William Robert Whitehead

02 Dec. 1892 – 24 Dec. 1971

son of

Robert D. and Mary Davis Whitehead

by

Carol Easterbrook Wolf, Granddaughter

1999

I have tried on numerous occasions to write the history of my Grandpa Whitehead. Many of my memories are included in my books of poetry. I find it near impossible to face those feelings and memories again. Yet I want to preserve the man who means so much to me. I will, for this reason, attempt to write. This will be a biased account. It is impossible for me to be objective when recalling or discussing my Grandpa. In my eyes he could do no wrong. That doesn’t mean that he was a perfect man because he wasn’t, but he was a perfect Grandpa. I’ve tried to figure out what made him so and have concluded plain and simply that he loved me and I knew it.

William Robert Whitehead was born in Cleveland, Emery, Utah on Friday 02 December 1892 to Robert D. and Mary Davis Whitehead. He was the second child and first son born to this couple. His older sister, Jane Ellen (Nellie) was four years older. She died when she was two in Scofield, Carbon, Utah. She was also buried there. As an adult, Grandpa tried to find her grave so that he could place a marker. He was unable to locate it. Great Grandpa, Robert D., had another daughter by a first wife. Her name was Margaret (Maggie). I don’t believe Grandpa ever met her or knew her whereabouts. He once told me that her mother’s name was Phelps, or Phillips, and lived in the Salt Lake area. Great Grandpa came home one day and found his clothes packed and sitting on the porch.

Grandpa’s early years were spent in Cleveland on the farm (out near where Kurt Brasher now lives). There and on Cedar Mountain pasturing cows. He was riding a horse when he was very small and had to climb upon the fence to mount. He obtained an 8^th grade education. Although Grandpa was like an only child, he had foster brothers live with him. Their mother died and their dad needed help in raising the boys. My Grandma Mary Whitehead took them in. Their names were Albert, Henry and Joe Marshall. Joe Marshall and his son-in-law, Clarence McElroy, paid a visit to Grandma and Grandpa in early 1955, just three years before Joe’s death. What an enjoyable visit they had! I tagged them everywhere and ended up having a special Uncle Joe.

The day the telegram came, Grandma came to our house to tell us. I remember I crawled underneath the kitchen table so they wouldn’t see the tears, then slowly made my way outside and to the shop to Grandpa. When I told him Uncle Joe was dead, he stopped his work, his eyes moistened and he said, "poor old Joe."

Grandpa also had a very close relationship with two of his brothers-in-law, Grandma’s brother, Doug, and Aunt Hyla’s husband, Mel Sherfick. Not only were they family, but they were friends. It was Grandpa that Uncle Mel and Aunt Hyla came to when they lost their small son, Douglas, in Colorado and needed financial help to bury him. In later years when Uncle Doug got sick Grandpa would help care for him. Alzheimer’s Disease hadn’t been named as such back then, but he had all the symptoms. They lived across the street and Grandpa spent a lot of time helping Aunt Luella with him. If she needed to go somewhere she’d bring Uncle Doug over to Grandpa’s and they’d sit in lawn chairs beneath the trees on the carport and "visit". Grandpa would just agree with whatever Uncle Doug said.

At one time Grandpa and some of his friends, Uncle Doug (McMullin) Maynard Allred and I don’t know who all decided as a Halloween prank to disassemble the wagon of Samuel Alger and place it atop his barn. They spent the evening doing such an activity, and when finished one of the helpers said, "well, boys, I helped you put it up here now how about you help me take it down?" Sam Alger had joined in the fun unbeknownst to them. (Sam Alger was a brother to Olivia Alger my great-great grandmother).

When Grandpa was a young man of 19 years he claimed Olivia McMullin, also of Cleveland as his bride. She was barely 16 ½ years. Grandpa and Grandma had known each other nearly their whole life. They dated nearly two years. They enjoyed dancing together. Uncle Doug and Uncle Sam (Davis), Grandma’s brother and stepbrother taught Grandpa to dance. They were married in the Davis Recreation Hall (later show hall, then skating rink, known as Ernie’s Hall) They were married on 21 February 1912 by Bishop Joe Larsen. Douglas McMullin (a brother) and Matt Ward (Larsen) were witnesses. Matt (a female) was Grandpa’s cousin. Grandma Mary Davis Whitehead threw a supper for the newlyweds and the whole town was invited to Ernie’s Hall. They honeymooned in Desert Lake, traveling by bob sleigh.

