Grant J. Harris February 2000

It is 2:30 a.m. in the Utah Valley Regional Medical Center in Provo, Utah, and I am a patient here. Later today I will be released to go home again. I have been given a reprieve of several years of life after heart bi-pass surgery. But my good friend “Gil”, as we knew him in the service, has died and my sleepless thoughts have been carrying me back to past events with him. The question keeps recurring, “With the relatively short Navy time we were together and since our visits as civilians have been so few, why did this man have such an effect on my life and why am I feeling such a great void now?” This morning I will write notes to start a much needed tribute to him.

There are some men and women in our society who have quietly achieved greatness in the way they have lived their lives and in the way they have touched lives about them. Theirs, though, is an unassuming greatness that never asks for recognition and they will never be mentioned in their nation’s history books. But it seems only proper that they receive recognition from those who know of their greatness. Such a person was Robert L. Gillum. A great and good American has passed away. I would like to tell you what I know of him.

I had the food fortune of being Gil’s wingman. He was my leader and my mentor. He did everything he could to keep me from killing myself. He treated me as if I was a special person and worthy of being delivered back to Oak City, Utah at the end of the war. I think I may be living a few more years of my life now because I was “given” a full life back in those days of carrier flying.

Gil and I met because of unusual circumstances.

In Miami, I was a student officer while Gil was an instructor and right-hand man to Patriarcha, the skipper. We were training to be fighter pilots, but flying the slow old dive-bomber, the SBD. In our gunnery runs, we would dive it down toward the earth and subject it to extra high speed without using its dive-brakes. As events proved, this was sometimes a fatal maneuver for which the old machine was simply not designed. For a reason that was not known until later, it would sometimes lock into its dive and refuse to respond to frantically desperate recovery efforts. Several people died, and a precious few managed to come back from those death-dives in spite of destroyed control surfaces. Gil was given an ugly assignment by the skipper—he was to dive the plane until it failed, then (if he lived) help determine why it was happening. It was later learned that the high speed was pulling the stitching loose that bound the fabric control surfaces to the metal frame. The loosened fabric then formed a large bubble and the plane was uncontrollable until the ballooning fabric burst and then was pulled off with parts of the frame. If enough of the unit was left, a recovery might then be made. Gil came awfully close to dying when his plane did just what they thought it might do.

Then one day as I was in a gunnery-run and headed down toward the swamp, my plane locked into the death-dive, and when most of the elevator pulled off I barely recovered a few feet above the water and grass. I got permission for an emergency landing and Gil and his Jeep were along-side of me as I was braking to a stop. I was badly scared. My legs were shaking in a very un-officer-like manner and I knew my voice would squeak like an adolescent. In just a few moments everyone was going to know that I had been scared to the point that I was having trouble even responding to basic questions. Then I made one of the finest decisions of my naval carrier. I decided I would take extra time and slowly taxi past the flight line where we ordinarily stopped and then on beyond to the repair hanger. I took time in checking the cockpit gauges and controls and stayed in the cockpit to talk to Gil and all the “brass” that came around. I finally got out on legs that were barely stable and told Gil that, yes, it had been a little scary, but I guessed you had to expect a little of that when you were flying.

Gil thought that I was cool. He decided that when we organized into a combat unit I should be his wingman.

Much later aboard the Essex, Gil and I talked of Patriarcha’s assignments to him and wondered if he had liked Gil or hated him. He gave Gil another unpopular assignment. When decisions had to be made as to who would fly the easy flights and who would risk their lives on the hard ones, the job of scheduling was given to Gil. And while taking a lot of heat, he did an excellent job. His division was watched very closely to see if he was assigning easy flights to his own group. It soon became apparent though, that if anything, he was assigning his own group to more than their share of the hard ones.

Gil assigned us to the first fighter-sweep over Nittigahara. We flew against the Nagano battle group. In a large flight that Gil lead to Amami-shima, he had the group circle and wait while he and I flew into the mouth of the harbor under a low overcast to see if there was any Japanese anti-aircraft fire. (There most certainly was). A good friend, Gibby, and his four plane division had been ambushed and he was shot down as they flew up to the Japanese southern home island of Kyushu. Then Gil had the two of us assigned to that flight. Our responsibility was to report any air or ship traffic that might be coming down from Japan to their forces on Okinawa. At the end of our outward leg, with half of our gas gone, horribly tired and in sight of Kyushu and its many Zeros, we were met by five Japanese planes. Gil called our ship and reported as we had been assigned to do, but instead of telling them that we would try to avoid the enemy and continue on with reconnaissance, as I would have done, he matter-of-factly told them that the two of us would be attacking those five. He started a dive toward them and I followed.

