mixed up and scared that I kept going back home. I didn’t understand the teachers and it was so upsetting. I cried a lot that first year. The second year was not easy either but I became friends with other children. The teachers were nice to me and tried to help. I was afraid of my own shadow. I didn’t want to leave home but my mother soon convinced me that I had to go to school to learn to read and write. I wouldn’t have a future without an education. She and Papa could not read or write in English. That was hard on all of us. They understood the Italian language and did well in reading and writing their own language.

(My younger) brother John came along when I was 10 and I was so very disappointed. He was born at home on 12 April 1932. I thought, more work for Angie and I would like to have had a sister instead. I practically raised him and he was a handful. Responsibility began early for me. I had to help the folks; I didn’t have a choice. When they had jobs I was left in charge. I didn’t mind too bad because I knew Papa and Momma were happy earning some money and we were going to have a little extra to buy our food with. I loved to cook and liked to try different recipes on our family. They seemed to like what I cooked.

When school started, I didn’t do as much (around the house). I helped after school and did the best I could. What with school and certain chores at home, it was hard to make a choice as to what was the most important. I had no one to explain to me about homework, since my parents did not read or write English. What I learned, I learned in class. A couple of teachers tried to help me because they knew I had problems. (More to follow).

MEMORIES BY ANGELINA LOUISE MONGELLI RAY

(The following words were written by my mother in 1998. Dad gave many of us copies of this but just in case you did not get a copy, here it is).

My Mother, Louise DiBitetto Mongelli, sailed to America from Italy, in 1921, to marry a man she had never seen. She had only been told that he was a good man, with good looks and was financially stable. His name was Nicola Mongelli. After considerable correspondence between families, my Father sent his sister, my Aunt Isabell, back to Italy to make all the arrangements so that Momma could make the trip to America. My Grandmother, Maria Bianca, knew Momma didn’t have much of a future in Italy and coming to America would solve everything.
Her brother John accompanied her and made the voyage easier to take and not so lonesome. Together, they could take whatever happened. My Father furnished money for first class, but his sister wanted to save money, so she booked third class. Their quarters were bad and the air, stifling. All were sick most of the time but were grateful to be able to go up on deck and breathe fresh air once in a while. They were also pleased to have each other.

When they docked in New York, they were happy to be on solid ground once more. Momma could not get over the Statue of Liberty and all the big buildings in New York. They were both excited and scared. They could not read or write English. Using the bathroom was difficult. Momma went into the men’s room by mistake. It didn’t take her long to know she was in the wrong place. Their trip by train to California was long and tiring and very humiliating. They did not know how to ask for a drink of water or anything else they desired. The food was very different and not to their liking. They had a hard time getting used to it.

After about two weeks, they arrived in Fresno and were met by my Father, his brothers, Uncle Mike, Uncle Ricardo and other relatives. Imagine meeting a man you had never known and yet in a matter of a few weeks he would be your husband, whether you liked him or not. It was a rough time for Momma, having to put up with relatives.

She wasn’t sure how to adjust to such an arrangement. After all, she was only twenty and Papa was thirty two; quite a difference in age. She thought him to be quite a good looking man, but a little old. She was innocent and quite naïve. She had been engaged to a very good looking young man in Italy, but she came down with the Chicken Pox and when he came to visit her, he decided not to marry her after all. It broke Momma’s heart; she thought she would never find another. Of course, Papa changed all that. Papa thought she was innocent and scared.

They were married 15 May 1921, in the St. Alfonsus Church in Fresno; the same church that I was married in, twenty four years later. I was born on 22 February 1922. (Dad always said her lucky number was two because she was born in 1922 on the 22nd day of Feb. Strange, she also died on the 22nd of November, maybe not so lucky after all). I was the first child and only girl. I would have liked to have been second or third, but no matter.

Papa and Momma had a very nice home, all electric, with all new furniture, up to date, indoor plumbing, bathroom, hot and cold water and bathtub. (It had a) built in ice box, gas cooking stove and oven, nice kitchen, (and a) screen porch. To have such a house in the early 1920’s was to be considered wealthy.

Momma had three children after me, Nick, Sam and John. At this writing (1998) they are all living and doing well. We keep in touch, talk of our childhood days and the good times we had. One thing that stands out in our minds is the love and understanding Momma had for us, whenever things got bad. No matter how sick we got, Momma always found a way to make us better. I remember the beautiful clothes we wore were very nice. (They included) silk underwear, fancy dresses, black shiny shoes, the works. I thought that we were the luckiest family alive. I thought we would live that way forever. Papa owned half of Fresno; (his territory?) we had a lot going for us.