Grandma and Grandpa’s first child, Mary Florence Whitehead was born in Cleveland, Emery, Utah on 12/12/12 (1912). She was born ten days following Grandpa’s 20^th birthday.

Early on in their relationship, I think they were married, Grandpa was playing baseball as he often did and had the broken fingers to prove it. He played with no glove. One game he looked up into the stands and saw Grandma in a free-for-all with another woman. He stopped what he was doing, ran for the fence, leaped it and was at Grandma’s side in a heartbeat.

I loved my Grandpa’s hands. They looked like what I think a man’s hands should look like. They were rugged, the fingers bent at the first joint from being broken. They showed years of work. One of the songs we chose to have sung at his funeral was "These Hands." The other was "Somewhere My Love." He also had a special way of wiping his mouth. In my mind’s eye I can see him do it now.

In addition to being a farmer Grandpa also worked in the coalmines. Until the Union was organized the men moved from coal camp to coal camp to work depending on work available and salary paid. My mother, Barbara Pauline Whitehead (Easterbrook) was born 06 Nov 1916 in Hiawatha, Carbon, Utah. He went to work for Utah Railroad in 1912 and was a fireman. He rode in the engine with the engineer and when the train needed more power he’d shovel on more coal to keep it fired up. From there he went to work on the fire boiler in Hiawatha and then into the mine. He was also a truck driver, barber, and a mechanic. He retired from the coalmines. He was President of the Wattis Local. Grandpa trained Clem Gordon as a nipper. Years later Clem Gordon was my Dad’s (Harry Easterbrook) pusher boss.

Jean Whitehead (Revas) was born 27 January 1927 in Mohrland, Emery, Utah. Grandpa took Jean with him a lot, to work as a barber, and to the pool hall, and she was the apple of his eye. When Grandma was expecting Jean she blamed Grandpa. She thought she was too old to be having another baby. She was 31. He would pull Grandma on a sleigh during the winter. I understand he took a lot of the responsibility for caring for Jean when she was small.

I don’t know if it was the October before Jean’s birth or the October following, but I believe it was 1927 that Grandpa with a group of friends, Uncle Doug, Bill Eden, Wayne Oveson, and Clair Clements, went deer hunting in Mud Water, near Wattis, Carbon, Utah. He lived in Maple Leaf Canyon in Mohrland at the time. He was wearing a brown suede jacket and had his lunch tied on behind in a white handkerchief. He was shot by (Uncle) Doug McMullin, Grandma’s brother, with Grandpa’s own gun, a 25-35. He was shot between two ribs from the back, just missed his heart.

Bishop (William F.) Eden rode to Hiawatha for Dr. Hardy. (He wasn’t bishop at the time). I’m not sure of the distance by horseback, but it was several miles. He ruined a good horse (broke its wind) getting there. He got a fresh horse and picked up Dr. Hardy, and gave him a ride he never forgot. Clair Clements held the wound on both sides to control the bleeding and never let go until the doctor arrived. Grandpa was brought out on a stretcher to the Utah Railway that ran from Martin to Mohrland and taken to the hospital in Hiawatha. He had to exercise his arm and hand daily to keep from losing the use of it. My Mother remembers how he would take a ball and squeeze and squeeze it while swinging his arm back and forth. He outlived all of the men involved in the hunting trip. The gun was given away and neither Grandpa nor Uncle Doug ever hunted again. Years later I met Clair Clements. He once told my Dad that his fingers were numb by the time he was able to let go of the wound. My mother hated guns all of her life, and never got over her fear of them.

The oldest daughter, Florence was not healthy and was having problems with her heart. It was decided that maybe a lower altitude would help and so the family moved from Mohrland to Cleveland in August 1929. She gradually worsened and on the 4^th of February 1930 she died in Cleveland at the home of Aunt Mina Alger where they were living. My mother was 13 at the time and tells of how my Grandpa held Florence in his arms and begged her not to die. He wouldn’t put her down, and his fingers had to be pried away from her when she was gone. Florence was a subject that wasn’t mentioned very often. Grandpa once told me that Grandma changed after that, and there was no more laughter from her. Her hair started to go gray shortly afterwards. Grandma never went back into the house. Grandpa moved her to the farm in Cleveland on South Flat, but she couldn’t stand it there. They moved in with Aunt Luella and Uncle Doug, slept upstairs and cooked in what was called the "shanty". They stayed there until Grandpa got the house in Cleveland ready. He tore down the log cabin on the farm that had been his parents’ home, and brought it into town. He built a four room house. Sometime later him and (Loren) Dalton went by horse and wagon to Sunnyside and tore down a house and used the lumber to build onto the back part of their home in Cleveland (where Myrna and Corey Powell now live). His mother by this time lived in what became the Easterbrook home only at that time it was just the two front rooms made of adobe. My Dad says he believes my Grandpa gave his mother that house and property in exchange for the farm.