The Japanese weren’t Zeros nor as formidable as they first appeared, but that fact doesn’t diminish the bravery and the determination of Robert L. Gillum to do the utmost of what could be done. I learned that that was the way he was made. That day off Kyushu I saw again in Gil a characteristic that would direct his attitude and action for the balance of his life. He gave no quarter to himself. He was absolutely committed to deliver only the best that was in him.

After the war I learned that his other friends and I would never be “have beens”, set aside and forgotten. If you were Gil’s friend, you were cherished as his friend. He wrote letters. He called. He treated us like royalty when we visited. On one of our last phone calls, when we both knew he wouldn’t live much longer, he said that though he had been raised a bare-foot kid in the “scrabble-rocks” and on Sandy Gulch, he had lived a life to end up with some wonderful friends. To Gil, that was an achievement. He felt that life had been good.

That conclusion is even more remarkable when you consider the trials that were heaped on him. When no children came to his and Kathy’s marriage, Pat and Nancy were adopted and loved into the family. Because of cancer, he lost his voice, and with that tragedy he also lost any chance for executive advancement with Pacific Bell. He hung on, though, spoke with an amplifier, and did extra work on whatever position he held. Kathy died, and though he was hurting, he gave strength to his children and to Kathy’s family. Finally, he moved home to be with a loving little mother who needed his help, and then he went periodically to Seattle to help Kathy’s mother with her needs. He was the epitome of duty and devotion.

The ability to scrape away the trivia of life and get to its essentials made a “soul-talk” with Gil a wonderfully satisfying and never-forgotten experience. Some examples that I will always remember are when Helen and I visited with Gil and Joe Esherick in San Diego, the Masseys on their boat on the lake, with Mike and Susi at their bed and breakfast spot in the mountains, with Glen Calahan’s mother at Chico, and with my Uncle Clark in Oak City. Gil had a special compassion for older people and those in need, but little tolerance for those who were lazy, pompous, or deceitful.

Gil often told us of his trips back to be with Ken and Peggy McLeod at apple-harvest time. Those visits there were made memorable by the New England beauty, selling apples to drive-up customers, feeling that he was helping someone, and the love that the McLeods gave him. Traveling there and returning included routes to see his other instructor buddies. They were always special to him.

Each of our trips to Chico generally included a fine dinner at a very nice restaurant. Gil always included his mother, and when possible, Nancy. Early into our years of visiting with Gil, I learned that when he said, “I’ll get the check,” it was best to let him get the check. You inevitably stirred up a loud and sometimes embarrassing incident if you said, “This time it’s my turn”. Gil would loudly declare that, “When you are here you are my guests. Keep your money in your pocket. I will be paying the bill“. Each time as we left Chico for home, there was a little ritual that was observed and I cherished it deeply. When we first visited in Chico and needed directions in leaving town, and even later when we knew our way about, in his car with us following, he would now lead us to the highway, as he had led me in a Corsair, and when we were safely pointed in the right direction he would slow down, pull off a bit to the right so we could pass. Then as we came abreast of him, he would tap his head twice and then point to me, handing off leadership as we had done in times past. Through the rear-view mirror I would watch through misty eyes as his car dwindled and diminished to the rear, finally losing its identify and disappearing. Each time I was left to wonder, “Was it really time to pass off leadership, and would I see him just one more time?”

In his new realm, may the Lord bless him to be in the presence of those that he loves. When each of us makes that journey over uncharted waters, as each of us must do, may we have the good fortune of receiving guidance from a big gangling pilot known as Gil. I think that would be heaven.

by

A Prophet’s Voice　

In 1945 I was a fighter pilot flying an F4U Corsair from the deck of the carrier Essex in the Okinawa Campaign. My good friend and division leader, Robert A, Gillum (Gil), and I were assigned to fly a two-plane reconnaissance flight from the island of Okinawa to Kyushu, the southern home island of Japan. Our instructions were to observe and report any ships or planes coming from Japan to reinforce the enemy garrison on Okinawa.

As we neared Kyushu and dropped down through the thin cloud layer, we burst out into clear air and came face-to-face with five Japanese dive bombers that flashed by us on their way to Okinawa. We turned back to intercept them, but they were lost somewhere in the clouds, so we continued our flight to Kyushu above the cloud layer. Soon after, we came to a break in the clouds and there below us, barely skimming the waves and flying “wide open for home” were the five Japanese planes. Apparently they had panicked when they saw us and had turned around to fly home again.