I can’t remember how many years passed before things went bad. I knew by an early age that my Father earned his money and gave us our riches by being a bootlegger. Momma tried to tell him how wrong it was but he wouldn’t listen and was determined to continue in this line of work. He was a smart man and did well making liquor, even though it was against the law. I remember people coming to our house and drinking Papa’s whiskey and saying that it was the best. Looking back, I can recall the police raiding our house quite a few times and scaring us to death. I always ran into the closet to hide, afraid of being hurt by these strange men who forced their way into our house. I wondered how long Papa could keep going, knowing that we were in jeopardy and yet he kept one step ahead of the law.
(Out of time…more to follow)

John R. Moyle

The following story is taken from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland's talk entitled "As Doves to Our Windows" (Ensign, May 2000, 75). This is another account from those early, faithful builders of the Salt Lake Temple.

Thomas Carlyle, the Scottish Essayist (1775-1881) once said, “Conviction is worthless, unless it is converted into conduct.” This man had true conviction and believed in what he did, despite unbelievable suffering and inconvenience.

John R. Moyle lived in Alpine, Utah, on a 160 acre farm, about 22 miles as the crow flies to the Salt Lake Temple, where he was the chief superintendent of masonry during its construction and a stonecutter by trade. Like those who worked with him, he volunteered his time, with no earthly compensation. To make certain he was always at work by 8 A.M., Brother Moyle would start walking about 2 A.M. on Monday mornings. He would finish his work week at 5 P.M. on Friday and then start the walk home, arriving there shortly before midnight.

Each week he would repeat that schedule for the entire time he served on the construction of the temple. Once when he was home on the weekend, one of his cows bolted during milking and kicked Brother Moyle in the leg, shattering the bone just below the knee, so that the bone protruded through his pants leg.

With no better medical help than they had in such rural circumstances, his family and friends took a door off the hinges and strapped him onto that makeshift operating table. They then took the bucksaw they had been using to cut branches from a nearby tree and amputated his leg just a few inches below the knee, without anesthetic.

When against all medical likelihood, the leg finally started to heal, Brother Moyle took a piece of wood and carved an artificial leg. First he walked in the house. Then he walked around the yard. Finally he ventured out about his property. When he felt he could stand the pain, he strapped on his leg, walked the 22 miles to the Salt Lake Temple, climbed the scaffolding, and with a chisel in his hand hammered out the declaration "Holiness to the Lord." He was 77 years old.

WAR STORIES

From the time I was a little boy, I’ve always been fascinated by aircraft. Dad was in the U.S. Air Force most of my growing up years and at age 20, I enlisted in the Air Force also. Airplanes filled my memories with awe and wonder.

Unfortunately, my vision was never good enough to permit me to be a military pilot but, as an enlisted man I was able to work the airport flight line. Pilot stories of near misses and narrow escapes always drew my attention and I remember many occasions when myself and other mechanics would hang around job control or the debrief areas to hear the latest tale from a pilot or crew.

As my seniority increased, I was given additional opportunity in supervision and training which found me teaching jet engine ground run testing aboard the aircraft, as well as in the simulator. In those days, before video games and home computers, the aircraft simulator was as close as there was to being there, in real life. When the training was over, we were permitted to try out various emergency scenarios.

Examples of these included: Engine flameout at 30,000 feet; Main landing gear failure on landing approach; Massive fuel leak; Hydraulic failure; Aircraft Fire and so forth. We’d talk over procedures from the checklist, discuss what would be the best course of action and imagine ourselves as pilots. It wasn’t as good as the real thing but it was as close as we could get, short of getting a private pilot’s license, which was a financial challenge. My primary simulators were for the F-4, C-130, C-141, with a little, at the end of my military career, on the F-15 and F-16.

I never worked the helicopter simulators but have been equally fascinated by the pilot stories that they generated. Over the years, I have met former pilots who love to talk about their flight experiences and I have jotted down some of my favorites. For instance, I got the following from an army Cobra pilot by the name of Bruce Karn. He used to frequently say, “Helicopters make terrible gliders.” To the best of my knowledge, one of his stories went something like this:

“Our Vietnam squadron had two Mormon pilots, me and one other guy, I’ll call him Joe. We got permission to fly in the same chopper together. We were getting hit by the enemy pretty hard and lost a lot of men and choppers. Joe and I would return with our Cobra pretty shot up, but at least we would return and not get even a scratch to our bodies. This happened so often that our squadron commander put us in separate Cobras, that way he’d be sure that at least two of his choppers and pilots would return.”

Another of his stories was, “One of the cardinal rules you never broke was to pick up troops at the same place in the jungle where you dropped them off. It was just too easy for the enemy to lie in wait till you returned and destroy your men and choppers. It took careful planning to avoid this mistake. Nevertheless, in a particular fire fight, I was ordered to do an emergency pickup of troops and equipment at the same place where we dropped them off. I argued that for our contingent of six choppers to go there was unwise, but I was not listened to. As we were about halfway through loading, the enemy opened fire with all they had. We lost nearly half our force. It was one of our biggest losses."