In later years, my grandparents were at my house, and my sister, Joyce and her friend DeAnn were playing in Grandma and Grandpa’s basement, but they wouldn’t let me play. I went home and told on them, that they had the trunk with Florence’s stuff open, and were going through it. Grandma and Grandpa got up, not speaking a word, and went home. The trunk disappeared from that area of the basement where we played.

Until Grandpa’s death I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. I was born in his home in Cleveland on a Friday morn, 03 November 1944. I thought it neat that we were both a "Friday’s Child." He was the kind of grandpa who declared a holiday and stayed home from work when a grandchild was born. I lived next door, shared the same driveway and the yard was one big yard. I’m told that I cried for "Panpa" on our entire trip to Yellowstone when I was 19 months old. My family went with friends, Faye and Claude McArthur.

It was the tradition for us to eat Sunday dinner at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Usually it was roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy. No one could make a roast like Grandma. She was a real good cook. Grandpa sat at the head and I immediately to his left. That was my place and no one ever questioned it, or attempted to change it. Although, as a young child I spent many a time sitting on his lap. Eating bread and milk was a treat, topped off with some of Grandma’s jam. He also enjoyed a cup of hot tea, and I could scoop as many spoonsful of sugar into it as I liked, and sip it from the teaspoon. It was also the tradition to go to the movie on Sunday evenings. In those days adults were .50 cents and kids .10 cents. My place to watch the movie was sitting on his lap with my head on his shoulder.

Manys the time when Grandpa worked afternoons that I’d walk with him through the yard and down the slope to the main road for him to catch the small bus that Neldon (Nellie) Wickham drove. We’d sit there on the slope and talk, curl dandelion stems with our teeth, suck on a piece of straw or practice whistling. He was good at the owl whistle (cupping hands together). He’d whistle by placing his thumb and forefinger in a circle under his tongue. He would also carve a whistle from a small branch. I’d stay until he was safely on the bus, and waved to me from the window and then I’d mosey back up to the house or yard. Sometimes we’d drive to Wattis to meet him after work and watch him ride down the tram all covered with coal dust. Grandpa told me lots of stories of his family back then, about how him and Grandma met. I wish I’d been old enough to write everything down.

Mainly he taught me by example. He was, without question, an honest man. He was the kind of man you either liked or you didn’t. There was no pretense about him. He called a spade a spade, a rose a rose and a hypocrite a hypocrite. He was a good judge of character. If he liked you he’d give you the shirt off his back. If he didn’t he wouldn’t give you the time of day. His word and his handshake were binding. He once told me that "if you give a man your word, you do what you say you will or by Gawd, you break your back atryin’." He wouldn’t tolerate lies. He claimed I’d get into more trouble for telling a lie than to face up to the truth. He said, "you can lock up from a thief, but you can’t lock up from a liar."

I always knew that I could trust Grandpa with my life. I also knew that if anyone ever threatened me in any way or tried to injure me, that he would just as quickly take that person’s life. He was one to act now and ask questions later.

There would be those who claim they knew him who would argue to their death that Grandpa was an atheist. That statement is totally untrue. Grandpa had a very strong belief in a Supreme Being. He acknowledged His hand in each sunrise, in the beauties of the world, and in the myriad of creations. He said no accident of nature could have caused it to happen. Did he attend church? No. Although he once told me that if he were to ever join a church it would be the Mormon Church. He just didn’t feel a need to join. He cared for his corner of the world, he was honest in his dealings and he provided for and loved his family. A more ambitious man I’ve never known. (Though my nephew Kurt Brasher is a very close second.) I think he’d seen too many so called religious people who did the church thing on Sunday and then went and stole water from the ditch the other six days of the week.

When I turned eight years old and was planning to be baptized, he told me that if getting baptized was something that I wanted to do, that he would support me and make it as easy as possible for me to do the things I needed to do. He always did support me either by attending events, or seeing that I had a ride to and from if needed.