We assumed that for their flight to Okinawa they had been stripped of their armor and were now without any defense. They were essentially helpless, and short of a mid-air collision, there was no way they could harm us. We dove on them and Gill “splashed” (shot down ) one. The remaining four scattered in all directions, and since it was vitally important that Gil and I didn’t get separated, we stayed together and let three of them go. I concentrated on the remaining enemy plane while Gill backed me up by flying above and to the side.

The part of the sea that we were flying over at this time was dotted with a chain of small volcanic islands, mostly just rocky peaks rising abruptly up a few hundred feet above the ocean. Being entirely defenseless, this Japanese pilot wisely chose a mountainous little island whose cliffs rose almost straight up from the water. It was perhaps two or three city blocks in area, and he flew closely around and around the beach line in such a way that we couldn’t get behind him for sustained shots without crashing into the cliffs. His plane was slow and no match for the fine fighters that Gil and I flew, and it became evident that with the overwhelming conditions that he faced, he was flying very intelligently. He was doing everything he could to save himself. It was harshly apparent, though, that his intelligent actions could only prolong the time until he would do something wrong. I grudgingly admired my enemy, and I didn’t want the time to arrive when he would make that deathly mistake that would surely come.

Finally, after Gil and I had each fired short, ineffective bursts at him, Gil’s guns jammed and he orbited (circled) to the side while he cleared them. When the Japanese pilot continued around the circle, I called Gill and said, “He’s coming around the mountain again. Head him off.” Gill did what I asked for, and when the Japanese was confronted with an enemy in front and one in back, he initiated his next desperate move. He tried to get up to the cloud layer. But it was too late, and without the safety of the cliffs, he was entirely helpless as he climbed through a clear sky toward the clouds. Now, the decision I didn’t want to face had to be made. If I so chose ,now, I could get directly behind him and easily shoot him down.

I had received the best training my country could provide. I was a part of a proud ship and its crew of 2000 men. I had been given the finest ship-board fighter made, and it was all for the purpose of destroying the enemy. And now, at this moment, I was in a position to carry out the purpose for which I had been trained, the action that my shipmates and my country expected of me. But now, though this flyer or his old plane might do damage later, right now he didn’t seem to be my enemy. He and his plane weren‘t a threat to me as some Japanese Zeros had been several days before when I had been forced to defend myself. He was helpless and entirely subject to any decision I should make. Should I let him live, or kill him? I could easily let him go, then lie and say that my guns were jammed, as Gill’s had been. I could get close and shoot only a wing-tip so as to appear to be really trying, and I knew Gill would never question my intentions. Knowing that, I had two clear options that were thrust upon me, and they must be acted on immediately. I could either kill a man who I had admiration for and no animosity for, or I could let him live.

I easily shot him down.

When we finally landed aboard the carrier again, there was laughter, back-slapping and shouted compliments. We were the heroes for that day. We were made to feel that we had performed well and had served with honor. The sailors aboard had laughed when they heard my call to “head him off” as he came around the mountain, and they wondered if it was a throwback to my deer-hunting days in Utah. But I didn’t enjoy the light-hearted banter, and I felt that I had to get away and be by myself. When I was finally alone in my bunk and the day’s events flooded my thoughts, I asked, “What kind of a man am I? What kind of man will my Lord and Savior see me to be ? This day I have done that which is contrary to everything I’ve been taught—everything I believe in. I have killed a man that I didn’t have to kill.

I was eventually mustered out of the Navy. My employment was challenging but rewarding, and finally being home with a loving family, life should have been good.

And it was—most of the time.

But for a long, painful time after the war, I would lie sleepless in the very early hours of the morning and ask myself why I hadn’t let the man live. I would remember again and again the way I had killed him, and many times I wondered , “Wouldn’t it have been better if I had lied and let him live?” Then I would rehearse the Ten Commandments, and my mind would be drawn again to the one that said , Thou Shalt not Kill. I had heard some people say that there was an exemption for those who were combatants in the war, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know if that person, whoever they

might have been, had the authority to make that declaration, and consequently I had no way of knowing whether it was true or not. I understood that when God spoke, there was a vital message being communicated, and it was transmitted only by an authorized person having authority. In this case, though, I could find no authority and I feared a future time when the Lord would look me in the eye and say, “Tell me why you killed your brother, the Japanese pilot. Had you been given authority to kill a man? Did you not know of the Ten Commandments?”

If, in my daily work day I was involved in an endeavor to the point that I went to bed exhausted, I could put those flying days out of my mind and sleep the night through. But that didn’t happen often, and the horrible memory recurred night after night. To me it was a form of torture from which there was no escape. Though I longed for a time of restful sleep, I generally dreaded the nights—dreaded awakening in the early hours of morning and having my thoughts take that unwanted path.

Then one day, the Mormon Prophet, George Albert Smith, declared that The First Presidency was aware that many returned servicemen were suffering with guilt because in the commission of their duty to defend their countries, they had been called upon to take human life. As such, the Lord would not hold them accountable for that act. They were to feel entirely free of that burden.

Oh, what a wonderful relief! And what a release of unwanted and unneeded guilt! That day my life changed! From that point on, the nights became easy to live through. They became restful and fulfilling. Never since then have I had the horrible “night debates.” Never since then have I had the dread of that Divine Judgment.

There is a profound reason that I feel acquitted, and that I feel free. It is because an agent of the Lord, the only person on earth who could speak with divine authority, did so. President Harry Truman or Winston Churchhill, who were probably the world’s most powerful men at that time, had no authority to make that declaration. Had they spoken those words, they would have been only words without meaning. Nor could the other government or religious leaders make such a declaration. The authority was simply not theirs to do so. The Prophet of the Lord made that declaration for Deity as only he could do it. I thank God, and His Prophet for a simple, heavenly message. It meant I could find happiness in this life.

Growing up in Oak CityWhen I was in the Navy near Oakland, California, one evening I rode the bus into town with another cadet who I hadn’t known before this time. I found out he was named Bolinski, and was from Brooklyn, New York. When he asked where I was from, I said, “Utah.” “What part of Utah?” he asked. I told him, “The west central part.” “What town or city is in that area?” “Well, I’m from a little town near Delta. You might have gone through Delta on a train.” He then wanted to know specifically what the name of the little town was. “It’s Oak City,” I told him and I could see that he was very interested now. “And your name is Harris.” He said, “ Did you live in the white stucco house in the southwest part of town?” And of course I confirmed that I had, and that it was still my home. It turned out that shortly before joining the Navy he had been in a CCC camp that was located in Oak Creek Canyon, and that main base had a small spike camp, or satellite camp under the trees a block west of our house. I think he remembered the white stucco house because several cute Harris girls lived there.

Since that time I’ve been amazed at the number of people who know of Oak City or who have been there. They always say nice things about it. When asked, I am proud to tell anyone where I was raised, and I love to tell of the small town events that filled my young life. I now think of that time as being a wonderful early education.

Why do so many people like to return to Oak City? Why are The Oak City Days packed with crowds of old and new acquaintances? Why is it that on some Sundays in summers past, there has been a higher Sacrament Meeting attendance than membership? I’m sure that the geographic setting is an element of Oak City’s being liked so much, with its nearby desert, sandhills, mountains, canyons, clear mountain stream, and where there is space and clean air. In and around Oak City there are homes and farms with all of the modern conveniences, and they also retain evidence of the old values of past years. But with all of that goodness, though, I think the great “draw” is the people, both past and present.

Dad and Mother were some of those people. They were real “Oak City-ites.” They loved their home and their little town and they were proud of it. They were deeply concerned with everyone who lived there. They tried to live a good life and be worthy of all the blessings they found there.

It was understood by those in Millard County that Oak City was a stronghold of the LDS Church. In addition to being the focus of the religious life, the Church was also the center of most of the town’s social life, and there were few people who were inactive or indifferent. Not many years ago, I was in Provo and met a man named Cox, who had grown up in Leamington. When he found out that I was raised in Oak City, he said, “I must tell you of an experience that I had when I was young. I was riding for cattle one day down near Lynndyl when I heard a strange sound coming from the direction of Oak City. While I watched, all of Oak City slowly raised up several hundred feet into the air, then it suddenly dropped down again with a horrible crash. I didn’t learn until later that as the town was “ascending” one of the in-actives asked, “What the hell is happening?” Well, that story has been around a few times, but the fact remains that there have been many good church people who have called Oak City home.

One of the old Oak City strengths was George Finlinson. (Grandfather to James E. Faust). He was an old cowboy/farmer who never rode in a car if a horse was available. He sang in the ward choir until he was ancient. (For many years Oak City was known for its choir under Eddie Q. Dutson). In Fast and Testimony Meeting, George could be counted on to jump to his feet and be first to bear a testimony. It was almost the same recital each month concerning his deep belief in Jesus Christ , Joseph Smith or the present prophet. Though we might have heard the same message each month, we young boys listened closely because he would often include some cowboy lore, such as how many peanuts could be shelled and eaten as you rode a horse from The Flat to Town. I remember once that his testimony also included how to determine how long it had been since a cow had passed by simply by analyzing the fresh droppings. We boys sometimes smothered giggles when he spoke, but everyone knew, without a doubt, where he stood in regards to the gospel.