Grandpa loved music and could play any instrument by ear. He played both piano and violin. My Mother tells that he liked to leave the radio music on while sleeping. While still living in Mohrland Grandpa bought a Brunswick Radio. They were some of the first people in town to have one. Grandpa would turn it on and say to Grandma, "my hell, old lady, come and listen you can even hear them breathing." He was very tickled over it.

He and Grandma were known for their graceful dancing. In later years as an old man he’d stumble out onto the dance floor, and then proceed to waltz Grandma around the room. More than once I’ve seen people stop to watch. As a young child he’d waltz me around the room on his feet. It was in December of 1964 at Lynn Nelson’s wedding reception in the Cleveland School Auditorium, that they danced their last dance. When he returned Grandma to the chairs, he said, "Well, Old Lady, I think we’ve waltzed our last waltz."

At one time they owned a piano. Grandpa came home from work one day to find that Grandma had gotten rid of the piano. Why, I don’t know. In later years when we had a piano Grandpa would come over and play. Once he and Bill Yates put on a program down at the church. Bill played fiddle and Grandpa on piano. It was quite an enjoyable evening.

The story is told of one time when they lived in the camps, Grandpa came home late from work to find a neighbor, Mrs. Green visiting – again. After a period of time, he started to undress and said, "well, I think I’ll go to bed so Mrs. Green can go home."

Grandpa always called Grandma the "Old Lady", the "War Department", or the
"Battle Ax". He didn’t mean these names as insulting or demeaning. They were just the nicknames he called her. She called him "Old Man." I suspect it maybe went back to when Grandpa was turning 30 and Grandma said he was getting to be an old man. His comment back to her was "Old Lady when I die of old age, you’ll be quakin’ with fear."

We used to spend a lot of time together outside. We’d play catch occasionally, but we spent a lot of time in the shop. I had a bench just the right height for me, and some tools. I liked working with wood. One time when I was young I went to Price with my Mother and Grandma. Grandpa asked that we go to the hardware store and buy him a "Y" connection. I remember how proud I was when the salesperson kept digging through the bins looking for one and I reached in and said, "here’s one." Grandpa told me one time "The Old Lady thinks she’s the boss and if it makes her happy thinking so, I just let her think it." He always said that he had earned the money and brought it into the house, but that Grandma managed it. He thought money was made round to go around. I was never denied anything I asked for. At age 15 ½ he gave me a set of keys to his car and said, "I know I can trust you to never misuse it." Then he said, "You know where I keep my wallet if you ever need money for gas." Never once did I touch his wallet. That trust impacted my life forever.

I understand that in her early years Grandma had a lot of hair and that it was very beautiful. She decided she wanted it cut and had Grandpa do it. She had intentions of keeping the length of hair as a chignon. He was so annoyed that she got it cut that when he cut it off he threw it across the room.

Grandma and Grandpa had their verbal battles. I think they secretly enjoyed it. I know Grandpa liked nothing better than a good argument, or debate, if you will with someone with a differing opinion. Grandpa was well read and tried to keep current on various issues. He had no use for politicians – thought they were all a bunch of dishonest yellow-bellied, lily-livered, moss-backed reprobates; not worth crow’s bait, SOB’s, who didn’t know soul owl shit. He could give the ‘genealogy’ of people like that without taking a breath, until he turned red in the face.

Grandpa had good common sense, horse sense if you will. He taught me at a very young age, that no matter how small a piece of equipment or appliance is, always unplug it before sticking your fingers or tool inside it. You unplug using the plug and not just pulling on the cord. I guess there was still some torque left in the lawn mower the day he called, "Old Lady, I’ve cut my finger off. Old Lady, did you hear me? I’ve cut my finger off." Joyce and I ran to Aunt Leah’s for Mercurochrome, while my Dad and Grandpa found the finger. I’m not sure if they wrapped it in a gassy rag or not to transport to Price. It did get sewn back on. I mention the gassy rag because that was Grandpa’s favorite antiseptic while working outside. He always had a gassy rag to keep tools clean and also to wipe cuts, etc. with. He healed well so it must have worked.

Grandpa enjoyed young people. He said being around the young is what keeps a person young. He kept abreast of new inventions, read the newspaper, Popular Mechanics and Popular Science magazines, and was a jack-of-all-trades. He could basically fix anything. He also had beautiful penmanship. The popularity of electronics was just coming into vogue around the time his eyesight failed him. In the early 1950s Grandpa did the wiring for the new church building in Cleveland. The red one across from the school on Main Street. It’s now used as the town hall. Grandma did the landscaping.

Repeatedly my Mother told the story of how Grandpa would always loan his car to his young nephews when they needed transportation. He had a special soft spot for Aunt Florence’s (Jensen) kids because they didn’t have much. Years later when I was working in Price at about age 20, I needed a car for the evening, and I went to my mother’s cousin Wesley Jensen and asked if he had one. He just sat and looked at me, and said, "how can I refuse you? Your Grandpa always saw to it that I had transportation when I needed it."

Grandpa’s thinking and opinions had a great influence in my way of thinking. I had a great deal of respect for his opinion. Never would I consider buying a Ford. It was never even a consideration when looking at a new car. Grandpa didn’t like Fords.

Grandpa helped to form the United Mine Workers Union. He fought long and hard for it. It wasn’t organized in Carbon and Emery Counties until 1933. In those days it was commonplace for the man to live in the camps and go home on weekends. At the time Grandpa was working in Hiawatha and living in the camp. He had gone home to Cleveland and upon returning to Hiawatha wasn’t allowed back into town because of martial law. He spent the night at Charlie Acey’s who had a dairy below town. He had absolutely no use for those "scabby assed bastards", who’d come in and take another man’s job while the man was on strike. I can honestly say that I’ve never crossed a picket line. I remember once shortly after moving to Los Alamos I went to shop at Safeway’s and the Meat Cutters were striking the store. I turned and walked away.

I only remember one time having a falling out with Grandpa. We’d been on the tractor. He let me sit on his lap to drive. I was around five. When we got back home and off the tractor he asked me for the keys. I wouldn’t give them to him. He asked again and I threw them. He reached out with the glove he had in his hand and popped me across the face. I don’t remember the slap hurting me, but I was broken hearted. I couldn’t go to sleep that night. My Dad walked with me across the yard to Grandpa’s house. He and Grandma were there visiting with Aunt Sade and Uncle Jack. Grandpa saw me and opened his arms and I ran to him and sat on his lap and made up with him.

Grandpa only refused to let me follow and tag along with him one time. That was the day that he took a gun and his old dog Smoke, who was sick, down to the pasture. When he came back he was alone.

One of my first memories is of a big truck with an orange cab. I’m pretty sure it’s the one that Grandpa drove. I asked my Dad and he said, "yes, it was." It was a 1942 flatbed. Grandpa put a rack on it and hauled coal. He later sold it to Uncle Doug.

My Dad, Harry Easterbrook, tells the story of when he was a young boy (1923-24) his Dad and Bob Whitehead (both to become my grandpas) had an Overland car that was identical to each other. At the time Grandpa Easterbrook was moving from Cleveland to Standard Grandpa Whitehead's mother’s dog Queenie climbed on the running board of Grandpa Easterbrook’s car and went back to Standard with him. To the delight of my Dad. Grandpa Whitehead figured out what had happened and went to Standard to get the dog, which upset my Dad and he refused to let him have the dog. Grandpa Whitehead paid him a dollar for the dog.

A couple of instances stand out in my mind of Grandpa’s relationship with grandkids. One was when Fluffy our cat started eating her grandchildren. Joyce and I were in tears. Grandpa gave Fluffy a ride on his foot that I’ll bet she long remembered. The other was the day the guy from the auction came to load some cows and Grandpa sold Monkey Face, Joyce’s pet calf. She cried so hard, that Grandpa got in his truck and chased the guy down, stopped him and had him return Monkey Face to the corral.

Another favorite time was milking time. He’d squirt milk into the cat’s mouth and then into my mouth. The cats loved milking time too. We’d stop on the way back to the house with the bucket and pour off the foam part of the milk for them. They also liked corn on the cob. The little lambs were great fun and we’d fill bottles (I think pop) with milk and put a nipple on the end and stick it through the fence for the lambs. They’d get so excited and their tails would wag – or maybe their docked tail. At the corral there was a section that was inside a shed, but attached to the corral by a door. I think it must have been where a calf was put to be weaned. In the roof was a hole for a bucket to fit through to be lowered with milk for the calf to eat. That was great fun.

I did tag Grandpa about everywhere. A lot of the times I was tagging, my Dad was there too. One of the favorite things I did was to go to the farm with them. I’d drive the tractor while they pitched hay, and then I'd ride home on the load of hay. Sometimes I’d be the one to tromp the hay instead of drive. I drove the tractor when they threshed the wheat before they hired it done. In the spring we’d clean out the corral, load the manure in the manure spreader and take it to the farm. I’d ride home in the manure spreader. Years later I’d drive around the stables in Los Alamos and to the dairy near Pojoaque in Nambe trying to recapture that memory. It suddenly dawned on me that it wasn’t the corral I missed.