Another great Oak City-ite was Margaret Roper. She was a trans-plant from Lindon, and she brought with her a very high standard of teaching in our Primary, Sunday School etc. Lee (Joy) Roper and I learned that when she was in charge, it was best to stop whatever level of goofing we were enjoying and pay attention. She had a way of getting all of your attention and then making learning fun. Other teachers who were great (and I think many of them didn’t realize it) were Helen Shipley, Lorna Nielson, Melvin Roper, Chris Anderson (scout leader,) Eliza Anderson and many others who helped make Oak City a special place for a young boy to grow up in.

May I list some Oak City events that have been a formative part of my life? As a youngster I liked to play with Charley Roper. In the upper part of the Roper lot, Charley, Raymond Finlinson, Lee (Joy) Roper, and I built an underground hut. It was a small room dug into the ground and covered with boards and earth. It had steps down and a “doorway” that made it almost airtight. With a small cook-stove and stovepipe we invited the girls to come in and we enjoyed such rare dishes as sheep-camp potatoes and oyster stew, etc. The whole project was abandoned, though, when some other boys (from pure jealousy) learned they could stuff gunny-sacks into the stovepipe and smoke us out time after time. From Raymond Jacobson, I learned that he and his cousins had quite an elaborate house out near the Cedar Hills Mine. A high point there was when one of their group shot a crow and cooked it and then, disguised as chicken that seemed unusually tough and not quite the expected flavor, it was fed to the others.

At that time in Oak City no one locked their doors, and many cars had keys that were left in the glove compartment so they could be easily found. We young kids, both male and female, went essentially where and when we wanted, and apparently our parents didn’t worry very much. Mostly our migrations from one end of Oak City to the other was to play various running games. Mark Anderson’s place (J. Lee Anderson) with its big barn, hay stacks and outbuildings was the best place to play Kick-the-can, Steal-the-bacon, Duck-on-a-rock, Dare-base, etc. When there was moonlight or when we had a good bon-fire, we sometimes played till midnight. James Anderson was the person who often said, “I think I can get a team and the sleigh for some fun,” and his father (Joe Anderson) was usually good for it. In the summer, we sometimes took a wagon load of boys and girls to the Sinks for a swim. (before Oak City had its own municipal pool). Or we took a car load of kids to the Sinks when it was frozen over to do do-nuts on the ice.

The Resort in Oak Creek Canyon was a wonder to a small boy. Each Saturday night in the summer the “Footwarmers,” a dance band from Manti, came to play for the crowds of young people who drove to the Canyon from Delta, Leamington, Lynndyl, Hinkley, Deseret, etc, and even from Holden and Fillmore, and of course from Oak City. My dad owned a school bus that transported the high school kids to and from Delta. In the summer, though, Dad took people from Oak City on temple excursions to Manti and then took the young people to the Saturday night dances at the Resort. When I was allowed to go with Dad, it was like a young boy’s glimpse into heaven. Mervin “Piz” Alldredge was courting Bernice Roper, and when she rode with us in the bus, Piz, on his horse, would meet us at the mouth of the canyon and ride alongside the slow old bus. He would fire his six shooters into the air and make threatening gestures so Dad would finally stop the bus and let Bernice out so she could ride with him the rest of the way to the Resort. Sometimes Dad would buy a hotdog for me and we would watch the dancing and courting rituals while the most beautiful music filled the mountain air. Then on the way home after the dance, while sitting next to Dad, I would sneak a peek at the couples back in the semi-darkened bus. Mel Roper was dating Ann Lovell at the time and they always sat in the back. More often than not he would have his arm around her, and one time I thought I saw him kiss her. The surprising part was that she didn’t push him away, but snuggled up to him and acted like she enjoyed it. Oh, I had things to think of that night.

One summer we had a horrible hail-storm, and the canyon was flooded. The hailstones were so big they stripped leaves off of the corn and penetrated the squash and melons. They even went through the shingles of the swimming pool building. George Finlinson was caught out in the open desert with his horse. He pulled the saddle off, crouched down and put it over his head. The poor horse had to live through it with some hail-hits that drew blood. The flood came down through the canyon and completely filled the Big Spring with debris that stopped it off. Dad was on the city council and was sent to Salt Lake City to find out from the state engineer what should be done to get it flowing again. The state engineer came back with Dad and had him crawl back into the hole to inspect the debris plug. The engineer then had them pump water back against the plug. It was finally broken loose and the water flowed again. Everyone was happy except some who felt that the engineer’s fee of $100.00 was too much.