There was also a woodpile and an ax. Sometimes I’d gather kindling for the fire when we still had a coal stove.

When I was about six or seven I couldn’t sleep at night for thinking about how I’d ever survive if Grandpa died. One day I asked him if he was going to die, and he told me that someday he would. He said to me at that time, "me girl, if there’s anyway possible to come back, I’ll come back to you." It was a good 20 years later or a little more. I was having my second child, Nichole, born just 8 ½ months after Grandpa’s death. About an hour before she was born I felt Grandpa enter the room. He stayed for three hours after she was born. As he left he said, "good night, me girl." I’ve often wondered why I didn’t talk to him, say things to him, ask him questions. Somehow at the time it was enough just to know that he was there. Nearly six years later, Nichole, one day had a flash of memory and said to me, "I remember when Grandpa Bob held me in his arms when I was a tiny baby, and he told me something, but I can’t remember what he said." Just as soon the flash of memory was gone. She could remember telling it to me, but couldn’t remember the memory. As I stated early on in the history, he always kept his word.

For some reason I always preferred the company of my Dad and my Grandpa. I’ve always enjoyed listening to men talk and interact. That, I think, coupled with the fact that I could be dirty, didn’t have to wash my hands to pound a nail or oil the chain and spokes of my bike, and they didn’t boss me much. I spent much more time with my Grandpa than I did with my Grandma. Not that I loved him more. I just loved him different.

One of my favorite things to do was to comb his hair. He’d sit for as long as we wanted him to and let us comb his hair, style it, part it and put wave clamps in it. Another thing I liked was to sit on his lap when he was playing cards with Grandma, and Jean and Luke. He always had a place for me on his lap and never made me feel that I was in the way. He always bought ice cream, milk nickels and popsicles and kept them in the freezer.

Grandpa let me start to drive when I was 12 and we were on the back roads of Cleveland. He’d always say, "home James." Many times when we’d travel, my Dad would drive with my Mother and Grandma in the front seat (they got carsick) and me and Grandpa in the back. We had many a conversation back there, and he’d tell me about the places we were going. Through Mapleton is when he explained to me about sheep and the reason that they smell the way they do. After they got their new car in 1968, we took a trip to Pocatello to visit with Aunt Leah and Uncle Tom who were living there for a while. I was driving and some car didn’t yield coming onto the freeway from the merge lane. I had to act fast and the car rocked and swerved. It was kind of nerve-racking for a moment. When all was settled down, he said to me, "no one could have handled it any better." Grandpa was known to roll down his window and yell at the other drivers. It was also on the trip to Pocatello that we visited Sam and Tess Grange. Sam said to Grandma and Grandpa right in front of his wife, "had Florence lived, I’d have been your son-in-law."

When I was in the 7^th grade my school picture wasn’t all that good. I brought it home and my mother refused to buy it. I showed it to Grandpa and he bought the whole packet. At the time I didn’t realize the message. He didn’t care about the picture he cared about me.

Grandpa was a meat and potatoes kind of man. He loved a good steak, rare. He loved meat and thought meat the center of the meal. He also enjoyed liver and onions, pickled pigs feet and sour pickles. He liked fried eggs and bacon or ham. He didn’t care much for casseroles (stuff mixed together) or sandwiches. Although he did like Grandma’s homemade bread and blue plum jam with the skins. He didn’t care much for store-bought bread, and he loved ice cream. He thought a bowl was meant to be filled, and if that meant sideboards, so much the better. He kept a stick of Italian Sausage, as he called it (pepperoni) in his refrigerator and would cut off a slab and gnaw on it. He liked his knives sharp, and kept a strop handy to keep them that way. (He also used it to sharpen his razors for shaving). He had a favorite cookie that his mother made. When I’d bake cookies at their house that’s what I’d make. They were a filled cookie – a layer of cookie filled with a raisin and nut mixture, then topped with another layer of cookie and pinched around the edges. One time when Grandma was gone to Price with my Mother, and I was home with Grandpa I fixed his lunch. I cooked up some meat and potatoes, and I got the potatoes just a wee bit crisp. Just a touch black. He ate every one and told me they were just the way he liked them.