Holidays were wonderful. The 24^th of July meant home-made root beer and home-made ice cream. I think small boys and girls honored their root beer and ice cream as much as they did the pioneers. During the parade, which usually consisted of two or three hay-wagons loaded with sage brush and pioneer-dressed singers, some of the young men, dressed and painted as Indians, rode their horses into the parts of town where they might capture some of the pretty “pioneer girls.” I think it was quite an “honor” to be captured, and I noticed that my sisters just sort of hid, and at the same time they sort of made themselves visible when the Indians came whooping down the street. After a very unimpressive capture, the girls were always quite helpful in getting up double on the horse with the Indians and most of them accepted their horrible fate with a smile.

One Halloween night when I was into my early teens, a group of us boys decided we should be traditional and tip over some outhouses and feed extra hay to some horses that we felt hadn’t been very well cared for. One lady yelled, “Wait a minute” as the outhouse was tilted back, and the horses began eating while the hay was still coming down from the stack. I felt just a bit guilty as I went home that night. Then, very early the next morning Dad came upstairs to where I was sleeping and said, “Grant, apparently several outhouses were tipped over last night and a lot of hay was thrown to some horses. There’s a group of the young men in town who have volunteered to set the outhouses upright and restack the hay. I was wondering if you would like to help them.” I told him I thought it would be a good idea. And I’m not sure, but I think Dad might have had a little smile on his face as he left me.

There were other events such as swimming in the old swimming hole up the creek where J. Lee Anderson took out water for his waterwheel and saw mill. There were wonderful extended trips for several days to the campground at Little Creek where we ate all kinds of Dutch-oven foods and had what must have been some of the world’s best water fights. There was Shipley’s Stand where we bought frozen candy bars for a nickel, and in season you could buy half a cantaloupe with a scoop of ice cream for a dime. (If my memory is correct).

There was the school where three teachers in three rooms taught grades 1-8. J. Maiben Stephenson taught me through grades 6,7, and 8 and I still liked him after three years. Lorna Nielson taught us for one year and Virginia Finlinson taught us in fourth grade. I found out later when I went to the BYU that in that little country school and at Delta High, I had missed a few things, but not much. We got a lot of character training in addition to the academics.

Though my years in Oak City were generally pleasant and rewarding, I learned that in this life there is work to be done, and depending on one’s attitude, it doesn’t have to be torture. I tromped hay and rode the stacker horse through hot dreary hours of the day, but the coolness and the evening’s rest always came, and it seemed better simply because I had endured the heat and the labor. And somehow it seemed that being one of those who had accomplished something that day was a joy. When I got with my friends and said, “We hauled ten loads of hay and put them in the stack today,” that was only a bit of bragging.

Three Oak City happenings taught me that there will be hard places in life. The first was when all eight grades of school went to the sand hills for a spring holiday. There Wesley Shipley was buried by the cave-in of a sand-pit that the bigger boys had dug. With the teachers and the boys scraping sand away as fast as they could possibly do it, he was still buried for what seemed a horribly long time that allowed one of the adults to drive to town and get Aunt Mamie Lovell, (Oak City’s medical person). By the time that they could finally clear away the sand so he could breath, we guessed that it had taken at least ten to fifteen minutes and the time limit generally given for life without new air is four minutes. We were almost certain that we would uncover a dead body. But he breathed! Apparently he had stooped over and trapped air under his body as the sand fell on him. We celebrated seeing him alive, but for me, it was a very hard experience that said even here in our happy, care-free life, tragedy could come. The second and third events confirmed that understanding.

The second happening was when Weldon Jacobson was killed in a hunting accident. A handsome, pleasant, and likeable boy that we all enjoyed so much was suddenly taken from our lives. In trying to make sense of it and get some understanding, I remember Norine and Georgia Finlinson crying and telling some of us that we would see him again in another sphere–a sphere that I hadn’t thought very much about. I was learning that even in an idyllic life there will be a hardness that comes, and it must be accepted and lived with until time could erase much of the hurting.

The third tragedy was when my little sister, Marion died. She apparently had an internal infection that was untreatable at that time before sulfa and penicillin. And after his visit at our home, when Dr. Bird solemnly shook his head and quietly left for Delta again, I knew that we would lose her. I went to the back of our old granary where I thought no one would see me and I turned loose the flood of tears and I cried my heart out. Dad, though, had seen me leave and came to console me. He put his arm around me and tried to tell me that it was one of the things in life that had to come. Then Dad started to sob. I had never seen my father cry, and it hurt that much more. The people of Oak City seemed to understand our trauma and our sorrow, and they came in to bring their love and their concern for us. Many women came to visit Mother and help her with her tears and we learned again that it was a good place and there were good people about us who loved us and wanted to help.

Though I hurt on those sad occasions, my young life in Oak City was, in total, one of happiness. Those hard days taught me that we must take our happiness when we can find it. And we must live in such a way that there will be many of those days of sunshine.

Oak City was good for me. I am thankful for those people that were a part of Oak City and who gave me a part of them. Though most of them are now gone, may the Lord bless those who are still “Oak City-ites”, as those I knew long ago were, and may the name Oak City continue to mean what it has meant in the past.

In the late 1970’s when I was a bishop, I was the receiver of the most significantly joyous event that I have ever experienced. A ward member, a wonderful wife and mother, Vivian Gardner, became gravely ill and died. As is customary for the bishop, I met with her husband, Max, to make funeral plans, including what the printed program should be. There was a problem though. Vivian was a niece of Apostle David B. Haight’s wife, Ruby, and Max had invited the apostle to come and speak if his schedule would allow it. But the reply that Max received was that Ruby was ill and Brother Haight was closely scheduled in his commitments. He said that he would come if it could be arranged. Consequently, we had the program printed without a spot for the apostle.

Shortly after the funeral had started, though, three men appeared at the back of the chapel, and one was Brother Haight. One of the bishopric went to the back and invited him to come and sit on the stand. There he said, yes, he would like to speak briefly. When the program, as printed, had proceeded up to the time for the bishop’s remarks, I introduced Brother Haight to the congregation and said he would now speak to us. I don’t remember what he said except that it was short, appropriate to the occasion and very comforting.

I gave the bishop’s remarks as best I could, knowing that an apostle was hearing every word that I spoke, and I hoped that if I was making mistakes, they would be small enough that an apostle wouldn’t be upset by it. At the conclusion of the funeral, I asked Brother Haight if he would like to go to the cemetery for the dedication of the grave and then to the lunch afterward. His reply was that he didn’t have time for the lunch, but he would like to go to the dedication of the grave.

In the cemetery, at the conclusion of the dedication, Brother Haight was standing some distance from where I was, and I could see that he was searching for me. As our eyes met, he started toward me and I had a panic of thoughts go through my mind. Was he coming to make small-talk, (I am not very good at it,) or would he tell me of the mistakes I had made when I gave the bishop’s remarks? Without speaking, he came directly in front of me, reached out, and in a most loving manner took both of my hands in his. Then, with an expression of pure kindness, he looked me squarely in the eyes for several long moments, then said, “Bishop, I love you.”

While I wondered how to respond to this very warm greeting, I suddenly realized it wasn’t a greeting! It was far, far beyond that! I experienced wonderfully familiar feelings, but with an intensity greater than anything I had ever felt before! A warmth of happiness flooded my being.. An intensity of satisfaction, goodness, and well-being, so full and so complete that I cannot describe it, immersed my mind and body. While I didn’t understand what was happening, and I didn’t know what it meant to me, I lived in that short period of time knowing that I was experiencing happiness far beyond anything I had ever experienced here on earth before. After this many years, I can’t remember what I said in reply, if anything, or if I simply remained mute.

In the years since that happened, I have wondered if I was given a short glance into Heaven. My many thoughts have stirred up questions that I simply can not answer. Why me? Do Apostle Haight and the other apostles bestow love on relative strangers, such as I was? What is the meaning of this wondrous event? Am I supposed to respond in some manner? The most happy event in my life has left me with many questions but very few answers. In my search for answers, though, there is one primary conclusion that I have arrived at. It is that the apostles of Christ’s time had the prime responsibility of testifying of the Divine Being that they walked and talked with, and they must have testified of His love. I understand that the apostles of today also carry that same responsibility; they also testify of Christ and His love. I believe that Apostle Haight let me see a bit of the love that God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ have for each of His children. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son.” (James 3; 16). As Lehi prepared to die, he testified to his children; “But behold, the Lord hath redeemed my soul from Hell. I have beheld His glory, and I am encircled about in the arms of His love.” (2 Nephi 1:15). Christ’s love “is the most desirable above all things…yea, and the most joyous to the soul.” (1Nephi 11:22-23). Today while I still try to understand that wondrous experience I had several years ago, I do know that Christ’s love is here for every one of us. For some reason I had an indescribable blessing of love, and I hope, and I believe I will be so blessed again in the future—a blessing that can be bestowed on any of God’s children. To implement it, to have it become a blessing in each of our lives, we need only to live according to the Lord’s admonition given in St. John 13:34-35, “A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another: as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.“

To get wondrous love by giving love can only be by divine plan and direction. It is a wonderful element of the greater Plan of Happiness. To me, it is the expected response to a wonderful experience I had several years ago. I look forward to a wonderful blessing to be received simply by saying, “I love you.”