Grandpa was a long sleeve shirt and bib overall kind of man. He did hard work and moved around a lot and they were freer and protective. When he’d take off his shirt, his arms were white as snow. He rarely dressed up and when he did he didn’t look as much like Grandpa. He’d wet his hair and slick it down to his head, and add a splash of "Old Spice" shaving lotion. His idea of a bath was with a sprinkle of Tide detergent. He looked nice dressed up just not like Grandpa.

For quite a few years, my sister Joyce and I had Grandma and Grandpa to ourselves. Not only did we live right next door, but we were the only grandchildren. I was nearly nine years old, and Joyce was 12 when our cousin Jan was born. She was born 07 September 1953, on Labor Day. Grandpa made a trip to Price to check on things; came home beaming to announce that he had another granddaughter. He had had three daughters, and now three granddaughters, and him the only son. He often told us that he’d never met a boy he’d trade one of his girls for. Twenty-one months after Jan, Robert Thomas Revas was born on 16 June 1955. Turns out Grandpa didn’t have to trade any of his girls to get his only grandson. Tina Revas followed a few years later on 28 December 1962. By the time Tina arrived, the great grandchildren had started to arrive. He loved grand and great grand the same. How he enjoyed the little kids. His pet name for Myrna was "Poosty". If I were asked to choose a grandchild that most reminds me of Grandpa, I’d have to say it’s my nephew, Kurt Bryce Brasher. He has a gruff exterior, but a heart of pure gold. A finer man there isn’t, and his ambition (from a very young age) and ability to support and to love his family, and to repair, mend, farm and produce crops is inherent in his genes.

Retirement for Grandpa came at age 65. He once said had he to do it again he would have stayed until they kicked him out. He missed the association and the interaction with the other miners. He loved his work, found the mine to be a favorite place, a constant even temperature. He once told me that you never kill a mouse or a bird inside the mine, and if they start heading for the entrance you do too.

He also told of mines that he had to bend over to work in and of those filled with water. Following retirement, Grandpa took up the yard work. Grandma had a green thumb and did a beautiful job in the yard and flower garden. Grandpa, likewise had a green thumb. He’d get up early, and claimed that sunrise was the most beautiful part of the day. He’d mow the grass forward and backwards, then sideways and his yard took on the look of a city park.

Grandpa had to prove he’d been born in order to receive Social Security. He didn’t have a birth certificate to prove his age, so he went to his Uncle Ernie (Davis) in Cleveland for written verification. Uncle Ernie was 20 years older than Grandpa and said he knew his age ‘cause he’d been there. I remember saying to Grandpa, "well, can’t they just look at you and see you were born." I guess it wasn’t the event itself, but the date of that needing proving.

I’m not sure of the year, but Grandma and Grandpa took a trip to Mexico with Aunt Luella and Uncle Doug. I remember thinking how odd it felt for them to leave and me be left behind. They had a great time (I know I typed up their trip for Grandma, but don’t know where the copy is.) They got sick – at least Grandpa and Uncle Doug did, and fortunately we had shirttail relatives in El Paso (Cloyd and Elvertis Bryson) that they called and stayed with them until they recouped. I think they visited in Hobbs, New Mexico with Aunt Hyla and Uncle Mel also.

Another time they took a trip to Canada with Jean and Luke and family. We took trips to St. George to visit Grandma’s place of birth, went to Glen Canyon Dam when it was constructed, trips to Flaming Gorge, and all around Utah. We went into Colorado and to Mesa Verde. When I was quite young we traveled to Oregon got lost in Portland looking for a post office and came down the coast of California, and went to the Redwood Forest. We stopped in Las Vegas and I couldn’t understand why Grandpa and my Dad got to go inside the casinos when it said "no minors". Me and Joyce had to stay outside.

Whenever the carnival came to Price, we’d go and Grandpa would buy as many tickets as we’d want, and stand patiently while the merry-go-round, or whatever ride we were on, went round and round. He’d buy me super dogs at the rodeo, peanuts or whatever they were selling that I wanted. He often made me feel like I was doing him a favor to like the stuff. Like it was just what he was wanting.

One time when Grandpa and Dalton were trucking they stopped in Salt Lake to spend the night with Dalton’s father-in-law. It seems that the father-in-law had a wife in Elmo, Emery County who was Winnie’s mother, but he also had a ‘wife’ in Salt Lake. This was well into the 1900s after polygamy was outlawed. Following the night’s sleep Frank Jones invited the two to join him in prayer. Grandpa and Dalton just pushed their chairs back and got up and left.