I am an old man now and I have relatively little time left here that can be used to demonstrate the love that I have for my family. I would like to pass on to my wife, my children and grandchildren some of the intensity of Christ’s love that Brother Haight brought to me. Realistically, I know it can’t be completely done here before I die. That may be possible only in some future time, but here I can try. And my family, in their turn, can make an approach to that wonderful event.

I have a regret for a part of the life-style that my wife and I lived as we raised our six children. Both of us passed on to our children the understanding that they were loved. But I now fear that that understanding was diluted–that at times of disciplining and family friction, there might have been doubts in a tiny mind as to whether that really was so. I fear that our children didn’t see an abundance of demonstrated love as they were growing up. My wife and I were both raised in families that were only a few generations from a time when the puritan/pioneer ethic said that it was “improper” to show affection when others might see it. It was improper and unnecessary to say, “I love you,” except as an expression of romantic courtship. Hugs, kisses and those three magic word were not needed after childhood had been traversed. In that older era, love was assumed to be ever-present and to be self-evident, and therefore needed no expression. That was a mistake that we each received in our growing years, and I’m afraid that we perpetuated the problem as our own children grew up.

How well I remember several incidents in my sometimes “love deficient” life as I was growing to adulthood. At the end of a leave to my home while I was in WW11, we were approaching the tearful farewell as I left for active duty in the Pacific, and I stood with my family on the train-station platform wanting my father to give me a great manly hug. As I remember, though, through tears in his eyes, he held my right hand in a hand-shake and patted me on the back with his left hand while he assured me that all would be well. I knew he loved me, but oh, how I needed that great hug that would somehow help sustain me through the unknown trials that I faced. But I was too embarrassed to initiate it and I think that Dad was too.

The returning was somewhat different though. After three years in the Navy, and after cheating death on several occasions, I returned home unannounced after my discharge. I walked in the front door and found the house was empty, but I saw Mother far out in the berry patch. She ran to me and we strongly embraced each other while she cried. In that moment of expressed love, her tears and that very warm embrace “told” me how she had loved me and how she had suffered three years of tortured worry while I and my brother were in harm’s way. That embrace is still remembered as a wonderful event in my life. It was an approach to the love that Elder Haight later extended to me.

As a young man, I went into my older sister’s hospital room to have a “last visit” with her just hours before she would die. I told her, “I have always loved you.” but while I was telling her that, I was thinking, “I hope you know it’s true, even though I haven’t said it before.” How I wished then that I had embraced her and said it a hundred times before.

I remember another memorable event when my father violated the old constraints. With four or five little open-mouthed and wide-eyed children watching, he teasingly grabbed Mother and pulled her onto his lap. There he kissed her on the back of the neck and nibbled on her ear until she giggled and shrieked, and shouted, “Stop it. Stop it.” (And though we were small children, we knew that she was relishing it and, didn‘t really want Dad to stop). The total result that was retained by little minds was, “Daddy loves Mama, and Mama loves Daddy,” and somehow we understood that that was good–very good.

Now, after raising our six children within the same context that I experienced as I grew up, I regret the lack of love–love that might have been expressed but wasn’t. But wonder of wonders, my children and grandchildren have somehow and somewhere learned to express their love better than their parents did. I see it in their families as they pay their old parents/grandparents a visit and they hug us and say ‘I love you.” And though it may be an expression they feel obligated to give to parents who won’t live much longer, I‘ll take it. I love it. I feel my children are honoring me. A whisker-and-stubble-enhanced bear-hug from my grown boys is wonderful. When the girls and tiny grandchildren hug me and say, “I love you, Grandpa,” that is a bit of heaven–a bit of Christ’s love expressed.

Now, to my children and grandchildren, make love a generous part of your lives. Give those tiny children hugs and kisses, then continue doing it as they grow up. Say the magic words, “I love you.” Say it often, and say it in every context. Surprisingly, saying it makes it so, and the receiver will return it with increased love. It works. Apply it and you will be blessed with ever greater happiness. It is one way that we who are here on earth can transport ourselves close to heaven while we are drawing upon the love that Christ has for us.