Grandpa also dug the remainder of his basement on his hands and knees and carried the dirt out in a bucket. This was when he was in his 70s and was recovering from a hernia operation.

Grandpa had a way with words and expressions. I’ve tried to put them into context, but some I can’t remember. He said things like Adam’s Off Ox, stuck in your craw, cock ‘n bull story, and rigmarole. When Joyce was dating Bryce he referred to him as "His Nibs". "Over the gob" was where we threw trash. Grandpa also had a temper and he could swear a blue streak. I think I’d heard every word and phrase known to man by the time I was three. Not vulgar talk and not the F. . . word, but just a string of words and phrases that went together. Never once did I have his temper unleashed at me, and while there were people in town who thought him a mean man, I loved him and was not frightened of him in the least. He was a kind and gentle man.

In early 1968 when I made the decision to move from Cleveland to Provo, his comment was "you have to do what’s best for you." He was always supportive of whatever I did from choosing a car, buying my Polaroid camera, to moving, to my choice of a mate. I’d known from the time I was 10 years old and in 4^th grade that my first son would be Robert. It wasn’t even a question in my mind, just a matter of time. That dream became a reality on 10 October 1969 when Robert Michael Wolf was born. The June before Robert was born, the six of us traveled to Hobbs, NM to visit Aunt Hyla and Uncle Mel. We had a great time. We went bowling at their bowling alley. We also enjoyed some of Uncle Mel’s homemade sausages from his smokehouse in the back yard. Grandma and Grandpa again went to Hobbs when they came with my parents to New Mexico when Robert was born. They stayed with me a few days, then went on by bus and then returned for a few days. Grandpa’s last visit to New Mexico to see me was in September 1971. He helped pour the concrete for our parking slab. Our cat Natasha attacked and clawed his hand, drawing blood during that visit. I never did care for that cat much after that.

Grandpa saw a lot of changes in his life, and he lived through two World Wars, plus the Korean, and Vietnam. He saw the first car and also owned one. He saw the first airplane, and lived through the Depression. Although my Mother says she didn’t know the meaning of the word as Grandpa always had a job and always provided. He saw numerous cures for disease, new diseases, and the first man on the moon. He died debt-free, owing no man anything.

Late November of 1971 when I was looking for a birthday card for Grandpa, I had the feeling it would be the last one. On his birthday, December 2nd I called, no answer. I then called my parents’ home, no answer. With no foreknowledge, I automatically called the hospital. He was there. I told him I wanted to see him again, and he said, "I want to see you too." I told him we’d be home for Christmas. He said to me, "I won’t be here for Christmas." Robert and I flew out of Albuquerque on the 5^th. Jean met us at the airport and drove us to Cleveland, and then to Price to the hospital.

In those days we had to adhere to visiting hours, and only those age 12 and older were allowed in. His first question was "how’s the little boy?" I’ve often wished I’d pushed past the nurses and taken Robert in to see him. Each day he asked about the little kids. He was determined that Kurt should have a lariat from him for Christmas. Kurt was going on 8 years old. I went to Claude Sadlier’s Store in Cleveland and bought the lariat.

We visited each day, and each day he got a little weaker. The last time I saw him conscious was when I shaved his face for him. It was at that moment when our blue eyes met and spoke that I knew I was going to lose him. One of the last things he said to me was "take care of Grandma." He went unconscious on the 21^st of December and died at 8 o’clock AM on Friday, the 24^th of December. He was 79 years old. The hospital called Grandma and she told us at my parents’ house. At that moment my world went flat, lost all dimension, and there seemed no longer any air to breathe. I did things by rote. At the time, I felt that the one person who had truly loved me was no longer there. My one regret was that he died alone in the hospital room. Recently I was reminded by my daughter, Monique, that was because of visiting hours being enforced. That had times been different I would have been there. I just wanted him to know I love him. For many years his death was the worst loss I’d ever experienced.

He was buried on Monday, the 27^th of December 1971 in Cleveland, Emery, Utah following a funeral service at the Cleveland Ward Chapel.

At the time of his death there were five grandchildren, and four great-grand children.

LETTING GO

He lingered

until she, too, departed,

together to return.

My unwillingness to surrender,

clinging, holding on,

denying him progression.

Love aches,

releases, relinquishes,

‘til that moment

his hand reaches

through eternity

and my spirit soars

to grasp.